Authors: Liz Michalski
A rise in Andie’s pitch catches my attention, and I focus on the conversation. “And I’m just asking why all of a sudden it’s okay for Cort to be outside my bedroom window at six a.m.,” she’s saying. She puts the paper sack down on the porch.
Gert pours water on the morning glories that twine around the cottage’s front railings, ignoring Andie’s impatient exhale. “I have no control over when the boy does his work, Andrea,” she says. “He’s taken on the project as a favor to his mother, and I’m paying him quite a bit less than his labor is worth.”
“Crusty McCallister, the bus driver?” Andie says. “Please. Since when have you been friends with her?”
“Catherine has organized the altar flowers for the past two years, and we’ve struck up a relationship. Of course, if you’d come to church with me on a Sunday, you’d know that.”
“The point of this conversation is not my church attendance,”
Andie says. “The point is that you are interfering in my life.”
“And exactly how am I doing that?” Gert asks, turning to face her. “You told me, quite clearly, that Cort wasn’t your boyfriend—that you weren’t interested in him romantically. Or did I misunderstand?”
“Oh no—you understand exactly, Aunt Gert. And all I’m telling you is, butt out.”
“And I’m simply trying to get the property in shape. If Cort is willing to do it, at a price I can afford, then Cort is whom I will hire,” Gert says. “Of course, if I’m missing something, you’re welcome to take it up with him.”
“Fine. That’s just fine,” Andie says. “Just tell me where he is, then—at the creek?”
“I should hope not. I’m certainly not paying him to spend his time fishing.”
If Gert is paying money to the boy, she knows not only where he is, but what he had for breakfast and how many fillings are in his teeth. I can tell Andie would like to call her aunt a liar, but she’s not that mad. Not yet.
“Fine,” Andie says again. “Then I’ll find him myself.”
“Go right ahead,” Gert says. “But I daresay you’ll have plenty of chances to talk with him. There’s still quite a bit of work to be done, you know.”
Andie stares at her aunt. She opens her mouth, closes it, and then turns on her heel and marches back through the woods without a word. She brushes against the sack as she goes, and the glass jar of peaches rolls out and comes to a stop just in front of me.
Her leaving doesn’t seem to upset Gert, who goes back to watering. But then I see that the container is empty; she’s tilting air over the last few plants as she stares at the spot where I’m standing. If I close my eyes I can see it; a rush of silver, ghostly water raining down.
WHEN Gert comes downstairs from settling the baby, her sister is sitting at the table. Evening is coming; the light from the windows is dim. Even at this hour the kitchen is uncomfortably warm. A row of canned peaches stretches across the countertop. The curve of the fruit reminds Gert of an infant’s cheek, and she looks away and thinks about dinner. It’s been a long few days.
“Frank will be down soon,” Clara says, but she doesn’t stand up. Her hands are folded in her lap, and when she shifts, the cracked and roughened skin of her fingers catches on her blue dress. She catches Gert’s eyes and smoothes the material carefully.
“I’ve saved the extra,” she says. “I’ll use it for a quilt for the baby.”
The material’s the wrong color for a girl, but Gert doesn’t say that. She just nods. But Clara answers as if Gert has contradicted her. “It’s good, soft cloth. I’ll back it with a cambric lining the baby can snuggle into.”
Others might scoff at such frugal ways, but Gert understands. There’s always a reason to save what you can. Most times, you’ll need it later.
These past few days, she’s seen how there are women in Hartman who still envy her sister, all these years later. Women who whisper behind gloved hands at how the daughter of a drunkard could be sitting in the finest house in town. They don’t see how Clara’s own hands aren’t fit to take out of her apron pockets when they come asking for donations for the hospital or the library. They think she’s reached above her place when she doesn’t invite them in for a cool drink or a cup of tea. But Gert’s seen how hard her sister works. She knows you get just as hungry eating air off china as you do off tin. Not that anyone’s going hungry these days. A few chickens, a garden that grows more than flowers, a willingness to dine on leftovers and stretch one dollar six ways to Sunday has seen to that. No one, not even Gert, could have done the job her sister has done here.
Clara smoothes her dress again. “It’s funny seeing you here, dressed like that. When I pictured you, you were always dressed in white, standing over some poor body with its innards cut open.”
Gert’s own skirt is blotchy with the infant’s spit up, stained from her first day at Richard’s house, and it sticks to her with the heat. She lifts it away from her, considers.
“That’s near enough, I suppose. Though it never seems to stay white for long.”
Clara eyes the blue silk critically. “The skirt’s as good as ruined, you know. It’s not enough by itself, but if you give it to me, I’ll use it with the leftovers from the baby blanket to make one for you, too. I’ve got a few old workshirts of Frank’s, red ones, that would look real pretty with it.”
“Thank you,” Gert says carefully. “That would be nice.”
Neither of them speaks for a bit. And then, in the moment just before day turns into darkness, Clara stands. She doesn’t look at Gert, but rather through the window over the kitchen sink. The view is of the driveway, and beyond it the tree line that divides the property from the road. She points.
“There’s a cabin of a sorts, that way. They used to use it for the farm workers who came through. There’s no electricity, but it could be put in. And there’s good water. With a little bit of work, it could be fixed up nice.”
“For Richard? It’s a thought,” Gert says. “Keeping him nearby will make it easier for you after I’ve gone.”
Clara shakes her head. “I meant for you. You’ll be coming back, won’t you? For the baby.”
It’s possible, then, for Gert to believe her sister has seen it all. The first day of school, Frank’s eyes following her down the aisle. The two of them bumping shoulders, both faces flushed red. A mud-stained dress. She wonders if a fragment of memory ever breaks free and draws blood from Clara’s conscience.
But her eyes tell the story. Memories might tumble round Clara’s head all day, but by nightfall they’re always worn smooth. This is a gift, and nothing more.
And perhaps she’s right. It’s likely, Gert thinks, she would have regretted it in the end. They hear Frank stirring overhead. Clara turns, cups the lid of the nearest glass jar with her hand. In a moment, she knows, her sister will offer her some, and Gert will refuse. She finds she can’t abide the fruit, with its soft, fuzzy skin, but Frank loves them.
THE inside of Neal’s rented Saab convertible is hot, even parked in the shade at seven p.m., and the white leather seat burns the back of Andie’s thighs. She pulls her skirt down. A bead of sweat drips down her nose, and she can feel a damp patch on the back of her shirt.
She starts the engine, then presses the button that folds back the roof. There’s a whirring sound, and the black top slowly and smoothly rises up, then disappears from view into a space behind the backseat. A neat trick. In Rome, Neal tooled around the streets in a cherry red leased Fiat, a car Andie thinks fits his personality much better. He tried driving Frank’s Nova, but each time he stepped on the gas, the car spluttered, then died. Neal claims it’s the car, but Andie knows he likes to accelerate in a rush, and the Nova
needs to be babied. He took the train to Hartford last week to see what was available, and this black Saab was the flashiest thing he could find. It reminds Andie of a boxy, oversized beetle.
She shifts, trying to get comfortable, and the toe of her shoe brushes something. She reaches down and finds Neal’s cigarette case. It’s calfskin leather, monogrammed with his initials: NGR. She’d given it to him two Christmases ago, when his smoking still seemed like a charming foible, one she could easily fix. Holding the case in her hand, she feels her heartbeat slow, and she realizes she’d been worried about what she’d find when she reached under the driver’s seat.
Enough of this. She taps the horn until Neal’s head appears in the upstairs bedroom window. “I’m coming,” he shouts, and Andie sits back, not satisfied, exactly, but pleased at the thought that she’s maybe pissed him off a little.
She knows she’s being bitchy, but she can’t help herself. A year ago she would have given anything for proof of Neal’s love—and if flying across the world to be with her at his busiest time of the year isn’t proof, what is?—but lately she’s not so sure love is what she wants.
She pulls her bag across the seat and searches inside it for her lipstick. The bag, lime green, is a make-up gift from Neal, a prototype of the ones that models will be carrying down the catwalks this fall. She’d simplified a little when she’d explained his job to her aunt; Neal’s not a designer, not exactly. He’s more an opportunist with a good eye, seizing on trends of the day and manufacturing them at a lower price. Her bag could be the real thing—an authentic
designer sample—or it could be a cheap knockoff. Andie’s found she prefers not to know.
She locates the lipstick and swipes it across her mouth, where it immediately starts to melt. She thinks longingly of the house’s dirt basement, its dark, windowless walls cool no matter what the weather. She’d love to bring a beach towel and a book down there and hide until this heat breaks.
Instead, she’s going out to dinner. At least a restaurant will be air-conditioned. She lifts her ponytail higher with one hand and fans the back of her neck with the other. She’s about to honk the horn again when Neal comes out the front door.
“Sorry,” he says. When he’s close enough, Andie gets out of the car and walks around to the passenger seat. Neal rushes to get there first and open the door for her. He’s wearing a charcoal T-shirt, stretched tight across his chest, a pair of olive green shorts, and leather moccasins Andie’s never seen before. He looks like he just stepped out of a catalog for country living. But there are drawbacks to living with a man who cares more about his appearance than you do, as Andie’s discovered. One of which is that he’s never ready on time.
“So,” he says, accelerating as they pull out of the driveway, “where do you want to go? I know you’re the tour guide, but I got a couple of recommendations from the guys at the feed store.”
I’ll bet you did, Andie thinks. In Italy, Neal’s gift for blending into the local scene, for discovering the best trattorias and the coolest bars, was both enviable and irritating.
It’s a bit disconcerting to watch the same skill at work on her home turf.
“What’d they say?” she asks.
“Well, there’s a new place one town over that’s getting good reviews. Apparently the chef’s some kind of fanatic who will only cook with native ingredients. If it’s not from around here, he won’t serve it.”
Oh god. She sinks lower in her seat. “I don’t know, it sounds kind of trendy. I thought you wanted some local color.”
“Right you are.” He turns the wheel, heading the car toward the center of town. “Well, we’ve got Lena’s Pizza or Johnny’s Bar and Grill. Your pick?”
Andie thinks fast. Lena’s has edible food, but on a Friday night half of Hartman—including Cort or his parents—will be there. Johnny’s is a case of food poisoning waiting to happen, but most of the locals only go there to drink. With luck, she can get Neal in and out before the bar gets busy.
“Well, if it’s atmosphere you want, Johnny’s is the place to be,” she tells him. She leaves out the part about food poisoning.
“Johnny’s it is,” he says. She has to admit, he’s been endearingly agreeable since he’s been here. She knows the country isn’t his thing, but he spent last week walking the property with her, listening to her stories of growing up here and scouting the boundaries as if he really cared. He’s taken on the task of getting the assessor out to the house, too, a job Gert’s been avoiding for far too long.
He’s even helping with the cleanup, a bit. Neal has a
knack for beauty, for finding the dross in overlooked objects and spinning them into gold. Some days, she’s felt he views her the same way. She’d been sorting objects in the sitting room, starting a pile for the Salvation Army and another for the trash, and he’d all but had a heart attack when he saw what she was letting go.
“You’ve no idea of the value of things, do you?” he’d said, rescuing an old, water-stained globe with misnamed countries and an obscene ashtray made from an elephant’s foot. “My little starving artist still. Why don’t you let me sort it out for you? You’ve got a great opportunity to make some easy money here.”
“Knock yourself out,” she’d said, stung by the starving artist comment. If Neal wanted to paw through two centuries’ worth of junk, fine with her.
Unlike the old days, though, he’d sensed she was hurt. That night, he’d surprised her with a wicker hamper filled with the things she’d missed since leaving Italy: biscotti, green olives stuffed with herbs, sun-dried tomatoes, cheese and good bread, even fig cookies. They’d picnicked out in the pasture, complete with a bottle of Prosecco and real glass flutes, and Andie had tried hard to keep any comparisons of a different picnic out of her mind.
She owes it to him to try, so on the drive over, she points out local landmarks—the barn with beams dating from the seventeen hundreds, the church built over an Indian tribe’s graveyard, the field behind the library where all the kids used to party. She lets the McCallister farm roll past without a mention.
The parking lot at Johnny’s isn’t close to full, and when Neal pulls in, the Saab is the only foreign car. Cort’s pickup isn’t there, though, and Andie offers a quick prayer of gratitude. She’d searched for him for a good half hour the day before, her temper rising with every mosquito bite, until she finally gave up and stomped back to the house.
Thinking about it now, she gives the mosquito bite on her elbow a quick scratch. She’s still wondering where Cort could have been when Neal opens the door to the lounge for her. The blast of spilled beer, stale smoke, and staler air almost makes her take a step back. But the room is comfortably dark and the air-conditioning is cranked, so she leads the way to a red vinyl booth, Neal following, and they slide in. Neal’s looking around with a dubious expression, and Andie gets the feeling it’s not the kind of atmosphere he was expecting.