“I’ll make you some tea.”
“I need to go.”
“Enough going,” he says decisively. “You’re staying.”
He pulls me just enough to lift my head from the car, then wraps his arm around me and guides me towards the house. My face is a mess of tears and snot, no doubt creased and pink, crumpled.
I drop my head. “He loved her.”
“Who?”
“Alex. My . . . He loved Summer.”
“Oh.” Jack pauses. “I’m sorry, Frankie.” His voice is warm against my hair.
I feel stupid. And tired.
“Me too,” I mumble.
“Come on,” he says carefully. “I’ve got to pick up Huia. I’ll make you some tea and then leave you to rest. You’ll have the place to yourself. Okay?”
He helps me up the steps. I feel my resistance slipping away—a shadow dissolving in soft twilight. My body is weak and shaky. I place one foot in front of the other, but Jack is practically lifting me into the house.
“Okay,” I say, my voice wispy.
* * *
When I wake, I’m lying on Jack’s couch and there’s a full cup of cold tea on the table in front of me. A blanket falls away as I sit up. It’s made of different-colored crocheted squares—lemon, apricot, fuchsia—bordered with black wool and it smells of lavender and cedar. I push my fingers through the holes.
Huia’s laughter erupts somewhere in the distance; I turn my head to find the sound. Jack’s voice is there too, deep and muffled. They must be outside.
Behind the cup of tea, in a brown cup with a matching saucer, is a small terrarium, round like a globe, with a circular hole cut in the side. The base is filled with dark soil, topped with velvety, bottle-green moss. There are plants, ferns perhaps, resembling tiny pines, reaching up to the top of the glass, and nestled among them, at the end of a path made from a dusting of sand and sprinkling of minuscule pebbles, is a tiny wooden building. It’s been made by hand, the walls matchsticks stacked upon one another, windows no larger than a penny, a Tinker Bell–sized door. I reach in through the opening in the terrarium and touch the roof of it with the tip of my finger. It’s the cabin. I sit back on the couch, the blanket dropping to my feet, staring at the little glass globe as though it’s a dream.
There is still light in the sky. I stand and touch the outline of my car keys through the fabric of my pocket. I tear a piece of paper from an exercise book I find on the dining table and write a note with one of Huia’s colored pencils. A purple one.
Thank you.
I pour the cold tea down the sink and leave the note on the kitchen counter.
* * *
That night I lie awake and ignore Bella knocking gently on the door. I hear her and Daniel outside, worrying about me, deciding what to do, and then there is silence as they go back to their tents. Daniel doesn’t play the guitar that night and I am glad of it.
I stare up at the ceiling, the wooden beams, the fine gray web in the corner where a spider has made her home. I cannot sleep and I don’t even try. Instead, I take myself back to the days before Alex was gone. Those days that were so ordinary, but have become so sharp, so bright, in their recalling. I have picked through them before, over and over, looking for clues. Signs that he was going to die. Signs I should have noticed. The ticking of a deathwatch beetle. Stepping on cracks. Unlucky numbers. Black cats.
The weekend before, before everything changed, we went to brunch at our favorite café. It was the place I’d met Summer, who I’d then forgotten. Alex ordered the same thing he always ordered—the Big Breakfast without spinach, and an espresso. I asked for granola. We sat at the table by the window, watching people put their heads up close to read the menu taped to the outside of the glass. Watching families walk by with strollers, and teenagers in groups, and elderly couples with small, slow dogs.
“I met her here,” I tell him. He continues reading his paper, of course. He’s in the past and I’m here. The Seahawks haven’t lost yet. He’s reading about the upcoming game, and where he is there’s a chance they might win.
“Summer,” I say bitterly. “She came in with Travis and I met her. I forgot about it. Then I saw her again and we figured it out.”
Alex turns a page.
“She’s here. We’re both here. Isn’t that something? Like a bad joke.”
He has a cap on—it’s not quite, properly, spring—and a knitted sweater. He looks like a Gap commercial. His food will come in a minute and he’ll smile at the waitress.
I lean in. “How long did you like her? How long were you thinking about her? Huh? Were you thinking about her when we were kissing? Are you thinking about her now?”
Alex is motionless. I want to reach over the table and strike him across the face. Watch the shock register. Watch the pink shape of my hand bloom on his cheek.
“I waited for you,” I hiss. “People thought I was crazy. Thought that if you really loved me you would have asked years ago. I waited. Putting up with your mom, the disappearing on weekends. I put up with you.”
Alex lifts his head and glances out the window. There’s a woman looking at the menu, assessing and deciding. Her young son is holding her hand. The boy looks at me. His hair is sticking up like he just got out of bed, his cheeks as red as apples.
“I thought,” I start and then draw breath. “That time when you tried to teach me to surf . . . I thought that if I learned how, maybe you’d ask me then . . . if I could be that girl. But I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t that girl.” I shake my head slowly. “Why did you ask me, Alex? Why, after all that time? To keep me here? To keep from feeling guilty?”
Alex tips his head back down to the paper.
My voice rises. “You can’t propose to someone because you feel obligated. It’s not enough.”
I think of the argument about the vows. Forever promises. About Alex agreeing to say whatever I wanted.
“What was going to happen after the wedding?” I shout. “Were you just going to keep on pretending it was all fine? That you didn’t feel . . . trapped?”
The waitress comes over, carrying the Big Breakfast. Her name is Alice and she wears her dark hair in a braid that falls down over her chest, the tail curling around one breast. She places Alex’s meal in front of him and he shifts his paper and grins at her. “Thank you, Alice.”
“Fuck. You,” I say to him.
Back then, in that moment, I’d wished for my food to come too. I’d been worried about fitting into the wedding dress, but Alex’s breakfast smelled greasy and salty and good. He punctured a sausage with his fork, and I saw the juices spilling out and steam rising up. I was ravenous, wanted him to offer me some. His gaze was firmly focused on the plate in front of him. Sausages, eggs, buttered toast, grilled tomatoes.
“When did we stop talking?” I ask, but I already know the answer. A long time ago. Perhaps as far back as that trip to Italy. We talked less and less over the years. Because we knew each other so well, I’d told myself. Because there were fewer stories to tell. Because we were part of each other’s stories now, him in mine, me in his; there was no reason to tell them. Because there were no new stories. Because it was comfortable.
Alex looked up from his plate, his cheek full of food. “You all right, babe?”
“Yes,” I’d said. Stomach protesting otherwise. I’d looked at him, silently wanting him to share. Not asking. Wanting him to just know.
Now, in the cabin, sleepless and clear-eyed, I answer truthfully. “No.”
* * *
In the morning, Bella comes into the cabin and I make her an espresso without saying a word. I have barely slept. My head hurts.
Bella waits until I’m sitting with a cup steaming in front of me, then says, apologetically, “Papa and the aunties are coming. For lunch.”
“Seriously?”
“It’s Sunday,” she says. She blows on her cup, the crema moving under her breath. “Where did you go yesterday?”
“Edison.”
> “Edison?”
“Flourfarm.”
“To get bread?”
It’s such an innocent question I want to laugh. Or cry. Probably cry.
“To see Summer.”
“Oh. Okay.” Bella brightens for a moment, then frowns. “Why?”
I swallow a mouthful of coffee and don’t answer her.
“Frankie?”
She tries again, in Caputo-speak. “Soru?”
“She loved Alex.”
“What?”
“Summer loved Alex. She kissed him. They kissed.”
Bella blinks at me.
“How did you . . .?”
“Merriem said something. About Summer losing someone in an accident. I worked it out.”
I don’t add that it made perfect sense. That it made everything suddenly clearer and brighter, casting blacker shadows.
“Holy Mother,” Bella says. “God, Frankie, that’s awful.”
“Yes.”
“How do you . . . feel?”
“Not great.”
“No. No, not great. Of course.” She’s nodding, her face a little pale.
“Angry. Sad,” I add. “I can’t figure out which. Both, I guess. Confused.”
“Of course.” She shakes her head. “I’m so sorry.”
When I look at her she seems made of round things. Round eyes, round mouth, dark hair framing a round face. Like a child. I curse myself for the way I’ve been with her. The blame I’ve laid on her. Blood is thicker than water . . . Jack’s the second person to say that recently. Guilt floods over me.
“I blamed you for kissing him. For trying to take him. And all that time . . .”
I can’t finish. Bella looks like she might cry too.
“Oh,” she whispers.
“I blamed you,” I add, shaking my head at the ridiculousness of it. How obtuse I have been. “For everything.”
She blinks at me and shakes her head in reply. But we both know it’s true.
“I’m sorry,” I say finally.
I go over to her and wrap my arms around her for the first time in a very long time. It’s awkward for a few moments and then I feel her weight fall, gently, against me. She’s still shaking her head and crying a little. I can feel the relief, tangible, moving through both of us.
“I just thought,” I hear myself say in a hollow kind of voice, “that if I had what Mama and Papa had . . . If I could just hang on to him . . . it would all be . . . but nothing is . . .”
Bella lifts her head and nods at me. Tears slipping down her cheeks.
Chapter Nineteen
• • • •
La domenica è sempre domenica—Sunday is always Sunday. Whether you like it or not. And Sunday is family day. There’s no written rule but there may as well be. I know that it won’t just be Papa and the aunties coming to the cabin, but a mixed bunch of Calabresi and Sicilians; whoever is hungry, whoever wants to gossip.
When I don’t see my family, on a Sunday, the cousins ask questions later.
“You weren’t at Mass.”
“Where were you for baby Ella’s christening?”
“How are you, stranger?”
A stranger, though I’ve seen them all just the week before. It’s stifling.
Alex often went surfing on a Sunday and the timing wasn’t coincidental. Before we were engaged it was easier because no one asked about him. Though we’d been a couple for a long time, and he came with me to other family functions, there was a silent understanding that we weren’t yet betrothed and were, therefore, living in sin. The consensus seemed to be: don’t mention it. But as soon as we were engaged, Alex became a Caputo, whether it suited him or not. Suddenly everyone wanted to see him on a Sunday too. I reeled off reasons till they became excuses.
“He’s surfing.”
“He’s doing some work at home.”
“He’s with his family.”
The last explanation was countered with, “Invite them too!” I could barely imagine Mrs. Gardner and my family together at our wedding, let alone sharing a casual Sunday lunch. I continued making excuses to my family while begging Alex to come along.
He just laughed. “They’re your family. They want to see you.”
He didn’t get it. And I couldn’t explain that without him I was a fraction, not a whole. No longer good enough by myself. My family wanted to see him and hug him and know all about him. They wanted to ask about his work and slap his shoulders and make him eat more than he was comfortable eating. He was one of us now. They wanted to be in his life like they were in mine—pushing in, interfering, loving, scolding, soothing.
I’m buttoning a clean shirt when Papa’s car pulls up. From the window I watch him shake Daniel’s hand, then bring him into a manly kind of embrace, brief but firm. Daniel stands with his arms at his sides so Papa makes like cannoli pastry, curling around him. He doesn’t seem to notice Daniel’s face blush pink.
Papa kisses Bella and they go to his car to remove things from the trunk. Folding chairs, cases of Italian sodas, boxes of food in foil. Daniel rushes to help. Bella starts setting up a picnic area in front of the cabin. I step outside with spare rolls of toilet paper for the outhouse.
“Buongiorno, cara mia,” Papa says, like Mama used to say in her Calabrese accent.
“Hello, Papa.”
He comes over to give kisses on each cheek. I close my eyes. Papa’s love is palpable.
“You look well, darling.”
“Thanks, Papa. How are you?”
He smiles. “Good, duci. Work is very busy. I miss you, of course, but I know Bella is here so that gives me some peace.”
Bella is unfolding chairs and placing them together in a huddle.
Papa clears his throat. “I was wondering if Merriem might be free for lunch.”
I study him. “Bella said she invited her. I think she’s bringing bread.”
I haven’t yet planned how I will handle seeing Merriem. How I will explain rushing out of her house. How things have changed. How tangled and clear it has all become.
“She needn’t do that, we’ll have plenty,” he says, then adds quickly, “I wanted to ask her about her vegetable garden. Do you remember the garden we used to have in the yard?”
I nod. Mama and Papa had grown their own eggplants, zucchini, tomatoes, and herbs. Then Mama died and everything went to seed. One year Bella cleared it and planted wildflower seeds; it must have been just before she became a teenager. Before hormones propelled her into drinking and dark makeup and hair that hid her face. She was an energetic and curious kid, Bella. She collected snail shells and grew sprouts on her windowsill, kept jars full of fallen feathers. The wildflowers had bloomed that summer, lanky and thin stemmed, a dozen vibrant colors.
“I thought, maybe, I should replant it,” Papa says. His gaze seems to be a million miles away. “It has been a long time. . . . Anyway, Merriem was talking about crop rotation. She says it helps, a little, instead of so much pesticide. And it makes the soil more healthy. Maybe I should learn about that.”
“Merriem will help you,” I say.
“I’ve already bought some seedlings,” Papa admits.
“That’s good, Papa,” I say, lightly patting his back, and feel him straighten, appreciatively, under my touch.
Bella holds up a box. “Want these out, Papa?”
“Sì, Isabella. Actually, wait. Vincenzo is bringing a table.”
“Vinnie?” I ask.
“Yes. He is bringing a long table,” Papa says. “Apparently a good friend of his owns a very successful party-hire company.”
“Of course he does,” Bella says, rolling her eyes.
I find myself laughing. Bella glances at me, surprised, and joins in.
Papa looks baffled. “It is quite handy. He supplies trestle tables, marquees . . .”
I pat his back again. “Yes, very handy, you’re right, Papa.”
Bella smiles and shakes her head while looking through the contents of the box.
* * *
Caputos amble down the driveway carrying food, as if it’s a common occurrence to lunch in the middle of a forest. There are plates of arancini, jars of pickled zucchini and eggplants, a platter of provolone and galbanino cheese in big, thin circles. Vinnie arrives in a pickup truck with a couple of tabletops and frames in the tray and flat-pack chairs that spring open easily. The chairs are white, probably rented out for weddings. Vinnie avoids my eyes while he works. He mumbles something to Bella, who slaps him across the back of his head. Daniel notices and glances at me with alarm, but Vinnie and Bella are soon laughing. I’m not so quick to forgive.
The aunties take the sturdiest chairs, the ones that Papa brought, at one end of a table. They direct the others to bring this or that, set out plates, tell everyone where to sit. They are still wearing their clothes for Mass. Rosa is in good pants with a knitted, mint-colored twinset, and Connie is wearing a linen dress and pumps, with pearls.
Uncle Mario talks with Papa and Uncle Roberto, Rosa’s husband, all three of them standing off to one side, probably to avoid being ordered about. Mario’s wife, Lisa, is herding her three sons, all in their teens and twenties, like they’re toddlers. Cousin Giulia lifts her eyes from her phone and gives me a wink. She’s wearing those tight jeans again and a light pink fluffy top that makes her breasts look like Sno Balls. Cousin Cristina, Vinnie’s sister, has baby Joseph on her lap and looks tired. Her husband is chasing their other two, Emma and Marco, around the trees. Mama’s ancient cousin Teresina, a widow, sits straight-backed and po-faced next to her fiancé, Cosimo, both of them in their seventies.
Aunty Connie calls for me to sit next to her and Aunty Rosa.
Rosa pats my leg. “We missed you at Mass this morning, Francesca. Father Gianni gave a very good sermon on forgiveness, didn’t he, sister?”
“He did,” Aunty Connie agrees.
“Cristina was there with the children. Marco is going to be an altar boy.”
“He’ll do a fine job at it. A well-behaved child,” Aunty Connie adds.
I nod, and don’t mention that Cristina gives Marco Milk Duds as a reward for keeping quiet during church. The kid is a menace by the afternoon but the aunties don’t see it. The arrangement keeps almost everyone happy.
Season of Salt and Honey Page 20
