He laid his head against hers, arms wrapped around, and I could see her convulse beneath the sheet, short quick tugs from crying, but no sound. I ran to her and put my arms around also.
Sheri, he said. Things could be easier for you now. Let them be easier.
But I hate him so much.
Maybe it’s because you love him. Something left over.
You’re a bastard.
That’s right. I’ll be whatever you need me to be.
Mom, I said. I’m sorry.
I could feel my mother convulse again, soundless. I held her as tightly as I could.
You’re sorry, she finally said. After how awful I’ve been to you. Well, I guess that decides it. Fuck. I can’t believe that piece of shit gets to have his way again. It’s not fair.
~ ~ ~
Steve made clam chowder with razor clams from Alaska. As big as his hands, brown shells brittle and sharp. I froze these last summer when I was in a hurry, he said. You dig after them with a shovel. At low tide. The sand is black. Then you’re on your knees or even lying down on the wet beach as you dig in with your hand, sometimes all the way to your shoulder. They’re unbelievably fast, and you’re grabbing at this hose which is their mouth and butt, called a siphon, but sometimes you grab the shell and it shatters and that’s how you get cut.
The siphon on each clam long and dirty cream. Steve wedged a shell apart, pulled out the meat, cleaned the stomach, rinsed, and then chopped the clam into small bits.
How do you know where to dig?
They leave a sign in the sand. Called a keyhole if it’s clear or a dimple if it’s already filled in, or even a doughnut if you can see sand humped up all around the hole.
And why do they have their mouths next to their butts?
Seems like a bad choice. I’d hate to wake up one day and find my butt next to my mouth.
I laughed and hit Steve in the arm. She was taking a shower after cleaning her room, so he was all mine at the moment.
See how the shells look like trees? Steve said.
What?
Like a cross-section, if you cut a tree trunk. They have rings, and those really are growth rings, just like on a tree.
Do the trees know about this?
Steve laughed. That could mean trouble for the clams. You’re right.
My mother emerged, her hair wet, wearing a long flannel shirt and no pants.
Whoa, Steve said. I like that look.
The shirt was held together by only one button, very low. My mother moving in for the kill. Come here, she said. Dinner will have to wait.
So I was left alone in the kitchen thinking of Shalini, this unbearable feeling of wanting to pull at the air. I wouldn’t see her until Monday, and it was only Friday night. I found her mother’s phone number and dialed.
Shalini’s father answered. This is late to be calling, he said. But I’ll allow it this once.
I miss you, I whispered when she came on the line.
Why weren’t you at school?
I wanted to explain to her, but it was all too enormous. I didn’t know where to begin. I don’t know, I said.
You don’t know?
Just call me back now and invite me for a sleepover tomorrow. We won’t tell my mother I called first.
Okay, but your family is very strange.
Yes.
I hung up the phone then, quietly, and waited. I could hear my mother and Steve having sex. I wanted to know what it was like, what they were doing. I tried to imagine it and couldn’t imagine anything. They sounded so desperate. I could only remember the feel of Shalini’s skin, her heat and breath.
The phone rang and I jumped, startled.
You are cordially invited to the Anand residence, Shalini said, then laughed. We await the pleasure of your company.
Yes, I said, loud enough for my mother to hear. Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow.
You sound like a robot.
Yes, we remember where. Thank you.
You’re so weird. My mother says you can come after lunch again, but we have to sleep this time. I was so tired last time.
You’re not going to sleep, I whispered. Not even five minutes.
Shalini laughed.
I sat in the kitchen alone afterward, still waiting, and felt hot and jittery, as if Shalini were right here. I wanted her in my mouth, some instinct to devour. I would swallow her whole and keep her inside. My hands were tingling and my legs felt weak. I could hardly breathe.
The moaning had stopped from my mother’s room, and soon they reappeared, my mother wearing jeans this time, her shirt buttoned. I wanted to ask, What did you do?
Who was that on the phone? my mother asked.
Shalini. She invited me for a sleepover tomorrow. Can I go? Please?
My mother smiled. Sure. And I’m sorry about what I said, sweet pea. I’m sure she is important and that you will remember her.
I could never forget her.
My mother kissed me on the forehead and then sat on a kitchen stool next to Steve. She smelled like him.
Steve wasn’t dicing the last clams. He spread them out wet and glistening on the cutting board, then dipped in egg and rolled in bread crumbs. Clam fritters, he said. Horse ovaries, before the chowder.
Horse ovaries? I asked.
Fancy French term for appetizers. He winked at me. This is hot culture you’re getting here.
My mother laughed.
He melted butter in our largest frying pan and laid in the breaded clams. Then he returned to the chowder. He was cooking onions and garlic in butter at the bottom of our largest pot. There are three secrets in every restaurant, he said. Do you know what they are? He lifted his eyebrows at me.
I don’t know.
You’re not trying.
I know, my mother said. The higher the price, the less food you get.
True, Steve said. True. But three secrets for every restaurant, cheap or expensive.
The food is from yesterday? I asked.
Butter, Steve said. Butter is secret number one. Then salt and sugar. Anything you order will have butter, and you’ll think it’s rich and worth the money you’re paying. Salt makes you taste it and want more. Sugar makes you think it’s subtle, that there are other flavors here. But even cardboard would taste good in butter, salt, and sugar. The three food groups.
Well, my mother said. That’s my last time going to a restaurant.
As if we ever go to restaurants, I said.
Watch it. And why can’t we go to restaurants now? This is when the fairy tale begins. Remember?
Steve was ignoring us, tossing the diced clams into the pot, handful after handful.
Well? my mother asked. Don’t I get to go to restaurants now?
Yes, I said. He’ll take us to restaurants.
But you don’t know, do you? There’s not really any deal. We’re acting like there’s a deal, but nothing has been agreed.
He’ll say yes.
But yes to what? What’s the deal? Because if I’m going to quit my job and go back to school, all on trust, trusting someone who ran away last time, what guarantee do I have?
You could have a contract, Steve said.
Steve was stirring the clams now, and I knew he always meant well, but I had this terrible feeling that everything was falling apart again.
Yes, my mother said. A contract.
She was looking up, thinking. It will say we get to live at his house rent-free and he’ll pay for school and everything else.
You can probably register the contract against his house in some way, like a mortgage, so that if he breaks the terms, you get the house.
My mother brightened at that idea, and I thought of my grandfather, in his broken car, all the windows smashed, every panel dented, thinking that his house would be next, that he’d come home one day from work after he was supposed to be retired and find she’d taken it apart piece by piece or set it on fire. I could imagine her doing that, setting fire to his house just to watch it burn.