The Cabin

by Wilder Jasinda

  A long silence. I don’t know how to fill it.

  “How long are you staying?” she asks, breaking it, finally.

  “Um. Open-ended.”

  “Same here.”

  I have a thousand questions, and none of them is anything I can ask.

  “These cabins look like they were built by the same person.”

  “They were,” I say. “Local fella named Roger Klupinsky.”

  “They’re beautiful.”

  “Sure are. He was a real craftsman.” I knock on the beam, reach out and tap the join where the upright meets the overhang of the roof. “These joins are seamless. The floors, too. Everything is just this amazing craftsmanship you don’t see anymore.”

  “Sounds like you say that with professional knowledge.”

  I nod. “I’m a carpenter.”

  “Houses?”

  I shake my head. “Movie sets, things like that. I also do some carvings on the side, and that’s what I’ve been doing mostly, lately. Taking time away from work.”

  “What do you carve?”

  I glance at her. “I got a couple over in my cabin. I can show you some?”

  She nods, smiles. “Sure.”

  “Be right back.”

  I leave my coffee balanced on the railing, amble over to my cabin. I’ve got four completed, and I grab them all. Bring them back to her cabin. I line them up on the floor near her feet, step back and sit on the top step.

  She leans down; relinquishing her grip on the blanket finally, and takes one. “This is…remarkable.”

  It’s a raccoon, small enough to sit on her palm. I tried to capture it sitting up on its hind legs, its front paws clasped in front of it the way they do, looking like it’s praying.

  “It’s so cute! So lifelike.”

  The next one, then. It’s a dragonfly done true to scale, and this one I went all out and painted, so the body is iridescent blue, with a bulbous thorax which goes thin and narrow behind the wings, with delicate veins in the wings. It’s my best piece to date.

  “It looks like it could take off any moment.”

  “Spent several days on that one. Usually, I can do a carving in an afternoon. But that one? The wings took forever.”

  “I bet. They’re so detailed.”

  Third is not an animal at all but a representation of the episcopal church in town, a picturesque small-town place, white clapboards and a red roof, a spire with a bell.

  “Why a church?” she asks.

  “Um. Well, that’s the church that’s in town here. St. Paul’s. It just looks like the kind of church you’d see in a movie about a small town.”

  I don’t tell her that Lisa was obsessed with little churches like that, that she would plan entire vacations around which churches she wanted to visit, or that we’d been married in one just like it, that her funeral had been in the same church we’d gotten married in.

  Maybe there’s something in the carving, but she handles it somewhat more reverently than the others. Doesn’t say anything else, just stares down at it for a while, and then sets it down to lift up the last one I brought over. It’s a dollhouse-sized rocking chair, a couple inches tall. I’d carved a tiny cat curled up on the seat of the rocking chair.

  “Story behind that one,” I say. “Came out onto my porch with my coffee a few mornings ago, and there was a cat sleepin’ on it. Never seen it before. I looked at it, it looked at me, and then it just sorta hopped down and walked off around the lake, and I haven’t seen it since.”

  “The amount of detail you get into such small things is remarkable.”

  “Well, it takes patience, is all. And a steady hand, I guess. Carving or whittling or whatever you want to call it, it’s kinda meditative for me.”

  She nods. “I can see how it would be.”

  “You do anything like that?”

  She shrugs. “No, not really. I used to be into watercolors, but I sort of…lost the habit of doing it. What with life and all, you know how it is.”

  “Well. No better place to try it again, right?” I gesture at the lake. “Lots to paint out here, I’d say.”

  “You’re right about that. Maybe I will.”

  I refill her coffee, and then there’s an awkward silence.

  “I, um.” I clear my throat again. “It was nice having coffee with you, Nadia. Nice to meet you.”

  “Thank you again for the coffee,” she says. “I’ll have to learn to make proper coffee one of these days, I guess.”

  I shrug. “I’m up early out of long habit.” I hesitate. “You ever want some, just come on over.”

  She nods. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  I wave, a strange, awkward half lift of one hand. “Well. See you ’round, I guess.”

  “Yeah.”

  What do you get when you take two people who have lost the most important person in their lives and have since lost the ability to socialize normally? A lot of awkward pauses and even more awkward conversation.

  I head home, carve for a while. Think about fishing, decide against it.

  Should I have told her I knew her husband? How would that conversation go?

  I don’t know what’s right, what’s wrong, what’s neither.

  * * *

  Dinnertime. I’m attempting to make a whole chicken in the oven, following a recipe I found online at the library and printed out.

  Lisa always used to make fun of me for my cooking. I was always trying stuff, but I’d get it wrong at least half the time. Forget an ingredient, or do tablespoons instead of teaspoons, or put the oven at the wrong temperature, or leave it in too long. Once in a while, maybe every other attempt, I’ll get it right and it’ll actually be pretty damned good. But when I get it wrong? Boy howdy, do I get it real wrong.

  This is the latter.

  I turn around from carving, and the oven is billowing thick clouds of black smoke. I shove oven mitts onto my hands, yank the oven open, and grab the pan with my chicken on it—it’s all but on fire. It’s filling the cabin with smoke, so I carry it outside, cursing loudly all the way, and toss the pan and the blackened chicken onto the gravel drive.

  I hear a snicker. “Looks like you, um, left it in too long.”

  I sigh. “Seems like it.” I nudge the still-smoking carcass with the toe of my boot, and bits of char flake off. “Way too long.”

  I hear her feet on the steps, and she comes to gaze down at the poor burnt chicken with me.

  “You should have set a timer.”

  “I was watching the clock,” I protest. And then sigh. “But I guess a timer woulda been smart, huh?”

  She hesitates. “Um, I made some pasta. Nothing fancy. But I have plenty. Since your dinner is, uh, inedible, to say the least.”

  “It was gonna be good, too. Olive oil all over it, bunch of seasoning.” I sigh. “Well, I’ll have to try again.”

  “Lower temperature next time,” she says. “Olive oil has a low smoke point. Burns easily.” A laugh. “I learned that the hard way.”

  I snort. “Looks like I just did, too.” I glance at her. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

  She waves. “It’s the least I can do for saving my life this morning. I’m not sure what I’d have done without drinkable coffee.” She indicates the chicken. “Whenever I make coffee, it turns out like that. My—I’ve been taught a million times. It’s easy, I know it is. But somehow, it just always turns out tasting like ass.”

  I smile at that. “Well, you know, making good coffee is an art form. It’s not just hot water and ground-up coffee beans. It’s a whole complex chemical process. There’s nitrogens that need to escape for a certain amount of time, and the water needs to be clean and fresh and filtered and just off a boil, and the beans should be ground right before you brew, and they should be nice and granular—” I break off, because she’s blinking at me with a wry grin. “Sorry. My—um…I’ve been told I get lecture-y about coffee. I worked at a roaster when I was in trade school. Sorta got bit by the coffee
bug.”

  I notice we’ve both made the same slip-up.

  “I’ll trade you your fancy coffee with the fancy glass thing for a big old pot of spaghetti.” Her expression goes dark, sober. “I…it’ll be nice to share it. To not eat it alone.”

  “Eating alone sucks.”

  “Amen to that,” is all she says, and somehow we don’t need to elaborate.

  “Let me clean this mess up, and myself,” I say. “Should I bring anything? Don’t want to mooch.”

  A shrug. “Nah. Unless you have garlic bread over there. The only bread I have isn’t really right for it, and I haven’t been into town to shop yet.” She gestured at the cabin. “It was, uhh, stocked, already, with pretty much everything I need. But you know how it is, there’s always something missing.”

  She’s rambling.

  “I actually do have some. It’s store-bought, the kind from the freezer aisle.”

  Her eyes light up. “Ooh, I love that stuff. I know it’s terrible for you, but it’s so good.”

  “Well, my oven’s already on. I’ll fix it up and be over in a few minutes.”

  “Okay.” She turns away, hesitates. “Nathan, um, I don’t want you to—”

  I hold up my hands. “Just a neighborly meal, is all.”

  A nod, her thick black hair falling in front of her eyes; she brushes it back with one hand, tucks it behind the delicate shell of her ear. She’s not been taking care of herself—I don’t know her from Adam, but I can tell that much. I wouldn’t go so far as to say she’s gaunt, exactly, but it wouldn’t be a totally inaccurate description. Beautiful, though. Her eyes, that deep shade of green, the olive complexion of her skin, the inky sheaf of hair cascading down around her thin shoulders…she hunches a little, as if to ward off a blow from the world. But the ghost of the woman she was, the woman she should be, is there within her.

  I don’t know her, but I want to make her smile, just to leaven the sadness carved into the lines on her forehead, at the corners of her mouth.

  She turns to walk away, and I remember the last time I talked to Adrian, he told me he first fell in love with Nadia because of her ass.

  I catch myself looking, but her sweater, a long, gray, thick-knit cardigan, hangs over it. Probably for the best.

  I look away, out at the water, and I wonder what the hell I’m doing. How does this work?

  All I know is, it’s nice to have someone to talk to. I’ve been here utterly alone but for occasional trips into town, and after two weeks of total solitude, I’m going a little cabin crazy.

  So maybe that’s all this is. Innocent. A little companionship.

  Still, however, I find myself reading more of the book while I’m waiting for the garlic bread to bake.

  Red wine, that’s the ticket. More from her POV. It’s indulgent, and goes with just about everything. Ice cream and red wine, popcorn and red wine, chocolate and red wine. Never mind those fancy chef pairings, red goes perfectly well with fish. And steak, of course. And obviously pasta. The redder and richer the better. Give me a nice dry cab sav, and I’m happy. Well, maybe not anymore, not HAPPY, per se. But you know what I mean.

  At the supermarket, they have a little wine section, but whoever is in charge of it is a real wine aficionado. They’ve labeled the wines with tags telling of origin and pairing ideas and tasting notes, and some kind of points system that I don’t understand—best of all, they’re always on sale. So I’d grabbed a few bottles to have on hand, and just to try something different: what’s this one? Josh. Nice label, cursive script, fancy-looking. Why not?

  Childhood memories, and more recent ones from life with Lisa, waft through my soul at the smell of the store-bought, freezer-section garlic bread heating in the oven. It’s the kind that comes in foil packaging and bakes up crispy and flaky on the outside and smooshy and moist on the inside; my mother used to make this stuff every Sunday, with a giant pot of spaghetti and homemade marinara, a recipe passed down through several generations of women on my mother’s side—the recipe is written down somewhere at home, on a yellowing notecard in my great-grandmother’s handwriting; Mom, lacking daughters, taught Lisa the art of the marinara, and she always used to make this same garlic bread with it, always on Sunday.

  I wonder what day it is. I haven’t looked at a clock or calendar in days. Maybe I could just pretend it’s Sunday. I could probably make that sauce from memory, honestly. I watched Grandma do it until she died, and then Mom until she died, and finally, Lisa, until she too died. Damned if I’ll teach any other woman in my life how to make that sauce.

  I find a big ceramic bowl, line the bottom of it with paper towel, arrange the bread, now cut into neat little rectangles, in the bowl. Cover it with a hand towel, the way Mom used to. Grab the bottle of Josh, the bowl of bread, and head across the lawn between my cabin and hers.

  She’s on her porch, and she’s brought out a small table, likely something that sat beside a couch. There’s a large black stockpot with a glass lid on the table, a pair of plates stacked, a pair of forks. One of those big fork-spoon pasta-serving things. A small plastic jar of parmesan cheese, the ubiquitous kind with the green label.

  “Eating on the porch, huh?” I say.

  She nods. “It’s a beautiful evening.”

  No need to point out that, it’s also a neat way to avoid the idea of not inviting me inside. I understand.

  I set the bowl of bread on the table, lift the bottle of wine, and extend it to her. “I, uh, brought this. Figured you can’t have spaghetti without wine, right? I dunno a damn thing about wine, so I hope this is all right.”

  She takes the bottle and examines the label; her expression is…not stunned, but more suspicious. “You know how I like my coffee, and now you know my favorite brand of wine.”

  I shrug. “Coincidence. The selection at the market in town here is pretty, uh, limited, to say the least. What they do have seems to be pretty good, but, uh, like I said, I don’t know shit about wine, so I just picked that ’cause the label looked cool.”

  She stares at the bottle in something like consternation. “I’ll get an opener and some glasses. Thank you, Nathan. It was very thoughtful of you.”

  I just wave. “I bought it thinking I’d try something new. But I’ll never end up opening it for just me.”

  “What do you drink, when it is just you?”

  “Whiskey, usually. Or scotch. Beer, occasionally.”

  Seems like she’s about to say something, but doesn’t. Instead, she just slips inside, leaving the door half-open, returning with a corkscrew and a pair of wine goblets. She hesitates.

  “Um, here.” She hands me the bottle and the corkscrew. “You do this, I’ll dish up.”

  I just nod, and open the bottle. I don’t have much practice opening wine, so it takes a while and the cork is a mess by the time I’m done. I pour us each a half glass, by which time Nadia has plated us each a pile of spaghetti. I move aside the towel covering the bread, and we each take a few pieces.

  There’s another awkward silence. We both feel like we should say something. Grace, maybe? I don’t know. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.

  I lift my wineglass in a toast. “To new friends and cabins by the lake.”

  She echoes my toast; we clink, and dig in.

  There’s very little talking. She eats like a machine, steadily, with gusto. I find myself wondering when the last time she had a meal like this was—a long time, judging by the sharpness of her cheekbones, the hollows in her cheeks, the bags under her eyes.

  She finishes her first plate, goes for more, and then pauses. “I, um. I guess I’m hungry.”

  I just laugh. “Hey, a woman who can eat like she enjoys it is a good thing, in my book. Don’t be lookin’ to me for judgment on that score.”

  She sighs, seeming relieved. “I guess I just don’t want to seem—”

  “Seem however you are. If you’re hungry, eat. That’s it.”

  She smiles. “Thank you.”


  I just wave, because there’s nothing for her to be thankful for. I take seconds myself; offer her more bread, more wine. By the time we both put our forks down and sit back, the pasta is nearly gone, and most of the bread. We’re savoring the last few sips of wine, along with the sunset.

  I don’t know what to say. How to start a conversation. It’s been so long, and I’m out of practice.

  The food gone, the last sips of wine finally gone, I can feel Nadia getting restless.

  I stand up. “Thank you for dinner,” I say.

  She stands up too. “Thank you for the wine and the bread.”

  Silence.

  “I should, um…” she starts.

  “Nadia, listen.” I have no clue what I’m about to say. Something dumb, probably. “Don’t be polite. Just say what you mean.”

  “I don’t want to be rude.”

  “I’d rather rude honesty than anything else.”

  A nod. “In that case, I think it would be best if we say good night, now.”

  I grab my bowl; there are two pieces left. I laugh, and take one. “Here. No point leaving one piece left.” She grins and takes it. “Now, I’ll say good night. See you around.”

  I don’t look back, just take my bowl and the empty bottle and she goes inside.

  Again, I wonder if I should tell her I knew Adrian. That Adrian gave me his last book. But how do you start that conversation? When’s the right moment? In his letter to me, he specifically said she wasn’t ready yet.

  Damn you, Adrian. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. You should’ve picked someone else.

  I don’t even know what this is. Other than two fucked-up, broken people living next door to each other.

  Watercolors & John Denver

  For the first time I can remember since Adrian died, I manage to sleep. Maybe it was the full belly, for once. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was…well, I can’t even say conversation because I didn’t really talk with Nathan all that much. It was just a shared meal between friends. But I have to admit that it did something to soothe the yawning gape of loneliness in me.

  So, I fall asleep quickly, and I sleep in. It’s…well, there are no clocks in the cabin, on purpose I think, so I have no clue what time it is. Midmorning, judging by the sunlight streaming in the windows. I get out of bed slowly, lazily. Change into, well, not pajamas, but loungewear, you might call it. Cozy, soft leggings, a T-shirt, and a zip-up hoodie. Barefoot. I stare at the coffeemaker on the counter in the kitchen, which seems to mock me.