Cobble Hill

by Cecily von Ziegesar

  “Do you happen to know what’s playing at the movie theater?” she asked the young butcher.

  He rolled his eyes. “A bunch of kid stuff. What a waste. Marvel and Disney. They used to show good films there—Tarantino, Woody Allen.”

  “I don’t care what people say about the guy. Hannah and Her Sisters, best movie of all time,” one of the other butchers said as he wrapped up a pile of tenderized chicken breasts.

  “Or today we have premade shish kebabs. Nice lamb meat. Fresh onion, peppers. All you need to do is grill them,” the young butcher suggested to Peaches. “Four minutes on each side, so they stay pink.”

  Peaches didn’t have a grill. It was difficult to focus on the meat. The decision seemed enormous, exhausting. She was so hungry, and she really needed wine. And a vacation. Why was everyone always coming to her all the time, demanding things? She couldn’t hide in Monte anymore either. It had been impounded.

  There had to be one decent movie playing. She could buy a mini wine bottle with a screw top, get a sandwich from Union Market, and take them to the movie theater. Even better, she could text Cobble Hill General and tell Dr. Conway she was stressed out and needed “a prescription.”

  She studied the glass case, working her phone with her thumbs. “I’ll take the rabbit,” she said finally.

  It came wrapped in brown paper tied with white cotton string. “Don’t overcook it,” the young butcher instructed. “Herbes de Provence and radicchio, or blueberries and coriander give it a nice flavor.”

  Dr. Conway texted back right away.

  I have what you need. Something new, from Corfu!

  * * *

  The firewood man was fantastic. Wendy’s U-Haul was now full of nicely split firewood, two old doors, and a dismantled picnic table. She had no idea if it was even legal to burn such large items in one’s garden in Brooklyn, but what was the worst thing that could happen? If a neighbor called and complained, Wendy would simply invite them to the party. The more the merrier.

  Next on her agenda: fireworks. Much to her frustration, she’d been unable to find any online, even on the “dark web” sites that sold hand grenades and Tasers that Manfred and Gabby had sent her links to. Her name was probably on a watch list now. The FBI, CIA, KGB, and MI5 had probably staked out her office. News of it would trickle back to Lucy Fleur and Wendy would be banned from the building.

  Pulled over in the U-Haul in Staten Island, she googled “buy fireworks near my current location.” A single address appeared.

  She hadn’t realized how rural parts of Staten Island were. Growing up on the Upper East Side, she’d snobbishly thought of it as a network of landfills and ugly, close-together houses with vinyl siding, but it wasn’t nearly that bad. Winding her way to the fireworks salesperson, she passed pretty brick houses with tree-lined driveways, a horse farm, an apple orchard, and lots of signs to the beach.

  The U-Haul bumped down a weedy dirt road.

  “Your destination is on your right.”

  The structure was more of a temporary shelter than a house or storefront. Cinder blocks on the bottom, metal roofing for sides, and clear plastic sheeting for a roof. The word FIREWORKS was painted in red on an old piece of plywood.

  Wendy pulled over and stepped down from the van.

  “Hello?” she called out. “Hello?”

  A person emerged. He was fortyish and unkempt and carried a shotgun. Only then did it occur to her that she should not have come alone. No one knew where she was. Her phone probably didn’t even have service.

  “Police? Press? FBI?” the man demanded. The words SEE YOU IN HELL… were tattooed in neat calligraphy along his collarbone. He wasn’t pointing the shotgun at her, but it was in his hand. He held it casually, like a lit cigarette he was tired of smoking. “How’d you find me?”

  “Google,” Wendy explained. “I’d like to buy your fireworks. Whatever you have, I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

  “I didn’t put anything on Google.”

  He was holding the shotgun more tightly now. His muscular forearms were streaked with dirt. His teeth were straight but discolored. His greasy hair was curly and long. He might have been attractive if he were clean and not so paranoid.

  Wendy pointed bravely at the sign. “Aren’t you selling fireworks?”

  The man seemed to notice the sign for the first time. “Huh. I don’t know. Maybe?”

  Wendy looked at her watch, even though she’d stopped wearing a watch years ago. “Well, that’s disappointing.” She sighed, trying to sound like a normal person who wasn’t scared to death. “I’ll have to call around and see if I can find them somewhere else.”

  “No.” He waved the shotgun around and she almost screamed. “Let’s look for them. If we find them, you can have them for free. Finders keepers.”

  He turned and went into the shelter. Wendy really wanted the fireworks. Against her better judgment, she followed him.

  It was a murderer’s lair, that much was certain. The actual discarded dirty clothes and shoes—women’s shoes—of his victims and more randomly, a collection of hairbrushes, lay on a blue plastic tarp on the ground.

  “I’m trying to gather enough stuff to open my own vintage shop.” Of course he was lying. That’s what all murderers said. “I wanted to collect typewriters, but they’re so heavy.”

  “Mmmm,” Wendy said, too frightened to speak actual words.

  A tall, lidded garbage can stood in the corner. It was probably full of body parts. The man removed the lid.

  “Oh, here you go.” He pulled out a long, thin cardboard box printed with red and yellow Chinese characters. “Bingo. It’s full of ’em.”

  How had he not noticed this before?

  He picked up the garbage can by the handles and carried it out of his lair. “I can’t do anything with these. They’re illegal to sell. I don’t want to draw attention. You understand.”

  Wendy followed him to the U-Haul. He was still carrying his gun. If she said one wrong thing, he could change his mind, shoot her in the head, and steal her hairbrush, which was in her purse.

  “I’m trying to stay under the radar,” he went on.

  He heaved the garbage can into the van and propped it against the dismantled picnic table. Wendy did her best to smile.

  “Thank you very much. I was never here,” she said, and walked in what she hoped seemed like an unhurried, unafraid fashion to the driver’s-side door. “Good luck.”

  He waved his shotgun in the air. “See you in hell!”

  * * *

  “I miss home.”

  As soon as he’d written the words, Roy sat back in his chair and wondered: Did he miss home? Did he miss England?

  England’s climate was cool and damp. The rooms were always cold, no matter how well the heating worked. The tap water was not as tasty as Brooklyn tap water. The dryers took forever to dry anything and shrank your socks. There was less pressure to work late and exercise and more of an inclination to meet at the pub for a pint or have a nice cuppa and a biscuit and relax in front of the telly.

  Did he miss it? Yes, sometimes. He was fifty-six years old and he did still sometimes miss home. But if they hadn’t moved, Shy would never have learned to play table tennis and he never would have thought about Mars or written Red. Or Gold.

  Definitely Red.

  He’d made great progress in the few short hours since Shy’s inspiring table tennis match. Both girls were pregnant and had married Ceran in a tacky, overly publicized Martian wedding with vaguely pagan undertones. They’d stolen a rover and run away and discovered a crater full of frozen water, which they’d melted to survive. And the Russians were coming, a whole rocket-load of them. Not to kill them, but to rescue them. Isabel’s rich Russian family were criminals with hearts of gold.

  But they missed home. There was only a chapter or two to go. Roy had to get them home.

  * * *

  By the time Liam and Greg came home, Peaches was high as a kite and cooking a rabbit.
<
br />   “Dinner won’t be ready until I don’t know, midnight, but it’ll be worth it,” she told them loudly, brandishing a glass of white wine.

  “I smell pot,” Liam said.

  “Oh, do you now?” Peaches giggled.

  “Mom!” he whined. He looked like he’d been crying.

  “Herbes de Provence, that’s what you smell.”

  “Are you stoned?” Greg asked. He seemed impressed.

  “Very,” she admitted.

  It was hot in their apartment. She’d taken off her sweater and jeans and was cooking in just her T-shirt.

  “Mom, please put on some pants,” Liam whimpered.

  Her phone bleated. Another text from Roy Clarke. Greg stared at the phone where it lay on the counter.

  Then the phone rang. It was Stuart Little. It rang and rang. Her ringtone for when he called was set to the opening drum sequence of the Blind Mice song “Omnia Vincit!” It was pretty obnoxious.

  Peaches gulped her wine and snorted, horselike. “I’ll go find some shorts.”

  When she came back, Greg and Liam were seated at the kitchen table, waiting for her. This was odd. They never gathered around the kitchen table except to eat.

  “We have something to tell you,” Greg announced.

  Peaches didn’t know if she was being paranoid because of the pot, but it sounded like they were trying to freak her out on purpose.

  “Guys,” she protested, “I already had the worst possible day.”

  “Well, it’s about to get worse,” Liam said.

  Peaches’ lower lip trembled. When had her only child learned to be so mean?

  “It’s the dog,” Liam said. “He’s dead.”

  “We came home around the same time,” Greg explained. “He was lying in front of the door. We carried him to the clinic but it was too late. His heart stopped.”

  Peaches hadn’t even noticed that the huge dog was missing. She sat down next to Liam and took his hand. Greg reached for her other hand across the table.

  Tears spilled from the corners of her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. “He was a good dog.” She hoped she didn’t sound stupid and high. “He was my friend.”

  Letting go of their hands, she tucked her palms beneath her thighs and rocked back and forth in her chair. Her chest shuddered. A stream of snot dripped from her nose.

  “We got him when I was pregnant with you.” She sobbed in Liam’s direction. “He was your brother. When you had to go to the pediatrician, I used to say I was taking you to the vet.”

  Her sobs were loud and uncontrollable now. News of the dog’s death and perhaps smoking a shitload of pot while gulping white wine had uncorked all her bottled-up emotion. How did she get here? She was supposed to be a girl drummer in a cool indie band, dating Stuart Little. Instead she was an overworked school nurse, Liam’s mom, Greg’s wife, chief cook and bottle-washer of the family, and the owner of an enormous, old, dead dog.

  Greg watched her across the table, regretting that they were no longer holding hands. Liam’s eyes were screwed miserably shut. He was inconsolable. They both were. Greg stood up.

  “Can I help with dinner? Do you need more wine? Liam, can you set the table? Maybe start by getting us all some big glasses of ice water.”

  Nobody moved.

  “I hate this kitchen.” Peaches sobbed. “There’s no ventilation. Maybe we should move. I want to move.”

  Liam opened his eyes. “Mom. Stop.”

  Greg knew Liam had every right to be miserable. Liam was a teenager. But Peaches. He hated to see her so sad. It wasn’t just the dog—he was an old, old dog. She was sad before they even got home.

  Greg began to clank around the kitchen, putting away clean dishes, opening another bottle of wine, cutting bread, taking out the butter, making a salad. Whenever Peaches was incapacitated, he became hyperefficient. There’d been so many sad, restless, dissatisfied days before she became a nurse. They’d brainstormed possible solutions—move, have another baby, go to cooking school, go to plumbing school, train for a marathon. Peaches had fond memories of her own elementary school nurse. She made the kids toast and gave them Coke for an upset stomach. When Peaches finally decided to go to nursing school, Greg was thrilled. He made lists of the courses and exams she needed to take and the closest universities. He created study schedules for her. He shopped for groceries and cooked all their meals. He quizzed her and bought her a new pillow so she’d be well-rested before her exams.

  “He would have liked to try the rabbit,” Peaches whimpered softly. She wiped her nose on her sleeve.

  Greg lifted the lid and peeked into the pot. He gave it a stir. Legs, thighs, and a little pointed head. “You’re cooking a rabbit?”

  She nodded and snorted into her arm. Her shoulders shook. Was she laughing or crying?

  “I got him at the butcher. Rabbit must be the meat of the week or something. I know you won’t eat him. But I’m going to try him. Oh, and we need to watch more Nicole Kidman movies. They’re huge fans.”

  “Who?” Liam wasn’t crying anymore.

  Peaches wiped her nose on her shirtsleeve again. “The butchers.”

  Liam stood up and took three glasses out of the cupboard. “Mom, you’re high. It’s embarrassing. Remember that time you asked me where to get pot? Was it for you?”

  “No.” She waved her hand at him. “That was for Stuart Little. His wife was sick.”

  Greg refilled her glass of wine. “I know you have a huge crush on him. I guess I always have too. I’ve been thinking about him a lot lately.”

  Don’t waste your time, Peaches thought bitterly.

  “I was wondering if I could give you some songs to share with him. I think they’re pretty good, but I’m not a hip enough musician to make them sound cool. I think he could. They’re kids’ songs. For a kids’ album.” He dispensed a cube of ice from the freezer, popped it into his mouth, and sucked on it. “I feel like you owe me this.”

  Peaches gulped her wine. She decided not to say anything about Stuart trying to turn the Shel Silverstein poem “Sick” into a song. What did Greg mean, she owed him?

  Greg dipped his index finger in the rabbit pot and licked it off. “They’re sending us the dog’s ashes.” He smacked his lips together. “Tastes like blueberry jam.” He pulled a little notepad and pen out of the back pocket of his khakis and jotted something down. “Rabbit, grab it. Blueberry jam,” he sang to himself.

  Peaches watched him with stoned dissatisfaction. She pushed her wineglass away. “Stuart told me once he’d never do a kids’ album. It’s too middle-aged and obvious.”

  “Oh, he told you that, did he?”

  “Yes. He tells me lots of things.” Peaches wasn’t sure what she was doing. Last time she’d seen Stuart Little, she’d basically told him to go home to his wife.

  “Why don’t you ask Stuart Little to come over and eat your rabbit with you?”

  “Maybe I will,” Peaches responded.

  “Guys,” Liam pleaded. “Stop.”

  “I saw you kiss him,” Greg said.

  “Yeah, and I enjoyed it.”

  “Mom?”

  Greg ignored his pleading son. Liam was seventeen, he could handle it. When Peaches was in labor with Liam she’d growled at Greg like a rabid dog and shouted expletives at him. Somehow it helped. If Peaches needed to fight now, he could fight.

  “Fuck your flirting. And fuck your rabbit,” Greg said ridiculously. He tore off his socks and hurled them across the kitchen, inside out, to rile her up even more.

  “Dad!”

  “Fuck you,” Peaches snapped. “It’s your fault the dog died.”

  “Mom, please.”

  But they kept on ignoring him, and Liam fled the room.

  * * *

  In his room, Liam fumed. Why was everything so messed up? His dog was dead, his parents hated each other, and he’d totally messed things up with Shy. They were practically about to have sex and then he’d left his backpack in the park and got so worr
ied that someone was going to steal it and his calculus textbook with it that he’d basically abandoned her, half undressed, without any explanation. He’d gotten an 89 on his calc test the next morning, which was totally unacceptable, his lowest grade ever, and he’d been in a foul mood ever since. Not that he blamed Shy.

  Fucking Bruce, that’s who he blamed. If Bruce hadn’t burned down the schoolyard, his mom wouldn’t have been mad at him all the time and he wouldn’t have developed this complex that he didn’t deserve to have things work out, that he deserved things to be fucked up and to not be able to talk to or even text an apology to his girlfriend. Okay, so he hadn’t officially asked her to be his girlfriend, but fuck that, she was his girlfriend. If she didn’t already know that, she was an idiot. She was too busy being obsessed with their Latin teacher anyway. Fuck him. Fuck her.

  Liam’s phone vibrated and he pulled it out of his back pocket. It was a selfie from Ryan, who was in London now, being a model. He was at a pub, a full pint glass of beer pressed against his grinning, expensively moisturized cheek.

  #nodrinkingage the text read.

  Sublime had gotten in huge trouble for their offensive mock protest and using the anti-gun movement to sell merchandise. They’d had to take down all their posters and every social media post from “the drop.” But Ryan had already been scouted and picked up by a modeling agency by then. No sixteen-year-old had worn a dying tiger on his chest so well. He’d put school on hold until the new year and was actually using the name Black Ryan professionally. He kept sending Liam annoying texts with pictures of himself wearing cool clothes, sauntering down some famous London or Paris street: Fish and Chips and Chanel on Carnaby Street! Je t’aime trés bien asshole! He’d already done a photo shoot on a yacht in the Mediterranean for Vilebrequin swim trunks and driven a McLaren in Monte Carlo. Get out here, bruh! he urged. Milan is next! But no one at any modeling agency had invited Liam to London or Paris or Milan.

  Liam kicked the legs of his bed and the back of his desk chair. He sat down on his bed and then bounced back up again.