by Jo Knowles
“Nice move,” I tell him.
He nods and pulls Gus’s corkscrew out of his pants pocket.
I manage to open the bottle and realize the one thing Henry forgot was glasses. I bring the bottle to my lips and take a small sip, then pass it to Henry. He makes a face.
“It’s an acquired taste,” I say.
“Understatement,” he says, after forcing himself to swallow.
We share back and forth until my mom calls us from the kitchen to say dinner is ready. She hustles us all into the dining room. Besides lasagna, she’s made some sort of squash casserole, herbed potatoes, salad, and focaccia.
While Claire lights the candles in the candelabra, Sally waddles over to the seat at the head of the table, farthest from the kitchen. Gus’s seat. But she couldn’t know that. My mom takes the seat at the opposite end and Henry, Claire, and I fill the middle.
No one seems to notice that Henry’s cheeks are fiery red. I touch my own hot face and try to cool my cheeks with my hands.
When we’re all settled at our seats, my mom goes back to the kitchen and returns with two bottles of Gus’s favorite wine that he saves for special occasions. It’s from Montepulciano, where his family came from. He always had a bottle on his and my grandmother’s anniversary. He’d say a toast to her, and my mom would look uncomfortable. Then we’d all take a drink—me from a glass that only had about a sip’s worth.
My mom opens the bottle like a pro. Being a waitress, she’s probably opened a thousand bottles at least. She makes her way around the table, filling our glasses equally. When she’s done, we raise our glasses after her. Rich food aromas circle the table, mixing with the smell of the melting wax of the candles. I feel dizzy.
“To Gus,” she says loudly. She looks at his chair, occupied by Sally, and I swear—just at that moment—something in her expression shows that she misses him.
“To Gus,” we repeat. And we all take a sip.
The taste brings me right back to all those October twenty-firsts, sitting at this table with Gus and my mom, listening to him tell us year after year about how he and my grandmother met, about their honeymoon in Italy and how he’d always promised to take my grandmother back again someday, but he never got the chance. My mom catches my eye as she puts her glass down, and I wonder if she’s having the same memory, feeling the same regret. Right at that moment, I promise Gus that I will always drink this wine on their anniversary, and someday, someday I will go to Montepulciano for the two of them.
After the toast, we eat quietly. Claire and my mom keep exchanging looks and smiling at each other with the more wine they drink. I bite my lip to keep from telling my mom to stop acting so happy. Sally seems uncomfortable at the end of the table. I wonder how long it’s been since she had dinner with anyone besides Henry and me at her house, sitting on the scratchy plaid sofa watching E! News.
Throughout dinner, my mom keeps getting up to refill Claire and Sally’s glasses, And her own, of course.
“Oh, Sally,” she slurs, between not-so-elegant sips. “I can’t believe you’ve lived on the same street as us all this time and I’ve never met you before! Never seen you! We should’ve gotten together years ago!”
“Well,” Sally says quietly, looking down at her plate, “I don’t really get out all that much.”
I don’t think Sally has left the house since Henry’s dad disappeared. That’s when Sally closed the doors to the outside forever. Until today. Sally collects some kind of disability money and paid for the house outright with money she inherited from Henry’s grandparents. But this isn’t really the kind of information you share with new friends.
When we finish eating, Henry and I escape back to the living room with our wineglasses. My mom insists that she will do all the cleaning up as long as Sally and Claire keep her company in the kitchen. I know what this means. After-dinner drinks.
Henry and I sit on the couch with our feet propped up on the coffee table, our glasses resting on our full bellies. The faded gold wallpaper on the wall behind Gus’s chair starts to rise and fall, and I feel like I might throw up.
Henry doesn’t look too good, either.
Gus’s empty chair glares at us as we listen to our moms and Claire get more and more drunk. Their chatty voices gradually turn to high-pitched giggles. Henry keeps glancing toward the door with a worried expression on his face.
Then Sally snorts. There’s no mistake it’s her. Henry winces.
“Let’s get some fresh air,” I say, fumbling a little as I stand.
“Definitely.”
“Where are we going?” he asks when we get outside.
“Let’s go out on the water. Let’s take Gus’s boat.”
“We’re too drunk.”
“Screw that,” I say. I don’t sound like me at all. I don’t sound like I want to sound. I want us to be quiet together. I just want peace.
Henry rolls his eyes. “No. We’ll go tomorrow.”
I cross my arms like a baby not getting my way and stumble.
“You okay?”
My stomach convulses. “Oh, God!” I run to the bushes just in time. Everything comes hurling out of me. Everything. The wine and the food and all those horrible flavors of the day. Everything emptying out.
I feel Henry behind me.
“Go away,” I say.
Another wave pushes up and I let it come out in an embarrassingly loud heave.
Henry’s fingers gently pull my hair away from my face as he stands close behind me. I reach up and feel his puffy hand on my cheek. He slips it out from under mine and puts it on my forehead, as if I’m a little kid and he’s checking to see if I have a fever.
I don’t know why it feels so good. I don’t know why it makes me cry.
We stand there until I’m sure I’m done, then Henry walks me back inside. Our moms are still in the kitchen talking way too loudly.
“I’ll go get her and walk her home,” Henry says. He doesn’t look too excited about having to do it, and I don’t blame him. But I know it’s something I can’t exactly help with, so I nod.
“Thanks for everything today, Hen.” I put my hand on his arm. It’s a little sticky from sweat. I think he’s blushing but it’s hard to tell in the dim light of the entryway.
“Go get some sleep,” he says. He turns away from me and walks slowly toward the kitchen, as if he’s dreading what he’ll find.
“Henry!” My mom’s drunken voice booms from the doorway.
I cringe and, like a coward, go upstairs by myself.
chapter seven
When I wake up, the house is quiet. I try to lift my head, but it hurts too much. I watch the crack in my ceiling and listen to the nothingness. Pretty soon, I notice the birds singing outside my window. The morning traffic. A siren in the distance. Someone’s dog barking. All the life-moving-forward noises I never paid attention to before. Gus’s death doesn’t matter to anyone outside my window. Maybe even outside my bedroom door.
In the hallway, his bedroom door is closed again. I open it. The room feels still and calm and unmoving, like one of those fake rooms in a museum where you’re supposed to marvel at how well-preserved the contents are. I place the framed photo I took earlier back on the antique dresser where it belongs and sit on the edge of the old four-poster bed. I run my fingers along the soft fabric of the bedspread, making a wrinkle trail. If it was up to me, I would keep the room just like this forever. It’s the only room in the house where you can sense love existed.
I look at my grandparents’ happy faces. Forever smiling in here. I wish I could feel what they felt.
Downstairs, the ticks of the grandfather clock in the entryway sound louder than usual. Hel-lo, hel-lo, hel-lo, they seem to say in a mocking way.
When I pass the living room, I glance at Gus’s chair and wonder if my mom will get rid of it. She’s always hated it, how old and dented and so clearly his it is. I can tell by the way she looks at it with disgust, whenever he isn’t—wasn’t—in the room.
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I hate how much she hated him. And I hate that he helped feed it.
Just a couple of weeks ago, my mom was late coming home again. Gus was waiting up for her, and, secretly, so was I.
“Where’ve you been?” he whispered loudly when she finally stumbled up the stairs. He was standing in his bedroom doorway, which she had to pass to get to her room. My lights were off but my door was open so I could see into the hall. My mom stood in the hallway wearing a short skirt and high heels.
“Out,” she whispered back, glancing toward my door.
“Dressed like that?” Gus asked. “Why dressed like that?”
Their whispers sounded like hisses.
“Like what, Dad?” she asked.
“Like that. Like trash.”
I cringed and watched my mom do the same. I hated knowing Gus could be cruel.
“You’re asking for it dressed like that,” he said. “Asking for it all over again.”
“Trash, huh? You don’t know shit,” my mom said.
There was a smack, followed by a brief quiet, and then my mom’s hurried footsteps. Her door slammed. Then Gus’s door clicked shut. I could feel the disappointment in that click. But the echo of the slap was there, too. And that was so much worse.
I crept into the hall and waited for the light under his door to go out. Then I went to my mom’s room. I lay down on the floor in the hallway and put my ear to the crack under her door.
“I hate him,” she sobbed. She was on the phone. “Claire. I hate him. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should just tell him the truth.”
Memories of the big secret I’d overheard when I was twelve made my heart start to race.
“But if he kicks me out—” There was a long pause, except for my mom’s sniffing. “No. I can’t do it. I know what it’s like to lose your mother. I can’t do that to her.” Another pause. Crying. “Damn it, Claire. I’m trapped. I’ve been trapped my whole life.”
It got quiet again. I put my hand on my chest to try to stop my heart from beating so hard.
“It’s just so complicated. He’s so good with her. Better than I am, that’s for sure. She needs him. Maybe when she’s a little older—just a minute.”
I held my breath as her bed creaked and her footsteps started for the door, then stopped.
“Sorry, I thought I heard something. Oh, what would I do without you? I don’t know how I’d survive it all.”
Her heavy words pushed me away from her door. I got up and leaned against the wall. There was a pause, then she started giggling. I picked myself up and crept back to my room before she got off the phone.
Back in my own bed, I imagined what things would be like if I was never born. It was a game I played a lot. And always, what I imagined was a better life for my mom. And Gus.
* * *
That was only a few weeks ago, but it feels like one more piece I can’t quite fit into the rest of the puzzle that is our life.
In the kitchen, I open the freezer and take out the coffee beans and the bag of mini Snickers my mom keeps hidden under two packages of frozen peas. I grind the beans extra long just to wake up my mom. While the coffee’s brewing, I eat a Snickers whole and let the chocolate coating melt between my tongue and the roof of my mouth.
“I see you,” a voice says behind me.
I jump about a mile.
Claire.
What’s she doing here? Probably she was too drunk to drive home. Again.
“Morning,” I say through my stuffed mouth.
Claire gets two mugs out of the cabinet and stands by the coffeemaker. I never noticed how truly skinny she is. And pointy. Pointy elbows, pointy fingers, pointy nose, and chin. Even her jawline is pointy.
I wait for the Snickers to defrost enough so I can chew and swallow.
“I didn’t know you stayed over again,” I say.
“Your mom needs me.”
Why?
I don’t know what I ever did, but Claire has never seemed to like me. The few times I’ve spent with her when my mom invited me to go to the movies with them or, on the rare occasion, out to dinner, I always got the feeling Claire didn’t want me there. Like they couldn’t gossip about all the things they wanted to with me around.
“What are you doing today?” she asks, making small talk. I’m sure she’s forcing herself to smile.
“I’m going fishing with Henry,” I tell her. “In Gus’s boat.”
She stops smiling and scrunches her pointy nose. “In that river? Are you high?”
“Gus did it, why can’t we?”
“Because you are sane. At least I thought so. And Gus was a crazy old geezer.”
“Don’t say that.” I really want to hit her.
She raises her eyebrows at me, like she’s surprised I’m standing up for him. “Sorry,” she says. “But are you sure that’s a safe thing to do? Seriously, Bean. That water is, like, toxic.”
“I’ve been out there before. Gus used to take me.”
She shrugs, like it’s not really that important whether I get exposed to toxic river water after all. “Suit yourself then,” she says.
She pulls the coffeepot from the machine, even though it’s still dripping a little. The drips sizzle on the burner while she pours two cups. I start to hold out my hand, thinking one’s for me, but she walks past me and goes back toward the stairs in the hall.
“Thanks a lot,” I say under my breath.
I pour my own cup and grab another Snickers. I sit at the kitchen table and dip the Snickers in the coffee and suck off the melted chocolate. My head hurts a little less, but not much. Even from the kitchen I can still hear the grandfather clock ticking, only with a different message. Get-out, get-out, get-out.
The doorbell rings before I finish my third Snickers and an inch of my coffee. Only Henry rings the doorbell.
“Enter!” I call.
The screen door whines open and clicks shut. I count his soft steps coming toward me. Just once I would like to hear Henry make some noise.
“Ouch,” I say when he comes into the kitchen. He looks even worse than I feel.
“What do you do for a hangover?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I tell him. “My mom always says ‘hair of the dog’ and drinks a Bloody Mary. But I don’t know how to make one.”
“Me either. Maybe we could try straight tomato juice?”
“Yuck. Just the smell of that stuff makes me want to puke.”
“What then?” He looks desperate.
“Coffee and chocolate seem to be helping a little.” I pour him a cup and get him the whole bag. We eat and drink, staring at the tabletop. Soon, in addition to feeling hungry, I feel completely hyper and shaky.
“I still feel awful,” I say.
“Me too. Maybe we need fresh air.”
A high-pitched giggle escapes from upstairs.
“Ugh. Let’s get out of here.”
We leave the empty Snickers bag and our dirty mugs on the table and make our way outside.
It’s still pretty early but already unbearably hot when we step onto the front porch. Henry and I squint toward the old carriage house Gus used as a garage.
“Come on,” I say.
When we step inside, we see Gus’s old Chevy sitting there, waiting to be taken for its daily drive down to the MiniMart for the paper and coffee. Gus always said he wasn’t social, but I never believed him entirely. He could have had the paper delivered, and he definitely could have drunk the coffee my mom made every morning. The only thing he couldn’t get at home was the scratch ticket he bought every day. And possibly a friendly smile from whoever was working behind the counter—which was a lot more than he got at home if I’d already left for school.
“Where’s the fishing pole?” Henry asks.
I gesture toward the far wall, neatly lined with hooks that have things dangling from them: paint brushes, hammers, tools I don’t know the names of, and Gus’s old green fishing rod. My small orange pole is hanging there, too,
covered with dust and attached to a series of deserted cobwebs.
“Let’s go!” Henry says cheerfully, grabbing both poles.
“Um. We need bait,” I say.
Henry looks confused. Poor Henry. He never had someone to take him fishing.
“Oh, you mean from the tackle box!” he says excitedly. He scans the workbench and opens Gus’s gray metal toolbox, then shuts it quickly when he realizes his mistake.
“Where is it?”
“The red plastic box,” I say. “Right here.” I reach under the bench where Gus always kept the box and drag it out.
Inside, there are several hooks and flies, some fake bugs and fish, and an old photo of my grandmother taped inside the lid covered with plastic wrap to keep it dry. It’s a black-and-white photo of her in her wedding gown. She looks happy and beautiful. I’ve never seen the photograph before. I don’t remember it from when Gus took me fishing. I wonder when he decided to start bringing her with him.
An ache grows in my chest as I imagine Gus carefully taping the photo in his box and peeking at my grandmother when they were out on the river. Did he talk to her? Did he tell her how sad and lonely he was? How much he missed her?
“Ooh, cool!” Henry says, peering over my shoulder at the lures.
“Oh, shoot. I don’t know how to use any of these,” I say. “Gus always tied them for me. You’re going to have to dig for some worms.”
“Worms?”
“Well, you’ll have to put something on the hook. It’s not like the fish swim up to the hook and think, ‘Yeah, okay. I’ll just stick this pointy metal thing through my jaw.’”
Henry rolls his eyes. “Just tell me how I get a worm.”
I grab an old tomato soup can from a small stack under the workbench and reach for a trowel hanging from a hook on the wall.
“Take these, go in the garden, and dig a hole. You’ll find one in no time.”
He takes the can and trowel carefully, as if he doesn’t want to get his hands dirty. As he steps out of the dusty garage and into the sun, he pauses to see if I’m going to follow, but I stay behind and study the photo of my grandmother. I wonder how different things would be if she hadn’t died when my mom was so young. Maybe my mom wouldn’t have gotten pregnant. Maybe I would never have been born. Maybe my mom and grandfather wouldn’t have hated each other.
