Pinch of Love (9781101558638) (14 page)

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Authors: Alicia Bessette

BOOK: Pinch of Love (9781101558638)
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“Tasty paste isn't going to cut it, Ingrid.” I flick one of her braids and sigh.
“Back to the drawing board?”
“I'm afraid so.” But I'm not really that disappointed in the failed experiment. I'm just glad Ingrid's no longer sulky and glum.
She pushes the bowl away. “Peppermint Cream Dream is too Christmasy anyway.”
“Good point. We're not going for seasonal.”
“We're going for . . . what, exactly?”
“Universal,” I say.
“Exactly.” She gets up and puts the bowls in the sink. “Universal.”
“Wanna take Ahab to the field?”
His ears fling up at the sound of his name, and he peers expectantly at me, cocking his head.
“Aye, matie,” says Ingrid, twirling around him. “Sail on!” And later, at the field, Ahab prances and gallops, spins and sprints. It's almost like he's putting on a show for Ingrid. It's almost like he knows.
 
 
EJ
 
France calls and says Dennis is coming over, too. So EJ drags two lawn chairs from the shed. The last time he used them was in summer, when he drove the Muffinry van to the town common to watch the fireworks. The first Fourth of July in a long time without Nick.
Now EJ puts one lawn chair on either side of the bench and drags a case of beer from the shed. His cell phone vibrates, and he fishes inside his coveralls, flips open his phone, and sees a text message from Charlene—“HEY HANSOME HOW R U.”
“HELLO BEAUTIFUL, GOOD, BEAUTIFUL NITE HERE,” EJ texts. He thinks it's a fine answer, somewhat romantic—flirtatious, even—but not too suggestive.
“SAME HERE, MITE GO 2 BAR W FRIENDS, TALK 2MORO” is her response.
“HAVE FUN,” EJ punches. He wonders what her friends are like. He wonders if she's the type of woman who'd sit with him most nights of the week, most weeks of the year, in front of a fire pit, drinking beer and listening to night sounds and crackling logs.
Dennis arrives, pulling his clunker all the way into the driveway. EJ greets him with a one-armed hug.
“Do you have a copy of this week's paper?” asks EJ. “Mine wasn't delivered this week.”
“Do I have a copy of this week's paper,” Dennis repeats. “Please.” He opens his passenger door, and several papers spill to the driveway. “How many you need?”
“Just one.” EJ cracks open a beer and hands it to Dennis as Dennis hands him
The Wippamunker.
“Hot off the press,” Dennis says.
“Fresh from the igloo,” EJ says of the beer, because most of the winter he stores it in the shed.
They clink cans and swig; EJ notes a few tiny ice chunks flecking his tongue as he swallows.
France pulls in, gets out of her car. “Beer me up, dudes,” she says.
They all take a seat—EJ on the bench, France and Dennis flanking him in the lawn chairs.
“That Nick's dad's house?” France asks. She squints past the fire across the pond, where almost every window in Mr. Roy's little house shines yellow.
“Yeah,” EJ says. “And there goes Mr. Roy, down into his basement.” In the small square window just above the earth, Mr. Roy's body and head pass.
“He still got that workshop down there?” she asks. “For his pottery?”
“I'd imagine so,” says EJ.
The fire snaps and fizzes. They're quiet for a while, watching the squares of yellow across the pond. EJ remembers being in Mr. Roy's basement workshop one afternoon, after tobogganing. Mr. Roy offered to teach him, Nick, Zell, and France how to center clay on the wheel. “Who wants to try?” he asked. “EJ?”
“I'm good.” He felt intimidated by Mr. Roy's artistry, even though Nick's dad was pretty humble; for him this moment was about teaching, not showing off.
France looked away; she never volunteered for anything.
Zell raised her hand. She and Nick were always the artsy ones. She sat at the wheel and dipped her hands in the little plastic water bucket.
Mr. Roy pulled up a chair. “Keep your hands perfectly still,” he said, “and let the clay spin underneath them. Just keep letting it spin until it stops wobbling, stops struggling, and fits perfectly with your hands. That's how you center clay. You can't make anything until it's centered.”
The clay shifted and lurched under Zell's hands, and her fingers kept spreading open, and little bits of clay flew out between them. She laughed at herself.
Nick watched, looking like he thought his dad was the coolest guy in the world. He pounded upstairs and returned with his camera, a big boxy contraption attached to a crazy-patterned old guitar strap. He took pictures of his dad teaching his girl how to center clay. Nick took pictures of EJ and France, too, their arms around each other.
Who knows where those photographs are now. Tossed out, probably, with so many other things tossed out over the years. Or maybe they're in a closet somewhere, piled inside a box. What would EJ see if he looked at them today? The same person, pretty much, except for the tattoos. Still EJ. Still Silo.
I'm more confident now, that's one difference, EJ thinks. Kinder, too. And hopefully more interesting. And smarter, definitely smarter.
France stands, crosses to the woodpile, and heaves a fresh log into the pit. She leans back to avoid the sparks that swirl up. She pulls the lawn chair closer to the warmth and sits down. “I'm gonna talk about Nick now.”
Dennis clears his throat and digs his boots into the snow. “We're listening. Go ahead.”
“Nothing was ever done for Nick, publicly,” she says. “Mr. Roy had a memorial service, but it was private. Just for family. Which is totally his prerogative. But the rest of us, his friends—and Nick had so many friends—but we never had any . . . any—”
“Closure,” EJ says.
“Right. Not to say that what you wrote about him in
The Wippamunker
wasn't closure, because it was, Dennis.”
Dennis nods. He stares at the snow between his boots. “Yeah. But this sort of thing is different.”
France describes in detail her plan to pay tribute to Nick's life. It's a good idea, EJ thinks. It's more than good. It's perfect. He's surprised at how much she's thought it out. It must have been hatching in her mind for a long time.
“It's just that I feel like we, the town, should bid him a proper good-bye,” she says. “I don't want Nick's death hanging over us—” Her hand flies to her mouth. “That came out wrong, Eege. Sorry.”
EJ ignores the slip. “What about Zell?”
“Have you talked to Zell?” asks Dennis.
“No,” EJ says. “Not since . . . not in a long time.”
“Pass me another beer, buddy?” Dennis says, and EJ tosses him a can.
“Zell should be a part of it,” France says.
“She won't be a part of it,” says EJ.
“I agree.” Dennis cracks open his can. “She should be, but she won't.”
“We'll do something anyway,” says France. “And just ask her to be there.”
“I'll help you organize,” Dennis says. “I'll tell the others, too, and see if they want to get involved. Pastor Sheila and Father Chet and Russ and Chief. I'm sure they'd all dig it.”
“I'll work on Zell,” says EJ, even though he probably won't because he's not sure he's able to face her yet. He left her that note in her kitchen, a brave move. But she didn't follow through.
“I wish you would talk to her,” France says. “You haven't talked to her in so long. I miss the way it was. She should be here with us tonight. Hanging out. Having beers.”
EJ's silent for a moment. Then he says, “I know.”
“What about him?” France gazes across the pond at Nick's dad's house again. They watch as he mounts his basement steps carrying a box and descends again empty-handed.
“I'll talk to him, too,” EJ says.
“I haven't seen him around town in a long time,” Dennis says.
“He was always that way.” France wipes her crooked-line mouth with the sleeve of her jacket. “Even before.”
This is true, EJ thinks. Back before his parents divorced, Mr. Roy would go to dinner with them occasionally, and sometimes to bingo at the Blue Plate Lounge. He seldom visited Nick and Zell, though they stopped by his house from time to time. Other than that, Nick's dad was pretty much a recluse. So if his reclusiveness intensified after Nick's passage, it was hard to tell.
“What can you do?” EJ says. He belches, cracks open another beer, sips it, and holds the freezing can between his legs.
France hucks a looger through her curled tongue. It makes a high arch as she projects it into the fire.
“Nice,” Dennis says.
She gives him the middle finger.
EJ reaches for
The Wippamunker
on the bench beside him. On the front page is a color photograph of a skinny white-haired woman. She wears safety goggles and sinks the blades of a chain saw into a huge stump of wood. “Teacher trades in cookie sheets for chain saws,” the caption reads.
“Hey.” EJ peers closer at the photograph. He tilts it toward the fire for more light. “That's Mrs. Chaffin. Ye Olde Home Ec Witch.”
“She's still quite the character,” Dennis says. “I just interviewed her.”
“France, did you see this?” EJ shows her the paper. “She's got a chain saw. It's Ye Olde Home Ec Witch. With a
chain saw.
”
She grins. “I got a teeny confession to make. I was at her house a while back, on police business.”
“Ye Olde Home Ec Witch's house?”
“Earlier this winter, someone living near the mountain reported seeing a mountain lion. I knocked on a few doors, just to lay any fears to rest. I mean, there hasn't been a mountain lion in Massachusetts for a century. Anyway, one of the houses was this big old beautiful red farmhouse, right on Route 331.”
“I know the one.” EJ nods. “With all the fairies in the windows. She lives there?”
“Yeah. Ye Olde Home Ec Witch answered the door. She actually remembered me. I couldn't believe it. She raises goats for cheese now, so naturally she was really worried about the mountain lion. She gave me some goat cheese. Have you ever had that? It's weird. Anyway, Trudy—”
“
Trudy
?” EJ says.
“Yeah. Trudy took me inside and showed me her sculptures.”
“Sculptures?”
“Read my article, you illiterate,” Dennis says.
“There's more pictures inside.” France sits beside EJ and turns a few pages until she finds the new guy's photographic collage of Ye Olde Home Ec Witch's sculptures. “Check it out,” she says.
“Holy . . .” EJ laughs. In the photographs, a wild turkey marches with a musket under its wing; a Boston terrier lights a stogie; a family of skiers approaches the lift line. “Chain-saw art business flourishes for retired home ec teacher Gertrude Chaffin,” the caption reads.
“Let's just say,” says France, returning to her lawn chair, “I brought her in.”
“Brought her into what?” asks Dennis.
France's lopsided smile stretches wide.
 
 
Nick
November 5, 2006
 
 
To My Sweet Little Pants,
 
How's it hanging?
 
I have a bit of a cold. My throat's sore and I feel like I have a fever. Chief Kent got all paramedic on my sorry ass and made me take a couple aspirin and take a nap this afternoon. I felt like a wicked wuss, but when Chief Kent tells you to do something, you do it. I think I feel a little better now. Just a bit of a weird headache, that's all. It's probably all the mold, dust and toxins we are exposed to in our house gutting. I've been doing a little of that, too. So has Dennis. We didn't really think we'd be part of the effort when we got down here. But the weird thing is, it's hard to resist being part of the effort. Anyway, even though we wear masks and goggles and those protective suits, we are still exposed to some pretty funky stuff. But don't worry. I'll be fine.
 
Do you know what I didn't realize? Something like half the city of New Orleans still does not have water or electricity. They want people to come to the touristy sections, which are up and running. But you don't hear about all the devastation still here, in other parts of the city, because they don't want to scare away the tourists. So there's still this huge mess here that many people don't really know about. Dennis is talking about making our story on this trip really big, like a two–or three–or even four-part series. He wants to do a couple huge spreads of my photographs. We want to spread the word about how much more help is needed down here. It makes me feel pretty cool to be a part of something so important.
 
But anyway, that's neither here nor there. . . .
 
How's your heart? You didn't mention anything about it when I called you yesterday, and I completely forgot to ask, but you've got to realize that it's on my mind a lot. I was so busy telling you about the tour we took of the Musicians Village. Oh, I can't believe I forgot to tell you about my Brad Pitt sighting. He was touring the village, riding a golf cart with his son sitting next to him in the front seat. He is seriously a good-looking dude. Even EJ was like, “Wow. I can't believe I'm saying this out loud, but Brad Pitt is pretty attractive.” This one guy invited Dennis and me into his FEMA trailer. He and his six kids and his brother and his brother's wife and their two kids live there. Like ten people in this little trailer. Unbelievable. He let me take all the shots I wanted because he said the worst part about a tragedy is thinking you have to go through it alone, and if we tell his story to the people back where we're from, the people in New Orleans will feel less alone. He said it much more eloquently than that, but that was the gist. When he said it, Dennis scribbled like mad, because he knew it was a great quote, maybe even the lead.
 
Anyway, did you get the results of the ultrasound?
 
I'll try to call you later today, okay?
 
Love ya.
 
Nick

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