Every Last Cuckoo (18 page)

Vivi walked out to greet Sarah with Peter and Mordechai right behind. Sarah wished they'd given her a minute to steel herself, but her anxiety vanished in her friends' embrace. Emerging from the tangle of their arms, she came face-to-face with Mordechai, who smiled at her as though he had known her for decades. She took the hand he offered and smiled back.

Mordechai was an inch or two shorter than Sarah, stocky like his cousin Peter, with hair and beard that were salt-and-pepper instead of salt-and-rust. His eyes were brown but flecked with green and amber. He had a broad smile and a gap as wide as a matchstick between his front teeth, which were otherwise perfect. “I remember you now,” he said to her. “And your husband, too. What a terrible shock to lose him after so many years together.” Nearly everyone else had borrowed the same stock phrase from American television: “I am sorry for your loss.” Mordechai was more direct, and his eyes were so kind that Sarah had to look away.

Flustered, she closed up the car and headed indoors, where she escaped to the bathroom to cool her face with a washcloth. She studied herself in the mirror and saw the pain in her own light eyes gazing back, renewed by a stranger's authentic condolence.

This was the first time Sarah had agreed to dinner at Vivi and Peter's since Charles's death. She had not wanted to revisit the scene of so many intimate evenings. Now, three months
later, she sat here with a man she could not remember having met before. Throughout the main course—roast chicken and spring vegetables that Sarah barely tasted—Mordechai was like a wrong leg on the table, a mismatch that made everything wobble. Not that anyone thought he somehow stood in for Charles. It wasn't that. It was just that he was male and he was there, where Charles had always sat.

By dessert Sarah had begun to relax in Mordechai's presence. He came from a place where violence tore unpredictably through streets, lives, and bodies, and yet he was quiet and calm. He sat very still, listened attentively, and was in no hurry to speak. Sarah saw in his eyes only alertness and curiosity. She had worried that he might be jumpy, abrupt, or defensive, having lived with perpetual threat. She had dreaded being near someone like that.

Late in the evening Sarah learned that Mordechai was a social historian who studied immigrants to Israel from all over the world. He focused especially on whether their expectations had been met or undermined by the realities of Israeli life. He was now writing “an idealist's history” of the struggles between the Israelis and Palestinians. “What I mean,” he said with his light Hebrew accent, “is that Israel was founded on strong ideals. Notions of freedom, identity, and healing. Above all, safety. And I am trying to understand what happens to ideals in the face of hatred and violence. And why it happens. And whether it must happen the way that it does.”

“Whether the violence is necessary?” asked Sarah.

“Yes. Whether we are victims of our own worst nature or can transcend it.”

Sarah asked him how long he thought it would take to finish his book.

“I have one year's sabbatical,” he laughed. “So I suppose that is how long it will take.”

Gradually Sarah warmed to the prospect of Mordechai's living quietly in her cabin, waking to the morning light and the pale, watercolor sky painted on the surface of the pond. She pictured ashes lying on the silty bottom of the pond, lifting in the currents made by small fish. Perhaps Mordechai would not disturb Charles even so much as that.

O
N THE LAST
S
ATURDAY
in May, Sarah and Lottie went to the farmers' market in Montpelier, where they roamed the booths and tents in search of new perennials, already hardened off and ready to go straight back into the chilly ground. With mud season gone, the earth in Sarah's garden was damp but loose, ready to be worked.

They bought too many pots and flats for the two of them to carry to the car, so Lottie went to drive it around—illegally, since she was still driving with a permit, not a license. It didn't even cross Sarah's mind to worry. She stood on the curb at the edge of the busy market, surrounded by crowds giddy with spring and burdened with plants, peasant breads, cheeses, or crafts. Later in the season, the market would offer a seductive array of plain and designer vegetables, but it was too early for any harvest except greens and a few herbs.

Sarah was impatient to get back home to put in the new plants. She'd cut back last autumn's dead stalks, making way for the new growth that already stood well above the crowns. The
daffodils had finished blooming, and the tulips were fully open. Sarah was always in a hurry at the bare beginning of Vermont's short growing season, knowing it would rush away too soon. She wondered how she managed to forget, each winter, what lay beneath the snow, ready to revive. This year, when winter had finally receded for good, its cold tide had left behind the green tips of spring bulbs, already up.

Lottie drove up and loaded the Subaru's way-back. She slid behind the wheel again as a matter of course, now that Sarah let her drive whenever they went out together. She'd have her license in another few weeks, and Sarah would let her share Charles's old Subaru with Mordechai, provided her grades didn't suffer.

For Sarah the new living arrangement was still touch and go, complicated by her guilt about withholding certain things from Lottie's parents. Tom and Charlotte didn't know that Lottie had become Sarah's chauffeur. That was the least of it. They also didn't know that Lottie smoked marijuana, as Charles had suspected, that she was probably sleeping with Tony Clausen, or that she was pleading with Sarah to let two of her friends move in, just for a while, until they could calm things down in their stormy homes or make other arrangements.

The morning after the overnight in the cabin, Sarah had smelled smoke in Lottie's hair—not cigarette smoke. For an old woman, she still had a good nose, and she recognized the telltale scent from her own sweater after the dinner party last January. She could still see Charles's face, eerily lit from beneath by the kerosene lamp. His surprisingly easygoing attitude about Lottie, coupled with Sarah's disbelieving memory of having tried the drug herself, had made her unsure of what to say. The smell of the smoke had at first ignited a fury in her, the same fury she'd
felt when David was a teenager and lied as often as he breathed. Hastily Sarah had doused her anger at Lottie in favor of reflection, which cleared her mind.

“Lottie,” she'd said later that same afternoon, “we need to understand each other. There are certain conditions under which I will have you here with me. If you violate them, you'll go home.”

Lottie, who had been lying on the couch in the great room, reading, sat up alarmed. “Nana? Did I do something wrong?”

“The law would say so. You were smoking marijuana last night, down in the cabin with your friends.”

Lottie put on a show of indignation. “You really did spy on us? You snuck down there and
spied
on us?”

Sarah snorted. “Don't pull that on me, my dear. I'm not the one who's guilty here. And no, I didn't spy. I can still use my nose, and your hair reeks of smoke. Not tobacco smoke either.”

Collapsing back against the loose couch cushions, Lottie sighed, “It wasn't me, Nana, honest. The others brought some weed with them, but they know I don't smoke it.”

Sarah had not considered this and wondered if it were true. “I have no way of knowing, so I'll just tell you this. The first lie I catch you in, off you go. Back home. If you tell me the truth, no matter how dreadful, you will have at least a chance of staying.”

Lottie was regarding Sarah seriously now, all defensiveness gone, anxiety and indecision shading her expression.

“Think carefully,” Sarah went on. “If I ever, in the future, learn that you do smoke that stuff, I will have to assume that you were smoking it last night with your friends. I will have to assume that what you're telling me now is a lie, and out you
will go, so fast the door will have no time to smack your butt. Though I myself might manage it.” She sat straight in Charles's chair, next to the couch, angled slightly so she could look Lottie in the eye. Inwardly she was still angry and unsure of how to handle this moment. Outwardly she was stern and calm. It came as a relief to her when she saw Lottie's eyes fill and the tears spill over.

“I did
try
it, Nana,” she whispered, not daring to look at Sarah.

Sarah had not planned Lottie's side of this conversation, and she had no idea how to respond to this bit of truth. Impulsively she told a truth of her own. “So did I.”

Lottie gave her a look of utter astonishment, then rolled her eyes. “Oh, sure, Nana. When? Back in the fifties? When you were a—whaddyacallit, a
beatnik
?”

“Careful, Lottie,” Sarah warned, struggling not to smile. “Don't get sarcastic. I hold all the cards.”

“Well? When did you try weed, then?”

“Just a few months ago. With Papa and some friends.” Surely this was a mistake! Hastily Sarah added, “But, Lottie, we're adults.
Old
adults. We know who we are; we have judgment you don't even know you're going to need in this life.”
Lame,
she thought.
That sounded lame and ancient and prim.

“Nana, I'm
so
careful. You wouldn't believe. I never,
ever
smoke where I could get caught, not in town, not at school, not while I'm in someone's car. And never,
ever
on a school night.” She searched Sarah's face. “Nana, I
promise
I'm telling the truth now. I've smoked maybe a dozen times, starting almost a year ago. But I don't drink; I've never had more than a beer. I don't smoke cigarettes, I don't use any other drugs, not even
coffee
. Honest.”

“Where do you get the marijuana?”

“Friends have it.” She flicked a look at Sarah and dropped her voice. “Usually.”

“And
un
usually, when your friends don't have it? Have you ever bought it yourself?”

Lottie sighed. “Once. But only from somebody I know at school who grows it himself. A kid my age. In the back of the loft of his barn, with special lights.”

Sarah slowly shook her head at Lottie, not sure what to say next.

Lottie cleared her throat and ventured, “So. Did you like it, Nana? Weed? And
Papa
smoked it, too?” Lottie covered her mouth with both hands but could not hide her mirth. Her eyes widened mischievously, alight with hungry questions. “Did you
inhale
?” At this she burst helplessly into laughter, throwing her shoulders forward and stomping her feet in front of her. She fell over onto her side and buried her face in a cushion, muffling her glee. Peering out, she sputtered, “Who
else
? Not
Vivi
!”

Cracking a smile against her will, Sarah nodded, setting Lottie off again. Sarah's resistance caved. Her sudden burst of laughter startled Ruckus and Sylvie out of canine dreams near the woodstove. Ruckus sat up and yipped. Sylvie watched with her ears cocked as Sarah and Lottie struggled to get serious.

Sarah finally pulled a straight face and said, “Clean slate.”

Lottie nodded, trying to keep the corners of her mouth still.

“But not one lie, ever again. I won't ask you anything more than I think I have to, but when I do ask, I'll expect the truth. All of it. I want more than anything to give you total freedom, but you have to prove you can handle it.”

Sober now, Lottie agreed.

“And you have to make some promises,” Sarah went on.

“Such as?” Lottie was not just going to cave. Sarah was glad to see that; it made it easier to trust this girl.

“Such as. And these are absolute. If you can't agree, you can't stay here, and I mean that.” Seeing Lottie give a tentative nod, she elaborated. “
One
. You have to keep up with your classes. If I see even one grade slip, I bring your parents into the picture. We all go to school to find out what's wrong.
Two
. If you have sex you have to use condoms every single time, no exceptions.”

Lottie opened her mouth to protest, but Sarah held up her hand. “I'm not saying you
are
having sex or even planning to. And I'm not asking, at least not now. But even I can feel the air hum between you and Tony.” She smiled smugly at Lottie's surprise and seized her momentary advantage. “
Three
. You will not
ever
get into a car with friends who are in any kind of altered state, not from alcohol or drugs or even excess testosterone. If you're out with friends who are high and you need a ride, call me. Any time of the night or day. I will come pick you up.”

“
Jeez,
” Lottie breathed. “I don't have much choice, do I?”

“Of course you do,” Sarah snapped. “You have a perfectly good home and parents who love you.”

Abashed, Lottie mumbled, “I know. It's just hard at home.” She took a breath and said, “I promise, Nana. I agree to your terms.”

“Not yet,” Sarah replied. “You'll be tempted to lie if I ask you about things you don't want to talk about. You'll think you can get away with it. You can try that. But get caught, and you will be out of here before you can blink. Wait a few days before you decide.”

Several weeks later Sarah was confident that Lottie had kept
her promise once she made it. Her grades were good. She was openly paired off with Tony but in no way a fool for love. Usually Lottie saw her friends in groups of three or more, with and without Tony. She was busy nearly every moment, with no more than a waking hour or two to herself every day. She ate dinner with Sarah and talked with her freely, then went to her room to study, surf the Internet, and listen to music—often simultaneously. Sarah saw plenty of evidence that things were going well.