“Eddie—why don’t you try one of these?” The butcher had lifted a rollatini from the tray and was extending it toward the boy’s empty plate.
“No, thank you.”
“Take it,” Lucy said. “You have to eat something.”
The butcher plopped down the neatly rolled eggplant, and Edgar jumped back at the slight spattering of sauce, afraid it might get on his white shirt.
“What’s the matter?” the man asked.
“Nothing,” replied Edgar.
And now everyone was watching, waiting for him to take a bite.
“He’s a picky eater, huh?” Henry Schlip said, leaning toward Lucy.
“We tried to give him some halvah once,” Netty said. “But he wouldn’t eat it. You remember that, Edgar?”
The boy felt the heat come to his face. He nodded at his plate. The halvah had looked like one of the large rubber erasers Blessum used in art class.
Edgar liked the Schlips, though it was strange to have them in his house, where they made less sense. In their shop they achieved meaning, surrounded by their vast array of goods—sheets and towels, slippers and bath salts, curtains, lightbulbs, extension cords; there were knitting needles and mason jars, buckets and brooms. Edgar especially appreciated the tiny scented pillows that Netty made herself—“to put in your drawer,” she’d told him, “not under your head.” Henry was constantly rearranging the displays, as if to make the items more comfortable. To Edgar, the Schlips seemed the wistful parents of an extensive brood of inanimate objects. Dry goods. “Is everything dry?” Edgar once asked them. “Show me something wet,” Henry had replied. The boy had taken the quest seriously, had kept it up for months, but failed to locate a single moist product.
His grandmother had always seemed to enjoy the Schlips’ company. They were not really friends, but there was genuine affection. Shopkeepers existed in a liminal zone between family and strangers. It was easy to be with them because the rules were so clear—unlike the complicated business of family or friends, or even strangers, for that matter. Stopping for a little while in a shop with his grandmother had been a kind of safety. Edgar felt calm in these places. He liked to watch his grandmother talk with the Schlips—an intriguing language of sighs and nods and wistful shakes of the head. The bird business of old people. Sometimes they all laughed about little things long gone.
All this being said, Edgar was fairly certain that his grandmother would never have invited Henry and Netty Schlip into her house, to sit around the dining room table on a Monday night. The fact that they were here could only mean that the Earth had swung off course. The Schlips must have felt it, too. They weren’t themselves; they were nervous, and as hopeless as everyone else in regard to how to keep the conversation moving.
“So, what is halvah, exactly?” the butcher finally asked.
“That’s the name of God,” Henry said.
“Halvah,” Netty shouted at Henry, before turning back to the butcher. “He can’t hear. It’s sesame seeds and sugar. Delicious.”
“Very good,” agreed Henry, spooning up some cavatelli.
“You wanna try the sausage and peppers?” the butcher asked the old man.
Henry held up his hand.
“We don’t eat pork,” Netty said.
“But you eat chicken?” asked the butcher.
“Oh yes—and beef. And most fish.”
“We’re not fanatics,” Henry said.
“Never understood what you people have against pigs.”
Edgar looked up from his plate—relieved to see that the butcher hadn’t pulled a cleaver from his pocket.
“Cloven hooves,” said Henry. “Animal has to have toes.”
“Pigs have toes,” said the butcher.
“But they don’t ruminate,” said Netty.
“They don’t what?”
“Chew their cud,” Henry said loudly.
“You’re shouting again.” Netty leaned over and adjusted the old man’s hearing aid. “The animal has to have cloven hooves and chew its cud,” she said to the butcher.
Henry nodded, still chewing.
Edgar felt nauseous. All this talk of food. It was too much, considering the fact that it might have been a serving of burnt meatballs, made by him, that had killed his grandmother. Of course, his mother was to blame, too. She’d yelled at the old woman the night before she’d died.
“Can I be excused?” said Edgar.
“Where do you wanna go?” asked Lucy. “You haven’t even touched your plate.”
“We should have a salad,” the boy said. “I could pick some tomatoes.” Any excuse to get out of the house.
“He wants to pick tomatoes,” Lucy said, shaking her head, and everyone laughed in a polite but infuriating way. To Edgar, it all seemed like a dream. Maybe there wasn’t even a garden behind the house. Maybe he’d only imagined it.
“I just want to see if there’s any left,” he said in a militant whisper to his mother.
“Season’s over,” she said. “Eat your rollatini.”
He could tell she was tipsy by the way she said rollatini—as if the word had fallen asleep halfway out of her mouth. The butcher was drinking, too. As were the Schlips. It was what grown-ups did when they were nervous.
“We still have a few left in our garden,” Netty said. “But Florence’s were always the best.”
“Such a nice woman,” Henry said. “You’re going to miss her, aren’t you?”
“Henry, don’t upset the boy. I, for one, wouldn’t mind a tomato,” she said, winking at Edgar.
“Fine,” said Lucy, turning to her son. “Knock yourself out.”
Edgar got up from the table.
“And take a flashlight.”
“I know,” said Edgar. He’d been in the garden at night before, with Florence. She’d said it was better to water the plants in the dark, especially when the moon was up. Because the moon was full of water and it talked to the water on Earth. Edgar had asked his grandmother to explain the science of this further, but she’d said, “What science? It’s got nothing to do with science.”
* * *
“This wine is very red,” Henry said, holding his glass up toward the chandelier.
“That’s the way we like it,” said Lucy.
“She likes to put water in my wine.” Henry cocked his head toward Netty.
“I do not,” she said. “Two drops, maybe.”
“What kind of wine is this?” Henry asked the butcher.
“Which one are you drinking?” There were three different bottles on the table.
“Who the hell knows?” Henry released a long sigh, dabbed his face with a paper napkin. “Florence was always very particular about her towels. White or cream. Had to be white or cream.”
“But then she bought the pink ones, remember?” said Netty. “For the girl’s bathroom. She said you like pink.”
Lucy met the woman’s eyes and tried to smile.
“Now, you know, dear—Edgar’s always welcome to come by the store. We’d be happy to watch him when you’re busy.”
“Same goes for me,” said the butcher. “After school, whatever.”
“See,” Netty said. “You have friends.”
“I could teach him how to make sausage,” the butcher said with a wink, and the Schlips laughed—but only briefly.
Lucy had a sudden desire to fling a plate across the room. How dare these people—strangers—suggest taking care of her son. She suddenly wanted only Florence. Who knew better than Florence what the boy needed? At Frank’s funeral, it had been the old woman who’d held Edgar. Lucy, still injured, had barely been able to stand.
“We don’t have any grandchildren,” Netty said.
“No,” murmured Henry. “Our daughter’s a what-do-you-call-it?”
“Henry. Farmakh dos moyl.”
“Lesbijka,” Henry blurted, and the butcher spit.
“That’s right. You said it.” Henry reexamined his wine by the light of the chandelier.
“Terrible to have a child like that.”
Lucy stood. “I’ll get some coffee.”
“We’ve upset you, dear.”
“Not at all. Caffeine all right?”
“Caffeine is good,” said Netty.
“Let me help you,” offered the butcher.
“No,” Lucy said. “Stay with the…”
“The Schlips,” Henry said.
“No. What Schlips?” said Netty. “Henry and Netty. Florence was like family to us.”
* * *
Just before stepping out the back door, Edgar noticed a large beetle crawling on the inside of the kitchen window. He fetched a paper towel and moved toward the bug, an emerald-green scarab whose armor shimmered with flashes of gold. Edgar wasn’t afraid of insects. In fact, he admired them. Their compact intelligence, spectacular colors, and the sense that they had lost something they were single-mindedly though hopelessly trying to find—all these qualities encouraged the boy’s sympathy. He didn’t like to kill them. With a quick movement he encased the beetle in the paper towel—crumpling it carefully to trap the bug without smushing it. He dashed outside and threw the buzzing wad onto the dark lawn. He pulled the flashlight from his pocket and watched as the frazzled creature shuddered inside the paper nautilus. It looked like a beating heart and sounded like an electric chair. When the beetle emerged, flying toward the house, Edgar gasped and dropped the flashlight. He swatted at his face; but there was nothing. He could hear the wings zoom past him, the sound fading above the dark trees. Suddenly he was furious. Why hadn’t he put the insect in a jar? An emerald-green scarab was probably a rare specimen. He might never see anything like it again.
He walked toward the tomatoes, stepping over the beam of the fallen flashlight. He didn’t need it anyway; his eyes had adjusted to the darkness. He looked at the six plants, knowing their days were numbered. His grandmother had to put in new ones every summer, because, every fall, the bushes froze. Luckily the plants hadn’t yet turned yellow, but Edgar could see the places where caterpillars had dined, leaving behind frayed leaves that had the mad perfection of lace. There would be no tomatoes; he knew that. He’d picked the last three just a few days ago, the night of the murderous meatballs.
Edgar knelt before the plants, rubbing a leaf to draw out its smell—a dusty, pungent freshness even more miraculous than Chanel Nº 5. As he leaned in closer, he saw the dense black orb at the heart of the vines. Was it really there? He reached in and touched it.
“What are you doing?”
It was the butcher. He’d picked up the flashlight and was moving toward the garden.
Edgar tried to hide the tomato, but it was too large.
“Your mom wanted me to check on you. Hey, look at that.” The butcher aimed the flashlight directly at the tomato. “Good job.”
Edgar moved the fruit back into the darkness.
“Watch this,” the butcher said, turning the flashlight and shining it under his chin. “My uncle Gus used to do this when I was little. Looks weird, right?”
It made the man look more like a pig. “You can stop doing that,” said Edgar.
“Come on—your mother wants you inside.”
Edgar didn’t move.
“Inside—you will come inside,” the butcher droned, shining the light on the boy’s chest and making it move in crazy circles.
“Why are you doing that?”
“I’m hypnotizing you.”
“No you’re not.”
“Come on—I’m your friend, Eddie.” The butcher redirected the light toward the lawn. “Hey, listen, I told your mother if you ever wanna come by the shop after school, that’s cool. She can pick you up when she gets off work.”
Edgar was speechless.
“I really want to help you guys. Do what I can. You know, I had a really nice grandmother, too.”
Edgar looked up from the man’s tasseled loafers. “Where is she now?”
“She’s, uh, you know, with yours.”
“Were they friends?”
“No, but I mean, they’re both…”
Edgar waited.
“My mother, too,” the butcher said quietly.
“Dead?” asked Edgar. He was still amazed, and somewhat annoyed, that this was a problem shared by other people.
The butcher nodded, swung the beam of light into the trees—the oak and the elm and the dogwoods. “You know where the dead go, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Edgar. He thought of the beetle.
“Happens just like that.” The butcher clicked off the flashlight. “And there’s nothing you can do about it.”
The man’s voice sounded different now, like he was talking to himself. Edgar stood with him in the darkness, and then set the tomato on the ground.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s the last one,” said Edgar.
“So bring it inside. We can have it for dessert.”
When Edgar walked into the house with the tomato, the butcher held up the boy’s arm. “And the winner is…”
Netty Schlip clapped her hands. “Oh, isn’t that a beauty.”
“Who wants a slice?” said the butcher.
It’s my tomato, thought Edgar. He was not planning to share it.
“I’d love a slice,” said Netty. “My mouth is watering already.”
“Lucy?”
“I’ll pass.” His mother was still sipping wine from a plastic cup, even as she made coffee.
Edgar found some relief in the fact that everyone was in the kitchen now. The light was brighter, and the yellow Formica table with its blue vase of week-old asters was as familiar as the sun. A safe place, it seemed, until the butcher snatched the tomato from the boy’s hand.
“Where’s your cutting board?” he asked.
“I’ll do it,” said Edgar. He extended his hand, but the butcher seemed reluctant to concede the fruit.
“Is he allowed, Luce?”
“I’m allowed,” said Edgar with some force.
“He’s tired,” said Netty. “Poor thing.”
“I cut things all the time,” the boy insisted. “May I have it back, please?”
The butcher swung his arm as if to toss the tomato across the room.
“Don’t,” said Edgar.
“I’m kidding. Here you go, buddy.” He gently placed it in the boy’s palm.
“He doesn’t have a sense of humor,” Lucy said.
“Yes I do. But not with tomatoes.”
The butcher mussed the boy’s hair and then poured himself more wine. He stood beside Lucy as she served the coffee. “You two like sambuca?” he said to the Schlips. “You got any sambuca, Lucy?”
“One step ahead of you.” She pointed to the bottle on the table.
Edgar stood at the cutting board with his back to everyone.
“I don’t think anyone’s gonna have that now,” Lucy said to him. “Sit with us. I poured you a glass of milk.”
When he turned, he saw the butcher’s hand on his mother’s back, and Netty Schlip sniffing the open bottle of sambuca.
“Smells like licorice,” she said.
“Anise, actually,” the butcher said.
“Is there a difference?” asked Netty.
“I believe anise has cloven hooves,” said the butcher.
“Ha,” barked Henry. “Then I’ll try it.”
“Maybe you’ve had enough?” Netty tapped the old man’s arm.
“You want to insult the people? This is their custom.”
“I’ll give him just a drop,” said Lucy, pouring the clear liquid into Henry’s coffee.
“Caffè corretto,” said the butcher.
Lucy smiled, remembering the expression from Pio. Corrected coffee. Without warning, the tears came to her eyes.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Netty said. “Sneaks up on you, doesn’t it?”
Lucy wiped her cheeks and poured a healthy dose of sambuca into her own cup.
“I guess I’ll have a splash, too,” said Netty
. “For Florence.”
“That’s my girl,” said Henry.
The butcher lifted his glass. “To Florence.”
Edgar clenched his fists. The man didn’t even know her. He was a suitor. A killer of pigs. Definitely not a person his grandmother would want sitting in her kitchen. Plus, the man’s blubbery hand had found its way to Lucy’s knee.
His mother seemed oblivious to all of it. She was falling asleep at the table. Edgar was tired, too. He had the feeling, once again, that he was moving through a dream. Some crumbs on the counter leapt to the size of boulders. When he looked away, he saw the wall calendar his grandmother bought every year from St. Margaret’s. The image for September was, inexplicably, a white rabbit beside a bucket of apples. In the box that marked the date of his grandmother’s death, someone had drawn a circle—inside of which was a tiny F. Edgar reached out and touched the letter, realizing something awful.
“She died on his birthday.”
Lucy stirred. “What did you say?”
“Whose birthday?” said the butcher.
“Just ignore him,” said Lucy. “He’s in a mood.”
“I’m not in a mood,” Edgar said quietly.
“Do you want me to put him to bed?” asked Netty.
“He’s fine.” Lucy grabbed the bottle of sambuca. “Here, let me pour you a little more.”
Netty shook her hand. “No, thank you, dear.”
“Think of it like sugar,” slurred Lucy.
As Netty accepted what could not be refused, she looked up and smiled at Edgar with an unfathomable sadness. The boy smiled back as best as his lips would allow—and Netty settled the transaction with one of her famous winks.
Slowly, the adults went back to sipping their corrected coffee and chatting. Edgar reached up and tried to smear the tiny F. His father suddenly seemed a thief, someone who’d been stealing things for a long time—and who’d now taken something irreplaceable. Maybe that’s what death was—a kind of kidnapping, perpetrated by ghosts.
The boy stared at the tomato on the cutting board. He pulled the serrated knife from the wooden block and brought it to the fruit, letting the blade’s teeth touch the skin without piercing it. When eating a tomato raw, his grandmother liked to parse it into thick slices; but Edgar decided it would be best to cut as many slivers as possible, making the most of what was possibly the last of its kind. He’d serve it simply, with salt: the best way to eat a Jersey beefsteak, the old woman had always said.
Edgar and Lucy Page 16
