“What was its name then?” Maya widens her eyes in anticipation.
“Samuel the Fat Pike was its name.” With sunlight glinting in his eyes, Luke looks at the girls, who can’t hide their pleasure at this moment.
Luke and Alice carry the fish to the utility room, where they are filleted. Luke tells them that pike can be difficult to strip entirely free of bones, if you don’t know the technique. But he knows how, of course. What makes deboning difficult, he explains, has something to do with what’s called the Y-bones, because they’re curved. Then he begins to explain at length. Thomas can’t concentrate anymore. The little troop has followed them out, and now stands appreciatively observing Luke and his knife. “I think we should fry the whole perch,” he says. But Samuel the Fat Pike will be minced. Patricia churns it through the mincer then dresses it with flour, dill, and lemon zest. Soon the aroma of fried fish spreads through the house. Helena prepares a remoulade sauce, and the girls slice lemons into wedges. Maloney’s called in to fry the perch. While trying to flip one in the air, it lands, to the girls’ immense pleasure, on the floor. Maloney throws it right back in the pan again—making the girls even more giddy. Jenny sits in a chair doing nothing. She looks exhausted, and yet not. Her arms are pink from the sun. Now she picks up the newspaper and browses it absentmindedly. The way she does, stooped, as if the world didn’t interest her in the slightest. And maybe it doesn’t, Thomas thinks. He’s recruited to whip up a salad of carrots, cabbage, and chopped hazelnuts, and he wants to force Jenny to help him, but decides against it because it seems too childish. “How about we eat outside?” Helena suggests. “We’d just need to move the table out of the sunroom.” Luke will do that. Helena sends Nina upstairs to get Kristin, who returns soon after with pillow marks on her right cheek and a tired, worn-out expression on her face. The minced fish balls seem to raise her spirits. In short order they’re seated on the patio together, a faded parasol over their heads. The bread is passed around. The butter is fresh and yellow. And the fish couldn’t be any tastier. They divide the four perches. Their skin is crunchy and the meat firm. The fish balls are light brown and juicy. You can taste the flavor from the lemon zest. There’s no end to the superlatives thrown Luke’s way; he beams at the boundless admiration and praise. At last Maloney takes it upon himself to interject some crude observations to draw attention away from the young man at the end of the table, who has each of the women in the palm of his hand. Thomas glances at his friend, relieved. Blinking, Maloney asks about Kristin’s hunting license. “Let’s talk about killing animals,” he says, “not little fish, but large mammals with horns and visible genitalia!” Thomas can’t help but notice Luke shrink a bit. “I also want to learn how to fish,” Maya whispers, leaning against Luke. “Next time,” Luke says, standing abruptly. He saunters into the shade and lights a cigarette. He seems hunted now, restless, his eyes darting uneasily across the meadows and fields, as if he’s suddenly thought of something very unpleasant. It’s Thomas’s cigarette pack he’s fingering. Though he was only offered a single smoke last night, he must have taken the entire pack.
The twins cry when they say goodbye to Alice. “Nothing ever happens here, and now you’re leaving!” Nina whimpers. She has to wrap them each in a bear hug and give them some of her bracelets before they calm down. She rides with Jenny and Maloney. She has to work in a few hours. And Thomas remembers what she does, the job she performs. He doesn’t like the thought of it. He quickly arranges to meet with her at the store Monday morning. “Remember to call Annie and Peter!” Maloney calls, popping his ruddy head out the window. “Company happy hour tomorrow!” Jenny waves her scarf, which, like a salmon-colored wimple, is thrown hither and thither by the wind as Maloney’s red Toyota finally putters up the driveway. Then Luke says, “You want me to drive first to show you the way?”
“Way? Way to what?”
“To my mother’s. Did you forget?”
Luke glowers at Thomas reproachfully. Patricia doesn’t understand. But there’s nothing to do: Thomas promised to go with Luke. Patricia didn’t, and she quickly says that she needs to go home to the cat, which has been alone all weekend. Suddenly and swiftly Patricia presses her lips to Luke’s mouth, after which she disappears into Kristin’s embrace. Thomas tries to suppress his gasp. For a long moment Patricia holds Helena’s hands in hers. He strives to get Patricia’s attention; she doesn’t look at him. She smiles to the girls, though. What is it? Is she flirting? Trying to provoke him? Or just showing Thomas how completely indifferent she is to him? She gets into the rental car. Thomas blocks the sun with his hand and once again attempts to make eye contact with her, without succeeding. Patricia’s already driving away, and Helena puts her arms around Thomas and whispers, “She’s an exceptional girl, take good care of her.” Thomas is going to ride with Luke. He doesn’t really want to, especially now, but everything’s happening so fast. Kristin says, “Goodbye, little Thomas. Don’t do anything your aunt wouldn’t do.” And then there’s nothing left to do but climb into the seat beside Luke; he’s already put the key in the ignition and revved the engine. The wheels stir up clouds of dust, and Kristin and Helena and the twins take an instinctive step backward. Luke accelerates, making the bumps on the gravel road feel extra hard; Thomas’s head is slung back when he turns to wave at the women and the gangly girls, who with their small, slender braids look even more gangly and perplexed than before.
Luke drives fast. He doesn’t say a word. Sunlight sweeps over the landscape with inexpressible beauty. At first Thomas wants to say something, compel Luke to tell him about Patricia’s intentions. But he changes his mind; it would be the dumbest thing to talk to Luke about that. It’d be best to seem unaffected, as though nothing were amiss. Because something tells him that Patricia’s the problem, not Luke. So Thomas watches the scattered green fields and gradually feels his body relaxing. He’s tired after the long night, the many poems, the tequila. He closes his eyes, dozes with his chin resting on his chest. When Luke stops the car on the side of the road, he jerks awake.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Luke says dismissively. He sits with his hands on the wheel and stares ahead. Soon he starts the car again and steers onto the road.
“Don’t you know where you’re going?”
“Yes.”
Thomas observes Luke out of the corner of his eye. The small freckles in his face are light-brown, finely drawn against his olive skin. The lush eyelashes, the delicate marzipan-like curve of his ears. There’s a little dust in his hair, along with some flakes of dried leaves.
“Did you call your mom and tell her we were coming?”
Luke shakes his head. He seems determined. And there’s nothing more to say. They drive for half an hour in silence. On either side of the car are vast fields, pastures with swampy areas, the forested mountainsides far in the distance. They pass a small gas station, a few large farms, some low houses made of wood. It really is a thinly populated region. Thomas forces thoughts of Patricia out of his mind. Then Luke exits the main roadway and drives along a complicated network of side roads, until he suddenly slows, then finally turns down a long, winding driveway. A house comes into view, or rather, a shack. In several places a window has been smashed, replaced with cardboard instead of glass. The roof looks dangerously warped. It’s a wooden house painted red, but the paint’s chipped and the foundation is covered in green lichen. At one end of the house, a loose board juts out, revealing the rotting core. An old moped lies flipped on its side on the lawn, along with a wheel-less wheelbarrow and something that resembles a stack of rusted iron, which turns out to be some bedframes and various broken farm implements. Luke parks the car. But he doesn’t get out. He lets out a deep sigh.
“You think anyone’s home?” Thomas asks cautiously. Luke shrugs. “Come,” he says, opening the car door. “Maybe she’s inside.” Standing in front of the house is a simple wooden table, a bench, and a ramshackle garden chair with cushions made of a pale-y
ellow material, which at one time had been patterned with something like orange tulips. Beer bottles are scattered around the yard. A bucket with rainwater and cigarette butts. A broom, a shovel, a ruined fruit-picker leaning up against the doorframe. Luke leaves the car door open, strides through the tall grass, and grabs the doorknob. It’s locked. Thomas walks up beside him. They peer through the windows. The kitchen’s a dreadful mess. With the outdated electric stove and a big dirty pot on the kitchen table, it looks awfully sad in there: dirty dishes; a loaf of sliced white-bread, the bag opened; a package of margarine—also opened; a hunk of half-buttered bread; and a large knife beside it smeared with margarine. As if someone was interrupted while preparing breakfast. Old newspapers litter the floor. They walk around the outside of the house. Blankets are heaped on the unmade bed in the bedroom, the living room is dominated by a large TV and a battered couch—on which a pair of curled up cats are sleeping comfortably together. Another room apparently serves as a kind of storage space. Here, various pieces of furniture are piled one atop the other, along with cardboard boxes and plastic bags scattered pell-mell, spider webs, junk upon junk. Topping the stack is a child’s broken highchair. “Why would they have a highchair?” Thomas asks. “Do you have younger siblings? Or is your mother a grandmother?”
“It’s mine,” Luke says, pulling himself away from the window, into the sunlight. “From when I was small. I don’t know why she brought it up here.”
They sit on a bench smoking cigarettes. Thomas doesn’t dare say anything about the place; he’s not sure how Luke will respond if he says anything negative. And it’s hard to formulate anything positive. He feels bad for the kid; did he really grow up in such a dump? Or were things better when Rose still lived in the city? He can’t bring himself to ask. Luke closes his eyes and takes a deep drag on his cigarette.
“Does your mother live alone here?” Thomas asks. “No idea,” Luke says. “I haven’t seen her for a long time. Let’s go.” He stands and begins strolling slowly, as though despondent, sluggish, toward the car. Thomas flicks his cigarette butt into a bucket and follows him. Just as they click on their seatbelts, a small van comes into view on the winding gravel drive. Luke’s hands grip the wheel. His knuckles are white. The van approaches, jouncing and spitting exhaust fumes. Now they can see two people in the front seat. One must be Rose, but even when the van passes right next to them, Thomas can’t recognize her at all. Luke doesn’t move a muscle. The van comes to a halt, and a man climbs out with difficulty. He’s compact and heavy and wearing a thick, quilted vest over a brown sweater, though the temperature is well above 70 degrees. Clipped to his belt is a large ring of keys. His shoes are tattered, his face puffy. He wanders slowly around the van and opens the door for Rose. A pair of long, thin legs poke from the car now. And then the rest of Rose appears. She’s a tall woman, just as Thomas remembers her, but now she’s emaciated and frail. She’s wearing leggings and an oversized, floppy shirt that’s a nondescript bluish-green. At the center of her shirt is the washed-out print of a pink apple. Her hair, once shiny and reddish-orange, now tumbles around her face like a pallid nimbus, discolored and dry. For a moment she stands silently, as if finding her balance. Then she turns toward Luke’s car, still wearing her sunglasses. “Honey,” she says in a strangely slurred voice, “is that you?” Finally a kind of life stirs in Luke. He glances quickly and expressionlessly at Thomas, then climbs out of the car. Thomas frees himself from his seatbelt and follows him. They stand under the baking sun, and Luke shoves his hands into his pockets. The man says, “So you’re Luc.” And Luke’s mother comes clattering—that’s how it seems—clattering on her long, delicate bones, the flesh still somehow clinging to them, clattering into a clumsy embrace of her son, who looks as though he doesn’t know what to do with himself. “My child,” she mumbles. “My boy.” Then she lets go of him. “Why don’t you ever visit your mother?” The man, meanwhile, begins carrying plastic bags into the house. They must have gone grocery shopping. Rose removes her sunglasses, revealing her face. It’s easy to see the similarity between her and Luke: the caramel-colored eyes, the freckles. But her mouth is narrow and pinched sourly, trembling now. Behind it a row of small, yellowed teeth. She finds her cigarettes and a lighter. She coughs, spits in the grass, then slowly lifts a cigarette to her lips. Her upper body sways a little. Either she’s drunk or on something. Pills, maybe, something deadening. Every now and then her eyes glide shut, and she tips so far backward that it seems she’ll fall over. But each time she manages to right herself at the last instant.
“Mom,” Luke says. “Mom. Why are you high already? This early in the afternoon for God’s sake. Who’s giving you the pills?”
“Stop talking nonsense,” Rose says. “I’m doing fine.” Her head pitches slightly. “Mind your own business.” She looks at Luke. She narrows her eyes the same way he does. A cold and accusatory glance.
“We’re leaving. Come on, Thomas.” Luke hurries to the car. But halfway there he stops and spins angrily toward his mother. “I want to punch you, but I’ll do you the huge favor of leaving you alone. Fuck you,” he shouts, threatening her. “Fuck you, bitch!” And for one moment Thomas is afraid that he’ll actually attack her. His rage makes him ugly. His face is flushed red, his body tense as a bow. He’s frightening to look at. Luke yanks on the door handle, gets in, guns the engine, and begins to back out of the driveway at high speed. Thomas runs after the car and leaps in. Rose, hunched over, angles toward the house. The man comes outside carrying a case of beer: A man with a heavy case of beer in his hands, a sheepish expression on his face, the brilliant light above the warped roof of the house, and Rose, plopping down on the bench now, her back to them. Turned in his seat at a 90-degree angle, Luke keeps an eye on the road behind them. Cussing and swearing. They crest a small hill and barrel down the other side; the house is out of sight. Thomas is relieved to have escaped that place. As he studied Rose’s vacant eyes, his headache had returned with renewed vigor. The entire situation so horribly painful. So hopeless. He rolls down the window. Fresh air rushes in and mixes with their own odors. They reverse all the way to the road. Luke doesn’t say a word. He seems more embittered than angry now. After a while the atmosphere in the car becomes almost unbearable. Thomas tries to think of something to say, but it feels as though nothing can cleanse the air, so sullied as it is by Luke’s bad mood. And Thomas himself is shaken over seeing Rose in that state. Gone is the sixteen-year old, long-legged girl with baby fat. Fatso’s fun little sister, the nanny, who played crazy games with him while Jenny took her mid-day naps, who tickled him until he cried with laughter, who took them down to the street where she hung out with her friends, while Thomas sat on the stoop watching the older girls pass Jenny between them tying small bows into her hair. And later, during pre-pubescence: Rose, a radiant young woman the stuff of wet dreams. There was something different about her, something vibrant that no one else could offer, not anyone he knew anyway. But Rose is no more. Rose is a wreck. Life stinks, Thomas thinks, leaning back dejectedly in his seat. They’re back on the road again. Soon he sinks into a torpor-like state of sleep, headache, and old hangover. He dreams disconnectedly, of something that happens inside a spacious fancy apartment, a party it seems. Mashed up against the wall of a narrow corridor of raucous, boisterous people, struggling for breath, skin glistening with sweat. A strong whiff of secretions emanating from human bodies. Sizzling pork fat on a cast-iron pan. A hunk of meat splatting in the center of the pan. A fantastic aroma wafting from it. He arches forward, over the stove. Someone slaps him on the back. Snoring loudly, he wakes himself up. Three quarters of an hour have passed. Luke snaps on his turn signal and enters the highway. He’s driving too fast. He’s leaning over the wheel. “Fuck,” he says. And not a word more until they reach the city. But then it’s as if he relaxes. Loosens his shoulders and his jaw. Moistens his lips with his tongue. Breathes calmly through his nose. The tension inside the car slowly dissipates. Luke turns the radio
on. And Thomas thinks almost happily: He’s back. They listen absentmindedly to a program about the prenatal care of penguin parents. Soon Luke glances at him, giving him a sad little smile. I am filled with love, Thomas thinks, shocked, as a geyser of heat rises in him. Thomas is overcome, hot as flames now—as if he’s been cleansed from the inside by an all-consuming fire—with a powerful and uncontrollable urge to find his way into Luke’s body: a finger between his thick lips, a finger in his ear. To push inside him from behind. To taste Luke, everything that can’t be seen with the naked eye. To seek a way into the parts of him that keep him alive. The same parts that help him taste, chew, swallow, digest, listen, smell, breathe, expel waste. It lasts only half a minute. Luke looks at him worriedly. “Are you okay?” he asks. “Should we stop somewhere and get some water? Your face is all flushed.” Blood roars in Thomas’s ears. He shakes his head. “No, it’s just the heat. It’ll pass soon.” But the heat from the shame that follows doesn’t pass right away. He imagines Patricia sprawled across her office desk, sees himself grunting behind her, then her tears. What is it? Is it violence? Is it him? Distractedly he stares at the suburbs as they race past: apartment complexes, football fields. Shame courses through him, and it’s not until Luke finally becomes talkative that it goes away.
“Maybe now you get why I can’t stand looking at my mom,” Luke says, and Thomas nods. He understands. “What kinds of drugs is she on?” “No clue,” Luke replies, “pills, no doubt. And lots of alcohol. She’ll die in her own shit.”
“Were you hoping she’d be better?”
“I don’t know.” Luke stares at the road. “No.”
“Was that how she was when you lived with her?” Thomas asks carefully.
“I don’t know. No, not quite that bad. But she’d often lie in bed for days on end. I was too young to comprehend what was wrong with her, I was just used to it. It started before we moved to the country, but it wasn’t this bad.” Luke speaks fast, frenzied. “I mean, she was drunk a lot and there were hangers-on at our house smoking bongs during the day, but she was young, and she was employed now and then. She managed.”
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