Endless Chain (27 page)

She went back to writing. He went back to watching her. She was lost in thought, adding a bit at a time, but finally she sighed and began to fold the bits of paper into squares. “This is enough.”

“Then you’re ready to fly?”

“The wind has picked up.”

He held up the instruction booklet. “I’m officially an expert.”

She got to her feet and held out a hand. He pulled himself into a sitting position and took it, careful not to pull her over when he rose. Her hand was not soft against his, but callused and strong.

They tied the messages to the kite’s tail with the thin strips of cloth. “The stronger the wind, the more tail it needs,” Sam told her.

“That makes sense.” She stepped back. “If the wind hadn’t picked up, I would have had to choose among loved ones.”

He looked around. “Where did the dogs go?”

“There’s Bed.” She pointed to the other side of the tree, where Bed was happily snoozing.

“I shouldn’t have taken my eyes off them.”

She held a finger to her lips. He listened and heard barking in the distance. Before he could stir, she smiled. “Coming toward us.”

“You have good ears.”

The smile faded. “I have learned to listen.”

The dogs, running side by side, burst into the clearing, tongues lolling, tails wagging.

“Didn’t we have a talk?” he demanded, pointing a finger at each of them in turn.

“I’m sure they’re properly rebuked,” Elisa said. “They won’t run off again.”

“Not until I turn my head. At least they came back.”

“They’ll always come back. They adore you.”

“Is that how it works?”

“They would search the world to find you.”

From her tone, he thought they were talking about more than dogs, but he knew better than to ask.

With the dogs at their heels, they took the kite to the wide open area on the hilltop where Mack and Tessa would someday build a home.

“Listen carefully,” he lectured. “You hold the spool, and I hold the kite. You’ll notice I have my back to the wind.”

“This was the reason for the finger in the air?”

“It’s a scientific method, millions of years old. They’ve found skeletons of Cro-Magnon man with one finger in the air.”

“I won’t ask which finger.”

He grinned. “You’ll be ashamed of yourself when the kite takes flight.”

“I will silently practice my apology as you launch it.”

“I’m going to run. When I release the kite, your job is to pull the string hand over hand as it climbs. When it’s high enough, you can let more out until you’re using the reel.”

“No, I think we have this wrong. The expert needs to be on this end. I’ll run, you work the string.”

“But they’re your messages.”

“Oh, I’ll take over when it’s up.” Her eyes were shining.

He had a feeling this was a challenge. “No problem. Just watch and see how it’s done.”

They switched places. She took the kite and held it aloft. Then she began to run, keeping the kite aimed into the wind. He didn’t have time to admire her technique. Once she released it, he did everything the booklet had suggested, but when she let go, the kite fluttered to the ground and nestled there on a clump of grass.

“Maybe I need to hold it higher?” she said.

“Try that.”

They went through the motions again with the same result.

He was perplexed. He reeled in some of the string, took a firmer hold and nodded. They tried and failed twice more.

He didn’t think a kite on the ground was going to be very therapeutic. Elisa joined him as he looked down at it.

“Maybe we do have to shorten the tail,” he said.

“No, let me try.” She put a hand on his arm and held the other toward him for the reel.

“It’s clearly harder than it looks.”

“It looks very, very hard when you do it.”

“Don’t feel badly if it doesn’t go up when I let go.”

“Oh, I think I’m going to just try this alone.”

“You don’t want me to run with it?”

She smiled and shook her head. She took the reel, wound it until there was very little line left, then she moved away from him. He watched her turn this way and that, and finally settle on a spot she liked.

Then, as he watched, she held the kite aloft with one hand and began to let the line out with the other. In a moment she released the kite with one toss and it began to climb. She gave it line, then tugged and it rose higher, released more string, tugged hard again, and it continued to climb. In a moment it was well and truly launched.

“I’ve been had,” he said.

“Were the power lines really so low in the town where you grew up?”

“Clearly they weren’t in yours.”

“On the Day of the Dead we flew kites to communicate with loved ones. But at other times we flew kites in our cemeteries to keep evil spirits away. And more practically because there they would not be caught in trees or wires.”

He joined her, smiling at her obvious pleasure. “And how many would you say you’ve flown?”

“A hundred? Two? I taught Ramon to fly kites. He was very enthusiastic. It was something we did together for many years.”

The kite flew higher, a rainbow burst of color against autumn’s sapphire sky. He watched it climb, watched her tug and release. When it was high enough, she offered him the reel, but he refused with a shake of his head. “I’d rather watch you.”

“Will the departed know I’m here?” she wondered out loud. “Will they think to look in Toms Brook for me?”

“They will now that they’ve seen your kite.”

She was silent, and so was he, watching the kite toss in the rising wind.

The sun was filmed by stratus clouds and moving lower in the sky. In the next minutes he watched more clouds moving in and the sky subtly changing color. The kite continued its flight, dancing, pirouetting, diving, turning. She handled it like a professional.

The dogs took off, then returned. Shad fell to the ground at his feet to scratch an ear. Bed woke up from another nap and sniffed her way down the hill and back. More clouds rolled in, but he was content to stand and watch the kite waltz.

Much later, when the temperature began to drop and the shadows of the trees at the clearing’s edge had lengthened, he realized with regret that it was time to start back. He started to speak when he heard her gasp. He glanced up and saw the strip of tail with the messages tied to it, snap free. The wind carried it off immediately. The tail didn’t fall to earth as he would have expected. It simply blew away, in the direction of the river. In a moment he lost sight of it.

He wondered how Elisa felt.

She reeled in the kite. He stayed beside her until it was just beyond them. Then he went to catch it and bring it down safely.

He returned and held it as she finished gathering in the remaining string.

She waited until she was finished. Then she looked up. Her eyes glistened. “They have my messages now.”

He wanted to put his arms around her. He wanted to tell her he was there for her, in any way she needed or wanted him. But he did not. He touched her hair. Lightly. Briefly. Then his hand fell to his side.

“Yes.” It was all he knew to say.

“Thank you, Sam.”

He nodded.

“You’ve made this a good day after all.” She looked down at the kite again, then up at him. “Did you mean it when you said your schedule was empty?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like to make dinner for you. I’d like to share it with you. But if you’re too busy, I—”

He spoke before he had time to think. He didn’t
want
to think. “I would be honored.”

“Then give me time to prepare. Come back at eight?”

“You’re certain you have the energy?”

“You’ve given me energy.”

They stood facing each other, reluctant to move. Then Sam felt a furry body nudge his leg. He bent, picked up a stick and threw it for Shack, who bounded away in pursuit.

When he turned, Elisa was slipping the kite back into its wrappings. They headed down the hill together.

A
s a child, Elisa had always looked forward to a feast on the Day of All Saints, a meal that the family’s devoted cook prepared well in advance. It was the culmination of many hours of celebration, and a wide circle of friends always arrived to share the meal and tell tales of the day.

After the deaths of her parents, Elisa had learned to prepare her own meals. There had no longer been money for cooks or housekeepers, or for the house with the shaded courtyard brightened by brilliant scarlet bougainvillea and a sparkling mosaic tile fountain. She had moved to another city, to a two-room apartment near a park where Ramon could still play outdoors. And she had learned to cook the meals he loved so well.

She was sorry there wasn’t time to make the traditional meal tonight, but she was determined the food would be authentic. She returned from the grocery store and the tiny Latino
mercado
in Woodstock with two bags of groceries.

By seven-thirty the house was fragrant with garlic and onion, and as the main dish simmered, she ran upstairs to change. She had so few clothes it wasn’t hard to decide. A trip to the thrift store with Adoncia and Patia had turned up a dark green knit dress that suited both her and her limited budget. Now she slipped it over her head and smoothed the skirt over her hips. She unbraided her hair, and while she was brushing it, she decided to leave it down. Most of her adult life her hair had been short so it could be easily cared for. Tonight she liked the feel of it against her shoulders and back. She thought Sam would like it, too.

While she shopped and cooked, she had warned herself that this day had changed nothing. Sam was still engaged. She was in no position to have a friend, much less a lover. They were adults, capable of controlling themselves and the situation. She had invited him tonight to thank him for his kindness to her.

But the words were hollow. She wasn’t good at fooling herself. She had made the invitation because she wanted to prolong the bittersweet agony of being close to him.

A touch of makeup, a squirt of lotion on her work-roughened hands, and she went downstairs to put several CDs in Helen’s stereo system. This was another gift from Nancy, one Helen claimed she didn’t see the need for, but somehow a new collection of disks with titles like “The Essential Statler Brothers” and “Classic Crooners” seemed to play themselves at regular intervals. Elisa had splurged on a few of her own to go with them.

She was ready when Sam knocked. He wore khakis and a navy sports coat, with a pale blue shirt and no tie. He carried flowers, white spider mums and red carnations in green tissue paper. He kissed her cheek when he presented them to her, the perfunctory greeting of friends. It still resonated in a body long out of practice coping with desire.

“I bought wine,” he said. “I have red and white in the car. Either or both?”

“We’re having chicken.” She was still looking down at the flowers. She was afraid her cheeks were pink.

“White?”

“Let’s ignore the experts. I like red better.”

“So do I. It’s from Chile.”

“It sounds perfect.”

She left the door ajar and went to find a vase for the flowers. She was placing the newly trimmed stalks in water when Sam came into the kitchen.

“This was recommended. It’s a blend of three grapes.” He held up the bottle for her perusal.

“Sena. Yes, it’s a good one.”

“You’ve had it then?”

She finished arranging the flowers. “I visited the area where it’s produced on a holiday.” She presented the glass vase to him. “Will you put these on the table?”

“The dining room?”

She nodded.

“Did I tell you how lovely you look in that dress?”

“Thank you.”

He took the vase. His absence gave her a moment to chide herself for overreacting. Just a few words and a quick kiss, and she felt beautiful and desirable. At this rate she was afraid she would dissolve into longing if he accidentally touched her.

She was peeking in the oven when he returned. “Something smells incredible.”

“I think you’ll like it. Anyone who eats mashed potato and scrambled egg sandwiches can’t be too choosy.”

“Do you like to cook?”

“I didn’t at first. We were spoiled when I was a girl. Our cook was so wonderful, friends of my family dropped by often just at mealtime. We didn’t pretend they were there to see us. We knew.”

He lounged against the counter, arms folded. “Did she teach you? What’s that you’re peeling?”

“Don’t screw up your face, it might freeze. And they’re not rotting bananas. Plantain, a relative. These are just ripe enough to fry. And no, Rosa Maria didn’t teach me. She would not have believed that to be proper. But she did let me watch and help if no one was home. So I did learn some of her secrets. But there were many failures when I began cooking on my own.”

“Did your husband care?”

“Gabrio?” She laughed. “I don’t think I cooked for Gabrio more than half a dozen times. When we married there was a cook in his house, a woman who had been with his family since he was a boy. She did not want me inside her kitchen. She was not as good as Rosa, but it was safest to pretend I loved everything she made.”

“It sounds like a very different life.”

She imagined he would be shocked at exactly how different.

As the oil heated, she retrieved a can of pureed beans. Back at the stove, she took a second frying pan from a pegboard hook and set it to heat, as well, adding garlic she had already chopped for extra flavor.

“Want me to open that?”

She offered it. “Do you like black beans?”

She pointed to the right drawer, and he searched for the opener. “I grew up with good old pork and beans right out of the can. Something tells me this is a different experience.”

“At home I soaked my own, then cooked and mashed them. Ramon always did the mashing.”

“These look good,” he said.

She was beginning to trust that he would let her lead the way and reveal only what she was comfortable with. “They
are
good. I made them for Helen. She grew up eating dried beans of all kinds from her mother’s garden. She didn’t complain.”

He handed her the opened can. She scooped the beans into the pan and began mixing them with a wooden spoon. She added plantain to the other pan, and divided her attention between them.

“I like the music,” he said.

“I’m glad.”

“Who is it?”

She turned down the heat under the beans and turned it up under the plantain. “Ricardo Arjona. He’s one of my favorites.”

They were both quiet, listening. Arjona’s voice was smooth, with just a hint of vibrato lending emotion. This selection had guitar and just a hint of some rhythm instrument Elisa couldn’t identify.

Sam turned his back to the counter again and resumed lounging. The kitchen seemed smaller and cozier with him beside her, and she was aware of the short distance between them.

“I’m at a disadvantage,” he said. “I’m working on my Spanish, but I’ve got a long way to go.”

“Are you? Working on it?”

“
Usted esta bonito.
”

She smiled a little. “I think you mean to say
estás bonita.
Unless you are trying to tell a man you don’t know well that he’s pretty?”

“I probably won’t have much use for that.
Estás bonita.
”

“
Gracias.
”

“
De nada.
”

“You
are
working on it.”

“Right now, if I go to Mexico I can ask directions to the bathroom, order tamales and count to twenty, in case anybody asks.”

“I’m sure that will be tops on their list of requests.” The beans were beginning to thicken. She gently shook the pan as they parted from the sides, forming the puree into a roll. “How are you learning?”

“I bought tapes. I listen to them in my car. That’s about the only chance I get.”

She was touched he was making the attempt. “It will help with
La Casa.
”

“It doesn’t help right now. I’d like to know what these lyrics mean.”

He looked perfectly at home, as if he stood there each night and watched her cook. “Would you really? Maybe not. Arjona’s a social critic, more or less the Bob Dylan of Latin America, except his voice is so sensual and powerful. He is not always kind to his neighbor to the north.”

“What’s he singing about now?”

This was one of her favorites. She tried to put the essence into words. “It’s the story of a man and a woman. She is from Cuba; he is from New York. She is a Marxist and he a Republican, but Arjona asks what do Lincoln and Lenin know about love?”

“What do they?” Sam agreed.

“She is a mulatto, he is blond like the sun. The woman and the man don’t speak the same language. But love ties them together.”

She glanced at him again. His eyes were following every move she made.

She stopped shaking the pan. Her voice was lower and husky. “The Yankee falls in love with the Cuban. He takes her hand and takes her away. They go to Paris to live, where together they can make fun of the rest of us.”

His eyes were warm, their deep blue grayed in the incandescent light. “I like it. Love surmounts all barriers.”

Their gazes locked. She forgot to stir or shake, until she realized the song had ended. She looked away, focusing on the wall behind the stove. “I thought you might.”

“He’s easy to listen to.”

“Yes.” She turned down the heat under the beans, flipped the plantain once more and turned off the heat.

“Love is more powerful than borders or treaties or treatises,” he said.

She didn’t look at him. “Arjona would agree.”

“Would
you?
”

“In my limited experience? Love is the place where the hard work starts. The Cuban and the Yankee will probably have to learn more than French to understand each other.”

“You’re not a romantic.”

“And you are?” The words were meant to be light. They sounded just a bit breathless.

“I think the Cuban and the Yankee are still together in Paris, madly in love. More in love because of their differences. Right now they’re having a glass of French wine at a sidewalk café in Montmartre. She never learned to speak English, he can’t speak Spanish. But I think they speak French perfectly.”

She smiled. She couldn’t help herself. When she looked up again she saw he was watching her, waiting for her to tell him that such things were not possible.

“In my country we like to say that everyone is the age of their heart.” She splayed her hand over her breasts. “Your heart is young, Sam.”

“Because I believe sometimes people find each other despite every obstacle? Don’t you believe it, too?”

“I believe in love. But I’m also a realist.”

“I think you’re a woman who has seen too much sorrow.”

They stared at each other again. She read patience and encouragement in his eyes, and the hint of something that was the antithesis, the desire to know her now, without pretense, without delays, without barriers.

For a moment she was tempted to give in, to tell him who she was and what drove her, to lay her past and future at his feet and ask him to share it in any way he could. Then a new song began, the beans began to smoke, and she forced herself to look away.

“We’re ready to eat. Will you open the wine while I take the food to the table?”

“If you’ll start this CD all over again.”

She carried in platters, and he brought wineglasses and followed with ice water. They worked together, as if they had always done so. When the table was filled, he pulled out her chair.

He moved around the table, shortened for the occasion by the removal of two leaves. He poured a little wine in her glass and waited for her to taste it.

“Very nice.” She held up her glass for more.

He filled hers and poured one for himself. “The food looks wonderful. Is this a special meal for the holiday?”

She held up the salad plate. “No, in my family the traditional meal was
fiambre.
As a child I looked forward to it all year, but it takes a whole day of preparation, so I couldn’t do it for you on short notice. This is just a little taste of it.”

“It looks like antipasto.”

“A little bit like it, yes.” She looked down at the combination of marinated vegetables and meats. “In its real form it’s enough by itself to make a whole meal, and the more things that go into it, the better. There’s a story Rosa Maria liked to tell. A rich woman fixed a feast for expected guests and told her servant girl how to serve it. The girl had a lover, and he came to visit. She forgot about dinner until suddenly she realized it was time to serve and she wasn’t prepared. So she threw everything on one plate, and that became
fiambre.
”

He took a selection of the deli meats and vegetables she’d included and passed the plate back to her. “Love created a feast and a tradition. However it came about, that’s the way I like to eat.”