blueberry pancakes, perhaps, Sally was inordinately fond of blueberry pancakes. Bizarrely enough, she also liked bacon.
There were lots of cats and dogs by then. The cats were nearly feral, and came close to the house only at dinner-time. They formed a semicircle not far from the door and waited, and Michael put out food for them and then sat in a lawn chair, smoking a cigarette and watching them.
The dogs were another matter: they loved all hu-mankind, all the time, and they lived all over the house.
R a i n
83
Michael favored cocker spaniels, and it seemed that one of them was always having puppies. The one he named Señorita Rosalita Carmelita had delivered seven fawn-colored puppies—all boys—on the day before we visited, and Michael let my then five-year-old son hold one of them. Will was overwhelmed with the pleasure and the re-sponsibility: he sat still as a statue, afraid to move, afraid even to breathe. When my husband asked him to smile for a photo, the most he could offer was a twitch of one side of his mouth. Rosa watched my son anxiously but did not move from nursing the rest of her brood. When the puppy was returned to her, she eagerly sniffed him everywhere she could reach, and then Michael turned the puppy on his back so that Rosa could leave no spot unexamined. “Everything appear to be in order?” he asked. Rosa looked up at him and wagged her tail, and Michael put his hands on either side of her head and kissed her full on her mouth.
“Eww,” Will said, but he had the courtesy to whisper, and I think, too, that there was some respect and understanding mixed in with his squeamish commentary. It occurred to me to make some flip remark about Michael being lonely up here, just as I had years ago, but it seemed as though it wouldn’t be funny anymore.
I remember we went into the house afterward, and I made spaghetti sauce from the riches of Michael’s garden: onion and garlic that were sautéed in olive oil, basil and oregano and tomatoes still warm from the sun. I added a little honey and a little red wine and we let the sauce cook down, and then we ate outside, watching the sky redden, then purple, then go black and starry. Maybe it was the wood-burning stove, but I have never tasted better mari-nara. We had salad, too, butter lettuce also from the garden dressed simply with lemon juice and olive oil and salt.
84
t h e d a y i a t e w h a t e v e r i w a n t e d Michael had Hershey bars from his last trip to town, and we ate those for dessert.
After that we moved back inside the house, and I lay Will down on Michael’s bed, where he always liked to fall asleep. I did the dishes while the men sat in the living room and talked. At one point, Michael came into the kitchen, moved close behind me, and put his arms around me. “You and Rosa,” he said quietly, and there was less irony than admiration in his voice. He put the flat of one hand to my belly, and I laid my hand over his, pressing down, so that he could feel the baby move. “Ah,” he said and kissed the back of my neck, then moved to the refrigerator for beer. “Heineken?” he yelled, and Dennis yelled back, “Great.”
When I finished the dishes, I came into the living room and waited for the evening’s entertainment: Michael had finally broken down and gotten a phone and had left a message on a more forward-thinking friend’s message machine to call him when she got home so that he could hear it ring. We waited, idly chatting, until it did ring, and then we all stared in wonder at the thing—we had slipped into Michael mode, as people often did when they visited there.
You walked onto his land, and within a few minutes, the rest of the world fell away. So when Michael’s new phone rang, it was as though a Martian had landed, and I suppose in some respects it had—Michael had by then gone a very long time without a phone—for years he’d had to walk half a mile down the road to his neighbor’s if he needed to
There were lots of cats and dogs by then. The cats were nearly feral, and came close to the house only at dinner-time. They formed a semicircle not far from the door and waited, and Michael put out food for them and then sat in a lawn chair, smoking a cigarette and watching them.
The dogs were another matter: they loved all hu-mankind, all the time, and they lived all over the house.
R a i n
83
Michael favored cocker spaniels, and it seemed that one of them was always having puppies. The one he named Señorita Rosalita Carmelita had delivered seven fawn-colored puppies—all boys—on the day before we visited, and Michael let my then five-year-old son hold one of them. Will was overwhelmed with the pleasure and the re-sponsibility: he sat still as a statue, afraid to move, afraid even to breathe. When my husband asked him to smile for a photo, the most he could offer was a twitch of one side of his mouth. Rosa watched my son anxiously but did not move from nursing the rest of her brood. When the puppy was returned to her, she eagerly sniffed him everywhere she could reach, and then Michael turned the puppy on his back so that Rosa could leave no spot unexamined. “Everything appear to be in order?” he asked. Rosa looked up at him and wagged her tail, and Michael put his hands on either side of her head and kissed her full on her mouth.
“Eww,” Will said, but he had the courtesy to whisper, and I think, too, that there was some respect and understanding mixed in with his squeamish commentary. It occurred to me to make some flip remark about Michael being lonely up here, just as I had years ago, but it seemed as though it wouldn’t be funny anymore.
I remember we went into the house afterward, and I made spaghetti sauce from the riches of Michael’s garden: onion and garlic that were sautéed in olive oil, basil and oregano and tomatoes still warm from the sun. I added a little honey and a little red wine and we let the sauce cook down, and then we ate outside, watching the sky redden, then purple, then go black and starry. Maybe it was the wood-burning stove, but I have never tasted better mari-nara. We had salad, too, butter lettuce also from the garden dressed simply with lemon juice and olive oil and salt.
84
t h e d a y i a t e w h a t e v e r i w a n t e d Michael had Hershey bars from his last trip to town, and we ate those for dessert.
After that we moved back inside the house, and I lay Will down on Michael’s bed, where he always liked to fall asleep. I did the dishes while the men sat in the living room and talked. At one point, Michael came into the kitchen, moved close behind me, and put his arms around me. “You and Rosa,” he said quietly, and there was less irony than admiration in his voice. He put the flat of one hand to my belly, and I laid my hand over his, pressing down, so that he could feel the baby move. “Ah,” he said and kissed the back of my neck, then moved to the refrigerator for beer. “Heineken?” he yelled, and Dennis yelled back, “Great.”
When I finished the dishes, I came into the living room and waited for the evening’s entertainment: Michael had finally broken down and gotten a phone and had left a message on a more forward-thinking friend’s message machine to call him when she got home so that he could hear it ring. We waited, idly chatting, until it did ring, and then we all stared in wonder at the thing—we had slipped into Michael mode, as people often did when they visited there.
You walked onto his land, and within a few minutes, the rest of the world fell away. So when Michael’s new phone rang, it was as though a Martian had landed, and I suppose in some respects it had—Michael had by then gone a very long time without a phone—for years he’d had to walk half a mile down the road to his neighbor’s if he needed to
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