The City Baker's Guide to Country Living
Page 16
I couldn’t imagine ever missing this cheerful gathering. This time last year, I had been in the kitchen at the Emerson while Jamie hosted his family five floors down. I leaned back on my elbows so I could see Jessie. “Is Dorothy your granddaughter?”
“It still gives me the chills to hear that word, but yes.”
“She’s adorable,” I said.
“Our grandson, Eli, is here too,” Ethan added. “I think he’s been down for a nap since you got here—I’m sure he’ll be up soon.”
“You’ll know it when he’s up,” Jessie reassured me. “He’s two. Do you have children, Livvy?”
“No, not yet.”
“What are you, in your late twenties?”
“Jessie!” Ethan said.
“I’m thirty-two.”
“Our oldest was fifteen when we were your age.” Jessie patted Ethan’s leg, as if to remind him he had something to do with it. “You should have them when you’re young enough to keep up with them.”
Martin tilted his beer back, drinking the last bit. “We should go down to the tree hut later,” he said to Ethan.
“Where you sell the trees?” I asked.
Martin nodded.
“That’s a good idea. We can get Luke and Mark’s boys to help clean it out. It shouldn’t take them more than an hour. I’ve got the baler all set up. We can start cutting in the morning.”
“What about Henry, and the lights?” I asked.
Ethan looked at Martin with his eyebrows raised. “We’ll get all the heavy lifting done, then take Henry down later in the day to torture us with the lights. He’ll be exhausted after this.”
“He looks good today,” Martin said.
“He does.” Ethan stood up. “Ready for supper, lady?”
Jessie stood up with a little groan and took his hand.
Martin stood, reaching down his hand to me. “We should head in too.”
• • •
“There’s plenty of food, kids,” Dotty called. “Help yourselves.”
When we sat down with our plates, I was introduced to Tim’s and Charlie’s wives. It was difficult for me to understand how they could be Martin’s nieces and nephews, when they looked like people I would go have drinks with. There was an eleven-year age difference between Mark and Martin. I wondered if Martin had been a surprise.
“So Livvy,” Mark began, “I know you’re new to the area. Where’s your family?”
“Livvy’s parents have passed away, dear,” Dotty said gently.
“Not recently, I hope?” asked Susan, Mark’s wife.
“No. My father died when I was a teenager. My mother a couple of years ago.”
“You must miss her,” Susan said.
“Um, I was actually raised by my father,” I began. “My mother was the cofounder of a theater troupe. She traveled a lot.” I speared a huge bite of stuffing and shoved it into my mouth.
“Didn’t your father mind her being away so much?” Tim asked.
“Well, they sort of broke up when she started doing the theater thing.”
“Sorry,” Martin whispered.
“Life on the road with a theater company sounds exciting,” said Charlie. “Did he ever consider going with her?”
“No,” I said. “The name of the theater was the Women’s Liberation Puppet Collective. It was a lesbian separatist group. They made giant vulvas—”
White wine shot out of Charlie’s wife’s mouth.
“—out of papier-mâché and performed street theater in countries where women were fighting for equal rights. She never stopped performing. She died doing what she loved, I guess.” I peeked over at Dotty, who looked amused. “These are the best sweet potatoes I have ever had,” I said, forking them into my mouth.
“Thank you, dear. You know, I think I may have seen one of your mother’s performances, over at Bread and Puppet.”
I didn’t think it was possible to love Dotty any more than I already did, but my heart stretched an extra inch. “She met her partner while doing an internship there.”
“Interesting people. Excellent sourdough.”
“What got you into baking, Olivia?” asked one of the wives.
“I had an elderly neighbor who used to babysit me when I was little—her name was Mary. She had all these wonderful family recipes, and every afternoon she would bake something from her cookbook. And I’d help.” I shrugged. “She never married. I think in a way she wanted to hand her recipes down to someone. I still make a lot of them. The custard pie is hers.” I felt a wave of sadness thinking of Mary, alone in her little dark kitchen—a loneliness no one in this room would ever know. “Every time we would bake something together, she would say, ‘You should always do what you can to make life sweeter.’”
“Amen to that,” said Henry.
• • •
Dotty handed me an apron and put me in front of the sink to wash while Susan dried and one of the boys’ wives whose names I couldn’t keep straight put away the dishes. Margaret was put in charge of coffee and tea while Dotty and Jessie made use of a tower of Tupperware and an industrial-sized roll of plastic wrap. Nicole, the redheaded mother of Dorothy, wandered in with the baby on her arm but slipped out when she saw all the work to be done.
I couldn’t decide whether my mother would have approved of us—the power of women working together—or thought we were oppressed as women, slaving away in the kitchen while the men lounged about. Probably a little of both. But I enjoyed the steam rising from the enamel sink, the lemon scent of the soap, and the soft voices around me. When the dishes were done, I began the cheerful work of slicing pies and setting up the table for dessert. Along with my buffet of pies there was a big dish of apple crisp, a cranberry upside-down cake, and a tray of sugar cookies cut into the shape of turkeys.
“What a sight,” said Margaret, untying her apron.
“It is,” I agreed. “Be sure to try the apple. I added a pinch of mace. I wanted to get your opinion.”
Margaret looked pleased. “You’re having a good time?”
“Very,” I said, realizing that it was true. “I haven’t had this day off in a long time.”
“Well, you’ll be busy soon enough.” Margaret poured herself a cup of tea and headed back into the dining room.
• • •
A peacefulness had settled over the house, like the feeling I get after I cross the last thing off of my prep list. In the dining room Margaret and Dotty were playing a board game with some of the older children. Henry was asleep in his recliner in the den while Mark and his wife sat on the couch eating pie and watching football. Grabbing my coat from the closet, I wandered out onto the front porch in search of Martin. A tall young man in a fitted black sweater and pointed leather boots that poked out from under dark-washed jeans sat swaying on the porch swing.
“We haven’t met yet. In the eyes of my grandmother, I’m still a child at twenty-eight, so I was stuck in the other room.” He stuck out his hand. “Samuel. Son of Mark.”
I laughed. “That sounds biblical.”
“On some days it feels that way. Are you Olivia?”
“I am.”
“Uncle Martin told me about you.”
I looked around at the empty yard. “Where is Martin?”
“He and Uncle Ethan took my brothers and my cousin down to clean out the shack where they sell the Christmas trees. They should be back soon.”
I tucked my hands into my coat pockets. “Have you had dessert yet?”
“I’m waiting for Gregory to come back. He got roped into helping.”
“I’m sorry, I’m having trouble keeping up—there are a lot of you.”
“No need. Gregory is my partner.”
“Oh,” I said, a little surprised.
“I know, right? Who would have thought a family dominated by this
much testosterone would produce a little gay boy like me.” Samuel batted his eyelashes at me.
“Do you still live in Vermont?”
“God, no. I got out as soon as I could. Vermont may have been the first state to pass civil unions, but in this part of the woods, every other house had a big black Take Back Vermont sign staked in the front yard.” He sighed. “But I do miss it. Especially at this time of year. We live in LA.”
“That’s about as far away from Vermont as you can get.”
“In more ways than one.” Samuel patted the seat next to him. “Come sit.”
We both kicked out and sent the bench swinging. “Do you like it there?”
“The weather is great, and Gregory has an amazing job as an entertainment lawyer. I miss my family, though. I’m always trying to lure Uncle Marty down there, but he won’t leave Seattle.”
I laughed. “How come?”
“He claims to hate the sunshine.”
“He is a little pale,” I offered, although he seemed more alive to me when he was out walking in the woods than he ever did indoors. The room he was in always felt too small to contain him.
“He’s just a snob. I can’t complain, though. I don’t think I could have survived my teenage years without him. When I was first coming out, having a hard time at school and fighting with my father all the time, Martin would let me spend the summers with him in Seattle. He’d take me to cafés and sneak me into bars. He even took me to a gay club one night just so I could see what it was like. I think he got hit on more than me!”
I giggled. “He is pretty cute.”
Samuel met my eyes for a long second before smiling. “You have no idea. He was even cuter then—all rock and roll, leather jacket, motorcycle boots—the whole thing. I’ll send you pictures. Are you on Facebook? Anyway, Uncle Marty was the only person in the family, other than my grandmother, who acted like it wasn’t a big deal that I was gay. And he gave me a chance to see the possibility of life beyond all of this.” He waved, gesturing at the fields.
“It seems like you and Martin have a lot in common. I mean, wanting a different life.”
“It’s funny. I used to think so. Now I’m not so sure.” Samuel dragged his feet and stopped the swing. “Screw Gregory. Let’s go eat tons of carbs.”
• • •
Samuel and I were playing a cutthroat game of gin rummy with Margaret when the troop of boys came crashing in from the tree hut, tossing their jackets onto the floor and marching straight for the kitchen and hot coffee. Soon the seats at the table were filled with men hunched over plates of pie, grunting compliments between forkfuls. I couldn’t help but feel a little proud when I saw that Martin had taken a small slice of each pie, including the chocolate cream.
The sun had set, and with my belly full of pie, I felt my eyelids growing heavy. I wandered into the sitting room, which was blissfully empty. I curled into a chair by the fireplace and felt myself drifting off.
“Livvy, would you like to head back?” I felt a cool hand on my shoulder. It was Margaret. Her coat was on, her purse slung over her forearm.
I blinked. “What time is it?” While I slept someone had lit the fire and tucked an afghan around my legs.
“Eight o’clock.”
I threw off the blanket, suddenly overheated, my mouth thick and craving sugar. “Did everyone already leave?”
“Henry went upstairs a while ago. And the children have been sent to bed.”
I stood up, disoriented, and followed Margaret into the hallway.
“You’re not leaving, are you?” Samuel was standing with a sweet-looking man with green eyes and a shock of red hair. “You haven’t even had a chance to talk to Gregory yet.”
Gregory smiled. “That would be me.”
I glanced over at Margaret.
“Will you bring her back with you?” she asked Samuel.
“Sure.”
“You’re staying at the inn?” I asked. “Fun.”
“Yes, and we heard you make killer muffins, so we better get you back early enough to keep you on your A game.”
“I’ll stay a bit longer,” I said to Margaret. “Night.” Without thinking, I reached out and hugged her. Margaret stiffened, but she patted my back before letting go.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Margaret said, stopping to receive a kiss on the cheek from Samuel before leaving.
He closed the front door behind her. “Okay. Now it’s time for the real party to begin. Get your coat.”
• • •
All of the movable instruments had been carried to the barn. Martin’s brothers Mark and Ethan sat on the bench, watching two of their sons struggle to tap a keg. Samuel came in through a side door, took the tap out of their hands, and pressed it into the seal.
I sat on the folding chair closest to my banjo and took a long sip from the plastic cup of beer that one of the boys handed me.
Suddenly Salty’s long snout stuck through the barn door. With a bark he pushed his whole head into the room, followed by his long, shaggy, gray body, tail high. Martin came in behind him with a bottle of bourbon in his hand.
“Puppy! How’d you get here?” I asked as I wrapped my arms around Salty’s neck and buried my nose in his scruff. His breath smelled like brown sugar. “Have you been eating pie?”
“Your door was unlocked.” Martin took off his coat. He had changed into a long-sleeved black T-shirt and a pair of jeans. I felt a little silly in a dress sitting in the barn with the goats. Mark picked up the guitar and began to play something sweet and unfamiliar.
“Not that again,” said Tim. “Dad always starts to feel sentimental around the holidays,” he explained to me. “Can’t we hear anything livelier?”
“Like what?” Mark kept defiantly strumming.
“I can play the whole Sex Pistols album on the banjo,” I offered.
Luke laughed. “You can not.”
“I can.” I picked up the banjo and twisted the tuning pegs into a G tuning.
“I am an Antichrist. I am an anarchist,” I sang as I frailed out the melody.
Everyone burst out laughing.
“The banjo is totally punk rock,” I mock defended.
“It’s kind of like the opposite of Uncle Martin’s old band,” said Tim.
Ethan groaned. “I forgot about them. What were they called?”
“Wildwood,” Mark answered, his voice full of sarcasm.
“We were nineteen,” Martin said, his voice a little defensive.
“Yeah, and all you could think about was your hard-ons,” said Mark.
“Come on, Dad,” said Tim. “If you hadn’t been thinking with your hard-on when you were nineteen, I wouldn’t be here today.”
Martin took the guitar from Mark. “We were called Wildwood,” he said, looking at me from the corner of his eye, “because we were a Carter Family cover band.” And without further introduction he drove his hands into the guitar, spitting out a speed-metal version of “Will the Circle Be Unbroken.”
“Oh my God,” I said when the song was finished. “I saw you.”
“That’s impossible.” Martin passed the guitar to Luke and cracked his knuckles.
“You opened for Son Volt in 1999. At T.T.’s in Cambridge.”
Martin gaped at me. “You were at that show? How? You would have still been in high school.”
“My boyfriend was the bouncer,” I said a little shyly. “I bought your record that night. I still have it somewhere.”
“How could you bear to be parted from it?” shouted Charlie, laughing.
I leaned toward Martin. “I remember the cover. You were wearing those wolverine masks and sitting on BMX bikes.”
We both looked down at the dirt floor then. Had my sixteen-year-old self noticed this serious-looking boy? What would it have been like to know him then?
“How’s Grampy doing?” asked Luke.
“Fine,” said Martin.
“Not great,” said Ethan at the same time.
“Martin,” Ethan said.
“What?” Martin ran his fingers through his hair. “You saw him. He had a great day today.”
“He did, Marty. Today was a good day.” Ethan pumped the tap of keg. “Today.”
“I live with him. He’s been doing well.”
“He barely got through his last treatment.”
“And he bounced back.” Martin poured some of the bourbon into a plastic cup. “Jesus, out of all of us, I should know. Unlike you guys, I see him every day.”
“And you see what you want to fucking see,” Mark said. “Just like always.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what I said. You’ve got your head up your ass. You don’t come home for two years—”
“Mark, give it a rest,” said Ethan.
Martin sat, unmoving.
“What? He moves as far away as he could without going to Alaska, then he comes waltzing back here, and suddenly he’s the expert on Dad?” Mark stood and turned to Martin. “You weren’t here when he felt sick enough to ask for help for the first time in his life, or to take him for tests behind Mom’s back, or to hear the diagnosis, or visit him in the hospital after the surgery. And now—Jesus, Martin. Look at Dad tomorrow. Really look at him.” Mark walked out the barn door, leaving his jacket behind.
Ethan crossed his arms across his chest and looked at his nephews. “Your grandfather is . . .” The barn was silent. Ethan looked at Martin and said, “Well, we’ll see. Henry is a tough old bird. That we all know.” He clasped Martin’s shoulder. “I’ll be by tomorrow around seven and we can get the baler going and fill up that lot.” Ethan grabbed his and Mark’s coats and walked back toward the house. Martin grabbed the bottle of bourbon and followed him out of the barn.
One of the boys asked for my banjo, and I handed it over.
They played three tunes and Martin still hadn’t returned. I buttoned my coat, grabbed Martin’s corduroy jacket, and stuck my head out the door. Martin was sitting on a bench just outside the barn. I sat down next to him, draped the jacket over his shoulders, and tucked my hands in my coat pockets. He took off his glasses and leaned forward, cupping his face in his hands. I could hear the boys in the barn singing old songs from the seventies. I thought I heard Samuel joining in, or maybe it was Gregory. One of them had a rich voice.