Twenty-Six #2
A bell chimed and she let out an “oh” as she grabbed a pair of pot holders and opened the stove.
I didn’t move at first because I was afraid of my bad knee.
Then I didn’t move because Rilee leaned over to reach into the oven, her apron bow rising like a blooming morning glory.
Then I did move, toward where I thought the silverware was because I didn’t want her thinking I’d been staring.
I found the flatware in the second drawer I tried.
“There are some tumblers on the top shelf,” Rilee added, working the stove top like an experienced backhoe operator.
I found some stemless wine glasses in a cupboard and finished setting the table. A blue and white checkered table cloth covered the square table and a small candle flickered in the center. “Should I get plates?” I asked.
“Not yet, I have those over here,” Rilee responded with half her attention.
Not knowing what else to do I sat down. “Do you cook often?” I asked, trying to think of something to say that wasn’t incredibly dumb.
“Fairly. Though not as often as I should. It’s good for the soul, making something.
And even good restaurant food doesn’t feel as wholesome as home cooked.
Here we go.” This last she said as she settled a small basket of bready knots next to the candle.
I looked up at her, apron hanging around her neck down to her thighs, her knees bare just beneath the edge of her skirt and inches from me.
I wanted to wrap my arms around her waist and pull her down into my lap, but she was gone before the thought could make it to my hands.
Rilee returned with plates, low bowls really, full of pasta.
A long flat noodle mixed with halved cherry tomatoes, basil, olives, and a crumbled cheese.
A filet of white fish, firm with a brown crust that I could taste just by sight, rested atop the pasta.
“That looks really good,” I admitted, the red and greens popped against the white of the pasta, plate and fish.
“If it tastes that way it will be a success. Oh, the wine,” Rilee opened the fridge to pull out the bottle of white wine.
“I probably should have opened this earlier, but I wasn’t sure.
” She poured the wine in the glasses I’d set out and then brought over two water glasses.
Inspecting the table she nodded, throwing a lock of hair across her face.
Pushing the hair it back behind her ear she said, “There now, I think we’re ready.
” Then a moment before she sat down she remembered her apron and untied it.
Looking around she said, “Be right back,” and left the room with the apron wadded in one hand.
I took the opportunity to go back into the front room, get the picture, and slide it under the table.
Slipping into her seat, Rilee looked down, inspected the table and then with a slight satisfied nod her entire body settled, relaxed, and she lifted her eyes to mine. “Hey, there,” she said a little hungrily.
“Hey,” I answered, feeling like my dad would appear and say, “-is for horses,” at any moment. Instead, I reached for a glass of wine. “This looks really nice. Thank you.”
Forks in hand we started eating. The food was a welcome distraction from the weighty growing silence. The fish flaked in satisfying forkfuls and tasted better than it looked, hints of crispiness paired with soft buttery flavor.
Finally, Rilee said, “I’m glad you wore the coat. It looks good on you.”
My knee bumped the paper bag under my chair, and I felt a rush of heat fill me.
I wasn’t holding up my end of the conversation.
Sitting in her kitchen, seeing the plates she ate off, and the walls she held onto when the lights were out, the couch where she lounged in the afternoon, it left me unsure of where I fit in.
Instead of finding something to say I pulled out the bag. “I got you something,” I said, pressing it forward. As the bag crinkled under Rilee’s hands I added, “It’s kind of a thank you. That coat–” I ran out of words, my mouth reaching the end of my thoughts before my mind knew where it was.
“Craig, you really didn’t have to.”
Now I was in debt again. Just the way her voice presented my name was a gift, it filled me. And the faster the heat and tingle on my skin rose, the farther my mouth and head drifted apart.
Wooden frame in her hand, the paper grocery bag fell to the floor. “This is gorgeous.” Her thumb unconsciously rubbed at the grain of the frame. Then she stopped and pulled the drawing close. “This isn’t a photo. It’s an original artwork, but I don’t see a signature. Who did it?”
I’d never even thought to sign the drawing, any of them. They were assignments first, and while this one was now a full picture, placing my mark on it like it was something to hang in a museum didn’t occur to me. “I did. And the frame.” The frame was easier. I should have signed the frame.
“You drew this? I had no idea you drew.”
Moving my fork through the noodles I managed, “It’s been a while. Since high school really.”
Rilee walked to a counter behind my left, setting the frame on it where she could see the picture from her seat.
She stepped back and then after a moment sat down again.
“I tell my students that it’s important to put what they learn from high school into life otherwise it’s just a class and it slips away from them. ”
Spearing a piece of tomato, I agreed, “At this point high school just feels like an old dream.”
At the word ‘dream’ her body went rigid, shoulders pulling back sharply and lips tightening.
I waited for her to snap like a chain link, gauging which way the load would break.
Then she relaxed and like a tree falling away from a chainsaw cut, fell into a predictable path.
“The frame, the picture itself, it’s all trees. Do you paint too?”
The basil leaf was sweetly delicate against the full buttery flavor of the fish. “No. Just pencil drawings.”
“All trees,” Rilee laughed pleasantly. “Paper, pencil, the image, all trees. And you made the wood frame too?”
“I did. I guess I never realized the connection.” My mouth was working at the same slow speed as my mind, slightly overwhelmed by the tastes of Rilee’s food, the sight of her, the touch of her home, the wheels of her thoughts, all coming at me at once.
She licked her lip before reaching for her wine glass. “You know, from this distance, even perched on the sea cliff, which I love, the tree looks like one of those Japanese potted plants, the mini trees.”
On cue a noodle caught in my throat and I had to reach for the water to stop my cough.
“Bonsai. The Japanese gardening technique for creating trees in miniature is bonsai.” It felt like Ulrich was speaking, not me.
“And the drawing started as a bonsai.” I couldn’t quite meet her eyes as I laid out the sequence.
“I was planning out how to shape a juniper into a bonsai.”
“That’s right, the little trees at Mace and Maize.”
This felt like a slippery topic, really close to things that I hadn’t planned on bringing up, Jackie, work. Had the CPR class been useful? It felt much easier to talk about the plants. How to see the shape hidden in each one, and what it took to bring it out. Matching them with the appropriate pot.
“Like good teaching,” Rilee mused, her fork idly collecting a nest of pasta. “Find the potential in the kid and help them develop it.”
“Coaching too,” I added.
“Yeah,” she said thoughtfully. Her eyes played over me before she asked, “Did you play basketball? You’ve got the height for it.”
“Only a little. I swam. How about you? Was basketball always your jam?” I took one of the bread twists, peeling it apart, waiting for the answer.
“For as long as I can remember.” Rilee picked up her wine glass and held it for a moment before setting it back down again.
“When I hit my first free-throw, in fourth grade, it was the first time I can remember my dad saying good job. I was good, and we won. I played club ball too. On the court it was easy to do things that made him happy.” She picked the wine glass up again and this time took a long sip.
“After we left, basketball meant scholarships. A way to get through college without his money. So, I’ve been playing a long time. ”
I wanted to say something else. To compliment her about the season, ask her if she had plans for next year, but every line led to Jackie.
The uncertainty of change from bringing my niece into whatever was happening between Rilee and I chilled me.
Instead, trying to avoid the uncomfortable ambiguity I blundered into more dangerous territory.
“Do you have much contact with him, your dad I mean?”
“I sent him a Christmas card one year and he dropped by unexpectedly, random nights, for months. He demanded I come to him for Christmas and New Years instead of being with Mom. It wasn’t about me at all, it was about Mom not having me.
I had to move. Now when I get the feeling he needs an update I send a postcard while I am traveling. ”
Finishing off her wine, Rilee stared at the bottom of the glass before setting it on the table. The color of her lips had deepened and my lips remembered the soft brush of her kiss in the coffee shop.
“Did the CPR thing work out?” Rilee asked. I’m sure it was meant as a change of subject to something more pleasant. Perfectly natural to ask about a common experience, but she drove right over the cliff I’d been avoiding.
Between my fingers the bread knot disintegrated into little pieces. “Not as yet.” Who was I kidding? “Well, no. The class didn’t help. I didn’t get the interview and the position was filled this week.” There was no other way to say it. No sugar or spin, just another closed door.
“Well, I am sorry. They don’t know what they are missing,” Rilee said, reaching out, her hand hovering for a moment a few inches from mine before settling on the edge of her plate. “You look like you’re done. Can I get that?”