I uncovered the one nearest me, hoping it wasn’t the pale green T-bird, and found the ’49 Cadillac-the first car he’d ever collected. I knew there was a Mustang somewhere, probably the most practical choice given the time of year, but I didn’t have the energy to dig it out. I got the key off the wall. The Cadillac would have to do.
It was only about three miles to Thetford Center and the grocery store where Leo worked-a nice walk if you were up to it. Not that the reasons for such a stroll were compelling. The town didn’t boast of much beyond the grocery and, at fifty miles an hour, it could be missed uldNotentirely during a good sneeze.
Leo was actually part-owner of the store, having tacked a full-fledged butcher shop onto its back to save it from bankruptcy. He had been operating in Hanover, New Hampshire, about twelve miles south and across the river, catering to the blue-blood barnacles attached to Dartmouth College. There, over the years, as head of the meat department at the town’s trendiest “food emporium,” he’d become the Walter Cronkite of viands-the area’s most trusted butcher. But he remained an employee. When he heard of the plight of the grocery store in Thetford Center, he took the chance that his clientele wouldn’t begrudge him the extra fifteen-minute commute. Apparently, they hadn’t-much to his, and the grocery store’s, profit.
But the thing that struck me wasn’t his uncanny marketing, but that he was now less than two minutes from our house. At this rate, in fifteen years he’d have his profession, his hobby, and his home all under one roof. I thought of our mother sitting in a single room surrounded by all her possessions. Maybe the two of them were more compatible than I’d thought.
He must have seen me from the window, because he came running out of the store in his blood-smeared apron and pounded me on the back, patting my chest with the other hand at the same time-a true meat lover. “Joey-Jesus, I’m glad to see you. You look lousy. How do you feel?” He looked over my shoulder. “The Caddy-good choice. How’s Mom?”
I muttered something to his back as he trotted ahead to open the door and usher me in.
He gave me a fleeting, sorrowful look. “I was sorry to hear about Frank, Joey. A lot of people felt the loss up here. He was a real favorite.” He closed the door and the subject with an expansive wave of his arm. “Look at this. Dynamite, huh?”
I had been here less than a month ago-I was never allowed home without visiting the store-and the place had been so stuffed with Christmas greenery, it had looked like Sherwood Forest. Now, it was Danish modern: blond wooden chairs, white counters, butcher block everywhere. I could still smell the sawdust and new paint.
“Christ, Leo, it looks like a furniture store.”
“Great, huh? I even have a play area for kids. Now the mothers can take their time.” He laughed. “And spend more.”
This last was addressed directly to several of those mothers, clustered in front of his meat display counter. They giggled like groupies. He dragged me around to the other side of the counter and shoved an apron at me. “This is my big brother, ladies. He comes to help me out sometimes for therapy-he’s a cop, you understand.”
He pointed me at the meat grinder and went to take care of his customers. Leo, in short doses, was good for the soul. How my mother put up with him, I could never guess.
We spent the afternoon back there, I making hamburger meat, cutting fat, or wrapping pieces in plastic for display, Leo hustling the trade, making the fancy cuts and keeping up a running patter of conversation. This had become a traditional part of my visits, both here and when he’d worked in Hanover. He was right. In a way, it was therapeutic. Our father had taught us to butcher, and to go through the memorized patterns of an earlier age was a relief fros ad im having to think.
Leo knew that. Beneath his marathon conversational style, he was a keen watcher and a champion depression squasher, acutely attuned to getting other people out of their slumps. I don’t know how much else he had on the ball, but he was a hell of a friend. Over the hours, I noticed him glancing at me occasionally, making sure I was all right.
At closing time, he looped his arm over my shoulders. “So, do the docs say you can booze it up?”
“Nope.”
“I was afraid of that. Girls?”
“That’s why Gail isn’t here.”
“Bummer. Well, I guess it’s home, then. Pizza tonight.”
“You ordering out?”
“Hell, no. Mom does the slicing and dicing and I do the rolling-that part’s rough on her wrists. It’s a group effort.”
He jogged off to his car-a ’65 Corvair-and I followed him back to the farm. The afternoon had been well spent. My headache was finally gone. I was as tired as I ever remembered feeling, but not exhausted. It had all the omens of a good night’s sleep.
Mother was indeed slicing and dicing when we got home, on a board laid across the arms of her wheelchair. The two of them worked well together. As usual, I stayed out of the way, my culinary prowess being rarely in demand.
After dinner, Leo put on his coat and beckoned to me to follow. We went across to the barn. He switched on the light and nodded at the Cadillac. “How did she handle?”
“Pretty well. I was surprised.”
“Yeah, I’ve updated her a little. The purists wouldn’t like it, but then they never drive the goddamned things either. You want to borrow her until you get another one?”
“No, Leo. I wouldn’t want to take the risk. I don’t seem to be leading the most sedate of lives right now.”
“So I hear. What are you going to do about a car?”
“I don’t know. I can bum rides until I find another one.”
“Pretty weak, Joey. You can’t borrow mine ’cause you’ll smack it up, but you can destroy someone else’s-and possibly its driver-with no problem. Did I get that right?”
“You’re a pain in the ass.”
“Right. Here are the keys.” He slapped them into my hand. “Remember, one scratch, one smudge, one single bird dropping, and we never speak again, okay?”
“Okay.” He covered the Corvair and revealed the green T-bird, the most garish of his collection. “You heading out?”
“Uh-huh. Heavy date.” He got in behind the wheel.
“The gas station owner?” He furrowed his brow, visibly pained. “Oh no, not in this. Tonight’s very high-class. I’ve found a ’ight="Dartmouth prof. She’s a Roman civilization nut.” The engine started up with a mellow, deep-throated roar. He grinned with pleasure. “See you later.”
I turned off the lights after he’d left and walked back to the house. It was a full moon, and the snow around me exuded an eerie pale-blue glow.
Mother was back at her station, the TV off, the radio burbling in the background. The single lamp on one of the tables made her white hair shine, setting her apart from the surroundings as if she were floating in the dark.
I sat in an overstuffed armchair across the room from her. “How was your afternoon?”
“You ought to know. He just lent me the Cadillac.”
“He’s a nice boy. A little strange, but I’m glad I have him. When you two were little, I never would have dreamed things would turn out like this.”
“You two really get along, don’t you?”
“He does all the work. I’m just a cranky old lady. I sometimes wish he would go out on his own so I could die peacefully, but that doesn’t seem to be the way it will happen.”
“You worried your dying will knock the pins out from under him?”
“Good Lord, no. I’m much more selfish than that. I would just like to get it over with, and that’s hard with him around-he’s so irrepressible.”
I smiled. “Is it that bad?”
“No. I suppose not.” She reached for something beside her and pulled out a large book. “It’s just that when everything else you’ve known is dying around you, you sort of feel left out. When I heard of your accident, I had Leo get this out. It’s your album.”
Over the years, she had built up separate photo albums for Leo and me. Typically, the only signs of her and my father were fleeting appearances in the background of some of our pictures. I got up and laid the book open on the table under the light.