Pinch of Love (9781101558638) (26 page)

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Authors: Alicia Bessette

BOOK: Pinch of Love (9781101558638)
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He wags a long finger in the air and moves toward the counter to order a coffee. “Babel Fish, Row-sel-
len
. And if you eat that whole muffin? Ten Hail Marys.”
Gail beams at Father Chet, and when he's out of earshot, she smacks her hands on the table. “Who was
that
?”
“Father Chet. You saw him before. In your driveway. Remember?”
“Ahh. Right,” she says. She sighs and looks askance a moment, no doubt remembering that awful day. Then her face brightens. “Well, anyway,
he's
not ugly, is he? In a Seal kind of way?”
“For shit's sake, Gail. He's a Catholic priest.”
“That could change.” She digs a pen from her purse and scribbles something on a napkin.
“What are you doing?” I'm not hungry, but I nibble my strawberry-wheat muffin.
“I had a semester of French in college,” Gail says. “I can sound it out well enough. I'm gonna look up what he just said on Babel Fish. When a sexy man talks, Gail Carmichael-Dunbar listens. And takes notes.”
“Gail Carmichael-Dunbar, who is married. Happily. And raising a child. Happily.”
“I'm taking notes for
you,
sweetie.”
“You're disturbing.”
“Cheers.” She hoists her coffee, touches it to mine, and chugs.
I CAN'T SLEEP. My impulse is to take Ahab to the field. But I can't, of course. So I tote the turntable to my office and cue Gladys, who asks what good her eyes are, if she can no longer see her man's tender, tender smile?
I draw a newborn skull. Its squiggly lines suggest the spot where the skull plates eventually shift, fuse together, and harden. The sutures make the newborn skull malleable. They allow the bones to move during birth and, later, during growth.
The anterior fontanelle is the technical term for the soft spot. When Tasha was born, Nick and I drove up to the hospital near Okemo, and I held little Tasha in my arms and found myself sniffing—instinctively, unconsciously—the soft spot, the most vulnerable spot.
I take a break from the skull and go downstairs, wrap up in my hairy afghan, and sit on the back steps for a while. I stare at the gate and imagine Ahab walking through it.
Pangs of guilt tear up my chest. I try not to think about all the things I could have done to prevent Ahab from taking off, but it's no use. Could have kept him leashed at my side. Could have told Travis to shut the door as soon as he came in. Could have grabbed Ahab's tail and yanked it with all my strength until he slid back to me.
I try not to think about the many ways a skinny old half-blind dog can die in the winter woods, but that's no use, either. He had no coat, no booties, and milky, failing eyes. I envision charging moose and packs of coyotes, black bears that wake from hibernation ravenous. I remember Ahab's ribs, their outlines visible under his fur; his grayish teeth chattering; the bloody scabs that form on his paws in colder months. How, on his back legs, the skin between his tendons and his bones is so thin you can see through it, the tiny crisscrossing veins.
I hear a crunching noise beyond the gate. An animal noise.
“Ahab?” I whisper to the dark. “Cappy?”
An orange pouf leaps from the shadows to the gatepost. It's the orchard cat. It settles on the post, watching as I tighten the afghan around my shoulders. I stamp my foot and hiss. The cat leaps from the post and gallops off.
An achy bulge forms in my throat. I try to swallow, but it won't budge.
“Anytime you want to come home, Cappy,” I whisper. “Anytime is okay with me.”
 
 
TRUDY LENDS ME HER HANDHELD MIXER, and I use it frequently because I want to fill up the house with noise so I'm not constantly reminded of Ahab's absence. One night I blend a loose concoction of strawberry yogurt and Nutella. I watch as the pink turns rosy tan, and think about how Ahab would hate the mixer, because it's pretty loud.
“Sorry, Captain,” I say, even though he's not there to be bothered by it.
I try to be neat, but batter flings from the bowl and flecks the counter and cupboards.
Knock-knock-knock, pause. Knock-knock-knock, pause.
I head for the powder room, wiping my hands on my apron. “Ing?” I say to the wall.
“I'm back from Nature's Classroom,” she says. “I just got back. I wanted to come over but my dad said it was too late and not to bother you.”
“How was it?”
“I really like hiking. More than I used to, I mean. My dad says we should hike more, the three of us.”
“Where's your dad?”
“Guess.”
“Studying with his earbuds in?”
“You always ask where my dad is. Do you
like
him or something?”
“Yeah, I like him.” I hear Ingrid giggle. “You're laughing at me,” I say.
“Yeah,” she gasps. “I totally am.”
“Why?”
She doesn't answer.
“Listen, do you know about the Midmass Footpath?” I ask.
“No.”
“I'll tell you about it tomorrow. We should hike some of it.” I've been thinking about the Midmass, about those nerdy patches EJ gave me, which Nick would love. We never hiked the Midmass much; Mount Wippamunk offers much more in the way of a view, whereas the Midmass, while pretty, meanders through woods and rarely rewards its travelers with vistas where you can look out over land for miles. Nick was a sucker for a vista.
“Okay,” says Ingrid. “Whatev.”
“I'll come, too.” It's Garrett's voice.
“Hey!” I shout. Ingrid giggles again. “I thought this was supposed to be a little thing between Ingrid and me.”
I hear Garrett's deep laugh. He says, “There are no secrets in the Knox household.”
 
 
EJ
 
“Mail for the big guy.” Over the counter, Russ passes Travis a stack of envelopes secured with a rubber band.
“Mail for the big guy,” Travis repeats. He tosses the stack to EJ, who straddles a stool by the back door.
EJ taste tests a pomegranate scone. He lets the mail fall to the floor at his feet. “Thanks,” he says, and brushes a crumb from his goatee.
“Package for the big guy,” says Russ. “Package from New Orleans.” He hands a small brown box to Travis, who carries it to EJ.
“Hey, Russ,” EJ says.
“You
still
hearing from that chick with the . . . ?” Russ spreads hands in front of his chest as if cradling melons. “When are you gonna make a move? You're not getting any younger.”
EJ swallows a bite of scone and glares.
“I'm not getting in the middle of this, hey.” Travis grabs a bottle of cleaner and a rag and walks over to the tables.
“I'm workin' on it,” says EJ. “Okay?”
“Easy, Silo,” says Russ. “I'm just sayin.' ”
EJ stands and presses the half-eaten scone into Russ's hand. “Eat this,” he says. He grabs a plastic knife from a cup on the display case and slices through the tape on the package. He knows what's inside: his monthly shipment of chicory root, in perfect condition, as always. He takes the sealed plastic bag, tears it open, and inhales.
“This—whatever this is—is seriously freakin' delicious, Silo,” says Russ, smacking his lips. “But it's a bit dry.”
“It's a scone,” EJ says. “Dunk it in coffee or something.”
Russ pours a cup and soaks what's left of the scone.
EJ notices, inside the box, a folded slip of lined purple paper. A handwritten letter from Charlene.
“What's that?” Russ asks. “Get a little bonus this month?”
EJ ignores him. He takes Charlene's letter over to the stool, sits with his back to Russ, and reads.
Dear EJ,
 
I feel the time has come to ask you a very important question, and that question is, What are we? What I mean by that is, I am very much enjoying our relationship the way it is, but I would like to know if it is going to progress into anything more serious. I like hearing from you several times a day—the text messages, the e-mails, the occasional phone conversation. Truth be told, I care for you deeply, as if you were a very close friend that I see every day, maybe because in my head, I do see you every day. I have never met anyone who seems as compatible to me as you. And yet you are hundreds of miles away, and I've only met you a handful of times, those mornings you came in to the café, more than a year ago now. Why have you kept in touch with me? Is it just to be my friend? If so, that is fine. Is it because I was there when your friend passed, and you feel some sort of connection to me, because of that? If so, that is fine, too.
Please don't take this letter as a threat or a complaint. We can continue being friends, because as I wrote above, I treasure your friendship. But I sense that there is more between us. This would be easier to figure out, of course, if we were seeing each other every day. I don't know if I'm asking for a committed relationship. I don't even know if you're attracted to me in that way at all. I guess I'm just asking for a little clarification. Whenever you're ready (no pressure). I hope this letter doesn't make things weird between us. You can be perfectly honest with me.
 
Love your friend
ALWAYS!! ~
 
Charlene
Nick
November 8, 2006
 
 
Hi, Pants.
 
Today this guy, William, let me photograph him while he sanded spindles for a new hand railing near the checkout desk of the library. He had his granddaughter strapped to his back while he worked. She's this tiny little gorgeous thing. She slept the whole time. William told Dennis about the day after the hurricane. How the water in his kitchen got up to three feet from the ceiling, and he and his wife tried paddling down the street in those big Rubbermaid storage bins, but they kept capsizing. So they just swam around for a bit and climbed up onto the roof of a neighbor's house. The water was almost bottle green, he said, and they saw a couple fish flash by. Finally a couple of guys with two rowboats lashed together took them to this bridge somewhere, and under the bridge it was dry, and fifty people or so had set up camp. They were under that bridge for two days until rescue came. The water got dirtier each day, he remembered, and by the time they left, it was murky and oily, and empty soda cans and dirty diapers bobbed in it.
 
Now William and his wife and daughter and the little baby live here in this new neighborhood. He said his old neighborhood is pretty much a ghost town now. He said back when school started they stood out on the lawn and applauded as a yellow bus rounded the corner. They were so happy to see that bus because it meant “a return to normalcy,” that's how he put it.
Dennis asked him, “Why didn't you leave?”
 
And William looked at him like he had six heads and said, “Because this is home.”
 
And I can understand that. I have been thinking this crazy corny stuff, like, to have the love that we have, you and me—the roof over our head—Ahab, our little happy family—jobs that we love—beautiful Mount Wippamunk practically in our backyard—we are so lucky, Zell. Luckier than most. Also I think it's the simple things that make a person lucky. Sorry, but there has been a lot of cheesy but important talk like that among the guys down here. We all feel really fortunate. I'm still not really down with the whole three-times-a-day group-prayer thing, but you do get used to it, and well, it's interesting and it makes you think. I'm not saying I want to start going to church when I get home, but I'm just saying, maybe I'm becoming more serious about what I can offer my fellow man. Plus a few nights in a row sleeping on a concrete floor in a school cafeteria can be humbling. (We have gotten a lot of offers from people wanting us to stay with them, but Father Chet and Pastor Sheila always turn them down. So cafeteria it has been.)
 
Well, I was going to write more but I'm absolutely exhausted. The attached photos will have to suffice! I'll call you tomorrow at some point.
 
I hope your heart is being less weird!
 
Love,
 
Nick
8
Zell
March 5, 2008
 
 
Hi, Hon.
 
Ahab got loose and ran after Old Mr. Bedard's cat. I just can't believe it. Every night I sit on the back steps just like we used to, and I look at the mountain. Every night I open the gate and wait for Ahab to come walking through. I want him to walk up to me and rest his long nose between my knees while I scratch his neck. If that happened, I would cry so hard. But he's been gone for two weeks.
 
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. It's probably good that we never got around to making ourselves a soccer team, because I would be a pretty shitty mother. I can't even keep a dog from chasing a cat.
 
I hope they let you check e-mail in heaven. Or wherever you are. I try to picture you in a fairy-tale-like place where you can snowshoe and take photographs of birds and bobcats and deer all day long.
A perennial snowy mountainside near your own private cabin, where a perennial fire roars in a fireplace. An angel army protects you, and you always have hot chocolate, the way you like it, with a dollop of marshmallow fluff floating on the top. And whenever you want a foot rub, the heavenly version of me gives you one. That's what I wish for you.
 
I love you.
 
I miss you.
 
I wicked miss you.
 
Love,
 
Your Zell

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