Lost Art of Mixing (9781101609187) (21 page)

Isabelle looked across the table at him, as if she could read every one of his thoughts even as her own became a mystery to her. She nodded calmly, waiting. Finnegan picked up the notebook and then, with a long exhalation, pushed it across the table to Isabelle.

•   •   •

THE DINNER CROWD
was long gone, the restaurant closed. Finnegan was the last one in the kitchen. He enjoyed the solitude, the piano music he could put on the CD player without asking anyone else's opinion. It was easier, too, being here without Chloe, and he liked cleaning the nooks and crannies of the kitchen after everyone else was gone. Lillian was looking unbelievably pregnant these days and it gave him satisfaction to know he was giving her an easier start every morning when she arrived. He was grateful, not just for his job but for the atmosphere she created in her kitchen. Cleaning it was a way of saying thank you.

All his life, Finnegan had dealt with the freak-show nature of his existence. The curiosity on everyone's faces that made him wish he could simply tattoo his long arms with answers to the inevitable questions: No, my parents weren't giants. No, I don't play basketball. No, I don't need an oxygen mask. But here in Lillian's kitchen he felt simply tall, one of a group of capable people who worked together. Lillian treated each person—dishwasher, cook, server, or customer—with the same respect she accorded the ingredients in her hands, and her attitude affected the entire staff.

He smiled as he wiped down the faucet of the dish sink, the last thing he always did before going home.

The kitchen door opened with a bang.

“You're such an idiot!” Finnegan heard a voice behind him.

He cautiously straightened, turned. Chloe.

“The notebooks,” she said. And then she walked across the kitchen and kissed him.

Finnegan had no idea what she was talking about, but he decided that this was one question he was not required to ask. He simply lifted her up to the counter so that what was happening could continue as long as possible without wrecking his back.

Chloe's cell phone rang. She pulled away from Finnegan and reached into her pocket.

“Seriously?” Finnegan said. This couldn't happen twice. If she started to run, he'd just stick her in the dish sink. It was pretty big; she would fit. She'd never stay there, but at least it would slow her down.

“It might be Isabelle,” Chloe said, shaking her head at him. She glanced at the caller ID.

“It's Tom.” She looked concerned and clicked the answer button.

Finnegan watched as Chloe listened. He could hear the rumble of Tom's voice on the other end of the line, excitement running through the cadence of the sentences.

Finnegan raised his eyebrows quizzically. Chloe grinned and mouthed one word—
baby
.

I
t was late September, and Al sat at his usual table in Lillian's restaurant, eating Cajun chicken gumbo for lunch. It was funny, he thought, not for the first time and not with any particular humor, how being alone meant one thing when you were on a break from your marriage, and quite another when your marriage had taken a break from you.

“How's it going?” Chloe had come out of the kitchen and was standing next to his table. She looked happier these days, Al thought. He had seen her walking down the street the other night with Finnegan, laughter bouncing back and forth between them. And honestly, her gumbo was inspired.

“It's great,” Al replied.

“You're not happy.” Chloe observed him, head cocked to one side.

“It's wonderful,” he said. “Just the right spices.”

“Not the soup,” she said.

The front door opened and Lillian entered, carrying a baby. The dining room rippled with pleased noises; Lillian smiled and made her way toward Al and Chloe, stopping occasionally to say hello to her customers and let them greet the baby inside the blanket.

“How's everything over here?” she asked as she arrived at Al's table.

“Al's not happy,” Chloe said.

“I'm fine,” Al said, shifting his chair so he could see Lillian better. “How's Clementine?”

Lillian leaned down so Al could see the baby's face. “Just great,” Lillian said.

“She's beautiful,” he commented, resisting the urge to reach out and touch the baby's cheek. “And bigger than a week ago. How much weight has she gained?”

“Quit deflecting, Al.” Chloe turned to Lillian. “It's been six months since Louise left; he needs to do something.”

Lillian nodded in agreement, shifting Clementine so she could watch the conversation. The baby's eyes gazed at Al, big and dark and full of inquiry.

“How about a ritual?” Chloe asked.

“I don't have the book anymore,” Al said to the baby. “Louise took it.”

•   •   •

IT WAS CHLOE
who had given Al a ride home the night of Isabelle's party in March. She had caught him as he was leaving on foot.

“Do you want a ride?” she asked.

“It's not far, I can walk.”

“Well, I'm taking you, anyway,” Chloe said. “I owe you one—that's the happiest I've seen Isabelle in a long time.”

Chloe's car seemed held together with duct tape and wire, but Al—who washed his car once a week for the sheer pleasure of watching the steel-blue color come up through the suds—understood her affection for her vehicle. The ride to his house had been quiet, Chloe and Al both contentedly tired from their efforts of the day. Al was particularly pleased by the success of Isabelle's throne. He had enjoyed working on it with Finnegan; the young man's fingers held a magical creativity, and the designs that flowed onto the wooden surface of the chair had often made Al blink with surprise.

He started to mention it to Chloe, only to be cut off by a scream of brakes in the distance. Chloe jerked her own car to a stop and they both strained forward, listening, but there was no sound of impact. The night returned to a deep quiet; they relaxed and smiled at each other, and Chloe continued driving.

“Sounded like a close call,” she said.

“People are driving too fast these days,” Al remarked. “Louise told me she almost got hit the other day.

“I'm halfway down this next block on the right,” he added.

His house was completely dark, Al realized as they approached, a black hole in an otherwise welcoming string of lights illuminating front porches and bedroom or living room windows. From the glow of the streetlamp, Al could see his car was missing. Perhaps Louise had gone to the grocery store; she had mentioned something that morning about being out of milk. But even if Louise had gone out, she would have left lights on. She didn't like coming back to darkness, even when she was just going from room to room. Al generally tried not to say anything, even as he mentally calculated the cost to the environment and their utility bill. It was no wonder the bulbs were always burning out.

“That's odd,” he said, looking at the house.

“I'll come in with you, just to make sure everything's all right.” Chloe was still thinking about the almost-accident, he could tell. She had driven with extra care those last few blocks.

Al made his way cautiously up the driveway and then went instinctively to the side door—Louise liked keeping the front entry clean of everyday dirt. The small porch was darkness itself and Al had to feel for the edge of each of the steps, holding on to the railing. As he reached the top, his foot landed on something brittle; it broke with a quick snap and then crunch. Behind him, Chloe pulled out her phone and the light of the screen illuminated bits of glass on the porch.

Al avoided horror movies, but he knew that this was how the bad parts started, the small sound in the dark, the minor detail out of place. He stood, listening for any noise that would give him direction. He imagined Louise, sprawled across their bed, blood dripping from her slit throat. Or taken, stuffed in his trunk and left somewhere.

Al took a breath and put his hand on the doorknob; it wasn't locked. He took a cautious step inside the kitchen and turned on the switch. Nothing happened. He reached for the flashlight Louise kept in the cabinet by the door and swept its beam across the kitchen. He could see glass covering the floor, broken curves catching the light, filaments glittering like mica in sand. But otherwise, strangely, everything was in place, except a chair pulled up against the counter. It didn't make any sense.

The beam caught on a note lying on the table. It had his name on it—Louise's handwriting, but rushed, full of adrenaline. Did they make victims write their own ransom notes? Trying to steady his breathing, Al picked it up and opened it.

Two words: Buy Lightbulbs.

Chloe was watching Al's face.

“Should we call someone?” she asked.

Al shook his head; there was no one you could call for something like this.

•   •   •

IT HAD TAKEN HOURS
to clean up all the glass, although Al had noted at one point that most of it was contained in the kitchen, for which he was oddly grateful. Chloe had gone to the store and returned with two pairs of rubber gloves and a bag full of lightbulbs, which they put in, one per room at first, like a chain of small campfires throughout the otherwise pitch-black house.

Chloe never asked any questions, which was a good thing, as Al was pretty sure he didn't have answers. Louise was gone, that was clear. The fact that she wasn't coming back took a little longer to reveal itself.

In those first weeks, he had thought about hiring a private detective, but the note on the table always stopped him. That, and the fact that she had taken his car and the book of rituals. He could understand why she would want to leave him; couldn't fault her, really, for that. But the car, the book. Those rankled.

Still, he didn't know what to do, exactly. It had been six months now since Louise had left and he still walked about the muted colors of a house that had never felt like his, unsure each time he came home and opened the door if she would be there or not. There had been no activity on her cell phone or credit card, after the charge that night at a gas station near the Oregon border. Which seemed to be an answer in itself. Still, Louise liked to complete things, come full circle—although whether that had already happened or was yet to come, Al wasn't certain. And without certainty, his life hung, motionless.

“What do
you
want?” Finnegan had asked him recently. “You don't have to wait to see what she does.” Implied in the statement was their shared understanding that the waiting had no particular end-point.

And now, here were Lillian and Chloe, standing by his table at the restaurant, asking him to make that point definitive.

“You don't need the book to tell you what to do,” Lillian said, dipping down to kiss the top of her baby's head. “Think about the best thing she did, and the worst. And then let go.”

•   •   •

SEPTEMBER WAS A BUSY TIME
of year for accountants, and not particularly Al's favorite. All the corporations that had filed extensions in April had to have their taxes in by the middle of September, with the procrastinating individuals following close behind. Al's clients who hadn't been able to get their finances together in the spring were even less inclined to now, any more than they wanted to tuck in the loose ends of their carefree summer spending—the boat and bicycle rentals, the mai tais and Manhattans that matched the colors of the slowly fading sunsets of August. In September, accountants were firmly planted in the role of curmudgeon, grown-up, when everyone wanted only to remember the feeling of bare feet for as long as possible. So Al was glad to shut the door of his office and start his walk home.

Al had fixed Louise's taillight after she left, but in the end, he never felt comfortable using her car. Chloe told him he should sell the car and buy something for himself, as it seemed less and less likely that he would see his old Cadillac again. Most days, however, it seemed simpler just to walk, and Al found he liked the time it gave him between work and home, a chance to let go of the day and get ready for the empty house ahead of him. Sometimes he'd stop by Isabelle's on the way for a glass of wine, and end up cooking dinner with her while Chloe was at the restaurant. It was easy being with Isabelle, who didn't ask a lot of probing questions, even when they'd figured out that it was his Louise who had brought Isabelle her coat.

“She was a pilot,” Isabelle had commented.

Al shook his head, puzzled.

“Well, in any case, she flew.”

And with that, Al couldn't argue.

But after Chloe and Lillian's little intervention at the restaurant that day, Al didn't feel like talking to anybody, even Isabelle. As he walked up his driveway, he kept his attention studiously on the house. For the past ten years, they'd had a gardener, but after Louise left, Al forgot to pay him so many times the man simply stopped coming. Now the grass was well past ankle height.

“Excuse me,” said a voice behind him. Al turned and saw his neighbor from a few houses down. Nancy spent almost all her time in her yard, a constantly changing array of relentlessly cheery annuals—marigolds and geraniums and impatiens. As she was the only other woman on the block without children or grandchildren, Al had once thought she might be a good friend for Louise, but Louise had wanted nothing to do with her.

“Al,” said Nancy. “It is Al, isn't it?”

As if he didn't pass her house every day, commenting politely each time the color palette changed.

“Yes.”

“Well, Al . . .” She looked uncomfortable. “I mean. Well. The lawn.”

Al looked down the block to Nancy's house, where the lawn was, as always, trim and smooth as her own well-exercised figure.

“No, Al. Yours.”

“Oh.”

“I mean. I think we'd all appreciate it if . . . Well, you know.”

“Yes.” He supposed he did.

“Good, then!” Nancy smiled happily. “I'm sure it'll make you feel better, too.”

Al watched her walk back down the sidewalk. The quick little strides, the sprightly assurance of her shoulders. He shook his head and looked about him. His grass sprawled out before him, shaggy and rough-edged, the Mickey Rourke of lawns.

“Well, okay,” he said. It hadn't rained in a couple of days, although it was due to soon. It might be his last chance for a while.

He opened the garage and dug through the boxes to the back, where he found his old gas lawn mower. He went upstairs and changed from his work clothes into a pair of jeans, as beat-up as the lawn, and a gray T-shirt, proclaiming allegiance to a college he hadn't seen in thirty years. He was surprised to find both pants and shirt to be a bit baggier than he remembered. It must have been all the walking, he decided, as he took a quick look in the mirror to make sure.

The lawn mower waited on the front lawn where he had left it, its once bright red paint dulled by dust to something closer to pink. Al leaned over and grasped the starter handle and yanked up, feeling the cord unwind within the machine, the sound of the engine almost catching.

It took ten increasingly sweaty tries, but finally the motor roared into life, throwing gas fumes into the air, bringing with them a heady mix of nostalgia and swagger. Al aimed the mower toward the opposite end of the yard, feeling the vibrations of the engine through his outstretched arms, the pressure against the balls of his feet as he pushed off, one step after another, bits of grass spewing out the side of the machine and into the catcher, the smell thick and green in the air.

Think about the best thing Louise ever did, Lillian had said. As Al pushed the mower, he considered the challenge. He had to get past the gaping hole that was Louise's departure, but the lawn mower was patient—moving back and forth, back and forth, leaving a long, clean aisle of cut grass behind him. His thoughts wandered, released by the actions of his muscles.