by T. Greenwood
“Okay,” Daddy said. “Let’s go.”
“Fuck you,” said Tube Top, and then she splashed the Long Island Iced Tea in Daddy’s face. Eddie Grand, who had been in the bathroom for almost half an hour, came out then and seeing Daddy standing there dripping wet, escorted the two women out the front door.
“Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!” Benny screamed, now happy, now jumping up and down.
“Shhh,” Eddie said as Daddy disappeared into the kitchen. “Come on, Benny, sit down.”
“You won, Indie?” Benny asked, cocking his head and looking at me. All the mad was gone from his eyes. “You won the pot?”
And I hated Benny. I hated him more than I hated Ma sometimes. I hated him even as I put the envelope with the winnings in my underwear drawer and put the little silver trophy on my shelf. Because I knew that she would have scratched anyway. I had seen it in the way her stick was aimed too high. That’s what happened when you were careless with an easy shot. It didn’t take a retard screaming to make that happen.
Home. Chuck Moony picked us up at the airport, bringing a paper bag with two live lobsters wriggling inside. We squeezed into the cab of Chuck’s truck, and I held the lobsters on my lap.
“I figured they probably didn’t have lobsters out there in the desert,” Chuck said, starting up the truck.
“Nope,” I smiled, peering into the bag. They were good-size ones. Probably two- or three-pounders.
It was almost twilight by the time we pulled into our driveway. My knees felt like liquid as I climbed up the porch steps. Jessica was in the window, staring out at us. Chuck was still in the truck, the engine still running.
“What are you doing?” Peter asked, leaning into the driverside window. “Come help us eat some of this lobster.”
He was afraid to be alone with me.
“Nah,” Chuck said, shaking his head.
“What’s Leigh up to tonight?” Peter asked.
“She’s over to her mother’s house. Planning the baby shower with her sisters. I think it’s a little early, but they don’t seem to think so.”
“Then come in and help melt the butter. Indie always burns it,” Peter laughed, opening up Chuck’s door.
“Don’t you guys want some alone time?” I heard Chuck whisper.
“Stay for dinner,” he said.
There was a little bit of snow on the woodpile and in the boughs of the trees, but it hadn’t gotten cold enough yet to really stick. We didn’t usually get our first big snowstorm until after Thanksgiving. The cold air had loosened the lock and my key, which was usually fussy, slipped right in.
The house smelled deserted. It felt as if we’d been away for a year instead of for just a couple of weeks. I’d forgotten the way a place as familiar as your own home can seem foreign and abstract after even a short absence. The proportions of this kitchen were different from Ma’s. The darkness of late afternoon even darker. I turned on the light over the kitchen table and set the lobster bag down. Jessica jumped off the windowsill and went straight to her food bowl, meowing.
“Hold your horses,” Peter said, reaching into the cupboard for the box of cat food.
“I fed her this morning already,” Chuck said, closing the door behind him.
“Manipulative little wench,” Peter said, rubbing Jessica’s back. Her spine raised up in response, her tail curling upward.
The hairs on the back of my neck bristled.
“I started a fire too, but it feels like it’s gone out,” Chuck said, rubbing his hands together and blowing into them.
“I’ll go get some wood,” I said, glad to leave the stagnant air of the cabin for the familiar woodsy smells of early winter outside. I picked a few good-size logs from the woodpile and carried them back into the kitchen. Chuck was still standing in the doorway.
“Excuse me,” I said, and he stepped to the side to make room for me. “Take your coat off, Moony. Stay awhile.”
Chuck untied his work boots and slipped them off at the door. His wool socks were mismatched and stretched-out at the toes. He yanked at the heels and then padded across the kitchen to the table, where I had set the lobsters down. He peered into the bag and pulled out one large lobster. It moved slowly, hindered by the bands around its claws.
“Anybody want a drink?” I asked, reaching for a dusty bottle of bourbon in the cupboard over the sink.
“Pete used to hate lobsters,” Chuck said to me, grinning. “Remember, Pete?”
“Nope, don’t remember,” Peter said.
“Hated ’em.” Chuck nodded and winked at me.
“I’m having a drink. Anybody else?”
“Beer,” Chuck said.
Peter shook his head.
“The day that Liz and Gary moved into the house up the road from us, I was so excited that there might finally be a kid my age in the neighborhood, I spent the whole day riding my bike back and forth in front of their house trying to get a peek in the windows.”
“It was a scooter,” Peter said and sat down at the table, staring at his hands.
“I never had a scooter,” Chuck said, shaking his head, cracking open his beer.
“Moony, it was a scooter.”
“Whatever, anyway I was just thrilled about there being another kid to play with. But the first time I saw Pete, I almost turned my bike around and went home.”
“Scooter,” Peter said wearily.
“Why?” I asked, taking a big swallow of bourbon.
“Complete geek,” Chuck said. “He was helping his dad unload some boxes from the back of their truck, and his face was all red, and he had these dorky glasses, duct tape holding them together or something.”
“It was hot and my glasses were not held together with duct tape, thank you very much.”
“Paper clip, scotch tape, who cares. Point is, I knew this was the last kid I needed to buddy up to. It was the summer before seventh grade. End of summer and I hardly needed to start junior high with this goon as my new friend.”
“Thanks,” Peter said.
“So I turn my bike around and ride all the way home.”
“Scooter.”
“Bike. But when I get there, my dad is just coming home from the docks and he’s got a bag full of lobsters. Bring these up to our new neighbors, he says. And my ma’s standing there with her hands on her hips waiting for me to take the blueberry cobbler she made with my other hand. There wasn’t any saying no to my pop, so I took the grocery bag and the cobbler and walked out the door.
“I thought for a second about dumping the lobsters over the cliffs near our house, but I knew there was no way to get rid of the blueberry cobbler without my Ma sniffing it out. So I started to trudge up the hill to Pete’s house. Well, it’s Liz that answers the door, of course, and next thing I know she’s got a pot pulled out of a box and is boiling water for the lobsters on the stove. And Pete has lured me up to his room to show me some bug collection or some such thing . . .”
“Shortwave radio,” Peter said, crossing his arms and laying his head on the table, only one eye on Chuck.
I finished the glass and poured another shot. My insides were warm.
“Whatever. And then we’re sitting at their kitchen table and Gary’s talking to me about my Dad’s boat and Liz is unwrapping the cobbler. I remember they had this classical music on really loud. Mozart or something.”
“Beethoven.”
“Anyhow, Liz puts a big lobster on each of our plates, and Pete just stares at it. A fisherman’s kid, and he won’t eat seafood. Too messy. You know how Liz is about company, though. If I’d brought live frogs over for dinner, she would have made him eat them.
“Finally Liz gives him one of her looks and Pete knows he’s in trouble unless he opens that thing up pretty soon. So he cracks it open, and its insides go splat all over his glasses. All green. Looked like throw-up.”
“All right, enough,” Peter said, lifting his head.
“He’s staring at me through that green mess like it’
s my fault or something,” Chuck said.
I laughed.
“Just about cried. He wouldn’t even wear that pair of glasses afterwards. Turned out to be a blessing though. Between ditching the nerd glasses and hanging out with ol’ Moony for a couple of weeks, I had him all uncorked by the time school started. If it hadn’t been for me he’d have spent the whole school year dusting his bug collection.”
“Shortwave radio. And you rode a scooter, Moony.”
Then, quietly, Chuck and Peter started to make dinner. It looked as if they’d done this a thousand times. It was so easy between them. Like brothers. I felt my heart pull with each easy gesture. I kept swallowing from my glass, softening each pang with bourbon.
“You guys going up to Bar Harbor for Thanksgiving?” Chuck asked.
Peter turned to look at me, his face a soft question mark. “I think we’ll do it here this year,” he said. “Esmé might come down. What are you and Leigh doing?”
“We were going to go to her folks’ house, but they decided to go to Florida this year.”
“Why don’t you come have dinner with us?” Peter asked. “Leigh hasn’t been over for ages.”
I imagined us sitting at the table trying to find something to talk about.
“Leigh makes amazing mashed potatoes. Lots of garlic,” Chuck said.
Peter nodded, “I’ll do the turkey and pies.”
“I’d offer to help with the turkey, but you know how anal repulsive he is,” Chuck said, winking at me.
“You mean anal retentive?” Peter asked.
“Repulsive, retentive, whatever. I’ll let you deal with that bird, Martha Stewart.”
They boiled the lobsters in Peter’s silver pot, and I opened up a can of green beans. There wasn’t any fresh food in the house; Peter had been careful to get rid of anything that would spoil while he was gone. Chuck had also brought a loaf of bread from the Swan and two sticks of butter. Chuck and I tore our lobsters apart, divided up the claws and tails, and deposited the clean white meat on Peter’s plate. Peter picked up his fork. He ate one bite of lobster first, then speared his beans, then tore of a small piece of bread. Lobster, beans, bread.
I was suddenly starving. I couldn’t seem to eat fast enough. Butter dripped down my hands first and then down my arms. I wiped the back of my hand across my mouth and sucked on the legs and claws until the meat slithered out in clean white pieces. It was so salty, and the more I ate, the thirstier I got. I knew I was getting drunk, but I didn’t care.
I looked at Peter’s plate. Lobster, beans, bread.
Chuck dipped everything in butter: lobster meat, his hunk of bread, a forkful of green beans. He had crumbs and glistening butter in his beard.
Peter finished and folded his napkin into quarters, setting it in the middle of the plate. There were empty red shells in front of me, butter in yellow pools. Peter stood up and carried his plate to the sink quietly. He turned and reached for ours.
“Leave them until tomorrow?” I said, grabbing his wrist.
He looked at my hand.
“Please?”
He pulled away, and it felt like a slap.
“Fine,” I said, standing up. I was dizzy, my head was thick. “You stay here and clean. Moony and I will go catch the last of the sunset.” I reached for Chuck’s arm, noticing how much hairier and thicker it was than Peter’s.
“You need any help?” Chuck asked.
“No, go ahead. Get some fresh air,” Peter said.
I scowled at him and grabbed my coat.
Chuck shrugged his shoulders and I handed him his jacket. I went back into the kitchen and found a flask someone had given to Peter for Christmas years ago, filling it with the last of the bourbon. I stuffed it into my coat pocket and pulled Chuck’s hand.
The woods behind the house are thick, but there is an old logging road that leads straight through them to a small pond about a mile away. We trudged through the mud and new snow along the ruddy path.
Chuck pulled his hat down over his ears. Inside I was warm with bourbon, but I could feel the wind rushing through the deep canals of my ears and settling there, making my head ache. I wrapped my scarf around my neck and up over my ears, but the wind still found its way through the porous fabric.
“You okay?” Chuck asked as we reached the pond’s edge.
“What do you mean?”
Chuck shrugged.
I walked to the edge of the pond and tested the ice with the toe of my boot. It wasn’t cold enough yet to make the ice strong. One step would send me into the cold water. I stepped away from the ice and sat down on the embankment, staring westward to where the sun was almost finished with its orangey pink descent behind the hills. It would be dark soon. It would be too dark to find our way home.
“Good to be back?” Chuck asked.
I shrugged.
I pulled the flask from my coat and unscrewed the cap. I took a sip, letting the fire spread across my cold lips. I offered the flask to Chuck, but he shook his head.
Wind blew across the pond, making small tornados of snow on the surface. I could feel the bourbon in my throat and chest.
“Were you ever mad at your dad?” I asked, pulling my hands inside the sleeves of my coat. “When he . . .”
Chuck’s eyes opened wide and he looked out toward the water blankly.
“I’m mad at my mother,” I said. It felt good. “I’m pissed as hell.” I could have screamed it into the trees.
Chuck was still staring at the sun. It colored his freshly shaven face in pinks and orange.
“She fucked everything up. She always fucked everything up.” I could feel the warmth of bourbon behind my eyes.
Chuck yanked his hat further down over his ears.
“Peter, Peter is so . . .” I said, liquor buzzing in my ears. “He just doesn’t know. He hasn’t . . . you know?” I nodded, remembering. My throat was thick. “Everything is so tidy for him. So clean.”
Chuck took my hand and looked at it as if it weren’t a hand at all but something fascinating. A miniature teacup, or a strange bird.
He spoke softly, his breath warm in the cold air between us. “I was mad. At my pop. I was mad at her too, I think. For dying. For making him so sad that he’d do what he did.”
My heart beat hard in my chest; it felt like I’d accidentally swallowed a cough drop whole. He understood. He knew what it felt like to be broken.
I reached for him. Drunk. And pulled him close to me. I reached with everything I had to offer, searching for something he couldn’t possibly give. But the moment that I felt the new stubble of his cheeks touch my lips I started to cry. He pulled away from me sharply, leaving me leaning toward him.
“We best get back to the house,” he said, standing up abruptly.
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled. I pressed my palm into the sharp pine needles carpeting the forest floor.
“S’okay,” he said, offering his hand to help me up. The sun had set behind us. It was dark, but Chuck knew the way back. He led and I followed his silhouette in front of me, leading the way. And in the cold darkness, the ache in my ears spread down my spine, into my knees and my ankles. My wrists and my empty hands.
Peter had finished washing and drying the dishes already. The discarded shells were on top of the nearly frozen compost pile. Everything was bright in the kitchen. Everything was clean.
“Give Leigh a smooch,” Peter said, seeing Chuck out the door.
I watched them through the window.
Peter didn’t come back inside until after Chuck had pulled out of the driveway. He was shivering when he came back in.
“Hi.” He smiled.
He reached out for my hand tentatively, and I accepted it. And then I followed him, up the stairs to the bedroom where we curled around each other in our familiar bed. I tried not to think about Chuck, about the sharp sting of pine needles in my hands. I tried to concentrate on the way Peter’s chest rose and fell in a rhythm that was perfect and predictable.
Peter was sitting at the edge of the bed, with the phone to his ear. He was pulling on a pair of long johns and wool socks.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, pushing against the heaviness of sleep and quilts, trying to make sense of the shadows in the room.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Just hang on,” Peter said and hung up the phone.
“What’s going on?” I asked. My heart was thudding hard in my chest, as if I’d been running instead of sleeping.
“It’s Leigh,” he said. “She just lost the baby.”
We were the only car on the road. It was three o’clock in the morning, and for a moment it felt like we were only driving to the café to start baking bread and muffins. But by the time we got to the hospital, I wasn’t able to trick myself anymore. The hospital lights glowed green on Peter’s skin as he walked purposefully across the parking lot to the emergency room entrance.
Chuck was standing outside, smoking a cigarette. His boots were untied, his wool hat sitting crooked on his head. When he saw us coming, he snubbed the cigarette out with his boot and reached for Peter. Peter held on to him, patting his back with both gloved hands. I stood quietly watching.
Peter stepped back, still holding on to Chuck’s arms. “How’s Leigh?”
“Okay, I guess. They had to do a D and C; she’s pretty groggy.” Chuck shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at his feet. “It happened on the way home from her ma’s house. She could have been in an accident. I shouldn’t have let her go by herself.”
I shook my head and reached for Chuck’s arm. “It’s not your fault. . . .”
At the same time Peter put his arm around Chuck’s shoulder and steered him toward the door. I stood there with my arm outstretched toward nothing. I walked behind them. Followed them. Matched my footsteps to theirs, identical on the white tiled floor.
