The Shape of Night(4)
Donna crouches down for a closer look at Hannibal. “Do I see extra toes? Maine coon cat, right?”
“All twenty-six pounds of him.”
“Is he a good hunter?”
“Whenever he gets the chance.”
She smiles at Hannibal. “Then he is going to love it here.”
Two
I haul the pet carrier into the house and release the kraken. Hannibal emerges from the cage, glares at me, and lumbers off toward the kitchen. Of course that’s the first room he’d head for; even in this unfamiliar house, Hannibal knows exactly where his dinner will be served.
It takes me a dozen trips to the car to unload my suitcase, the cardboard boxes filled with books and bedding and kitchenware, and the two bags of groceries I purchased in the village of Tucker Cove, enough to last me for the first few days. From my Boston apartment, I’ve brought everything I need to sustain me through the next three months. Here are the novels that have been gathering dust on my shelves, books that I’ve always intended to read and will finally crack open. Here are my jars of precious herbs and spices that I feared I wouldn’t be able to find in a small Maine grocery store. I have packed bathing suits and sundresses as well as sweaters and a puffy down jacket, because even in summer, you can’t predict the weather in DownEast Maine. Or so I’ve heard.
By the time I’ve carried everything into the house, it’s well past seven and I’m thoroughly chilled by the mist. All I want now is to sip a drink by a crackling fire, so I unpack the three bottles of wine I’ve brought with me from Boston. When I open the kitchen cabinet to look for a glass, I discover that the previous tenant must have had similar cravings. On the shelf, beside a copy of Joy of Cooking, are two bottles of single-malt Scotch whiskey, one of them almost empty.
I put away the wine and take out the nearly empty bottle of whiskey instead.
It’s my first night in this grand old house, so why not? I’m home for the night, I’ve had an exhausting day, and on this damp and chilly evening, whiskey is perfectly appropriate. I feed Hannibal and pour two fingers’ worth of Scotch into a cut-crystal glass I find in the cabinet. Right there, standing at the kitchen counter, I reward myself with the first sip and sigh with pleasure. As I drink the rest of the glass, I idly flip through Joy of Cooking. The book is stained and grease-spattered, clearly much used and well-loved. On the title page is a handwritten inscription.
Happy birthday, Charlotte! Now that you’re on your own, you’ll be needing this.
Love, Nana
I wonder if Charlotte has realized she left behind her book. As I turn the pages, I see the many notes she’s written in the margins of recipes. Needs more curry powder…Too much work…Harry loved this one! I know how upset I’d be if I misplaced any of my beloved cookbooks, especially one given to me by my grandmother. Charlotte will certainly want this back. I’ll have to mention it to Donna.
The whiskey is performing its magic. As its heat flushes my face, my shoulders relax and my tension melts away. At last here I am in Maine, just me and my cat, alone in a house by the sea. I refuse to think about what has brought me to this place, nor will I think about who and what I have left behind. Instead I busy myself doing what invariably comforts me: cooking. Tonight I will make risotto because it is simple and filling and its preparation requires only two pots and patience. I sip whiskey as I sauté mushrooms and shallots and uncooked rice, stirring until the grains begin to crackle. When I add white wine to the pot, I also splash some into my now-empty whiskey glass. It’s not exactly the proper sequence for beverages, but who’s around to raise an eyebrow? I ladle hot broth into the pot and stir. Sip wine. Stir some more. Another ladle of hot broth, another sip. Keep stirring. While other cooks may lament the boredom of watching over risotto, that is exactly what I love about cooking it. You cannot rush it; you cannot be impatient.
And so I stand watch at the stove, stirring with a wooden spoon, content to focus on nothing more than what simmers on the burner. Into the pot I sprinkle fresh peas and parsley and grated Parmesan and the fragrance makes my mouth water.
By the time I finally set my meal on the dining room table, night has fallen. In Boston, nights are always polluted by city lights but here I see nothing beyond the windows, no passing ships, no pulsing beams from a lighthouse, just the black, black sea. I light candles, open a bottle of Chianti, and pour it into a glass. A proper wineglass, this time. My table setting is perfect: candlelight, a linen napkin, silverware flanking a parsley-dusted bowl of risotto.
My cellphone rings.
Even before I look at the name on the screen, I know who is calling me. Of course she is calling me. I picture Lucy in her apartment on Commonwealth Avenue, phone pressed to her ear, waiting for me to answer. I can see the desk where she’s sitting: the framed wedding photo, the china bowl filled with paper clips, the rosewood clock I gave her for her medical school graduation. As my phone rings again and again, I sit with fists clenched, nausea coiling in my stomach. When it finally stops, the silence is a blessed relief.
I take one bite of risotto. Although I’ve cooked the recipe a dozen times before, this spoonful is as tasteless as wallpaper paste, and my first sip of Chianti is bitter. I should have opened the bottle of prosecco instead, but it was not yet chilled and sparkling wine must always be thoroughly chilled, the bottle preferably submerged deep in ice.