Season of Salt and Honey (6 page)

Like hunger, the grief takes up my entire mind and fills my stomach and my heart with . . . nothing. I am drowning in nothing. In emptiness. In loneliness. I scramble through the deep forest darkness to find the tied plastic bag, and search out the edge of one of Aunty Rosa's precious, pastel Tupperware containers. I crack open the lid and feel the sugar-dusted tubes of cannoli with the tips of my fingers. I lift one to my mouth, press my teeth down through the crisp crust to the soft sweet ricotta sprinkled with chopped pistachio nuts. The cannoli tastes like home. But it doesn't make it all better.

“I loved him,” I want to say. “And he loved me. He did. I know it.”

I just want it to be how it was. Simple. Simple and unbroken.

*  *  *

After a trip to the outhouse, I stand in front of the sink and run a wet cloth over my body. I long for a bath, though it's not cold.

I daydreamed about the big claw-footed bath we would get when we had our own house. Four bedrooms—enough for us,
two kids, and a study. A bathtub I could sink into. Deep enough and long enough to hold both of us. Alex loved being in any kind of water. He was a fish, his mother told me once, uncharacteristically wistful after three gin and tonics.

After prom, Alex and I had a bath together.

I told Papa I was staying at Angela's, and Alex told his mom that his mate Bobby was having a bunch of guys over. His story was at least partly true. We pooled our money and booked a motel. We'd talked about it for months. I barely remember the prom because I was already thinking about the motel and staying with Alex for the whole night without having to say good-bye. I knew we would make love that night. We'd talked about that too. A girl in my class, Janet Longhurst, told me she'd lost her virginity at a house party to a college boy. Who wants to lose their virginity like that? To some college boy you'll never see again. I didn't want that. I wanted it to be with Alex, for it to be sweet and honest and real. I wanted it to be with Alex for the rest of my life. Every minute of that long prom, I thought about waking up in his arms. And when he looked at me like he could see through my prom dress it sent electric waves up and down my spine.

We left the prom hand in hand, ignoring the teasing from his friends. Someone had tied cans to the back of his dad's car, like we were a bride and groom. I got out a mile down the road, in my long blue dress and heels, and untied them. Cars drove by honking, with guys hanging out the windows, whistling and carrying on. Alex raised his middle finger out the driver's window, but he was grinning; we both were.

When we checked in to the motel he put on a deep voice for
the receptionist. I was clinging on to his hand so tight I thought I might scream.

Alex unlocked the door to the room and let me go in first. The floor was carpeted in plush navy, and the bed was covered in a worn, floral bedspread that made Alex laugh out loud. “Grandma did the decor.”

I pulled the blinds down and rushed into his arms, desperate for his lips on mine. We kissed until my face hurt.

On that navy carpet, my dress twisted up around my hips, Alex sat back off of me, a little breathless. “Wait.”

“Wait?”

“I got something.” He reached over to the backpack he'd brought in from the car, unzipped the front pocket. Tea-light candles tumbled out. He retrieved a couple of handfuls more, then dug around until he found a black lighter. He flicked it on and raised his eyebrows at me. “Come with me.”

I pulled my dress down, stood, and followed him into the bathroom. The light was one of those long fluorescent bulbs. There was a bathtub with a showerhead over it, and a small sink with a mirror. I noticed my lipstick was smeared around my mouth, and the pimple on my forehead that I'd smothered with concealer was poking through in a raised bump. I wiped the lipstick off with the back of my hand before Alex snapped off the light. He lit the candles one by one, arranging them around the tub. I bundled up the shower curtain—floral again, with gray mold stains at the bottom—and slung it over the curtain rail before turning on the bath taps.

The candle flames flickered over the water filling the tub, and
I no longer noticed the worn linoleum or the chipped tiles. It was just Alex and me, the running water and dozens of little lights, dancing on their wicks.

I turned off the taps while Alex lit the last candle and placed it on the edge of the sink. We were surrounded. Then he came over to me, so close I could feel his breath against my cheek.

“Hey, baby.”

“Hey.” My voice came out deep and soft.

He put his finger underneath the strap of my dress and tugged it off my shoulder. He kissed down my neck. Then my other strap. He turned me around and kissed down the back of my neck. It was like a feather being skimmed over my skin. Incredible. Teasing. It felt like the room was spinning.

I heard the
zzzzhhhhh
of the zip and felt the dress go slack. I breathed out as it fell. His hands moved to my chest where the dress had been holding in my breasts. His palms against me, against my nipples, making me moan. He pulled me back against him and I could feel him through the fabric of his rented suit pants. I reached around and fumbled with his belt. He moved my hands aside to do it himself and I heard the pants fall to the floor on top of my dress. I turned around and cupped his face in my hands before pulling him to me and kissing him hard.

My Alex
.

He was standing in shirt, tie, socks, and underwear. I yanked at his tie and he unbuttoned his shirt like the thing was on fire. My breasts brushed against his chest and he groaned through our kiss. He pulled at the side of my underpants, then crouched
down to drag them down my legs. I stepped out of them as he pressed his face against me. I'd never felt anything like it before. My whole body seemed to crumple in on itself, and then I was on top of him and he was underneath me on that linoleum floor and we didn't care.

His underwear got caught on him. He sat up and maneuvered them off, then patted around on the floor till he found a small packet. I watched as he put the condom on, his hands shaking, but he was quick, as if he'd practiced.

We both paused, as if the floor was going to fall through. This moment we'd been thinking about for so long. Planning. The room came back into focus; tea-lights, like a thousand stars, white flames flickering around us. Alex, in the shadow of the bathtub, his face pink and his eyes wide.

He inched inside me, slowly, slowly. It hurt, but not as much as Janet Longhurst had said it would, and then it felt good. It felt good that Alex was groaning and saying, “I love you. Oh, God, I love you. Oh, God.”

I blinked fast in the darkness, noticing every sensation. My knees against the linoleum, the cool air grazing my nipples, Alex's fingertips pressed into my buttocks.

He grasped hold of my hips and moved me back and forth until I got the hang of it, and he was pressing himself up and into me. Faster and faster.

“Oh, Frankie . . .”

His whole body went rigid, his breath caught in his throat. Tea-lights twitched. Then I felt him shudder beneath me and his head tipped back. His body seemed to slump.

I lay down on him, all of my skin against all of his, and he kissed my forehead.

“Was it okay?” I whispered.

“Yes. God, yes.” Another kiss. He was holding me to him, his arms looped across my bare back. “Are you . . . all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I'm good.”

I kissed him and felt a smile on my face. It felt like he was still inside me; I could feel him in the muscle, in the tissue. I ached, but it wasn't bad.

Alex sat up a bit, took off the condom as I glanced away. I crawled off of him and he stood to check the bathwater. My knees were pink. He pulled the plug to let out some water, and then got in, carefully holding my hand. He bent his legs so we could both fit, and we sat, one at each end, smiling at each other.

“We did it, Frankie.”

I stared at him, smiling, and then at the water and the lights swimming on its surface. I begged my brain to remember it all and never, ever forget.

The word
affogato
means “drowned” in Italian because the ice cream is drenched in espresso.

Serves 4

Good-quality vanilla ice cream

4 shots (about
³
/
₄
cup) hot, strong espresso

OPTIONAL EXTRAS:

Good-quality dark chocolate (broken into pieces then stirred into the hot espresso so it melts)

Frangelico (a nip added to each serving)

Whipped cream (a tablespoon on top of each serving)

Amaretti cookies (1 cookie crumbled on top of each serving)

Scoop a generous serving of ice cream into small bowls or glasses. Pour a shot (about 3 tablespoons) espresso over each. Add the extras of your choice.

• • • •

P
apa is outside, waiting in one of the chairs, when I get up in the morning. He's a small man, bald, with sagging cheeks and round glasses. He lifts his hand in a wave when I walk out to greet him. His fingertips are stained black from his work as a mechanic.

“
Principessa
,” he says.

“Hey, Papa. Daniel told you I was here?”

He nods. I sit beside him and he smiles at me.

I had been living with Papa for two weeks before the funeral. He insisted on sleeping on the couch, waking before I did every morning and making me coffee. As the days slid by and fell over one another like skittles, Papa stopped just short of dressing me and propping me up on the couch before he left for work.

Papa works for his brother Mario, and even if Zio Mario had insisted he take time off to be with me, which, let's be honest, is unlikely, Papa wouldn't have. He takes his work seriously. I've never figured out if it's an immigrant work ethic or just the way he's made. Perhaps both.

He reaches out for my hand now, and frowns. “I can't stay too long,
duci
.”

“It's okay, Papa. I know.”

I give his hand a squeeze. I'm willing to endure a little loneliness for the solitude and peace, for the distance from the empty shirts hanging in the closet.

Papa glances around, up into the trees, at the sunlight falling like confetti through the tiny gaps. He looks out of place here, with his leather shoes and pressed, short-sleeved shirt. We never went camping as children.

“Have you enough food?” he asks.

I nod. I don't mention Bella.

“I didn't want to think of you hungry. You are eating, aren't you?”

I nod, and watch his chest fall with relief. Grieve, wallow, sleep till noon, tear your hair out by the roots if you have to, but
mio Dio
, don't stop eating.

“Good . . . good,” he murmurs, and glances at the forest again, the cabin.

I know he will report back to the aunties. He will tell them I'm fine, that I'm taking a little break and will be home soon. That the cabin is very nice and trim and well cared for. He may even tell them it's more modern than he imagined, and won't check inside in case this is a lie. He doesn't lie well to his sisters. He looks towards the outhouse and away quickly. He won't tell them about that. He'll tell them about the food, tell them I'm eating. I'm glad I'm not still wearing my black dress and the boots I found in the closet.

“Bella came,” he says, a little like a question, more of a statement.

I shrug, thinking of her on the step. Cropped hair, long skirt, skin the color of espresso
crema
.

“Do you want coffee?” I offer, remembering my pot and grinds, wanting to change the subject.

Papa frowns but indulges me. “No, I should go soon. I just wanted to see you for myself. Bring you some things. Mario will be expecting me. I shouldn't be late.”

Papa is never late. Like me. Not like Bella.

“I will come back again soon, to see you are okay.”

“Thanks, Papa.”

He stands from his chair. “It's a nice little cabin,” he says, gesturing to it.

“It was Alex's great-grandfather's.”

Papa cocks his head. “Do the Gardners, Barbara and Marshall, know you are here?”

“Daniel does. They're not using it.”

Papa's question makes my stomach jump a little. I can't go back to the apartment yet.

“No,” he says, reassuring, giving me a smile. “You just have a little rest, Francesca, and come home when you are ready. Vincenzo has his birthday in a couple of weeks. You remember?”

“Of course,” I say, though I'd forgotten. I can't plan beyond each day, sometimes each hour. That my cousin is turning twenty-two is of no interest to me. He is closer in age and personality to Bella. Alex never thought very highly of him.

Papa's face registers relief at my lie. It has been hard enough
having one daughter who doesn't come to family functions, let alone two. That makes me think of Bella. I spent years making up for her absence. She's home now; she can go to Cousin Vinnie's birthday party. She can make a dish the size of a side table—meatballs and
sarsa semplice
, or something sweet like ricotta cheesecake with chocolate and cream and glacé cherries—and kiss cheeks and fill the family in on her life.

“Your sister is staying a little while,” Papa says.

“Uh-huh?” I try to sound casual, though it comes out waspish. “How long?”

“I don't know,
cara mia
.” He presses his lips together, pauses. “I think she would really like to talk to you.”

“Uh-huh,” I say again, looking at the ground. “Will you tell Aunty Rosa thank you for the cannoli?”

“Francesca?”

“It was very kind of her and—”

“Francesca, will you talk to her?”

I fold my arms across my chest.

“You should give her a chance.”