Tommy’s putting the frozen rolls in the oven. He’s sparking the flame of a burner using a match, saying, “Good thing it’s gas,” and Mabel is nodding yes and I am, too.
But I’m not hungry.
“I’m still feeling really cold for some reason,” I say. “I’m just going to sit by the fire if that’s okay.”
“Be my guest. As soon as these rolls are done I’m going to head to the back and you guys can make yourselves comfortable. I’ve got some presents to wrap and I was just waiting for an excuse to go to bed early. Power outage’ll do it.”
So I drift to an armchair and I look at the fire. And I think of all of these things from what used to be my home.
The blanket.
The copper pots, passed down from Gramps’s mother.
The round kitchen table and the rectangular dining table.
The chairs with their threadbare cushions and wicker backs.
My grandmother’s china, covered in tiny red flowers.
The mismatched mugs, the delicate teacups, the tiny spoons.
The wooden clock with its loud tick-tick-tick and the oil painting of the village Gramps was from.
The hand-tinted photographs in the hallway, the needlepoint pillows on the sofa, the ever-changing grocery list stuck to the refrigerator under a magnet in the shape of a Boston terrier.
The blanket, again, blue and gold and soft.
And now Tommy is saying good night and walking down the hallway, and Mabel is in the living room with me, setting small bowls of pasta onto the coffee table and lowering herself to the floor.
I eat without tasting anything. I eat even though I don’t know if I’m hungry.
Chapter ten
JUNE
IT WAS A COUPLE WEEKS after the night at Ben’s and the Colombian driver, and Mabel and I decided to sneak out on our own. Ana and Javier always stayed up late, sometimes into the early morning, so I fell asleep a little after ten knowing that my phone would buzz hours later to announce her arrival and I’d slip out then.
Gramps cooked dinner at six o’clock most nights. We usually ate in the kitchen unless he made something fancy, in which case he’d tell me to set the dining room table, and we’d eat with shiny brass candlesticks between us. After dinner he washed and I dried until the kitchen was as clean as it could be given its age and constant use, and then Gramps drifted off to his back rooms to smoke cigarettes and write letters and read.
My phone buzzed and I left quietly, not knowing whether I was breaking a rule. It’s possible that Gramps would have been fine with Mabel and me going to the beach at night to sit and watch the waves and talk. I could have asked him, but we didn’t work that way.
Mabel was on the sidewalk, her dark hair spilling from under a knit cap, her hands in fingerless gloves clasped together. I had a parka zipped over my sweater.
“You look like an Eskimo,” she said. “How am I going to offer to help keep you warm?”
We laughed.
“I can ditch it if you want, baby,” I joked.
“Why don’t you run upstairs, get rid of that jacket, and come back with some of Gramps’s whiskey.”
“Actually, the whiskey’s not a bad idea.”
I let myself back in and crossed the living room, slipped through the open pocket doors to the dining room, and grabbed the bottle of whiskey that lived on the built-in hutch.
Then I was back on the street, stuffing the bottle under my jacket. Two girls walking to the beach at night was one thing. Add an open and visible bottle, and we’d be inviting the cops to stop us.
It was almost three in the morning and the city was still. Not a single car passed us all four blocks to the beach. We didn’t have to bother with crosswalks. We stepped straight from the street to the sand, scaled a dune, and then found ourselves near the edge of the black water. I was waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dark, but it wasn’t happening, so eventually I had to give in to it.
“Remember how we used to practice kissing?” I asked, pulling the top off the whiskey.
“We were determined to be experts by the time we were sophomores.”
“Experts,” I said, laughing. I took a sip, and the burn of it surprised me. We were used to pilfered beers or vodka mixed with whatever juice was in our friends’ pantries. “Here, drink at your own peril,” I rasped.
Mabel took a sip, coughed.
“We were so giggly and nervous,” I said, remembering us as freshmen. “We had no idea what it meant to be in high school. What we were supposed to act like, what we were supposed to talk about . . .”
“It was so much fun.”
“What was?”
“All of it. Let me have another try with that.” Her hand felt around in the dark for the bottle, and then she found it and I let go. She tipped her face toward the hazy moon. Handed the bottle back. I took a swig.
“Better this time,” she said, and she was right. And with each subsequent sip it got easier to swallow, and soon my body felt heavy and my head swam, and everything Mabel said made me laugh and every memory I had was meaningful.
We were quiet then, for a little while, until she sat up.
“It’s been a long time since we practiced,” she said, crawling toward me until our noses touched. A laugh started in my throat, but then she put her mouth on mine.
Wet lips.
Soft tongue.
Her legs wrapped around my waist and we kissed harder. Soon we were lying in the sand, her salt-thick, tangled hair through my fingers.
She unzipped my parka. Her cold hands found their way under my sweater as she kissed my neck.