Being up so early made her see and hear things she had missed before in the neighborhood. She spotted the milkman now, in his dapper white uniform and cap, and she waved him over, because now that she had a little more money, she could afford delivery. Early one morning, when she was retrieving the bottles and cartons out of the metal milk box, she heard a door slam across the street. She looked up and saw Dick Hill stride of the house with a suitcase, his face set. Debbie was flying out after him, in her robe and fluffy slippers, her hair in pink sponge curlers, and it wasn’t hard to tell Debbie was crying. Debbie reached for Dick, but he peeled her hands off his shoulders as if he were removing sticky tape. He strode to the car and drove off. Debbie looked up and saw Ava and immediately turned and went back into the house, which was a shame because Ava could have told her something about how to heal heartbreak.
Ava had to be at work by nine, but she left the house at seven, carefully balancing the pies in boxes, stacking them carefully in the passenger seat.
“People say the lemon makes them think of their childhood,” Bell told her when she arrived. “Couples in love order the chocolate mint, and lonely people go for your Boston cream. How do you do that? How do you make pies that speak to people?”
“I don’t know,” Ava said.
“How about four more for tomorrow?” Bell said. “I admit the chocolate made me feel my Henry close by.”
Ava stopped baking for work. She didn’t have time, and besides no one was paying her. She saw the women from the typing pool milling about the coffee area, looking at her expectantly when she came in and then turning, disappointed, when they saw her empty hands. “What, no goodies?” Richard asked and Ava shrugged.
“I’ve been busy,” she said.
“Doing what?”
“I’m selling my pies now,” she told him.
He tilted his head, blinking as if he didn’t understand her. “You’re selling them?”
“To Bell’s Café.”
Richard frowned. “For money?”
Ava nodded. “That’s what selling means,” she said.
“Well,” he said, suddenly brisk. “Don’t forget your real job. And don’t forget us here.”
It you want pies, then you’ll have to buy them, Ava thought, but she was smart enough not to say that aloud. Instead, she smiled and went back to typing letters about faucets. Charmaine leaned over and tapped Ava. “I don’t know if I’d sell pies,” she said.
“Why not?”
“I used to be a really good swimmer,” Charmaine said. “Once, this boy challenged me to a race. I did everything right. I hyperventilated so I was really oxygenated. I let out only a few bubbles as I swam, and when I got to the surface I turned around and there was the boy, standing up to his knees in water, way behind me, and he wouldn’t look at me. Wouldn’t talk to me. When I got to shore, my mother was shaking her head. ‘Don’t ever do that again,’ she said. ‘Showing a man up. Taking over his terrain. Men don’t like that sort of thing.’ ”
“That’s crazy,” Ava said, and Charmaine shrugged. “Think what you like,” she said.
Ava went out and bought two starchy white aprons and some hairnets. It became more important to her that her kitchen be spotless, and she willingly got on her hands and knees now to scrub. She went out and bought a new smooth wood rolling pin and six new pie pans. Now when she looked at her kitchen, she had a whole different feeling about it. She could make things happen. She was in charge.
One Friday night, after she finished testing out a new pie (raisin apple custard), she felt antsy. She showered and changed, and even though it was starting to snow, she went out to the Club 47 in Cambridge to hear music. She didn’t care who was playing, and it ended up being a young woman with long fuzzy hair and a voice like a bell, singing with her guitar about how her lover stabbed her by a raging river. The club was blue with smoke so you couldn’t really see clearly, but even so, Ava felt a man watching her. She felt him sitting beside her before she looked over and saw that he was younger than she was, with longer hair than she had on her own head, and before the first set was over, she knew two things: that his name was Damien and that she was taking him home.
When he automatically slid into the driver’s seat, his hands primed on the wheel, Ava said, “No, I’m driving.” He shrugged and let her, but he kept one hand on her thigh. As soon as they got in her house, he put his mouth on her neck and drew her so close she could feel the heat of his skin, but she gave him a gentle shove away from her. “Playing hard to get?” he said, amused.
“Come with me,” she said. She took him to her kitchen, sitting him down at her red Formica table. She went to the refrigerator and took out the raisin apple custard pie. He looked at her curiously. “Really? You want me to eat right now?” he said.
She cut him a thin slice and put it on a plate, got him a fork and a napkin and set them both in front of him. “Yes,” she said.
He took a bite and then looked up at her, as if he were taking her measure. She saw the surprise in his face, the pleasure. “Cloves,” she whispered into his ear. “Nutmeg.” He took another bite and another and soon finished off the whole piece. “Is there more?” he said and she laughed.
“Yeah, there’s more,” she said. She kissed him and tasted the cinnamon. She took his hand and lifted him up so he was standing, facing her, and she put his hand on her breast. “Maybe I’ll stay the night,” he whispered. He told her she looked like Joan Baez, which made her laugh, because she looked as much like Joan Baez as she did Marilyn Monroe. Ava rested her head against his chest so she could feel his breathing, so she could remember this moment, so she wouldn’t forget, because she knew after this night, she wouldn’t see him again.
He wasn’t a bad lover, but he was quicker than she would have liked, and when he started to fall asleep, his head on her breast, Ava pushed him awake. “Did I do something wrong?” Damien asked. He reached for her, but she slid out of his arms. “You have to go,” she told him. She got up, pulling on her clothes, glancing at the clock.
“You want me to go?”
“Yes,” she told him. “Please.” She kissed his nose, handed his clothes to him, and watched him tug them on. He called a cab, and the two of them waited by her front window. When the cab arrived, he turned to her. “Wait,” he said. He spotted a pen and paper and wrote his number down for her. “See you soon,” he said, and then went out the door.
Ava felt ridiculously free. She dropped his number in the wastebasket and then she headed for the kitchen.
It was still night, but she began to bake, and by early Saturday morning, she had six new pies for the café. She was used to just walking into the kitchen and setting them there, leaving her list for Bell to tally up and pay her later. The café was always busy, and Bell barely had time to even say hello to her, which was fine by Ava. Ava liked walking by, like a voyeur, seeing who was eating her pies, whisking by the circular display Bell had at the front of the café to see which pies were going the fastest. She was pleased to see the circles of them growing smaller and smaller. Her arms were lighter without the pies, and she started walking out when Bell stopped her at the door. “You know, you can’t be selling pies here without knowing my menu,” Bell told her.
“I’ve eaten here,” Ava said, though all she could remember was a muffin and coffee.
“Really? When? Name the last thing you ate here, and no looking at the blackboard menu for ideas. I’ll know if you lie.”
Ava shrugged, embarrassed.
“You’re not the only one who takes pride in her cooking,” Bell said. She motioned to a table. “Have a seat,” she said.
Ava complied, but when she reached for a menu, Bell shook her head. “Let me surprise you,” she said. “It’s soul food night.” Bell brought her a stew, silky with wide flat noodles and chunks of chicken, some turnip greens on the side, and then she sat down opposite Ava. “You ever had turnip greens?” She waited for Ava to take her first bite. “Good, right?” Bell said
.
“I could never cook like this,” Ava said and Bell snorted.
“Bull,” she said. “Maybe you just don’t want to, and there’s nothing wrong with that.” Bell rested her head in her hands.
“I think you might be right about that.”
“My husband Henry started this café,” Bell said. “He worked here doing everything, the cooking, the cleaning, the buying, right up until he got cancer, and then I took over. Everyone thought I was crazy, that it was just grief talking, and that soon the place would run into the ground with a woman at the helm. I had all these buyers for it and then I decided I liked running the place. It gave me something to do. Plus, it made me feel close to Henry still.”
“You miss him?” As soon as Ava said it, she felt ridiculous, but Bell took a breath. “Everyone misses someone,” Bell said, and Ava thought of Lewis. “Yes,” Ava said. “They do.”
Ava was finishing the stew when she recognized a voice spinning across the restaurant. She looked up and Debbie Hill had come into the café. She had a wrinkled raincoat thrown over what looked like her flannel pajamas, and her hair was tied back in a chiffon kerchief. Shivering, Debbie looked right at Ava and then pretended she didn’t know her, turning quickly away. She slid into a booth in the back and popped up a menu so it hid her face.
Bell followed Ava’s eyes and then leaned forward. “See that woman?” Bell said, lowering her voice. “She comes here every night and has your lemon pie and cries.”
Ava looked at Debbie again. She remembered how Debbie’s husband had walked out with a suitcase, leaving Debbie standing on her front porch in a robe and fuzzy slippers, her face pale. Ava hadn’t spotted Dick since, and she didn’t see Debbie so much anymore, either, or even Barbara, their girl. Ava looked over at Debbie, who was clutching the top of her raincoat, avoiding looking over at them. “Do me a favor,” Ava said. “Don’t tell her I make the pies, but next time, give her a really big piece and I’ll pay for it. Tell her it’s on the house.”
TWO WEEKS LATER, Ava was shoveling snow off her front walk when she saw Dick’s car drive up to his house. He got out and Debbie came out of the front door, wavering for a moment before she walked toward him, her hand raised as if she were going to strike him, but instead, she rested her head along his shoulder. He stroked Debbie’s hair and said something quietly to her. Then Barbara ran out and wrapped her arms ecstatically around her father.
It made Ava feel better, even though Dick was no prize, and she wondered if Debbie would come back to the café anymore.
The cold air bit her cheeks, energizing her, and when she was finished shoveling, Ava decided to take a walk around the neighborhood. The people down the street were building an addition, making their tiny ranch house look more like a colonial. Someone else had painted their house this funny bright pink, with deep plum shutters. She was coming back around the block, her boots caked with snow, when she bumped into Bob Gallagher, planting a big FOR SALE sign on his lawn, hammering it down.
She was surprised. She had been so busy she hadn’t really seen much of him or his family. For ages, it seemed. “You’re moving!” she called to him. He strode over to her.
“Company’s moving me to Florida. Much more opportunity,” he told her. “Though I don’t like being so close to Cuba and that Fidel Castro.” He told her he was being paid for the move, that they had a nice brand-new split level right by the beach, something Tina had always wanted, and that realtors would sell this house. “I’ll miss it here,” he told Ava. “I’ll miss you.”
“Me?” She saw the way his mouth curved and then he leaned forward and hugged her. “Yeah, you,” he said.
IN MARCH, BOB and Tina left. The house was sold to a doctor and his wife who wanted it as a teardown. As soon as the snow melted, there were bulldozers razing the property. Ava saw the new owners prowling about the grounds, the man tall and thin as a swizzle stick, in a fancy dark suit, his wife in a pink maternity dress with a big satin bow on the empire waist, her hands laced across her belly. “Hello!” Ava waved, walking over.
The woman glanced over at Ava and her husband thrust out his hand. “Stan Morton,” he said.
“Doris,” the woman said.
“It’s such a nice neighborhood,” Doris said. She waved her hand. “And the school so close.”
“We’re building everything brand-new,” Stan said. He told her they wanted a split-level, something imposing and different. They wanted a big fenced-in pool in the backyard. “You’ll see, we’ll have everyone over for a housewarming party when we’re done,” Doris said graciously.
The construction went on for weeks. The workers had to put up a fence around the property because two kids had written their names in a patch of wet cement. The sound of the trucks woke her every morning when the contractors arrived, six of them in old dungarees and T-shirts. For the first time in a while, Debbie Hill came outside and this time, her eyes were clear. “That house is going to make everyone else’s look plain old shabby,” Debbie said.
The family dug up everything, including the beautiful old willow tree in the backyard. They pulled up the sod lawn, and then, one sunny day in April, Ava came home from work to find, like the reopening of a wound, a police car in front of Bob Gallagher’s old house, the lights on. There was a line of sawhorses and yellow rope leading to the backyard, and cops standing around. But what was most disconcerting to Ava were the photographers, coming around the front of the house, snapping everything they saw, including the people. Ava blinked at the flash. Debbie, her hand resting on her mouth, looked at Ava, and that was when Ava began to get really scared.
Ava grabbed at Debbie. “What happened?” she asked. “What’s going on?”
Debbie stared at Ava. “They found an old bomb shelter,” she said. “And they found bones.”
Chapter Sixteen
Ava felt as if she couldn’t move. She stared at the lot, all those beautiful trees gone, the flowers, everything, really, just gone, like someone had punched a piece of the landscape away and filled it up with this dirty wash of sky.
She could see the new owners, standing helplessly, staring at their property—and it was theirs now, no matter what had been discovered.
She cautiously walked closer. She didn’t recognize any of these cops. Their faces were all new, but the feeling of dread was not. One of the officers stopped her. “Step away from the crime scene, please,” he said.
“Whose bones are they?” Ava’s could barely speak. One of the onlookers told her it was a boy, that they knew from the size of the femur. Someone else had said they heard there was a disintegrated pair of plaid shorts, a pair of sneakers with scribbles on them. Debbie put her hand to her mouth and then lowered it. “They called all the local dentists. They got a match already. It’s Jimmy.”
“How do you know? How do you know for sure?” Ava cried.
“I’m not going to ask you again, ma’am,” the cop said. “You need to step away.”
Ava thought of the day that Jimmy had vanished. The whole neighborhood, the cops, everyone had looked everywhere. Cars had been stopped. Strangers questioned. She tried to remember all that had gone on. The neighbors had been looking for someone in a car, for a stranger, for things outside the neighborhood. She hadn’t even known there was a bomb shelter. When had Bob even built it? And why hadn’t the cops found it in their investigation? They had checked every house on the block, every backyard, every basement. Hadn’t she heard someone say that? How could any of this be true?
“A bomb shelter! Who knew there was one in this neighborhood? What was he thinking?” Dick asked. “Why didn’t he tell anyone?” Dick shook his head. “I never trusted the guy.” All Ava could think of was all the times she had seen Dick and Bob playing badminton in Dick’s backyard, the net strung across the lawn, the two of them sweaty and puffing, not stopping until Debbie came out with cold drinks.
“Can you imagine? Bob a murderer?” Debbie shook her head.
“Don’t say that,”
Ava said. She hadn’t liked Bob very much, but she had seen the tender way he kissed his wife in the mornings, the playful way he hugged his son.
“Are you sure? Are they sure it’s Jimmy?” Ava asked and Debbie looked at her with pity.
“Ava,” she said. “What do you think?”
The press had been here that morning while Ava was at work, a TV truck, a newsman in a suit. A neighbor had told Ava that Bob Gallagher was coming back from Florida for questioning.
A few neighborhood kids—kids Ava didn’t know so well anymore—in Keds and dungarees, roamed on their bikes, veering close to the house and then swooping away again.
AVA WENT HOME. She sat in her living room and stared at her walls. She thought of all the times Lewis ran wild over the neighborhood, how everyone’s house had an open-door policy. She remembered how Bob had once leaned in close to her when he was fixing one of her lights, as if he wanted to kiss her, how every time she needed her gutters cleaned or a drain unclogged, he was always there and as soon as he was done, he’d linger until she’d say, “Want coffee?” and of course, he always did.
Jimmy had been right here all this time and no one had known. What if Bob hadn’t gotten that new job? What if he had stayed? Would anyone ever have known? Or would there be more bones?
She picked up the phone and dialed Lewis. She wanted to hear his voice, as if she could touch him through the wires. This was something he would want to know. This was something they had shared. It rang and rang, but he didn’t answer.
The next morning, Ava stood in the middle of the street, when Stan walked over to her, his hat almost apologetically in his hand.
“We’re staying with my mother,” Stan said. “I don’t even know if we’ll come back here. Doris is just too spooked.”
Ava nodded.
“You knew this kid,” he said.
“I did.” Ava thought of Jimmy waving good-bye to her. The crooked smile. She thought how long the neighborhood patrols had gone on, how how much time the cops had spent on the case, and now they had found bones, and in less than a day, they knew they were Jimmy’s.
Is This Tomorrow Page 23
