Page 39 of Heartland

It’s my fault, too. My father died alone, because I wasn’t home where I was supposed to be.

“Dylan,” Chastity whispers. A soft hand brushes mine.

I snap out of my daze to the realization that I’m supposed to play the fiddle now. It’s tucked under my arm, forgotten.

Quickly, I lift it to my shoulder. Everyone is looking my way. There’s Griffin, standing with Audrey and their baby boy. May and her boyfriend, Alec. Isaac and Leah are here. Even my twin sister made the trek home for the weekend from Harkness College.

They’re all expecting “St. Anne’s Reel,” the fiddle tune my father taught me when I was nine. It was our song. He worked out a harmony part, and we played it so many times that it’s part of my soul now.

It took me a year to touch my violin after he died. And I still can’t play our favorite songs.

Playing “St. Anne’s Reel” right now would be like slicing open my chest with Griffin’s pruning knife and carving out my heart in front of the whole family. So even though my bow lands on the A string, I start playing something else—a slower fiddle song called Planxty Irwin. It’s a perfectly good song, but not one that I ever played with Dad.

I don’t make eye contact with anyone. I just play the tune and let them wonder. They can think whatever they want to think. Every time I touch the fiddle I bleed a little inside.

Today the wound is a gusher. I grip the bow a little too tightly and play on, wishing I was somewhere else.

Thirteen

Chastity

There’snothing like a Shipley bonfire. Beforehand, Griffin stacks the wood in a giant metal trough that was once used for watering cattle. It makes a bright, oblong fire, with plenty of access for marshmallow roasting.

He lights it at sunset, when the yellow flames will stand out against the darkening sky. There are a series of logs and stumps ringing the fire, as well as a smattering of chairs and a bench or two.

The scent of woodsmoke fills the air, while Ruth Shipley and her other children set up a buffet table a little ways off.

And that table isstackedwith food. I’m waiting in line with Leah, plate in my hand. Even from this distance I can see pulled pork and brisket sliders (a word I’d never heard until my first Shipley bonfire.) There are twice-baked potatoes. And coleslaw and cornbread and macaroni and cheese with bread crumbs toasted on top. And pickles and olives and carrot sticks and peppers with a creamy dip.

There’s a carved ham, too. And if Audrey’s feeling frisky, there might be spicy Indian lentils over cumin-scented rice, or fried pumpkin fritters.

Later will come the apple pies. Ruth’s will have cranberry in them. Leah’s have a crumb topping. I love them both so much that it’s hard to choose. I might need a small slice of each one.

“Looks pretty great, doesn’t it?” Leah asks, reading my mind.

“It looks amazing.” And I mean that literally. The casual abundance is shocking to me. “Do you still have food dreams?” I ask her.

She turns to squint at me. “I’m not sure what you mean?”

“Oh.” Now I feel ridiculous. “At the compound I used to dream about food. And it looked sort of like this—a table heaped with good things. I still have those dreams once in a while.”

And, hey, there’s a nice essay topic for composition class. I’m mining all my lowest moments for that class. I hope my crappy childhood is worth an A.

Leah puts an arm around my shoulder. “It’s been a long time since I was hungry. Isaac used to sneak me extra food, anyway. I didn’t have the same experience. And anyway, these days my big concern is keeping it down.”

“Yikes.”

“Yeah.” She laughs. “Enough about me. How are your classes? Is Dylan still helping with the math?”

“He is,” I tell her as my gaze flits toward him on the other side of the bonfire, where he stands with Isaac and Keith, his friend from high school and Burlington housemate. They’re all holding instruments. Isaac plays the banjo, and Keith plays the guitar.

“What about the rest of your classes? How are they going?”

“It’s… going,” I say carefully. And this isn’t what I really want to spend my Saturday night discussing.

“Do you need more help?” she worries. “You could ask the Dean for some official tutoring support.”

“Maybe,” I stall. “But that would take up time. And I’m already pressed for time. There’s so much homework and so many pages of reading.”