If they knew what could happen before they started doing it, if they knew how bad it would be and did it anyway, then they can be made to pay. My mother, therefore, has spent the last two almost-decades searching for incontrovertible proof they knew all along, something no one can deny.
River’s not buying it. He’s not even understanding it. “So by the time they figured it out”—he so wants this to be a tragic trick of timing—“it was too late?”
“The early signs—the off water, the smell, dead plants, sick pets—those went on for months while you said we were imagining things. Then you said there was no proof. Then you said you had the water tested and it was perfectly safe. And then people started getting sick, and you still wouldn’t listen.”
“So what happened?”
“We went to the town council. We went to the press. We went up to the capital and talked to our representatives. We wrote letters to the governor. You know. The things you do.”
“And it worked? They closed the plant?”
“No. The river turned green.”
“Like algae?”
“Not that kind of green. Not a green found in nature. Green like green neon, like green Easter egg dye, like St. Patrick’s Day souvenirs. It glowed.”
“Wow. That’s…” He considers it and settles finally on “terrible.”
“No, actually, that was a good thing, the one good thing, because finally, finally, everyone saw. People came and saw and listened. People paid attention to what Belsum was doing and how it was killing us. Reporters came and government officials and scientists and activists and experts, and since people were finally watching, they closed the plant.”
“And then what?” He can’t wait to hear what happened next, like I’m telling him the plot of a movie he’s not allowed to see.
“Belsum moved on and the government moved on. The scientists and activists and environmentalists moved on. The journalists moved on. But Bourne did not move on. Bourne stayed right where it was.”
His eyes look like they’re shivering. Can eyes shiver? It’s too much all at once. What would I have him say to all this? He can’t think of anything. Neither can I.
“Let’s walk some more.” I stand up.
“What?” He startles, looks up at me like he’s forgotten who I am, where he is, what we’re doing here.
“It’s okay.” I make myself smile at him, at least a little. “It’s not your fault.” I remind myself that this is true.
He nods. A beat. Another. “Wait.”
I do.
“What do you mean it’s not my fault? Of course it’s not my fault. It’s not true. Mab! Tell me you know it’s not true.” He’s not quite yelling, but he’s close.
“It is true.” Sad. Petra would say “atrabilious.”
But he’s neither. He’s mad. “Bullshit. You’re crazy.” He peeks at me. “Are you crazy?” He’s genuinely asking now.
I laugh. “Nope, afraid not.”
He laughs too but not because he thinks it’s funny. In fairness, that’s not why I laughed either. “Everyone in this town is crazy. Your mother obviously is. Your sister. I get it now. There’s something wrong with everyone here.”
“Well, that’s what happens when you’re poisoned,” I agree.
“Stop saying that!”
“Your family. Poisoned. Us.”
“Look, my grandfather’s kind of … I don’t know … but he’s not, you know, the devil. He doesn’t go around poisoning towns and giving dogs cancer just so he can buy a sailboat. Or whatever.”
“Your grandfather owns a boat?”
“Three.”
“Wow.” Dry as week-old breadcrumbs.
“But that’s not the point.”
I disagree. “I’m pretty sure it is.”
“I mean yeah, he’s rich. There’s no law against being rich, you know. But he didn’t kill anyone or hurt anyone or poison anyone. Jesus, this isn’t Shakespeare. Where are you going?”
I am not going to stand here in the sodden woods being scolded by River Templeton, so I set off for home. He should follow me because there’s no cell reception out here, and I know my way only after sixteen years of practice. He could starve to death before he found his way out. He’d have to resort to drinking the groundwater, which I really wouldn’t recommend. He could rely on my goodwill to come back and fetch him before nightfall, but I wouldn’t recommend that either. He seems to intuit this and comes loping after me on his long boy legs.