Summer People by Elin Hilderbrand Page B

and unyielding in her arms. This was what it felt like to hold an angry teenager.
    “Okay,” she said. “Sweet dreams.”

    Winnie woke up in the middle of the night, hungrier than she’d ever been in her life. A voice in her head screamed out for food. She waited until her eyes adjusted to the dark and then she padded downstairs to the kitchen. Her mother, of course, had cleaned everything up. (Winnie’s father used to say, “Mom can’t sleep at night if there’s an unwashed dish in the house.”) All of the leftovers were in the fridge, covered with plastic wrap. Sliced steak, two baked potatoes, some sour cream. Winnie fixed herself a plate, poured a glass of milk and sat down at the kitchen table. The trick was to keep from thinking about her father. Thinking about her father made eating impossible. Even thinking that one stupid thing: her father lingering in the kitchen after a dinner party while Beth cleaned up. Wearing his blue pajamas and his tortoiseshell glasses because he would have taken out his contacts, the top of his head grazing the copper pots that hung from the ceiling. Drinking ice water from the Yankees mug he’d gotten as a kid that he kept by his bed every night. Saying, “Mom can’t sleep at night if there’s an unwashed dish in the house.” That was Winnie’s father in one of his simple, human moments, a moment she never would have given a second thought, except now he was dead and every memory seemed unspeakably precious. It made Winnie upset enough that she stared at her plate of food. Yes, it looked delicious, yes, she was hungry, but no, she couldn’t eat.
    Then she heard a whisper. “A-ha! Caught you.”
    It was Marcus. Wearing boxer shorts and a gray Benjamin N. Cardozo swim team T-shirt. Holding an envelope in one hand and his CD player in the other. He opened the fridge and brought out the platter of leftover steak. Popped open a Coke, found utensils, and sat next to her. Winnie felt so happy that she managed to poke open the top of her potato and stuff it full of sour cream. It wasn’t eating, exactly, but it was close.
    Marcus started in on the steak, eating right off the platter. He noticed her staring at him. “I didn’t get myself another plate because I plan to finish all this.”
    “You eat a lot,” she said.
    “I’m hungry a lot.”
    “Me, too,” she said.
    “You don’t eat in front of other people?” he said. “Is that it? Because if I’m keeping you from eating, I’ll go into the other room. You need to eat, Winnie.”
    “I have a problem,” she said. She wished she’d just been able to say those words that afternoon at the beach instead of getting angry at him. Sustaining anger at Marcus was not something that made her happy. She loved Marcus! “I have an eating problem.” She expected him to say,
Yeah, no shit,
but he didn’t. He just chewed his steak, waiting for her to say more.
    “What’s that envelope?” she asked.
    “A letter from my mother.”
    “Really?”
    “Yep.”
    She paused, hoping he would offer more information. He downed half the Coke, then he belched.
    “Excuse me.”
    Winnie stared at her cold, cream-filled potato. She reached for the salt and pepper. “What does it say?”
    “I have no idea,” Marcus said.
    “You haven’t read it?” Winnie asked.
    “Nope.”
    “How come?”
    Marcus chewed his steak and drank some more Coke. Winnie trembled internally. She wanted to have a real conversation with Marcus. If they couldn’t talk here, in the dark kitchen in the middle of the night, intimacy would be hopeless.
    Finally Marcus said, “I don’t read my mother’s letters.”
    “Why not?” Winnie asked.
    “Because I don’t want to,” Marcus said.
    “But you brought it down here with you,” Winnie said.
    “To throw it away.” He pointed the tines of his fork at her. “Are you going to eat or what?”
    Winnie picked up her knife and fork, cut a piece of steak and deposited it into her mouth. Chewed.