Season of Salt and Honey

by Hannah Tunnicliffe

  Whenever Papa spoke to me of Bella I stopped listening. In the end he stopped telling me when she’d called and stopped begging for me to speak to her. I didn’t care if the whole family thought I was stubborn. I preferred to pretend my sister had disappeared in a cloud of smoke. Like a magic trick.

  I pull the brush through my hair in long, slow strokes. When we were small, after Mama died, Bella and I used to sit in front of the television and I would brush her hair and braid it. Her hair, wild and curly, was always full of knots. I would lay the palm of my hand against her scalp and brush gently so it didn’t tug. The curls unraveled to fine fuzz, like candy floss, that stuck up around her head in a halo. She liked it best when I braided it into a kind of crown that looped at the front. I’d sit with the hairpins in my mouth, humming, while Bella sucked her thumb and Papa heated a frozen dinner one of the aunties had dropped off. After everything—the funeral, the unavoidable shadows Mama had left all over the house—it was a kind of peace. A relief.

  I glance at my reflection in the warping window glass, use it to push earrings into my ears. Round, rose-gold studs, like minuscule buttons, that Zia Rosa gave me for my eighteenth birthday. I scowl at the dim reflection. It’s ridiculous to be dressing up. It’s ridiculous to be going out to dinner. There are dark circles under my eyes, and my cheeks hang as though I’m ten years older. I lick my pale lips. Trust Bella to have arranged a dinner date. She can’t make it to a funeral but she can get herself invited to dinner within minutes of being in a place. Resentment pricks and scalds like heartburn.

  I step out of the cabin, lock the door, and put the heavy key in my jeans pocket.

  “Bedda, cara mia,” Papa says. Beautiful.

  Bella smiles at me. “Ready?”

  I ignore her, walking past to take the shortcut through the forest. I breathe deeply to shore up my resolve. The sun is still in the sky, summer days not far away. The light is alive with dancing things—bugs, pine needles falling, a baby feather twirling to the ground. The forest is alive and verdant, packed with hopeful life-forms, growing and rising up. I fill my lungs and stride ahead of my sister and Papa, who is being careful with his clean shoes. Ahead, a bird startles and cries out as if cursing me. It’s black and blue—another Steller’s jay, or perhaps the same one, assessing my visitors and me.

  Bella and Papa catch up when I reach the road. Heat bounces off the asphalt, warms my legs in my jeans. Bella is telling Papa about a friend who owns a gallery.

  “She started it from scratch. She exhibits her own work alongside other artists in group shows that she names after the moon in season. Indigenous ways of naming the moon: mead moon, thunder moon, sturgeon moon . . .”

  “They give the moon different names?” Papa asks.

  “For the season. A way of telling time, I guess.”

  “Well, that’s clever.”

  We pass a dented mailbox with a yellow flower painted on the side. The paint has peeled in the heat of many summers; the mail flag hangs askew. Jack was right: it is the ugliest mailbox on the street.

  When we reach Merriem’s, she steps into the doorway of the little green house, waving a dish towel. “Hey there! Come on in!”

  Her hair is piled up on her head, and two big silver earrings swing from her lobes. Bella waves and grins. She turns into the house, beckoning us to follow.

  We step up the path to her door and smell garlic, simmering butter, and freshly cut herbs coming from inside. A brown cat with green eyes slinks past us. He is large-boned, the size of a puppy, but quick.

  Merriem’s disembodied voice calls back to us. “That’s Darwin. Hunk of a cat. Off hunting no doubt. Hopefully not a bird.” She steps out of a room, presumably the kitchen, now holding a spoon. “I try to teach him not to hunt the birds, but . . . Come on out of the hallway. The dining room’s just down the end there. Summer’s laying some cutlery. We’re still waiting on Jack and Huia. I’ll abduct your wine in a minute.”

  Bella kisses Merriem’s cheek and walks through to the back room. Papa follows, stealing a glance into the busy little kitchen, where Merriem seems to have five pots and pans working hard and in tidy order. There are dozens of copper pots and frying pans—some no bigger than a bread-and-butter plate—hanging from a rack on the ceiling.

  Merriem wears neat cropped pants and a floaty cream blouse, with leather sandals on her feet. She stands by a wooden chopping board with a hillock of chopped dark green parsley on it. Beside her large range hood is a portrait of a nude woman holding a water jug. The paint—aqua and teal and cobalt—is thick, like butter, as though spread with a knife.

  Merriem turns her head and gives me a soft smile. “How are you doing today?”

  “Fine, thank you.”

  She nods, as though she knows better.

  “I’ll just . . .” I add, pointing towards the dining room.

  “Make yourself at home, Frankie.”

  The back of the house, where Summer is setting the dining table, has floor-to-ceiling windows that look onto a brick courtyard. It is covered in terra-cotta pots filled with a mismatched collection of ferns and violets and succulents. There’s a blush-pink climbing rose on a white wooden frame, and ivy growing up the opposite corner, as though they’re racing to get to the middle, both sending out trembling, baby green tendrils. Beyond the courtyard there are a few maple trees, and, set farther back, stacked wooden boxes.

  Papa and Bella are both at the table; Bella filling glasses with water from a green glass jug and introducing herself to Summer. It’s a big, old, oval wooden table, with French bentwood chairs, and all the plates on it are pink. I take a seat next to Papa as Merriem ambles in, clapping her hands together.

  “Right. Sorry about that, just had to get the risotto going. Well . . . anyway . . . wine?”

  Bella passes her the bottle she’s holding.

  “Ooh, prosecco, wonderful.”

  “It’s chilled,” Bella says.

  “Even better.”

  Papa stands and hands over his bag of wine. “I am Giuseppe, Francesca and Isabella’s father. Thank you for having us.”

  “Giuseppe, piacere,” Merriem says warmly, leaning over to accept a kiss on the cheek.

  “Parli italiano?” Papa asks eagerly.

  “Parlo solo un po’ d’italiano,” she apologizes. I only speak a little Italian. “I lived in Rome for a very short time. I should have learned a lot more. I know quite a few swear words.” She lets loose one of her loud laughs, her earrings rattling.

  Papa looks startled. “Ah, well,” he says, smiling.

  Summer catches my eye and she lifts her hand in a small wave.

  “Merrrrrrrieeeeem!” a voice calls down the hallway, followed by quick footfalls.

  Huia bursts into the room. She is wearing a blue dress with a red ribbon tied around her wrist. There’s a book in her hand, and she has blue sandals on, the first time I’ve seen her in shoes. Jack follows behind, carefully carrying a glass globe with a plant inside. His hair is brushed, his shirt ironed, with both sleeves rolled to the elbow.

  Bella and Papa stand to shake his hand.

  “Jack Whittaker,” he says.

  “Giuseppe . . . Joe Caputo.”

  “Bella”—she flashes a wide smile and glances at me—“Caputo.” She adds, “I mean, I’m a Caputo too.”

  When it suits you, I want to say.

  Jack turns to me. “Hi, Frankie.”

  “Hi, Jack.”

  “Summer.”

  “Jack.”

  After giving Merriem a firm hug, Huia comes to stand next to me.

  “I saw another Steller’s jay,” I whisper to her. “Tonight. I think we scared him off.”

  She gives a big grin.

  “Huia knows a lot about the birdlife here, don’t you?” Merriem asks.

  Huia nods and points at me. “I’m going to teach her.”

  “Frankie,” Jack corrects her. He passes the glass globe to Merriem. “For you. Thanks for having us. Again. It’s a Moo
n Valley friendship plant.”

  “You are a genius, Jack Whittaker,” Merriem says, holding the glass ball up to the light coming through the windows from the yard. It reminds me of a Christmas ornament that Mama used to like: a glass ball with a dog in a striped hat riding a sleigh inside. The soil is layered in different colors—specks of pumice, sand, dark black soil—and it’s like another world captured in a bubble.

  “It’s beautiful,” Bella remarks.

  “Jack is a botanical artist,” Merriem declares.

  Jack coughs. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “No, he is. You should see his other work. He has these huge, incredible terrariums and bonsai gardens as if made for itty-bitty elves. He is very, very talented.”

  “Wow,” says Bella.

  “That’s his real job,” Huia whispers to me, leaning against my legs.

  Jack glances at me, embarrassed. Merriem goes to the kitchen and quickly returns with a wooden tray piled high with thickly sliced bread and brightly patterned dishes of olive oil and dark vinegar.

  The bread is vivid yellow. It crumbles in my mouth and tastes sweet, honeyed.

  “Dandelions,” Merriem says to me.

  Papa is staring at his half-eaten piece. “I thought dandelion was a weed?”

  “It is,” Merriem replies with a grin. “Isn’t it marvelous?”

  “Yes, it’s very nice,” Papa says, still looking a little puzzled.

  “Dad and I call it sunshine bread, eh, Dad?” Huia says.

  Jack nods. “Rocky should sell it at Flourfarm,” he suggests to Summer, who is sitting still and quiet, looking at me.

  She snaps her head to him, cheeks flushing. “Yes,” she says quickly, “he should. It’s good, Merriem.”

  “Bless y’all,” Merriem says, shaking her head and laughing. She pats Summer’s shoulder and returns to the kitchen.

  While Bella and Papa talk to Jack about his plants, Huia passes the book in her hand to me.

  I touch the cover with my fingertips. Native Birds of North America, the title reads. “For me?”

  “Only to borrow,” she warns.

  She watches as I flick through the pages, looking for birds I’ve already noticed but not known the names of. The song sparrow, a plain-looking thing that has a sweet, cheeky chirp chirp. The dark-eyed junco, which looks as if it’s wearing a balaclava and sings a repeating phrase, over and over, in changing keys. I love to hear them trilling to one another as though rejoicing in the spring sunshine. Then I find the little bird that makes the most noise. The picture shows it facing right with a defiant tilt of its chin. Its breast is marked with brown spots and its back is olive brown. The book cannot show the little wing flicks it gives, like a nervous stage performer with a twitch.

  Huia looks over my shoulder as I peer at the page. “Hermit thrush?”

  I see that she’s written “Singer!” in the margin in pencil, the letters round and dark.

  I nod. “It’s a noisy one, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, one of my favorites.”

  I read the small description. “The females don’t sing?”

  She shrugs, then flicks through the pages to find one she likes. “A warbling vireo.”

  I read that it’s uncommon in this region unless the summer is good.

  “Thanks, Huia. I’ll take good care of it.”

  She smiles, looks pleased. She sometimes seems so wise and clever, and other times as delighted as a very small child. I imagine her teachers must love her.

  “Do you sometimes go to after-school care?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Some days.”

  I glance at Bella. She used to help out at after-school care when she was a teenager. She’s leaning in to talk to Jack, nodding with the tip of her thumb against her lips. She pours him a glass of prosecco. Summer has gone into the kitchen to help Merriem.

  “Which one?” I ask.

  “Jellybeans Montessori.” Huia’s smile has dissolved, she screws up her face.

  “That good, huh?” Bella jokes, hearing her answer.

  Huia glances down at her sandals, wriggles her toes. It reminds me how I used to hate when the zias pressed me for information about my day: How was geography? Did you have enough to eat? What did you do at recess?

  “It’s okay,” Huia says. “We do poetry sometimes, I like that.” She looks to her dad, who’s now speaking to Papa about gardening. They’re discussing fertilizer. She drops her voice. “All the other girls from school go to ballet class in Bow.”

  I nod slowly. “Bella and I learned ballet.”

  She gives me a sizing up kind of look. “Really?”

  “Sure. Mrs. Talbot was our teacher.”

  “Did you like it?”

  I ponder the question. Aunty Rosa convinced Papa to send Bella and me to ballet. Bella running around barefoot with Cousin Vinnie, and me with my face always behind a book, wasn’t healthy, she declared. Ballet was supposed to save us from ourselves and turn us into ladies.

  “It was okay,” I say.

  “Did you have to wear one of those skirts that stick out?”

  “A tutu?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No, we didn’t get to that stage. We had pink leotards and white leggings, black shoes.”

  Huia presses her lips together thoughtfully. “They all have those black shoes.”

  I nod. Mrs. Talbot would send you home if you didn’t have your black shoes. She was a force to reckon with. A caricature of a ballet teacher—hair scraped back into a bun, limbs lean and sinewy, face with a just-smelled-sour-milk expression.

  “You want to take ballet classes?” I ask gently.

  Huia shrugs.

  “Do you like to dance?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “We don’t dance very much at home.”

  Something in her face, her small frown, reminds me of Bella as a girl. We never danced much at home either. Papa said Mama was a beautiful dancer but her asthma stopped her from dancing often.

  “What does your dad think?” I ask.

  “He doesn’t like the makeup and the dresses. He says it makes the girls look too grown-up, and that we’ve got plenty of time to be grown up, we should just be girls.”

  “Oh.”

  “He says he just wants me to enjoy being a kid.”

  That seems like a good explanation to me. “Well—”

  Bella’s voice comes to us from across the table. “Dancing’s fun.”

  Huia and I look at her. I hadn’t realized she was still listening.

  “I did a night course in belly dance last year. It was very . . . freeing. Liberating. And I got to wear”—she drops her voice conspiratorially—“sequins.”

  Huia smiles but shifts a little closer to me.

  “I bet you’d be a great dancer,” Bella adds. “What does your mom say?”

  Huia blinks. Her eyes are round and she looks to her dad, who glances away from his conversation with Papa to meet her gaze.

  “What’s that, bubba?” he asks, as though she’s posed him a question.

  “Ummm . . .” Huia mumbles.

  “We were talking about after-school care,” I reply quickly. “Huia says she likes the poetry.”

  “She writes great poetry,” Jack says with a proud smile.

  “Jellybeans has a good program. I mean . . . I hear that it does,” I say politely, though clearly I have no idea.

  “Bella used to work at after-school care,” Papa says. “Did you know that one, Bella?”

  Bella shakes her head. I stare at her pointedly.

  “Frankie,” she whispers apologetically. I look away.

  Huia looks between us, then shuffles over to her father and climbs onto his knee. Papa and Jack resume their conversation, and Bella leans towards me.

  I quickly stand, gesturing to the kitchen. “I’m going to help Merriem and Summer.”

  “Come on, Frankie,” Bella pleads. I ignore her.

  “
Perhaps I can help too,” she adds, trying optimism.

  I lean towards her, drop my voice to a nasty hiss so Papa, Jack, and Huia won’t hear me. “No, no, you stay here and keep saying stupid things.”

  She opens her mouth to protest but I am already turning, already gone.

  Chapter Ten

  • • • •

  “Hey, honey,” Merriem says sweetly, immediately passing me a spoon and getting me to stir the risotto. Summer is chopping more parsley. Merriem heads out the door, whistling and carrying wine.

  “She’s put you to work already,” Summer says.

  I slowly stir the creamy, fragrant rice so it doesn’t stick. The smell reminds me of being in Aunty Rosa’s kitchen. “Better than pretending everything is fine,” I whisper, and am surprised I’ve said it out loud.

  Summer is staring at me.

  “I’m not really up for dinner parties,” I apologize, then add, “yet.” Though I’m not sure when I will be.

  Summer looks at the kitchen door as if expecting someone to come through it. “You didn’t want to come?”

  “Not really. My sister arranged it.”

  “Does she often do that?”

  “Arrange things for me?”

  “Yeah.” Summer has stopped chopping, the knife held over the parsley.

  “Not really. She’s been away for a long time. Living in Portland.”

  “Oh.”

  “She’s not very good with this kind of thing. Grief, I guess. Our mom died . . . and then . . . puberty, I don’t know. . . . Anyway, we’re really different.”

  Summer nods, understanding. “Yes. You seem different.”

  I’m surprised. Most people want us to be similar, to be friends.

  “Are you close to your brother?” I ask.

  Summer tips her head. “Yes and no. He thinks he knows what’s best for me.”