by Pete Fromm
He stops, standing there with the stick in his hand, sees her smiling like he’s not sure he has before. “Well, soup’s on,” she says. “Maybe it’ll smell okay, too.”
Taz hangs back. “I should really, you know, keep after it, while I got you looking after Midge.”
She walks toward the house as if he hasn’t said a word, crooking two fingers over her shoulder for him to follow. He hesitates, but does as he’s told.
The soup does smell good, and Taz asks where she learned. She closes one eye, looks at him from under the other brow. “Seriously?” she says.
“Dad?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Cinderella?”
“Pre–glass slipper anyway.” She nods, shrugs at the same time, a gesture Taz has yet to quite decipher.
“Hungry?” she asks.
“Not so much.” He hasn’t been hungry. Not once.
“Well, that’s just what a cook wants to hear.”
“I guess I should eat, though.”
“Oh boy,” she says. “Way better.”
DAY 100
Taz sits at the bar. Where she used to work. He peels at a label. Glances over to Midge in her car seat.
“And you’re pissed?” Rudy says. “That she’s cooking?”
“No, that you’re paying. Me and Midge, we’re not quite a charity case yet.”
Rudy waves it away with the neck of his beer bottle. “Can she cook?”
“Are you listening at all?” Taz says. “Even if you weren’t paying, she’s the babysitter, not like some nanny or something, some live-in caretaker.”
“You want me to talk to her? Make her stop? Let you take care of that, too, the shopping, the cooking, the cleaning?”
“Talk to her?” Taz looks around. “I just want you to leave it alone. I’m making this work.”
“Yeah, because she leaves you dinner. Because you have food.” Rudy snorts, one sorry laugh. He lifts a hand, calls for two more. “You know, since you’re almost done with that label.”
Taz puts the bottle down.
“She said you didn’t even know she was leaving you food. You want me to start telling you everything else you haven’t been quite tracking on?”
“What?”
“Hards?”
Taz looks blank.
“They’re moving. Anchorage. I told you that myself. We’re having a party. My place, though yours would work better.”
“You could have it at our house.” It’s what Marn always wanted, a place people could come to.
“And what, you’re not going to be there?”
“I, no, I mean, yeah, I’ll be there.”
“Taz, I’ll admit it, okay? We’re worried about you.”
Taz lays his hands flat on the table, spreads his fingers.
Rudy watches. Taps his bottle against Taz’s finger. “Personally,” he says, “I’m surprised you’ve got all those left. You’re the last person who should be working with power tools.”
“Who’s worried?”
“All of us. Your friends. Remember us? We’re worried you’ll fall off the edge of the earth and not even notice. That maybe you already have.”
“What?”
“Oh, come on, Taz! You never leave that house.”
Taz looks at the bar. The ground-out divots in the walnut. People gouging away with their quarters. “You were gone. Nebraska or wherever.”
“For two weeks. I didn’t move.”
Taz sits rubbing his thumb into a divot.
Rudy takes a drink. A long one. “Look,” he says. “Elmo says the place is a mess. That she cleans it for you. That the table’s covered in bills. Stacks of them.”
Taz stares across the bar. Marnie paid the bills. Nights, at the table. Her reading glasses on, hair falling down around her face. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.
“We’re afraid you’ll lose the place. Of what happens to you then.”
“Lose it?”
“The mortgage, Taz. Gas? Electric?”
He interrupted bill night. More than once. She’d leave her glasses on. Go all librarian on him.
“Taxes,” Rudy says.
Marnie meeting him at the door with the letter. “You didn’t pay the property taxes, did you?”
“Me?”
“Damn it, read this.”
It wasn’t easy. All legal mumbo jumbo. Bone-tired, he’d looked up at Marnie, blank.
She shook her head. “Some asshole paid our taxes.”
“Sweet,” he said. “Let’s get him a beer.”
“No, Einstein. Read the letter. They do it twice more and the house is theirs.”
“What? They can’t do that.”
She snatched the letter from his hand, read it out loud. Shouted it at him. There were tears in her eyes. “You know how much we have in savings?”
He stood there, tape measure dragging down his pocket. He shook his head. She did the bills.
“Not enough,” she said. “Not even close.” She crumpled up the letter, threw it at him. “And you just bought that stupid stove. Like we’ll be able to touch that kitchen before we’re eighty. Before we lose this place.”
Taz had blinked. She loved the stove, this ginormous old double oven. A cookie-making machine, she’d called it. Didn’t even need that much work. Probably.
She turned away, saying, “And you think we’re ready for a baby. Good god.”
Rudy snaps his fingers an inch from Taz’s eyes. “See what I’m talking about? Do you see?”
“See what?” Taz says.
“She’s worried about you.”
“Who?”
“Elmo,” Rudy says. “All of us.”
“Marnie used to do the bills,” Taz says.
Rudy rubs at his face. “Well, Taz, I hate to say it, but you’re going to have to come around to ‘used to’ not quite cutting it anymore.”
Taz looks up from the bar. “What isn’t cutting it, Rude, is you paying for my food.”
“Would you just—”
“I’ve got money,” Taz says. “All I do is work.” He takes a drink at last. “I don’t even know why. Like it’s all I can think to do every day. Robot motion.”
“So, you need Elmo, right?”
“I need somebody to watch Midge,” he says. “I don’t need anybody worrying about me, anybody paying my way.”
“Well, great then. So, what’s for dinner? What are you whipping up for me and the Midge?”
Taz takes another sip, sets the bottle down. “Finish up,” he says. “We’ve got shopping to do.”
DAY 105
Taz comes in looking for the plans. A double-wall built-in bookcase this time, and he can’t remember how many shelves. He goes through the kitchen and finds Midge standing, legs quaking, a foot on each of Elmo’s thighs, Elmo’s hands wrapped around her wrists. They smile at him. Both.
“Check her out,” Elmo says.
Taz already is. “You’ll have her walking soon.”
“It’s all her,” Elmo says. “Supergirl.”
Taz goes to the table, grabs the plans, says, “I forgot what I was doing out there.”
He’s halfway to the back door when she says, “Lunch?”
He hesitates, glances back. “I— Can it wait? Until I get these cut?”
“Of course,” she says. “I know how you are on eating.”
Taz smiles a little.
“But, you know what’s coming up?”
He waits.
“Like, next week?”
He shakes his head.
“I was afraid of that,” she says, not quite hiding a sigh. “Thanksgiving. You know, Pilgrims and all?”
Taz rolls the plans tighter.
“I was thinking,” she says. “Wondering if you had plans or anything.”
Taz says, “I, maybe Rudy . . .” He trails off as she looks at him. “I don’t really have any,” he says. “Hadn’t even really thought about it.”
“Well,” she says, drawing it out. �
��Instead of the joy of my whole family in Idaho, I was thinking maybe I could do a turkey at my house.”
“You can take the day off,” Taz says. “You know that. Whatever you need.”
She rakes her fingers up through her hair, Midge collapsing to her lap. “I was asking if, you know, since you and I, that I, that you don’t have . . .”
Taz stands, the plans rolled solid in his fists.
“I could have some people over,” she says. “My friends. Your friends, if you want. Get out of your house for a day.”
He feels her watching.
“So?” she says.
Taz looks down at the maple they’d slaved over, knows she wanted their friends here for all the holidays, just as soon as they could finish the kitchen, the bathroom.
“I think, you know, that I better stay here. It’ll give me a chance to catch up on the bills.” He waves at the envelope pile on the table.
It’s too long before she says anything, and then it’s only, “Okay, just thought I’d ask.”
“Thanks,” Taz manages. “But, really, I’m so far behind.”
She reaches down to Midge, pulls her back up onto her feet, facing Taz, her grin leading to a string of drool down her chin. “It’s okay. It’s just turkey.”
Taz unrolls the plans. Rerolls them. “So you won’t be here Thursday? Friday, too?”
She looks at him. “Yeah,” she says. “Friday, too, if that’s okay. All those leftovers and everything.”
Marn walks with him out the door, all the way to the shop, before she says, She was only asking so you won’t be alone. So she won’t be. It’s kind of, you know, nice.
Taz rolls the plans out on the workbench.
Like she says, it’s just turkey. Nothing to be afraid of there.
DAY 112
Taz sits at the dining room table, bills scattered everywhere, a few even in the paid pile. The computer’s on and open, his parents’ green Skype dot glowing, all their missed calls counted up, too, a number Taz tries his best not to see. When the doorbell rings he leaps for it like somebody’s thrown him a parachute.
Elmo stands there, foil-covered plates in both hands, some sort of Tupperware deal pinched under an arm. “I—” she says. “I just felt sort of lame, hogging all this for myself.”
He steps back, lets her in. “Lame? It’s like Meals on Wheels.”
“Not sure what that makes you then,” she says, and spreads her plates on the table, careful to avoid the bills. “There’s dressing in this one,” she says.
Taz watches. “I thought you were having dinner at your place.”
“I am. Just a few friends. You’d probably like them.” She sets down the last Tupperware. “Where’s Midge?”
Taz says, “Asleep,” and she walks back to the bedroom without another word.
When she comes back out, she’s smiling, says, “I’ve never really watched her sleep before. You know, by nightlight? She’s kind of gorgeous.”
Taz smiles, almost tries to hide it, and she laughs. “Look at you, all proud Papa.”
He looks away, and she says, “You know, it’s not too late if you want to come over. Whenever Midge wakes up.”
“Thanks,” he says, “but I think I’ll ride this mellow streak she’s on as long as it lasts. Have ourselves our first holiday.”
“Just the two of you and your bills?”
“I got the whole dinner now,” he says, giving a wave to the table. “I’m guessing Rudy might drop by. He can sniff out this kind of thing.”
“I don’t doubt that,” Elmo says.
She walks past the table, tapping the top of the computer. “You could bring up one of those fireplace logs on YouTube, you know? Get all in the spirit.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Taz says.
“All right, then, back to my feast.” She takes the last steps to the door, then turns, says, “I don’t know, it feels kind of weird leaving you here.”
Taz says, “We’re fine.” He taps the computer himself. “I was just about to call my parents. See how big a deal Thanksgiving is in New Zealand.”
“They live there?”
Taz says, “About ten years now.”
Elmo opens the door. “Good for you,” she says, “calling home for the holidays. Wait until Midge is up, so nobody misses out.”
He makes himself nod. “That’s the plan.”
“Okay.” She swings the door back and forth. “Really, I wasn’t going to bring that all over, but I’ve got tons, and I knew you would be, well, you know . . .”
“Yeah. Pretty predictable.”
She smiles. “Should still be hot,” she says, and steps through the door. “Happy Thanksgiving,” she calls.
Taz lifts the foil off a paper plate. Dark meat, his favorite.
This Muppet of yours, Marnie whispers, is kind of growing on me.
Taz tucks the foil back down, listens for Midge, then, before he can stop himself, pushes Call on the computer.
He’s barely taken a breath before his dad is there, hair gone to Einstein, gray and frizzed. He glares, says, “Where in the hell have you been?” sweeping away Elmo and Midge and Marnie as if they’d never existed.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” Taz says.
His father snorts. “If the Pilgrims came to America today, they’d turn straight back around.”
“Uh-huh,” Taz says.
His father stares at him. “Well, what? We didn’t know if you’d died or what.”
“Not dead yet,” Taz manages.
“Well?”
“Just working. Trying to work things out.”
His father says, “Well, anyway, your mother.” He almost smiles. “She finally hounded me all the way down to Christchurch. Worked some old connections I had down there.”
Taz nods, seeing his father finding a story he can be the hero of. He tries not to look like the chair he’s sitting on is on fire, that he can barely keep himself from slapping the computer shut.
“Talked to a foreman there. He’d love to have you. Wants to Skype an interview with you. I gave him your number. He even said he’d give me a go.”
Taz’s childhood rears up; following his father around, listening to his rants and speeches, tools jerked from his hands, cursed for going too slow, being too careful, nothing but a goddamn piano maker. Every step he’d made away from it, every step he made with Marnie, poof, gone. Vanished. Never happened.
“You didn’t have to go to Christchurch, Dad,” he says.
“No worries. Your mother and I’ve been talking. We could maybe go halves on the airfare for you, if it’d help.”
“I’d sell the house, Dad. I’d have enough.”
His father’s smile falters, as quick to pounce as ever. He just watches. Glances away once. Looking for his mother, Taz knows. “You would sell the house,” he says, his voice going flat in a way Taz can’t forget. “That’s a little different than you will sell the house. Than I’ve sold the house.”
“Yeah,” Taz says. “A little.”
“Your mother . . .” he starts, but lets it slide away.
“I was only checking. Things were pretty grim here for a while.”
“And now you’re just on Easy Street, are you?” Like it’d be some sort of failure.
“I got this day care thing kind of going on.”
“That’s what you were looking for?” his father says. “Day care? Your mother said you were looking for work.”
“I got work, too. Enough to maybe turns things around.”
“They’re saying there’s decades of work in Christchurch. Whole careers.”
Taz nods, a bobblehead, hardly aware he’s doing it, why. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. It’s just, maybe things here are . . . It’d be easier, you know, if—”
His father laughs. “Easy? Like that’s ever mattered to you.” He works up a sort of smile. “My goddamn piano maker.”
Taz tries to smile, too. “Yeah, still building those.”
His f
ather’s lips a pinched, straight line.
Taz says, “I just have to see if I can work things out here.”
“Things,” his father says.
“I’m maybe getting it turned around a little.”
“I’ll tell you what you got turned around,” his father whispers, almost a hiss. He glances around once more, leans closer. “Your mother.”
“I was only checking options, I—”
“Well, that’s not what she thought. She hasn’t been the same since you called.”
Taz puts his chin in his hand to make himself stop nodding. “I know. I maybe got ahead of myself.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” his father says, and Taz knows he is never going to New Zealand, no matter what works out here, or doesn’t.
“Is she there?” he asks. “Can I talk to her?”
His father’s face has gone blank, glacial. “I don’t think that’d be for the best right now.”
Taz says, “I’ll call then, as soon as I know anything.”
“Won’t hold our breaths then,” his father says, smiling the way he does when he says something like that, more dare than anything friendly. And then he’s gone, the connection cut.
Marn whispers, Asshole, and Taz is so glad she never met him, that Elmo didn’t come in the middle of the call.
He sits back in his chair, pulls over one of her plates, peels back the foil. Has no appetite at all.
DAY 128
The day after Thanksgiving, she brings more leftovers, a whole breast, sliced, an old yogurt tub filled with mashed potatoes, another of stuffing, a sour cream container loaded with sweet potatoes, some marshmallow kind of topping, stuff he’d barely seen since his parents left the country. A pumpkin pie with one slice out of it.
She lays it all out, hooks Midge’s high chair to the living room table, all special occasion, napkins, the works.
He says, “Didn’t you guys eat anything last night?” and she says, “I got carried away,” and he wonders if she’d ever really had anybody over at all, or had just made all this for the two of them.