“I’m really sorry about that little accident,” Nat said.
Eleanor missed a step on her way back to the kitchen. The old man shot Nat a glance and a little shake of his head. As if to say, no. Don’t. It’s better not mentioned.
Nat waited quietly for them to sit down.
When they did, a silence fell. A difficult pause. Nat wanted to reach for a slice of ham, but wasn’t sure if they were supposed to say grace. Or if the man of the house was supposed to reach first. Or some other rule Nat didn’t know, but probably should.
He could hear Feathers whimpering from the dog run, still wanting to play. He wondered if the dog had been complaining the whole time, and he had only just now noticed.
“Well, go ahead and dig in,” Eleanor said.
Nat grabbed the big serving fork and speared three slices of ham all at once.
He started eating the ham without even waiting for side dishes to be passed.
“Salad?” the old man asked.
“No, thanks.”
“Green beans.”
“Not a huge green bean fan.”
“You should try Eleanor’s. Don’t make up your mind until you try. She makes them with cream of chicken soup and those French-fried onion strips on top.”
“OK. I’ll try some.”
Nat wished Eleanor would say something. But she didn’t.
The old man put a dab of green beans on Nat’s plate, and he poked at them cautiously. Tried a bite.
“Hey. Wow. You’re right. These are really good.”
A tiny smile from Eleanor. But no words.
“And I’ll have a biscuit, please. And those yams look good.”
The old man passed him the yams. Anything with marshmallows on top had to be OK. He dished a mountain on to his plate and took a bite.
“Mmm. Orange. Tastes like orange. I wouldn’t have guessed orange. But it’s really good.”
Another tiny smile.
“You know, it was really nice of you to cook all this. I haven’t had a meal like this in years. Last really good meal I had was that night we went hunting. Well,” he said, turning to the old man. “You went hunting. And we had that roast duck and mashed potatoes and applesauce. I never forgot that meal. The whole three years I was inside. It’s like I could still taste it. Not all the time, but every now and then. If I tried. Or sometimes even if I wasn’t trying. When I wasn’t even thinking about it. Wasn’t even thinking about food. But then I would just taste it. Course, you did bring me that nice half a roast duck every birthday,” he said, looking again at the old man, who was looking down at his plate.
Silence. Either Nat talked or there was silence.
A cold feeling gripped Nat’s stomach. How bad was this, really? Worse than he had realized?
“And I guess the only reason I’m not counting that is because I didn’t get to heat it up, and there were no mashed potatoes. Or applesauce. But it was still good. But this, this is the best meal I’ve had in years. Literally. The food in there was so incredibly bad. You just can’t believe how bad it was. There were times when I’d fast for three days on just water and apples, because I couldn’t stand to eat it. But the apples were terrible, too. All full of spots and bruises. I think the fruit got given to them by farmers because it was too bad to sell. Or maybe they just bought it really cheap. But it was stuff too awful to take to the supermarket. Believe me.”
He paused. Hoping someone else would talk. Silence. So he plunged on.
“Every day at lunch there’d be this box of oranges at the end of the food line. But they weren’t even orange. They were almost all green. And I’d be plowing through this box trying to find a good one. But this guard who watched the food line, Gerry, he would always say, ‘Just take one. They’re all the same. Just take one.’ It was hard for me to believe that was true. Because they looked so bad. But really, he was right. They were all the same. Every day. All completely gross.”
Silence.
In the echo of it, Nat heard his words repeating back to him. As if hearing himself for the first time. As if standing outside of himself, watching and listening. It struck him hard that he sounded like a fool. Even to himself.
“I’m sorry. I’m talking too much. Aren’t I? I never seem to get that right. I either don’t talk enough or I talk too much. There must be a right amount to talk. But I can never seem to find it.”
Another tight, tiny smile from the old woman.
Nat looked down at the ham on his plate and realized he could be eating rather than talking. And yet, somehow — no matter how good the food, no matter how much he had missed eating like this — his appetite was running out on him fast.
He began eating slowly. Small, cautious bites.
Little else was said.
• • •
Nat lay under the covers, feeling small in the big bed. The girly, flowery quilt had been replaced with one a more boy-suitable plain hunter green. The room had been stripped of wall decorations and most furnishings, as though to invite Nat to fill it with himself.
He was able to absorb the fact that it reflected a great deal of thoughtfulness on his behalf. But it couldn’t make him feel any less hopeless.
The old guy came in to say goodnight, and Nat sat up in bed.
“I could buy her another vase,” Nat said. “I mean, not right now I couldn’t. But after I find work. You know, when I get my first paycheck. Whenever that is. Then I could.”
The old man pulled up a plain, cane-back chair and sat by Nat’s bed. The way he had on his first night here. So long ago now.
“It belonged to her late grandmother. That’s why she got a little emotional. She only has a few things from her grandmother’s house, because she has eight brothers and sisters and there was only just so much to go around.”
“Oh. Will you tell her I’m sorry?”
“She knows you’re sorry. And she knows anybody can have an accident. She just needs time to feel whatever she’s going to feel about it.”
They sat in silence for a few moments.
Then Nat said, “She doesn’t like me.”
“She doesn’t know you.”
Nat laughed. “I got news for you. Lots of people don’t like me. And when they get to know me better? Well, that doesn’t exactly solve the problem. If you know what I mean.”
The old man smiled sadly. Patted Nat on the knee through the new quilt.
Nat was hoping he would say something. But instead he just rose to let himself out.
As the old man slid the chair back into the corner, Nat asked, “Do you even like me?”
A long silence. Too long.
The old man crossed to the bedroom door. Stood a moment with his hand on the light switch. “I see value in you,” he said softly.
“Is it inherent?”
The old man laughed, as if Nat had intended the question as a joke. But it had actually been a serious question.
“Yes. It’s inherent.”
“Does that mean yes or no?”
Nat watched the old man’s face for a moment. It was almost like watching someone think.
“Get some sleep,” the old man said. “You’ll be wanting to go out and look for a job in the morning.”
He snapped off the light and left Nat alone.
4 October 1978
Two Somethings
When Nat came into the kitchen and sat down at the table, the old man seemed to be gone. Eleanor stood looking into the refrigerator. She was already nicely put together in a belted dress and pretty woven shoes. And with her hair up. Perfectly, as though she’d never slept on it.
She glanced at Nat over her shoulder. “Do you drink coffee?”
“Every chance I get,” he said.
He hadn’t had coffee for over three years.
While she poured him a cup at the coffee maker, he noticed that the white bud vase was back in one piece. Sitting on a section of the morning paper on the counter. Freshly glued back together. Even from halfway across th
e room, Nat could see the fissures that remained as a testament to its accident.
Eleanor set the coffee in front of him. Not in a big sturdy mug, as he would have preferred, but in a dainty china teacup with saucer. He felt as though he would have to drink from it with his pinky finger raised. Or that he would surely damage it just by touching it. But it was coffee, and coffee was good, and he was in no position — or mood — to complain.
“Do you take anything in it?”
“Sugar and milk, please.”
She handed him a napkin and a spoon and indicated a fancy china sugar bowl, the kind with a lid, in the center of the table. While he was scooping three teaspoons of sugar into his cup, he watched her open the refrigerator, take out a small carton of cream, and — rather than simply plunk it on the table in front of him — pour about a third of it into a matching china cream pitcher.
He’d had no idea life could be so complicated.
“So, it looks good as new,” Nat said.
“What does?”
“Your vase. There on the counter. All back together.”
He waited, but she said nothing. Just set the pitcher of cream in front of him. He stared at it for a moment, feeling a light film of ice coat the room, and creep into his gut.
“OK, that’s not true,” he continued. “I’m sorry. It’s not good as new. And it never will be. I probably shouldn’t have said that.”
Silence. During which Nat wanted to shake her and yell, Like me! Please! Like me! I’m trying so hard here. Can’t you see how hard I’m trying?
She never answered.
“I’m really sorry about it.”
“I know you are, Nat.”
More silence. Nat told the part of himself that had wanted more — that was still waiting for more — to sit down and shut up. Because it wasn’t going to get it.
Then she said, “I saved you some pancake batter. If you want pancakes.”
“Thank you. I’d love some pancakes.”
“OK. I’ll make you up some fresh.”
“Thank you.”
Nat sipped his coffee and watched her, noticing she seemed more relaxed while puttering. While having something to attend to.
“So. Where’s Nathan?”
She glanced over her shoulder as though surprised by the question. “Why, he’s working. Seeing clients. It’s after ten, you know.”
“Oh. No. I didn’t know it was so late. I don’t usually sleep so late. I guess it’s just that in Juvie they don’t let you. They get you up every morning and make you work or take classes. Even on the weekends. Seven days a week. So I guess I just got carried away. You know. Because it’s been so long since I could.”
He stopped himself. Heard the echo of his own words. Thought, no. I will not have a repeat of last night. I will shut up. Right now. I will not babble like that, like a damn fool, not ever again.
He watched in silence as she poured four big puddles of pancake batter on to the hot griddle. Watched her lift the edges with her spatula to test them. To look at the brownness of their bottoms.
She flipped them carefully. Took down a plate from the cupboard.
“Oh,” she said. “I just remembered. Nathan asked me to tell you something. If you find a job today … or any day while he’s at work … he said to tell you that they’ll give you a tax form to fill out. He told me the number of it, but I’ve forgotten now. I think it’s a W-4, but I might be mistaken. But I think they only give you one. It has some decision about payroll withholding on it. He says you should bring it home. Not fill it out on the spot. He wants to give you some advice about it.”
“OK.” Silence. During which a beautiful steaming stack of pancakes appeared on the table in front of him.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Nat.”
“Do you happen to know where Nathan keeps the dogs’ leashes?”
“Hanging inside the garage door.”
“Oh. OK. Thanks. I thought I’d take Feathers downtown with me.”
“On job interviews?”
“Oh. Well. No. Not on interviews,” he said quickly. Back-pedaling fast. “I just thought I’d start by seeing who has a ‘help wanted’ sign. You know. If anybody’s taking applications. If I’m going to go in and fill out an application I’ll leave Feathers tied up outside.”
“Oh. I guess that would be OK. Would you like some homemade raspberry syrup to go with those?”
“Well, yeah,” Nat said. “Who wouldn’t?”
• • •
Nat could hear Maggie howling her displeasure as he ran down the driveway with Feathers bounding ahead at the end of the leash.
It was nearly a two-mile walk to downtown. But Nat intended to run it. Though maybe “intended” was the wrong word. It wasn’t a premeditated decision he’d formed in his head. He just needed to run. He just naturally started. And, once he started, he just couldn’t seem to stop.
His head felt strangely clear as he ran. No thoughts seemed to cluster there, as they normally did, jostling for position. Instead they seemed to be driven out by the wind that blew into his eyes and nose, and by the slapping of his sneakers on the pavement.
This is freedom.
Those words broke through.
Yesterday, driving home with Nathan, that had not been freedom. It was only going with someone, just as they dictated you should. Dinner sure had not been freedom. And lying in the bed Nathan gave him was a damn sight better than lying in a cot at Juvie listening to Rico snore unevenly and staring at the bars in the dim half-light. But it was not free.
This was free.
No one watching. No one telling him what to do.
His chest ached, and he began to develop a stitch in his side. But he just kept running.
• • •
Somewhere along Main Street, a girl sitting on a bus bench smiled shyly at him as he ran by. He smiled back.
Then he stopped. Backtracked a quarter of a block.
Sat down on the bench beside her.
She had scads of long brown hair, thick, with a trace of red highlights where the sun hit it. It reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t think who. She had freckles across her nose and cheekbones.
She looked over at him, a little bit defensive.
“Hi,” he said, so out of breath he was barely able to speak.
She said nothing. Just purposely looked away.
“Just needed to rest a minute.” His breathing would surely back him up on that.
Feathers padded over to the girl and licked one of her hands.
“I like your dog,” she said. Her eyes were a rich color of brown, not too dark, like really good-quality honey.
“Thanks. I like him, too.”
“What’s his name?”
“Feathers.”
She laughed. A girl laugh. Shy. Like a giggle. “No, really.”
“Really. That’s his name. Feathers.”
“Now why would you go and name your dog an odd name like that? He’s not a bird.”
“No. He’s a dog.” Nat’s breathing was a bit more under control now. He felt more like he could make himself understood.
“Don’t you think that’s an odd name for a dog?”
“I named him after the only other pet I ever had.”
“And he was a bird? Your other pet?”
“Right. He was.”
“So he had the feathers.”
“Well, actually … no. He didn’t have feathers, either.”
“So, let me get this straight. Your only other pet was a bird with no feathers.”
“Right.”
“But you named him Feathers anyway.”
“Right.”
“And then you named your next pet Feathers, even though he was a dog.”
“Right.”
“You’re a very strange boy. Did anybody ever tell you that?” She smiled right into his eyes, but then quickly looked away. As though she had embarrassed herself by doing so.
Nat
laughed. “Oh, yeah. Everybody tells me that.”
“Oh. Here comes my bus.”
“No, wait. Don’t go yet,” Nat said. Not a very well-thought-out comment, he decided.
“Why not?”
“Well, we were having such a nice time talking …”
“I have to go to work.”
“Oh. Can I have your phone number?”
“You certainly may not.”
“Why not?”
Nat watched the bus from the corner of his eye. It was bearing down fast. He would need to hurry.
“Because I’m not that kind of girl.”
The stoplight at the corner turned red, halting the bus on the other side of the intersection. Nat breathed relief.
“What kind of girl is that? You mean you’re not the kind of girl who has a phone? You’re not the kind of girl who remembers her own phone number?”
“No, silly. I’m not the kind of girl who meets strange boys on the street.”
“Where do you meet strange boys?”
“I don’t know. Hopefully I don’t meet the strange ones at all. If I met a boy at my junior college. Or at work. Or church. That would be different, I guess.”
The light changed and the bus swooped down.
“Where do you work?”
She stood. Moved a couple of steps closer to the curb. Nat watched and waited without breathing. She seemed to be deciding whether or not to answer him.
The bus pulled level with her, stopped with a sigh of brakes.
“At the Frosty Freeze,” she said, throwing it over her shoulder as the doors squeaked open. Then she climbed on to the bus.
“Wait. You didn’t even tell me your name.” But it was too late. The doors had closed. She was gone.
• • •
Nat tied Feathers’s leash to a newspaper dispenser on the street outside the gym. Then he stood a moment, looking at the old place. Jack must be doing better for money, he thought. He had really fixed it up nice.
He opened the door, and froze. Didn’t even go in. Just stood there in the open doorway, the wide, cold handle of the door in his hand. Just staring.
When I Found You Page 14
