Drift (5 page)

I checked the fridge for beer, but found only old food in various stages of bad: limp lettuce, sour milk, and moldy leftovers, bread, and cheese. Frank had died less than two days ago, but by the looks of it, this stuff had spoiled that. I stood there for a while with the door open, thinking about Frank, living here alone with a refrigerator full of rotten food. I started to clear it out, but figured it was best to keep it refrigerated until trash day, whenever that was.

“Are you ready?” Moose yelled from the second floor.

It wasn’t until he came downstairs wearing a different T-shirt that I realized he was living here. Guess the guest room wasn’t a guest room after all. My brain conjured up a vague memory of my mom maybe mentioning it at some point, and I wondered what else she might have told me.

Moose clomped down the steps and stopped to look at me when he reached the bottom. With his hair wet and his face scrubbed, he looked even younger.

“Are you ready?” he asked again, in the same tone Danny Tennison’s wife would use to tell Danny that he wasn’t.

“Yup.”

“Sure you don’t want to change?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” I said, too tired to change, almost too tired to get annoyed at him. “Let’s go.”

Before we left, Moose pulled an unlabeled brown wine bottle out of the bag he had picked up in town.

“What is that?” I asked as we walked out the door.

“Friend of mine makes organic wine.”

“Organic wine?”

“Well … kind of,” he said over his shoulder as we crossed the street. “He calls it squish. It’s excellent.”

And probably illegal, I thought, but I didn’t say anything.

We crossed the road and walked up onto the porch, and as Moose rang the doorbell, I saw something moving out of the corner of my eye: the laundry fluttering in the breeze. From up close, the bra looked like a flimsy little thing. There were also a couple of small T-shirts, a pair of jeans, and a few lacy scraps that I couldn’t quite identify, but which got my imagination going.

I was just thinking they didn’t seem appropriate for a little old lady when Miss Watkins opened the door. She had a big smile that froze on her face when she saw me.

“Hi, Nola,” Moose said cheerfully. He made a move to step inside, but stopped when she didn’t step back. He looked back and forth between us. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Nola, this is Doyle Carrick.”

“So I gathered,” she said.

“Doyle, this is Miss Watkins.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said, grinning slightly despite myself. I didn’t let my eyes go any lower than her nose.

“Again,” she said.

“Again.”

Moose looked back and forth between us. “You two know each other? That’s awesome.”

“We’ve met,” she said. “Just today as a matter of fact.”

“Really?” he said, his voice squeaky with surprise. Then his face fell. “Wait, you mean at Branson’s?”

I laughed nervously. “Afraid so.”

11

Nola Watkins’s home was a mix of low-end modern and Latin American arts and crafts. Her metal-and-fake-wood shelves were cluttered with colorful bric-a-brac, and her simple black sofa was draped with a green-and-brown woven blanket.

The smells from the kitchen were hypnotic and strangely unfamiliar—an incongruous mixture of onions, peppers, and meat, mixed with cinnamon, cloves, and other spices.

“That smells good,” I said.

“
Carne guisado
,” she said, with a touch of accent that was either authentic or pretentious. “It’s a Colombian recipe, but I learned it in Guatemala. I hope you like spicy.”

“Spicy is good.”

Moose held up the bottle. “I brought some of Squirrel’s squish.”

“Oh. Great,” she said with a forced smile. “How’s Carl doing? Living by himself and all.”

“He’s doing great,” Moose said. Then he turned to me. “Me and Squirrel used to live together. He’s a great guy, but he snores like a spoon in a garbage disposal.”

The table was set with wineglasses, but Nola asked if I preferred beer. She looked relieved when I said yes.

She let Moose pour from his own bottle, shaking her head as he did. We followed her into the kitchen, and she took two Yuengling Lagers out of the fridge. With her bare hand, she twisted the cap off one and handed it to me, then twisted the cap off the other.

“Cheers,” she said, taking a long pull from the bottle. No glass. I kind of liked that.

“Cheers,” I said, and took a long pull myself. The beer was cold and good.

“Cheers,” Moose echoed. He took a sip of his drink and shuddered, then took a bigger sip.

Nola watched him with a pained expression as she stirred the saucepan. “How can you drink that stuff?”

Moose licked his lips and grinned. “It’s delicious. And it’s all natural.”

“Well, don’t drink too much. We need to pick tomatoes across the street first thing.” She turned to me. “Frank and Meredith let me grow on some of their land in exchange for produce. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not.”

She smiled, then turned back to Moose.”And don’t forget we’ve got Greg from the caterers coming on Thursday to check on the corn. I want us up early tomorrow to make sure everything looks just right.”

Moose snorted. “Nola, it’s just corn.”

“It’s not just corn, Moose, it’s organically grown heirloom Lenape Blue, and these people are paying a lot of money for it to look perfect.” She sighed and turned to me. “Sorry. I mostly grow for farm markets and some food co-ops in Philly, a couple of restaurants, but I also do some contract growing for some very pricey caterers.”

“Sounds like quite a niche.”

“It is, Doyle,” Moose chimed in. “It’s ridiculous, but these people pay major bucks.”

“They can be a pain, but I make more from a couple of crazy wedding jobs than a whole season’s worth of farmers markets.” She turned down the burners. “Next year I’ll be certified organic, and I’ll be able to charge a little more for what I grow. Until then, this is helping me make ends meet. Let’s go sit down.”

“Why not until next year?” I asked as she ushered us into the living room.

“It’s a three-year process, and it’s not cheap. This is the third year. Meanwhile, I grow obscure heirlooms so rich brides can have vegetables to match their bridesmaids’ dresses.”

Once Moose was sitting in the armchair and I was on the sofa, Nola perched in a straight-backed wooden side chair, curling her legs up under her and somehow looking quite comfortable.

For a moment, the room was still.

“I’m sorry for your losses,” she said quietly.

“Thanks,” I said. I was wishing people would stop saying that. I guess it was good to get it out of the way.

“And I’m really sorry I missed your mother’s funeral. I had a friend going through a medical crisis. I felt terrible not being there. I was very fond of your mother.”

Moose shook his head, his eyes welling up again. “They were both really good people.”

The room was quiet for a moment, and when I looked up, Nola was squinting at me, with her brow furrowed and her head tilted, like she was holding the last piece of a puzzle and it didn’t fit.

“You’re not how I pictured you,” she said.

“How did you picture me?”

“I guess … I guess how you look in your pictures.”

“You mean the official police portrait? Or the high school yearbook shot?” Those were probably the only two photos of me taken in the last fifteen years.

“Both, I guess. But also just from hearing Frank and Meredith talk about you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Just different.”

“I know what you mean,” Moose chimed in. “Different.”

I shifted in my seat, uncomfortable at the scrutiny. I was relieved when the timer dinged in the kitchen.

Nola smiled. “Dinner’s ready.”

12

The
carne guisado
tasted even better than it smelled. I tend to eat pretty enthusiastically, but I made sure to switch back into conversation mode after half a dozen forkfuls.

“So you learned this recipe in Guatemala? What were you doing there?”

“I went down with a group helping to teach farmers about organic farming techniques.” She talked about college, and cooking, and traveling around Central America. Moose joined in, and the conversation moved on to fair-trade co-ops and organic farming and GMOs and the many evils of the modern food system.

I was happy to keep quiet and hunker down with the
carne guisado
, but then Moose said Pop-Tarts should be illegal, and I had to speak up. I haven’t had a Pop-Tart in fifteen years, but I like knowing they exist, just in case.

Moose leaned forward. “So, I guess you’re more of a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy.”

“Actually,” I replied, “I’m not that into potatoes, unless they’re fried.”

I could see Nola was trying to tell whether I was serious or not, so I quickly conceded that I could appreciate the idea of organics, even if I couldn’t always afford it. “So how did you get so involved in all this anyway?”

Moose glanced over at Nola like he was wondering what she was going to say. She paused, like she was wondering, too.

She took a sip from her beer and sat back. “When I was sixteen, I got sick. Then I got better. Then I got sick again. I got better, I got worse, for six months, in and out of hospitals: breathing problems, rashes, muscle aches.” She laughed and shook her head. “Most of the doctors thought I was making it up. At one point, they thought it was a girl thing. Because of the schedule.” She paused to finish her beer. “Turned out it was the next door neighbor’s lawn guy. Every month, he’d come and spray God knows what on the grass—pesticides and herbicides and chemical fertilizers. It was a great-looking lawn, if you’re into that sort of thing. Damn near killed me.”

“So were you allergic to the chemicals?”

“Apparently. Not allergic, but sensitive. They said I have something called MCS, Multiple Chemical Sensitivity.” She shrugged. “Anyway, my mom asked the neighbors to stop using the lawn chemicals, and they weren’t crazy about it, but they stopped and I got better.”

“So that’s what it was?”

“The MCS? Who knows? Some people don’t think MCS is even real. I’m not entirely sure myself. One doctor said that’s what it was; the other doctors said she was a quack. A couple of years later, it happened again, a lot worse. It can get worse each time it happens. It’s progressive. That time my apartment building got new carpet in all the hallways, and no, they were not going to get rid of it.”

“What did you do?”

“What could I do? I moved out.”

“And got better?”

She nodded.

“And now?”

“I’m fine. I just have to be careful. Some people have it so bad they can’t come into contact with anything, perfumes or dyes, anything sets them off. And people think they’re crazy, or making it up. My friend Cheryl, for example. After her third episode, she just basically didn’t get better. Now she lives totally chemical-free, in a house out in the woods. But she has to go out sometimes, and occasionally she’ll have a reaction to something. That’s who I was with when I missed your mom’s funeral. Compared to her, I’m lucky. I live my life, I eat in restaurants, travel on planes. It’s generally not a problem, I just avoid places with lots of chemicals. For me it’s mostly just pesticides and herbicides.” She smiled. “That and cheap carpet. Anyway, when I started looking into it, I was shocked at some of the chemicals that are getting into the food stream. That’s what got me into organics. And it’s not just the chemicals.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, all of it. The GMOs, the clones, irradiation.” She got up and went to the kitchen. “It’s like food isn’t food anymore.”

“Again with the clones?” I repeated. “Really?”

“It’s for real, Doyle. They’re doing that all over,” Moose cut in. “They’re cloning cows and sheep. They’re genetically modifying crops to produce pharmaceuticals, like vaccines and proteins, and heavy duty stuff like interferon. And the genetically modified stuff is everywhere: corn and soybeans and tomatoes. I swear, they let it out intentionally, mix it in with the regular stuff just so they can say ‘Oops, too late now, but see? It didn’t kill you.’ Or at least not yet.”

“Come on, don’t you think you’re being a little paranoid?”

Nola returned with two fresh beers and gave me one. “Actually, he’s right. It does get mixed in, and then they sue the farmers for using the stuff without a license.”

“So how does it get mixed in?”

She shrugged. “Pollen drift, carelessness, hybrids … mix-ups with seed.”

The conversation went on like that for a while. Maybe I had eaten my fill, but the more they talked about food, the less hungry I became.

When Nola announced she was done eating, I did, too.

Moose had eaten like a four-year-old girl, but he pushed himself away from the table and said he was full, rubbing his concave midsection like it was a bowl full of jelly.

We cleared the table, and Nola was making coffee when her phone rang. “Excuse me,” she said, clearing her throat before answering the phone. When she spoke, her voice sounded bright and professional. “Hello, Nola Watkins speaking.” She had turned partially away from me, but not enough that I couldn’t see her expression change as her voice did.

“Nola Watkins speaking,” she repeated, tentatively. “Hello?… Hello?”

I looked over at Moose, and he looked back at me, shaking his head.

Nola made a soft growling noise in her throat and put her phone away.

“Sorry,” she said with an apologetic smile. She was trying to act like nothing was wrong, but her face was flushed and her eyes were strained.

“What was that about?” I asked. “Everything okay?”

She shot a look at Moose and said, “Yes, just a wrong number.”

I shot a look at Moose, too.

“She’s been getting all these hang-up calls,” he said with a slightly drunken snort.

“Moose! Stop it.” She turned to me. “It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t sound like nothing. How long has that been going on?”

“Since she turned down the offer from the developers, about six months ago.”

“Moose, seriously,” she said with a glare. “Shut up.”