The Hungry Season (5 page)
Authors: T. Greenwood
T
here must be a word for this,
Sam thinks. For the sound of Mena downstairs when she thinks that no one else is awake. For the quiet careful sounds of her feet moving across the floor. There must be a word for a woman awake and moving in the glow of dawn. Once, a long time ago, he had called it
Tara.
Once, when he was young and his father was newly dead, he had decided that writing was the best way to deal with the overwhelming pain and panic and pathos. The words are what saved him. They helped him identify, classify, protect. He had only to sit down and tap at the typewriter for a few minutes before the letters formed words which formed sentences and paragraphs and chapters which compartmentalized his grief. Transformed it into something real: the blocky letters of the typewriter ribbon’s ink making solid all that liquid horror. And soon the words grew fluid again, into the hips and calves and breasts of a woman standing at the edge of a forest in a crimson coat, rubbing her hands together, leaves crackling under her small feet. He’d called her
Tara.
And later,
Mena.
here must be a word for this,
Sam thinks. For the sound of Mena downstairs when she thinks that no one else is awake. For the quiet careful sounds of her feet moving across the floor. There must be a word for a woman awake and moving in the glow of dawn. Once, a long time ago, he had called it
Tara.
Once, when he was young and his father was newly dead, he had decided that writing was the best way to deal with the overwhelming pain and panic and pathos. The words are what saved him. They helped him identify, classify, protect. He had only to sit down and tap at the typewriter for a few minutes before the letters formed words which formed sentences and paragraphs and chapters which compartmentalized his grief. Transformed it into something real: the blocky letters of the typewriter ribbon’s ink making solid all that liquid horror. And soon the words grew fluid again, into the hips and calves and breasts of a woman standing at the edge of a forest in a crimson coat, rubbing her hands together, leaves crackling under her small feet. He’d called her
Tara.
And later,
Mena.
It used to be that the words came in a seemingly limitless supply. He had simply to sit down, and they poured out: copious, an endlessly replenished stream. He was wrong. He did take things for granted. He took a lot of things for granted.
He can’t write. And he and Mena haven’t had sex in months.
The last time they tried was the night before they left San Diego. It was three o’clock in the morning before they finished packing. Their backs were sore, their hands tired. But she had moved toward him, her hands reaching to cradle his face. It was the first time he’d seen anything even remotely resembling hope in her eyes for months. It was contagious. “This will be good,” she said. “For us. A fresh start.”
And then she was slipping out of her clothes, letting her jeans pool around her feet. Pulling the soft white T-shirt smudged with newsprint from packing over her head. He let her undress him; he wasn’t even sure how it was that they used to do this. How long had it been? How long had they managed to keep from touching each other? It used to be that they couldn’t stop.
As she buried her face in his neck, her hair soft in his face, she reached down into his shorts and touched him. Tentatively.
There must be a word for this,
he thought then. There must be a way to describe this old touch, this familiar hand and the softness of fingerprints. But he couldn’t find it, nothing.
he thought then. There must be a way to describe this old touch, this familiar hand and the softness of fingerprints. But he couldn’t find it, nothing.
She tried, whispering her own words on his neck. But after a few minutes, she withdrew her hand from his limp penis as if she’d been burned. “We’ve got an early morning tomorrow,” she said, blinking hard, climbing back into her T-shirt and into the bed.
“I’m sorry,” he said. When he crawled in next to her he should have reached over and held her, but he was too ashamed, and so instead he rolled onto his side and shut his eyes.
After breakfast, Mena leaves to go to the grocery store, and Sam surveys the yard from the window. It looks like some god-awful jungle out there. Feeling suddenly full of purpose, he goes out to the shed and finds the lawn mower behind a bunch of rusty lawn chairs. He gives it a few good yanks, but it’s dead. Finn is pouting in his room, waiting for the good people at AT&T to come and connect him to the world again. Mena had offered him a phone card at breakfast. “They’ll be here between two and five.You can use the phone then.”
Sam stands in the knee-high weeds and wonders if one of the neighbors has a mower he can borrow.
Inside the cabin, he hollers down the hall to the bedrooms, “Going for a walk!” But when he pushes Finn’s door open, he sees that Finn has fallen asleep again, curled up into a tight ball. His impulse is to go to him, brush the mop of white blond curls out of his eyes. But instead he just stands in the doorway, leaning against the woodwork for support.
When the twins were little, he could never leave them alone when they were sleeping. He would check on them two, sometimes three times a night. “Let them
sleep,
” Mena would say, as he slowly opened their door again. They slept curled around each other, holding hands, little feet tangled. Intertwined the way they probably had been inside Mena’s womb. When he couldn’t see the blankets rising and falling with their breaths, he would feel a sort of urgent rush of blood in his temples, and he would go to them, press his large flat palms or his ear against their tiny chests until he could confirm first one and then two heartbeats. Sometimes he woke up in the middle of the night in a panic and he would check again.
sleep,
” Mena would say, as he slowly opened their door again. They slept curled around each other, holding hands, little feet tangled. Intertwined the way they probably had been inside Mena’s womb. When he couldn’t see the blankets rising and falling with their breaths, he would feel a sort of urgent rush of blood in his temples, and he would go to them, press his large flat palms or his ear against their tiny chests until he could confirm first one and then two heartbeats. Sometimes he woke up in the middle of the night in a panic and he would check again.
He starts down the road, sure that Finn will be out for another hour or more. He knows he has trouble sleeping at night. At home, Sam could see the green glow of his desk lamp under the door all through the night. Finn had become nocturnal, staying up all night and then crashing after school and through the weekends.
Most of the camps are still empty.The summer people usually don’t come until the Fourth of July, which is still a week away. The blackflies are the primary residents this time of year. When he was a kid, his dad would bring him here to go fishing, back before the lake’s peace had been disturbed by summer folks’ powerboats and water-skiers. He’d hated the blackflies that filled his ears and flew up his nose, but he loved being with his father out on the empty lake. They’d sit there for hours, with their lines the only interruption in the still surface of the water. They didn’t talk much. There wasn’t any need then for words.
He wonders if Finn would agree to go fishing with him.
He gets to the McInnes camp. Gussy McInnes used to be a fixture here, sitting on the sunporch watching the world go by. Today the Athenaeum Bookmobile is parked in the driveway; he seems to remember someone telling him that her granddaughter lives there now. That she works for the library.
Old Magoo still lives in the next camp over. His boat-sized Cadillac is in the driveway. He’ll have a mower.
“Sammy Mason!” Magoo says, opening the door after Sam has almost given up. “How are you?”
This simple question, this nicety mumbled a hundred times a day, is still excruciating.
Sam nods and smiles. “We’re up for the summer again, but the yard’s a wreck.You wouldn’t have a mower I could borrow, would you?”
“Oh sure,” he says. “It’ll give you a workout though. Still using the old reel mower.”
Magoo motions for Sam to follow him to the shed and gives Sam the manual mower. It looks like some medieval torture device.
“Thanks,” Sam says, shaking Magoo’s hand. “I figure I should be done in a month or so.” He smiles.
“Hey, Sam,” he says, his face softening. “I just wanted to let you know I heard about your little girl. And I’m real sorry.”
Sam nods again, says nothing. He appreciates the apologies, but they make him cringe. It makes it sound like it was someone’s fault.
Back at the cottage, he starts to mow, pushing the mower through the weeds and grass. His arms tremble after the first hour, but something about this hard work feels good. His father always used to say the best way to work out a problem was to go chop some wood. Better for your back to hurt than your heart. The sun is hot on his neck. By the time Mena pulls up, he is drenched in sweat, and only a quarter of the front yard has been trimmed.
“I’ll make some iced tea,” she says. “Come inside?”
“I’ve still got the side yard to do,” he says. He’s on a roll now, he doesn’t want to stop.
“Sure?” she asks.
“Yeah,” he says. He wipes his arm across his forehead, sweat stinging his eyes. “I’ll be in soon.”
He doesn’t know why he can’t give her what she wants. What she needs. Not even the simplest things. And he hates himself for it.
A
s Mena unloads the groceries, she watches Sam through the window, the smooth muscles of his arms as he hacks through the jungle of goldenrod and ragweed. His last haircut has grown out, and his hair is falling in his eyes. He is so thin. He looks up, sees her in the window, but turns back to his work just as she raises her hand to wave.
s Mena unloads the groceries, she watches Sam through the window, the smooth muscles of his arms as he hacks through the jungle of goldenrod and ragweed. His last haircut has grown out, and his hair is falling in his eyes. He is so thin. He looks up, sees her in the window, but turns back to his work just as she raises her hand to wave.
She knew she loved him before she even met him.
Her teacher at CalArts (what was it, twenty years ago now?),
Jim,
at a party when he was drunk and she was not, handed her the galley of Sam’s first novel. “You have to read this,” he had said, his speech blurry, his breath licorice sweet with scotch in her ear. She was standing outside the bathroom door, waiting. He pushed the book into her hands. “
Tara.
The girl. We’re making a film, and you’d be perfect. It’s going to be huge.”
Jim,
at a party when he was drunk and she was not, handed her the galley of Sam’s first novel. “You have to read this,” he had said, his speech blurry, his breath licorice sweet with scotch in her ear. She was standing outside the bathroom door, waiting. He pushed the book into her hands. “
Tara.
The girl. We’re making a film, and you’d be perfect. It’s going to be huge.”
She’d taken the galley home with her that night, home to that awful apartment in Venice she was sharing with three other people (the one with the roaches and the broken dead bolt), and thumbed through the ratty paperback as she tried to fall asleep. She’d never heard of Samuel Mason before.
Some kid from Vermont,
Jim said.
The next Styron. The next Kesey.
Some kid from Vermont,
Jim said.
The next Styron. The next Kesey.
She didn’t put the book down until she’d read through to the very last page.
She remembers feeling light-headed, almost like she’d had too much wine. Or not enough food. He’d written her life. It was as if she were some sort of butterfly he’d captured and pinned between the pages of the book. It made her feel scared, and it made her feel safe all at once.
When she finally met him, it barely mattered that he was so sweet and kind. So beautiful and unassuming. He
understood
her, and he hadn’t even spoken to her yet.
understood
her, and he hadn’t even spoken to her yet.
After shooting that day, they’d driven to the beach together, gotten fish tacos and Coronas with pulpy slices of lime at the place near her apartment. They spent the whole afternoon talking, walking. When he ran his hand down her back and kissed her, it was as if he’d already memorized each vertebrae.
She was nineteen, but she already knew that she would marry him, have children with him, grow into an old woman with him. In the words he’d written, she already had.
How did you know?
she’d asked him.
she’d asked him.
It kills her that he doesn’t want her anymore. All the desire has drained from him. He can barely touch her. In the last six months, they’ve made love only a handful of times, and each time was excruciating.
She tries to be angry with him. It’s easier than feeling sorry for him, for herself.
She fills the refrigerator, fills the cupboards, fills the stockpot. By the time Finn emerges from his room and Sam comes inside, she has filled the house with the smell of lemon, garlic, and fish. She hands Sam a glass of iced tea. She kisses the top of Finn’s head as he sits down at the table. She kisses him all the time now. She can’t stop.
“I’m going to pick up a basketball net this afternoon,” Sam says. “The barn is big enough for a half-court.”
Finn’s eyes brighten, despite the scowl on his face.
“Wanna come into town with me?”
“Whatever,” Finn says.
While they are gone, Mena climbs the ladder to Sam’s office. She knows she shouldn’t do this, but there are secrets between them now. All of a sudden, they don’t know each other at all anymore. His laptop is turned on, the screen saver floating across the page. She lets her hand bump the mouse, turning the screen from black to white, the Word document open in front of her. The blank page blurs as her eyes fill with tears.
T
he closest town is Quimby. It’s hardly a metropolis, but at least there’s a main street there. Sidewalks for Christ’s sake. When they used to come to the lake, they would drive into town once a week to go to the Athenaeum, the library, to get books. That building, at least, looks the same.
he closest town is Quimby. It’s hardly a metropolis, but at least there’s a main street there. Sidewalks for Christ’s sake. When they used to come to the lake, they would drive into town once a week to go to the Athenaeum, the library, to get books. That building, at least, looks the same.
Finn remembers the kids’ room with its battered piano and puppet theater, its tinfoil rocket ship big enough to crawl inside. He used to really dig that rocket ship. He’d never tell anybody, but for a while he really believed he could make it to outer space if he just wished hard enough.
Franny never bothered with the kids’ room. While Finn got out books about bugs and reptiles and sports, Franny wandered around upstairs with their father. She read everything she could get her hands on: Faulkner,Wolfe,
Woolf.
At ten, she had already read all three of their father’s novels. Finn had tried to read the first one, but he’d gotten bored.
Woolf.
At ten, she had already read all three of their father’s novels. Finn had tried to read the first one, but he’d gotten bored.
“I’ll just be a minute,” his father says today.They are parked in front of the library. “You wanna come in? Check your e-mail?”
“Nah,” Finn says. Misty’s parents had cut off the Internet to the computer in her room, and he’d told her he wouldn’t be able to get his e-mail here anyway. Now he’s kicking himself. She could have sent him a text message from her phone. There are always ways to communicate. His father leaves him in the car and then comes back, grabs his keys from the ignition and stuffs them in his pocket.
Finn’s cell phone’s dead. The battery must have gotten drained looking for a signal up at the lake. There’s a pay phone next to the library. How long has it been since he’s used one of these? He digs around in the center console and finds a roll of quarters they’d gotten for the tolls. He pops half of the quarters into his hand and goes to the phone booth.
He drops the quarters in and dials Misty’s cell number. He doesn’t want to get stuck talking to one of her parents. The phone rings and rings, and then Misty’s husky voice says,“Hey, I’m not here, but I will be soon. Leave a message.” She’s changed the message. And something about this makes him feel more like he’s lost her than anything else so far. He slams the phone down and goes back to the car. He gets in the passenger’s seat and is sulking when his father comes back with an armload of books.
They find a backboard, a basketball rim and net at the hardware store.While his father pays the cashier, he wanders around the dusty shelves looking at all the crap and thinks about Sundays at home.
His father knows how to build things. Most of the kids at school, especially at Country Day, had dads who made lots of money (developers and software engineers and plastic surgeons) but they didn’t know how to use a hammer or a wrench. His dad could make things, and it made Finn feel sort of cool.They made trips to OB Hardware together almost every Sunday; there was always some sort of project underway at their house. They’d wander around that hardware store, his father picking out the things he would need to build his mother a gardening table or a new bookcase for his office. Afterward they’d go to the Village Kitchen next-door for breakfast and eat biscuits and sausage gravy. These were the mornings when Finn had their dad all to himself. He can still remember what it felt like to want to be alone with his dad on a Sunday; where did that go?
“You ready?” Sam asks.
Finn is standing, looking at spools of chains, links thick and shiny.
“Whatever,” he says, and follows him back to the car.
His dad spends the next hour installing the backboard in the rafters of the barn. Finn watches him struggling but doesn’t offer to help. And his father doesn’t ask. Finn bounces the basketball on the dusty floor of the barn, dribbling and pantomiming layups. The sun is bright now, but it is dark in here. The sun comes to them in slivers through the cracks in the wide wooden door. It smells like dirt in here, like earth and hay.
“There,” his father says, looking proudly up at the net. “Wanna play some one-on-one?”
Finn shrugs.
They don’t speak as they play.
His dad played ball in high school, and even though he’s only six feet, he’s quick. Quicker than Finn. But today Finn is making every shot.
Jesus, what’s he doing?
Finn grabs the ball and dribbles down the makeshift court, easily faking his father out and then going to the hoop.
He’s letting me win.
Jesus, what’s he doing?
Finn grabs the ball and dribbles down the makeshift court, easily faking his father out and then going to the hoop.
He’s letting me win.
“What are you doing?” Finn asks.
“Huh?” his father asks. He hasn’t even broken a sweat; he worked up more of a sweat mowing the yard.
Finn rushes toward him again, clumsily, exaggerated, practically handing him the ball.
“Goddamnit,” Finn says, stopping. Holding the ball under his arm.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,”
Finn says, chucking the ball at the backboard. It smashes back down to the court and rolls toward a pile of hay in the corner.
Finn says, chucking the ball at the backboard. It smashes back down to the court and rolls toward a pile of hay in the corner.
As he opens up the door, letting the sunlight spill into the barn, he remembers playing with Franny. She’d never pull this shit. When they played (cards, Scrabble, Xbox), she was hardcore. She’d kick his ass and then kick it again. Does he think he’s a fucking baby? Like letting him win some stupid one-on-one game is going to make him feel better?
He walks down the path to the water and stares out at the still gray expanse before him. He can hear the ball echoing inside the cavernous barn, his father’s feet shuffling across the floor. Finn is suddenly so hot inside his clothes he can barely stand it. He looks back to the house, knows that his mother is watching from some window, though he doesn’t know which one. He pulls off his shirt, drops his shorts, and because he’s still so hot, he drops his boxers too and leaps quickly off the dock into the water.
There are no waves here. No ebb and flow. It’s as if this water is dead. He is buoyed by nothing but his own sheer will.
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