by Nicole Young
“Everyone else, like who?”
“Like all the people Puppa said couldn’t wait to meet me. You know, all the aunts and uncles and cousins that live around here.”
Joel shook his head. “I’ve got news for you. There are no other relatives. Me and Gerard are it, little cousin.”
I crossed my arms. He might be taller than me by several inches, but I had to be older than him by at least two years. Who did he think he was calling “little cousin”?
“What about Olivia?” I asked. Jim Hawley had mentioned the matriarch of the Russo clan.
“She’s in her room. Says she won’t come out to meet you.”
“Won’t come out to meet me?” I stared at the gaps in the chopping block. Hurt oozed from some long-healed wound on my heart. “Can’t be anything I did, right?”
Joel shook his head. “You want the sugarcoated version or the straight version?”
I gulped. “Sugarcoated, please.”
He pulled a bowl of lettuce topped with shredded carrots from the fridge.
“She didn’t like your mom.”
“That’s it? So now she doesn’t want to meet me?”
“You said you wanted it sugarcoated. Put this on the table, please.” He passed the salad to me. I staggered through the swinging door and placed the bowl on one end of the stretched-out dining set. Even though the table could seat about twelve people, there were only four of us tonight.
I looked at the far end of the room. Cousin Gerard and my grandfather sat in flavorless brown upholstery, watching me. Gerard leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. He rubbed his hands together as if he couldn’t wait to get his fingers on a fork. Puppa’s hands gripped the ends of his recliner as if reluctant to ever get out of it.
Well, he had to face me sometime. And so did Olivia. She wasn’t getting off the hook so easily. I didn’t care what she thought of my mother. It was probably some inane gripe, anyway.
I scooted back into the kitchen. “So,” I said to Joel, “if that’s the sugarcoated version, what’s the straight version?”
He gave me a look that asked if I really wanted to know. I gave him a look that said lay it on me.
He walked to the sink and started banging around some dirty pans. “The straight version is that Olivia blames your mother for the death of her son, my grandpa Sid. And when you get to be ninety-three years old, I suppose if you want to hold a grudge against someone, who’s going to stop you?”
I sputtered. “What do you mean, she blames my mother? Mom would never have killed anybody. She didn’t have it in her.”
He gave me a look that asked if I really wanted to go down that path. I blinked. I’d killed somebody, hadn’t I? And I’d done it because I’d been sure my mother would have done the same thing. Maybe I didn’t want to go down that road just yet.
“Truce,” I said and raised my hands in the air in mock surrender. “Olivia can have her grudge for now.”
Joel excused himself to deliver a tray of food to the stubborn woman. When he returned, we sat at the dinner table, the four of us, in near silence as we ate.
I looked at the strong faces that surrounded me and wondered what events had shaped their lives the past three decades. How had they all ended up living in the same house? Where were the wives and the children? Where were all the aunts and uncles and cousins? The three of them seemed like star-crossed heroes from some skewed Greek tragedy. The sad thing was, I fit right in.
I couldn’t take the silence anymore. “The tenderloin is delicious,” I said.
Gerard answered. “Shot it opening day. Big eight-pointer.”
These guys even spoke Greek. “What do you mean?” I asked. “This is beef, right?” My stomach clenched while I waited for affirmation.
“Venison. Joel makes it better than anybody I know.” Gerard dug in for another bite.
I set my fork down and reached for the water glass in front of me, hoping to wash down the taste. Deer meat? I couldn’t eat a deer. I pictured the beautiful doe I’d encountered on my walk the other day. How could anyone shoot such a lovely creature?
I stuck to the salad and rice and bread for the remainder of the meal. Afterward, the men worked together to clean up the kitchen while I spun in useless circles trying to figure out their system.
Joel threw a washcloth in my direction. “Go wipe off the table, Tish.”
“Yes, Patricia,” my grandfather reiterated, “please wipe off the table.”
Joel rolled his eyes and I tried not to laugh as I headed to the dining room. I had a feeling my grandfather should give up trying to put polish on those two boys.
With the kitchen spic and span, we all got a cup of coffee and sat in the living room. A million questions flitted through my mind. I decided to start with the most basic ones.
“So how’d you all end up living here together?”
Gerard spoke first. “I wouldn’t be caught dead living with these meatheads. I live in the village. Orchard Street.”
His reference to the village reminded me that I had to fulfill my obligation to Melissa Belmont. I’d do it later, when I could get my grandfather alone.
Joel leaned back in his chair. “If it weren’t for me living here, this place would fall apart at the seams. And I’m not about to let my inheritance go to shreds.” He gave my grandfather a long look. I could feel the tension rising.
“This is the Russo homestead,” my grandfather said without breaking eye contact with Joel. “It belongs to Patricia as well as you two.”
“Only after you’re dead,” Joel replied.
All eyes in the room narrowed. Except mine, which grew huge at the thought of a fistfight breaking out.
“Don’t worry about me,” I threw in. “I don’t need any homestead. I’ve got too much gypsy in me.”
My grandfather took a deep breath. “I’d say you got that from your father.”
The three men relaxed now that they had a new target for their bottled-up rage.
I bristled at the shot. “So where is dear old Dad, anyway?”
“Hopefully as far from Port Silvan as he can get,” Gerard piped up.
My eyes started to water. I blinked fast. There was no way these big buffoons were going to see me cry.
“Gerard.” My grandfather jerked in his grand-nephew’s direction. His tone was sharp. “Watch your manners.”
Gerard looked to the floor. “Yes, sir.”
The tears weren’t going away. One escaped and landed on the back of my hand.
I stood up. “Well, this was so much fun”—I grabbed for my coat—“I hope we can do it again sometime.”
I was at the end of the hallway before my grandfather made a halfhearted attempt to stop my hasty departure.
“Patricia! Patri—”
His voice disappeared when I slammed the front door behind me.
10
I couldn’t tell which blinded me more, the snow or the tears. I kept my speed around twenty miles an hour while I picked my way home through the latest blizzard conditions.
How could I have had such totally wrong expectations of the Russos? All the information leading up to tonight had pointed to a dysfunctional unit, but still I’d clung to the fairy-tale hope of smiling, happy people who would love me, accept me, and invite me to be part of their family.
All my hopes dashed again. I had to quit going down the trail of optimism and stick with my tried-and-true pessimistic outlook on life. You couldn’t be disappointed by dreams you never had.
By the time I pulled down my drive, it was clogged with more snow. I hoped Jim Hawley would make another swing through in the morning. I couldn’t take the thought of getting stuck all alone in these miles of woods for the rest of the winter. I didn’t want to end up like Jack in The Shining.
I cut the engine and trekked through the drifts into the house. To top the whole night off, I’d let Melissa Belmont down. I’d had the opportunity to share her situation with my grandfather, and I’d passed it up bec
ause of some lame comment about my dad. Poor Missy. She should lean on someone with more backbone.
I locked up and climbed the stairs to my cozy bedroom. There was still the opportunity to tell Candice LeJeune of Missy’s dilemma. She’d know what to do. I’d see her on Thursday for tea.
I opened the slim drawer of my bedside table and blew a kiss toward the two halves of my mother’s picture.
“Night, Mom,” I whispered.
I turned out the light.
I dragged through Wednesday with my pessimistic attitude firmly in place as I removed the layer of old yellow wax from the linoleum in my mother’s bedroom. I ran through my list of dashed expectations while I rubbed. The heating guy was never going to return my call. Missy would never leave her husband. Brad and I were never going to be an item. I was never going to get a decent price for this piece-of-junk cottage. I was never even going to find a buyer for it. In fact, I was going to rot back in these woods.
Cheery ring tones broke through my downward spiral.
It was the heating guy.
“Yah, no problem. I can take a look at your place on Friday,” he said with his U.P. twang.
I sighed in relief. At least that was taken care of.
Instead of giving the black voice in my head another chance to berate my future, I put on my boots and went for a walk.
My head cleared the instant fresh air hit my lungs. Powdery white puffs flew with each step. Jim Hawley apparently hadn’t thought the new round of snow merited plowing. Halfway up my road, I saw the doe. I stopped and put out my hand, making kissy sounds like I had done the first time I’d seen her. She stared at me. Her ears twitched with curiosity. I took a step closer. She stiffened. I took another step. She stayed rooted in place. I stepped closer . . . closer . . . She turned and ran.
“Goodbye, little deer,” I called after her. Next time I’d put an apple in my pocket. One of these days, she’d come to me. I was sure of it.
I finished a three-mile loop, keeping clear of the bluff this time. I made it back to the house just as darkness fell. I threw together a quick supper, grabbed a book, and wilted onto the sofa. When the letters on the pages started to divide and multiply, I climbed off to bed.
Thursday was my tea date with Candice. I tinkered around in the morning so I wouldn’t get grungy enough to have to take another shower. After a light lunch, I put on my finest blue sweater. A silky bow tied it shut at the side. I slipped on the slacks that completed the outfit. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror. I’d bought the pair for a date back in Rawlings. The guy had turned out to be a conman. Thankfully all he’d stolen from me was my heart. I realized now that I’d given it to him all too willingly. I wasn’t about to let that happen again.
I smoothed the fuzzy fabric and put my jean jacket over it. I’d have to get to Manistique again soon for a proper winter coat, before I froze from exposure in my lightweight denim.
I let the Explorer warm up, then headed toward Port Silvan, once again taking a left at the cider mill sign before town.
Jim Hawley was just pulling out of Candice’s drive in his plow truck as I turned in. I waved and sent a telepathic message to please plow my road before the next storm rolled through.
I parked on the cleared area and went up the shoveled walk. Candice met me at the door.
“Glad you made it, Tish,” she said, giving me a peck on the cheek as I entered. A crackling fire and a row of flickering candles on the mantel lent an extra measure of warmth to the room.
We sat down and she poured the tea. This time I relaxed about my wardrobe, knowing I looked impeccable.
“So how is it really going with your relatives?” Candice asked. “I saw your car down at Bernard’s when I drove past last night.”
I loved the way she small-talked to break the ice before bringing up a gut-wrenching topic.
“Not so good,” I said. No use trying to pull the wool over Candice’s eyes. She had my relatives figured out. “It was awful. At first things were going well and I was so happy to have cousins. Then I found out Grandma Olivia refused to meet me, and there was a fight about who got to inherit the house. Then they insulted my dad.” I closed my eyes and shook my head. “That’s when I left. I guess family isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
Candice sat silent, sipping from the delicate china. She set her cup on the table. “I’m sure they must be a disappointment to you.”
“I expected too much. Of course they’re not happy to have me show up in their lives after so many years.” I humphed. “I mean, Joel was pretty sure he got the old homestead all to himself after Puppa dies. Then I come out of nowhere, the long-lost cousin, supposedly entitled to some share in that place.” I leaned forward and played with my cup and saucer. “I don’t want anything from them. Especially not their stuff.” I wiped at my nose. “I just wanted to feel like family again.”
Candice looked at me with eyes that glimmered in the light from the fire. “They weren’t always that way. There was a time when family was everything to them.”
“Must have been a long time ago.”
Candice nodded and stared into the flames. I wondered if she regretted throwing away the love she and Bernard once shared.
“I don’t mean to pry,” I said, gripping my teacup for courage, “but what happened to your husband? Missy Belmont said you blamed Papa B for his death.”
Her eyes snapped up, filled with anger. “Missy Belmont? When did you talk to that piece of trash?”
I gasped at her crude words. “At church last Sunday.”
“She should go to church, the little tramp. Maybe she can pray her way to heaven.”
Candice seemed overly vicious toward my new friend. My voice took on an edge. “She’s not a tramp. She needs help. I was supposed to talk to my grandfather for her.”
“As if Bernard would do anything to help her. She and her lowlife husband are a plague to this town. Bernard should run them both out of Port Silvan.”
“What did Missy Belmont ever do to you? She’s just a frightened mom trying to get out of a tough situation.”
Candice’s face twisted with hate. “Don’t believe her, Tish. She’s a liar. If she wanted out, she’d go. She’s right where she wants to be. She just wants to suck you—and your grandfather—into her drama. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay far away from that woman.”
My leg started to jiggle. Whom should I believe? Missy had warned me that Candice didn’t have anything good to say about anybody in Port Silvan. But was there a grain of truth in Candice’s opinion of Melissa? If Missy wanted help, she had to be willing to do something for herself. Otherwise, Candice was right. She was just looking for more participants in her life’s drama.
“I appreciate the advice,” I said. “I’d be wise not to believe everything people told me around here.” Including Candice, I thought to myself. Who knew what hidden agenda she had going? She’d completely avoided the topic of her husband, instead diverting the attention to poor Missy. With a reaction so fierce, Candice’s secrets must be big, black, and ugly. Just like mine once were.
“Come here, Tish. I want to show you something.” Candice stood and headed through an arched hallway that led to the rear of the house. We walked past the kitchen, with its tidy country clutter, to a spacious area that served as a hobby room. A row of windows stretched across the rear, giving view to open pastureland. The white expanse looked uninviting this time of year. But I could imagine the beauty spring would hold. Indoors, along the bright, salmon-colored walls, more black-and-white photos were arranged in artsy order.
Candice opened the top drawer of a map-type storage chest. She lifted out a stack of glossy 8x10 photos and passed them to me.
“Recognize this little girl?” she asked.
I stared at the top picture. The child in the black-and-white close-up looked about six or seven years old. A sweet, innocent smile lit her round face. Wisps of hair blew across her cheeks. The corners of her eyes turned up with a
n exotic flair.
My lids stung. I flipped to the next picture. The same girl, holding the hand of a young woman as they walked away from the photographer along a path in the woods. I squinted at the woman. Her profile barely peeked through the edges of her hair.
I flipped through the pile. The girl at the beach. The girl and the woman perched on a horse. The girl swinging at a park, the woman pushing her.
A tear trickled down and dropped to my wrist, barely missing the shiny print.
I glanced up at Candice. “It’s me,” I whispered. “And my mom.”
11
Candice watched as I studied each picture.
“I saved those for you,” she said.
“Where did you get these? Who took them?” I cycled through the photos again.
“They’re mine.”
“But how? Were you with us?”
She nodded. “Your grandfather and I were together then. Your mom was like the daughter I never had. And you . . . ,” she looked away, “. . . you were like my own grandchild.”
I searched my data banks once more. “Why can’t I remember having an Aunt Candice?”
She crossed her arms and leaned back against a filing cabinet. “I wasn’t Aunt Candice back then. You had a special name for me.” She grinned and a tear trickled out. “I told you to call me Aunt Candi and you said you’d call me by the name of your favorite candy.”
“Jellybeans.” I looked around in wonder. “Puppa and Jellybean. I do remember.” My childhood rose up out of the ashes of time, just snips and bits and impressions of people and smells and sounds. “You were at the lake house. Me and Mom would visit on dress-up day.” I closed my eyes in concentration. “We’d all eat together, then we’d do something fun.” Playgrounds and laughter, a walk along a pier, scooping up sand at the beach. The images were brief but real.
“Dress-up day. Is that what you called it?” Candice wiped at her cheek. “We always looked forward to weekends with you and Beth. You were such a bright spot in our lives.”
Candice opened a cabinet filled with camera equipment, and pulled a bulky metal box from the lowest shelf. “Look at these.” She opened the lid, revealing a heap of photos.
