“Her name,” says Mirabel’s Voice.
“Huh?” Mab’s face shows irritated again.
“Her maiden name,” Mirabel types. “Apple Grove,” Mirabel types. “Apple said in therapy”—many of Mirabel’s sentences to us start that way recently so she has that part saved, but then we have to wait while she types the rest—“her grandmother liked puns.”
“Weird,” Mab says. But then she sits up. “Oh. Like Uncle Hickory.”
“Who is Uncle Hickory?” I ask.
“River’s great-uncle. Remember? That giant painting at their house? It’s in his father’s office so I thought he was his dad’s uncle. But he must be Apple’s uncle. Uncle Hickory. Hickory Grove. I get it.”
“Ha ha,” I say rather than actually laughing because I get it too but it is not funny. “Probably the painting is in Nathan’s office, even though he is Apple’s uncle, because that is where it fit best based on its size or color scheme, but on the—”
That is when I stop talking right in the middle of a sentence.
Because that is when I remember a folder in the box called Flora.
* * *
Mirabel was right. It was in the house all along. I found it and did not know I found it, not because I did not know what I was looking for, which is what I have been thinking, but because I did not know what it was. I had it right in my hands the day I found the Santa photograph, a folder labeled Elm/Hickory Grove, filed in the Flora box because whoever put it there thought what I thought, which is that a folder titled Elm/Hickory Grove must hold papers pertaining to trees. But Elm/Hickory Grove are not trees. Or, to be more accurate, they are not only trees. They are also brothers. They are Apple’s uncle, Hickory Grove, and Apple’s father, Elmer Grove.
At first I think the most important lesson I learn is do not name your children puns because it confuses everyone in the world for all of time to come who is not your direct descendant. But when I re-find the file, I realize that there are other more important lessons than that.
In the file are four letters. They are handwritten, so harder to read than typing, but with neat handwriting, so we can still read what they say, and on paper that is yellow （good） because it is old （less good）。 So I am very careful when I hold the pages and read them out loud.
Dear Hickory,
Ran into Duke Templeton at a party at the Gladstones’ last night. He’s an insufferable ass, worse with a few drinks in him, but now that the kids are together, he seems to consider us family and has zero compunction about cornering me at a social occasion to make unreasonable business propositions and demands. Nathan seems like a nice enough kid, but I fear Apple will outgrow him. In fact, I’m certain she’ll outgrow him. It’s just that I imagine she’ll marry him first. Every time the phone rings, I’m expecting it to be Nathan Templeton requesting my daughter’s hand in marriage. I long for the days when asking the father’s permission was something other than an old-fashioned gesture you cannot possibly say no to.
Therefore, Duke presumes not only that we’ll sell him the land he wants but that we’ll give him a great deal on it. He’s eager to buy about twenty acres in Bourne for some kind of chemical plant they are hoping to have up and running by late next year. I said you were there at the moment with Mother and Dad, and I’d check with you and get back to him. I reiterated your offer of the land below the orchard and told him I considered the rate you quoted him quite generous. He explained though that their operations require a river—apparently for some pretty questionable effluvia so the less we know the better—so he’s interested only in the land by the river. I said that though we do indeed own all the land by the river as well, there’s less of it, and it is quite a bit more expensive, even for almost-family. Between you and me, I would much prefer to talk him into that vacant land instead because then we’ll be able to sell both. We get the money for the orchard land, and then, when his plant opens and brings in lots of new workers, we’ll be able to jack up the price of the river properties. It’s win-win. If you disagree with any of the rates I quoted, let me know soonest. Otherwise, I will proceed by holding firm and awaiting his reply.
Yours,
Elmer
“What is effluvia?” I say.
Mirabel taps at her tablet. “Run off.” Her Voice seems to be giving me a command.
“Run off where?” I ask.
“Not run off,” says Mab. “Runoff. Effluent. Shit that’s leaked by a chemical plant into a river that then runs downstream and poisons the water and the soil and everyone who lives there.”