Heathcliff Redux. Lily Tuck

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СКАЧАТЬ me out. Upstairs, I could hear the twins running from room to room, playing a noisy game, and I longed for something else—something different.

      Cliff came to the door of the kitchen and stood watching me as I was starting to fix dinner.

      “What are you cooking?” he asked.

      “Beef bourguignon,” I replied without looking up.

      “A French dish,” he said.

      I didn’t answer.

      “Smells good,” he said, before he turned around and left.

      The next time Cliff came to the house, Charlie was still out feeding the horses and I let Cliff in.

      “How’s Sally?” I asked him.

      “Don’t know.”

      “Oh, why not?”

      “I guess we’re not seeing each other anymore.” Then, after he had come inside and taken off his jacket, he said, “Happy?”

      I shrugged and went back into the kitchen.

      Cliff, I had heard, had a wife, but they were separated. He also had a son.

      “So—how old is your son?” I asked, to change the subject.

      “Alex is five.”

      We were both silent.

      “What’s for dinner?” he asked, following me into the kitchen.

      “Spaghetti,” I answered.

      “Oh, I was hoping you would cook that French dish—what did you call it? Beef something.”

      Taking my arm, Cliff turned me to him and kissed me.

      “Beef bourguignon,” I said, when he let me go.

      His fingers left marks on my forearm.

      Recipe for Beef Bourguignon

      6 ounces bacon

      1 tablespoon olive oil

      3 pounds lean stewing beef, cut into 2-inch cubes

      1 carrot, peeled and sliced

      1 onion, peeled and sliced

      1 teaspoon salt

      1⁄4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

      2 tablespoons flour

      3 cups red wine (preferably a Bordeaux or a Burgundy)

      2 to 3 cups beef stock

      1 tablespoon tomato paste

      2 cloves garlic, mashed

      1 sprig thyme

      1 fresh bay leaf . . . etc.

      Recipe for Spaghetti

      Put a lot of water in a pot, bring to a boil, dump the spaghetti in the water, cook for about ten minutes, drain the spaghetti, done.

      Soon Charlie and Cliff were fast friends. Charlie talked about Cliff all the time: Cliff said this. Cliff did this. Cliff thinks this. They even had some projects going together.

      “What kind of projects?” I asked him.

      “Real estate,” Charlie answered. “He’s got some property in downtown Charlottesville he wants to develop.”

      “And you are going to invest in it?”

      “That’s the idea,” Charlie said.

      “But what do you know about Cliff?

      “Nothing,” I added.

      “He’s smart and he has connections with people in town. Local people.

      “Honey, please. Trust me,” Charlie also said.

      “And when I get my pilot’s license, I am going to buy into his plane. We’ll share it,” Charlie said.

      “A plane costs a small—”

      But before I could finish my sentence, Charlie said, “We’ll both fly you to Rehoboth Beach.”

      Nelly, my Norwich terrier, for an inexplicable reason liked Cliff. Each time he came to the house, she ran over to him, her stump of a tail wagging so hard I half expected it to fall off as he bent down to pat her. He made a big fuss over her. Then, still more inexplicably, she followed him into the living room.

      “Nelly!” I called out to her. “Come. Come here,” I commanded.

      She paid no attention.

      I think I heard Cliff laugh.

      “Little whore,” I muttered under my breath.

      From the living room window, I watched them. Charlie and Cliff were leaning against the doors of their respective vehicles—Charlie’s Ford pickup truck and Cliff’s sleek blue Rover 2000TC. They were talking but I could not hear what they were saying. I looked at them both, trying to imagine them as strangers and as if I were seeing them for the first time. Charlie was fair skinned—his hair almost reddish—and broad shouldered. He was wearing jeans, old brown cowboy boots, and a faded green baseball cap with the logo of a feed store on it. Cliff was dark skinned and lean. He was bare headed and his black hair was thick and wavy. He, too, was wearing jeans and a denim shirt. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up tight and high enough to expose his upper arms. His biceps flexed as he struck a match to light a cigarette.

      Already I had fallen for him, but I fell for him again then—hard.

      Originally a pub, our brick house was built in the 1740s, and rumor had it that Thomas Jefferson and James Madison dined there. It has since been remodeled and enlarged several times. The warren of small rooms upstairs has been turned into three decent-sized bedrooms, and the downstairs, despite the low ceilings (guests over six feet tall are warned to duck their heads when they enter the living room), has been opened up so that the kitchen and dining area are one large room. The huge stone fireplace in the kitchen, in which, if we were so disposed, we could have roasted an ox, was original, as was the back staircase—the steps steep, narrow, and treacherous. (Once, slipping down those stairs when I was seven months pregnant, I was afraid I would miscarry.)

      “The house consists of four rooms on each floor, and is two storeys high. When the Brontës took possession, they made the larger parlour, to the left of the entrance, the family sitting-room, while that on the right was appropriated to Mr Brontë as a study. Behind this was the kitchen, and behind the former, a sort of flagged store-room. Upstairs, there were four bedchambers of similar size . . .”

“The small first floor room over the hall . . . known as ‘the children’s study,’ was also used as a bedroom by Emily.”*******

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