Season of Salt and Honey (15 page)

“Full price is ten dollars. I'll give them to you for seven a pop because you're buying three. Deal?”

Papa nods happily. “I work at Mario's Cars and Repairs . . . the mechanics,” he explains, sounding a little stiff. “I mean, if you ever need some work done. The prices are very good but we give discounts for friends and family. Of course.”

Merriem laughs. “Mainly I ride a bicycle.”

“Ah. The one with the basket, outside,” he says, joining in her laughter.

I hadn't noticed a bicycle.

“Betty,” Merriem says, lowering her voice as if she's telling us a secret. “After Elizabeth Cady Stanton.”

“Ah,” says Papa again, and nods as though he understands completely.

“Have you tried it with baked ricotta?” Bella asks, referring to the honey.

Papa nods enthusiastically. “That would be very tasty.”

“Baked ricotta? No, I don't think I've ever eaten baked ricotta,” Merriem says. “Is it good?”

“Very good. We'll have to bring you some, won't we, Papa?” Bella says.

Merriem beams. “I knew giving a discount would bring me blessings.”

I glance between Papa and Bella and Merriem. It suddenly
feels too strange—to be here, without Alex, to have Bella at the table.

“I think we'd better get going too,” I say. “It's been a lovely dinner, Merriem.”

“You don't want another cup of coffee?” Merriem asks.

“Thank you but no, it's getting late. We should go.” I stand from the table.

“Can't we help you with the dishes?” Bella asks.

“Oh, no. I find it kind of meditative. Darwin will keep me company. He'll be home from his roaming soon. He's a big brute of a cat but a little afraid of the dark, I think. Don't tell him I told you that.”

Papa gives Merriem a kiss on each cheek, and we make our way down the hallway.

“Thank you,” Bella says again. “The food was divine. We'll have to repay the favor.”

“My pleasure, Bella. You all take care walking home. Do you want to take a flashlight?”

“We're fine,” I say, eager to get back to the cabin.

I'm uncomfortable being with Bella, uncomfortable with her chirpiness. The conversation with Summer is weighing on me too, and my memory of that day at the beach when Alex tried to teach me to surf.

Merriem stands by the door and watches us go. Darwin slinks out of the yard and weaves around her legs. She picks him up and waves to us as we head down the road.

Bella sighs. “That was nice.”

“She is a very good hostess,” Papa agrees.

The solidity of the road softens to pine needles atop worn dirt as we turn into the forest. I walk on ahead and try to ignore the sound of Bella and Papa chatting. If I were to get in the car and leave now, I think, I would drive through Edison and back through North Seattle. Past the Gardners' house on the hill, see the hedge and the little gate, the white-trimmed windows if I look closely in the disappearing light. I would keep going past our old school, around the back of the main street, because you never know how the traffic will be and the backstreets are quicker anyhow. I'd pass the children's playgrounds and gas stations, and feel my heart thumping harder and faster in my chest. I'd pass a supermarket or fruit and vegetable store, and then, eventually, the neighborhoods that all look the same—garage, fence, mailbox, garage, fence, mailbox. Soon enough I would be back at our apartment. A cement-block building with only three floors and rows of little balconies. Square and solid and vanilla-colored. Our kitchen window the one with the crystal hanging in it, a birthday gift from a workmate. Instead, my feet tramp along the forest path that is becoming so familiar. I feel strange and tense and displaced. My heart pounds like I'm running.

Bella's voice knifes through my thoughts. “Frankie? Didn't you think that was nice?”

“I think Merriem is nice,” I reply harshly.

“What's that supposed to—”

Papa interrupts. “Nonno was a beekeeper. Back in Sicily.”

“He was?” Bella asks.

Papa nods. “
Sì,
he used to sell honey just like that, from his house. It was the best in the village.”

If you believe Papa and the aunties, everything my family did was “the best in the village.”

“And Huia, is that how you say it? She is a very sweet girl, isn't she?” Papa says.

“Very,” Bella agrees. “Frankie?”

I turn and face my sister, glaring. “Stop doing that.”

“Stop doing what?”

“Trying to pull me into the conversation. I just want to go home.”

“Home?” Papa asks hopefully.

“The cabin, I mean. I just want to go to bed. I'm tired.”

“I was just trying to—”

“I know what you're trying to do,” I snap. “You're trying to have a normal little chat as though nothing's happened. Like the normal . . .
ridiculous
dinner, which you bullied me into, as though . . . as if . . . Alex . . . isn't . . .”

“Frankie, darling.” Papa reaches for me.

“I'm fine!” I lie loudly, turning away.

Bella scrambles to catch up with me. “I'm sorry, Frankie. I know Alex is . . . it's awful . . . I just thought—”

“How many times do I need to ask you to leave me alone?”

“You need—”

“You don't know the first thing about what I
need
, Bella. What I need is for you to leave me alone.”

“Frankie,” Papa pleads.

I think of Papa and Bella at the dinner table, and outside the cabin window, laughing. As though the missing years have been forgotten, as though they didn't happen. As though Bella didn't cause us any trouble, any pain.

“You might be able to move on and act like she wasn't a total delinquent,” I say. “You're a better person than me, Papa.”

Papa cringes. “Oh, darling, I'm—”

“But I can't,” I say firmly.

“Won't,” Bella mumbles.

“Bella . . .” Papa pleads with her now.

“Right. Won't,” I say. “Can't and won't.”

Bella gives a little cough. Papa looks at her with alarm.

“Oh,
please
!” I say, rolling my eyes. “Don't go sad on me now.”

She doesn't reply.

I walk ahead again, quickly. A thrush flies out in front of me, late for bed, rushing back to a nest. I turn, gravel crunching under the spin of my foot. “And while we're talking about it”—though we weren't—“what on earth made you ask about Huia's mom?”

Bella blinks. “I didn't know—”

“Didn't you see her face?”

Another cough.

“Is this about her mama? What happened?” Papa asks carefully.

“I don't know,” I say, barely restraining myself from shouting. “I just know you don't go asking about a person's mother if there doesn't seem to be one around.”

Papa frowns at me. Bella's head hangs.

“You . . .
you
,” I point at her, “of all people should know that. Or have you become completely clueless?”

“Frankie.” Papa's tone is warning now.

“I . . .” Bella starts, but doesn't finish.

I turn from them both and walk into the forest. There are
long, black shadows on either side of me. The ghosts of Alex and Mama. Or perhaps just the cedars and firs reaching towards the moon.

*  *  *

When I'm in bed, the quilt over my head, Papa raps softly on the door. He speaks through the crack between door and frame. “You know you can come home,
cara mia
? I mean, with me?”

I pull down the quilt. “Yes, Papa.”

He opens the door then and stands in the frame, knowing not to come any closer. A squirrel, or what I assume to be a squirrel, scampers across the roof.

Papa looks up with concern. “How do you sleep here? With all the noises?”

“They can be comforting, I guess.”

He cocks his head. “I know why you don't want to go home. I understand. You know that, don't you, darling?”

I remember sobbing coming from Mama and Papa's bedroom; Zia Connie shutting the door and turning me towards the kitchen, promising gelato from the freezer. Women in black everywhere, like a murder of crows. A slap across the hand for wearing Mama's comb in my hair, followed by remorseful kisses and embraces that were too tight. When we were in high school, Papa finally boxed up all her clothes, but their wedding photos were still on his dresser: black-and-white faces, young, full of life and hope.

At Alex's funeral he whispered to me, “It gets better.” It was the only platitude I believed, because it came from him.

When I say nothing, Papa knows that my mind is made up. He sighs. “Well, at least I feel a little better knowing that Merriem is nearby. She will keep her eye out for you both.” He doesn't mention Bella by name.

“Yes.”

“Her honey is very good. It really is like Nonno's, you know. And yet from bees and flowers on different sides of the world.”

The light is almost gone from the sky and sleep is starting to lean heavily against me.

“Papa?”

“Hmmm?”

“You should go before it gets too dark. The drive . . .”

“
Sì
. You are right.”

“I'll be okay, Papa.”

He clears his throat. “I know, darling. You always are. My strong girl. Stronger than the rest of us.” He lightly drums his fingers on the door, thinking.

“Don't ask me to be nice to her,” I warn.

“I wasn't going to.” He sighs again. Turns to leave. “
T'amu bedduzza.
”

“I love you too, Papa.”

A spring vegetable lover's adaptation of a classic Italian dish

Serves 4

3 tablespoons butter

2 shallots, finely chopped

4 garlic cloves, thinly sliced

1
¹
/
₂
cups risotto rice (such as Nano Vialone)

¹
/
₄
cup dry white wine

3
¹
/
₂
cups chicken stock

2 handfuls of spring vegetables (see Note), such as a combination of 8 stalks asparagus, cut into 4-inch lengths (first halved lengthwise if fat); 12 fresh, shelled and peeled fava beans; a handful of baby spinach leaves

2 tablespoons chopped fresh chives

Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

3 ounces parmesan, finely grated

2 tablespoons crème fraîche

2 tablespoons fresh oregano leaves

In a saucepan, heat the butter over medium-high heat. Add the shallots and garlic and stir occasionally until tender, 5 to 7 minutes. Add the rice and stir to toast, 1 to 2 minutes. Add the wine and stir occasionally until the liquid is almost absorbed. Add the stock 1 cup at a time, stirring constantly until the stock is absorbed before adding more. Continue until all the stock is incorporated, the rice is al dente, and the risotto is creamy, 10 to 15 minutes.

Add the spring vegetables and cook until just tender. Stir in the chives. Season with salt and pepper. Stir in the crème fraîche
and all but
¹
/
₂
cup of the parmesan. Stir until parmesan is just melted and remove from heat.

Serve garnished with fresh oregano leaves, the reserved parmesan (2 tablespoons per serving), and freshly ground black pepper.

Note:
Substitute with any local and fresh spring vegetables available, such as zucchini, yellow squash, fiddleheads, leeks, and peas. Vegetables should be cut into similar sizes to ensure that they all cook in the same time.

• • • •

I
n the morning, I stand at the window and wait for Bella to go for a walk before I make espresso. As soon as her curly head bobs into the distance, behind trees and bushes, I light the camp stove. I thought she would have gone home with Papa, at the very least for the comfort of a warm bed and breakfast. In her car, the front passenger seat is laid back as far as it will go but it still must be unpleasant to sleep on. She doesn't seem at all achy or inconvenienced as she strides off into the forest. I focus on the espresso pot. Even if I can't figure out why she's staying I'll be damned if I'm going to give her coffee. If she's as Caputo as she claims, the caffeine deprivation will surely drive her away. But, used to making an espresso for Alex, I make too much.

When a pickup truck pulls up and Jack gets out, I pour the excess into another cup and wrap a cardigan around my pajamas.

He glances at my pajama bottoms and shoes with untied laces.

“I made too much coffee. You want some?”

He nods. “Thanks.”

I sit in one of the Adirondack chairs and he joins me, sitting in the other. We take quiet sips of the black coffee.

“I don't have any milk,” I explain.

“I drink it black.”

“Sugar?”

“Nah.”

“That's handy. I think the ants have gotten into it.”

Jack smiles. “Yeah, you've gotta watch them.”

We both look out at the trees, the dozens of shades of green in juxtaposition. Alex studied biology in high school. He could identify the different plant species much better than I could. He once told me there'd been a scientist in almost every generation of Gardners—chemists and physicists mainly, but Alex preferred biology. Apparently biology was a lesser form of science, according to the Gardners.

“You faring okay out here?” Jack asks.

“Yes, I'm fine.”

I should probably thank him for checking up on me, but I don't want to encourage more company. Although, if I'm honest, Jack's company isn't so bothersome. Bella's, on the other hand . . . I look towards her parked car and notice a plastic Virgin Mary on the dash.