Pinch of Love (9781101558638) (18 page)

“Love ya 'n' like ya, Dad,” she whispers.

“Love ya 'n' like ya,” he whispers back.

“Can we toast marshmallows?” she asks.

“What?”

“Just kidding. G'night.”

I kneel on the floor, about to lie down, when Garrett stands over me. It's so dark, I can't see him very well, but I can feel his body warmth, his breath.

“Hey,” he whispers. “Don't even think about sleeping on the floor.”

“I don't mind,” I whisper. “You've been driving all this while. You take the cot.”

He shakes his head. “Absolutely not.
You
take the cot.”

I stifle a yawn. I imagine falling asleep in a mouse-infested shithole. Then I imagine falling asleep in a mouse-infested shithole while a warm strong human falls asleep against me.

“We could share the cot,” I whisper.

He doesn't answer right away, and I can't read his face in the darkness. All I can see is his sharp-jawed silhouette. “To keep warm?” he says.

“Yeah. And I can protect you from the mice.”

He laughs quietly. “It
is
pretty cold in here.” He glances at Ingrid, then sighs. “I'll take the floor.” He kneels next to me and elbows me. “Get outta my bed.”

“Fine,” I say, playfully nudging him back. I feel my way to the cot, crawl onto it, and curl up.

Just before sleep, I sense something like a tiny cold pinprick in the center of my chest, and I imagine Trudy's fairies twirling in the window, catching the light.

 

 

“ZELL? WHERE'S MY DAD?”

I wake with a start.

Ingrid stands over me. In the darkness I make out the zigzag cornrows on her scalp. A half-asleep thought flitters through my mind: Who braids her hair?

I turn on the light. Behind her the floor is empty; the blanket Garrett was using is gone.

Outside—close by—an owl hoo-hoo-hoos. A barred owl, I know, because Nick taught me the call they make: Who cooks for you, who cooks for all.

I sit up and rub my face. It occurs to me, in that dumbly sleepy way, that I'm still in my coat and boots. I march to the door. “Go back to sleep,” I say.

Her mouth drops open. “Where are
you
going?”

“It's okay. Get back into bed. I'll go find your dad. I'm sure he just went to the bathroom or something.”

She frowns but curls into a ball under the covers as Ahab repositions himself on her cot. “You can't leave me here by myself,” she says. “I'm just a helpless little girl.”

“Stay here. Stay with the Captain. Don't go anywhere, and don't open the door for anyone.”

“Are you
expecting
someone?” She yawns and gazes sleepily at me.

“Just stay put.” I don't want to leave her here, and I don't want to take her with me, and I'm freaked out that Garrett's not here. “Try to fall back asleep,” I whisper. But she doesn't answer; she's asleep already. So I grab the key and quietly lock the door behind me.

 

 

OUTSIDE, THE AIR IS STILL, the sky clear except for black clouds that drift past the moon and remind me of twisted and waxed mustaches. It must be three in the morning.

I follow Garrett's big boot prints in the snow, down what seems to be an unshoveled path. The prints lead me into the trees, toward the lake. He hunkers on a fallen log a few feet from the edge of the ice. He doesn't move or say anything as I settle beside him. We sit shoulder to shoulder, outsides of thighs touching. We stare at the moon over frozen Tunkamog Lake. He smells good—warm, homey, like spicy drugstore cologne that he sprayed hours ago, that spent all day settling into his clothing, his hair, his pores. Just briefly, I allow myself to admire his attractive profile, his smooth skin.

“Couldn't sleep,” Garrett finally offers. He pulls his blanket tighter around him. “Ingrid all right?”

“She's fine.”

“Don't ever have kids, Zell,” he says. “As soon as they come out, you love them so much, you're doomed. There's nothing you can do about it. You're just—doomed.”

“Nick wanted a big family,” I say. “He used to joke about having nine kids so our family would be an official soccer team. That was our little code word for our someday-family: the soccer team.”

Garrett smiles. He strips a piece of bark off the log and skitters it across the ice. “I don't know what the hell I'm doing, as a father.”

“You fake it pretty good.”

“Ya think?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe this law school thing wasn't such a good idea after all. It's a lot to ask of Ingrid. Me not being there. Me studying all the time. It's hard enough on her, being the only black girl in her class. Pretty much the only black girl in the whitest county in the whole state, for that matter.”

“I'm pretty sure Berkshire County is whiter,” I say.

“You're probably right.” He laughs through his nose.

“You could transfer your credits and take night classes somewhere else,” I say. “Somewhere closer.”

“I've thought of that.”

“I'm sure Trudy would watch Ingrid if you asked. She's good people.”

“I know.” Garrett sighs. “I'm reluctant, though. Ingrid sure is a big fan of Trudy. But she's so busy all the time. I hate to burden her. Am I . . . am I burdening you?”

“Ingrid's not a burden,” I say. Then, because I'm not sure what else to say, I add, “Well, kids are resilient.”

“Are they, though? Are they resilient? Everyone says that, but . . .”

From far away—the other side of the lake, maybe—a coyote yips.

Garrett smiles. “Hear that?”

“Yeah.”

“It really does make the hair on the back of your neck stand up. Zell? I'm glad you're doing that baking contest with Ingrid.”

“Really?”

“She needs that. Maybe she'll get her obsession with Polly Pinch out of her system. It's good for her to be with a woman, and the time she spends with you is constructive. She likes to cook, and I
hate
to cook, so.”

“I know it's a long shot—hell, it's crazy, but could you imagine if we actually win?” I say. “Imagine if Ingrid goes with me to meet Polly Pinch?”

He eyes me. “Goes to meet Polly Pinch?”

“That's the grand prize.”

“I thought the grand prize was twenty thousand dollars.”

“Right.
And
you get to be on the show.”

His lips part slightly. “Oh. Wow. Really?”

“You get to bring a guest and cook alongside Polly Pinch. Ingrid's going to be my guest if I win. Didn't she tell you that?”

“She probably did. I'm just so preoccupied lately. And I hate to admit it, but I tend to tune her out when she goes on about Polly Pinch. But you really think you have a chance of winning?”

I shrug. “No. But I'm going to try anyway.”

“Just because, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Good for you,” he says. “I like it.”

He slides from the log and faces me, his back to the lake. “We'll cross that bridge if we come to it. In the meantime, I'm freezing my stones off.”

“Likewise. Well, not actually.”

“You're funny sometimes.” Garrett laughs again, and for the first time it occurs to me that he laughs a lot.

“I'm sorry you won't get to finish your sister's mural this weekend,” he says.

“I'll get up there soon enough. Gail's waited a long time already. She can wait a little bit more.”

He sighs and resettles the blanket around him; in the breeze it flaps about his shoulders like wings. “Well, we tried,” he says. “Let's go back to the cabin and get some sleep.”

We face each other, and our breath hangs between us in short, white puffs. The moon glows high over the lake. He lowers his face, and I close my eyes as Garrett's fingers slide along my cheek and thread through the hair behind my ear. Electricity seems to flutter up my spine as he pulls me close and wraps me inside the blanket.

I slip my arms around his neck, and his mouth opens and closes against mine, surely, sweetly. I melt into his warmth. But then my head starts to swirl, and my heart gallops, and I break away, sidestepping until there's a few feet between us.

Balls.

“I'm sorry, Garrett; right now, I can't—”

“It's okay,” he says, turning to gaze across the lake. “I understand. I just—”

“I know. Me, too. But, I think we need to just forget about this. For now.”

He shivers and nods. “I got caught up in the moment. Sorry.”

“Don't be.” I pause, waiting for my heart to stop bucking. “Good night,” I say, and turn and walk up the slope.

 

 

IN THE MORNING we're all pretty quiet, even Ingrid. Garrett smiles at me a little sheepishly as we fold the blankets between us. We trudge through the snow to the main house, where a cheery Bobbie invites us into her hot kitchen. She brews a pot of coffee, pours cranberry juice for Ingrid, and thaws waffles in the microwave. Then she calls a tow truck, and Garrett's able to drive us all home, back to Wippamunk, under a brilliant blue sky.

I try not to think about last night. I focus instead on the crisp new snow, so bright it hurts my eyes.

Near the Massachusetts border Garrett glances over at me. “Zell?” he says quietly, so as not to wake Ingrid, who's sleeping in the backseat, while Ahab rests his head in her lap. “I don't want things to be weird between us,” says Garrett.

“Me, neither,” I say. “No weirdness here.”

“Good. You sure?”

“Definitely.” I smile and nod.

“Good,” he repeats. He hums along to John Legend, and I doze the rest of the way home.

 

 

I GET MY CAR FIXED. Something about the carburetor and the timing belt, and it costs me almost a thousand dollars.

Now, a week later, I drive to my sister's. I suppose I should feel cathartic. I got the car fixed, after all, even the broken turn signal. It's a huge step, right? But I feel nothing. No glee, no sense of accomplishment. No sadness or sentimentality. I feel the same: a continuous ache, a dull, steady, numb buzz.

I drive through New Hampshire and cross the Connecticut River into Vermont. My heart does its weird thing—it thumps fast and hard, then doesn't pump for five whole seconds. Should I call Dr. Fung's office, after all, and make an appointment?

I arrive at Gail and Terry's and park in their steep driveway, next to their many-windowed, pearl-colored SUV, which reminds me of an enormous snow globe on wheels. In the garage sits my parents' black 1983 Mercedes.

When I walk in, Gail, Terry, Mom, Dad, and little Tasha are snacking on cheese, crackers, and grapes. They wear thin wool sweaters and long underwear, as if they're just about to suit up for the slopes. They smother me in hugs and kisses. My mom hands me a glass of chilled chardonnay.

“It's not even ten in the morning, Mom,” I say.

“I know,” she says. “Isn't it wonderful?”

Ahab accepts strokes from everyone, even Tasha, who pounds his ribs. He lies down in front of the fireplace, which roars with freshly split logs. His legs stick straight out from his body. That's his greyhound style.

My dad carries Tasha to the kitchen table and bounces her on his knee. “Trot-trot to Boston,” he sings, “trot-trot to Lynn, you betta be careful or ya might fall
in
!” He dips Tasha between his knees, suspending her upside down a couple of inches from the floor. She squeals and laughs. When he flips her upright, she claps her sticky hands.

“Again,” she says.

“Trot-trot to Boston . . .”

“So
who
did you get stranded with the other night, trying to get up here?” Gail says. She spreads some soft cheddar onto a cracker and hands it to me. Terry stands behind her, his arms encircling her waist. He's four or five inches shorter than Gail.

“Your neighbor, was it?” Mom asks. She holds her wineglass up to the light and rubs a smudge off the stem. She pops a grape into her mouth and chews.

I tell them about Garrett, and how I watch Ingrid several nights a week and the occasional Saturday, while he's in Boston for parttime law school.

“Garrett, huh?” Gail says.

I nod.

“Is he hot?”

“Hey,” says Terry, giving Gail a playful squeeze. “I'm standing right here, you know.”

“Garrett's a good-looking man,” I say.

“In what sort of way?” she presses. “Come on. Johnny Depp or Jude Law?”

“Well,” I say. “More like Will Smith.”

“
Really,
” Gail says.

“Who's Will Smith?” my mom asks.

Gail raises her eyebrows. “Sounds like I wouldn't kick him out of
my
Tunkamog Lake cabin.”

“Stop,” I say.

Maybe Terry and Mom and Dad sense the conversation's impending deterioration, because suddenly they pretend to do other things. My father resumes “Trot-Trot” with even more gusto. Terry steps over Ahab and throws another log onto the fire. Mom perches on a rattan bench in the foyer, opens up her compact, and applies under-eye concealer. She rumples her hair and mashes her lips together to spread her raisin-hued lipstick. “Christ on the cross,” she mutters. “I look like a transvestite who fell asleep on a bus.”

“So what's wrong with this Garrett?” Gail asks. “There's certainly nothing wrong with him physically, right?”