by T. Greenwood
I went inside the cafeteria and poured a cup of coffee from the silver canister, shaking clumpy powdered creamer into the paper cup. I scanned the steam table looking for pancakes. I’d been wrong. There was only baked egg and vegetable casserole, shriveled bacon and donuts. I took my coffee outside, sat down on the porch steps, and lit a cigarette.
A guy in a tall white chef ’s hat and apron rolled a block of ice out of the kitchen’s back door and into the parking lot. He was tall and thin. The white chef uniform was too big for him. When he took off his hat, I could tell that he was also a college kid. A summer employee like me. The Birches advertised at all of the northern New England colleges. I’d torn the number off the sign from a bulletin board in the English building.
He went back into the kitchen and came out with a chain saw. He pulled the goggles that were hanging around his neck up to his eyes, leaned over, and pulled the cord until the chain saw roared. He could have been chopping wood; there was nothing delicate about this. But instead of wood chips, slivers of ice flew off the block. He circled the ice, revving the chain saw and whittling away at it until its edges were rounded and almost smooth. He turned the chain saw off and inspected the ice, touching the edges with a gloved hand. I was fascinated.
When he turned the chain saw back on, he began to make small strikes at the ice, touching it with the blade and then moving away. Each touch evoked a new angle, a new sharp edge in the ice. Precise and certain. There was no hesitation, only the quick agile movements of his wrist and the trembling machine in his hands. I rested my chin in my hand and watched.
The block of ice was now split halfway down the middle, two triangular points reaching upward from the rounded center. He made three more circles around the table and then turned the chain saw off. Then he pulled a metal pick out of his apron pocket. The sunlight caught in its sharp edge for a moment and found me, blinding me, on the porch. When he moved his wrist, I could see again, and in the now-quiet parking lot, he began to whittle the ice.
For almost an hour he chipped away. His concentration was absolute, his movements ginger but exact. From each tick-tick of the pick against the ice emerged another minute detail. Soon, the cold arch of a neck. Its head lowered, but its posture almost arrogant. Transparent but remarkably strong wings beat underneath his fingers until the swan ascended from the center of the table.
I set my coffee cup down as he pulled the goggles back down around his neck and began to roll the table back toward the kitchen door. I stood up and ran toward him.
“Hey,” I said just as he was about to close the door.
“Yeh?”
“That was amazing,” I said. “What you just did.”
He pushed the table into the kitchen and one of the chefs took it from him.
“Thanks, Peter,” the chef said.
“No problem.” Peter smiled.
He closed the door and stepped back outside with me. Beneath a mop of black hair, his eyes were the same blue as the lake.
“I mean,” I said. “I’ve never seen how they’re made before. I guess I thought they came from a mold or something.” Lunch was always a buffet. Every day for two weeks, in the center of the silver platters of cold cuts and cheese and fruit, a swan sat perched in a lake of parsley and spinach and chard. I had only seen the finished product. I’d never seen its birth.
He nodded and put his hands in his pocket.
“My name’s Indie,” I said, reaching out to him.
His eyes brightened and he took his hand out of his pocket to shake my mine. “Indie, like indie-pendent?” he asked.
“Sure.” I smiled and shrugged.
“That’s a great name.” His cheeks were flushed pink from working next to the cold ice.
“Thanks,” I said.
“I’ve got to get back to work,” he said, reaching for the door.
I felt my heart sink a little, and I stared at my feet. Kicked a piece of gravel.
“I’ll see ya,” he said and stepped into the doorway.
“Hey,” I said after him. “What happens to them afterwards?”
He raised an eyebrow.
“To the swans?”
“They melt,” he said, shrugging.
“Oh.”
He looked at me for a minute and then grinned. “They let them melt in a giant silver box, which they freeze again. That’s where the ice comes from.” He winked and started to close the door. “It’s the same swan. My job is just to find it every day.”
Leaving was easy. Before we went to bed, Peter and I locked all the windows, unplugged all of the appliances, and pulled the blinds. When we got up the next morning to catch the early bus to Phoenix, it was still dark outside, and closing the door was simple. Peter locked the deadbolt and put the key in his pocket. I stared straight ahead at the road where the taxi’s headlights were shining like dull stars fallen to the ground.
“Ready Freddy?” he asked, opening the cab door for me.
I nodded, handing the cab driver my suitcase and the box of Ma’s junk. He put both in the trunk along with Peter’s bags and then he got in and drove us to the bus station.
Rich had asked us to come by the house in Phoenix before we left. I didn’t want to see Lily again. I didn’t think I could bear to look at her hands, not now that I knew what they were capable of. I had been telling myself I must have imagined everything. I must only have still been dreaming about seeing Ma in Lily’s face. But there was desperation in Rich’s voice. A high-wire voice, the voice of someone teetering high above the world, staring down at the threatening ground. I reluctantly agreed, But only for a minute, and he, relieved, said he’d pick up some Chinese, that we could have an early lunch.
I used to get carsick, nausea in sick waves every time I was in a car or bus. I hadn’t felt that way since I was a child, though. I thought I’d gotten over it, grown out of it at least. But as the bus lurched out of the station and the diesel fumes reached my nose, I felt the familiar roiling of my stomach and I reached to turn the vent over my head.
“You okay?” Peter asked. “You look a little green.”
I nodded and leaned my head against the cold glass of the window, riding the waves of nausea with my eyes closed. When we stopped at the casino to pick up a load of passengers, I nudged Peter and said, “I’ve got to get off. Just for a second.”
We only had a few minutes, but I felt suddenly panicky, as if my life depended on getting off the bus. I pushed past the other passengers to get to the door.
“I’ll just be a minute,” I said to the driver and walked quickly down the steps outside.
The air was not as brisk as I had hoped it would be. I put my hands on my hips and walked back and forth as if I were trying to walk off a cramp. The ocean of nausea had followed me, though, and the still ground beneath my feet didn’t feel still at all. The only other time I felt this way was once when we spent a day with Peter’s father on his boat. We’d been out during a terrible storm, and I could feel the storm in my legs for the rest of the day.
I walked back to the bus and leaned my head in.
“Excuse me, I need to run into the gift shop and get some Dramamine. Can you wait just a couple of seconds?” I asked the bus driver.
He looked at me and shook his finger.“This bus pulls out in three minutes, ma’am.”
“I’ll be right back,” I said, swimming through the waves to the front doors of the casino. It was just past dawn, but there were several people sitting wide-eyed and alert at the slot machines, cups of coffee perched next to their plastic cups of quarters. It looked like Christmas inside the casino. Like an electric parade.
I found a gift shop near the entrance and went straight to the cashier. An old Native American woman was manning the register. Her face looked like a baked potato, dark and deeply lined. She was wearing a T-shirt with the casino’s name in glittery letters across her chest, a squash-blossom necklace heavy around her neck.
“Excuse me, do you sell Dramamine?” I asked.
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She turned to the shelf behind the counter and pulled down a box. “You sick to your stomach?” she asked.
I nodded grimly.
“Lots of people get sick inside here. All the lights, I think,” she smiled. “These are the chewable kind. My kids like these the best. Eat them up like candy.”
“Thank you,” I said, shoving a five-dollar bill across the counter and tearing at the cardboard box. I popped the pink pills out of their plastic bubbles and into my mouth. The taste of childhood middle-of-the-night stomachaches filled my mouth.
When I got outside, my head was still spinning with the sounds and lights of the casino, but it was still and quiet, the silence of an early, high-desert morning. Peter was standing outside with the bus driver. He must have convinced him to wait. He shook his hand and muttered, “Thanks,” before he followed me onto the bus.
“You okay?” he asked. He had also gotten a pillow and a scratchy blanket from the driver and had made the seat up like a bed for me.
I felt suddenly too tired to resist his kindness, and slept the rest of the way with my head in his pillowed lap.
Phoenix was still unseasonably hot. My body took the shock of the heat like a punch in the stomach. The Dramamine had made me sleepy, but I woke up feeling almost as sick as before, and the blast of hot air that hit when we stepped off the bus downtown almost knocked me over.
Rich was waiting at the bus station for us with Violet and her stroller.
“You look terrible,” he said.
“I think I need to barf,” I grimaced.
“You can barf at the house, just not on me. Violet’s already done that today.” He motioned to a wet shoulder.
“It’s a deal,” I said, and he took my bags from me.
When we got to Rich and Lily’s house, remarkably, I started to feel better. The artificial air felt good this time. Clean and pure. I took a deep breath and let it fill my lungs.
Lily was in the kitchen, writing on a yellow legal pad. There were Chinese food cartons all around her. The smell of lo mein made my stomach flip-flop again.
“Hi,” she said, looking up from the list. “Thanksgiving. Can you believe it’s almost here already?” There was nothing in her expression to acknowledge what had happened between us at Ma’s house.
Rich carried Violet’s car seat into the kitchen and set her on the table. She was fast asleep, her eyes flickering beneath their lids in a dream.“Okay, Bunk,” he said, lifting her heavy body out of the seat. “Off to bed for you.”
Lily stared at the legal pad.
“What are you making?” Peter asked, sitting down next to Lily.
“The usual stuff,” she smiled. “This is my first time. Usually we go to Ma’s house.” She stared at the legal pad. “I’ve never made Thanksgiving dinner.”
“I have a great recipe for oyster stuffing,” Peter said. “I’ll give it to you once we get home. My mother used to make it when we were growing up. Esmé called it ostrich stuffing. For some reason she didn’t have a problem eating ostrich, but she wouldn’t touch it if she’d known there were oysters in it.” He was trying to make her smile.
“Unfortunately, it’s not as easy to get good oysters in Phoenix as it is in Maine.” Lily frowned.
I stood in the kitchen doorway, waiting for something to explode.
Rich had gone to the nursery with Violet. I could hear her Pooh pull-toy playing the Winnie-the-Pooh song.
“I’ve got tons of recipes I can E-mail you if you want,” Peter said. “I could put together a menu for you if it might make things easier.”
My head was pounding.
“I’d like to have Thanksgiving at home this year, too,” I said suddenly.
“Really?” Peter asked.
We always went to Peter’s parents’ house for Thanksgiving. We’d leave before sunrise. Outside Peter would start the car and scrape the inevitable ice from the windshield while I stood inside watching him through the window. When the car was warmed up and the pies Peter had made were already in the backseat, he would motion for me to come, and I’d get in. He’d have brought my favorite tapes to listen to and would stop at the 7-Eleven for a cup of the hazelnut coffee that only I liked. The drive took three hours, and by the time we were close to Bar Harbor I could smell the ocean. I could practically taste the salt when I rolled down the window. Esmé would already be there, home from school for the long weekend. The entire house would smell of oyster stuffing and turkey and cloves.
“Yeh,” I said. “I really feel like staying home this year. Esmé can come down if she wants, but I’d like to stay home.” I looked at Peter, knowing that he loved spending the holidays with his family. I looked at him and waited for him to argue. To remind me that our little kitchen table wasn’t even big enough for three people. I waited for some spark of resistance or reluctance, but he only nodded.
“Good idea,” he said. “We can do it at home this year. That’ll be nice.”
I frowned and Lily said loudly, “I was thinking of making that lemon Jell-O mold that Ma used to make. The kind with Cool Whip.”
I stood up from the table. “I still feel a little sick. Can I use your bathroom?”
I left Lily and Peter in the kitchen and walked down the hall, passing by the nursery on the way. Rich was sitting in a rocking chair in the corner holding Violet, who was still sleeping.
“Hi,” I said softly.
“Hey.”
“How’s Violet?” I asked, reaching and touching her hair, which was beginning to grow in thicker.
“Good,” he whispered. “Look.”
I knelt down and looked at Violet’s small face. Her eyelashes were dark and long; her eyes closed gently.
“I’m taking a leave of absence from work,” Rich whispered. He rocked slowly back and forth in the rocking chair.
“For how long?”
He shrugged and tucked Violet’s blanket around her. “I suppose I could set up shop here, if I needed to. Just until everything settles down again.”
I took my hand away from his arm and picked up a stuffed bear that had fallen from Violet’s changing table. It looked like it had never been held.
“Last night she came in while I was feeding her,” Rich said, staring absently at the bear in my hands. “She just stood in the doorway watching. The hall light was shining through her nightgown, and I could see how small she was. Her hair was all mussed up, she was wiping her eyes, and standing there in her nightie, watching me. It was like looking at a little girl.”
Despite the chill in the air, I could feel cold beads of sweat running down my arms underneath my shirt.
“What happened to her?” Rich said, suddenly looking me in the eyes. “What did your mother do to her?”
I looked at Rich and then glanced down at the bear in my hands. My fingers were clutching the fur, trying to hold onto something as hard as I could. When I looked at Rich, his eyes were still pleading with me for answers. And for a moment, I almost felt like I could say the words that had piled up in so many unspoken syllables. As if the answers he wanted were right there, waiting only to be uttered.
I set the bear down and looked at Violet, sleeping in his arms. He wanted me to tell him that yes, all of this was Ma’s fault. That now that Ma was gone, the strange spell of medicine and poison and hands held over small mouths until breathing stopped would be broken. That Lily was free now, that Violet was safe. But what he didn’t understand, and I had no words to articulate, was that we inevitably inherit our mother’s gestures. The certain sway of hips or slow blink of an eye. The way of buttoning a child’s sweater or leaning into a man’s chest. What he didn’t understand was that the subtleties she passed on to us were what he should fear. That the simple way of telling a story before we turned off the light at night was more revealing than the way we held a child.
I leaned over and put my head between my knees to fight the waves rolling under my skin, in my blood.
“I can’t . . .” I said.
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sp; “It’s okay,” he said. “I shouldn’t have . . . I’m sorry. This isn’t your problem.” His voice was flat, almost angry.
I felt terrible, but there was no way to explain that silence is also inherited, that Lily wasn’t the only one with a legacy from Ma.
Lily didn’t want to come to the airport with us. She didn’t even argue when Rich strapped Violet into the car seat instead of leaving her at home. She stood in the doorway when we left, her face colorless in the sun. She shielded her eyes and watched us drive away, but she didn’t wave.
Rich dropped us off at the airport just before our flight was scheduled to take off. He knew that we didn’t want to sit in the airport longer than we had to. It would have given us too much time to think. We carried our luggage on, shoving it in what small spaces were left in the overhead compartments, despite the angry glares of the flight attendants, and sat down, exhausted, in our seats.
Peter and I pretended that we were not afraid of flying. But I could feel my heart thumping in my head even after we had risen through the white ceiling of clouds. And Peter would not open his eyes even after the seatbelt light went off. Miles above my old world, we pretended for each other that the possibility of falling did not exist.
FOUR
Cotton candy and caramel-apple fingers. Benny dropped his SnoCone on the pavement, and I offered him mine. I would have given him anything that night. It was warm, the sky teasing us, insinuating summer with bright sun all day and now, tonight, with the leftover glow of the first really hot day. School was out for the summer. Ma and Lily were gone for another whole week. And Daddy had paid five dollars for me to enter the pool tournament at Rusty’s.
Summer in Mountainview officially began with the carnival in the park. With the rickety Ferris wheel and trailers steaming and stinking of sausages and french fries and Indian fry bread. With another five dollars for Benny and me to share on anything we wanted. I told him I would hold on to the change. His pockets were always full of holes that led nowhere; the money was safer with me.
