“No, I think he still probably lives there so we’ll leave him alone, but there were clams there, too, and we can make chowder out of them.”
“What’s clams? What’s chowder?”
“Clams is… are… little shells with meat inside them and chowder is a kind of stew or thick soup we can make with them.”
“But shells are sort of like rocks and I don’t want to eat rocks. Nah… It’s go play at the pool instead.”
“Oh, come on. We don’t eat the clamshells, just the meat inside. You’ll see. Let’s go,” Gypsy urged, tucking his shirt into the waistband of his pants, then kneeling to roll up the legs of his jeans before doing the same to her own.” His last pair of shorts was due to be washed the next sunny day they had. “We’ll need that blue basin to carry them in, and the rake from vegetable storage closet under the house. I’ll rinse out the basin. You go get the rake.”
Fifteen minutes later Kevin looked with distaste at the muddy clams which were clunking into the bottom of the basin. “They don’t look very nice,” he complained, wrinkling his nose. “Why don’t we have those meatballs?”
“Because it’s the last can and I’m tired of meatballs,” she told him mucking around in the mud and ooze, bringing up three more clams. “Put these in the basin, please. You see, the place that packed up all the food for your dad thought could be only two of you and then I came along like Goldilocks and ate up a lot of the porridge.”
“There’s lots of porridge left, Mother. Who’s Goldilocks?”
Gypsy lifted her head from her clam digging and stared at him. “Who’s—? Kevin! You’ve never heard of Goldilocks and The Three Bears?” When he continued to look blankly interested, she went on and told him the story, fighting down an urge to scream at the injustice of life which was depriving this little boy of a normal childhood. Had no one but her ever bothered to tell this kid a story?
He laughed delightedly when she was finished and said, “But you didn’t break my bed, Mother, so I guess you aren’t like her. You know lots of stories, don’t you?. A man who’s my daddy’s friend told me one but Auntie Lorraine got mad and made me go inside for my dinner. She won’t let me go in the room when Daddy has guests, and when he—his name’s Keith—came in later she made him go away. He”—Kevin’s eyes opened wide at the memory—“talked back.”
“He didn’t!” she said, trying not to smile. “Your daddy’s friend talked back to Auntie Lorraine?” She sounded as impressed as she knew Kevin wanted her to. “Really?”
He nodded. “He called her names. But then,” and this time a frown replaced the gleeful look of remembering, “he went like this”—Kevin gave a good imitation of someone spreading his hands in despair—“and left. He didn’t even stay for dinner and Auntie Lorraine told Daddy that Keith was the rudest man she’d ever met and he better not invite him back. My bedroom,” he confided, “is right by the porch.”
“I see.” Gypsy responded gravely.
“That’s enough clams, now,” she said, standing. “We have to rinse them off in the creek to get rid of the mud. Let’s go.” They’d need to rinse off more than the clams. She stopped at the cabin for soap and washcloths. She and Kevin were both filthy and smelled like beach.
Sometime later, when a large pot steamed and bubbled on the stove, she dumped the clams. “They sound like rocks, too.” Kevin appeared not in the least surprised. “We can’t eat rocks, Gypsy. The dog down the street bit a rock a big boy threw for him to chase and broke one of his teeth.”
“We won’t be eating rocks. Trust me.”
He wrinkled his nose once more. “They smell funny,” he commented. She just smiled.
“Wait until they’re all the made into chowder. Then they’ll smell good.”
A slight rustling sound came from the cooking pot, then clicks and clanks. “What’s that?” Kevin asked.
Gypsy lifted the lid of the pot and let him look. “Their doors are opening!” he cried. “Why are they doing that?” He leaned perilously over the pot, face in the great cloud of steam which issued forth.
Gypsy pulled him back out of harm’s way. “That’s what happens when you cook clams. That’s the way they we get them out of their shells. When they’re all cooked, we’ll let them cool and then pick the meat out and make the chowder. But now,” she added, “we have to peel some carrots and potatoes and onions to put in with them, and chop up some bacon to use, too.”
Kevin brightened. He loved bacon. Auntie Lorraine never cooked it for him, but Daddy did, Kevin had informed Gypsy one morning shortly after her arrival. That was when she learned you could actually buy bacon in cans. Butter, too, she’d been amazed to discover. Camping, as in sleeping in tents the way some of her schoolmates did, had not been among her family’s repertoire of vacation favorites. In fact, Gypsy reflected, after her father and brother died, there’d been precious few vacations—just the odd month or two here and there at Grandma’s place, usually when Mom was on another honeymoon with another new husband.
Kevin interrupted her thoughts. “All that goes into the chowder?”
“All that and more.”
“I like to cook. I never helped anyone make anything before and now I stirred a cake, made tuna sandwiches and after today I’ll know how to make clam chowder without using the rocks they live in.”
“Shells,” she reminded him. “Not rocks. Don’t you help your aunt?”
“Oh no!” Kevin sounded scandalized by the notion. “I’d only get in the way.”
“Is that what she says?” Shame on you, Gypsy, pumping a child like this. But still…
“Yup,” he responded quite cheerfully. “Big people like to do their work alone. Like Daddy. I went to watch him sometimes when you weren’t here but I always forgot to be quiet and sit really still, and then the birds flew away and I was scared he’d get mad. Auntie Lorraine says we mustn’t upset daddy.”
Why does Daddy get to be such a spoiled brat?
“Is Auntie Lorraine your daddy’s sister?”
Gypsy scooped up the pile of diced onions, wiped her weeping eyes on the collar of her shirt and began chopping bacon. Kevin shook his head. “No… She’s my… my cousin, I think. I call her Auntie ’cause she says that’s polite. I can’t call her Mother and she’s grown-up so I can’t call her Lorraine, either.” He paused thoughtfully for a moment then said, “What’s an incision?”
Gypsy scraped the diced onion and bacon into a cast iron skillet The pan was already warm and she stirred quickly so the bacon fat would begin melting to keep the onion from sticking. “A cut. Why?”
“Well, when Granny asked me why I didn’t call Auntie Lorraine ‘Mom’, I said ’cause she’s my auntie. Granny said, ‘No, she’s your mama’s cousin but pretty she’ll be your mother. ‘Mom.’ That’s what Mickey and Jennifer call their mother. ”
Gypsy slid the skillet to the right of the stove top where it was cooler.
“Auntie Lorraine told Granny to keep quiet and Granny said ‘You need to force Lance to make an incision, Lorraine.’ What’s Daddy going to cut?”
“I haven’t a clue.” Gypsy thought over what Kevin had just said. It wasn’t until she substituted the word decision for incision that it all began to make sense. Lorraine, not, as she had thought all along, Lance’s sister, but a cousin on his wife’s side, need to “force Lance to make a decision.” The decision to marry her so Kevin would have to call her Mom? Suddenly, Gypsy felt desperately ill. What would that mean to Kevin? She sighed. Probably nothing, she concluded. His life sure wouldn’t improve any even if “Auntie” became “Mom.”
With a shaking hand she stirred the sizzling bacon and onion mix. The onion stung in her eyes and tightened in her throat. Suddenly, her chest ached abominably and she clenched her teeth, turning away.
She lifted the heavy pot of clams and spilled it into the sink, watching the boiling water swirl away down the drain. Furiously she pumped water to cool them. When the steam had ceased to billow forth, Gypsy slid Kevi
n, on his chair, close to the sink. “You can pull the clams of their shells.” She showed him how, placed a bowl on the counter by the sink to receive the flesh, the big basin on a stool for the shells. “Save any really pretty shells. They’ll make a nice souvenir of your vacation to take home to Auntie Lorraine.” Auntie, soon to be Mom… So why had Lance all but propositioned her the other night out there on the steps? Maybe “Auntie” was quite happy with that designation. Maybe it was just “Granny” who felt the status quo needed to be changed.
“Don’t you like shells, Mother?” Kevin sounded slightly hurt. “She’d just toss them out. She doesn’t like junk. When Mickey and I found some pretty rocks she made me take them back outside because they were dirty. Mickey’s mom,” he added wistfully, “put hers on the kitchen windowsill. She washed them and then sprayed them with some stuff so always look wet and shiny.”
Feeling she would like to choke Lorraine, Gypsy chopped carrots and potatoes, then gave Kevin the last half carrot as a reward for his job on the clams. “If you choose some pretty shells for me I’ll put them in my flowerpots in my living room. They’ll look nice there and I’ll have my glass ball, too, and never forget you, ever.” She smiled, and it hurt her cheeks.
Gypsy scrubbed out the pot the clams had steamed in, drained off the fat and added the sautéed onion and bacon, a large can of tomatoes, a couple of cans of chicken broth, and when that was nicely boiling, the carrots, potatoes, and clams. Salt-and-pepper added to the delicious aroma and Kevin sniffed appreciatively.
“It does smell good now.”
“Of course it does. Didn’t you believe me?”
He had the grace to look slightly ashamed. “Big people always tell kids they’ll like things when they think they won’t,” he said, leaving Gypsy to sort out all the pronouns for herself.
“Kevin, I don’t tell you lies,” she said quietly. She stirred the chowder and put a lid on it. “And as long as I’m cooking your meals, I’ll try to make things you’ll enjoy. Of course,” she grinned at him, “if you don’t like what I cook, you have to eat at least some of it anyway. That’s how you learn to like different things.” That was how she had learned to like different foods. Well, except for sushi. Popular as it might be, she chose to eat her seafood cooked.
“Auntie Lorraine always makes stuff even if she knows I don’t like because it’s good for me. She makes me eat liver and turnips and spinach and cooked carrots and fish.” He pulled a disgusted face as he told her his tale of woe.
Gypsy suppressed a smile. “There’s cooked carrots and fish in the chowder and you just said it smells good. Don’t tell me you aren’t going to like it.”
“Fish? I didn’t see you put any fish in there.” He would’ve snatched off the lid had she let him, but she barred his way with an arm to which he clung and swung to the floor, giving her an accusing look.
“Clams are fish, silly. Shellfish.”
“Well, they don’t smell like fish, and the carrots aren’t going to be mashed, are they?” he countered. “That’s the way I don’t like them and when I asked her to give them to me in sticks like Mickey’s mom does she said no cause mashed up is better for children. She reads books about what’s good for children.”
Gypsy had no answer for this. She simply did not know for sure. But she had a feeling that raw vegetables were likely just as good for people, for a normal healthy child, as were cooked, if not better.
She tasted the chowder and shook her head. It lacked something. She added salt, tasted again then, still dissatisfied, took Kevin and went outside. Someone, she’d noticed a few days ago, had planted a herb garden, and she sincerely doubted it had been the Finnish shepherd, but someone had surely lived, or at least spent vacations here before Lance bought the island. Maybe the friends he’d bought it from. She found the area again—badly overgrown—but located both thyme and oregano among the weeds. She picked several stems of the latter and a few sprigs of thyme and took them inside, followed by a curious little boy.
“What’s that?”
“More things to make our chowder taste good.”
“They look like weeds.”
“They do, don’t they?” Running a hand down each oregano stem from top to bottom, she peeled off the leaves, then used scissors to snip off the woody twigs they clung to, laid them on a board with the thyme leaves, and chopped them fine with a knife. A delightful aroma floated about the kitchen area, increasing in strength when she sprinkled the herbs into the chowder. A few minutes later, another taste-test told her she’d been on the right track, but dinner time announced success beyond her wildest dreams.
“It’s good!” Kevin gobbled up one bowl of chowder along with two slices of bread and butter and then asked for more. Lance did the same, and Gypsy felt the glow of pleasure covering her from head to toe as she watched them eat, but when Lance, finished at last, leaned back on two legs of his chair and gave her the first real smile she’d had from him in a days, something cut loose inside her and sailed heavenward.
“That was fantastic!” he said expensively. “It was the best meal I’ve ever eaten.”
The way to a man’s heart… she thought, and then pulled herself up sharply. I am not trying to find a way to his heart. Or, if I am, it’s not for myself, certainly not. It’s for Kevin. But oh, what a lovely feeling she got when he smiled like that. Gypsy, Gypsy. What is the matter with you?
She jumped up and began clearing away the dishes. “I’m glad you liked it,” she said coolly, not looking at him. When he followed her to the sink and picked up a dish towel, she said, “Don’t you have work to do?”
He gave her an odd look which she pretended not to see, and continued to dry the dishes. When they were finished, she said, “Kevin, if you want a bath before bed, let’s go now. Once the sun goes down it’ll be too cold. Besides, your father kindly give up his time to help me, so I want to help him by giving him some space.” Without a look at Lance, she left him standing alone in the cabin while she took his child away into the evening sunlight which slanted through the trees.
Well? Lance said to himself as Gypsy and Kevin disappeared at the far side of the clearing. Isn’t this what you wanted? He sat down at the table, pulled a stack of drawings toward him and started sorting. Each variety went to a separate pile, and then those stacks were each divided into a group of categories sensible only to Lance. He spent some time at this task, restlessly looking toward the door every so often, but when he heard the laughing, happy voices approaching, he became extremely absorbed in his work, so much so, in fact, that he barely spared them a glance when Gypsy and Kevin ran in, glowing with cleanliness and cold.
“Quick!” said Gypsy. “Into those PJs before your goose bumps get goose bumps.” Kevin scurried to do what he had been told, and Gypsy dashed outside to hang their wet towels and bathing suits. In the distances, thunder rumbled.
Lance slid his glance sideways toward his son who, was sitting on the edge of his bunk struggling with the leg of his pajama pants. His skin was still slightly damp and he was having difficulty dressing. “Need a hand?” asked Lance.
Kevin gave him an extremely startled look and scrambled up into the corner of his bunk shaking his head. “No, thank you, Daddy,” he murmured with great politeness, averting his eyes, still tugging at pajama pants.
Gypsy bounced into the cabin, skin flushed, eyes bright, long legs flashing as she ran, lips parted and hair afloat. “Gypsy… I’m stuck,” Kevin complained. “Look, my bottoms are crooked.”
“Well, dopey,” she scoffed, “look what you’re trying to do. That leg’s inside out. And you’re not dry yet. Here, let me fix you all up then we’ll have time for a story.” As she talked her hands were busy tugging at his nightclothes, rubbing him briskly with a towel, and then stuffing what she called, making him giggle, ‘spaghetti legs’ into his pajamas.
Lance looked on, a burning ache down deep inside his chest. If he had pushed just a little harder the other night, could he have persuaded he
r to do as he’d asked? Had he backed away too soon, letting common sense overcome desire? Desire? For a moment, the word brought him up short, but he had to admit it. Oh, yes, desire had been extremely high among his reasons for wanting her to go home with them when the time came. And not merely a desire to create a happier home for Kevin.
“Now my story?” Kevin asked.
“On my lap or just like this?” she asked, pulling him into the crook of her arm while Lance pretended not to see.
Kevin snuggled down beside her, leaning his head against her. “Like this.” Lance wondered where she was going to find a book for him. He realized with a pang of guilt that he hadn’t even thought to bring storybooks Kevin. Why hadn’t Lorraine reminded him? Faintly, there came the memory of Keith grumbling something about bedtime stories and “that harridan” having kicked him out of Kevin’s room. What had Keith said? He’d been quoting Lorraine. Lance didn’t recall the exact phrase, but something about stories leading to nightmares and bedwetting, and that precedents shouldn’t be set.
Odd, in all the time they’d been here, Kevin hadn’t once wet the bed.
Staring off into space, Gypsy went into a long, rambling yarn about a boy who wanted to be a whale and one summer learned to swim well enough to join the pod which swam by on its way north. The boy-whale, miraculously named Kevin, too, went right up to the Arctic Circle. Just as Kevin’s eyes began to droop, Gypsy brought the story to an end “And the water grew colder and colder, while Kevin tried to swim faster and faster to keep warm. One day, well into September, he was swimming very, very fast when he looked around but saw only one whale nearby. ‘Where is everyone?’ he asked, and the other whale replied, ‘Hurry! Hurry! We’re going south to where the water’s warmer. Swim faster Kevin, swim faster.’ But as fast as he swam he could not keep up, and then he bumped his head, bang! right into an iceberg and started to cry. A kind fisherman came along and pulled him aboard, tucked him into a warm dry sleeping bag, just like I’m doing to you now, and said, ‘You’ve done a lot of swimming in the cold, cold water, and you’re a tired little whale-boy, so goodnight Kevin.’”
Gypsy Magic (The Little Matchmakers) Page 12
