Chapter 22
If anyone asks, I’m out doing fieldwork today. Practice for my base-specific boards. I started taking readings at the airfield, and then moved down to the shore. I was going back and forth between the two places all day, not on the main paths of course, and that’s why nobody ever ran into me. I also took a half-hour lunch break, but I don’t remember at exactly what time. It was a working lunch, you see. That’s why when the scanner did its random sweep of the island, my dogtag showed my location at my zizi’s kitchen.
What really happened was as follows. I got up early and did the General Base-Specific Education lab in about an hour and a half. The handbook allots a full eight hour day for this one, so possibly a, I did something wrong, b, I missed something, c, the person who wrote this section of the handbook never actually did the lab to see how long it took, or d, this person did test it, but thinks us students are dumb and will take much longer than any reasonable person should.
After looking over the directions on my zizi’s front porch with a bowl of farina and some blueberries and a dozed off guard, and noting the use of the word “nkots” and being repeatedly instructed to “take the winds peed,” I’ve narrowed the answers to either c or d with an adequate amount of certainty.
At least, enough certainty to make me shove the papers into my backpack to drag up to the lab at an appropriate hour, and then go inside to join everyone without a second thought, other than to maneuver my guard’s leg into the shade. That turns out to be more challenging than the lab, but he sleeps through it just as well.
I’d needed to free up my day because today is going to be a busy one at the meetinghouse and I wouldn’t miss it for the world. It was one of my favorite parts of my summer vacations ever since I was little.
Today is the day we jar the tomatoes. This past week, everyone’s plants have been bursting with deep red, plump fruit. So sweet, we’ve all been eating them straight off the bushes. My zizi says we should preserve them now when they’re at their best, and before everyone strips the plants clean.
All this morning, I’ve been waving as people bring over baskets, crates, and bags, ooing and ahhing as each person promenades up the path, tanginess wafting up along with them. The scent is so summery I couldn’t help but look up from my papers each and every time they passed by.
Inside, I find my zizi, about ten of my aunts, two of my uncles, one grandmother slouched in a chair, and an untold number of girl cousins. When I count, it’s not a huge number, but they still overflow the hall with their sounds and movement. It’s an excited buzz that matches the zingy smell and flashy color of the tomatoes, the yellow sunshine streaming in the windows and doors, and even the bugs that want a share of the juiciness, too. Today, everything matches.
I smile and walk into the cluster forming by the back counter. I start handling the tomatoes. The skins remind me of putting my hand on my aunts’ and cousins’ stomachs when they’re really pregnant. I tell Eleni this, and she says ok, Crusa.
“I just meant that they’re so beautiful.”
“You. Are weird. Where’s your boyfriend?”
“He’s not my boyfriend. And he’s sleeping outside.”
“Not him. Isn’t husband-man here again?”
“Oh, yes. Andrew is up at the base. He said he might stop by later.” They flew him in last night to do a story. I guess they really liked the one he did on my lobstering uncles, and they asked him to do a series.
“Can’t stay away, can he?”
I shrug. Eleni’s been a little touchy since her thing with the Farmington boy fell through. I don’t know why it did, but I wish it hadn’t. I hate seeing her so disappointed.
“He probably won’t come.” I pop a small round one in my mouth because it’s just calling out to be eaten and how can I not oblige. My tongue cups it and then moves it between my teeth. I bite and it bursts. Sweet, poppy, juicy, slippery jelly. I swear it tastes the same exact way as its color and smell and touch. Something floral under the zang and tongue-rolling sweet.
I tell all this to Eleni.
Fresh tomatoes off the vine are so different from the warmed, melded, darkened, rich flavors that we’ll make with them in the wintertime. It’s like the difference between a tree limb you just hacked off so it doesn’t fall on your house in the next windstorm versus the old stained mahogany of the chair that’s been handed down through so many generations only really old, really young, and really daring people will sit in it. Of course, I am absolutely in love with all, I also tell her.
My cousin asks me how we’re related.
Our noni in the chair hears that last bit and starts answering. We try not to laugh, but that’s no use after we see each other’s faces.
We spend all day working, and gossiping, and alternating between being very loving and very at wits end with each other. I’m happy because I get minimal marriage advice, although I do have to move away from Eleni as her tomatoes tend to squirt.
Covered in an extra skin of dried juice and sweat, it’s late afternoon when I go down into the cellar and feel the cool packed earth under my toes.
Nobody’s down here except for me and the jars. Rows and rows of red, safe inside their glass and brazen lids. I leave the door open for some light, but I’m still glad the biometer has a light-up display. I signed out this lovely piece of equipment because I needed to test water samples to go along with my lab this morning. It just so happens that it’s also useful for reading through glass jars to make sure there are no unwanted life forms that would fester and poison.
I aim the pinpoint at the first jar, push the button, and see an acceptable result displayed in green. I move along the rows, getting all greens. I’m glad. It’s always a shame to throw out a jar after all that work.
I can’t smell the tomatoes anymore, but like I said, their smell, color, and taste all match, so being surrounded by them is still wonderful. That’s why I like our glass jars better than the cans that the base sometimes donates to us. You never know what you’re going to get inside one of those, no matter what the label says. One winter, they gave us four crates of canned asparagus. We fed most of it to the animals.
By the time I get to the last row, there are more voices upstairs. People must be coming in for dinner. The rumble is a far off thunder, comforting.
I’m still getting green numbers when there are footsteps on the stairs. I tuck the biometer into the shelves and look up.
Andrew is hunched over, one foot on one stair and the other down on the next one. He sees me, and his eyes flit to the jars behind me. The device beeps. I don’t breathe. He stands up straight.
“I was never here,” he says.
“Alright.”
He turns away and walks upstairs, closing the door behind him. I hear him as he strikes up a jovial conversation with someone and they both move away. My chest falls in relief. I run my hand through my hair and go back to finish up as fast as possible.
I waddle along the very bottom shelf, and then I’m done. It’s getting chilly down here, but it’s nice after being so steamy all day. Being in a dark basement with a bunch of tomatoes and an illegally-used government-owned device is sort of creepy, though, so I can’t help but sprint when I go up the stairs.
I grab either banister and swing up the last few steps onto the narrow landing, and jam straight into someone who’s just walked in the door.
“Dah!” I try to keep my body between the person and the hand grasping the biometer while not falling down the stairs to my death. Luckily, the person has my elbows so I stay upright.
“Jesus! Sorry, I didn’t know you were right there. Are you ok?”
“Yes, I’m fine, thank you.” I take a breath. “Do you always have to pop out of nowhere?” Because of course it’s Lium that I just body-slammed.
“I didn’t come out of nowhere, I came from behind the door, where the rest of the people are. You came out of nowhere.”
“Yes, well, that was on purpos
e,” I mumble to myself, still trying to shield the device from him. Unfortunately, that particular hand really wants to push my hair back behind my ear. I do it with my left, awkwardly crossing my arm over my face, but it’s just not as satisfying to my nerves as with my right hand.
“What are you doing down here?”
“Nothing. Just counting how many jars we made today, for my zizi. What are you doing down here?”
“Me? Oh, she sent me down to get some cheese.”
My eyebrows raise at this delightful surprise. I squeeze my shoulders together in an attempt at trying not to let my smile broaden into manic territory.
“She did? That’s so nice.”
“It’s no problem.” He shrugs. He’s trying not to act wary.
“Oh, no, not you. Her.”
By his face, I believe I’ve confused him. And probably offended him. But I do that all the time. I go to explain, but that means I really do break out the big grin. I just can’t help it. I’m so proud.
“That’s so nice she asked you, I mean, because she only lets certain people do things for her. She’d never let a guest do anything. Plus, she never asks people she doesn’t like for favors. And, she has to trust you to do whatever it is right, which in her view is very rare for a male. Do you see what this means?” I squeal.
“Uh…”
“Welcome to the family, Lium!”
Lium looks a little dazed.
I laugh at him. This is working out well for me and my illegal device. There’s no way he’s up to being sharp enough to notice anything.
“Come on, now, you don’t want to make her wait. Let’s go do your first chore!”
I’m hopping up and down. I can tell he thinks it’s a little much, but he seems entertained by it, so I allow myself the indulgence. It’s worth it to get out my nervous energy.
I motion for Lium to go down the stairs first, and he does so, cautiously. Perhaps he’s afraid I’ll attack from behind. As it is, I follow him down, barely containing myself. I watch him from the bottom of the stairs as he goes to find the cheeses. I want to give him space for his first errand. He looks over his shoulder at me and I attempt to nod serenely in encouragement. He laughs like he’s been holding something in. It’s a nice sound. Brings the noise down here.
“There’s a lot of cheeses,” he says from the corner. Something falls on him. I don’t make a peep.
“She probably wants the hard round one on the left, there.”
“This one?”
“Yup.” It’s her usual for finishing dishes. Also, even if it isn’t the actual one she asked for, it’s still a very good one. Shows good taste and rational problem solving ability. She’ll appreciate that as much as the correct cheese.
As he comes back through the dark, I clasp my hands behind my back and then throw one arm out to let him up the stairs first. He crosses in front of me and still looks a mixture of bemused and confused, so I just can’t help teasing. I think I’ve been touched by a teasing muse. I flutter my eyelashes.
He laughs again, and a flush goes through me. Which, given today, means I break out into a cold sweat. He also turns darker but it doesn’t seem to bother him as much.
“So, why is it that you’re down here, again? A lesser man might think you’re hiding from him on purpose, but I know that’s not it. Ah. Yes, it is. You’re hiding from lovebird number two, aren’t you.”
“No,” my voice cracks. Forefathers.
“You don’t want to marry him, just say so. I’ll take you away from here.”
“Uh huh.”
“I’m serious, I would. We can hatch an escape plan now.” He’s slightly insane, I think.
“Not so loud, please,” I say, throat pinched and scratchy.
“Oh, good idea. So they don’t hear us plotting, love. When do you want to leave? You’re a girl. Do you need to pack your shoes first?”
“No. Lium. I don’t have that many shoes. And I don’t want to leave. I want to stay here, and,” I have to shimmy to get the next word out, “marry,” there, “Andrew.” God, why is he making me do this?
He taunts me some more, “Why? Because your auntie says so? You have no sense of adventure, little Crus.”
I put my free hand on the boy’s chest, stopping him where he is. He looks like he’s loving it, which makes me madder. I pivot around him, up three steps. The view is spectacular. I wish I were this tall in real life. Then people would think twice before telling me I’m wrong to my face.
Lium is distracted by my hand. I scowl and wipe it on my tomato-spattered shorts.
“That’s not why. This is how people live.”
“And if you don’t marry this guy, you’ll die? How romantic.”
“Don’t make fun of me for taking marriage seriously, Lium. In case you’ve forgotten, I have to actually do it very soon.”
“I remember. I wasn’t making fun of you,” he says, like he no longer relishes the fight. Maybe he feels bad for getting me all worked up. Roughly, he tells me, “I just think it’s too fast.”
“That’s because it is.”
“It is?”
“Yes. Why are we even talking about this? Both Andrew and I are marrying each other because we have to, and we have to now, and that’s that.”
“Is that really what you think?”
“Yes.” For some reason, there’s a lump in my throat. I wish Lium would say something instead of just standing there.
“He wants to marry you, Crus.”
“Exactly.”
“Do you love him?” he asks, like it’s a question with a million answers and he wants to know them, no matter what. It throws me off. I can’t piece together my usual response. Not with my head tailspinning into TAG team mode and his copper-shaving eyes cutting through the dimness like that.
Lower, he says, “Did he tell you he loved you, at least?”
“No. And I won’t ask him to.”
First there’s confusion. And horror, followed by anger. So much anger, that I don’t expect Lium to be nice to me at all.
“Any man would say yes to anything you asked for.” I regard his open face.
About a thousand thoughts come crashing to a halt about as gracefully as I did against this confusing, infuriating boy a minute ago. What the hell was that? We continue to stare at each other in the stillness. I suddenly feel I might cry.
“You’re all safe then, because I never ask for anything,” I cross my arms.
My heart goes black. That’s the only way I can describe it, as I realize what I’ve done.
We both look down at the lump of plastic and blinking lights in my right hand, which is pressed between us. My stomach drops, and I clench my teeth. I don’t breathe.
My mind blanks because deep down I know what kind of trouble this means and I can’t think about it. I just go cold.
Then, comes the panic. The shadowy basement isn’t cozy or hazy anymore. Instead it’s sharp, with the bitter smatterings of distinct points of darkness.
“What’s that?”
“I don’t know,” I choke out.
Silence pounds in my ears. Then, there’s a hand on my cheek, so light that I don’t even jump. Unsure, I follow the hand with my gaze. I push all the way up the arm, shoulder, neck, face, metal eyes. They’re big and luminous. And not hard at all. I want to dive into them, which is impossible and crazy.
“Hey, hey. I won’t tell,” he says. He’s smart, if he figured everything out so fast. I should tell him that. But I’m afraid all I can do is stand there in a silent, unmoving prayer.
“I won’t tell, Crus,” he repeats.
I stop myself from reminding him that he should. Because he should. I don’t like being caught. I hate the hot angry tears that fill my lids, and spill.
He comes close, and in my fog there is the press of lips on my cheek. For a long moment, then they go, leaving my skin buzzing.
My head, too.
“Give it to me.”
I stumble back, catch myself on the next stair.
One hand busy holding my shoulder, Lium holds out the other one. “I’ll get rid of it. I’m pretty sure this is part of my job,” he softens. I wipe at my eyes, and hesitate.
I check over my shoulder. “I should put it back.” I wouldn’t feel right, not putting it back, precisely as it was.
Lium insists, though, “And take a second chance at being caught? No way. You got it out clean, you used it, now make it disappear. You did get out clean, right?”
“Yes,” I say, almost annoyed.
“Then hand it over.”
With something that’s not really regret, I do. It goes into a deep pocket inside the leg of his pants. I can’t say I feel lighter. More like hollower.
“Now, let’s go do something with this cheese.”
I nod, and walk under his arm when he opens the basement door.
The next few days, we don’t speak of it. And though I always know right where he is, it’s hard to look at him. I find myself overcompensating for this, meeting his level gaze with one of my own, too hard, too often. Despite not being sure what his is saying.
It’s when he’s left the meetinghouse, and I’m in my room with a candle and a book, pining after my graveyard hideout, apologizing to the stars in my window frame for not admiring them all tonight, after he thinks I’ve gone to bed, that I work it out. That I was right, I do trust him. And it worries me.