Things Unsaid: A Novel (34 page)

“Hey, why aren’t you working on the bonfire?” Ashley shouted through the kitchen window as Andrew stomped the leaves off his boots on the porch and then swiped them along the porcupine boot mud-catcher near the backdoor. She looked at his empty, leather-gloved hands. “Where’s the firewood? You haven’t even brushed the area to clear a spot!”

Unsure how to respond, Andrew stared back at her.

“Come on. People will be here any second now. Don’t you want a bonfire?” Abigail was standing right there next to her, beside the
kitchen island, but Ashley always acted like she didn’t even exist. “Have Jake and Kyle help you, if you can find them. They seem to have run off. Then go get the box of Roman candles—we can shoot them off after dinner if the weather stays this mild.”

Andrew walked inside and his wife smiled and looked into his eyes. “Hey, you look weird. Is something wrong?” she asked, twisting the topaz ring his mother had given her. Andrew still wasn’t sure why his mother had insisted Ashley have it, and not Joanne.

Andrew shrugged and said nothing as his wife touched his forehead, eyes curious. He said nothing about what he’d seen.

“Anyway, guess who has already come for dinner?”

“I know,” he mumbled, trying to rid himself of the view he had just stumbled upon. A remembrance of things past. Of his own father and secrets he had kept from him. Of wanting his dad’s approval so badly.

“I don’t mean Abigail and Ethan, silly,” Ashley said. “Guess again. It’s the one you always talk about. The one friend I have always wanted to meet. Now, after all these years …” Her voice trailed off, because there he was, standing before them, filling the entryway.

“Grissim,” Andrew said. “My God! You haven’t changed in all this time!” He looked so handsome, the way he had always remembered him. Tall, athletic, an attention getter. His Facebook page had no photos. But they had exchanged e-mail and Christmas e-cards over the years. Andrew’s pulse drummed inside his head.

“Hey, old bud,” Grissim greeted him as he walked into the kitchen. He placed an empty beer stein down on the island and patted him solidly on each shoulder, the way they had always touched in the dorm. But Andrew thought the touch lasted a bit longer than necessary. Ashley had her back to them, mashing potatoes.

“Why, you old fart,” Andrew laughed, opening the refrigerator door to get two cans of beer. “Let’s catch up on what’s going on in your life. You’ve got to fill me in. I still need to build a bonfire—why don’t we go outside and build it together? Male bonding.”

Grissim laughed and gestured for Andrew to lead the way.

Outside, the sun was dropping quickly. The skies were burnished, aflame like the bonfire soon would be. A reminder that autumn had grown up. Grissim started for the woods. “No, no, not in there. Too
dark now.” Andrew hesitated, then touched Grissim’s sleeve. “We should be able to find enough scrub wood right around here if we both look.”

“Remember the old days, Andrew? When we’d go out into the woods, just to have a blast?” Grissim asked as he bent over and gathered kindling into his arms. His arms reminded Andrew of how Grissim had comforted him in the shower.

Before Andrew could respond, he heard the rustling of leaves. Cracking of twigs. Then Jake briskly walked out of the impending darkness and straight over to Grissim. He hugged him, resting his head on his shoulder. His signature hug. “Grissim. You’re Grissim. You must be! I didn’t think you really existed.”

Grissim grinned until his face looked overstretched. “Jake, right? I never thought your dad would get married. Didn’t think any woman would have him. And then he hit the jackpot with first Abigail and now Ashley. To say nothing of four great boys. Twins, no less. I’m so jealous. I always wanted to be a father.”

Then Grissim noticed Kyle, who was hanging back, and his eyes met and held Kyle’s.
The way they used to hold mine
, Andrew thought.

“And who is this handsome devil?” Grissim said, that rakish voice of his ringing out. Kyle was slightly built, and barely average height. Grissim’s type. Like Andrew had been before he had grown his paunch. They had both shamelessly flirted with each other, but only on campus.

“We’ve set a place for you, Kyle, if you don’t have other plans. Probably should have cleared it first with your family. Sorry, should have thought about that ahead of time.” Kyle didn’t have a good relationship with his father, so Andrew had assumed that another chair and place setting would be in order. “You can call them, if you like. Or even have two dinners,” he said, winking.

Kyle didn’t laugh. The kid had never felt comfortable around him. Andrew didn’t know why. He’d have to change that. Kyle was a good kid, and he was good for his son.
Did my dad know about Grissim?
he wondered. He didn’t think so. Suspected, maybe.

“Say, why don’t we all sit down and I’ll show you how your dad and I used to compete over tequila shots,” Grissim said. “Would you like to
see if he can still hold his booze like he used to? Back in the day?” He seemed wound up, so much younger than Andrew felt.

Bonfire assembled, they headed inside, and Andrew saw that both Kyle and Jake had taken to Grissim right away. They were slapping each other on the back and laughing like old friends.

Soon they were all seated at the table, food overflowing on the plates before them. Andrew tossed back the shot Grissim handed him and thought of the old, faded photo of the two of them at George Washington Military Academy, and of Grissim’s message on the back. Where was that photo, anyway?

“So, old man, what have you been doing in your spare time? When you’re not frightening patients with that damn drill, that is?” Grissim asked. He was good natured as ever.

“Well, I’ve been asked to volunteer in the local AIDS clinic because they need a dentist and apparently no one wants to touch an AIDS patient’s mouth.” Andrew looked down at his boots and spied a bit of mud clumped on the bottom cleats. He leaned down to pick at it.

“So you’re helping your brothers, man. That’s good. Feels good. We all need to stick together.” Grissim leaned down and kissed him on the mouth—in front of everyone. Andrew kissed him back.

Ashley looked a bit surprised, but she recovered quickly. “More mashed potatoes?” she asked, passing the dish.

J
oanne’s business loan had covered a portion of her parents’ debts—the part Jules hadn’t been able to cover. And now that her divorce was finalized, her finances were going to be better, much better. The sale of her and Al’s house would pay off both her first and second mortgages and repay the loan she’d taken out for her plastic surgery. Thank God there had been equity in her house in Edmonds.

“Seligman’s fees are exorbitant,” Joanne had complained to Jules the last time she had called her asking for money. “In the old days, I would have just gone to bed with him. But I can’t do that anymore”

“So, what’s your plan then? To get out of debt?” Jules had said, unmoved. “I can’t pay your debts anymore, Jo. No way. I have my own debts and our daughter to think about.”

“You never used to be so bitchy!” Joanne had said, growing teary. “What’s going on?”

“I’m sorry, Jo,” Jules had said, “but I’m not doing you any favors by continuing to bail you out.”

And then she’d hung up.

Joanne had felt panic welling up, but then she’d pulled herself together.
Fine
, she’d told herself.
I can do this on my own. For once. I won’t need my sister
.

Joanne reminded herself of this as her new sign—a neon aqua and orange orb—came into view. She had moved A Real Gem; it was now right next to Yellow Brick Road, the store where her mother used to volunteer. Cheaper rent, more foot traffic. And just in time for the biggest
holiday shopping season. New beginnings. This would be a new year for her business for sure.

Her sleigh bells rang, and someone she vaguely recognized came through the door. Perhaps one of her mother’s friends.

“Why hello, Joanne. I don’t think you remember me. I’m Francine. I used to work with your mother at Yellow Brick Road, before I broke my foot and moved into SafeHarbour.”

Now Joanne remembered her, but she didn’t recall Francine dressing so fashionably. Perhaps it was her mother’s influence on her.

“We missed your mother so much at the store after she passed.”

Joanne hated the word “passed.” What was that supposed to mean? Passed by? Passed into oblivion? Still, she needed to be friendly. Good for business. And she was hoping to generate enough income to meet her current expenses soon. She hoped she could help Jules now for having carried their parents’ debts. At least she would try. After all that Jules had gone through. Her sister—was it because she was the oldest?—had always wanted to be in control, but what had it gotten her?

Joanne’s new boyfriend, Matt, was a moron—he loved to play the violin at funerals and secretly still nurtured sexual fantasies for his ex-girlfriend, who had never officially divorced her husband, supposedly because of his comprehensive medical and dental insurance. Joanne hoped to find a less self-absorbed boyfriend in the near future, but so far she hadn’t had much luck. And without her mother as a witness, nothing seemed as meaningful. Still, she was thinking of dumping Matt, who liked to run his hand down each of her cheeks before they had sex. “Let the fingers do the walking,” he liked to tease her. Called it foreplay.

Matt also liked to take a flashlight and stare behind her ears first, then her hairline above her forehead, and finally the nape of her neck—where her surgery scars were. At first she hadn’t minded it when Matt had insisted on slathering her scar gel ointment on for her. But now it bothered her how obsessed he was with her imperfections. “Maybe they’ll go away eventually,” he often said. “Or at least fade.” He sometimes compared her skin to her daughters’ silky complexions, too, which definitely worried her.

“Honey,” Francine said, breaking into her thoughts, “ever since
your mother died, you haven’t been wearing as much makeup. Is that because you’re still mourning, almost a year now, you know—or are you just relaxing a bit?”

Joanne ignored her comment and flashed her a smile. Francine, looking vaguely disappointed, bent over the glass counter to admire her display.

“Would you like to look at our new merchandise? A bracelet perhaps?”

“Well, you know, I do have a male admirer at SafeHarbour now,” Francine said.

Now Joanne remembered. Her mother always had said that Francine would die a lonely spinster.
Guess she got that one wrong
.

After the sale, Joanne looked in the mirror she had installed in the back office, a magnified one that allowed her to apply her eyeliner, red lipstick, and two foundations—one for wrinkles and one for powder—flawlessly. She always did it exactly the same way—starting at the neck and then working up, massaging with a light touch, making sure not to pull the skin—but it had been a long time since she’d gone through the routine. Her mother’s death had sapped her of her vanity; it had taken her almost a year to get back to feeling enthusiastic about all the effort required to primp.
I haven’t taken this stuff out for so long, it’s probably rancid by now
, she thought.

She stared more deeply at the mirror, to the point where her reflection seemed to dissolve. She zoomed in on her pores, her eyelids, her neck. Joanne thought about Matt, Stephen before him, Gus, and then Dean before him. Four in the past two years. All losers.

She abandoned her mirror and, sitting down at her computer, she called up Alan Fox, the consultant who had installed her Microsoft Office software the day she moved the store. He had been helpful.

“Hey you,” she started as she heard him pick up. “This is Joanne. Remember me? You made an office call to set up my computer so I could start using Excel for my business ledger?” Not exactly her type, her mother would say. Ten years older, by no means handsome. Kind of geeky. But considerate. Patient. Respectful. Alan had walked her through the rudimentary bookkeeping using Excel and hadn’t charged her for the entire time he spent with her. He’d explained things well, too. No question was too stupid. He wasn’t a know-it-all like Al. Maybe
her mom was wrong about guys like him. Just as she was wrong about giving that ring to Ashley. Her mother had broken her promises.

“I’m still setting up my books and want to create some simple formulas for tax purposes. So I can do things by myself.” She thought of her sister. “I’d like to get my income statements entered as soon as possible, since the holiday shopping season’s just starting. What would you say to making a house call tonight? I could fix you dinner—if you’re interested, that is.”

What would her mother say? That he definitely wasn’t in her league. That’s what she would have said. But maybe it was time to try another league—one in which Alan Fox could be a major player. She felt comfortable around him. He wouldn’t take out a flashlight and the scar gel.

P
iles of sketches surrounded the bed, covered all the surfaces in the room: Jules’s small desk, the chair and end table, and the floor of her caretaker’s cottage. She thought about little Max as she tapped rapidly on her laptop.
In the Night Kitchen
. But the scene would be different: A little girl carrying a milk bottle for her mommy—this time a plastic, unbreakable jug. Her mommy sitting on each step with her, holding her hand and helping her hold the bottle. Both of them laughing and pretending they were on a roller coaster—delighted, happy. Bump, bump—safely bouncing down the stairs. Bump, bump.

Her ability to draw and sketch had never gone much beyond doodling. Joanne was the serious artist. But Jules sketched line figures with ease, almost subconsciously, as she daydreamed about those stairs from her own early years. When she looked down, she saw the doodles and realized that Zoë was the little girl, and she was the mommy. They were wild, gleeful, carefree. She continued with her charcoal until her fingers were so covered with carbon, some of the lines started smearing.