affection. She envies her grace, the breeziness of her. She smells like cinnamon. “I’m so glad you came! And you must be Sam,” Effie says, reaching out her hand.
“Nice to meet you,” Sam says.
“I’m a big, big fan.”
Sam looks at her, momentarily bewildered.
“I’ve read The Hour of Lead about fifty times. English major, ” she says, by way of explanation.
Effie gestures to the camp. “Devin’s cooking dinner. I’m pretty useless in the kitchen.” She smiles and lifts up Zu-Zu, who is tugging at her skirt. “Have a seat. I’ll open the wine,” she says, and disappears inside with Zu-Zu on her hip.
Later, inside, as the manicotti cooks, Devin shows them his work, the assemblages displayed on shelves, which cover an entire wall.The boxes, most not much bigger than a shoe box, are handmade, wooden, and inside each one is a different miniature world made of things like sand, glass, butterfly wings and colored paper. Mena looks at Devin’s big hands and wonders how they could possibly do such delicate work.
“These are beautiful,” she says, peering into one box; suspended, magically, in thin air is one black curl, tied with a tiny yellow ribbon.The tiny engraved silver plaque on the box says, ZU-ZU’S FIRST HAIRCUT. Another one, labeled NOVEMBER 28, has a tiny blue robin’s egg with the smallest crack.
“The day Zu-Zu was born,” Devin says.
She tries to imagine what she would put inside a box like this. What the plaque would say.What objects could make the museum of her family’s life.
They eat outside at a picnic table. Mena keeps accepting the wine they offer her, feeling the warm happiness of forgetting. Of losing herself in the flush and buzz. After Devin clears the plates away, they sit in chairs facing the water and drink more wine.
Sam is playing peekaboo with Zu-Zu. Mena watches his face light up each time she squeals. Zu-Zu comes over to him, pulls his nose and runs away, laughing with one of those full belly laughs that makes Mena weak in the knees. Devin and Effie sit together on the grass; she fits snuggly into his lap, like a Russian nesting doll. Mena watches him kiss the top of her head. It makes her ache.
“We’d really, really love to have you come to one of the book club meetings at the library,” Effie says. “I know it’s pretty small-time compared to what you’re probably used to.”
“Why not?” Sam says. His spirits seem high tonight, Mena thinks. “Just let me know when.”
Effie claps her hands together. “That’s great! Thank you so much. There might even be a small stipend. It would probably be small enough to be insulting actually, but I can at least promise you some lively conversation.”
“Sounds like fun,” Sam says.
“Are you working on anything new?” she asks.
Sam nods.
“I’m sorry. I’m so nosy.”
“It’s okay,” he says. “I’m only beginning, really. It’s just a bunch of images in my head right now. Just ideas.”
They eat as the sun goes down. They drink. Mena drinks and drinks. When it is time to go, she stands up and feels wobbly with the wine. Thick and buzzing.
“Next time, you guys come to our place. Mena is an amazing cook,” Sam says. “Do you like Greek food? Maybe pastitsio .”
And then Sam is steering her toward the road, waving good-bye to Zu-Zu. Mena looks at them, this family, at all that promise. They stand together, a portrait that reminds her of everything she’s lost.
She’s had too much to drink. She is trying not to cry until after they are out of sight of the house. She is aware of everything: the pebbles under her feet, the indigo sky streaked with clouds. She is aware of Sam’s palm pressing on her lower back, holding her up. They walk in silence all the way back to the cottage. She will not cry. She will not fall apart. Luckily, Sam doesn’t let go. He must know that if he does, she might simply not be able to stand up on her own.
She remembers this feeling, this falling feeling.
“Nice to meet you,” Sam says.
“I’m a big, big fan.”
Sam looks at her, momentarily bewildered.
“I’ve read The Hour of Lead about fifty times. English major, ” she says, by way of explanation.
Effie gestures to the camp. “Devin’s cooking dinner. I’m pretty useless in the kitchen.” She smiles and lifts up Zu-Zu, who is tugging at her skirt. “Have a seat. I’ll open the wine,” she says, and disappears inside with Zu-Zu on her hip.
Later, inside, as the manicotti cooks, Devin shows them his work, the assemblages displayed on shelves, which cover an entire wall.The boxes, most not much bigger than a shoe box, are handmade, wooden, and inside each one is a different miniature world made of things like sand, glass, butterfly wings and colored paper. Mena looks at Devin’s big hands and wonders how they could possibly do such delicate work.
“These are beautiful,” she says, peering into one box; suspended, magically, in thin air is one black curl, tied with a tiny yellow ribbon.The tiny engraved silver plaque on the box says, ZU-ZU’S FIRST HAIRCUT. Another one, labeled NOVEMBER 28, has a tiny blue robin’s egg with the smallest crack.
“The day Zu-Zu was born,” Devin says.
She tries to imagine what she would put inside a box like this. What the plaque would say.What objects could make the museum of her family’s life.
They eat outside at a picnic table. Mena keeps accepting the wine they offer her, feeling the warm happiness of forgetting. Of losing herself in the flush and buzz. After Devin clears the plates away, they sit in chairs facing the water and drink more wine.
Sam is playing peekaboo with Zu-Zu. Mena watches his face light up each time she squeals. Zu-Zu comes over to him, pulls his nose and runs away, laughing with one of those full belly laughs that makes Mena weak in the knees. Devin and Effie sit together on the grass; she fits snuggly into his lap, like a Russian nesting doll. Mena watches him kiss the top of her head. It makes her ache.
“We’d really, really love to have you come to one of the book club meetings at the library,” Effie says. “I know it’s pretty small-time compared to what you’re probably used to.”
“Why not?” Sam says. His spirits seem high tonight, Mena thinks. “Just let me know when.”
Effie claps her hands together. “That’s great! Thank you so much. There might even be a small stipend. It would probably be small enough to be insulting actually, but I can at least promise you some lively conversation.”
“Sounds like fun,” Sam says.
“Are you working on anything new?” she asks.
Sam nods.
“I’m sorry. I’m so nosy.”
“It’s okay,” he says. “I’m only beginning, really. It’s just a bunch of images in my head right now. Just ideas.”
They eat as the sun goes down. They drink. Mena drinks and drinks. When it is time to go, she stands up and feels wobbly with the wine. Thick and buzzing.
“Next time, you guys come to our place. Mena is an amazing cook,” Sam says. “Do you like Greek food? Maybe pastitsio .”
And then Sam is steering her toward the road, waving good-bye to Zu-Zu. Mena looks at them, this family, at all that promise. They stand together, a portrait that reminds her of everything she’s lost.
She’s had too much to drink. She is trying not to cry until after they are out of sight of the house. She is aware of everything: the pebbles under her feet, the indigo sky streaked with clouds. She is aware of Sam’s palm pressing on her lower back, holding her up. They walk in silence all the way back to the cottage. She will not cry. She will not fall apart. Luckily, Sam doesn’t let go. He must know that if he does, she might simply not be able to stand up on her own.
She remembers this feeling, this falling feeling.
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