Cora disappears with one last comforting squeeze and I sink into a padded armchair. Keying in the guest username and password, I navigate to Explorer and type “water contamination” into the search bar. Over five hundred million hits unfurl before me, and I click through the first few, promptly realizing that I need to refine my results. I don’t need to know that water pollution is usually the result of human activities or that runoff from fertilizers and pesticides is the biggest offender. I’m more interested in the effects, in understanding the reasons why the Murphys would fight so fiercely, so vocally about something that seems rather inconsequential to me. Drink bottled water. Buy a purifier. Find a way. Fertilizers and pesticides, chemicals themselves, are a fact of life.
After more than ten minutes of clicking and reading, refining my search and trying again, I’m surprised to discover that the science isn’t nearly as exact as I thought it would be. In low concentrations, contamination from chemicals can cause anything from mild irritation to acute stomach distress. Higher concentrations of toxic chemicals are obviously much worse: burns, convulsions, miscarriage, birth defects, and certain types of cancer, including breast, ovarian, thyroid, non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, and leukemia. Scary stuff. But the Murphys don’t have kids, and Beth is far past her childbearing years. They aren’t convulsing on a regular basis—at least, not that I know of. As for cancer, doesn’t it get us all eventually? Doesn’t everything cause cancer?
It’s hard for me to wrap my head around this kind of strife, the back-and-forth between people I don’t know well, about an issue that doesn’t seem all that significant to me. I’m missing something.
Cora is behind the circulation desk, gathering things up and humming to herself. It’s a subtle reminder that she has plans and I’m cramping her style as the only person in this utterly abandoned place. I don’t blame her. It’s a gorgeous summer day and I’m ready to be outside, too, but I key in one last search before I close the computer down. This time I’m a bit more specific. Iowa water pollution cases. The headlines scroll:
IOWA TOWNS FIGHT TO KEEP POLLUTION OUT OF TAP WATER
MORE THAN HALF OF IOWA WATER BODIES POLLUTED
IOWA CORN FARMS POISON DRINKING WATER
SMALL FARMERS BATTLE BIG AGRA
NASTY WATER WARS
Water wars indeed.
But this isn’t my battle to fight. I turn off the computer and tuck my chair in under the table. Cora gives me a look as I approach her with the lanyard and guest card outstretched.
“Find what you needed?” she asks slyly.
“Poison,” I tell her with a wink. “Quick, clean, undetectable.”
Cora’s laughter follows me all the way out the door.
It’s hazy and humid when I jog down the steps, and I hurry to where my car is parked in the shadow of the community center. My hour at the library has unnerved me, and when I glance through the driver’s-side window and see a yellow Post-it Note stuck to my steering wheel, a flutter of dread wings against my skin.
I don’t lock my car doors—ever. Why would I? This is Jericho, where everyone knows my name and can recognize my car by the scattering of rust over the back wheel wells. Ashley has returned borrowed shirts by tossing them on the passenger seat, and my mom often slips treats in my cupholder just because. But this feels different.
I yank open the door and slide into the hot car, snatching up the little square of paper as if I expect it to be a death threat.
Hit play. —Sullivan
I’m confused for a moment, glancing around until my eyes fall on the cassette deck in my dash. I’ve never used it, not once, but now the little flap is pushed back and I can see there is a tape inside. My car is a hand-me-down, and it has both a CD player and a tape player that came with an impressive collection of my mom’s old classic cassettes. She had once handed them to me in a cardboard box with a half smile and listening notes on her favorite composers and songs. I lugged the box around in my trunk for a while until Mom realized I was never going to develop an appreciation for her ten-tape ultimate classical collection. She reclaimed the box and stuck it in the attic.
A tape? I’m not even sure I know how to use one. And a pucker of concern makes me wonder if I want to follow Sullivan’s instructions at all. What could it be? A confession? An in-depth explanation of water contamination? I turn the ignition and sit with my car running in park. Then, with some trepidation, I reach over. The play button sinks with a satisfying click.
It’s a song I know, perfectly cued up to the first few lightly strummed guitar chords. I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips, nor can I stop myself from grabbing my phone and dialing his number.