History of Wolves(49)

“He was sleeping. It’s good to let him sleep.”

“But he’s hungry now?”

“I think he could eat a horse,” Leo told her. “And since he got to sleep all day, he’s awake now. He’s awake and telling stories.”

“That’s good?” Her voice splintered.

“That’s good.”

He took her by one hand, walked her to the couch, sat her down. Then he crouched in front of her, kissing her face—over and over. He kissed her cheeks, the wrinkles on her forehead, her freckled eyelids. She was still worrying the cell phone with a thumb, but I could sense something in her smoothing out, like a hand over bedcovers after a long bad night. I hadn’t seen Leo like this before, and it was mesmerizing to watch. He brushed the hair from her face, the way I’d seen Patra brush the hair from Paul’s. He said to her, softly, “So I figure, let’s have breakfast, right? Let’s start tomorrow early. It’s not written anywhere that we can’t do that.”

“It’s tomorrow?” Patra asked.

“Oh, yes. Oh, yes.”

“And we’re just having breakfast?”

“Pancakes and syrup and strawberries and milk.”

At that, my mouth filled with saliva, and Leo went into the kitchen and started pulling out pots and pans. He paused to put in a CD. “A little music?” he asked over his shoulder. And then something classical with strings bloomed steadily into the room. Patra, who’d been glancing at Paul’s open doorway, set her cell phone on the coffee table.

Once the phone was out of her hands, Leo started to relax. “Well, bye Linda!” he said to me across the kitchen island. Never looking in my direction, taking for granted that I was on my way out the door. His eyes were fixed on Patra, on her strange jittery walk from couch to hall.

“Maybe don’t bother him now,” he called to her, a pot in hand.

“But he’s awake?”

“He’s fine.”

“He’s awake?” She looked back at Leo.

“He woke up a few minutes ago. He must be hungry. He asked for breakfast.”

So breakfast is what Leo made. He turned on all the lights in the main room and kitchen, went around flicking every switch. He filled a pot with water to warm the syrup bottle and, within a minute or two, had stirred a golden batter, which he ladled in bubbly, spreading pools onto the skillet. As he did this, as he dabbed at the pancakes with the tip of his spatula, he kept quietly suggesting that I leave. “There’s your check, Linda,” he said. “Thanks so much, again.”

“No problem,” I said, as the warm, doughy scent of pancakes filled the room.

“It was a huge help to have you, you know. So, thanks. A huge—huge—help.”

He smiled without looking up, his forehead shining with steam.

“Let me do something,” I offered. “Let me pour the milk.”

“That’s really nice of you! But I’m sure you’re tired.”

“Not really,” I said.

“You’ve already done so much.”

“You don’t have enough batter for me?” I asked.

“It’s not that. It’s just that I bet your parents are waiting for you.”

“I’m getting in the way?”

“No.” A muscle in his jaw clenched. “Look, we’d love to have you stay, but—”

I met his bluff. I lined up four perfect glasses on the counter, opened the milk carton, and filled all four. I lifted a stack of plates from the cabinet and carried them to the table. As I did, the cats arrived from nowhere and bore down on my ankles with the sides of their faces. Steam from Leo’s skillet fogged up all the windows. I could no longer see out.

Good-bye woods, I thought. Good-bye world. The pancakes were sizzling and the cats were meowing and the water was boiling rapidly around the glass syrup bottle. Classical music webbed back and forth through the air. I laid out knives and forks, paper napkins, a plate of sliced butter. When Leo’s back was turned, Patra leaned into Paul’s room, holding onto the molding with her hands. Then she pulled her head out, padded around the living room on bare feet, straightened pillows, restacked books, folded a blanket.

Abruptly, she turned to Leo and me in the kitchen. “What a good idea. Right? Breakfast.”

“And Linda’s here!” she added, coming over and giving me a hug, pushing herself in so I could feel her pointy chin tucked over my shoulder. Little Patra, shorter by an inch than I was—all limbs, all cool and clammy skin in her T-shirt. Then, fast as that, she moved away, kissed Leo on the back of the neck. “Leo, the Larger,” she said on tiptoe, and I could see that some energy she could barely contain was coursing through her. All her movements had a jerky, outsize exuberance, as if she were struggling to contain something inside herself. She hastily rinsed the spatula Leo had used for mixing. She washed the mixing bowl, swiped at the counter with a paper towel, and at some point she lifted an egg absentmindedly from the carton and squeezed until it cracked open.

“What am I doing?” she asked, holding up her glistening, gooey hand. But she seemed to be laughing. “What a mess!” she exclaimed, rubbing her hand with a dish towel, vigorously wiping each of her fingers. Then she took a deep, steadying breath and sat down at the table. “Okay, I’m starving,” she said. “Where are those pancakes?”