The Hungry Season (20 page)
Authors: T. Greenwood
“W
e’re coming up!” Monty says, and Sam wishes he hadn’t answered the phone.
e’re coming up!” Monty says, and Sam wishes he hadn’t answered the phone.
“Up here?” Sam asks.
“Lauren says she needs a retreat. Usually that means a trip to the Hamptons, but I think she’s getting adventurous in her old age. The farthest north she’s been lately is the Upper West Side.” He laughs. “Besides, I want to check on your progress. Snoop around a little bit.”
“When?” Sam asks.
“Friday. I think we can get there by dinnertime. We’ll stay the weekend.You got room for us?”
Sam tries to think about where they will sleep. Maybe Finn would be willing to camp out for the weekend. He and Franny used to pitch a tent in the yard when they were kids. It seems sort of ridiculous to kick him out of his room though.
“Come on, Sammy. It’ll be
fun
. We’ll go on nature walks. Watch some birds. Whatever it is you all do up there.”
fun
. We’ll go on nature walks. Watch some birds. Whatever it is you all do up there.”
Sam looks out the window at the bird feeder he keeps forgetting to refill. There’s a squirrel that’s been stealing all of the bird food. He read somewhere that he should put Crisco on the pole so the squirrels can’t climb up, but somehow that strikes him as incredibly underhanded.
“Let me talk to Mena. She’s doing this play. I’m not sure what her schedule’s like,” he says.
“A play? She’s acting again? That’s fantastic. Can we see it?”
“It doesn’t open until August. Maybe you should wait and come then.”
“Oh, no. Lauren’s got her heart set on getting out of the city this weekend. Maybe, if she has a good time, we’ll come back.”
Sam grimaces. “Let me call you back, Monty. I’m right in the middle of something.”
“Work?” Monty asks hopefully.
“Work,” he says.
Actually, Sam is right in the middle of heating up some lamb souvlaki Mena left them for dinner last night. They don’t have a microwave here, and it’s been in the oven for almost a half hour already. He keeps opening the over door and poking at it to see if it’s hot. Mena has always accused him of the inability to multitask. At home, she’d catch him staring at the toaster or microwave and shake her head knowingly. What she didn’t know was that it was when she thought he was being an imbecile, he was actually almost always thinking about his books. These were the moments when (even if he seemed like he was focused on the toasting of an English muffin or the reheating of leftovers) he was usually caught up in the reverie of whatever book he was working on. As the toaster toasted and the microwave heated, he was imagining. His mother, before she died, would plead with him, “Go do something, Sammy. Play outside.” But he
was
doing something; he
was
playing. Even as a little kid, he could look as though he were doing nothing at all for hours. What a relief it was to finally put pen to paper those days, to open up the seams and let the beads of the stories that had been stuck inside spill out.
was
doing something; he
was
playing. Even as a little kid, he could look as though he were doing nothing at all for hours. What a relief it was to finally put pen to paper those days, to open up the seams and let the beads of the stories that had been stuck inside spill out.
But today he’s simply watching the souvlaki heat up, no creative ponderings to accompany it. Just cold souvlaki in the slowest oven on earth.
When the phone rings again, he answers, irritated, “Monty, give me a few. I said I need to talk to Mena.”
“Sam?” It’s not Monty; it’s a woman.
“Yes?”
“Hi, Sam, it’s Hilary Ortiz.” One of Mena’s friends, a realtor. “Hi, Hill ... hey, Mena’s not here. Can I have her give you a call later?”
“Listen, I was actually calling for you. I know this might be premature; it might even sound a little crazy. But I have a client who is very interested in making an offer on the Sunset Cliffs property.”
The Sunset Cliffs property. Their
house
.
house
.
“But it’s not even on the market,” Sam says.
“I know. And the market is hardly what it used to be.”
He swallows hard. “How much do they want to offer?”
“We haven’t talked numbers yet, but let me just tell you that you should be able to get whatever it is that you decide to ask. They love the place. They’re a gay couple from LA, they come down to San Diego a lot, and they actually said they’ve always loved the house. That they’ve almost knocked on the door a few times just to see what it’s like inside. One of them is a producer; he’s got money to burn.You and Mena could retire. Finn’s college would be paid for.”
Sam thinks about his last visit to the ATM, the dwindling account.The fact that the advance on the book is already gone, and there’s still no book.
“And you could start over somewhere. A place without so many memories,” Hilary says softly.
“This isn’t something I can decide right now. Mena and I will need to discuss this.”
“I totally understand, but if you’re interested, I wouldn’t let it go too long. There’s another place up the hill a bit with a killer view, and they’ve been looking at that property as well.”
“Okay. We’ll let you know,” Sam says, and hangs up the phone.
He opens the oven door, reaches in for the souvlaki.
The house in Ocean Beach was, until he bought this cottage, the only house he’d ever owned. They’d bought it from an old woman who was moving into a nursing home. She took their offer over another couple because she said she liked them, could tell they would take good care of the place. She had no children, and so when she moved, she left almost everything behind.
Mena and Sam had felt like they’d bought a treasure chest instead of a house. They had so little of their own back then, they were grateful for the cupboards full of dishes, the furniture, the TV. For months, they’d discover something new almost every day. Boxes of Christmas ornaments, a steamer trunk of old dresses and suits, stacks of handmade quilts. He remembers Mena going through the drawers in the bedroom and finding a bundle of letters tied together with a hair ribbon. They’d been postmarked from Saigon, the airmail envelopes as thin as air. They found out later that her only child, her son, had died in Vietnam.
Sam had found Mena sitting on the inherited bed, surrounded by the open letters, crying. She was pregnant with the twins then, swollen but, Sam thought, profoundly beautiful. He remembers her being barefoot, her toenails painted bright red.
“I know I shouldn’t have,” she said, wiping at her eyes.Apologetic. “I’ll drop them by the nursing home tomorrow.”
“It’s okay,” Sam said, sitting down next to her and gently laying his head on her belly.
“He was her only child,” Mena said, her voice catching in her throat like a burr. “He was nineteen years old.”
Sam closed his eyes and concentrated on the sounds of Mena’s belly.
The souvlaki is cold in the middle. He eats around it, the hot edges, and then scrapes the rest into the trash.
Mena is in the bedroom getting ready for rehearsals. She’s been going for over two weeks now, but she has hardly said a word about it. He asks her, periodically, how it’s going and she nods. “Good, good.” She almost always gets home long after Sam has fallen asleep.
She comes into the kitchen and grabs her purse from the back of his chair.
“What was the woman’s name?” he asks.“The one we bought the house from?”
“Shirley?” she says, digging through her purse for her keys.
“That’s right. Shirley O’Connell.”
“O’Donnell.”
“Right.”
“Okay, gotta go.” She smiles.
“Come here?” he asks, surprised by how tentative he sounds.
She raises her eyebrow at him suspiciously. She sighs and then comes to him, leans over and kisses his forehead. “Don’t wait up for me. It will probably be late.”
This is the same feeling he gets every time they go out swimming together in the ocean. They’d always plunge in together, but within moments she’d be swimming away. He liked to stay at the shore, ride the waves. He liked to be where his feet could still touch the ground. She always needed to go beyond the waves, where the water was deeper. Farther. He’d watch her turning into a tiny speck against the horizon, and he hated it. It was excruciating waiting for her to come back.
“Monty and Lauren are coming up this weekend,” he says.
“Up here?”
Sam nods.
“Christ, where are we going to put them?”
“I’ll talk to Finn about camping out for the weekend. Otherwise, you and I can pitch a tent.” He laughs. He thinks about the herbal supplements. He could give them another shot. He remembers a trip to Yosemite when the kids were ten, stolen moments after they’d fallen asleep in the other tent.
She scowls. “I have rehearsal until ten on Friday night. And again on Saturday afternoon.”
“Fine,” he says, feeling a little angry. “I’ll take care of everything. You don’t even have to be here.” He doesn’t want to be like this. “You’re the one who suggested they come up.”
“I’ve got to go,” she says, glancing at her watch.
When she is gone, he calls Monty back. “We’d love to have you up. Bring your swimsuits.”
“T
hat last scene was fabulous,” Anne says to Mena during their break. “You and Jake have such a powerful synergy.”
hat last scene was fabulous,” Anne says to Mena during their break. “You and Jake have such a powerful synergy.”
Mena feels her cheeks flush with heat. “It’s a good play,” she says.
“You want coffee?” Anne asks, grabbing a Styrofoam cup from the stack.
“No, makes me too jittery at night. I have a hard enough time sleeping anyway.”
Lately, she’s not been able to sleep at all. She stopped taking the sleeping pills the doctor prescribed after Franny died because they knocked her out so hard she was afraid the house might burn down around her and she wouldn’t wake up. They also made her feel sort of groggy and hungover the next day. She falls asleep okay every night, but around three or so, she wakes up and can’t go back to sleep. This is Sam’s prime snoring time as well, and so she might have a hard time falling back to sleep even if her mind wasn’t racing.
“Me too, but I’m totally addicted,” Anne says, pouring the hot coffee into her cup.
Jake is on the stage, talking to Lisa. Mena watches him lean into her. She laughs at what he says and touches his arm. Mena feels her stomach drop.
“You said you’re married?” Anne asks.
Mena feels herself blush again, feels caught. “Yes.”
“What does your husband do?”
Mena thinks of Sam sitting at the kitchen table, pushing souvlaki around his plate.
“What?”
“What does he do? For a living?”
That expression has always struck her as funny. As if people do whatever it is that they do in order to live. Though, she might once have argued that Sam did write for a living.
“He’s a writer. A novelist.
The Hour of Lead,
that movie you saw? It was actually based on his first novel.”
The Hour of Lead,
that movie you saw? It was actually based on his first novel.”
“Oh, wow! That’s so cool,”Anne says.“I had no idea. I’ll have to check his books out. Do they have them at the Athenaeum?”
“They should. He just did a book club meeting there last week.”
Jake and Lisa are still talking. Lisa keeps flipping her hair back; she is sitting on the bed.
May’s bed
.
May’s bed
.
Anne follows her gaze to the stage.
“I know you’re
married
and everything,” Anne says, “but God, isn’t he just such a tall drink of water? I don’t know how you make it through some of those scenes. Seriously.”
married
and everything,” Anne says, “but God, isn’t he just such a tall drink of water? I don’t know how you make it through some of those scenes. Seriously.”
Mena looks at her feet as Jake jumps down off the stage and comes toward them. “That last scene was good, wasn’t it?” he asks Mena. “I think it’s starting to come together.”
Mena nods and smiles. She grabs a cup from the stack and pours herself some coffee in order to have something to do with her hands.What the hell, she’ll be up anyway.
“I’ve gotta go talk to Lisa,” Anne says, pinching Mena’s elbow—conspiratorially, Mena thinks.
“Listen, I was thinking of inviting everybody over for a drink after rehearsal on Friday. I figure it might be nice to all get to know each other a bit off the stage as well.”
Mena’s heart quickens. “That sounds like fun,” she says, sipping the coffee, which is both too hot and too strong.“Oh shoot, I can’t make it,” she says, remembering Monty and Lauren.
“Oh really?” Jake asks. “That’s too bad. Maybe next time.”
“Sure.” She smiles, nodding. Disappointed. “Next time.”
The scene they are working on is one of the fight scenes between Eddie and May. It begins with a kiss and ends with a kick in the groin. They rehearse for hours, until her lips feel raw and her arms and legs are tired from fighting. By the time she drives home she is so exhausted she almost believes that she’ll be able to sleep tonight.
U
p in his loft, Sam turns on his laptop, stares at the scattered words that swim across the page. Letters, disconnected, adrift in that enormous white sea. The words try to stay afloat, but they can’t seem to rise up to the surface. They are drowning. All of them. In this terrible, terrible empty white.
p in his loft, Sam turns on his laptop, stares at the scattered words that swim across the page. Letters, disconnected, adrift in that enormous white sea. The words try to stay afloat, but they can’t seem to rise up to the surface. They are drowning. All of them. In this terrible, terrible empty white.
He thinks about the man, the one in the experiment. He has a name now:
Billy
. He is no longer a shadow, but the frail sketch of a man. The bones, his rib cage, his long fingers. Today he walks three miles through the snow: part of the mandated exercise during this phase of the experiment. He has lost twenty pounds already.
Billy
. He is no longer a shadow, but the frail sketch of a man. The bones, his rib cage, his long fingers. Today he walks three miles through the snow: part of the mandated exercise during this phase of the experiment. He has lost twenty pounds already.
In the beginning, before the caloric restrictions, before the starvation phase of the experiment, he dreamed of home. He dreamed of
Mary,
of her creamy thighs and the smell of her hair. He’d wake up, his entire body electric and buzzing with desire. He’d have to hide his erections under the covers. He could feel his heart ready to explode with yearning. Every inch of his skin wanted her. But now, he only dreams of food. He dreams of his mother’s creamy pea and ham soup, the smell of spiced beef and parsnips and potato bread. If Mary enters the dream at all, she is liquid. No different than the steaming bowls of potato leek soup.
Mary,
of her creamy thighs and the smell of her hair. He’d wake up, his entire body electric and buzzing with desire. He’d have to hide his erections under the covers. He could feel his heart ready to explode with yearning. Every inch of his skin wanted her. But now, he only dreams of food. He dreams of his mother’s creamy pea and ham soup, the smell of spiced beef and parsnips and potato bread. If Mary enters the dream at all, she is liquid. No different than the steaming bowls of potato leek soup.
Sam leans back in his chair. Listens to the crickets outside, at the strangely noisy night.
Sometimes, before, when he was working in his office at home, he would stop typing and listen to the sounds of their house at night, and it was like music. In Finn’s room, the sound of his stereo, faint but certain, rhythmic: the beating of drums like a metronome. The clinkety-clank of the kitchen, the tinkling of glasses, the rush of water, the cymbal clash of a copper pot. And in Franny’s room, the shuffling of feet. There were words for those sounds, whispery words:
tendu, ronde de jambe, degages
.The words come to him again now, the whispers of her slippers on the floor. And
those
whispers turn into the wind howling in Billy’s ear as he walks.
tendu, ronde de jambe, degages
.The words come to him again now, the whispers of her slippers on the floor. And
those
whispers turn into the wind howling in Billy’s ear as he walks.
The men must walk twenty-two miles every week, even now that their meals have been reduced from three to two a day: watery soup, macaroni and cheese, rutabagas, steamed potatoes, lettuce.The calories going into his body cannot match the ones being spent. Someone in the group is cheating, and in order to find out who it is, the scientists have cut their diets to a thousand calories a day. At night he dreams of oranges, of tearing into the rough bitter flesh of an orange with his teeth only to meet the sweet wet meat inside. He wakes up, gnawing and sucking on his own hand.
The ground beneath his feet is slick with ice; the wind is bitter. He shoves his hands in his pocket and buries his chin inside his scarf. When they were in town earlier that day, he’d caught sight of himself in a storefront and pitied the man he saw. It took several moments before recognition set in. And when it did, it felt like a punch in the stomach, and that pain was indistinguishable from the pain brought on by his hunger.
Other books
Red Velvet Revenge by Jenn McKinlay
Zomblog: The Final Entry by Tw Brown
Recipe For Love by Sean Michael
Come As You Are by Theresa Weir
A Mountain of Crumbs: A Memoir by Elena Gorokhova
Live Through This by Debra Gwartney
Fractured by Barker, Dawn
Between Two Kings by Olivia Longueville
The King's Daughter by Christie Dickason
Hungry Like a Wolf by Warren, Christine