He points the rental car towards State Highway 2 and the coast while Skye brushes her hair.
“When did Derek and Gillian get married?” he asks.
“About ten years ago. But he was mooning over her forever. In fact…” She pauses thoughtfully. “I don’t remember a time when he wasn’t around.”
“Did you ever think he was—”
“Heavens, no. He’s always been Derek to me.” She looks over. “He wanted to adopt me, you know. When they married. He asked me if I wanted it. I said no.”
“He must be a very good man.”
“He is—Mac, are you nervous?”
“No, why?”
“Because you’re driving on the wrong side of the road.”
He veers to the left quickly, stopping the car on a pullout, resting his head against the steering wheel with a sigh.
“Maybe I should drive.”
He walks around to the left side of the car while she scrambles agilely over the gearshift into the driver’s seat.
They stop to buy bread, honey, cheese, olives, chocolate. Outside of Havelock North, she turns the car onto an impossibly narrow twist of blacktop, switchbacking up four hundred meters sans guardrail. He feels vaguely nauseous as she nonchalantly twirls the steering wheel, chatting the whole time about the Maori chief Te Mata O Rongokako who legend says died there from trying to eat a passage through the hills to court a beautiful princess.
“You probably heard that one before,” she says.
“I don’t remember. It seems like a strange way to impress a woman.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Too right. Who’d want to kiss someone who’d been eating his way through a hill? Not to mention sheep shit.”
He looks at her sideways and laughs.
At the top she parks on a level patch of gravel; they gather their groceries and she leads the way to a nook in the lee of the hill that offers some protection from the gusting wind. He spreads the tarp on the damp ground and she adds a lovely wool blanket, tossing it down like an old rag. They sit down, backs to the hill.
“I want to know everything about you.”
His heart stops momentarily, then lurches into a faster rhythm.
“What do you want to know?”
She laughs. “Whatever you want to tell me.”
What does he want to tell her? That he loved her mother, but not enough?
Or should he tell her about the rest of his life? The accident, of course. Followed by a series of escapes from things that became too familiar, too close. The depression. The way he screwed up his marriage. Maybe she’d like to know about his work. How it began with promise and sank into drivel.
“Tell me about your wife. Her name’s Wyn?”
He nods. “Wynter. She’s a baker. We’re not actually together…at the moment.”
“Oh. Why not?”
“Mostly my fault. And the depression. I haven’t been very good to be around for a long time.”
“Come on, Mac.” There’s a touch of impatience now. “Don’t make me drag it all out. Talk to me. Don’t you want to?”
Her hair flies wildly in the wind around her solemn face and the tenderness he feels is like pain.
“Of course I want to. But parts of it are…there are things I’ve done that—”
“I need to know the truth. It’s the way I am.”
“It’s just…now that I’ve found you, I don’t want to lose you.”
“I found you,” she corrects him. “And you’re not going to lose me.”
She opens the white paper sack, tears off a chunk of bread and holds it in her front teeth while cutting a healthy slab of cheddar. He opens a can of soda and hands it to her, but she declines.
“A whole can of that stuff is too much,” she says. “I’ll just have a wee bit of yours.”
Why had it seemed so unbearably complicated when she first appeared? So overwhelming. Now it feels entirely natural to sit with her and watch the gulls and gannets riding the thermals over a wrinkled green ocean of hills. Below them two cyclists struggle up the steep road and beyond the hills Hawke Bay is a distant crescent of turquoise water. She tugs the soda can from his hand and steals a drink.
“When it’s clear you can see Mt. Ruapehu,” she says, pointing over her shoulder. “Too hazy today.”
“I think New Zealand is about the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.”
She nails him with a look. “Then why did you go?”
No more fill in the blank and multiple choice, it’s time for the essay question. He picks up a handful of pebbles and tosses them one at a time over the cliff into oblivion.
While he’s still searching for the right words, she says,
“I don’t want Mum to hate you.”
“I hope that might change someday, but you have to understand…how hard it was on her—”
“I know it was hard, but it wasn’t like you did it on purpose. I mean, you didn’t know.”
Now the hills are changing color under the fast-moving clouds. He says nothing.
“Did you?” Her voice is fainter now, more hopeful than certain.
When he turns back to her, she’s chewing her lower lip. He wants desperately to lie. No. He wants to say he didn’t know and have it be the truth. But it wasn’t and it isn’t and he has to tell her.
“I did,” he says. “I did know.”
One tear slides down her cheek so quickly that it seems it must have been there all along, waiting. He wants to brush it away, but he can’t touch her. Not now. Not before he tells her the rest. She doesn’t say anything, but her silence isn’t a weakness, a lack of knowing what to say. It’s a demand. She’s waiting for him to speak.
“I knew and I couldn’t stay. I didn’t want a family. I told Gilly I thought she should…”
What? Have the problem taken care of? How do you say that when the problem is sitting there looking at you with tears on her face?
“I gave her money. To go to Auckland. To a clinic. To get an abortion. She said she would, but I’m sure she never intended—”
“Why would she say it if she never meant to?” The tiny liquid tremor in her voice is like something sharp between his ribs.
“Because she only wanted me to stay if I wanted to, not because she asked me to. Not because I felt like I should.”
She begins to cry freely now, like a child. He makes himself watch her. He grits his teeth against the meaningless words of explanation and comfort that might spill out. When he leans towards her, she says, “And why did she never tell me that later on?”
“Because she didn’t want you to grow up hating your father. Skye, I’m so sorry.”
She scrambles to her feet and walks back down the path. He watches her climb in the driver’s side and, after only a second’s hesitation, start the car and pull out onto the empty road.
He’s hitchhiked this road before. One short ride, then a long one returns him to the State Road near Hawke’s Bay and it’s beginning to rain again. He walks back to the farm. It’s late and he’s soaked to the skin when Gillian answers his knock. He sets down his sopping bundle.
“Can I talk to her? Just for a minute.”
“You just had to tell her.” She says it calmly, without obvious emotion, but he can feel the cold eddies beneath the surface.
“She wanted the truth. I couldn’t lie to her.”
“Ah well, now we’re suddenly noble. You lie about everything else, all your whole, goddamned life. Selfish lies. What’s one more if it would spare her the pain of knowing you wanted her dead?”
“I didn’t want her dead, for God’s sake—”
“Shut up! Haven’t you done enough?”
“Gillian—”
“Derek was the one who loved her, changed her dirty diapers, played in the mud, took her to school. Then you come riding in like the white knight and sweep her off her feet and break her heart. Just go away and leave us alone. Just go.”
That night, with his bag packed and s
itting on the table, he falls asleep and dreams.
Wyn and Gillian sitting at a kitchen table, heads together, two cups of tea before them. Wyn’s reddish porcupine to Gilly’s sleek dark ferret. They’re laughing in that way that women do—and smoking cigarettes, which is weird, because neither of them smokes. Suddenly he wakes to the smell of smoke. He’s on his feet with the lamp on before he realizes that Skye is sitting on the couch, tin ashtray balanced on her knee, puffing awkwardly but vigorously.
He rubs his eyes. “I didn’t know you smoked.”
“I thought I’d try it,” she says. “It’s not very tasty, is it?”
“No. Not really.” He pulls on jeans and a flannel shirt and sits down on the bed.
She stubs out the cigarette and looks at his duffle bag, open on the table. “Are you going?”
“I think it’s time.”
“I read the book,” she says.
He notices then that she’s holding the copy of Accident of Birth, hugging it against her stomach.
“It made me cry.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“It’s all true?”
“More orderly than real life, but essentially…” He runs a hand through his hair. “You think writing’s going to help you understand. You hope it’ll be cathartic. So you can stop thinking about it, stop dreaming about it. But it doesn’t do any of that.”
“So why write it?”
He shrugs. “I’m not sure. Maybe you have to. Maybe it’s like the cork in the bottle. You have to get it out before you can pour anything else.”
“Will you sign it for me?” She holds up a pen.
He moves over to sit beside her, takes the book and opens it to the title page.
For Skye Marie
He rolls the pen back and forth between his fingers. There’s a thickness behind his eyes and his throat is tight.
My lovely daughter
Tears are sliding down her cheeks, wetting the front of her shirt. She says, “I don’t care what you did. I don’t care who said what and I don’t care whether you knew. I love you. Do you love me?”
“Yes—“ he nearly chokes. “I don’t even know how to say it or what to do.”
“You don’t have to do anything. Just be there when I call you on the phone. Let me come visit you. Talk to me. I need to know who you are.”
She sits beside him on the dusty, sprung couch with its ugly blue plaid slipcover, resting her head against his shoulder. He holds her, strokes the silky hair so much like his own. He holds her while the jerky sobs become slower, the gulps become shallow breaths and the darkness outside the window turns to silver.
He feels the hard place in his chest go slack.
His heart is breaking and for once he’s going to let it.
nineteen
Wyn
The island is beautiful now, the leaves underfoot, the bits of blue sky overhead, the cool mornings, the damp afternoon chill. Living in Southern California, you sometimes don’t notice fall until it’s almost over. Here, it’s obvious and intense, lovely and sad.
It’s also been mostly a blur because of frantic preparations for Halloween. The thing has taken on a life of its own, which is what you always hope for. It’s been so long since I’ve been involved in anything like this that I’d forgotten how mighty a small but motivated group of volunteers can be. Sarah is clearly well loved by everyone who knows her, which includes many of the full time Orcas residents, as well as summer people, who know her from the farmers’ market.
Ivy Jacobsen has turned out to be the irresistible force, and any immovable objects have been swept aside. She has recruited two other women to the cause and between them they’ve brought in a tidy little trove of arts and crafts, gift certificates, tickets and passes for various events. Through her tour company, she’s friends with the GM at Rosario, and she persuaded him to offer a weekend stay in one of the resort condos.
Because the café is so small, we’ve branched out into tenting the patio and she got that donated, too, as well as some friend of hers picking up the liquor tab, which is truly amazing. Tickets to the party itself sold out mid-month, and rather than turn locals away, Ivy and her buddies have set up two auxiliary parties in private homes. Three other restaurants are providing food, which is good, because, formidable as he is, I don’t think Alex could have done it all.
Rocky Whalen, the former mayor, is like the character in the movie that the hero calls on to get seemingly impossible tasks accomplished. He’s our go-to guy for permits and contracts and insurance. He also convinced the movie theatre to donate the proceeds from a special screening of The Rocky Horror Picture Show by promising to attend dressed as Dr. Frank N Furter. His son, Rocky Jr., who’s in graduate school, has volunteered to handle the on-line bids for the auction, and his wife Ava is coordinating all the decorations.
By the third week in October, my work is pretty much done. The volunteers have taken over and I’m reduced to maintaining the Excel spreadsheet that tracks all activities, expenses and income.
The morning of the party, Alex is making breakfast for us while I sit on the counter by the stove, reading aloud from his new copy of Kitchen Confidential by Anthony Bourdain. Alex alternates between shaking his head and roaring with laughter at some of the more outrageous parts.
“Is all that stuff true?’ I ask after a particularly raunchy passage.
“In some kitchens, sure. I worked at one place like that in my wild and crazy days. Boniface. It’s not there anymore. I always wonder what happened to those guys.”
“They’re probably either dead or in rehab.”
He turns on the flame under a sauté pan and tosses in a knob of butter, tilting the pan from side to side.
The stove is so hot that the butter’s foaming as soon as it melts. He tosses chopped garlic into the pan and the air is instantly full of one of my favorite smells.
He throws a few handfuls of spinach in with the garlic. After a very few seconds, it’s slightly wilted and he pushes it to the outer edges of the pan leaving space for four eggs. “Can you drop a couple pieces of bread in the toaster?”
In five minutes we’re sitting at the table. In front of us are two plates of jewel green spinach topped by two perfect sunny-side-up eggs with deep golden yolks. A few crumbles of goat cheese softening on top and a piece of warm whole wheat toast on the side.
The combination of warm egg yolk and spinach is like swallowing silk. I stop eating for a minute just to enjoy the sensation.
“I love this goat cheese.”
“It’s from Windward Farms over on Lopez. I’m going over there when we get back from Vancouver. You should come with me.”
I press a piece of the cheese with my fork and deposit it on my tongue. It has an elusive quality to it, mildly tangy and sweet at the same time, and super creamy.
“Are you dressing up for the party?” I ask him.
“Ivy thinks I should. She wants me to go as Arlo Guthrie. You know that old song…”
“Alice’s Restaurant.”
“Yeah, that’s it. This woman wrote a riff on it a couple years ago. Alex’s Restaurant.”
“I heard it once.”
“What are you going to wear?”
“I’m not going.” Sometimes you say things that you don’t realize are true until you hear your own voice. That’s when I realized it was always true. I never intended to go.
It’s quiet for a minute, then he says, “Why?”
I look up into his dark eyes. “Because I can’t. It just feels wrong. This is not the time for me to be going to parties.”
“But it was your idea—”
“No, it was your idea.”
“Well, just the beginning. You came up with all the cool stuff, you planned the whole thing—”
“It was for Sarah. Everything’s under control now. I don’t need to be there.”
“I want you to be there. I want to introduce you to—”
“Alex, that’s exactly wh
y I can’t do it. Don’t you understand?”
“In a word, no.”
My eyes are welling up, and I have to wait before I can say, “It’s the end.”
“We’re still going to Vancouver. Right?”
“Yes, but that’s just you and me. And as soon as we get back I have to leave.”
“You said the week before Thanksgiving—”
“I said the week before Thanksgiving is the beginning of our busiest time. I can’t wait till then to go back. I’ve got…things to do. To get ready.”
“Okay.” He gets up and pulls on his jacket.
“Alex, I’m just—”
“We’ll talk about it later.” He picks up his keys off the counter. “I’ve gotta go meet Ivy.”
He doesn’t quite slam the door.
I sit still for a minute, my appetite gone. Isn’t this what always happens? No matter how careful you are, how honest you try to be, somebody ends up getting hurt or pissed off. Usually both.
As penance I clean up the kitchen before I get in the car and head back to my place.
Just as I’m unlocking my front door, my cell phone beeps that I have a message. I call voice mail and hear Tyler’s voice, slightly breathless.
“Hey, jefe. Just wanted to let you know we’re all okay, so don’t worry. I’ll call you later.”
I stand there, staring at the phone, feeling a slow chill steal up the back of my neck. We’re all okay?
I plug in my computer and dial up the internet. After an interminable wait, it opens to CNN and I see the headline.
5.8 Temblor Rattles L.A.
I’m first car in line for the early ferry. I spent all day yesterday cleaning the house and packing and at 4 this morning I locked the door, tossed my suitcase in the trunk and headed for the landing. A light rain is falling and the road gleams wet and black as I wind down the hill. The streets of the village are empty and I avoid looking at the café. I considered calling Alex, but I didn’t want to wake him. I didn’t call him last night because I knew things would be crazy. And he didn’t call me. Still angry, I guess. I’ll call him when I get to Seattle.
When I finally reached Tyler yesterday she was nonchalant.
Baker's Blues Page 23
