Ahab was just two years old when we adopted him. The adoption place rescued him straight from a racetrack in Connecticut. Steroid injections made him muscle-bound, like a cartoon superhero dog. His butt and thighs were bald from lying around for extended periods on cement slabs. A scar made the base of his tail bald; handlers poke greyhounds with electric cattle prods for a faster start out of the gate, we learned. Scabs dotted Ahab’s feet and legs, from other dogs nipping him as they raced to the food trough.
Memory Smack: The tan, plump woman in charge at the adoption place wore stained shorts covered with fur. “Remember,” she said. “Never off leash. Never. If it’s cold enough for you to wear a coat, then it’s cold enough for your grey to wear a coat. You’re gonna have to teach him everything. How to walk up and down stairs. How to play. How to be affectionate. He’s never seen a vacuum before, or a mirror, or a washing machine, or a—”
“Abso-smurf-ly,” Nick said. He knelt next to Ahab, and his arms made a wreath around Ahab’s neck. He kissed the flat area between Ahab’s eye and ear. “Let’s get you to your new home, Cap’n,” he said.
Ahab kissed him back, a dainty greyhound kiss, more twitchy nose than tongue.
“I think that’s a good sign,” the adoption woman said.
A door slams, snapping me back into real time, real place.
The door slams in the Knoxes’ house, somewhere on the first floor. The needle skips on the turntable, and I twist the power knob to OFF. I hear whimpering. It’s Ingrid. She makes a pathetic sound, like a pigeon cooing under a bridge.
I never hear Ingrid and Garrett make much noise through these walls. Then again, I never really listen. They probably have a powder room just like mine. Maybe Ingrid’s right next to me, on the other side of the wall.
I hear Garrett’s voice, more muffled than Ingrid’s whimpering. I bet he’s in the hallway, talking to her through their powder-room door.
“Listen, boo-boo,” he says. “I’m trying to make our lives better by going to law school. And when I’m done, I’ll get a better job and we’ll have more money. A better life. But until then, life’s gonna be this way.”
“I don’t want more money,” Ingrid says. “I want my mother. I have a right to know my mother.”
“Polly Pinch is for women. Not girls.”
“I hate you.”
The air seems to ring with her scream. After the ringing, a long empty pause.
“You can cook with Zell,” he says.
“Bake,” she corrects.
“Bake, whatever. You can do all the baking you want as long as Zell’s around, and as long as she wants to participate. Okay?” Garrett says something else, but I can’t make out the words—they’re a murmur. His footsteps fade.
Ingrid hiccups.
I don’t know why—I don’t even really think about it—but I rap my knuckles on the wall above the toilet tank, inside Ahab’s torso.
A light, flat rap comes back in response. “Zell?” Ingrid says.
“Hey. Ingrid? You there?”
“Yeah.”
I lean against the wall and press my cheek against Ahab’s painted chest. “Are you okay?”
“No.”
She doesn’t say anything for so long that I wonder if she left. “Are you okay?” she finally asks.
“Right as rain,” I say.
“Right as what?”
“Rain.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Yeah. Me, neither.”
Garrett’s footsteps sound again. “Ingrid?” he says. “Are you ready to go to Zell’s?”
She doesn’t answer.
“Did you do your homework?” he asks.
“Yes. All of it.”
“Good. Then grab your jammies and your toothbrush, and let’s go. I’m late for my study group.”
MOMENTS LATER THEY’RE AT MY DOOR. Garrett thanks me and hurries off. Ingrid doesn’t say a word. She shuffles to the kitchen and slumps into a chair.
I have no experience navigating a little girl’s moods. I’m not sure what to do or say. Should I leave her alone? Or is being alone the last thing she needs?
“Time to bake?” I ask.
She studies her hands, which rest in her lap, and nods once.
I sit opposite her. “What’s your favorite treat?”
No response.
“Come on,” I say. “Don’t you have a favorite dessert?”
“Well, I do like peppermint ice cream.”
“Hmm.” I have neither peppermint nor ice cream. But I do have little candy canes left over from Christmas—Pastor Sheila gave them to me, along with the pamphlets on grieving. And I have half-and-half, which I sometimes stir into my coffee. Half-and-half’s definitely not ice cream, but it’s in the same family, right?
I grab twenty or so little candy canes from a cupboard and half-and-half from the fridge, and arrange it all on the table.
Ingrid observes the spread. “Peppermint Cream Dream,” she says. “Do you think that’s a good name for a dessert?”
“I do,” I say. “It’s got a fun ring to it. Whimsical, even.”
“I don’t know what that means. But I think we should make it.”
“Cool. Ideas?”
She plucks a cellophane-wrapped candy cane from the pile, hurls it to the floor, and stomps on it. “Step one,” she says. “Crush the candy canes.”
A candy-cane-crushing frenzy ensues. She sweeps them all to the floor, and we dance, grasping each other’s wrists and spinning. The kitchen fills with the sound of crunching and crinkling.
“This is awesome,” Ingrid squeals, throwing her head back. “Aah! Come join us, Captain!” Ahab saunters in to observe us. He leans against the doorjamb, greyhound style.
“Step two,” I say, bending over to scoop up the candy. “Open little wrappers and dump contents into saucepan.”
“A saucepan?” She pulls up a footstool, and we shake the little powdery bits of candy from each wrapper into a small pan.
“We’ll heat it up with the half-and-half,” I say. “And when it cools, it’ll be like, I don’t know . . . eggless crème brûlée. Or something.”
“All right, okay,” Ingrid says. She sucks on a shard of candy cane. “I can dig it.”
I pour a little half-and-half, slap a spoon into Ingrid’s waiting hand, and turn on the burner. We lean over the stove for a while, not saying much, just watching flecks of red and white swirl around in the cream as the minty fragrance clears our sinuses. When the mixture starts to bubble, I turn the heat to low.
“It’s too liquidy,” I say. “We don’t want a drink. It’s gotta be thicker.”
“Thicker?” Ingrid stirs with both hands on the spoon handle. “Add some flour.”
“Ya think?”
“I dunno. You’re the adult here, Zell.”
A frightening thought. “Well, let’s try it,” I say, and dump in a little flour—and some sugar, too—as she stirs.
“Interesting,” she says. And after several more minutes of stirring, we decide to pour the mixture and let it cool.
I grasp the pan handle and aim for two cereal bowls.
“You need ramekins,” Ingrid says as I pour.
“What-y-kins?”
“They’re like little round bowls.”
“Really? I can’t believe you know that.”
“I may not know everything yet, but I do know a lot.”
The mixture is thin and lumpy. I move the bowls to the table, and we sit and wait for the Peppermint Cream Dream to set up. Ahab rests his chin on my lap, and I stroke his ears.
“Want to taste test it?” I finally ask.
Ingrid lowers her nose to a bowl and inhales, wrinkling her nose. Then she dips her pinkie in the white-pink glop and sucks it. “Hmm,” she says. “The texture’s sort of like paste. Tasty paste. But definitely pasty.”
“Tasty paste isn’t going to cut it, Ingrid.” I flick one of her braids and sigh.
“Back to the drawing board?”<
br />
“I’m afraid so.” But I’m not really that disappointed in the failed experiment. I’m just glad Ingrid’s no longer sulky and glum.
She pushes the bowl away. “Peppermint Cream Dream is too Christmasy anyway.”
“Good point. We’re not going for seasonal.”
“We’re going for . . . what, exactly?”
“Universal,” I say.
“Exactly.” She gets up and puts the bowls in the sink. “Universal.”
“Wanna take Ahab to the field?”
His ears fling up at the sound of his name, and he peers expectantly at me, cocking his head.
“Aye, matie,” says Ingrid, twirling around him. “Sail on!” And later, at the field, Ahab prances and gallops, spins and sprints. It’s almost like he’s putting on a show for Ingrid. It’s almost like he knows.
EJ
France calls and says Dennis is coming over, too. So EJ drags two lawn chairs from the shed. The last time he used them was in summer, when he drove the Muffinry van to the town common to watch the fireworks. The first Fourth of July in a long time without Nick.
Now EJ puts one lawn chair on either side of the bench and drags a case of beer from the shed. His cell phone vibrates, and he fishes inside his coveralls, flips open his phone, and sees a text message from Charlene—“HEY HANSOME HOW R U.”
“HELLO BEAUTIFUL, GOOD, BEAUTIFUL NITE HERE,” EJ texts. He thinks it’s a fine answer, somewhat romantic—flirtatious, even—but not too suggestive.
“SAME HERE, MITE GO 2 BAR W FRIENDS, TALK 2MORO” is her response.
“HAVE FUN,” EJ punches. He wonders what her friends are like. He wonders if she’s the type of woman who’d sit with him most nights of the week, most weeks of the year, in front of a fire pit, drinking beer and listening to night sounds and crackling logs.
Dennis arrives, pulling his clunker all the way into the driveway. EJ greets him with a one-armed hug.
“Do you have a copy of this week’s paper?” asks EJ. “Mine wasn’t delivered this week.”
“Do I have a copy of this week’s paper,” Dennis repeats. “Please.” He opens his passenger door, and several papers spill to the driveway. “How many you need?”
“Just one.” EJ cracks open a beer and hands it to Dennis as Dennis hands him The Wippamunker.
“Hot off the press,” Dennis says.
“Fresh from the igloo,” EJ says of the beer, because most of the winter he stores it in the shed.
They clink cans and swig; EJ notes a few tiny ice chunks flecking his tongue as he swallows.
France pulls in, gets out of her car. “Beer me up, dudes,” she says.
They all take a seat—EJ on the bench, France and Dennis flanking him in the lawn chairs.
“That Nick’s dad’s house?” France asks. She squints past the fire across the pond, where almost every window in Mr. Roy’s little house shines yellow.
“Yeah,” EJ says. “And there goes Mr. Roy, down into his basement.” In the small square window just above the earth, Mr. Roy’s body and head pass.
“He still got that workshop down there?” she asks. “For his pottery?”
“I’d imagine so,” says EJ.
The fire snaps and fizzes. They’re quiet for a while, watching the squares of yellow across the pond. EJ remembers being in Mr. Roy’s basement workshop one afternoon, after tobogganing. Mr. Roy offered to teach him, Nick, Zell, and France how to center clay on the wheel. “Who wants to try?” he asked. “EJ?”
“I’m good.” He felt intimidated by Mr. Roy’s artistry, even though Nick’s dad was pretty humble; for him this moment was about teaching, not showing off.
France looked away; she never volunteered for anything.
Zell raised her hand. She and Nick were always the artsy ones. She sat at the wheel and dipped her hands in the little plastic water bucket.
Mr. Roy pulled up a chair. “Keep your hands perfectly still,” he said, “and let the clay spin underneath them. Just keep letting it spin until it stops wobbling, stops struggling, and fits perfectly with your hands. That’s how you center clay. You can’t make anything until it’s centered.”
The clay shifted and lurched under Zell’s hands, and her fingers kept spreading open, and little bits of clay flew out between them. She laughed at herself.
Nick watched, looking like he thought his dad was the coolest guy in the world. He pounded upstairs and returned with his camera, a big boxy contraption attached to a crazy-patterned old guitar strap. He took pictures of his dad teaching his girl how to center clay. Nick took pictures of EJ and France, too, their arms around each other.
Who knows where those photographs are now. Tossed out, probably, with so many other things tossed out over the years. Or maybe they’re in a closet somewhere, piled inside a box. What would EJ see if he looked at them today? The same person, pretty much, except for the tattoos. Still EJ. Still Silo.
I’m more confident now, that’s one difference, EJ thinks. Kinder, too. And hopefully more interesting. And smarter, definitely smarter.
France stands, crosses to the woodpile, and heaves a fresh log into the pit. She leans back to avoid the sparks that swirl up. She pulls the lawn chair closer to the warmth and sits down. “I’m gonna talk about Nick now.”
Dennis clears his throat and digs his boots into the snow. “We’re listening. Go ahead.”
“Nothing was ever done for Nick, publicly,” she says. “Mr. Roy had a memorial service, but it was private. Just for family. Which is totally his prerogative. But the rest of us, his friends—and Nick had so many friends—but we never had any . . . any—”
“Closure,” EJ says.
“Right. Not to say that what you wrote about him in The Wippamunker wasn’t closure, because it was, Dennis.”
Dennis nods. He stares at the snow between his boots. “Yeah. But this sort of thing is different.”
France describes in detail her plan to pay tribute to Nick’s life. It’s a good idea, EJ thinks. It’s more than good. It’s perfect. He’s surprised at how much she’s thought it out. It must have been hatching in her mind for a long time.
“It’s just that I feel like we, the town, should bid him a proper good-bye,” she says. “I don’t want Nick’s death hanging over us—” Her hand flies to her mouth. “That came out wrong, Eege. Sorry.”
EJ ignores the slip. “What about Zell?”
“Have you talked to Zell?” asks Dennis.
“No,” EJ says. “Not since . . . not in a long time.”
“Pass me another beer, buddy?” Dennis says, and EJ tosses him a can.
“Zell should be a part of it,” France says.
“She won’t be a part of it,” says EJ.
“I agree.” Dennis cracks open his can. “She should be, but she won’t.”
“We’ll do something anyway,” says France. “And just ask her to be there.”
“I’ll help you organize,” Dennis says. “I’ll tell the others, too, and see if they want to get involved. Pastor Sheila and Father Chet and Russ and Chief. I’m sure they’d all dig it.”
“I’ll work on Zell,” says EJ, even though he probably won’t because he’s not sure he’s able to face her yet. He left her that note in her kitchen, a brave move. But she didn’t follow through.
“I wish you would talk to her,” France says. “You haven’t talked to her in so long. I miss the way it was. She should be here with us tonight. Hanging out. Having beers.”
EJ’s silent for a moment. Then he says, “I know.”
“What about him?” France gazes across the pond at Nick’s dad’s house again. They watch as he mounts his basement steps carrying a box and descends again empty-handed.
“I’ll talk to him, too,” EJ says.
“I haven’t seen him around town in a long time,” Dennis says.
“He was always that way.” France wipes her crooked-line mouth with the sleeve of her jacket. “Even before.”
This is true, E
J thinks. Back before his parents divorced, Mr. Roy would go to dinner with them occasionally, and sometimes to bingo at the Blue Plate Lounge. He seldom visited Nick and Zell, though they stopped by his house from time to time. Other than that, Nick’s dad was pretty much a recluse. So if his reclusiveness intensified after Nick’s passage, it was hard to tell.
“What can you do?” EJ says. He belches, cracks open another beer, sips it, and holds the freezing can between his legs.
France hucks a looger through her curled tongue. It makes a high arch as she projects it into the fire.
“Nice,” Dennis says.
She gives him the middle finger.
EJ reaches for The Wippamunker on the bench beside him. On the front page is a color photograph of a skinny white-haired woman. She wears safety goggles and sinks the blades of a chain saw into a huge stump of wood. “Teacher trades in cookie sheets for chain saws,” the caption reads.
“Hey.” EJ peers closer at the photograph. He tilts it toward the fire for more light. “That’s Mrs. Chaffin. Ye Olde Home Ec Witch.”
“She’s still quite the character,” Dennis says. “I just interviewed her.”
“France, did you see this?” EJ shows her the paper. “She’s got a chain saw. It’s Ye Olde Home Ec Witch. With a chain saw.”
She grins. “I got a teeny confession to make. I was at her house a while back, on police business.”
“Ye Olde Home Ec Witch’s house?”
“Earlier this winter, someone living near the mountain reported seeing a mountain lion. I knocked on a few doors, just to lay any fears to rest. I mean, there hasn’t been a mountain lion in Massachusetts for a century. Anyway, one of the houses was this big old beautiful red farmhouse, right on Route 331.”
“I know the one.” EJ nods. “With all the fairies in the windows. She lives there?”
“Yeah. Ye Olde Home Ec Witch answered the door. She actually remembered me. I couldn’t believe it. She raises goats for cheese now, so naturally she was really worried about the mountain lion. She gave me some goat cheese. Have you ever had that? It’s weird. Anyway, Trudy—”
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