Season of Salt and Honey (10 page)

I flick off the camp stove. The pot sends up curls of steam and the scent of pork and fennel and tomatoes simmered till sweet. I breathe it in, pushing cannoli, cassata, and cookie fantasies to one side.

When the pot has cooled a little I take it to the table and lift spoonfuls to my mouth. I glance up at a scurrying on the roof. A
raccoon perhaps. Maybe not that big, maybe a squirrel. Maybe a ghost.

I find myself wondering about Huia and Jack, whether they eat in front of a television or at a table. Table, I decide, with Huia barely able to stay still in her seat and Jack admonishing her for sending beans flying. Crumbs from Merriem's bread in their laps. Talking with their mouths full.

I place my palms against my full stomach. I'm tired. In this place I feel tired as soon as the light starts to disappear, as though I am becoming more and more animal, less and less human. Circadian rhythm, I remember from science class. I am synchronizing with the inhale and exhale of the forest. I am becoming a bird or a butterfly or a beetle. I feel safe here and don't want to leave.

I hear car tires on the driveway and then an animal running on the roof. The percussion—
pup pup pup pup
—travels the length of the roof and then ends, the animal presumably returning to the dark of the forest.

The sound is replaced by someone peppering the door with light but rapid strikes. I know who it is before she even speaks.

“Frankie. Open up.”

“I told you to leave.”

She whispers, “I did . . . and then . . .”

I snort. “Cute. I don't want you here.”

“Let me in.”

“Go away. I told you to go away. You don't belong here.”

There's a hesitation before, “Technically, neither do you.”

My chest tightens, my fingers make a fist. “
Vaffanculo
, Bella!”

“I just meant—” Now there is apology in her voice.

“I don't want to hear it!”

“I just want to talk to you—”

“I don't want to talk to you!” I'm shouting now. And hating myself for it.

I wrench open the door and Bella staggers back. Her eyes are full and round. They remind me of another time, when we were children. A summer's day and a house full of people wearing dark clothes and speaking Italian. Women with lace-edged handkerchiefs, men with bitter-smelling cigarettes. Sliding under a bed to hide, the smell of heat and dust, pulling pins from my hair. Bella came into the room and saw me there and I raised my finger to my lips. She was only four, and tiny; she didn't look bigger than three at most. She'd said nothing, just wriggled under the bed with me, looking out at the stripe of light and reaching for my hand across the carpet.

“Frankie . . . please . . . why are we fighting?” she says now. “It makes no sense. Come on.”

“No,” I manage in an almost normal voice. “No. I don't want you here. I don't want to talk. I want to be alone.”

Her eyes shine in the dim light. “Maybe I can help. We could set things right between us.”

“Maybe you can help? You have never helped. What do you want?”

Bella straightens. “Nothing. I mean . . . I want us to be sisters again. Friends maybe.”

“Because?”

She's frowning. “Because nothing. Because we're family.”

“You need money. You need a place to stay.”

“No.” She reaches out but I lean away from her. “Oh, Frank—”

“I don't believe you.”

“
Soru
 . . .” Sister.

“Don't speak to me in Sicilian like you're suddenly as Caputo as they come!” My voice is loud again. I am holding tight to the doorframe.

Bella's face hardens. “I
am
Caputo, Frankie. As much as you. I know I haven't been around much lately but that doesn't change the fact. And . . . I've had my reasons.”

“Yeah. You and your reasons. Go away.”

I push the door closed, but Bella lifts her palm and stops it from shutting.

“Move your hand,” I say.

“No.” She is calm.

“Move your hand.”

There's an eight-inch gap between the door and its frame.

“Move. Your. Hand.”

“I'm not leaving, Frankie. Not anymore.”

I see her again as she was back then. Dark head leaning in towards him, hand pressed coyly underneath her thigh. Red lips seeking out that which wasn't hers.

“Move your hand or I'll break your fingers.”

As soon as she removes her hand, I slam the door shut.

*  *  *

I sleep fitfully, kicking off the covers, waking up cold, burrowing back down under the dusty quilt and then waking again, hot, my skin slick with sweat. When morning comes I feel more tired
than when I went to bed. When I hear two voices talking outside the cabin I am confused before I am irritated.

“A farmer from Edison. He brought me here, and when he left I stayed. A good thing too. The place is nicer without him in it.”

A bellowing laugh.

“A senior citizens' home,” Bella says. “About five years now. It's good work.”

“Yoga . . . it keeps me centered.”

“Oh, I paint too!”

They talk of artists I've never heard of and the conversation becomes hurried and punctuated by more laughter. They talk over each other, chattering like squirrels.

“Wasn't he wonderful? Such use of color. Wild.”

“They were his muses, of course.”

“The skin . . . the hair . . . It makes your heart sing.”

I get to my feet and open the door. Bella is sitting in her car, hair messy and face tired but smiling. She's turned sideways so her legs hang out of the door. Merriem stands with a bag cradled in her arms.

“Frankie! Morning!” Merriem sings out when she sees me.

Bella looks up, but her smile fades when I return it with a glassy glare.

“I was just meeting your sister, Isabella.”

“Bella. People call me Bella,” she interjects.

“Beautiful. That's what it means, right?”

Bella nods.

“You both are. The beautiful sisters.” Merriem points between us. “I can see the similarity. Your mother must be a beauty too.”

“We're very different,” I say immediately.

Bella stares at me.

Merriem glances back at Bella. “Uh, well, that's good too,” she says slowly. “Frankie, I brought more vegetables. Did you eat the last lot?”

“Almost. Hang on, I'll get your basket.”

I step back into the cabin and place a jar of rhubarb on the counter before carrying the empty basket outside. Bella is already taste-testing sorrel from Merriem's new offering. She looks slightly guilty and I'm glad. I'm surprised she stayed the night; I expected her to run away. As she always does.

“Thank you,” I say to Merriem, passing her the empty basket.

“My pleasure, honey, truly. It's nice to share them with another human or two. Huia doesn't love rhubarb and I think Jack's sick of it.”

“Oh, no, he told me he likes it,” I reply.

Bella lifts her eyes back up to me.

Merriem sighs. “Bless him. He's kind to me.”

“Your . . .” Bella asks Merriem, insinuation lifting her voice.

“Oh, no!” Merriem laughs. “He's got to be almost twenty years younger than me. More your girls' age and type, I'd say.”

“Oh?” Bella says.

“He has a daughter,” I say tersely, hating Bella for being such a flirt. I never had it in me; she seems to have been born with a double dose.
Don't think I didn't see you
.

Now they're both staring at me. Merriem changes the subject.

“He said he had to give you a vacation notice?”

I nod and shrug.

“Barbara Gardner,” Merriem says, shaking her head.

Bella frowns. “What does she—”

“She doesn't even like it here,” Merriem continues.

The Gardners' cabin isn't in a trendy, luxurious location like Orcas Island or Lake Wenatchee or Lake Washington. Every year Mrs. Gardner rented a beautiful house on one of the San Juan Islands, right by the ocean, and took pictures of her beautiful sons standing shoulder to shoulder by the water, arms crossed, hair thick, teeth as white as a photograph in a Ralph Lauren catalogue.

“You know her?” I ask Merriem, who nods.

“Not well. But I've lived here long enough to have bumped into her a few times. I've been around when she's been giving Jack his orders. He does a good job for her, above 'n' beyond what she pays him—or what she deserves—mainly because he cares so much about this place. Not that she'd notice—” She cuts herself off. “I'm speakin' out of school.”

“The Gardners want you to leave?” Bella asks me.

I ignore her.

“You girls should come to my place for dinner one night,” Merriem says, changing the subject again. “In fact, I've got another new friend popping over tonight. Why don't you come too? I can ask Jack and Huia as well. Lord knows I have too much harvest for just me.”

“Oh, no—” I begin.

“That would be great,” Bella says, beaming.

Merriem smiles back. “Good.”

I try again. “No. Thank you, but—”

“Can we bring anything?” Bella asks.

“No, Bella—”

“Ah. No, I don't think so,” Merriem says, musing.

“Wine?” Bella asks.

“Okay, wine. Perfect.” Merriem looks pleased.

“Wait, no, Bella isn't staying,” I say, but they're still looking at each other.

“Do you think I could be so rude as to ask . . .?” Bella licks her lips. “Our father, Joe, he'll be home by himself . . .”

“Bella!” I hiss.

“Of course!” Merriem says. “The more the merrier.”

“Merrier Merriem,” Bella replies with a smile.

“That's what they say.”

Then they're both laughing and I feel as though I could be a mile away.

“Bella, no,” I whisper urgently.

“It's okay, Frankie.” Merriem pats my arm. “I love to host. And I need to get rid of some of my vegetables. It's a great solution. Truly, no trouble. Quite the opposite. Being busy keeps me out of mischief.” She picks up her basket. “I'll see you tonight around seven. Does that suit?” She's looking at me.

“Thank you,” I stutter.

“Thank you, Merriem,” Bella says smoothly.

I can hardly bear to look at her. Ruffled, cinnamon-tipped curls, wide smile, sparkling nose stud, a picture of perfect trustworthiness. Almost elegant. Charming. She is a snake. I turn away from her.
“The aunties are coming,” she calls to my back.

“What?”

“The aunties are coming. I thought you should know.” She sounds a little apologetic. “And . . . I'm not leaving, Frankie.”

“Perfect,” I mutter. “That's just perfect.”

*  *  *

I clean the cabin angrily. Soak cutlery in boiled water; take a hot, wet cloth to all the surfaces, even the inside of the closet. The omnipresent dust is thick and gray and furry. I tuck the coloring book and crayons into a drawer, and hang the red-and-white quilt over the back of the chair to air. Then I eat rhubarb and yogurt and a hunk of bread, make myself a coffee and drink it standing near the window, watching Bella doing yoga.

She bends and stretches like a cat, long and fluid, as if her limbs are simply strung together. Her skin is as golden as it was when we were kids, spending our days outside, and she's lost her teenage softness. Her face is sharper, her arms leaner. She moves languidly, as though nothing has happened, as if she's always been here, as though no one was just about to be married, as though no one has died.

I want to shout something cruel: “You look ridiculous!” Or reel off the colorful mean things Sicilians would say.

But I don't. I don't want her to see me watching her. I don't want her to try to talk to me.

She rolls up her yoga mat and tosses it into the back of her car. Then shakes out her legs and walks into the forest as if she owns the place. As if she's in an activewear commercial.

I stare into the trees long after she's gone from sight, sending wordless curses after her.

A typical Sicilian dish to serve family for lunch or dinner

Serves 4

1 teaspoon fennel seeds

4 garlic cloves

1 handful flat-leaf parsley

12 ounces ground pork (or 6 ounces ground pork and 6 ounces ground veal)

¹
/
₄
pound pecorino cheese, grated
¹
/
₂
cup fine dried breadcrumbs

1 onion, finely chopped

Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

2 eggs, beaten

All-purpose flour

2
¹
/
₂
tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

1 can (14 ounces) diced tomatoes

A pinch of dried oregano

In a small bowl, soak fennel seeds in a little water (about 2 teaspoons). Finely chop 2 of the garlic cloves and set aside. Take the 2 remaining garlic cloves and the parsley and chop together so both are finely chopped and the flavors are combined.

In a large bowl, combine the ground pork with the parsley-garlic mixture, pecorino, breadcrumbs, half the onion, and the soaked fennel seeds. Season with salt and pepper, then mix in the beaten eggs.

Spread some flour on a plate. Using your hands, form the meat mixture into balls (about the size of a golf ball). Flatten them slightly, dust with flour, and shake off the excess.

To make the sauce, heat 1 tablespoon of the olive oil in a
heavy-bottom saucepan. Add the chopped garlic and remaining chopped onion and cook gently until softened but not colored. Add the tomatoes and oregano and season with salt and pepper. Cover and cook over high heat until the tomatoes have reduced to a sauce, about 10 minutes.