Turn Me Loose

by Anne Calhoun

  “How’s this?”

  Think about Ian, calmly slicing potatoes while NPR plays in the background. Think about how normal that could be.

  She came back to herself with a start. Ian stood at her shoulder, the first stalk of celery nicely minced. His hazel eyes were calm, like he was relaxed, enjoying himself, just hanging out with a friend who might become something more than a friend. She was having a hard time reconciling curt, resolute Officer Hawthorn from her past with Ian, who seemed to have an incredibly thick skin and a limitless supply of patience.

  So forget Officer Hawthorn. Let Ian be Ian. Just for now.

  “Good,” she said. She took the knife from his unresisting fingers, chopped the dill and mint just a little more, then held it out to him. “That’s better.”

  He tipped his head down, in that one movement making her extremely aware of their height difference, and murmured, “It is.”

  “What?”

  His fingers brushed her palm as he claimed the knife. “You didn’t flinch.”

  He didn’t push. Smart man, because the whole scene was doing the work for him. The spring afternoon pushed into evening, the golden light gilding the gray-painted chairs and table, the granite counters, Ian’s hair as he worked. Cooking smells had long anchored her memories, and this was no exception. The dance they did in the kitchen, his skin against hers as he passed her a bowl of chopped strawberries, her hand on his back as she passed behind him, moving from fridge to sink. The muscles were firm, lean. The look on his face as he stirred, concentrating, but without the intense focus he’d worn in the car years ago. Then he’d looked hard, combative, unyielding. Now his defenses were down. All he was thinking about was the process of preparing food.

  She wanted more of everything, the scents of the food, the warm spring air, Ian working quietly by her side. So she opened all the windows and let the twilight sounds stream in, adding a layer of lilac to the atmosphere.

  Her mother came downstairs as she pulled the three sample tarts from the oven; her father pulled into the driveway not long after.

  “Should I set the dining room table?”

  “Let’s eat in here.” She opened the cabinet holding her mother’s everyday dishes and grabbed dinner plates, bread plates, salad plates. “Here. Silverware’s in that drawer, and place mats are in the sideboard.”

  Dinner was awkward. Her father took one look at her mother’s glassy eyes and swaying stance and said, “Looks like another early bedtime for someone.” It was the tone a parent would use with a cranky toddler.

  Her mother’s eyes widened slowly. “But I’m not tired,” she protested faintly. “I had a headache, so I took some medicine. I want to stay up with Riva—”

  “You are tired. It was a big day for you.” He tossed keys, wallet, cell phone carelessly on the counter. “You chose the china, right? That’s a big day for some people.”

  Her mother blinked slowly, then looked at Riva. “We did,” Riva said brightly. “The Asprey, remember? It’s your favorite.”

  “The Asprey. Yes. I’m really not tired, Rory. I want to stay up and spend time with Riva.”

  “Maybe tomorrow night. Tonight you’d best eat, then get upstairs.”

  “No,” she said. “I’m fine.”

  Rory pursed his lips, then studied her over the rim of his whiskey glass. “How does Sugar look to you, Riva?”

  Oh, no. “I noticed the white in her muzzle,” Riva said, “but she still seems pretty chipper to me.”

  “If you were around more, you’d see the difference. She’s started having accidents.”

  “One or two,” her mother protested. “Only because she got locked in the closet in the basement. I couldn’t find her for the longest time.”

  “She was only in there ten minutes,” her father snapped. “She’s old.”

  Riva’s heart wrenched to think of that poor little dog, locked in the dark, and her mother frantically searching for her. She had no doubt who’d shut Sugar in the closet.

  “I think it was longer,” her mother replied, but her gaze had taken on a worried, unfocused look. “I’m sure it was.”

  “It wasn’t. When they start to have accidents, it’s time to put them down.”

  “Rory, please, it was just a couple of accidents. I’ve been taking her out more often.”

  “What if she’s in pain?”

  Her mother’s eyes teared up. “Don’t say that. Don’t say she’s in pain.”

  “She might be, and couldn’t tell you.”

  “Dad, I’m sure she’s not in pain,” Riva said.

  “Remember when she was limping a month or so ago? Like she’d hurt her hip trying to get into your lap?”

  Her mother’s face went white. Riva had no doubt in her mind that Sugar’s injury wasn’t accidental.

  “She’s not a young dog anymore. You should think about putting her out of her misery.”

  For a long moment no one spoke. Then her mother said, “I am rather tired. I’ll go to bed now.”

  She reached down and picked up Sugar, then turned and shuffled along the hallway, one trembling hand trailing along the wall for balance. Silence reigned in the kitchen when they heard the click of a latch upstairs.

  Other men got angry over normal things. The wrong kind of whiskey in the drinks cabinet, or running out of expensive cigars. An ink stain on the caramel leather seats in the car. She’d once watched a man climb out of his Hummer and go off on his pregnant girlfriend because she’d hung a waffle-weave shirt on a hanger which left a dorky lump in the fabric on his bulked-up shoulders. But not her father. He dug into the things she or her mother loved, like china or food, feigned an interest until they thought he shared their joy, then twisted it and used it until what they’d once loved was ruined. After this, her mother would never enjoy her pretty china sets again.

  “China. We’ve got five different china services. None of them change the way the food tastes,” he said to Ian.

  Riva’s heart was pounding its way out of her throat. She risked a glance at Ian. His face was as blank as a wall, a look she knew very well signaled barely contained fury.

  “You didn’t have to do that, Dad,” Riva said. It was risky, contradicting her father when he was in a mood like this one. “Sugar seems fine to me. Mom could have made it through dinner. It might have done her good to eat something with people, have a conversation.”

  He wheeled on her, face dark with rage. “How would you know?”

  She felt Ian stiffen and shift his weight in her direction. “I’m just saying, maybe a change in diet or some alternative treatments for her headaches, acupuncture, that sort of—”

  “Who’s going to take her to the appointments? Not me. I’ve got a business to run. Not you. You haven’t graced us with your presence in seven years. A good daughter would be here to help her, take her shopping, get her out to a museum or something. You say you want to help me run my business? That’s how you help. I don’t have time to babysit someone who should be able to take care of herself. And don’t get me started on that stupid little dog shitting in my house.”

  Any more of this and Ian was going to step in. “You’re right,” she said quickly. “I haven’t been around much. I’ll just take her a plate and come right back down.”

  “The hell you will.”

  Ian flicked her a glance. Don’t. Not yet. Burning with rage and humiliation, Riva sat back down and tried to figure out how to salvage this. “Remember what I said this morning? Maybe I need to get more involved at home too.”

  “You bet your ass you do, girlie.” He held her gaze. “What kind of china do you have?” he asked.

  He wasn’t ready to let it go. Dangerous. Very dangerous. Lie? Tell the truth and play it up? Down? “I bought a box of odds and ends at an auction when the farmer between my farm and the highway sold his place.”

  “It doesn’t match.”

  “No. Most of the serving pieces came from department store brands in the 1950s, back when depa
rtment stores used to make their own.”

  Her father turned to Ian. “How does the food taste on those plates? Is it any worse because it’s served on junk-sale dishes?”

  “I’ve only had one meal at Riva’s farm, and someone else cooked it,” Ian said. “One of her working students. What was it, Riva?”

  “Chicken with shallots” Riva said. She could have kissed him for turning the conversation to her farm. “The working student program really took off this spring. Kids from food deserts come out to the farm and work through the entire growing cycle, from preparing the soil for planting, to harvest, then to prepping the food for the table.”

  The moment vibrated like dropped pan. Come on, Dad. Turn on a dime. Be an unpredictable bastard. Then her father said, “What’s a food desert?”

  “Inner-city neighborhoods, mostly. Places where grocery stores have given up because the profit margins aren’t high enough, so most of the food is either prepackaged or from fast food restaurants. These kids are unfamiliar with fruits beyond apples or bananas and have almost no knowledge of most vegetables, much less how to grow or prepare them.”

  Her father was losing interest, but at least his rage had subsided.

  “How big is the urban-garden movement?” Ian asked casually, giving her something to talk about but matching Rory’s demeanor.

  “It’s really growing,” she said. “Just about every major city has a few gardens with outreach programs to restaurants. Chicago’s one of the biggest. It’s still kind of under the radar, because it’s not directly connected to job training or GEDs or after school programs, but Growing Home in particular has made that kind of outreach a big part of their efforts. Lots of inner-city kids get involved.”

  Take the bait, Dad. Take the bait.

  “Sounds like there are some interesting growth options in the model,” her father said.

  “Absolutely,” Riva said, nodding like a bobblehead doll. “Consumers want organic and fresh food, grown by people they know, and the work itself can be really transformative. It’s a win-win.”

  “Let’s talk about that later.”

  “Sure,” Riva said. Her heart was aflutter, and her smile far too wide for the circumstances. Her heart, she found, was racing well into the red zone.

  They sat down and Riva served the food. “What am I eating?” her father said.

  “A rough draft of the menu for the lunch,” Riva said. “We visited a couple of the bigger co-ops today, Growing Home and Urban Canopy. I’m going to develop the menu from what’s available right now. What do you think?”

  “It’s good,” her father said grudgingly. “What’s in the salad?”

  “Potatoes, romaine hearts, cucumbers, radishes. The dressing is made with white wine vinegar and Greek yogurt.”

  “You helped make this? Was that a big day for you?”

  Ian shrugged. “It was fine,” he said. Nothing in his tone hinted at his total absorption with chopping the strawberries, or crimping the pastry, or the way his hand lingered over hers as they passed bowls back and forth. “Interesting. I guess.”

  “You kids have plans for tonight?”

  “Kelly wants to go out.” The salad was dry on Riva’s tongue, not even the sweet pear juice breaking through to ease the bitterness. She set her knife and fork on her plate. “Having me in town is a good excuse for a girls’ night.”

  “Are you going on this girls’ night?” her father asked Ian.

  He laughed, just a hint of self-consciousness in the chuckle. “Tell me you have a better offer.”

  “Not tonight, but tomorrow night come on down to the gym. My guys will be doing their workouts then.”

  “Sounds great,” Ian said.

  Riva looked at her watch. “We should start getting ready.”

  Ian reached across the table and lifted her plate. “I’ll clean up. I only need a few minutes.”

  BH, or Before Hawthorn she’d spent hours thinking about her appearance. Her hair, thick and wavy without intervention, had been the bane of her existence, requiring regular straightening and curling up again when the humidity went over forty percent. She’d dressed to show off her assets, a flat stomach, slim hips, and accentuated what she didn’t have with a pushup bra and a low-cut top. She’d been pretty, if the definition meant “looked like everyone else out there.”

  Then she started working at the co-op, then as a working student on farms around Lancaster, and her fashion attention shifted to Carhartts and muck boots, which long underwear insulated the best, and what brand of gloves provided both mobility and warmth. And she’d started eating, first other people’s good cooking, then her own. The flat belly was gone. So were the slim hips. She carried a little extra flesh around her hips, which pooched into a muffin top when she wore her matchstick jeans. She hadn’t exactly let herself go. She’d just started thinking about other things besides her appearance.

  “At least you’ve got boobs now.” She yanked the sky-blue camisole over her head, shimmied into the black skirt, and crammed her feet into the nude heels, then took a couple of minutes to remember how to walk in them.

  Ian’s footsteps rang lightly on the stairs, then the door to his room closed. She hurried into the bathroom, then knocked on the door, shrugging into a cropped, fitted jean jacket as she did. “I’m almost ready,” she said, low voiced.

  “Give me a second,” he replied.

  Riva pulled out her makeup bag. She’d spent too much time outside without sunscreen today, so her nose and cheeks were a little pink. Eyeliner, dark shadow, mascara. Glossy lipstick. There was no time to straighten her hair, so she went the opposite direction and spent thirty seconds spraying, scrunching, and tousling.

  The door opened midspritz. Ian waved his hand in front of his face. “That stuff stinks.”

  Riva turned and stared. He’d added a skin-tight gray T-shirt to the jeans and a wide brown leather belt. The brown leather jacket from her dreams dangled from one finger. The T-shirt lay lovingly against his ribs and abdomen. A memory spiked through Riva, halting her breath.

  * * *

  “Be careful,” he said.

  One leg out the door in the cold, steady November wind, she paused and looked at him. “What?”

  “Be careful. This guy’s higher up the totem pole. If they make you, they won’t hesitate to kill you. Stay in my sight at all times. Whatever you do, don’t get in his car.”

  “I know. If I get in his car and you guys have to come get me, I blow the operation. I’m not going to do that. Believe me, I want out of this as badly as you do.”

  “No. If you get in his car, we might not get to you in time, and he might kill you. Do. Not. Get. In. His. Car. I don’t care how cold you are. Fucking walk away before you get in his car. Do you understand?”

  The coat. This was all about the coat, the one she wasn’t wearing because she’d wanted to provoke him. He was worried about her being warm enough. She stared at him. He’d never said anything like this before. “I understand. Besides, the only car I’m getting in and out of these days is yours.”

  He let her go. “Hold on, dammit.”

  When she looked back he was shrugging out of his coat, banging his elbow against the Chevy’s steering wheel as he did. He held it out to her. “The only other jacket I have in this car has LPD on the back. You can’t wear that.”

  The gesture sent a shiver of delight through her. “Does this mean we’re going steady?”

  She’d meant to tease him, to lighten the mood a little, but instead his face closed off. “I’m protecting my asset,” he said in a voice as biting as the wind outside the car. “You’re no good to me if you freeze to death.”

  * * *

  “Hello?”

  Riva slammed back into the present. Ian was looking at her, one eyebrow raised, as if he’d said something and she’d missed it because she was lost in the memory of the smell of that coat, leather and Ian’s skin and a faint scent of something that could be cologne.

  “Okay.
Fine. Good,” she said nonsensically.

  “Did you hit your head or something?”

  “I remember that jacket,” she said. “From before.”

  He paused in the act of shrugging into the jacket. “Yeah. I’ve had it for a long time.”

  “The nights were cold, so you made me wear it. It smelled like you. Remember?”

  The leather settled around his shoulders. “I remember,” he said quietly. “You’d give it back and it would smell like your perfume.”

  “You said—”

  “I know what I said,” he growled. “Let’s go.”

  Her father stood in the kitchen, a glass of whiskey in one hand, his gaze glued to his phone.

  In that moment Riva wanted desperately to defy her father, stay home, and protect her mother. She’d bake fresh cookies and get a pint of really good ice cream, and go upstairs to watch the home makeover shows her mother loved. Only after her father had abandoned her to Ian’s not-so-tender mercies did she realize what she’d lost by choosing her father over her mother, how screwed up it was that she’d even thought she had to make that choice.

  But if she stayed home, she’d lose all the progress she made ingratiating herself back into her father’s confidence. If she stayed home, she lost the chance to get her mother free forever.

  Right now she had to think about the case. Letting her father win this tiny battle was the sacrifice to make to ensure he wouldn’t freeze her out. Give a little to get a lot.

  “Don’t stay out too late,” her father cautioned. “We’ll run a route tomorrow, show you how a real business runs.”

  For a split second, Riva couldn’t figure out what he was talking about. She knew how the business ran. She’d done the books, run routes, placed orders, managed the warehouse. But her father wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at Ian.

  “Sounds great,” Ian said. He sounded excited, even a little eager.