middle of one of the vast fields of cane. But now, the beating sunlight was something to look forward to, for each day brought a new chance of glimpsing Margaret, a new opportunity to catch her eye or speak to her across the divide of a narrow canal. Exchanging even a few words with her made him feel normal, whole, like a man in charge of his destiny rather than a prisoner whose life was already dictated by forces beyond his control.
She was often with Jeremiah, the boy she’d been helping when Peter saw her for the first time. Jeremiah was twelve, Peter had learned, slight for his age with arms that were sinewy and strong. Peter knew the boy worked hard. He should have been in school, but instead, Jeremiah rose with the sun like the prisoners did and labored in the fields. Sometimes, he cut sugarcane. Other times, Peter saw him harvesting sweet potatoes or green beans at Margaret’s or the other small farms that ringed the vast cane fields.
“His mother is dead,” Margaret had whispered to Peter one day as he worked on the edge of a field. They were separated, as they often were, by a thin canal and a thousand invisible barriers, and he longed to touch her.
He had glanced at the boy, who was a hundred yards away, weeding a patch of overgrown potatoes. “And what of his father? He doesn’t encourage Jeremiah to go to school?”
“He’s a drunk,” she told him. “Jeremiah has to support him, or they’ll lose their home. They’ll lose everything.”
Peter had looked over to the boy in astonishment. “But he’s just a child!”
“In a place like this,” she said sadly, “one doesn’t stay a child for long.” There was something in her eyes that chilled Peter. But then she blinked and glanced away. “It’s why I try to work with him as often as I can,” she added. “When I’m in the field with him, I try to continue his lessons. We talk about history and geography and politics. I think I have helped create a boy who wants to change the world.”
“Good,” Peter said. “We should all want to change the world.”
“Yes.” Margaret smiled shyly. “There are many things I wish were different, Peter.”
He held her gaze. “As do I.”
She had told him that she’d had to drop out of school at the age of sixteen to help out on her family farm and that there was no hope of attending university now, for her family was very poor. So she read voraciously, borrowing books from the library two towns over and trying her best to absorb as much poetry, history, and literature as she could. “I want to see the world one day,” she had said, her expression suddenly fierce. “I’ve never even left Florida, but there’s so much out there that I must see with my own eyes. Will you tell me, Peter? Will you tell me about the world?”
And so he told her stories of the food he’d eaten in Germany, the tribes he’d encountered in Africa. He sang her the songs that were traditional in Bavaria, and he told her about the time his grandparents took him to London for a month when he was six, and he’d had afternoon tea at the Ritz. He told her about the traditional Christmas tree in his town square and the legend of Christkind, the German equivalent of Santa Claus, and he talked of politics and poverty and Hitler’s rise to power.
In turn, she told him of the hurricanes of 1926 and 1928 that nearly wiped out Belle Creek. She told him about the dike Herbert Hoover had ordered built and how it had taken away the lakeshore but would save the town from future disasters. And she told him about her family: her older sister, Louise; her quiet, reserved mother; her hardworking and hot-tempered father.
“I would like to meet them someday,” Peter said wistfully late one afternoon, when Margaret had snuck to the edge of the field where he was working to bring him a glass of water. He gulped it down gratefully and looked up to see her wearing a somber expression.
“It isn’t possible,” she said, her voice
She was often with Jeremiah, the boy she’d been helping when Peter saw her for the first time. Jeremiah was twelve, Peter had learned, slight for his age with arms that were sinewy and strong. Peter knew the boy worked hard. He should have been in school, but instead, Jeremiah rose with the sun like the prisoners did and labored in the fields. Sometimes, he cut sugarcane. Other times, Peter saw him harvesting sweet potatoes or green beans at Margaret’s or the other small farms that ringed the vast cane fields.
“His mother is dead,” Margaret had whispered to Peter one day as he worked on the edge of a field. They were separated, as they often were, by a thin canal and a thousand invisible barriers, and he longed to touch her.
He had glanced at the boy, who was a hundred yards away, weeding a patch of overgrown potatoes. “And what of his father? He doesn’t encourage Jeremiah to go to school?”
“He’s a drunk,” she told him. “Jeremiah has to support him, or they’ll lose their home. They’ll lose everything.”
Peter had looked over to the boy in astonishment. “But he’s just a child!”
“In a place like this,” she said sadly, “one doesn’t stay a child for long.” There was something in her eyes that chilled Peter. But then she blinked and glanced away. “It’s why I try to work with him as often as I can,” she added. “When I’m in the field with him, I try to continue his lessons. We talk about history and geography and politics. I think I have helped create a boy who wants to change the world.”
“Good,” Peter said. “We should all want to change the world.”
“Yes.” Margaret smiled shyly. “There are many things I wish were different, Peter.”
He held her gaze. “As do I.”
She had told him that she’d had to drop out of school at the age of sixteen to help out on her family farm and that there was no hope of attending university now, for her family was very poor. So she read voraciously, borrowing books from the library two towns over and trying her best to absorb as much poetry, history, and literature as she could. “I want to see the world one day,” she had said, her expression suddenly fierce. “I’ve never even left Florida, but there’s so much out there that I must see with my own eyes. Will you tell me, Peter? Will you tell me about the world?”
And so he told her stories of the food he’d eaten in Germany, the tribes he’d encountered in Africa. He sang her the songs that were traditional in Bavaria, and he told her about the time his grandparents took him to London for a month when he was six, and he’d had afternoon tea at the Ritz. He told her about the traditional Christmas tree in his town square and the legend of Christkind, the German equivalent of Santa Claus, and he talked of politics and poverty and Hitler’s rise to power.
In turn, she told him of the hurricanes of 1926 and 1928 that nearly wiped out Belle Creek. She told him about the dike Herbert Hoover had ordered built and how it had taken away the lakeshore but would save the town from future disasters. And she told him about her family: her older sister, Louise; her quiet, reserved mother; her hardworking and hot-tempered father.
“I would like to meet them someday,” Peter said wistfully late one afternoon, when Margaret had snuck to the edge of the field where he was working to bring him a glass of water. He gulped it down gratefully and looked up to see her wearing a somber expression.
“It isn’t possible,” she said, her voice
Similar Books
