I walk ahead again, quickly. A thrush flies out in front of me, late for bed, rushing back to a nest. I turn, gravel crunching under the spin of my foot. “And while we’re talking about it”—though we weren’t—“what on earth made you ask about Huia’s mom?”
Bella blinks. “I didn’t know—”
“Didn’t you see her face?”
Another cough.
“Is this about her mama? What happened?” Papa asks carefully.
“I don’t know,” I say, barely restraining myself from shouting. “I just know you don’t go asking about a person’s mother if there doesn’t seem to be one around.”
Papa frowns at me. Bella’s head hangs.
“You . . . you,” I point at her, “of all people should know that. Or have you become completely clueless?”
“Frankie.” Papa’s tone is warning now.
“I . . .” Bella starts, but doesn’t finish.
I turn from them both and walk into the forest. There are long, black shadows on either side of me. The ghosts of Alex and Mama. Or perhaps just the cedars and firs reaching towards the moon.
* * *
When I’m in bed, the quilt over my head, Papa raps softly on the door. He speaks through the crack between door and frame. “You know you can come home, cara mia? I mean, with me?”
I pull down the quilt. “Yes, Papa.”
He opens the door then and stands in the frame, knowing not to come any closer. A squirrel, or what I assume to be a squirrel, scampers across the roof.
Papa looks up with concern. “How do you sleep here? With all the noises?”
“They can be comforting, I guess.”
He cocks his head. “I know why you don’t want to go home. I understand. You know that, don’t you, darling?”
I remember sobbing coming from Mama and Papa’s bedroom; Zia Connie shutting the door and turning me towards the kitchen, promising gelato from the freezer. Women in black everywhere, like a murder of crows. A slap across the hand for wearing Mama’s comb in my hair, followed by remorseful kisses and embraces that were too tight. When we were in high school, Papa finally boxed up all her clothes, but their wedding photos were still on his dresser: black-and-white faces, young, full of life and hope.
At Alex’s funeral he whispered to me, “It gets better.” It was the only platitude I believed, because it came from him.
When I say nothing, Papa knows that my mind is made up. He sighs. “Well, at least I feel a little better knowing that Merriem is nearby. She will keep her eye out for you both.” He doesn’t mention Bella by name.
“Yes.”
“Her honey is very good. It really is like Nonno’s, you know. And yet from bees and flowers on different sides of the world.”
The light is almost gone from the sky and sleep is starting to lean heavily against me.
“Papa?”
“Hmmm?”
“You should go before it gets too dark. The drive . . .”
“Sì. You are right.”
“I’ll be okay, Papa.”
He clears his throat. “I know, darling. You always are. My strong girl. Stronger than the rest of us.” He lightly drums his fingers on the door, thinking.
“Don’t ask me to be nice to her,” I warn.
“I wasn’t going to.” He sighs again. Turns to leave. “T’amu bedduzza.”
“I love you too, Papa.”
Spring Risotto
A spring vegetable lover’s adaptation of a classic Italian dish
Serves 4
3 tablespoons butter
2 shallots, finely chopped
4 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
1 1/2 cups risotto rice (such as Nano Vialone)
1/4 cup dry white wine
3 1/2 cups chicken stock
2 handfuls of spring vegetables (see Note), such as a combination of 8 stalks asparagus, cut into 4-inch lengths (first halved lengthwise if fat); 12 fresh, shelled and peeled fava beans; a handful of baby spinach leaves
2 tablespoons chopped fresh chives
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
3 ounces parmesan, finely grated
2 tablespoons crème fraîche
2 tablespoons fresh oregano leaves
PREPARATION
In a saucepan, heat the butter over medium-high heat. Add the shallots and garlic and stir occasionally until tender, 5 to 7 minutes. Add the rice and stir to toast, 1 to 2 minutes. Add the wine and stir occasionally until the liquid is almost absorbed. Add the stock 1 cup at a time, stirring constantly until the stock is absorbed before adding more. Continue until all the stock is incorporated, the rice is al dente, and the risotto is creamy, 10 to 15 minutes.
Add the spring vegetables and cook until just tender. Stir in the chives. Season with salt and pepper. Stir in the crème fraîche and all but 1/2 cup of the parmesan. Stir until parmesan is just melted and remove from heat.
Serve garnished with fresh oregano leaves, the reserved parmesan (2 tablespoons per serving), and freshly ground black pepper.
Note: Substitute with any local and fresh spring vegetables available, such as zucchini, yellow squash, fiddleheads, leeks, and peas. Vegetables should be cut into similar sizes to ensure that they all cook in the same time.
Chapter Eleven
• • • •
In the morning, I stand at the window and wait for Bella to go for a walk before I make espresso. As soon as her curly head bobs into the distance, behind trees and bushes, I light the camp stove. I thought she would have gone home with Papa, at the very least for the comfort of a warm bed and breakfast. In her car, the front passenger seat is laid back as far as it will go but it still must be unpleasant to sleep on. She doesn’t seem at all achy or inconvenienced as she strides off into the forest. I focus on the espresso pot. Even if I can’t figure out why she’s staying I’ll be damned if I’m going to give her coffee. If she’s as Caputo as she claims, the caffeine deprivation will surely drive her away. But, used to making an espresso for Alex, I make too much.
When a pickup truck pulls up and Jack gets out, I pour the excess into another cup and wrap a cardigan around my pajamas.
He glances at my pajama bottoms and shoes with untied laces.
“I made too much coffee. You want some?”
He nods. “Thanks.”
I sit in one of the Adirondack chairs and he joins me, sitting in the other. We take quiet sips of the black coffee.
“I don’t have any milk,” I explain.
“I drink it black.”
“Sugar?”
“Nah.”
“That’s handy. I think the ants have gotten into it.”
Jack smiles. “Yeah, you’ve gotta watch them.”
We both look out at the trees, the dozens of shades of green in juxtaposition. Alex studied biology in high school. He could identify the different plant species much better than I could. He once told me there’d been a scientist in almost every generation of Gardners—chemists and physicists mainly, but Alex preferred biology. Apparently biology was a lesser form of science, according to the Gardners.
“You faring okay out here?” Jack asks.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
I should probably thank him for checking up on me, but I don’t want to encourage more company. Although, if I’m honest, Jack’s company isn’t so bothersome. Bella’s, on the other hand . . . I look towards her parked car and notice a plastic Virgin Mary on the dash.
“Dinner was nice,” I say politely.
“Merriem’s a great cook.”
I recall the sleepy dark head against Jack’s shoulder last night. “How was Huia this morning?”
“Bit tired. I just dropped her at school.” He frowns. “She wasn’t too keen. Complaining about having to go to Jellybeans this afternoon.”
“She mentioned ballet classes last night.”
“Did she?” He seems surprised. “Yeah, she wants to go. I just . . .” His voice drifts off.
We both sip our esp
resso.
“Bella and I did ballet classes,” I say. “Our aunty made us go.”
Jack looks at me. His skin is the same color as Cousin Vinnie’s, though I’m convinced Vinnie uses a tanning bed. Jack’s eyes are exactly the same as Huia’s: as dark as a bird’s, perfectly round, set in bright, clear whites.
“Our mother died when we were little,” I explain, a little out of step with the conversation. I tend not to talk about Mama.
“Oh, I wondered . . .”
“She had bad asthma. She was ill quite a lot.” I don’t add that it’s a miracle Bella and I don’t have it, though it is. Aunty Connie says it’s because of Mama’s prayers.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Jack says.
“It happened a very long time ago.”
“Still.”
“Yes, still.”
I have so few memories of Mama, and the ones I do have are warped and worn from recalling them, like old photos. Among them: her pitch-perfect but wispy singing, the way she frowned when she was peeling mushrooms, playing with our hair as she read us stories, ironing Papa’s shirts with great puffs of heavy steam, laughing at Papa, holding his hand on the couch, and gossiping on the phone to her friends, to my aunty Lisa.
“We went once, to the dance school,” Jack says. “It was an open day. They lent Huia a leotard and did her makeup. I mean, they did all the girls’ makeup—I guess it was part of the promotion.” He draws a breath. “I don’t know. She just looked . . . so different, not like my Huia.”
I remember the makeup we had to wear for dance recitals and how much I hated it. It was thick and greasy, like paint, like a disguise. Bella had loved it—the dressing up, the preening, the pretending. She and Aunty Rosa had giggled and oohed and ahhed in the mirror. Aunty Connie hadn’t approved of the makeup; she’d whispered to Aunty Rosa that we looked like buttane, whores, and Aunty Rosa had slapped the top of her hand and hissed, “You can’t say that, soru. Think of Marcella; they’re her girls. She’d turn in her grave!”
“I hated that makeup,” I say.
“Yeah? Huia liked it. I couldn’t stand the stuff. She looked too grown-up. Like . . . well, a bit like her mother, I guess.”
At the mention of Huia’s mother, Jack frowns.
“Is she . . .?” I ask softly.
He glances at me. “Dead? Oh, no.” He gives a wry laugh. “No, she’s not dead. Not that I know of at least.” He balks. “I’m sorry, that’s a dreadful thing to say. She lives in New Zealand. Or Australia. Last I heard she was on the Gold Coast.”
“She isn’t in contact with Huia?”
“Nah.” Jack shakes his head and sniffs. He looks towards a puddle of sunlight on a grove of sword ferns, their shoots like green fingers reaching up out of the earth. “Maybe I should just let her go to dance classes,” he murmurs.
“She’s a great kid,” I say after a moment’s silence.
“She really is.”
We both turn to watch a white car creeping along the driveway. Daniel Gardner, behind the wheel, raises his palm to us. Jack straightens and I wave back. He parks the car and steps out.
“Hi, Frankie.”
Alex’s voice in another body. It makes me shiver.
“Hi, Daniel.”
He pushes his hands into his pockets. I notice his hair is growing out of its neat cut, it’s getting a little ragged. He’s wearing black jeans and a loose T-shirt.
“You must be Jack?” Daniel says.
Jack shakes his hand and glances at me.
“Daniel Gardner,” I explain.
“Oh, of course,” Jack says. “I should probably get going.”
“Sorry, no, don’t let me interrupt,” Daniel says.
“No, you’re all right. I’m . . . I’ve got . . . rounds to do.” Jack nods to me. “I’ll swing by another time. Thanks for the coffee.”
“Uncinnè problema,” I say, No problem, then start to explain, “I mean . . .” But he’s already headed towards his truck.
Daniel remains standing. I gesture to the seat beside me.
“Isn’t this . . . fraternizing with the enemy, or whatever they call it?” I tease gently, thinking of the eviction letter.
He gives me a pained look. “Mom . . . she’s having a rough time.”
I nod. As is Daniel, clearly, his face too pallid for his age.
“How are you?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I should have come back sooner. I was going to and then . . .”
He looks so terrible I reach out to pat the back of his hand. “Hey, it’s good to see you now.”
I think about how it must be at his house—the silence and grief between him, his mom, and his dad. The Gardners don’t process emotion like the Caputos. Tears are private. Stoic is practically part of the family motto. At least my aunties wailed with me at the news of Alex’s death. At least Papa never hid his tears when Mama died or told us to buck up.
I change the subject. “When are you back at college?”
He frowns. “Soon. A few more weeks. I had an internship at a local law firm, just doing basic stuff, filing, admin.”
“That sounds good.”
“I quit.”
“Oh.”
“I wasn’t . . . handling it very well.” He clears his throat. “There’s always summer, and I’m happy to have some time off, to be honest. Last semester was hard work.”
“No one will think badly of you for taking a break.”
He gives me a grateful look. “Thanks. I think I just need some time. Mom and Dad don’t agree, of course, but . . .” He shrugs. Then he retrieves a black iPod from his pocket. “I brought you this. I didn’t know if you had any music.”
“No, I don’t. Thanks, Daniel.”
Daniel plays the guitar. Alex used to tease him about never seeing the sunlight, he spent so much time in his room practicing.
“It’s mainly local stuff. It might not be your scene, but, well, I couldn’t live without music, so . . .” He shrugs again.
“That’s really kind of you.”
“Oh, well, no . . .” Suddenly he looks guilty.
I look down at my sneakers. “Did your mom send you?” I ask in a whisper.
He doesn’t reply.
“Daniel?”
“I think they might sell . . .” His voice is thin, unanchored.
“That can’t be true.”
My voice comes out harsher than I expected. Daniel looks alarmed.
“Alex loved this place!”
“I know,” Daniel says sadly.
“Your mom never liked me.”
“Oh, no, she just—”
“C’mon, Daniel.”
I’d had this argument with Alex too, many times. “Mom likes you,” he’d say, “she’s just not good with women. She’s used to being the only woman in the house; she has no daughters. She probably worries that you don’t like her.” I always let him win because I wanted him to be right. But it was bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit.
Ahead of us are two Douglas firs, standing like twins. They remind me of Mr. and Mrs. Gardner posed at their front door, as though they’re pillars holding the house up. Mrs. Gardner in a long skirt; Mr. Gardner in a Ralph Lauren shirt. Like the first time I met them. Indelibly pressed into my memory.
* * *
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Francesca,” Mrs. Gardner said. “Alexander has told us all about you.”
“Come on in,” Mr. Gardner said, opening the door.
“Coats and bags go there.” Mrs. Gardner gestured towards a replica antique hatstand near the front door.
As we walked to the sitting room, Alex squeezed my hand before letting go. Daniel was perched on the couch, wearing a pressed shirt like Alex, his hair brushed neat. He seemed to be trying to make himself as small as possible, barely speaking as we discussed the summer heat and Mr. Gardner’s recent election to the board of the local Rotary club. I glanced over at Alex, wishing I was sitting on his lap and watching a movie, his arm wrapped a
round my waist.
“Frankie?” Alex urged.
“Sorry?”
Mrs. Gardner was blinking at me. “What do your parents do? Your father, I mean. . . . Alex told us about . . .” She stuttered to a halt, glancing at Mr. Gardner.
“He works at my uncle’s shop,” I said. “Mario’s.”
Mrs. Gardner looked to her husband.
“She means he’s a mechanic. I know the place,” said Mr. Gardner. He smiled and I returned the smile gratefully.
“Oh, right, a mechanic,” Mrs. Gardner replied slowly.
“Drink?” Mr. Gardner asked, standing. “Gin and tonic?”
Mrs. Gardner nodded. “Thank you, dear.”
“You kids?” He looked at Alex and me.
“We’ll have Cokes,” Alex answered for us both.
“Alex,” Mrs. Gardner murmured.
“Please,” he added.
The conversation turned to school and the subjects I enjoyed. I told them that I worked at the school library a few lunchtimes a week and that my favorite teacher was Ms. Gordon, who taught art history. Mrs. Gardner murmured something under her breath that only Alex and Mr. Gardner seemed to hear.
Mr. Gardner said firmly, “The public school is fine.”
“Just,” I heard her whisper, clearly disagreeing with her husband.
Alex shot me an apologetic look.
“Why don’t I give Francesca the tour?” Mrs. Gardner said, standing, drink in hand. “You boys can get the barbecue going.”
“Ah . . .” Alex stood too, but I gave him a little nod and said, “Sure. Thanks, Mrs. Gardner.”
I smoothed down the skirt of my dress and picked up my glass. Mrs. Gardner led me out into the yard, pointing out the kitchen and guest bedroom and bathroom on the way. The yard was beautiful—soft lawn edged with rosebushes and rosemary. There was an outdoor setting of white wrought iron, as if we were in Paris or one of those Hamptons homes you see in television shows. Mrs. Gardner started telling me about the roses but I wasn’t paying much attention. I was wondering whether my dress was too short and if I should have tied up my hair.
“Alex says your family is European?” Mrs. Gardner asked.
“Yes. Well, Italian.”
“Italian.” She seemed to consider it and then gave a tight smile. “Yes, you remind me of someone actually, but she was French. Which part of Italy?”
Season of Salt and Honey Page 12