Jodie Picoult - Songs of the Humpback Whale - A Novel in Five Voices

Joley sighs. “I’m not going to push you, Sam. I’m sure you’ve got your own ideas about this. But-for my sake-I wish you’d cut her a little slack.”

“There’s no problem,” I say.

Joley looks at me. “All right.”

He pulls into the driveway, and when we get out of the Jeep, we can see Jane and Rebecca in the distance. I catch Jane’s eye. It’s like we’re locked together; neither one of us is about to break away first. That would mean losing. “Are you coming?” Joley asks, heading off in their direction.

“I don’t think so,” I say, still staring at his sister. “I’m going to start dinner.”I swallow hard and turn away, feeling her still staring, boring through my back.

Inside, I hack at zucchini and potatoes, setting them into pots, ready to boil. I quarter two chickens and dip them in flour and then fry them up. I slice up almonds for the vegetables and I shell fresh peas. These are all things I have learned from my mother. I do almost all the cooking here; if I left it to Hadley or Joley we’d be eating Chef Boyardee.

Three-quarters of an hour later, I ring the rusty triangular bell on the porch for dinner. Joley and Jane and Rebecca come in from the east side of the orchard, Hadley comes in from the west. They file upstairs to the bathroom to wash up and then one by one fill in the places around the table. “Dig in,” I say, helping myself to a chicken breast.

Joley tells his sister all about Regalia Clippe, a conversation I tune out. After all, I was there. I concentrate on watching Hadley, who’s being awfully quiet. Usually at the dinner table you can’t get him to shut up long enough to eat. But tonight he’s pushing his peas around on his plate, colliding them with the mashed potatoes.

We all go on eating for a while so that the only noise is the scraping of silverware against my mom’s old country plates. Joley holds up his drumstick and waves it at me, nodding, his mouth full. When he swallows, he tells me how good it is. “You know, Sam,” he says, swallowing, “if the orchard ever folds you could go into gourmet catering.”

“I don’t call fried chicken gourmet. Besides, it’s just food. No reason to make a big deal about it.”

“Sure there is,” Rebecca says. “ She doesn’t cook this well.” She lifts her elbow in the direction of her mother, who puts down her knife and fork and just stares at Rebecca.

“So what did you two do today?” Joley asks. Jane opens her mouth but it’s clear that Joley’s talking to Rebecca and Hadley. Hadley’s face reddens to the top of his neck. What is going on here? I try to catch Hadley’s eye but he’s not looking at anyone. My fork slips out of my fingers, hitting the edge of my plate.

The noise makes Hadley jerk his head up. “We didn’t do anything,” he says, testy. “All right? I had a lot of stuff I had to get done.” He mutters something, and then crunches his napkin into a ball and aims for the garbage pail. He’s off by several feet, so he winds up hitting Quinte, the Irish setter. “I’ve got somewhere I have to go,” he says, and then he almost knocks his chair over getting up from the table. He slams the door when he leaves.

“What’s his problem?” I say, but nobody seems to know.

The disruption makes everyone sort of quiet again, which is just fine with me. I’m not one for talking through dinner. Then out of the clear blue Joley’s sister starts to speak. “Sam,” she says, “I was wondering why you don’t grow anything but apples.”

I exhale slowly through my nose. I’ve fielded this question at least a million times from dumb, pretty girls who thought this was a good way to act interested in what I do. “Apples take a lot of time and effort,” I say, knowing damn well I haven’t answered her question.

“But couldn’t you make more money if you diversify?”

That headache starts to come back. It’s near enough to drive me crazy. “Excuse me,” I say to Jane, “but who the hell are you? You come in here and two days later you’re telling me how to run things?”

“I wasn’t-”

The pain is shooting now, straight down the back of my neck. I start sweating. “If you knew a damn thing about farming maybe I’d listen.”

Maybe I’ve been talking rougher than I should have. She looks up at me and she’s practically crying. For a second-just a second-I feel awful. “I don’t have to take this,” she says, her voice thick and hoarse. “I was just making conversation.”

“Sam,” Joley says, a warning. But it’s too late. Jane stands up and runs outside. What is with these people today? First Hadley, now Jane.

It is just the three of us around the table. “Any more chicken?” I say, trying to break the ice.

“I think you overreacted. Maybe you could apologize,” Joley says.

I can tell it’s going to be two against one, here. I close my eyes to make that headache go away and I see Jane wandering around the orchard, which is not very well lit. She’s liable to hurt herself.

What am I thinking? I shake my head hard, getting back my senses. “She’s your sister,” I tell Joley. “ You invited her here. She just doesn’t belong in a place like this.” I sort of smile. “She’s should be wearing highheeled shoes and clicking along some marble parlor in L.A.”

Rebecca leaps out of her seat. “That’s not fair. You don’t even know her.”

“I know plenty like her,” I say, looking right at Rebecca. For a minute I think she’s going to cry too. “Okay,” I say, “would it make it all right if I went out there and apologized?” I want to do it for my own conscience, but they don’t have to know that. I’m not about to lose face in front of Joley, though, so I set my chin and pretend to sigh. I say, “Shit. For a little peace and quiet.” I push away from the table heavily. “So much for a happy little family dinner.”

Outside the crickets are sounding a symphony. It’s a humid night, so all the wildflowers around the house are drooping, exhausted. I hear noise coming from the shed where we garage the tractor and the rototiller, next to the barn. It’s a high-pitched mechanical scream and then the sound of something being shattered. I walk in the direction of the noise and turn the corner to find Jane Jones presiding over my box of clay pigeons, the orange ones I used for target shooting. She reaches into the box and grabs a disc, then whips it like a frisbee against the red wall of the barn about twenty feet away. By the time it explodes into splinters and dust, she’s got another disc in her hand, ready to go.

I have to give her credit for this: she’s got determination. I can see it in the way her whole body goes into the throw, as if she’s pretending it’s me she’s hurtling into the barn. Here I was thinking she was getting into some kind of trouble. She’s something else.

I try to keep my footsteps quiet as I walk up to her. “It’s more challenging with a gun,” I say.

She turns around fast, her eyes adjusting to the dark clearing where I’m standing. When she focuses on me, her face falls. “I didn’t know anyone was here.” She points to the mess in front of the barn wall. “I’m sorry about that.”

I shrug. “They’re cheap. I’m glad you didn’t get pissed off in the parlor.There’s antique china in there.”

Jane wrings her hands in front of herself, fidgeting. You’d never guess she was ten years my senior; she looks like a little kid. From what I’ve seen, she acts like one more often than her own daughter. Maybe I’ve been too hard on her. “Look,” I say. “About what happened at the table. I’m sorry. I’ve had this headache, and I overreacted.” She looks at me strangely, as if she’s never seen my face before. “What?” I say, selfconscious. “What is it?”