by Mary McNear
“Hold on a second,” Cal said, taking an oven mitt from her and putting the pan back on the stove. He searched around, found a fork and knife, and tried to cut into its grizzled remains.
“What are you doing?” Billy asked.
“I’m tasting it,” he said. Before she could stop him, he’d hacked a piece of it off and popped it into his mouth. She watched while he chewed it patiently. He looked like a man eating something with the consistency of a car tire, but he didn’t give up. Eventually he swallowed. “I think . . . I think it’s a little well done,” he said.
Billy laughed. “Why did you do that?” she asked, still smiling.
“I thought it might make you laugh.”
“You were right. But, Cal?”
“Yes?”
“I can’t cook. I mean, at all. Even my scrambled eggs aren’t great. And I’ve never understood why it’s so difficult for me. How is it possible that someone who can read Anna Karenina for pleasure cannot follow a recipe?”
He smiled but didn’t answer her. He leaned down and kissed her. She tasted, at first, the cindery traces of the roast he had so gallantly sampled. But the kiss—which was not a polite kiss, a “don’t worry about burning our dinner” kiss, an “oh, cheer up, everything will be all right” kiss, but a full-blown seduction—soon made her forget about the roast. The only other time anyone had kissed her this way, she’d been a teenager, eighteen years old, and the next thing she’d known . . .
“Cal,” she said, pulling away from him. “What are we doing?”
“Kissing?” he answered, a slightly quizzical expression on his face.
“No, I mean . . .” And for some reason, she remembered one of the posters that lined the hallways at Luke’s school. “Actions have consequences,” it warned. Yeah, no kidding. Billy had a thirteen-year-old son to prove it. But it wasn’t getting pregnant she was worried about. She and Cal weren’t there yet, and even if they had been, she’d swallowed a birth control pill faithfully, as if it were a multivitamin, one a day, every day, since Luke was a year old. No, what she was concerned about was a different kind of consequence, a different kind of complication. She and Wesley had at least been unencumbered by other people when they met. She and Cal, on the other hand, not so much.
“Is everything okay?” he asked her now. “I mean, other than that roast?”
At that moment, though, there was a ping from her cell phone on the counter. “I’d better get that.” She reached for it. “It’s Luke,” she said, scanning his text. “Toby’s Dad is giving him a ride home now.”
She frowned and texted him back.
Billy: What about minigolf?
Luke: I changed my mind.
Billy: You told them you’d go with them.
Luke: That was before I remembered how lame it is.
Billy put her cell phone back down on the counter. “He’s coming home early,” she said to Cal.
And something about the way she said it made him ask, “Do you want me to go?”
“No,” she said. And then, almost immediately, “Yes. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. I told him you were coming tonight. I just—I just assumed you’d be gone by the time he got home.”
“No, I get it,” Cal said. “Really. I do. It’s fine.”
It wasn’t fine with Billy, who felt a sting of disappointment. She couldn’t tell how much of it was from the knowledge that Luke’s night with Toby had not been a success, and how much of it was from the knowledge that her night with Cal had been cut short. Either way, as she walked Cal to the front door, her sense of letdown was palpable.
“Thank you,” Cal said.
“For what?” she joked.
“For the company.”
She smiled, but then she turned serious. “Cal, things are complicated right now,” she said. “With my son, but with . . . me, too.”
He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead this time. “If things get less complicated, let me know. I can always burn you a dinner at my cabin.” He gave her one last smile. Billy watched him walk to his car, his ridiculously beautiful car, and then she went back inside and closed the door.
She had meant to make a start of cleaning the kitchen, but as she was throwing the roast away, she was reminded of Cal tasting it. It was rare that people surprised her; Cal had surprised her. Why had she said that, about things being complicated? It was true, of course, but did that preclude her from having fun occasionally? She didn’t want anything serious, but then, Cal probably didn’t, either. He didn’t even know how long he’d be here. So what was stopping her from having a little summer romance? Something discreet. Something light. Something fun. There was that word again. And she knew what Rae would say, and what her mom would say, too: she didn’t have enough of it.
CHAPTER 18
At eleven o’clock that night, it was still hot—hot enough for Billy to put ice cubes in the glass of chardonnay she’d poured for herself. This was a crime, she knew. The bottle Cal had brought earlier was so much better than anything she typically bought herself; it deserved to be served properly. Chilled and aerated and whatever else it was you were supposed to do to a good wine before you drank it. But this was no time to stand on ceremony, she’d decided. Damn it, she needed a drink. What’s more, she needed Jane Austen, needed her like never before. But when she’d finished the scene she’d been reading in Emma—for obvious reasons, she’d chosen the one in which Emma hosts the disastrous dinner party for Mr. and Mrs. Elton—she was disappointed. Usually Austen offered her some escapist relief from her life. Tonight it hadn’t done the trick. Instead she’d ended up staying out on the porch, staring off into the backyard and, as she’d so often done recently, trying to fathom the unfathomable person Luke had become.
Why, she wondered, had he wanted to come home early tonight? Was it because he knew she’d invited a man over? Had he wanted to interrupt their time together or, at the very least, cut it short? It was possible, she supposed. Especially since he’d never met Cal before. He was an unknown entity to Luke. But when she’d told Luke about him earlier in the day, about how she was having Allie Ford’s brother over for dinner, he’d seemed totally uninterested. Cal, on the other hand, had seemed completely captivated by Luke, or at least by his model town. In the past, the town had been something of a litmus test for Billy. If a newcomer to their house didn’t show some kind of admiration for it, or interest in it, she figured it was because they lacked imagination. Cal had not disappointed her here. She smiled now, remembering his enthusiasm for it. He’d acted like a big kid, and she wondered how long he would have stayed there, exploring it, if he hadn’t noticed that their dinner was burning.
Maybe . . . maybe Cal wasn’t the reason Luke had come home early, she thought. Maybe it was because it was hard for Luke to see Toby and his dad together. Of course, Luke loved Toby’s dad. Or had loved him. He was a nice guy, Billy thought, and the kind of father who slipped so easily into playing with his kids and their friends that Billy used to wonder who Luke had more fun with, Toby or Toby’s dad. And that’s why when Luke had made a disparaging comment when he got home tonight, something about how Toby and his dad were “acting like little kids,” it had surprised her. Was Luke jealous of this father-and-son dynamic? And was that why his new “friends” Van and J.P. either didn’t have fathers in their lives or had fathers who weren’t very present? Were these boys easier to be friends with?
She stared at the windows to Luke’s bedroom, which faced out onto the backyard, as if they might tell her something. But no, he was asleep; his room was dark and, except for the steady hum of the air conditioner, it was silent. The uneasiness she’d felt several weeks ago when Luke had mentioned not knowing his father returned to her now. With Pop-Pop gone, was Luke feeling the absence of his father more acutely? All of this made her think of a winter night fourteen years ago, when she was pregnant with Luke.
Billy hadn’t been able to sleep. She couldn’t get comfortable, for one thing—her pregnant b
ody felt huge—beyond huge, really—and the baby, whom she’d decided to name Luke, was so active that every time she managed to find a more promising position, he’d unleash another little flurry of kicks, some of them powerful enough to dimple the fabric of her maternity nightgown. Finally she gave up and went downstairs to sit at the kitchen table. There was a stack of books on it, books about pregnancy, delivery, and parenthood, that she’d been working her way through. She was of half a mind to read one now, but she ended up just sitting there, staring out the kitchen window onto the frozen front lawn. It was a bitterly cold December, and despite the fact that the heat was on, the cold pressed up against the kitchen windowpanes and nipped at Billy’s bare toes. Still she sat there. She was afraid. No, she was terrified. Who knew there were so many things that could go wrong being pregnant, giving birth, and raising a child? Not Billy, or at least not Billy before she’d read all of these books. Now, though, she had a whole catalog of things to be afraid of, some of which she might be able to anticipate, prevent, or remedy, and some of which, apparently, were completely beyond her control. She trembled a little—whether from the cold or the fear, she didn’t know—and that was how her father found her a few minutes later.
“Do you know what time it is?” he asked mildly, from the kitchen door.
“Late?” she suggested.
“It’s three A.M.”
“Did I wake you up?” she asked guiltily.
“No.” He sighed. “We seem to have an epidemic of sleeplessness in this house. Your mom is in bed, knitting, even as we speak.” And then he frowned slightly. “It’s cold in here.” He left, presumably to turn up the thermostat, and Billy heard their furnace clanging noisily as it pumped more warm air up through the heating vents. Soon, she knew, her toes would be toasty. She reached for one of the books in the stack, fully intending to read it, but when her dad came back into the kitchen, he swept up the stack of books and toted them away with him.
“Dad, where are you taking those?” she called after him as he opened the kitchen door that led to the garage.
“I’m throwing them away.”
“Dad!” Billy had a lifelong horror of books—any books—being thrown away.
He reappeared in the kitchen, closing the door behind him. “I didn’t throw them away,” he said. “I put them with the old paint cans. But you’re not reading them anymore.”
“Dad.”
“You know enough already,” he said, opening the refrigerator door.
“I don’t know anything,” Billy objected.
Her father ignored her. He removed a carton of milk. Moving to the cupboard, he found bread, peanut butter, and Marshmallow Fluff.
She watched as he poured two glasses of milk, but when she saw that he was making not one but two fluffernutter sandwiches (these had once been her favorite), she said, “Dad, I don’t eat those anymore. The Marshmallow Fluff, it’s probably bad for the baby.”
“He’ll survive,” he said, setting a glass of milk and a plate with a sandwich on it down in front of her. He sat across from her and bit into his own sandwich. “Not bad,” he said.
Billy took a tiny bite of hers, then a bigger one. They ate in silence, and here were all the things they did not say to each other:
Dad, I’m scared.
I know you’re scared. But you’re going to be fine.
I can’t do this.
Of course you can do this.
I feel so alone.
You’re not alone. Your mother and I are with you.
What if I’m a bad mother?
You won’t be. Just be yourself.
What if who I am isn’t good enough?
Who you are is just fine.
The kitchen was quiet except for the thrum of the furnace and the occasional clink of a glass as one of them set milk back down on the table.
“How’s the sandwich?” her dad asked as she bit into the second half of it.
She smiled. “It’s pretty good, actually.”
Billy shook herself out of this reverie. An almost imperceptible breeze stirred the thick, humid night air. It rustled—just barely—the leaves in the great red oak. Oh, I miss him, she thought. I miss him so much. And knowing how important her father had been to her, and how important he was still, it occurred to her now for the first time that in not telling Luke that she knew Wesley’s whereabouts, she was denying him the opportunity to have his own relationship with his father. Of course, even if Luke knew Wesley, he might never be as close to him as she had been to her father. Luke, after all, hadn’t grown up with Wesley. Then again, they would never know unless she told Luke about the unopened envelope. And here a thought crossed her mind that gave her no comfort. What if she told Luke that her father had given her Wesley’s contact information over a year ago and Luke, instead of being excited, was furious, furious that she hadn’t told him sooner? What if even telling him, at this point, entailed a loss of trust on his part? What if he couldn’t forgive her for keeping this secret from him? The truth was that Pop-Pop, the person Luke believed was perfect, or pretty close to it, had been the one to suggest that she put the envelope away, that she not disturb the balance of her and Luke’s life together. And she had agreed with him. Of course, a lot had changed since then . . .
And the person who she really wanted to talk to about all of this now was the one person she couldn’t talk to. Yes, she missed her dad. She missed his companionship, his presence, his steadiness, his humor. But what she really missed at this moment was his counsel. He would know what she should do about Luke, and about Wesley. He knew what was right. He’d always known what was right. Except . . . except if he were here now, she suddenly understood, he wouldn’t tell her what to do. He would trust her to decide instead. In her own way, and in her own time. She was Luke’s mother, after all, and they were their own family. Their own fragile, imperfect, and yet still complete family.
Murphy shifted at her feet. He looked hot, Billy thought sympathetically, fishing an ice cube out of her wine, shaking it off, and holding it out to Murphy. He gave it a few cursory licks. “Are you ready to go in?” she asked him, reaching for her copy of Emma and her watery white wine. She moved through the house, locking the front door and turning off lights. In two weeks she’d take Luke to North Woods Adventures. If they could survive until then without any major conflicts, well, she would make a decision about contacting Wesley while Luke was away. Maybe she’d go down to St. Paul, spend a couple of days with her mom, and talk it over with her, too. But one thing was clear: it was unlikely she’d be able to put this off until Luke was eighteen.
CHAPTER 19
Luke stood up and threw the stone he was holding overhand into the Kawashiwi River. It was a good throw, he thought. The stone almost made it to the other side before it disappeared into the dark water with a little plink. He heard it from all the way over here. Neither Van nor J.P. said anything, though. Van was eating Cheetos; J.P. was smoking a Camel.
Luke sat back down on the riverbank. It was steep here, about a hundred yards from the Route 10 overpass where they’d spray-painted the graffiti. Their tagging was gone now; someone had cleaned it off. Van and J.P. were supposed to have done it for their community service, but Officer Sawyer had decided it was too dangerous; he’d told them they’d have to volunteer at a food bank sometime instead. It didn’t sound that bad to Luke, but J.P. had still made a big deal out of it, like it would be so terrible to have to put cans of peas on a shelf or something.
Luke heard a rumble of thunder in the distance. There was a storm coming; he’d seen the weather alert on Margot’s iPhone. It was why she’d let him leave Nature Camp early today. Usually they did an outdoor activity before pickup—Margot liked to say she was doing the parents a favor by making their kids run around and tire themselves out—but today she’d been worried about lightning, and she’d had them all sit inside and watch a nature film called Wings of Life instead. Luke knew this movie. It was about butterflies, hummingbirds, and bees, a
nd he’d seen it about five times when he was a camper there. Right as it was starting, though, Margot came over to him and whispered, “Go. Now. Before you die of boredom.” And Luke had laughed. Because Margot was cool that way. He’d never tell Van or J.P. this, but he liked her. Liked hanging out with her. She was pretty old—in her midthirties, at least—and she wore socks with her sandals, which made Luke feel kind of embarrassed for her, but still, she could be fun.
After he’d left the Nature Museum, he’d gotten on his skateboard and headed over to the library, but then he’d changed his mind and went to the Quick and Convenient for a Sprite. That was where he’d seen Van and J.P. They were just kind of hanging out there. J.P. thought Jody, the girl who worked the register, liked him. But Luke doubted it. He’d seen them together, and he thought she was actually kind of rude to him. Luke didn’t know, though. Maybe this was how some girls flirted. Anyway, Van and J.P. had already been there for a while, because when Luke paid for his Sprite and left, they left, too, and Van asked him if he wanted to go down to the river with them. Luke still had a while before he had to be at the library, so he’d said okay, and he’d skateboarded, and they’d ridden their bikes, and here they were. It had been a little weird at first. It had been three weeks since Luke had seen them, and J.P. kept making fun of Luke’s “mommy,” and saying how Luke had to report to her all the time and get her permission to do everything. Luke had stayed, though, because J.P. had said he was going to leave soon to see Jody after her shift ended, and Luke thought maybe then he could talk to Van about other stuff, like his dad and Alaska and the plans he’d been making to find him there.
Luke picked up another stone and started to throw it, but some kayakers were passing, so he waited. J.P. and Van talked about how cool their Fourth of July was; they’d set off a bunch of their own fireworks on the town beach and stayed out until two A.M. Luke, on the other hand, had to work yesterday at the Nature Museum picnic, and then he’d seen the official town fireworks with his mom and the rest of Butternut at the fairgrounds last night. He’d been sort of half listening to what Van and J.P. were talking about. But he heard them saying a name now, Michael Grey, and he paid attention. He was the kid Van had gotten into a fight with, and he and J.P. talked about him a lot, about how much they hated him, and about how they were going to steal his bike and everything. Luke didn’t really like him, either. He was kind of a bully, and his family had a lot of money, so he was always bragging about all the things he had. Like, once he got a jet ski for his birthday. There weren’t that many rich people in Butternut, so basically, Michael Grey’s family was it.
