Body and Bone (5 page)

Nessa poured a cup of coffee and stepped outside, where Isabeau held the warrior pose, her arms held out parallel to the ground, her legs in a deep lunge.

“What are you doing up so early?” Isabeau said.

“Nightmare,” Nessa said, and sat down on the steps.

“Daltrey's not up, is he?”

“No. I just checked on him.”

“Good, because I want to talk to you about something.” Isabeau rolled up her yoga mat, dropped it next to the steps, and sat next to Nessa.

Oh, no. This was it. Isabeau couldn't handle the crap parade that was life on the Donati homestead.

“Okay,” Nessa said, dejected. “I understand completely.”

“What?”

“You're quitting.”

Isabeau smiled wide, made a
pfft
noise, and a get-­out-­of-­here motion with her hand. “No! You're stuck with me, boss. Actually, it's kind of the opposite. Here's what I'm thinking. It's really kind of a hassle to have to sleep two different places, you know what I mean? Since you're all alone, I wonder if I should just move in with you for the summer until fall semester starts. That way I'm already here for your radio overnights and I don't have to drive back and forth. You have a lot on your mind, and you could use the help with Daltrey. As a bonus, my roommate and her creepy boyfriend could bone all they want without me cramping their style.”

Nessa laughed. “I see what you're doing here. But I really value my privacy. Having a roommate is . . . difficult for me.”

“I know it. But we'd be helping each other out. What do you say?”

The relief she felt overrode her trepidation. Isabeau was right. With Nessa here alone on sixty acres, departing and arriving at odd hours, it didn't hurt to have an extra set of eyes on Daltrey.

She needed to put the needs of her son above her own selfish needs of privacy.

She took a sip of coffee. “All right,” she said. “But that means I'll have to pay you more.”

“Oh, you don't have to—­”

“You're not a very good negotiator. The proper response is ‘Yes, you will.' ”

“Yes, ma'am,” Isabeau said, and smiled.

T
HAT AFTERNOON, WHI
L
E
Isabeau sat on the floor with her laptop cataloging Nessa's music collection, Nessa sat at her desk and browsed her blog's comments section. The latest one represented the kind of lazy trivia questions she hated.

What do these diverse artists have in common: Norah Jones, Tom Waits, Jackson Browne, AC/DC, and Neil Diamond?

Posted by Anonymous | June 3 8:37
A
M

Anyone with a quarter of a brain could get online and look that sort of thing up. But she always indulged her readers by answering anyway. Usually, this sort of question meant the musicians in question each had a song with a common word in it, almost without fail. She searched for, copied, and pasted each artist's song list into wordcounter.com, which found repeated words. She'd then look through the part of the resulting list where one word was found five times.

The list came up with fourteen words that had been used five times. As she started to scroll down, a pounding on the back door sounded, and Nessa's heart shot up into her throat.

John?

Isabeau started to rise but Nessa said, “I've got it.”

She ran to the door and peered out the window.

It was her nearest neighbor, Lauren, and her two boys.

Nessa unlocked the dead bolt, her heart still fluttering in her chest like a trapped bat, and opened the door to the sound of children's voices and the jingle of Declan MacManus's dog collar. He crowded inside with them, dancing and happy for the visitors. Isabeau waved as she threaded her way through the crowd and walked out the door past the horses Lauren had tied up outside. Lauren and the boys always rode over inside of driving, sometimes giving Daltrey a ride around the property, one of his favorite things.

“I brought you something from the garden,” Lauren said, blowing in through the door with her long muslin skirt sweeping in behind. She pulled the hemp pack off her back and emptied it on the kitchen table—­two large mason jars full of berries and a basket of fresh ones—­while her sons patted the dog before turning their attention to Nessa.

They had no concept of personal space, and the oldest, Ziggy, leaned into Nessa's shoulder, his hot, sweaty skin pressed against her back, while Tosh hung on her shoulder. She'd stopped trying to keep them out of her bubble.

“You okay?” Ziggy said.

It was a weird thing about kids—­how they somehow intuited your mental and emotional state in a way that adults would never be able to do, sort of like that high sound that only ­people under eighteen can hear. It seemed like Lauren hadn't really noticed any problem with Nessa.

“Sure, honey,” Nessa said.

“Where's Daltrey?” Tosh said.

“In his room. Go on up.”

They scampered up the stairs.

“Where's a bowl?” Lauren said.

She acted as though she and Nessa were close friends, as if they'd shared secrets and confidences. The arrangement suited Nessa perfectly. The appearance of friendship allowed her to keep her secrets and distance without a fight.

Nessa reached into one of the upper cabinets and pulled out a colander and her largest bowl, a brilliant green one Lauren had made at her pottery studio. Nessa sat at the table.

Lauren stood at the sink, rinsing the fresh-­picked strawberries, blueberries, and gooseberries. Daltrey's giggle resonated from upstairs as eight-­year-­old Ziggy and five-­year-­old Tosh chattered away. They were both named for reggae musicians, of course, and had the long dreadlocks to match. Although Lauren kept them clean, Nessa couldn't help imagining swarms of flies around their heads.

“Why don't the three of you come over for dinner?” Lauren said. “Mac can throw some veggie burgers on the grill and we'll make a night of it.”

Lauren's husband, Mac, was an IT genius putting together the computer systems at the new National Bio and Agro-­Defense Facility that was being built outside Manhattan. His giant brain intimidated Nessa a little, but he was a nice enough guy, if a little introverted.

He and John had had a cordial relationship, but Nessa hadn't mentioned yet to her neighbors that John was no longer living here, and she had no intention of doing so now.

“Thanks, but I've got to get a blog post up tonight. I'm way behind.”

Lauren turned off the water and dried her hands before sitting at the kitchen table. “You'll want to eat these berries today or tomorrow,” she said. “Because they're perfect right now. But the ones in the jars will keep for a year.”

“Thank you, Lauren,” Nessa said. She didn't want Lauren to do anything for her, but it was impossible to stop her, even though Nessa remained aloof and impersonal. Lauren was the most domestic, industrious, artistic person Nessa had ever known. Lauren did most of the talking when they were together, which worked out well. Still, Nessa missed having real friends.

But having real friends required intimacy, and intimacy required honesty. And real honesty on Nessa's part would dismantle the carefully constructed fortress that was her life.

In addition to gardening, canning, quilting, spinning, and pottery, Lauren homeschooled the boys. They were constantly going on field trips to museums and exhibits. Ziggy and Tosh went around all summer without shirts and grew brown, unlike Daltrey, who Nessa slathered in sunscreen any time they went outside. This drove Lauren insane.

“It's a racket,” she said. “You're putting chemicals all over your child, who then is deprived of vitamin D.”

“Oh, he gets that in his fortified Sugar-­Coated, Honey-­Covered, Chocolate-­Infused, Artificially Colored Sweetie Flakes,” Nessa said.

“It's not funny,” Lauren said.

“It's a little funny,” Nessa said.

Lauren finished the berries, then called for her boys, who came stampeding into the kitchen with Daltrey hot on their heels.

“It's half-­off day on Tuesday the twenty-­first at the splash park,” Lauren said. Ziggy and Tosh surrounded Daltrey and asked if he wanted to go swimming. His head nod was so enthusiastic, he nearly fell over. Daltrey faced her and traced a circle over his heart with a flat hand, ASL for “Please,” his big eyes begging.

Nessa tried not to grimace in resentment at Lauren. Why couldn't she have asked Nessa before the boys came in? She was always doing this sort of thing, forcing Nessa to say “yes” to things she'd rather not do. But in spite of this irritating habit, Lauren was the only mom Nessa spent any time around. She'd stopped taking Daltrey to the playground because she couldn't stand the inane mom talk; the endless complaining about how hard mommying was, about how little their husbands understood; the endless cannibalizing of their children's lives, served up for the entertainment of the other moms, a justification for their existence, to make up for their own nonexistent lives. It was such an identity thing for these women.

They were the ones who posted the creepy mom memes online—­like
A son will hold your heart forever
—­all this borderline stalker talk: “My children are my heart and soul, my liver and pancreas. I'm incomplete without them, blah, blah, blah.”

Nessa had been horrified when she'd learned she would be having a boy, because apparently something happened to a woman's brain when she had a son. She became a servant, hopelessly tied to the boy's wants and needs. She poured all her energy into this male life, the only one in existence who, for at least a short time, only had eyes for her. These women believed they could mold their sons into the men their husbands could never be.

She'd been relieved to discover she could love her son but not have that weird, desperate longing for him, to serve his every need.

Lauren appeared to be the same way with her sons. That's why Nessa could tolerate her better than most. And Lauren was interesting. She did things, didn't just follow three paces behind her sons as if they were demigods.

“Okay,” Nessa said, “we'll go to the splash park.”

Daltrey and the boys held hands and danced in a circle. She couldn't help but smile. He'd probably forget before the day came.

“How about we pick you and Daltrey up at nine on the twenty-­first for the splash park?” Lauren said.

“Okay,” Nessa said. But she already had an excuse ready. She'd call Lauren the night before as soon as Daltrey was in bed and say they had sore throats, and she was so sorry but they wouldn't be able to go after all, darn it to heck.

“All right, we're off,” Lauren said, rising from her chair. “Tell DJ goodbye, boys,” she said.

Nessa hated the familiar use of his initials, but it seemed petty to say so. They didn't get together with Lauren and her sons all that often, and Daltrey lit up whenever he saw them. Maybe being around them would actually encourage him to talk. Food for thought.

Lauren gave Declan MacManus a jowl rub, strapped her basket back on, and put on her hat. Her sons ran out the back door.

“See you the twenty-­first,” Lauren said as she and the boys exited through the open door to their waiting horses. Nessa locked the door behind her and watched through the window as the family mounted their rides and rode west through the woods toward their property.

Nessa gathered the berry jars Lauren had left. “Daltrey,” she said. “You want to go down to the cellar?”

He signed “Yes” over and over. He loved the spooky dirt-­walled hole in the ground where she kept canned goods and holiday decorations, and where they'd be safe if a tornado ever came their way. John had made a practice of leaving small items around in the cellar for Daltrey to find. He didn't want Daltrey to be afraid of dark places, so he would leave a little plastic animal, or a quarter, or a shiny stone, and tell his son the little ­people had left it there for him to find because they wanted him to be happy.

Daltrey followed her out the back door and down the steps to the side of the house where wooden doors concealed a cement staircase leading down into the earth.

She had been scared to death of her grandmother's storm cellar when she was a kid, thinking of it as a tomb, a dark, dank place where she imagined demon hands would reach out and grab her ankles before she could get to the string that when pulled would illuminate a single bulb. Her cellar was much the same, and she still got a creepy feeling going down there. So she was glad to have even little Daltrey with her, because her protective instinct tended to drown out her fear.

She lifted the heavy wooden doors and then felt her way down the stairs until she found the string and yanked it. Daltrey came down backward, as if descending a ladder, then promptly sat on the damp cement floor while she shelved the berries.

Daltrey rooted around, looking for his prize, but there would be none this time.

“Let's go, honey,” Nessa said. “I don't think the little ­people have—­”

But to her utter surprise, he held up a little red die cast car, his face awash in delight.

Nessa felt unexpected tears spring to her eyes as she took it from his outstretched hand and turned it over.

“How about that?” she said, handing it back to him. She led him up the stairs and out into the sunshine. She shut the cellar door and they went back in the house.

Daltrey ran into the living room to show Isabeau his new car.

“What have you got there?” she said. He placed the new toy on Isabeau's palm and she looked it over. “This is way cool.” He nodded and ran up to his room, no doubt to put the car with his other “little ­people” treasures on his bookcase. Nessa wiped her eyes and sat down in front of her computer.

Right. She'd been researching that trivia question. On the screen was the list of words common to all five artists' songs: