by Allie Larkin
“Take care of her, Pete.”
“Yeah.” He dragged his feet on the carpet as he walked out.
Joe started to follow him, but I called him back. He lay down next to me and rested his head on my chest. I wiped my eyes on my sleeve and watched Joe’s eyes close into little slits, and then I fell asleep too.
Chapter Thirty
When I woke up about an hour later, Joe was still asleep, snoring away with his head just under my chin. His eyes were squeezed shut and his brow was furrowed. He whimpered softly, and let out high-pitched little woofs.
I lay there, thinking about Peter saying I should let Alex know how I felt. I wondered if this time it might actually make a difference. The portable phone was on the bed by my foot, but I didn’t want to move. I stared at it, thinking that if I could make it move with my brainpower, I’d call Alex. Of course, it didn’t budge. I kicked it with my foot, and it slid out of my reach.
“Hey Joey,” I said softly.
He kept his head down, but his ears twitched when I talked.
“Hey Joey, get the phone for me.”
He opened his eyes, pushed his nose into mine, and licked my face.
“Maybe it wasn’t meant to be,” I said, messing up the fur on the top of his head. I hated the way my voice sounded when I said it. I didn’t believe in “meant to be.” I believed in doing things, in fixing things, in changing things. I used to, at least, when I had my mom to back me up. I hadn’t realized how much it had helped to have someone to tell me how amazing I was. Even though I knew she was completely biased; sometimes, when she said it, I actually believed her.
I kicked the comforter up with my foot until the phone slid close enough for me to reach. I needed a pep talk. I needed someone to back me up. I pulled the Sweet’N Low packet with Agnes’s number out of my pocket. It seemed kind of strange to me that I actually wanted to talk to Aunt Agony, but I did. She hadn’t turned out to be who I’d thought she was.
She answered on the first ring.
“Agnes Clarke speaking.” She spoke clearly, overenunciating every consonant.
“Hi, Agnes. It’s Van.”
“Van, honey, are you feeling any better?” she asked, sweetly. It was comforting to have someone be so concerned for me.
“You’re not going to believe what happened.” I told Agnes about finding Janie in my closet and about Diane and the money, Janie in the driveway, and Peter in my bedroom.
“Oh, lady,” she said, her breath rushing against the receiver as she talked, “they’ve put too much on you. It wasn’t fair.” She sighed. “Did you call your lumberjack?”
“He’s a vet. Diane told Pete he was a lumberjack. Why does everyone think that?”
“Well,” Agnes said, like she was considering it very carefully. “He was carrying a tree.”
“True,” I said, laughing.
“Call him.”
“I don’t think he wants to talk to me.”
“Call him, lady. And call me back to tell me about it when you’re done.” She hung up before I could argue with her.
I stared at the buttons on my phone until the line clicked over to a dial tone. I thought about not calling him and just letting the whole thing fade away. It was one night, a walk with Joe, a few games of Go Fish, and some coffee cake at Louis’s house. I’d had other little flings. It didn’t have to mean anything. I could get another vet. I could buy a different house. I could probably even find another date if I tried hard enough. Maybe I could roll bandages at the Red Cross or spoon out mashed potatoes at a soup kitchen. Maybe I’d meet someone new and it would completely change my life.
But in all the years I’d known Peter, I’d never felt like there was anyone better. Alex was, and that was worth putting myself out there, even though I was nervous. I dialed his number, pressing the buttons on the phone with shaky fingers. I could feel my heartbeat in my ears while I waited for Alex to pick up; it thumped louder with every ring. By the fourth ring, I was a big ball of nerves. I was about to hang up, when I heard his voice.
“Hey.” It was his cell phone, so he must have known it was me before he picked up. And he still picked up.
I heard dogs barking in the background. “Are you at work?” I rubbed Joe’s nose and watched his eyes close up into little lines.
“Home.”
“Hey, so you got a tree.” I tried to act casual, like nothing had happened, but I could tell my voice sounded forced.
“Yeah, I did,” he said. I could tell he wasn’t smiling.
“Do you need help setting it up?”
“My dad’s coming over tomorrow.”
“Oh. Well, I could maybe-”
“Van, look- ”
“Alex, I’m really sorry. What happened is- I’m really sorry. I should have just told you the truth.” I stopped petting Joe. He opened his eyes and nudged my hand.
“I don’t think I can do this,” he said, softly.
“Didn’t we have a good time the other night?” My voice was high and squeaky. I felt pathetic. Joe licked my hand until I started petting him again.
He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I’m just not- I’m just not ready for this. I’ve been down this road before and I can’t do it again.”
I wanted to tell him I wasn’t a road, but I didn’t say anything. I just listened to the sound of my breath making static in the phone.
He sighed. “Hey, your hand’s okay, right? Did you bandage it?”
My hand was naked, raw, and red. “I took care of it.”
“Good. I’ve gotta go. You take care, Van.”
He hung up before I could say anything else.
Chapter Thirty-one
When Agnes found out that I was in the market for a house, she insisted on taking me to look at properties. “It’ll get your mind off your lumberjack.”
We spent the better part of Tuesday visiting a string of houses in her neighborhood and out of my price range. All the magazine-perfect Berber carpeting and fussy window treatments made me long for Louis’s house with the mismatched paint and ugly shag. Even if I could afford one of the places we saw, none of them were houses I would ever feel comfortable in. They were “no feet on the furniture, no dogs in the living room” kinds of houses.
“Do you want me to call a different Realtor?” Agnes said when we got in her car after we saw the last house on the list. “I can set up something for tomorrow.”
“You know what? I have a property I’m going to check on first,” I said, trying to sound official, hoping Louis would still sell to me. It wasn’t a pretty house, but I could easily afford it, and it felt like a home. Although, I worried that the homey feeling was more about Louis and Alex than it was about the house.
“Well, call me if you want a second set of eyes,” she said.
“I will.”
“Looks like Santa came early,” she said, when we pulled into the driveway.
A Christmas tree bound up like an umbrella leaned in the doorway next to two big brown cardboard boxes. For a minute I thought it was some kind of elaborate present from Alex, and my heart jumped. Then I remembered where it came from. “It’s just my order from L.L.Bean,” I said.
“Well, phooey,” Agnes said, “I was hoping it was from Alex.”
“You and me both.”
Agnes beeped three times as she drove off. Joe had his nose pressed against the living room window. When I opened the door, he darted outside and ran circles around the front yard. He peed on Gail and Mitch’s side of the yard before I could stop him, bounding back at me, lifting his legs high like he’d done something to be proud of. He sniffed the tree. It must have looked like a big stick to him. Joe bit at the trunk and tried to lift it up, but it was too heavy. I picked it up from the middle and started to drag it in.
I put the tree down in the middle of the living room, dropping needles everywhere, and went back for the boxes. Then I sat down on the floor and unpacked all of it, the stand, the glass globe ornaments, aluminum icicles, wh
ite twinkle lights, the headband with reindeer antlers for Joe, the green plaid shirt for Alex, and the red wool blanket. I wrapped the blanket around me and slid the antlers over Joe’s head. I put Alex’s shirt in the coat closet so I wouldn’t have to look at it. Joe ran around like a drunk, shaking his head, trying to get the antlers off.
I resisted the urge to hit up Agnes’s bottle of Maker’s Mark and put the water on for tea instead. I ran out to my car and dug out the Chipmunks’ Christmas CD my mom got me as a joke one year. I blasted it on the stereo and sang along. Joe chewed on his antlers while I set up the tree.
I missed our old ornaments-the pinecones with glitter glue, the Smurfs figurines we hung on the branches by tying silver string to the ends of their little white hats. They were probably still in the green cardboard box in the crawl space at the carriage house.
Diane had a decorator come to “style” the tree in the main house with silver ribbon and Limoges ornaments all in the same color scheme, but I always liked our tree better. Every year we added to our ornament collection, sitting at the kitchen counter with mugs of hot chocolate, jars of library paste, and tempera paint. One year we made a superlong paper chain out of strips of newspaper and magazines, another year we stuffed plain glass balls with mementos from the year: movie ticket stubs, my mother’s very last car payment bill run through a paper shredder, a broken necklace, blue and green pebbles from the bottom of our unsuccessful fish tank, complete with a tiny plastic fish. We’d stay up all night eating candy canes, making a mess of the kitchen, while Christmas movies played in the background. The carriage house smelled like pine needles and cinnamon. Janie was never invited. She was probably off doing the holiday party circuit with her parents anyway. So, it was just my mom and me. It was our family.
The last year, I think she was hiding how sick she was. We made origami penguins. They were simple and subdued. No glue. No mess to clean up. Less than an hour in, she kissed my cheek and said, “Well, kiddo, I think I’d better hit the hay.” It was only nine thirty. I guess I should have suspected something.
When I was done putting all my L.L.Bean ornaments on the tree, I sat down at the kitchen table and made two penguins out of newsprint. I hung them on the tree with dental floss, facing each other, like they were having a conversation.
Chapter Thirty-two
The next day, I went to see Louis. I couldn’t remember exactly how to get to his house and had to drive around a few of the neighborhoods off of the main road before I found the right one. I almost lost my nerve. Maybe it was a sign that I couldn’t find Louis’s house; it was a stupid idea. But just as I was about to give up and go home, I realized I was finally on the right street.
When I found Louis’s house, I parked in the driveway and walked up to the front door. Halfway up the path, I thought about leaving. I stood there for a moment, debating if I should stay or go. Before I could come to a decision, Louis tapped on the window and waved at me. He opened the door.
“What a lovely surprise, Vannah!” he said, grabbing my arm as soon as I got close enough. “Come in! Come in!”
“I hope I’m not bothering you,” I said.
“Bother?” Louis shook his head. “No, no!” He closed the door behind me. “Sit. I’ll put coffee on.”
I sat down at the kitchen table, trying to work up my nerve to ask him about the house. Or say something about Alex.
Louis poured water in the percolator and said, “Sfogliatelle? You like?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve never-”
“Eh, what’s not to like?” Louis said, putting a plate of flaky pastries on the table.
“Really,” I said, “you don’t have to go to any trouble.”
“What trouble?” Louis said, waving his hand in front of his face. “It’s not trouble to have friends. It is a gift.”
“I worried maybe you’d be upset with me,” I said. I looked down at the kitchen table. It was old and nicked. Mug marks and water rings, scratches and indents. It had history.
“That’s between you and Alex,” Louis said, handing me a cup of coffee and sitting down. “I don’t get involved. You and me. We good. You and Alex, you work it out.”
“I don’t know if we will,” I said.
He smiled and pushed the plate of pastries closer to me. “Eat! It fixes everything, no?”
Even though it didn’t fix everything, the sfogliatelle was amazing. It had a flaky shell and the filling was creamy with a hint of orange.
“You’re an amazing cook,” I said.
“My mother,” Louis said, crossing himself, “God rest her soul, was an amazing cook. Me, I try. My father say a man doesn’t belong in the kitchen, but my mother-she was a saint, that woman- she say a man belongs where his heart is. I love to bake. So I bake.”
Louis took a bite of his sfogliatelle, and watched me as he chewed, like he was considering something. He washed it down with a sip of coffee and said, “That boy, he got hurt. Very hurt.” Louis held his hand up in front of his mouth. “Ah, I say too much. Too much. It is not my place.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” I said.
“No, not you. Her,” Louis said. He sighed. “Here I go. Not my place. This is not my place.” He leaned his elbow on the table. “So, you tell me, Vannah. Do you like this house? To be a home for you and Joe?”
“I would really like that,” I said, “if the offer still stands.”
“Of course. Of course it stands! What is it going to do, sit?” Louis laughed.
I laughed too, because it was funny how funny Louis found his own jokes.
We talked about the details. Louis said he would put his furniture in storage and stay with a friend so I could move in before I got into more trouble with the homeowners’ association.
“It’s better to move to Florida in the summer,” he said, “when the snowbirds fly home.”
“I don’t want to inconvenience you,” I said.
“It’s fine! Fine! I have some more time with my friends before I move. I have to take the time I have, right? Some of them might not be here the next time I come back for a visit.”
Louis got quiet for a minute. Then he said, “You know, that boy, his wife, Sarah.” Louis said her name and mock-spit after he said it. “He was a good husband. She was not a good wife. Maybe I shouldn’t talk, because I was not always a prince to my wives, but that man, he was a prince. He trusted her and she bent that trust.” He picked up another piece of sfogliatelle and was about to take a bite, but then he kept talking instead. “The day they sign the divorce papers, she’s out with another man.” He grabbed my arm. “Already. Poor Alex. He’s still in Tennessee. I fly down to be with him. We go get a nice meal. I say, ‘Your life starts again. We celebrate!’ But then we see her, with this fancy man, in a suit and a shiny watch.” Louis shook his head. “You could tell it was not their first date.” He sighed. “She always worked late. Alex says he’s a fool.” Louis held his finger up. “I tell him it is never foolish to fall in love. But I see him change. He moves back here. He works and works and takes care of old Louis. He’s not living.” Louis looked into his empty coffee cup. “Then he meets you, and I see the old Alex. The prince.” Louis looked me right in the eyes and smiled. “You, don’t give up on him.” He patted my hand.
He finally took a bite of his pastry. “Plus, her, I never like,” he said, with his mouth full. “You, I like.”
He got up to pour us more coffee. “Oh,” he said, shaking his head, “I said too much. I always say too much!”
When I got home, I called Alex. “Just thought I’d say hi,” I said to his voice mail. I stayed up, lying on the couch with Joe, reading a book from the library on how the canine mind works, hoping that my phone would ring.
Maybe he’s in surgery, I thought. I’ll just read until nine and then I’ll do something else. Maybe he’s pulling a late shift. I’ll just read one more chapter.
I thought of every excuse to stay up later, way past the point when any reaso
nable person would return a phone call, because I didn’t want to give up the hope that he would call. But at three AM, when I finished the book and he still hadn’t called, I shuffled upstairs to brush my teeth and go to bed, tucking the phone next to my pillow, just in case.
Chapter Thirty-three
On Christmas Eve, Agnes took me to dinner at this fancy place I’d never heard of, out by Lake Ontario. The walls were draped with evergreen boughs and white lights, and we had a view of the lake from our table. Agnes ordered king crab legs and a bottle of pinot grigio for us. I was careful to leave my wineglass alone, and went through three glasses of water before the waiter came to our table with the mountain of crab.
I tried to say no when she asked me to dinner. I wasn’t comfortable with the idea of going out on Christmas Eve with someone else’s aunt. I’d come to terms with my role in family holidays since I didn’t have a family. I made a practice of staying out of sight and acting busy so no one felt compelled to offer any invitations they didn’t really want to offer. But it seemed like Agnes actually wanted to invite me to dinner. When I offered up my usual vague plans, she said, “Please, Van. I already have to spend Christmas Day with my pompous ass of a brother and his anorexic Stepford wife. Give me an excuse to bail on Christmas Eve.” After we made plans and hung up, I realized that the anorexic Stepford wife and pompous ass were Peter’s parents.
Since my mom died, most of the conversations I had with people felt like a race to put my foot in my mouth. My voice always sounded fake and my mouth dried out. When I was done talking, I’d play what I said in my head over and over again like a videotape with tracking problems, replaying every dumb thing I said. But Agnes and I sat at the table wearing plastic bibs with melted butter running up to our elbows, and I didn’t care how I looked or if I said the wrong thing.
“Oh, you’re a mess, lady,” Agnes said, leaning on her elbow and waving her tiny crab pick at me.
“Oh, you are too, lady,” I said, waving my crab pick back at her.