When I Found You (19 page)

Nat wasn’t sure if he was part of everybody. And he didn’t ask.

•  •  •

It was almost a nice scene, Nat thought. Like you see in a movie or a TV show about a family. The wife in the kitchen, cooking. All those good smells wafting out into the living room. The husband sitting on the couch reading the paper. And the son — who admittedly in the movies had not just been sprung from Juvie after serving a term for armed robbery — playing with the dog, running back and forth from living room to dining room. The dog chasing him and trying to get the toy he held: a short length of rope with a knot on each end that Nat had picked up from the dog run.

He noted on each trip that the table seemed more and more nicely set. First dishes were added on while he was in the living room. Then candles in silver holders.

Then a white porcelain bud vase edged in gold, with a single red flower.

“Please be careful,” Eleanor came into the dining room to say, as Nat chased Feathers in a wide arc around the table.

By the time Nat got back to the living room, the old guy was standing with his arms crossed. Blocking their way.

“Maybe it’s time for Feathers to go outside now.”

“Why? We were just playing.”

“I just don’t want any problems.”

“It’s just a piece of rope,” Nat said. “It really wouldn’t break anything.”

As he said this, Feathers, who couldn’t understand not being chased, dropped the rope on to Nat’s foot. Nat picked it up, and, as if to prove his point, lofted it into the dining room.

Eleanor stuck her head in from the kitchen. Nat and the old man watched from the living room. Feathers took off after it, skidded on the hardwood floor. Banged into one leg of the table with a solid thunk.

The white porcelain vase teetered once, twice. Time seemed to freeze for one extra moment. Then it fell on to its side and broke into three pieces. The water it had contained seeped into the bone-colored lace tablecloth.

Nat stood frozen, watching Eleanor’s face. It seemed to grow whiter with every passing second. At first he thought it was his imagination. But it wasn’t. All the blood was draining from her face. Every drop, from the look of it.

Feathers brought the rope back and set it again on Nat’s foot.

“Take the dog outside,” the old man said. “Now.”

Then he went to comfort his wife, who looked for all the world like she was crying. Which might have been Nat’s imagination. After all, nobody cries over a little bud vase.

Do they?

•  •  •

By the time Nat got back inside — because he’d purposely taken as much time as he could — the broken vase was gone, and the lace cloth had been replaced by a plain dark blue one.

“Dinner is served,” the old woman said. Her voice sounded unreal. Stiff.

Nat sat at the table and watched Eleanor and the old man carry out platter after platter of food. The baked ham, which looked honey-glazed, and which sizzled on top the way food does in television commercials. Green bean casserole. Yam casserole. Homemade biscuits. Green salad. Some kind of fruit pie.

“I’m really sorry about that little accident,” Nat said.

Eleanor missed a step on her way back to the kitchen. The old man shot Nat a glance and a little shake of his head. As if to say, no. Don’t. It’s better not mentioned.

Nat waited quietly for them to sit down.

When they did, a silence fell. A difficult pause. Nat wanted to reach for a slice of ham, but wasn’t sure if they were supposed to say grace. Or if the man of the house was supposed to reach first. Or some other rule Nat didn’t know, but probably should.

He could hear Feathers whimpering from the dog run, still wanting to play. He wondered if the dog had been complaining the whole time, and he had only just now noticed.

“Well, go ahead and dig in,” Eleanor said.

Nat grabbed the big serving fork and speared three slices of ham all at once.

He started eating the ham without even waiting for side dishes to be passed.

“Salad?” the old man asked.

“No, thanks.”

“Green beans.”

“Not a huge green bean fan.”

“You should try Eleanor’s. Don’t make up your mind until you try. She makes them with cream of chicken soup and those French-fried onion strips on top.”

“OK. I’ll try some.”

Nat wished Eleanor would say something. But she didn’t.

The old man put a dab of green beans on Nat’s plate, and he poked at them cautiously. Tried a bite.

“Hey. Wow. You’re right. These are really good.”

A tiny smile from Eleanor. But no words.

“And I’ll have a biscuit, please. And those yams look good.”

The old man passed him the yams. Anything with marshmallows on top had to be OK. He dished a mountain on to his plate and took a bite.

“Mmm. Orange. Tastes like orange. I wouldn’t have guessed orange. But it’s really good.”

Another tiny smile.

“You know, it was really nice of you to cook all this. I haven’t had a meal like this in years. Last really good meal I had was that night we went hunting. Well,” he said, turning to the old man. “You went hunting. And we had that roast duck and mashed potatoes and applesauce. I never forgot that meal. The whole three years I was inside. It’s like I could still taste it. Not all the time, but every now and then. If I tried. Or sometimes even if I wasn’t trying. When I wasn’t even thinking about it. Wasn’t even thinking about food. But then I would just taste it. Course, you did bring me that nice half a roast duck every birthday,” he said, looking again at the old man, who was looking down at his plate.

Silence. Either Nat talked or there was silence.

A cold feeling gripped Nat’s stomach. How bad was this, really? Worse than he had realized?

“And I guess the only reason I’m not counting that is because I didn’t get to heat it up, and there were no mashed potatoes. Or applesauce. But it was still good. But this, this is the best meal I’ve had in years. Literally. The food in there was so incredibly bad. You just can’t believe how bad it was. There were times when I’d fast for three days on just water and apples, because I couldn’t stand to eat it. But the apples were terrible, too. All full of spots and bruises. I think the fruit got given to them by farmers because it was too bad to sell. Or maybe they just bought it really cheap. But it was stuff too awful to take to the supermarket. Believe me.”

He paused. Hoping someone else would talk. Silence. So he plunged on.

“Every day at lunch there’d be this box of oranges at the end of the food line. But they weren’t even orange. They were almost all green. And I’d be plowing through this box trying to find a good one. But this guard who watched the food line, Gerry, he would always say, ‘Just take one. They’re all the same. Just take one.’ It was hard for me to believe that was true. Because they looked so bad. But really, he was right. They were all the same. Every day. All completely gross.”

Silence.

In the echo of it, Nat heard his words repeating back to him. As if hearing himself for the first time. As if standing outside of himself, watching and listening. It struck him hard that he sounded like a fool. Even to himself.

“I’m sorry. I’m talking too much. Aren’t I? I never seem to get that right. I either don’t talk enough or I talk too much. There must be a right amount to talk. But I can never seem to find it.”

Another tight, tiny smile from the old woman.

Nat looked down at the ham on his plate and realized he could be eating rather than talking. And yet, somehow — no matter how good the food, no matter how much he had missed eating like this — his appetite was running out on him fast.

He began eating slowly. Small, cautious bites.

Little else was said.

•  •  •

Nat lay under the covers, feeling small in the big bed. The girly, flowery quilt had been replaced with one a more boy-suitable plain hunter green. The room had been stripped of wall decorations and most furnishings, as though to invite Nat to fill it with himself.

He was able to absorb the fact that it reflected a great deal of thoughtfulness on his behalf. But it couldn’t make him feel any less hopeless.

The old guy came in to say goodnight, and Nat sat up in bed.

“I could buy her another vase,” Nat said. “I mean, not right now I couldn’t. But after I find work. You know, when I get my first paycheck. Whenever that is. Then I could.”

The old man pulled up a plain, cane-back chair and sat by Nat’s bed. The way he had on his first night here. So long ago now.

“It belonged to her late grandmother. That’s why she got a little emotional. She only has a few things from her grandmother’s house, because she has eight brothers and sisters and there was only just so much to go around.”

“Oh. Will you tell her I’m sorry?”

“She knows you’re sorry. And she knows anybody can have an accident. She just needs time to feel whatever she’s going to feel about it.”

They sat in silence for a few moments.

Then Nat said, “She doesn’t like me.”

“She doesn’t know you.”

Nat laughed. “I got news for you. Lots of people don’t like me. And when they get to know me better? Well, that doesn’t exactly solve the problem. If you know what I mean.”

The old man smiled sadly. Patted Nat on the knee through the new quilt.

Nat was hoping he would say something. But instead he just rose to let himself out.

As the old man slid the chair back into the corner, Nat asked, “Do
you
even like me?”

A long silence. Too long.

The old man crossed to the bedroom door. Stood a moment with his hand on the light switch. “I see value in you,” he said softly.

“Is it inherent?”

The old man laughed, as if Nat had intended the question as a joke. But it had actually been a serious question.

“Yes. It’s inherent.”

“Does that mean yes or no?”

Nat watched the old man’s face for a moment. It was almost like watching someone think.

“Get some sleep,” the old man said. “You’ll be wanting to go out and look for a job in the morning.”

He snapped off the light and left Nat alone.

4 October 1978   

When Nat came into the kitchen and sat down at the table, the old man seemed to be gone. Eleanor stood looking into the refrigerator. She was already nicely put together in a belted dress and pretty woven shoes. And with her hair up. Perfectly, as though she’d never slept on it.

She glanced at Nat over her shoulder. “Do you drink coffee?”

“Every chance I get,” he said.

He hadn’t had coffee for over three years.

While she poured him a cup at the coffee maker, he noticed that the white bud vase was back in one piece. Sitting on a section of the morning paper on the counter. Freshly glued back together. Even from halfway across the room, Nat could see the fissures that remained as a testament to its accident.

Eleanor set the coffee in front of him. Not in a big sturdy mug, as he would have preferred, but in a dainty china teacup with saucer. He felt as though he would have to drink from it with his pinky finger raised. Or that he would surely damage it just by touching it. But it was coffee, and coffee was good, and he was in no position — or mood — to complain.

“Do you take anything in it?”

“Sugar and milk, please.”

She handed him a napkin and a spoon and indicated a fancy china sugar bowl, the kind with a lid, in the center of the table. While he was scooping three teaspoons of sugar into his cup, he watched her open the refrigerator, take out a small carton of cream, and — rather than simply plunk it on the table in front of him — pour about a third of it into a matching china cream pitcher.

He’d had no idea life could be so complicated.

“So, it looks good as new,” Nat said.

“What does?”

“Your vase. There on the counter. All back together.”

He waited, but she said nothing. Just set the pitcher of cream in front of him. He stared at it for a moment, feeling a light film of ice coat the room, and creep into his gut.

“OK, that’s not true,” he continued. “I’m sorry. It’s not good as new. And it never will be. I probably shouldn’t have said that.”

Silence. During which Nat wanted to shake her and yell, Like me! Please! Like me! I’m trying so hard here. Can’t you see how hard I’m trying?

She never answered.

“I’m really sorry about it.”

“I know you are, Nat.”

More silence. Nat told the part of himself that had wanted more — that was still waiting for more — to sit down and shut up. Because it wasn’t going to get it.

Then she said, “I saved you some pancake batter. If you want pancakes.”

“Thank you. I’d love some pancakes.”

“OK. I’ll make you up some fresh.”

“Thank you.”

Nat sipped his coffee and watched her, noticing she seemed more relaxed while puttering. While having something to attend to.

“So. Where’s Nathan?”

She glanced over her shoulder as though surprised by the question. “Why, he’s working. Seeing clients. It’s after ten, you know.”