The Edge

He turned to see Pat Kingman standing there.

“Yeah, I wasn’t too thrilled, either.”

“I can put you in another cottage.”

“No, that’s okay. I’ll just tape the hole up until you can get it repaired. It wasn’t too big. The hole it would have put in me would have been a little bigger.”

She looked like she might be sick, so Devine said hurriedly, “I’m okay, Ms. Kingman, and I’m sure they’ll find out who did it and that will be that.”

“Well, I certainly hope so. You let me know if you need anything.”

“I will.”

She turned and hurried back to the inn.

Devine drove out to Jocelyn Point. He had some more questions for Alex.

When he got there, she was heading out astride a turquoise-colored bike with a big basket. There was a cool hand-painted slash of lightning along the frame. In the basket was a large waterproof knapsack.

She had on wool pants and a thick white sweater with a tweed blazer over that, and her hands were gloved. Her hair was in a ponytail and she had on earmuffs. Her expression was excited.

“Where you headed?” he asked.

“My art class, remember?” she said.

“Oh, right. Little nippy to be riding a bike.”

“It’s only a few miles.”

“How about I give you a lift? We can talk on the way and then I can wait and drive you back here.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I don’t mind, really.”

“Well, it would save me some time, and this heavy knapsack makes turning a chore.”

She parked her bike on the porch, while he stowed her knapsack in the back seat.

She directed him to the public school, which was set in a block of empty warehouses, boarded-up business parks, and vacant, weed-filled lots.

As he pulled into the school she said, “This was all starting to go downhill when I was a little girl. Then all the businesses closed, jobs went overseas, and there was no backstop. Rural Maine has lost a lot of population. Mainers rely a lot on tourism, but the pandemic blasted a big hole in that, and we still haven’t recovered.”

“I’m sure.”

“Compared to Boston and New York the cost of living is lower, but it’s not all that cheap to live here, either, when you factor in food and fuel, and a lot of the jobs don’t pay a living wage.” She looked out the window. “And the weather can be... challenging. We’re actually projected to lose population for the next twenty years. Leaders need to step up. Invest in the state, in the people, or the picture is not going to miraculously get better. Mainers deserve that. Hell, everybody in this country does.”

“You’re very well informed.”

“It’s my home and my country,” she said. “I need to be informed. Where do you live?”

“Right now, it’s a moving target. Did you get your interest in all that from your father?”

She looked at him warily. “I am not a politician. I have no interest in that at all.”

“You don’t have to be a politician to help your community.”

“Right now, I just want to help the kids in my class.” She opened the car door. “Are you coming in or staying out here?”

“Can I come in?”

“You have to sign in at the front desk and I have to vouch for you.” She eyed his waist. “I don’t know about the gun.”

“Do they have a security person here?”

“They used to, until they couldn’t afford the position anymore.”

“I think my federal creds will carry the day.”

And they did.

For the next hour and twenty minutes Devine watched from a corner as Alex taught two classes of sixth graders in a makeshift classroom with no windows, high ceilings, and not much heat. And yet the kids loved it. He could see that from their enthusiasm and their questions and how seriously they took Alex’s comments as she went around the room to view each student’s efforts. She was unfailingly positive and detailed, and her suggestions were delivered with genuineness, humor, self-deprecation, and delicacy.

And she smiled — often, he saw, which he had never really seen her do in the limited time he had known her. At the beginning of the class she had passed out granola bars and juice boxes, which, she had told Devine, she paid for with her own money. That was why the knapsack had been so heavy.

Later, as they walked back to the Tahoe, she said, “The entire school is 130 percenters.”

“What does that mean?”

“The government pays for lunches for students whose family income is at or below 130 percent of the federal poverty line. That’s about thirty-six thousand a year for a family of four.”

“That seems ridiculously low for a family to live on. I don’t have kids but I remember how much I ate. I would think it would be damn hard to make ends meet on double that.”

“It is, but that’s the law. And the extra federal funds doled out during the pandemic have dried up. With those dollars, the income level was waived and all kids could eat for free. Not anymore. And a hungry kid has a difficult time learning. That’s why I give them something before the class. Near the end of the school day they start to run out of gas. I wish they let me teach the class earlier, but art is sort of an afterthought. I guess I’m lucky they offer it at all.”