Sugaring off, p.18
Sugaring Off, page 18
“How’s my picture coming?” Tips down the spiral binding of her notepad maybe a millimeter before she snaps it back up, and he smiles, shaking his head. “That good, huh?”
“You really think it’s page after page of you?”
“’Course. Rats aren’t coming out. Nothing else worth drawing.”
“Well, I just saw one. And the vixen.” Holds up her phone, can’t keep the smile out of her voice. “One kit keeps sneaking out on her own, and the mom comes after her, drags her back in.”
“How do you know it’s a girl?”
“I don’t, for sure. I just think it might be.” Looks over as his hand finds hers, tip of his thumb following the shape of her bones, exposed in her fingerless gloves. She pulls free to cover his mouth with her hand as some dirt trickling down from the opening of the den catches her eye.
The kit tumbles out, losing traction halfway and sliding sideways to the snow, a scrabble of paws as she rights herself and heads up the slope toward the bushes, unsteady on new legs. As they watch, the vixen follows—Owl feels Cody start slightly at the speed and size of her, emerging from a hole in the ground with a mother’s panic, catching the kit in a second, again by its scruff, and trotting back. The kit dangles without resistance, blue eyes preternaturally bright, passing over the blind. Then back inside, another trickle of dirt marks their passage.
When they’ve waited long enough that it seems like the foxes won’t be coming back out anytime soon, Owl lowers her hand from Cody’s mouth. “Still think they’re rats?”
He keeps looking. “I want one.”
She ducks her head, silent laughter. “I don’t think they make great pets.”
“They’d get used to me after a while. One of those babies could live in my pocket.”
“Babies grow up.”
“Whatever. I’d be an awesome fox dad. I’d give them treats and stuff, and they’d love me.”
“You’re going to keep bugs and dead mice in your pockets? Because that’s what they eat.”
“What the hell—why do you have to piss on my dreams? I just want to walk around in a coat full of fox puppies, okay?” Owl laughs harder, and he pretends to tackle her. The two of them ending up rocking back in an embrace, nearly nose to nose, Owl kissing his smile before she can worry what might happen if Seth chose this time to come up the path. As Cody starts to get to his feet, he says, “I’m staying tonight.”
“I’ll be out.” Doesn’t want to let go of his hand as he steps away. “Late.”
Glass maple-leaf bottles rest on their sides along the sugar-kitchen countertops, amber liquid drained of its glow in the dark room, firelight flickering through the partially ajar doorway.
It’s approaching one a.m. Together, they’re a dark mound in the cot, some clothing discarded onto the floor.
It’s colder tonight, but the blankets form a cave roof above them, pulled high to trap their mingled body heat, Cody on top, still in his T-shirt, though he coaxed hers over her head a few seconds ago, Owl helping, glad to be rid of another barrier between them, their solar plexuses taut against each other, rising in tandem. She’s aware of his fingers sliding beneath the straps of her gray sports bra as he kisses her throat, her collarbone, as she works his shirt up, just knowing she wants to be skin to skin, wants to follow wherever he’s leading.
No plan on her part, no calculated dividing of territories, how much she’ll surrender. The stopping place comes to her as naturally as the start: a tightening in her gut, a sense of the ground falling away when she realizes her jeans are open, his kisses are on her stomach, and, in a rush, she needs to feel solidness beneath her, some control.
She rolls to the side, fist beneath her chin. Straddling her, he watches a second, then drops onto his back beside her, one arm behind his head, looking at the shadowed eaves, the ductwork of the exhaust system leading upward to the cupola.
She feels the need to speak first. “I’m not . . . on anything.” When he doesn’t answer: “I’ve never been to a doctor to get on the pill, I mean.”
“Didn’t think you had.” His voice is hoarse, unreadable, and she turns her head to look at him, wondering if he’ll expand upon that at all. “It’s good, probably.” Gaze still following that pipeline to the stars. “You know when to slow down.”
Doesn’t feel like much of a feather in her cap, over here cooling and half-clothed, compared to the hot surge of moments ago: all too easy not to think, to let her animal self cleave to the current.
He rolls onto his side to face her, resting his hand on the dip of her waist, firm pressure. “Season’s almost over. Seth said.”
She nods, wondering if this is the opening of a discussion she isn’t ready to have. Thinks again of the message previews on his phone. “Your mom will be glad you’re back.” Testing.
Silence. “I don’t live with my mom.” Tone near disgust, he jackknifes into a sitting position so quickly it startles her, makes her prop herself up on her elbow, watchful now. “I moved out as soon as I turned eighteen. Nothing the state could say then.”
Shrugs, touch of defensiveness. “I wasn’t sure. Where do you live, then?”
“Got a place. Had a place. With a couple buddies of mine.” Shakes his head. “I told you. After this, I’m gone.” After this—as in the farm, the season, and them, together in this bed. Glances over, eyes heavy-lidded, trace of insolence on his lips, taking her in: bare shoulders, pale hair a snarl against the pillowcase, blanket falling almost exactly where he last kissed. “Does that bother you?”
Emotions a tight coil, making her frown, consider, prop her head on her hand. “I don’t know. This is where I should be. My home.”
“How do you know?” No sarcasm now. “You haven’t been anywhere. Just your dad’s and here. How can you know this is the right place? Maybe it’s the only time you haven’t been treated like crap, gotten your ass kicked.”
“No. It’s more. I can’t explain it. I just feel it.” A fleeting nakedness in his eyes before he faces away, firelight casting his flank in a warm gleam, muscle molded beneath flesh, flesh stretched over ribs. She sits up straighter. “Give me your number. Then it won’t matter where you go. We can always text.” Waits without breathing.
He gets off the cot, circles to where their clothes lie together. “Can’t. Broke my phone.”
“Let me see. Maybe we can fix it.”
“Yeah, no. Screen’s smashed.” Pops his head through the collar of his T-shirt, shrugging into his flannel. “I trashed it. Like, a while ago.”
And now she’s certain of what she saw, the flash of the phone dropping down into the basin, no way to call him on his lie without admitting that she searched his pockets. Looks at him levelly as she rests back, gaze straying to the row of empty glass syrup bottles lined up on the windowsill, various sizes and shapes they’ve offered over the years. “Have you ever even had any?” Thinks out loud, sees him glance over. “Our syrup.”
“No.”
She pushes the covers back, climbing out. “You’re making it. You have to at least try some.”
She goes into the sugar kitchen, switching on the bulb over the stove range, pulling a stainless-steel pot from a cabinet, a candy thermometer from the drawer. At the shelves, where last season’s leftover stock is stored, she chooses one of the souvenir-sized maple-leaf bottles. Empties it into the pot and puts it on the heat, waiting until small bubbles become boiling white foam. Checks the thermometer, waiting until the temperature hits 235 degrees.
Turning the heat off, she grabs a shallow pan and goes through the main room. “Give me your shirt.”
He pulls his flannel off and tosses it to her—she could’ve grabbed her own hoodie, but she’s coveted this—and she wraps herself in it, the fabric smelling strongly of smoke, both maple and cigarette, boy deodorant, that one-note soap. She opens the door a short way, making sure the cabin is still dark before stepping outside and kicking at the snow alongside the foundation until the crust breaks open and she can get at the looser powder beneath, packing a few inches into the bottom of the pan before slipping inside.
Cody follows her into the kitchen, leaning against the plywood center table to watch as she uses a spoon to drizzle lines of hot syrup over the snow, where it solidifies instantly, becoming shiny and smooth. Owl wraps a strip around the spoon, hands it to him. “Tire sur la neige. Sugar on snow?”
“Okay.” He looks at it.
“You eat it. Like taffy.” Holds it out farther until he takes it; he gives it another hard look, then takes a quick bite, and she lets him consider while she scoops up a strip of her own and eats it with her fingers. Checks back, and sees he’s devoured the rest of it. “Doesn’t taste like the fake maple they sell. Part of it’s boiling with wood fire, instead of gas. The smoke adds to the flavor.”
He takes another strip—eats it whole—then another, leaving the snow clean, and tosses the spoon into the pan, resting his elbows on the tabletop. “We make good syrup.”
First time she’s ever heard him take ownership of any of it, including himself in the process from tree to table, and she smiles a little. “Now you know.”
22
Owl sleeps for three hours, hard and dreamless, after their hands had fallen away from each other and their bodies spooned together, her forehead pressed against his bare back, drifting off to the rise and fall of his breathing. Her internal clock wakes her roughly an hour before she’d get up for school on a weekday, so she doesn’t hurry, pulling on her jeans, stepping out into the dusky light of the yard, noticing a bare patch of dead grass for the first time, at the center of the drive, where the sun falls hard at midday.
Walks up the cabin steps, pressing the door gently shut behind her, depositing her boots on the rack before heading for the stairs, mind registering the smell in the kitchen a half second too late to warn her: brewing coffee.
“Owl.”
She stops. Judging by the force in Seth’s voice, he’s already said it at least twice, from too far down the hallway for her to hear, a mistake he never makes.
She watches as he comes into the living room, cane in hand, dressed in jeans and zip-front sweatshirt, sleeplessness written in the lines of his face, sockets of his eyes, unshaven jaw. Takes her in with a sort of stunned consternation as she stands there, caught in her stocking feet, Cody’s flannel bagging down to midthigh.
“What’s going on?” Crosses the rug, stopping at his chair. “What were you doing outside?”
Again, obvious time to lie, to say Visiting the foxes or Snowshoeing. But Cody’s shirt, right here in front of him, impossible to miss; and her hair, loose, unbrushed, like she never wears it—all of which he’s staring at with increasing understanding, emotion traveling the range of his face. Her mouth tries to form any word, any way out, but excuses leave her and she simply stares back.
“What is this?” Tosses his hand out, as if to jerk the flannel between thumb and forefinger. “This his?”
Holly comes out of the bedroom, tugging her robe on, expression watchful as she walks up behind Seth.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Seth says without turning. “Heard her coming inside.” His gaze doesn’t leave Owl. “She was out in the sugarhouse.”
Holly shakes her head. “You spent the night out there?”
Owl looks between them. No safe haven. “Yes.”
She watches the news crest, break over them, Holly’s eyes wide, turning to Seth, who’s gone still, tense, knuckles white around the cane head. Someone needs to speak—pressure builds as the pause drags on—but Owl’s answered, doesn’t know what could come next but apologies, and something in her pushes back against that, full-force.
Seth starts for the front door, Holly saying, “Wait—”
“You don’t need to.” Owl’s tone is barely controlled, heart rate picking up, as she follows him outside, down the steps.
Seth doesn’t look back, stopping only when the sugarhouse door opens. Cody watches them, zipping his coat to the top as he gazes at Seth expressionlessly, unsurprised, eyes slightly swollen from sleep.
Owl stops where she stands, raising her voice to Seth: “Don’t talk to him about it. Talk to me.”
Seth jerks around to Owl, their gaze locking in an interminable moment. Then he says to Cody, “Get back to Wallace’s,” his voice low, flat.
A pause, then Cody straightens from the doorframe, eyes traveling over the two of them impassively before he steps inside, never speaking.
Owl watches as Seth walks past her, and she follows him into the cabin, where Holly leans against the counter, arms tightly folded.
Owl stops at the table, throwing her hands down, part disgusted, part despairing, as she watches him. “Are you going to talk?”
Seth stops, head low, close to the shoulder, jaw working; looks at her. “Can’t believe you’d do this.”
“Do what?” She signs as well, dashing her right forefinger down her left palm, exasperation, hands sinking at Seth’s withering expression, one he’s never pinned on her. “Which part?”
“Jesus, Owl! Come on! You’re not stupid. Though you got me wondering, pulling this crap.”
Holly’s trapped midpoint between them, choosing to talk to Owl first, deliberately pitching her voice down when she says, “You never said it was like this.” She casts a sidelong, entreating look at Seth, who’s angled himself unsteadily to stare at her. “Owl, go up to the loft.”
“You knew about this?” His voice unbelieving.
“I knew something, yeah. Not this.” Sees her niece not moving, says sharply, “Go to your room. I need to think.” Turns her back on them as she bangs the kettle down on the burner.
Owl wavers, speechless—has only been sent to her room here maybe twice, ever—but goes up the stairs—will not run—stiff and powerless. Once she’s in this soundless space, whatever they say next will be lost to her, and they damn well know it, too.
She jerks the curtains shut behind her—deprived of even a door to slam—then sits on the bed, one leg bent beneath her, squeezing her pillow before punching it down, wondering how far Cody is along the frozen roadside now, if he’s feeling at all like this—snared, dragged to the ground.
Shoves the pillow aside, grabs her drawing supplies and tosses them onto the bed, flips to a blank page. Opens her camera roll and starts sketching hard, none of the usual care taken in shading and detail, forming something entirely from broad strokes and remorseless lines.
It’s nearly noon when Holly finds Owl lying on her bed, doing homework. Holly nods toward downstairs, and they go together, Owl catching a flash of motion as the front door shuts the moment that her vision clears the slant of the eaves. Seth, going out.
Holly pats the table, where she’s made Owl a sandwich; she stands at the sink for a minute, washing the few lunch dishes left behind by herself and Seth, giving Owl a chance to tuck into her food after going all morning without breakfast.
Holly folds a careful line in the dishcloth, drapes it over the neck of the faucet; then she turns, gazing at Owl, who hasn’t looked away from her aunt’s back the whole time, toying with her empty glass.
“I didn’t realize. When I asked if you liked him and you said yes, it just didn’t occur to me . . . I had no idea this was a mutual thing. That you two were . . .” Shakes her head, still seeming dazed. “It was the first crush you’ve ever told me about. I guess I didn’t think things would move this fast.”
“Why is everyone so surprised?” At Holly’s questioning look: “That he likes me back.”
“Who else have you told?”
“Just Aida.”
Holly sighs, rubs her forehead. “It’s not that I don’t want you to have crushes or . . . date, but I wish you’d done this differently. Sneaking out? That’s not you.”
Owl shakes her head slowly, sifting through thoughts, motivations. “I wanted to be with him. You wouldn’t have said yes.”
Holly stares, lets out a short laugh. “Well, you’re being honest, I’ll give you that.” Joins her at the table, gathering her cardigan over her front, a pained crease across her forehead. “Did you use protection?”
“We didn’t do it.”
“Owl.”
“It’s true. We slept together. It was sleep.” Gazes straight back at Holly’s doubtful look. “We kissed and stuff, but we didn’t . . .” Uses a shake of her head to brush off the rest, trying not to think of the early hours of morning, after she’d dumped the snow into the sink to melt and they’d returned to the bed, how the sports-bra barrier had seemed to cease mattering, how it had eventually joined her shirt in the pile on the floor. Another first. “We weren’t trying to hurt anybody. It wasn’t about anybody else. It was about us.” Looks toward the door, where she last saw Seth vanish.
Holly doesn’t speak, gazing at Owl as if seeing someone else sitting there, vaguely familiar, half forgotten; then she leans back, legs stretched to brace her bare feet against the bottom rung of the opposite chair, looking out the window at the pale-gray sky for so long that Owl wonders if she’s free to go. “I do get it, you know.” Expression mild. “My parents never wanted me to be with Seth. They always made it about them, not us.”
Owl sits slowly forward, hopeful relief at being pulled closer, ready for another scrap of Holly’s life that came before. “Why didn’t they like him?”
“Lots of reasons. White. Army. Not an Indian’s best friend, historically speaking, you know?” Wry smile, gone in an instant. “They wanted me to marry within the tribe, like my sisters did. Even had a guy they kept pushing me toward, son of a friend.” Glances at Owl. “No interest, of course.” Owl smiles hesitantly, waiting. “When I started college, I was still living with them on the res, waitressing double shifts, doing classes part-time. That’s when I met Seth. I put off bringing him home, and when I finally did . . . it went as badly as I was scared it would. Mom just won’t—” Seals the words with a shake of her head. “She never gave her blessing. Wouldn’t witness our vows, none of it. We had a fight. And that was the end of Mom and me.” Silence. “I was so sick of them not respecting my choices. But my sisters can do no wrong, you know? Because they keep Mom happy, popped out those grandbabies. They all still live a couple streets away from each other, you know. My kid sister, Lottie, messages me sometimes. Says it’s nice. Always sends me online invites to family things. My grandmother’s ninety-fifth birthday party, last year. As if Mom’s going to just welcome us through the door.” Holly shrugs. “My parents said I was going to lose myself, get whitewashed. Forget who I am, where I came from. I gave up my friends on the res, left school to move out here. So maybe they were right.”
