Florida(25)

Amanda breathed. Her anger was always quick to flare itself out. She came slowly over the distance and hugged her friend, always so tiny, but so skinny these days, her bones as if made of chalk. I’m just frustrated, she said into Genevieve’s crown. You know we’re mostly fine with it, especially since you’re letting us drink all of your champagne.

Genevieve leaned against Amanda and rested for some time there.

Oh, my. Well, hello ladies, Grant said, having come down the stairs silently. His lanky arms suspended him in the doorway, his eyes lovelier for the sleep still in them. So beautiful, her husband, Amanda thought. Scruffy, the light on the flecks of white at his temples. Unfair how men got better-looking as they aged. He’d been a little more beautiful than Amanda when they had met; but maybe he only masked his beauty under all the hemp and idealism then.

When the women stepped apart, Grant said, Even better idea. Let’s take it all upstairs, and he winked.

Big fat perv, Amanda said, and kissed him, her hands briefly in his curls, and went out into the driveway, walking a circle around the dead bird before setting off on a run down the hill toward the village.

Genevieve and Grant listened to Amanda’s footsteps until they were gone. Grant smiled. Genevieve smiled. Grant raised an eyebrow and nodded upward toward the room under the eaves. Genevieve bit her bottom lip. She looked down the lawn; Leo was all the way past the pool, in the cherry orchard, huddling over something in the grass. She looked at Grant wryly, and he held out his hand.

She moved toward him, but before they touched, they heard a step heavy on the stairs. Manfred.

Fuck, Grant mouthed.

Later, Genevieve mouthed. She clicked the gas on the stovetop, pulled eggs from the refrigerator. The flush had already faded from her cheeks when she cracked them in the pan.

Grant set the espresso maker on the stove; Manfred entered the room. His hair was silvery and swept back, and he carried himself like a man a foot taller and a hundred pounds lighter.

The old swelling in Genevieve’s chest to see him in his crisp white shirt and moccasins. He sat at the scrubbed pine table in its block of sun and lifted his fine face to the warmth like a cat.

Darling, she said. How do you feel today?

I’m having difficulty, he said softly. Things aren’t coming back.

She measured out his pills into her hand and poured sparkling water into a glass. It hasn’t been three weeks yet, she said. Last time you got it all back at around three weeks. She handed him the pills, the glass. She pressed her cheek to the top of his head, breathing him in.

Eggs are burning, Grant said.

Then flip them, she said without looking up.



* * *



—

The bees above Leo were loud already. Grass cold with dew. Leo was careful with the twigs. He wouldn’t look at the vines beyond; they were too much like columns of men with their arms over one another’s shoulders. Beyond were tractors and the Frenchmen in the fields, too far to pluck meaning out of their words: zhazhazhazhazha. There was a time before Manda came, and after his father returned from the hospital looking like a boiled potato, when there had been a nice old lady from the village who had cooked their dinners for them. She’d let Leo stay some nights with her when his mother couldn’t stop crying. Her pantry had been long and cold and lined with shining jars and tins of cookies. She’d had hens in her yard and a fig tree, and she got cream from her son. That’s where he’d go if Manda didn’t take him when she left. With the thought, his body buzzed with worry as if also filled with bees. Manda was his beautiful giraffe. He’d set all the rest of them on fire if he could. When he was finished with his work, he went back up the hill. In the kitchen, Grant was drinking coffee and reading a novel, and Leo’s father was slowly cutting a plate of eggs to bleed their yellow on a slab of ham. There was yolk on his chin. Leo took the poker and shovel from the great stone hearth. There was a tiny cube of cheese in the corner that Leo looked at for a long time and imagined popping in his mouth, his molars sinking through the hard skin into the soft interior. He resisted. Outside, the falcon was heavier than he imagined it’d be. He had to rest three times even before he passed his mother doing cat pose beside the pool. She always tried to get him to do it with her, but he didn’t see the point. Corpse pose was the position he preferred to do himself. In the orchard again, he put the bird on the pile of twigs that he’d built. He stood back, holding his breath. The wind came and the bird’s feathers ruffled, and he watched, feeling the miracle about to bloom. But the wind died again and the bird remained stiff on the nest he made for it, and it, like everything, was still dead.



* * *



—

As soon as they were in the car, Amanda felt lighter. She didn’t like to think this way, but there was something oppressive about Manfred. A reverse star, sucking in all light.

We may as well get lunch in the city, Genevieve said as they wound through the village.

I can’t believe we’re going to Paris, Amanda said. She thought of paté, of crêpes, neither of which she’d ever had served by an actual French person. Her wet hair filled the car with the scent of rosemary. Leo in the backseat flared it, eyes closed.

You’ve never been to Paris? Genevieve said. But you were a French major in college.

Those were the years their friendship had gone dark. Genevieve had been shipped up to her fancy New England college, had gone quiet among her new friends. Amanda had been stuck at UF, pretending she hadn’t grown up down the street. They reconnected a few years after graduation when Genevieve took a job in Florida, though Sarasota barely qualified.