“Hmm?” Squeak focused her eyes intentionally downward toward the work in her lap. Another flower was already taking shape.
“I don’t know much about crochet, but I think,” Percy leaned toward Squeak and touched the soft yarn, “that your flower is rather extraordinary.” She watched as Squeak’s face colored. “Perhaps you haven’t told us everything you know about this bull.”
“I think she’s told us a lot of bull!” Gabi chortled.
Vanessa laughed in spite of her headache. This was going to be a great meeting.
***
Percy Lundquist was the best foraging partner Vanessa could have imagined. She was fit enough to move easily in and out of dumpsters, and she had a good eye. After only a week of gathering, Percy was better at dumpster diving than Bradley had ever been.
“Good haul today,” Percy said, loading a crate full of slightly out of date hard cheeses and peanuts into her trunk. Cycling was greener, but Vanessa had to admit that riding around in a hybrid was worth the larger carbon footprint when it was 98 degrees at night.
“Very good haul. How did you know they would have the parmaggiano reggiano in the bins?”
“A work colleague also happens to work part time at the cheese counter.”
“Where do you work if you don’t mind my asking? I tend bar over at Longleaf Brewers and Distillery.”
“I teach ethics.”
“Ethics? Where?”
“Let’s just say it’s a local university, and that I have a convenient commute from my home in Durham.”
“Gotcha. Well, I won’t complain about anyone’s job if her work colleagues give such awesome tips on food tosses. I’m going to email the listserv tonight. There’s enough stuff back there for everyone in the group.”
“How many freegans are in your group?”
“Well, counting you, seven. There’s Ally, Edward, and Bradley, who are all pretty strict. Then there’s Reagan and me; we still buy some stuff, like appliances and underpants and ice cream. And Amber, who gets free condoms from work. Plus you, seven. Wait. No, nine. But Jill and Elliot mostly keep to themselves unless you happen to fall into their sphere of opening a new business.”
“I suppose there are other people who sort of participate as well?”
“Freecycle is very active here, yes. But in terms of digging and foraging, there’s mostly us. We see occasional stoned college students or homeless people, but no one regular.”
“So a tight knit group, then?”
“If you overlook one or two sexual infidelities, yes.”
“Bradley and Amber, right? He cheated on you.”
“Indeed he did. But, as he keeps telling everyone, there was no vag, so he didn’t think it counted.”
“Cheaters are always unstable in themselves. He forgot it was still his body and someone else’s body touching sexually.”
“That’s one way to put it, yes.”
“We overlook the body so much in our culture.” Percy seemed thoughtful, as though she was going to wax on. Then she smiled and changed the subject. “That’s what I like about foraging. It’s so physical. Gets us back in touch with our hunting and gathering ancestors. Which reminds me—a… friend of mine says we can glean from her garden. Well, it’s a farm, really… an organic one. We can have the things that she can’t use in her CSA boxes or in her own family. If you don’t mind a little bug damage, that is.”
“Please. If it’s actually fresh, I don’t mind if a caterpillar or two has a nibble.”
Percy beamed. “I’m so glad. She said she’d bring a box of gleanings to the farmer’s market tomorrow. Do you want to meet there? Oh, wait. Actually, I’m meeting Brigit for lunch. I can pick up the box and bring half to Fructus on Sunday.”
“Sounds good. So, you asked Squeak out on a date?”
“She asked me, actually, but I would have done if she had hesitated,” Percy smiled reflectively.
“Then why did you hesitate before?”
“What do you mean?” Percy looked puzzled.
“You said your dot, dot, dot friend has a CSA,” Vanessa poked holes in the air to illustrate the pause in Percy’s speech. “That sounded a little coded to me. Mind you, I might be paranoid, after Bradley and all, but I don’t want you to think Squeak is just a plaything.”
“Ah,” Percy tilted her head, then looked right at Vanessa before continuing, “I hesitated because she’s a student, not a lover. I have to be careful not to think of most students as friends, since there is such a power differential. But in this case, the moniker applies.”
“Got it.”
“Perhaps,” Percy drew in a breath and held it. She sighed, “Vanessa, I’m not playing around with Brigit. I hope you don’t think that. In fact, there’s something I wanted to ask you about her.”
“Okay?”
“It’s just. Oy, I’m nervous. I want to bring her something, a token. But I can’t tell, after just two meetings and a few phone calls. Does she like flowers? Chocolate? I get the sense that she wants something to do with her hands, but I keep blanking out. Thinking of bread dough, all warm and —“ Percy blushed and fell silent.
“I see,” Vanessa grinned. “Yarn. She loves merino wool the best and in warm colors. I’ve seen her make teal and brown before, but mostly she loves oranges and reds.”
“Thank you!” Percy’s smile returned.
“There’s a yarn store over by the Chapel Hill Whole Foods that she likes. If I’m honest, I like it, too, but I mostly get my yarn from old ladies tossing it out to make room for more.”
“Thanks. Oh, that reminds me. Estate sales. I saw some in the paper today. I’m thinking we could go after they are over, ask the people in charge if we can haul off the leftovers. Same thing goes for posh garage sales. A lot of people just donate everything to a charity anyway. They might let us have stuff as a sort of finder’s fee if we offer to cart junk away.”
Vanessa gazed at Percy, impressed. “You’ve really thought about this, haven’t you? Wow. Yes! Let’s try it. But for tonight, I need to get home. I’m dying to see if this CD player you found works better than my old one.”
“See you at Fructus!” Percy called before driving away.
The new CD player worked perfectly. Vanessa dug out her Enya CDs from among the albums she had worried would be ruined by the old player and put on “Sail Away” while she cooked dinner. She did not like Enya as much as she had in college, but she made an exception for this song.
The smell of real, perfectly ripe cheese and tomatoes lavished flavors on the warm air in the kitchen while Vanessa cooked. She found herself thinking of water, then of travel, then of Costa Rican Javier. The scrapbooks were laid out across the coffee table where she could see them while she ate or relaxed. The initial charm of Javier’s perfect good looks had not worn off, but Vanessa was starting to like this guy for the glimpses of his personality she could see in Mary’s insipid texts and gorgeous photos.
He always seemed to arrange thoughtful little surprises for Mary, like leaving oranges and papayas on her desk. He flew her favorite canned soup in from the States when she had a cold. He made her a stack of flannel hankies when she developed allergies to the tropical plants. In one photo, Javier was dancing with what Vanessa at first took to be a child. But looking at it while not drunk showed her that he was dancing with a miniscule old lady whose eyes crinkled in a way that reminded Vanessa of Javier’s smile. He was green, he was generous, he was gorgeous, he was nice to old ladies, and he seemed faithful to this Mary chick, even if she did seem to feel poorly half the time.
Vanessa’s phone rang, interrupting her rehearsal of Javier’s apparent virtues. Gabi started talking straight away, not even allowing Vanessa to say “hello.”
“Ay, hermana. Are you working tonight? I have a match.”
“Yep. I’m going in at six. Just having dinner first.”
“Don’t tell me about it. I know you love the environment and all that, but thinking about eating out of a du
mpster makes me sick.”
“Well, you don’t have to be sick this time. Percy scored us real food, from right over the counter, no dumpsters involved,” she lied. “It’s slightly past sell-by but totally good.”
“Tell her she can come eat with us!” Carla shouted in the background on Gabi’s line.
“Ma says you can come eat with us. We’re having flautas,” Gabi continued in a whisper, “Marian made them, so they are actually edible.”
“Thanks, but I’m seriously good. I have all this parmaggiano reggiano and fresh tomatoes, and I bought some pasta to go with it.”
“Well, it’s about damn time you just bought some food. That Bradley was giving you scurvy.” Without turning away, Gabi shouted, “She has something to eat, Ma! Real food. None of that bagel stuff.” To Vanessa she continued, “See you later, hermana. And, hey, it’s good to see you taking care of yourself.”
Vanessa turned off the phone and looked in the mirror over the sink. Had Bradley’s zeal really made her malnourished? She bared her teeth like a horse, looking at her gums. She seemed fine. She shook her head to clear it.
The pasta looked beautiful in a huge blue bowl Vanessa had found on one of her first outings as a freegan. The tiny chip in the clay glaze was on the underside, so it was practically like new. Vanessa ate the tangy and salty and chewy pasta at the table, a scrapbook opened next to her bowl. A bathing suit-clad Javier smiled up at her from the Pacific Ocean, backlit by a pink sunset. It was the wrong photo to stare at while eating pasta. Vanessa felt sauce all down her chin. She had been slurping her noodles lasciviously.
“You big hornball,” she admonished herself. “He’s probably still there. In Central America, not North Carolina. Let Gabi or even Perla set you up with someone available.” Vanessa nodded at her own sage advice, trying to ignore the fact that Perla thought she had a chance with Javier.
She really ought to just pull out the photos of jungles and beaches and lizards and monkeys and stop poring over this guy she had never met, would probably never meet. She tried to muster a feminist impulse, some connection between our mother earth and living the green life and not obsessing over body-thrilling Costa Rican men one has never seen outside scrapbooks pulled from the actual trash. Nada. All she could think of was an old Bible verse she had memorized back before church got boring and irrelevant, about creation groaning. Groaning for what? She couldn’t quite remember, but at least she was distracted enough from lusting after Javier to finish her noodles with a degree of dignity.
When Vanessa arrived at work, she was surprised to see Gabi already standing at the bar, drinking a fake martini. How her friend could stomach still mineral water and olives was beyond Vanessa, but she had to admire Gabi’s cleverness.
As usual, three or four guys were clustered around Gabi’s radiant dark beauty. Gabi did not like to be at a disadvantage among horny guys. She said being sober was a good defense, plus water never hid the taste if someone tried to slip something in her drink. Not that Vanessa would let that happen at her bar, but it was a nice precaution.
“Hey, Mojita!” Vanessa whispered as she passed, addressing Gabi by her luchadora name. Since Gabi was not wearing her mask, it was uncouth to call her lucha name out loud. “Let me freshen up your drink? Your usual before a match, yes?”
“Sí, mi hermana,” Gabi raised her glass and winked.
“When’s your match?” Vanessa asked, handing Gabi a new fake martini.
“It’s at nine, next door,” Gabi leaned across the bar, her movement followed by several pairs of lecherous eyes as her taut and curvy frame stretched over the granite. “There’s someone I want you to meet. One of my new friends,” she gestured toward either the door or the eager men clustered behind her, “él está de Costa Rica.”
Vanessa’s breath caught and she dribbled a draft beer over the side of the pint she was pulling. Righting her pour, she looked down, suddenly bashful as she asked, “Is he here now? Javier?”
Gabi laughed and ate an olive from her drink. “No, mi hermana. These guys are just admirers. Not my type for friends or ends. Jeans that tight, don’t work right.” She chanted the last line as though it were an accepted proverb. Of course, tight jeans had never stopped Bradley’s performance, but he was not exactly an exemplary partner. Vanessa decided not to correct her friend. She was right. None of the men had enough moxie for Gabi.
Gabi slithered closer to Vanessa, her face just to the left of the taps. “Help me out?” she smiled sexily.
Vanessa sat down her towel, handed a beer to a young hipster mom wearing dark-framed glasses, and stared straight at Gabi for a moment. Suddenly, she clutched Gabi’s face and kissed her full on the lips with apparent passion. The guys hoping to bed her friend did not need to know they had met at acting class or that Gabi was trying to make Vanessa laugh by blowing quiet raspberries on her mouth. She pulled away and went straight to setting up a whisky tasting tray for a group of local band members.
When she had served the band, she darted a glance toward Gabi, who was talking to the mom and another woman with a baby in one of those batik print wraps. The hornballs had wandered off to more likely prospects. Gabi left for her match after half an hour, but not before calling out that she would be back with a special someone if he happened around that night.
The busy evening passed quickly. Two food trucks supplied a fluctuating crowd of foodies, hipsters, locavores, and the otherwise cool segment of Durham. When Vanessa wasn’t describing the house brews and spirits, or making trendy cocktails, she watched out for her customers. There were two who worried her. A fifty-something man seemed gregarious enough unless you noticed that he only talked about alcohol. He had been alternating beers and whiskies since Vanessa came on shift at six, with no apparent inebriation. Vanessa knew his type. He would eventually reach his limit and either black out or try to drive home. He did not know it, but he only had one more beer before his keys were going in the safe.
Vanessa made sure his bowl of peanuts was refreshed, then wiped down the bar in front of the other worrying customer, the hipster mom. Her equally cool looking husband had taken their two small children home a couple of hours ago, and the baby wearer had left an hour later. The mom was still drinking, though. She had struck up a conversation about Square Foot Gardening with a youngish man and a lesbian couple. When the lesbians went out to the trucks to get burgers, the guy had convinced the mom to do Irish car bombs. Seeing the lesbians on their way back in, Vanessa relaxed a bit. She set a glass of water and a bowl of nuts in front of the mom and went to the far end of the bar to serve a smiling couple who were clearly going to get lucky that night.
Vanessa had just served them the house blueberry lambic when she heard a voice that made her neck hairs rise.
“Please,” the firm but quiet, deep male voice said, “the lady is not going with you.” There was a slight Central American clip, but more in the music of the sounds than any deviation from standard American English.
Vanessa ignored one of her regulars, a silver-haired professor emerita who always ordered the same run of pale ale drafts and bottled imports, and rushed to the source of the commotion. Rather, the not quite commotion. The mom was holding her head, looking spaced out. The car bomb guy was grabbing at her arm, but having a hard time getting around a dark-haired, muscular interloper with his back to Vanessa.
“Is there a problem here?” Vanessa asked in her no-nonsense tone.
“No. This gentleman was just leaving,” the dark-haired man said, not moving.
Vanessa joined the man in glaring at the young guy. The lesbian couple saw what was happening and got up from their table. They flanked the mom, one of them putting a protective arm around her while the other crossed her arms and joined Vanessa and the dark-haired man to stare down the car bomb guy.
After eight, nine, ten seconds of tense glares, the man’s face reddened. He looked down in shame and walked out, shoulders hunched. Vanessa released her breath and looked with concern at the hip
ster mom.
“You okay, Sara?” one of the lesbians asked.
“Allow me,” said the dark-haired man, turning toward the bar at last, “I’m a physician.”
Vanessa felt a rush of warmth through her torso as she studied the man, who was gently examining the mom.
“Javier,” she gasped.
The man looked up, confusion and amusement flashing across his eyes before they returned to an expression of professional concern. He did not answer her, but turned to the lesbians. “Is she a friend of yours?”
The women nodded.
“I saw that man put something in her water when I was coming in. Probably roofies. Do you know where she lives?”
The women nodded again, clearly stunned.
“She didn’t drink much, but there may have been other dosings. Did you notice anything suspicious?” Javier turned his glorious gaze on Vanessa.
“Um, no. She’s had a lot of beers. But that guy only bought her one car bomb, and he didn’t touch that. I only just gave her a fresh water, though.”
Javier nodded once, then spoke to the friends. “I would feel more comfortable if we take her in to screen her. There’s no knowing what someone like that low life slipped her.”
The group helped Sara to her feet unsteadily. They walked out, one of the lesbians filling in the mom’s husband on a cell.
A few minutes later, Gabi appeared at the door, followed by a smiling, but vomit-covered, Javier. He smiled apologetically toward Vanessa and gestured toward his clothes. She heard him say, “I’m looking forward to it,” before he smiled again at Gabi and disappeared. Gabi gestured eating a burger and walked off toward the food truck line.
By the time Paula came on shift at eleven, Vanessa was an emotional mess. Her mind bristled at the near miss with the mom and car bomb guy. The question—what if?—opened a window to a dark room in her memory. She knew what some men would try when presented with a vulnerable female. Vanessa tried to think brighter thoughts. She had met Javier! But he did not know about the nightmare rooms of her childhood. If he did, would he still have smiled at her? Fear coursed through her like a pungent odor in a kitchen. If only there were some immediate distraction, some proof that she was loveable. Maybe Javier would come back. Doctor Javier, she reminded herself.
Can't Buy Me Love Page 3