Real Life (17 page)

After a while, he took the dead kitten outside and buried it down by the pond. It didn't need much of a hole: he dug it with a wooden spoon Nina gave him from the kitchen, and he set the kitten inside on some green leaves. The fur had dried to a glossy black, the front paws were white, the tiny claws sharp and perfect. “Mittens,” he whispered, and covered the little body with leaves before he filled in the hole. On top he placed a bunch of jewelweed.

When he returned, the atmosphere had changed. It was no longer religious, or quiet. Nina was singing to the kittens, a version of Brahms's “Lullaby.” She fetched some more Cokes, and they toasted Listerine, clanking cans. They petted the kittens, gently, though Nina said they'd better not pick them up yet. She had heard of a mother cat who rejected her babies when humans showed too great an interest in them. Nina crouched over the cats, crooning to Listerine. “Was she my little pumpkin? Was she? My little pumpkin mama? And does she have the bestest little kittens?” Hugo scratched Listerine's head, wondering how anyone could talk like that in public to an animal without sounding foolish. It seemed to him that Nina would never sound foolish, or look it, even in a large blue picture hat, and he wondered why that was. He believed it was true that they were of the same species, but she was a superior form of it, that was for sure. He watched her, down on her knees, with her red hair a frizzy cloud around her head and her teeth bared in a doting grin, crooning silly things to a cat named Listerine the Purring Machine, and he was aware, at that moment, of yet another great truth, on a day that seemed full of great truths: that what he wanted was to become her friend, if that was possible, and to win her esteem, if he could. To learn from her, if she would let him. Sitting on the floor there with Nina, he felt his hand almost tremble on the cat's head, the idea was so daring, so preposterous, so necessary.

When Dorrie arrived home from Boston on Sunday afternoon, Hugo and Nina were sitting on the deck drinking orange juice and eating fried egg sandwiches and cookies. Dorrie was hot, tired, and scared: she and Alex Willick had parted with plans for the next weekend, and she had been worrying about it all the way home. Singing “Danny Boy” hadn't helped; the Red Sox game on the radio hadn't helped; all she could think was that she was crazy to be setting herself up for another failure, an unknown quantity of pain, and a store of bitter memories. In three months, a year, even five years, when the inevitable happened, she would look back on this hot July afternoon, and the long dull drive down Route 90 and Route 86, and she would wonder why she had allowed herself to hope. For that was what she was doing, at some level below the worries: like termites at their work of undermining, minihopes were flourishing, dooming her to collapse.

The sight of her house, and the green water behind it streaked with light, never failed to steady her. The pink swamp roses all in bloom along the fence. The island in the water where she had once seen a snowy egret. The shabby outbuildings, the ancient beech tree, the mountain laurel fading by the garage. Here was home, where she was in control, had her routine, could think straight. She was even glad to return to all her familiar concerns about Hugo, whom she had not exactly forgotten but evaded: the weekend in Boston had been a vacation from the necessity of thinking about him, but now she welcomed the thought of her nephew, the sight of him out on the deck.

He stood up when she pulled in, and waved at her. The wave seemed friendly enough, and he called, “Welcome home,” as if he meant it, but she had the impression that he hadn't expected her so soon, that she was an interruption. Then she saw that there was a girl with him—a skinny, wild-haired little person in overalls. Dorrie's first reaction was simple confusion; seeing Hugo with someone his age was as unexpected and inexplicable as seeing him out there on the deck with a penguin.

“Why aren't you at the Garners'?” was the first thing she said. She supposed she could have been more cordial, but he hadn't offered to help her lug her suitcase across the grass, and the friend sat there looking her over, cool as a queen, as if it were her house and Dorrie an unwelcome guest.

“I wasn't sure how many meals I was supposed to sponge off them,” Hugo said. “And I kind of felt like coming home for a while. This is Nina. Mrs. Verrano is her sister, and they're away in Europe, and Nina is cat-sitting.”

“Hello, Nina,” Dorrie said.

Nina didn't get up; she squinted into the sun and said, “Hi.”

“The cat had kittens, Dorrie,” Hugo said. He used her name awkwardly, putting too much emphasis on it. She had told him before she left that he could leave off “Aunt”; this was the first time he had managed to do it. Impressing the girl.

“Great.”

“Yesterday. We saw them being born. Two live and one dead—all black, with white paws.”

“Terrific.”

Dorrie stood there with her suitcase. Hugo looked at Nina, and then back at Dorrie, smiling uncertainly. “Can I have one?”

“One what?”

“Kitten. Nina's sister said she could have one and to find a home for the other if she could. They're really cute, and I'd take care of it. It could live with me up in the loft. It could catch mice.”

“It could sleep on your bed and keep you warm,” Nina said. The innocent remark seemed suggestive, as if it contained a double entendre, and though her voice was childish—clear and brittle and high-pitched—Dorrie could see she was probably older than Hugo, and a million times more worldly-wise. How in hell had Hugo picked her up?

“I'll have to think about that,” she said. “But not right now. I need a shower and a cold drink. Excuse me, please.”

She carried her things into the house, thinking, God forbid either of them should open the door for me. As the screen door closed behind her she heard Nina say, “I see what you mean.” Dorrie stopped. There was silence on the deck behind her. She imagined Hugo frowning at Nina with his finger to his lips, and Nina suppressing a giggle. “I see what you mean.” Had a war been declared over the weekend, then? And this rude girl was Hugo's ally?

She went upstairs and took a shower. She remembered Alex again, and shivered under the warm water. He had said, “Can we get together next weekend?” and she had replied, “Yes,” and he had said, “I'll call you midweek so we can work out the logistics of it,” and she gave him her phone number, and that was all, except that before he left he managed to waylay her in the kitchen and say again that he would call. She didn't know what she dreaded more: his calling or his failure to call.

She changed into clean clothes and poured herself a beer. The kitchen was a mess—an eggy pan in the sink, eggshells and spilled orange juice on the counter, a nearly empty bag of cookies left open, a knife on the table thick with mustard. It was Hugo, she knew, who ate mustard on egg sandwiches, but it must have been Nina who had spit plum pits into the sink. Hugo never ate plums.

She looked out the back window; he was alone. “Hugo, come up here and get rid of this mess in the kitchen.”

He lifted his head. “I'll be right there.” His back was to her, turned toward the pond. Dorrie looked, and there was Nina, walking along the water toward the Verranos' place. Hugo watched until she was out of sight. Oh, God, Dorrie thought: young love. She couldn't imagine his small, indifferent, ferretlike Nina not hurting him, and she pitied him profoundly.

“Who is that girl?” she asked when he came up. He was carrying plates and glasses.

“I told you—Mrs. Verrano's sister. She's sixteen. She'll be a junior this year. She's an honor student—she's never had less than an A in anything.”

“Sounds like you.”

“I guess so. And she plays the guitar and writes songs. Her father's an eye doctor. Her mother is a real estate salesman in Providence.”

“Saleswoman, maybe? Salesperson?”

“You know what I mean. She sold a million dollars' worth last year and won this huge gold trophy. They keep it on the mantel. And Nina grows mushrooms in her bedroom.”

“She grows what?”

“Mushrooms. I'm serious. And they're really good. You grow them in dirt, in a cardboard box. Nina sent away for it—it's a kit.”

“You ate a mushroom?”

“Sure. Lots of them. These aren't like regular mushrooms, they're these huge brown things. They're delicious. Anyway, Nina's really nice.”

“I'm sure. What did she mean by ‘I see what you mean,' Hugo?”

He set the dishes down on the table and asked, “What did she mean by what?” There was a wide-open eye drawn with blue ink on the back of his left hand.

“What did your friend Nina mean when she said, ‘I see what you mean'? And what in hell is that on your hand?”

“This?” He made a fist and studied the back of his hand, smiling. “Nina drew it on.”

“For what?” She imagined a demonic cult, complete with hallucinatory mushrooms.

“For nothing. Just for fun.”

“And what about her little remark?”

“Oh, that.” He pursed up his lips, grimaced, looked up at the ceiling and down again at his hand before he looked at Dorrie. “Well, I guess I told her you were kind of—I don't know.”

“Yes, you do, Hugo. Kind of what?”

“Well. Hard to get to know. Kind of stiff or something.”

“I see.” She suppressed a desire to laugh. What had she expected? Something sinister masked by a sullen refusal to confess. Something Phinnian. She had forgotten what Hugo was like. Whatever else the child was, he was honest, and innocent. In spite of the awful Nina, and even in spite of his unfortunate genes.

“What's so funny?”

“Oh, Hugo, I don't know.” She couldn't tell him that what made her smile was simple relief at the harmless normality of him and Nina sitting around and bitching about their elders—a picture so unlike that of the lonely, solitary Hugo she had left behind. She said, “I'm sorry if I've seemed stiff and hard to get to know. I guess I'm not used to people your age.”

“Well, sometimes you're okay. Like right now, you're not even mad that I said that to Nina. It's just I never know how you're going to react to things.”

He sat down at the table across from her, and she studied him. He was pudgy and grimy and sweaty. His blue eyes were round and earnest, his eyebrows drawn down in a little frown, his hair falling in his face. He needed a haircut and probably a bath. His black T-shirt, too tight across his chest, was ripped at the neck. He looked the way he always did, but there was a subtle difference, and she tried to figure out what it was. Did he seem older? More assured? Less lost? Happier? She said, “I'm glad you've found a friend, Hugo.”

He blushed violently, as if a light bulb had been turned on behind his face. “Yeah,” he said. “I really like her”—casually, pushing with a fork at a bit of egg on one of the plates. Dorrie made sure not to smile. “She seems to be an interesting girl,” she said.

“Yeah, she is.”

“Does she live nearby?”

“In town. She rides her bike over to cat-sit. She plays the guitar there too, at her sister's. Her mother doesn't approve of her music.”

“What's wrong with it?”

“Nothing. It's great music. It's—” He struggled for a word. “It's really beautiful sometimes. She writes songs that are sort of unclassifiable. They're not just songs, they're really—” He paused again, considered, and said, “Great,” again, smiling at his inability to articulate. She could see that he was wound up, and wanting to talk about her. She remembered that stage of infatuation: was she not, in fact, about to tumble into it herself? In spite of her dread. “Her songs are about everyday life,” Hugo said. “What people feel and everything. You're going to think this is really stupid, but they remind me of
Upton's Grove
.” That was it, of course: the change in him that she was trying to pin down. Talking about Nina, he was as happy and interested as he always was when he talked about
Upton's Grove
.

“Since I've never seen
Upton's Grove
, I can't tell if that's stupid or not.”

“Maybe you should watch it,” he said, teasing her—their old conflict, made funny by his new happiness.

“Not me, kid,” she said. Maybe Nina would wean him away from it—though when she considered Nina she wondered if there would come a day when she would think
Upton's Grove
wholesome and uplifting by comparison. “I'd like to hear some of Nina's songs, though. Do you think she'd come over and play some for me sometime?”

“Sure,” he said, and then, “Maybe.” He took a cookie from the bag and bit into it, considering. “I'm not sure she really trusts grown-ups. She says nobody likes her songs.”

Dorrie was ashamed of herself. She had no doubt that she wouldn't like Nina's songs, either. Nor did she especially want to hear them. What she wanted was to check out Nina. “Well,” she said. “Maybe sometime.”

“Yeah.”

He sat absently eating cookies, his eyes distant, his mind on Nina. And what would Alex think of Hugo? And how was she to work a love affair around this child? And would there be a love affair?

She tried to recall Alex's face but could remember only his absurd moustache, and the tense atmosphere of Rachel's dinner party, and her strange vision of the two of them at the Grand Canyon. Her voice had been shaky when she gave him her phone number. She wondered if he'd understood her nervousness, if it had put him off, if he could be patient with her until it departed. It worried her that now, the party over, she felt nothing but this uncomfortable, cold fear. She remembered that, a week or so ago, she had stuck a pin straight through the webbing between her third and fourth fingers and there had been no blood, she had felt nothing, and she had said to herself, This is what I have come to, a bloodless creature without feelings. She had an urgent desire to go and look at herself in a mirror. What could it be that he liked about her? She was nearly forty years old, she wasn't pretty, she was awkward with men, she was too tall and too skinny, she had wrinkles. What did he want with her? Did he want anything? And if he did, who would be the lover, who the lovee? Who would call and who wait for the call? She knew perfectly well. Oh, God, was it worth it?