Pinch of Love (9781101558638) (12 page)

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Authors: Alicia Bessette

BOOK: Pinch of Love (9781101558638)
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“How did I go from being Ye Olde Home Ec You-Know-What to all this malarkey?” She laughs again—this one coarse and hacking. She scrubs the sawdust from her curly white hair. “It's quite a story.”
We follow her as she turns off the lights and shuts the Barn door. “I was cleaning out the shed the spring after Lew died,” she says, “and I saw this Husqvarna chain saw hanging from the wall.”
“Trudy, can I go to the bathroom?” Ingrid asks. She crosses her legs and hops. “Too much hot chocolate.”
“You don't have to ask. Go, go.” Trudy pretends to kick Ingrid's butt as she skips down the hall to the bathroom.
“Anyhoo, I almost set that old chain saw aside. I was going to sell it at the annual townwide yard sale. But—I don't know what came over me—I yanked the cord and fired up that Husqvarna. It was the first time I'd ever
held
a chain saw, let alone used one. The thing was a bad boy. It rattled my whole body, buzzed right into my bones.”
Ingrid prances from the bathroom, but Trudy steers her around. “Wash your hands,” she says. “With soap. For as long as it takes to sing ‘Happy Birthday.'
“Anyhoo, behind the shed there was this tall old stump. I went up to it. I attacked it with the chain saw. And before I knew it—well, why don't I just
show
you.”
Ingrid's back from the bathroom again. She wipes her hands on her jeans. “I didn't want to mess up the nice fairy towels.”
“That's all right, Pumpkin,” says Trudy. “Get your coat on. I want to show you two something outside.”
We bundle up and follow the snowplowed path to the shed. Moonlight glimmers off the ice-coated trees. Ingrid hums “Happy Birthday.”
Behind the shed Trudy shines a key-chain flashlight on the snow-covered tree stump. She brushes the snow away, revealing the likenesses of buildings that lean cartoonishly, still their natural wood color.
“Voilà,” she says. “The Boston skyline, as studied from right here, through an old pair of bird-watching binoculars that Lew kept in the shed. I've been looking at those skyscrapers on clear days my whole darn life, as I'm sure you have, too. There I stood with this rumbling chain saw in my hand. I took a good long peek at the Prudential and carved it into the wood. Then I took a good long peek at the old John Hancock Building and carved
that
into the wood. 'Fore I knew it, I had chainsawed what any New Englander worth his salt—even a Mainer who can't remember the last time he left the state—would know as Boston. Into a damn tree stump.”
“Wow.” I run my mitten over the buildings. Trudy rattles off the names as I caress them. “One Financial. Custom House Tower. Yep. They're all there. Even the Citgo sign. See? They're crude, of course. Certainly not as fine-tuned as the work I produce now. But not bad for a first effort.”
Ingrid wanders to a chicken-wire fence enclosing a low building with a small door. “Trudy, where are the goats?”
“They're all inside, Pumpkin. Keeping warm in the hay. Anyhoo.” Trudy pockets her little flashlight, and we go back to the house under moonlight. Ingrid stays behind. She clicks her tongue and tries to coax the goats from their little house.
“That's how I discovered my . . . rather unusual, rather latent talent,” Trudy says.
I catch my balance on a patch of ice. “No shit.”
“Nope. No shit whatsoever. Weird thing is, I couldn't remember Lew ever using that chain saw. Ever. Now, maybe he used it as a younger man, before I knew him, when Garrett's mother was still around. But it was almost like that chain saw was hanging there all those years, just waiting for me to come along and put it to use. Hey, want to take home some goat cheese? I make it myself. It's delicious stuff. I just got my organic certification.”
“Oh no. Thanks anyway.”
“I'll put it in a little gift bag for you. Ingrid? Leave the goats be. Come on, now.”
“Just one second,” she calls.
Back in the kitchen Trudy wraps up some goat cheese.
“Trudy,” I say, “I just can't believe you're—”
“So different from Ye Olde Home Ec Bitch?” She hands me a surprisingly heavy fairy-stamped paper bag. Piercing the bag is a little fairy—pointy chin, wistful expression, a beaded charm made from wire. I admire it for a moment, pluck it from the bag, and slip it into my pocket.
“I'm not that woman anymore, like I said,” she says. “Time changes a person, Rose-Ellen. So does tragedy.”
I think it's the first time anyone's said that word—“tragedy”—in my presence, since The Trip. I wait for her to say more—about how tragedy will change me—but instead she nods and says, “Keep it in the freezer. It'll last longer.”
Ingrid comes inside, her eyes shining, her cheeks red. “I like goats,” she says. “I like their beards, and the way they poop and eat at the same time.”
“I like that about them, too,” Trudy says, and I can tell by her face that she's holding back laughter. She kisses Ingrid's forehead. “Hey,” she says. “Where's your old hat?”
“Oh.” Ingrid holds her arms out as Trudy zips her coat to her chin. “I lost it.”
“We'll get you another one, then.”
“I don't want another one. I want the old one. It was my mother's.”
Trudy glances at me. “Your mother's, huh?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“So you're just gonna walk around without a hat?”
“Yeah.”
“Suit yourself. Thanks for visiting.”
“Trudy, what about the baking contest?” Ingrid says.
“I'll put on my thinking cap, Pumpkin Pie.”
Ingrid buries her face in Trudy's sawdusty clothes. “Love ya 'n' like ya,” she says.
“Love ya 'n' like ya,” says Trudy, a sad sort of smile on her face.
 
 
I BACK OUT THE DRIVEWAY. Trudy waves from the living room behind a chorus line of stained-glass fairies.
Ingrid hangs her whole upper body out the passenger seat window and waves both arms. “Good luck with your top secret project!”
I roll down my window, too, and crank up the heat, and we howl as we sail down Route 331, back to the center of town. I take the road a little too fast, and my stomach spins into my throat, so I slow down. Ingrid begs me to speed, but I tell her it's not safe.
We pass the Prince of Peace Church, where I glimpse Father Chet in the second-floor sacristy window, his dark skin contrasting with the white wall behind him. My heart does its wild dance. Fast beats, then no beats.
Maybe it's sick, but I admit: I kind of like it, that feeling of suspension, that sense that something unknown—a force, a spirit—holds on to your heart, and won't let it beat, and won't let it go, at least for a little while.
 
 
EJ
 
EJ's refilling a coffeemaker with decaf almond when France swings her cruiser behind the Muffinry van and parks. He knows she hates that joke about cops hanging out in the doughnut shop, and even though the Muffinry isn't a doughnut shop, it's close enough. Especially now that EJ serves beignets. So she always parks behind the building, out of view of Main Street.
“Hey, Eege,” she says, stepping through the back door. She pours a cup of regular and sits on a sack of flour.
“France?” he says, which means, “Hi.”
“Got any s'mores today?”
“Only in muffin tops.”
“I'll take one.”
“Comin' at ya, hey,” says Travis from the register. He plucks a pastry tissue from a box, pinches the biggest muffin top, and Frisbee-flings it at France.
She catches it one-handed and takes a huge bite from the cakey disk. “Mmm. Delicious, Silo,” she says, mouth full.
The nickname—Silo—makes EJ pause; it might be the first time anyone's called him that since The Trip. He flips the switch on the coffeemaker and savors its burbling sound.
“Hey,” says France. She stands next to him. He can smell the marshmallows and graham crackers on her breath. “I want to talk to you about something,” she says.
He surveys the Muffinry. Three old ladies sip coffee by the big bay window, but other than that, the place is empty. “What about?” He moves on to the butterscotch coffee—bangs the reservoir against the trash can, puts in a new filter.
She moves aside to give him elbow room. “Nick.”
He's about to open the silver coffee bag when she says it. He pauses, the bag pinched in his fingers. “What about him?”
France hides her chapped lips behind her coffee cup. “I feel like there might be something we could do,” she says. “Publicly.”
He opens the bag, dumps the coffee, slides it into the machine.
“Because,” she says. “You know. Nothing was ever done.”
He turns on the coffeemaker. “What are you talking about?”
She glances at Travis; he's hunched over the counter, fiddling with his BlackBerry.
“Closure,” she says.
“Closure?” EJ repeats.
“Yeah. Closure, fa crissake. Don't you get it?”
He opens his mouth to answer, but the Muffinry bells jingle and six people enter. Two moms ushering four kids. Travis pockets his BlackBerry. “EJ, please, hey,” he says.
EJ sighs. He tops off France's cup, fits a lid on it, and hands it to her. “You on tonight?” he asks.
“No.”
“Come over, then. And dress warm.”
Nick
November 4, 2006
 
 
Hi, Hot-Pants.
 
Today I was taking pictures of Russ and Father Chet and a bunch of New Orleans guys as they rebuilt an altar in one of the churches down here. At one point I put down my camera to take a swig of water, and next thing I know, Father Chet is pressing a hammer into my hand. I told him I don't really know what I'm doing, but he showed me. I wasn't sure if I should be helping out. I mean, that isn't really my place. But when I looked over at Dennis, he smiled and shrugged. So I spent an hour or two learning from Father Chet. Some of these guys can hammer a nail in one or two swings. By the end of the day it was still taking me four or five swings, but I definitely got better as the day progressed. I never realized how satisfying it is to build stuff with your hands. Especially alongside other people. Also, I never really appreciated what a
skill
it is, this type of work. It's amazing the results you get, and how quickly you get them, when everyone is unified.
 
Chief Kent threw his back out early in the morning, so he went with Pastor Sheila to the library to help sort books. Pastor Sheila had thousands of books shipped down here in crates. (Dennis wrote about that book drive, remember?) The books were donated by people visiting the Wippamunk Library. The library down here was totally wiped out. They lost everything. There are actually no public libraries open in New Orleans, according to Pastor Sheila. But now this one library has a children's library that is bigger and better than it was before the hurricane, before the floods, thanks to the librarians and Pastor Sheila and the good people of Wippamunk. When Chief came back he was saying how cute all the kids were and how this one kid sat so still on his lap and listened to him read this one book over and over again, like thirty times.
 
EJ drives all the way into the touristy downtown to get coffee from this chick, Charlene. He is totally crushing on this girl. She's cute, too. I wonder if it will turn into a long-distance relationship or something. Seriously, he's that into her.
 
Anyway Charlene gives us coffee for free along with these Cajun doughnuts that they make down here that are seriously friggin' delicious. They would put Ye Olde Home Ec Witch to shame. Remember Mrs. Chaffin??!! Remember that story about Russ, how he took all that pink felt from some girl's sewing table and sewed a big old dick-and-balls together, and stuffed it with cotton and propped it upright on Mrs. Chaffin's desk? Remember how Ye Olde Home Ec Witch LOVED EJ??? Anyway, that's neither here nor there. . . .
 
France was planting flowers in front of the church's new sign and every car that passed beeped and waved and they yelled thank you out the windows. Everybody who beeped, France flashed them the peace sign, and that made them beep even more.
 
So right now I'm pretty tired, but it's a good kind of tired.
 
So have you heard back from Dr. Fung yet about your ultrasound? Maybe you shouldn't be worrying about Gail's mural right now because lifting your arms over your head to paint probably puts some strain on your heart, and maybe you shouldn't be doing extra stuff like that until you know what's going on with your ticker? Just a thought. Gail can wait, you know?
 
Sweet dreams from the Big Easy.
 
Nick
4
Zell
“
S
HOULDA BEEN ME,” Gladys sings. “You know that it shoulda been me.”
I straddle my saddle stool and review my latest project: bones of the left hand, anterior view. I select the pencil labeled BONE WHITE, number 081, from the slopes of little bins.
My phone rings. I draw and hum along with Gladys as the machine picks up. A voice blares from all the way downstairs: “This message is for Rose-Ellen Roy. This is Joan from Dr. Carrie Fung's office at Worcester Cardiology. We've been trying to get in touch with you for some time now—
quite
some time now—and have left . . .
countless
messages over the past
year
stating that—”

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