Pinch of Love (9781101558638) (13 page)

I lean over, lift the phone off the receiver, and reset it. I return to my segmented phalanges. I half expect Joan to call again, but she doesn't.

I draw all morning and break for lunch with Russ. This Friday he brings a small cheese pizza from Orbit—the best and greasiest pizza in the whole state. My slice wilts and drips oil when I lift it from the box. Russ gives Ahab a wad of sliced turkey. He wolfs it down.

Before I return to my office, I tie on Nick's camo apron because it comforts me somehow. Back upstairs I recue Gladys. By late afternoon my finger bones stretch long and unadorned like a spiny desert plant, like a prehistoric insect. Finally I select SIMPLY BLACK—number 003—and sign my initials in the bottom right corner. I spray the paper and leave it to dry.

I approach the turntable, ready to lift the needle off Gladys, when the phone rings again. I consider hanging up on the caller before the machine even picks up, but instead I wait and listen. It's my sister.

“Yoo-hoo, Ze-ell, where've you been?” Gail asks. “Why don't you come up this weekend for a visit? It's been so long since you've been up here. We miss you. Tasha has been asking about Ahab. Tasha, come say hi to Ahab.”

“Abe-abb!”

“Say hi to Auntie Zell, too.”

“Abe-abb!”

“Anyway, come up anytime. And bring some Muffinry muffins. How 'bout a half dozen blueberry-brans for Mom and Dad's freezer? Blueberry because mom likes the antioxidants, and bran because Dad likes the fiber. And look, it doesn't matter if you finish the . . . listen. We just want to see you. Don't worry about the bathroom. Don't even
think
about the bath—” Beeeeeep. Gail talks so long, the machine cuts her off. I wait a second, but she doesn't call back.

I grasp Hank's plastic hand. I study the tips of his fingers, the knobby, pebblelike bones in his wrist. I imagine Gail's slope-side home—the gabled red-tin roof, the twelve-person hot tub on the wraparound deck. Her house is halfway up the Sachem trail on Okemo Mountain, in a thicket of pines. My parents live there, too.

Carefully, in my mind, I enter the house. I call “Cheerio!” to Gail's husband, Terry. He's short and British, and his breath always smells of asparagus. In my mind he lounges on the couch in front of the roaring fire in the fieldstone fireplace. On his chest, Tasha sleeps and drools.

I imagine Terry quietly calling “Cheerio!” back. Over Tasha's head he gives me the British version of the middle finger: index and third fingers in a narrow
V
, back side out, like a backward peace sign.

In my mind I pass Terry. I glide past the gleaming stainless-steel kitchen, down the hall. I open the French doors that lead to Gail's guest bathroom. I admire her three-thousand-dollar toilet, which looks like a tall hatbox.

Taped to the side of the vanity is an envelope. Inside the envelope is a photograph, one Nick took, of mountains in the first stages of thaw, of glistening boulders and evergreens. In front of the evergreens pose four people, as happily exhausted as sled dogs.

Who were they? When were they?

I snap back to real time, real place, as Ahab sidles up to me in that silent, ghostlike way of greyhounds. He licks Hank's heel.

I fold Hank's fingers down so just the middle one protrudes. “Heave ho,” I say in Ahab Voice. I laugh at my joke. But just as easily as the laugh bubbles up, tears bulge. And a second later they roll down my cheeks, and then I just can't stop: I'm crying as hard as I did when I found out Nick was gone. I have no idea what prompts the sobs. They just
come.
And whoever says it takes one year to recover from the death of a spouse is crazier than I am.

Balls.

I clutch the turntable to my chest. Ahab follows me all over the house. I can't be in the office, where Hank hangs, where my big eyeball watches me from next to my old scuffed heart. I can't be in the bedroom, with Nick's trash-picked furniture. The kitchen doesn't do because I can see Mount Wippamunk framed in the window, all lit up, skiers and boarders little dots that jump side to side. The living room's out because Nick's dad's pottery—vases and bowls, decorative plates and teapots and teacups—crowds the shelves.

So I back into the little bathroom under the stairs. The powder room, Nick called it. I shoo Ahab because it's closet size, and the two of us don't fit inside. He blinks at me rather mournfully as I close the door between us.

I balance the turntable on the sink. I cue Gladys and the boys. I crash onto the toilet seat and slump against the wall.

The acoustics in here are fantastic. Violins swell, a woodblock knocks like a heartbeat, and Gladys pleads. All she needs is time. Maybe a thousand years.

Years ago I painted a mural in here. It's of Ahab, back when he was a strapping young captain. I captured him midstride, all four legs tucked under him. A furry torpedo. The photograph I painted from—one Nick took, of course—hangs in a frame above the sink.

Ahab was just two years old when we adopted him. The adoption place rescued him straight from a racetrack in Connecticut. Steroid injections made him muscle-bound, like a cartoon superhero dog. His butt and thighs were bald from lying around for extended periods on cement slabs. A scar made the base of his tail bald; handlers poke greyhounds with electric cattle prods for a faster start out of the gate, we learned. Scabs dotted Ahab's feet and legs, from other dogs nipping him as they raced to the food trough.

Memory Smack: The tan, plump woman in charge at the adoption place wore stained shorts covered with fur. “Remember,” she said. “Never off leash.
Never.
If it's cold enough for
you
to wear a coat, then it's cold enough for your grey to wear a coat. You're gonna have to teach him everything. How to walk up and down stairs. How to play. How to be affectionate. He's never seen a vacuum before, or a mirror, or a washing machine, or a—”

“Abso-smurf-ly,” Nick said. He knelt next to Ahab, and his arms made a wreath around Ahab's neck. He kissed the flat area between Ahab's eye and ear. “Let's get you to your new home, Cap'n,” he said.

Ahab kissed him back, a dainty greyhound kiss, more twitchy nose than tongue.

“I think
that's
a good sign,” the adoption woman said.

A door slams, snapping me back into real time, real place.

The door slams in the Knoxes' house, somewhere on the first floor. The needle skips on the turntable, and I twist the power knob to OFF. I hear whimpering. It's Ingrid. She makes a pathetic sound, like a pigeon cooing under a bridge.

I never hear Ingrid and Garrett make much noise through these walls. Then again, I never really listen. They probably have a powder room just like mine. Maybe Ingrid's right next to me, on the other side of the wall.

I hear Garrett's voice, more muffled than Ingrid's whimpering. I bet he's in the hallway, talking to her through their powder-room door.

“Listen, boo-boo,” he says. “I'm trying to make our lives better by going to law school. And when I'm done, I'll get a better job and we'll have more money. A better life. But until then, life's gonna be
this
way.”

“I don't want more money,” Ingrid says. “I want my mother. I have a right to know my mother.”

“Polly Pinch is for
women.
Not girls.”

“I hate you.”

The air seems to ring with her scream. After the ringing, a long empty pause.

“You can cook with Zell,” he says.

“
Bake,
” she corrects.

“Bake, whatever. You can do all the
baking
you want as long as Zell's around, and as long as she
wants
to participate. Okay?” Garrett says something else, but I can't make out the words—they're a murmur. His footsteps fade.

Ingrid hiccups.

I don't know why—I don't even really think about it—but I rap my knuckles on the wall above the toilet tank, inside Ahab's torso.

A light, flat rap comes back in response. “Zell?” Ingrid says.

“Hey. Ingrid? You there?”

“Yeah.”

I lean against the wall and press my cheek against Ahab's painted chest. “Are you okay?”

“No.”

She doesn't say anything for so long that I wonder if she left. “Are
you
okay?” she finally asks.

“Right as rain,” I say.

“Right as what?”

“Rain.”

“I don't get it.”

“Yeah. Me, neither.”

Garrett's footsteps sound again. “Ingrid?” he says. “Are you ready to go to Zell's?”

She doesn't answer.

“Did you do your homework?” he asks.

“Yes. All of it.”

“Good. Then grab your jammies and your toothbrush, and let's go. I'm late for my study group.”

MOMENTS LATER THEY'RE AT MY DOOR. Garrett thanks me and hurries off. Ingrid doesn't say a word. She shuffles to the kitchen and slumps into a chair.

I have no experience navigating a little girl's moods. I'm not sure what to do or say. Should I leave her alone? Or is being alone the last thing she needs?

“Time to bake?” I ask.

She studies her hands, which rest in her lap, and nods once.

I sit opposite her. “What's your favorite treat?”

No response.

“Come on,” I say. “Don't you have a favorite dessert?”

“Well, I do like peppermint ice cream.”

“Hmm.” I have neither peppermint nor ice cream. But I do have little candy canes left over from Christmas—Pastor Sheila gave them to me, along with the pamphlets on grieving. And I have half-and-half, which I sometimes stir into my coffee. Half-and-half's definitely not ice cream, but it's in the same family, right?

I grab twenty or so little candy canes from a cupboard and half-and-half from the fridge, and arrange it all on the table.

Ingrid observes the spread. “Peppermint Cream Dream,” she says. “Do you think that's a good name for a dessert?”

“I do,” I say. “It's got a fun ring to it. Whimsical, even.”

“I don't know what that means. But I think we should make it.”

“Cool. Ideas?”

She plucks a cellophane-wrapped candy cane from the pile, hurls it to the floor, and stomps on it. “Step one,” she says. “Crush the candy canes.”

A candy-cane-crushing frenzy ensues. She sweeps them all to the floor, and we dance, grasping each other's wrists and spinning. The kitchen fills with the sound of crunching and crinkling.

“This is awesome,” Ingrid squeals, throwing her head back. “Aah! Come join us, Captain!” Ahab saunters in to observe us. He leans against the doorjamb, greyhound style.

“Step two,” I say, bending over to scoop up the candy. “Open little wrappers and dump contents into saucepan.”

“A saucepan?” She pulls up a footstool, and we shake the little powdery bits of candy from each wrapper into a small pan.

“We'll heat it up with the half-and-half,” I say. “And when it cools, it'll be like, I don't know . . . eggless crème brûlée. Or something.”

“All right, okay,” Ingrid says. She sucks on a shard of candy cane. “I can dig it.”

I pour a little half-and-half, slap a spoon into Ingrid's waiting hand, and turn on the burner. We lean over the stove for a while, not saying much, just watching flecks of red and white swirl around in the cream as the minty fragrance clears our sinuses. When the mixture starts to bubble, I turn the heat to low.

“It's too liquidy,” I say. “We don't want a
drink.
It's gotta be thicker.”

“Thicker?” Ingrid stirs with both hands on the spoon handle. “Add some flour.”

“Ya think?”

“I dunno. You're the adult here, Zell.”

A frightening thought. “Well, let's try it,” I say, and dump in a little flour—and some sugar, too—as she stirs.

“Interesting,” she says. And after several more minutes of stirring, we decide to pour the mixture and let it cool.

I grasp the pan handle and aim for two cereal bowls.

“You need ramekins,” Ingrid says as I pour.

“What-y-kins?”

“They're like little round bowls.”

“Really? I can't believe you know that.”

“I may not know
everything
yet, but I do know a lot.”

The mixture is thin and lumpy. I move the bowls to the table, and we sit and wait for the Peppermint Cream Dream to set up. Ahab rests his chin on my lap, and I stroke his ears.

“Want to taste test it?” I finally ask.

Ingrid lowers her nose to a bowl and inhales, wrinkling her nose. Then she dips her pinkie in the white-pink glop and sucks it. “Hmm,” she says. “The texture's sort of like paste.
Tasty
paste. But definitely pasty.”