IRIS
Sol has a lot of thoughts about money.
He says money is purely material. Pieces of paper given an arbitrary value by strangers we’ll never meet. It’s all a made-up concept designed to control people, to keep them worried about things beyond their own souls.
“If working in finance taught me anything, it’s that you don’t need money,” he often says.
“Those who rely on it, who believe their personal worth is determined by how much they make or have saved in a bank, may live in material luxury, but their spirits will dwell in the deepest poverty. I pity them, honestly. I’ve been one of them. I know how sad and miserable it is.”
“It’s easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to get into heaven,” Zinnia always chimes in when he makes one of these speeches.
Always followed by Poppy’s exclamation of “Amen!”
I agree with him, of course. Growing up, we never had much money, and for a long time, we were so happy.
But for all Sol’s convictions, the rest of the world does not agree. And sometimes Sol’s odd jobs, Violet’s busking, or the quilts Lily makes to sell in town just aren’t enough.
I stare out the window of Sol’s truck as we make our way down the dirt road, around one of the low blue mountains.
The pawn shop on the outskirts of Culverton is the first building we pass, about three miles from the cabin.
As we drive by the blocky, concrete building, I wonder if the things I brought to the hollow—the ones Violet and Lily sold for me in the days after my arrival—are still on a shelf.
“Don’t talk to anyone unless you have to,” Sol is saying, his deep voice raised to be heard over the wind and the familiar sounds of Tim McGraw on the radio.
“I won’t,” I say. I’m shivering beneath the ratty green comforter Sol keeps folded up on the back seat of this rickety old Chevy. The passenger’s-side window is broken and won’t roll up all the way, so it can get pretty chilly in the truck on cold days like this.
“Normally, once you’re old enough, I’d have Lily or Violet show you the ropes here. But since that isn’t an option, just get in and get out. Buy what we can afford and take what we can’t.”
I nod, even though my stomach churns a little at the thought. I’ve shoplifted before—Sol knows that—but I hadn’t been prepared to do it again.
“The old man who runs the store is nosy,” Sol continues. “Violet and Lily say he asks a lot of questions. He might try to offer some kind of charity. You can be polite but turn it down.”
“Okay,” I say, and then, after a moment of thought, I ask, “Why? If we need the food, why turn it down?”
“Because we shouldn’t be reliant on anyone but each other,” he explains.
“There are always strings attached when other people help. Strings that aren’t there for family, like ours.
I’m sure his offers come from a place of good intent, but we don’t know him.
And we don’t want to owe him. Or anyone outside our family.
Because you never know when he might come to collect or what he might demand.
He could hold that kindness over your head for years.
People do that all the time. It’s just better to not rely on anyone else.
Especially since we don’t need to. We’re a strong enough unit without the aid of strangers. ”
It sort of makes sense, though I’m not entirely sure what the difference is in taking the man’s goods knowingly as opposed to without his permission.
But my stomach is tying itself in knots, and I don’t have hair to play with to calm myself down, so I just nod, hoping I can get this over with quickly.
“I’ll drop you off at the gas station on Maple,” he says.
“I told a couple people I’d haul some stuff off to the junkyard for them.
The job shouldn’t take long. I’ll pick you up after.
” A few minutes later, as I’m shrugging off the green blanket and about to slide out of the passenger’s seat, he reaches across the console to put a hand on my shoulder. “Iris?”
I pause, hand on the handle, and look back at him, at his bright blue eyes that slice like arrows into my soul.
“You’re the only one of the younger girls I’d trust with this,” he says. “I know you know the risks. If anyone finds out about you or Poppy or Zinnia or Rose …”
“I know,” I say. “I’ll be careful.”
He smiles, and between that and him telling me he trusts me—trusts me more than the others—it turns that churning in my stomach into something warmer, sweeter, giddier.
Culverton is a small town a few miles from the cabin.
If Sol is ever busy with the truck, the older girls can walk out of the hollow, following the dirt road through the tree-covered hills, and be there in an hour.
It’s the closest bit of civilization out here, and it only consists of a few paved blocks lined with basic shops and half-run-down houses, and a smattering of mobile homes on winding roads outside the town’s center.
The cabin is farther out than any of these homes.
I wonder if the people here even know that our little hollow exists.
It’s been over a year since Lily found me in my broken-down car in this sleepy little Appalachian town.
And yet, seeing it again now, I do recognize a few things that caught in my web of memory.
A Baptist church with a sign out front that proclaims, As long as there are tests, there will always be prayer in school!
A hardware store with an old pay phone on the side of the building that likely hasn’t been used or even functional since before I was born.
And, of course, that pawn shop that may or may not still be home to pieces of a life that is no longer mine.
I hadn’t remembered the grocery store, though.
Brophy’s is just down Maple Street, across the street and a few doors down from the gas station.
It is a brick building with tall glass windows overlooking the street and a sign above the door painted with large hunter-green letters.
The bells over the door jingle as I push it open, and I’m greeted with the sound of “Don’t Stop Believin’” playing over the speakers.
“Good morning,” the old man behind the counter calls out as I enter.
He appears to be in his seventies, with thinning white hair and a matching beard that highlights his bright smile.
Though I notice his smile falters slightly upon seeing me.
He stares at me for a long moment. Long enough that it makes my skin itch, like the skittering of spiders on the back of my neck.
Pity. Concern. Worry. It’s a look I’m all too familiar with, though now it’s for different reasons. He’s looking at the mismatched clothes that hang off my slightly too thin body.
I know what Sol would say. He’d tell me that people who stare at me like this have eyes still clouded by the superficial.
That their inability to see past material things is a tragedy they will have to face one day.
But this is my first time around anyone besides the girls in nearly a year, and I don’t know how to ignore the attention.
“Do you need help with anything?” he asks, voice suddenly gentler, as I grab a handbasket and make my way around one of the shelves, out of his line of sight.
“No, thanks.”
I’m the only customer in the store this early in the day.
It dawns on me then that it must be a weekday, when most people are at work or school.
Weekdays and weekends are relatively meaningless to us in the hollow.
But an empty store, with only this old man to sneak past, is both a good and a bad thing.
Good because there are fewer people to notice what I’m up to.
Bad because that means I have all the old man’s attention.
I try not to worry about that as I make my way down the narrow aisle, carefully alternating between popping cans of SpaghettiOs and Campbell’s soup into the small basket while slipping black beans and canned tuna under my hoodie or into the massive pockets of the coat Violet tossed at me on my way out of the cabin.
If any part of me feels guilty for taking from this man’s small business, my conscience is shouted down by the memory of hunger pangs I’ve known a few times since arriving in the hollow.
Besides, I’ll be paying for some of what I take.
This shoplifting is only an act of necessity, not greed or rebellion like it was for me before.
After about twenty minutes, with both my basket and my pockets full, I make my way back to the counter, where the old man greets me with a smile.
“Did you find everything you need?” he asks as he takes my basket and begins to ring up the small selection of items inside.
“Yes, sir,” I say, glancing out the large window to see if Sol’s truck is back in the gas station yet.
“Glad to hear it.” He picks up the jug of milk to scan, though his eyes don’t leave me. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before. You new in town?”
“Uh, yeah.”
Sol’s truck isn’t there. Not yet. But he said it wouldn’t take long, so I’m sure he’ll be back soon.
“Well, in that case, welcome to Culverton. I’m Carl Brophy. I own this here store. And who might you be?”
I hesitate as a small spike of panic surges through me.
I’m not supposed to talk. Not supposed to tell anyone anything.
If I do, I’m putting all of us at risk. The younger girls could get sent back to dangerous homes or put in foster care.
We’d be split up. Taken away from Sol. I have no idea where they’d send me, but I know it won’t be good.
No one wants me. And Sol’s told me the horror stories of kids who get dragged into the system, the abuse and the neglect. It’s a terrifying prospect.
But not answering the question would be more suspicious, wouldn’t it?
Instinctively, my hand moves to my shoulder, desperate to comb my fingers through the ends of my hair. But all I find is empty space.
“Iris,” I say. Because surely that’s not enough to draw attention.