Winter Solstice Read online

  Centaur was intending to marry Ruby Taylor as soon as he got home. Even in the darkest days of their capture, even on Centaur’s final day, he was talking about marrying Ruby, buying land, building a house, having kids. He wanted five: four boys and a girl, in that order.

  Centaur has now been dead for nearly a year. Back in June, Bart received an e-mail from Ruby Taylor, saying she was getting married after her graduation from Tennessee—to one of her teaching assistants, a South African fellow with an unpronounceable Dutch last name. Not even an American. And certainly not an American hero like Charles Buford Duke.

  Bart never responded to Ruby’s e-mail because he didn’t want to hear the story. He already knew the story. When Bart and Centaur’s convoy went missing, when they stayed missing for nearly two full years, everyone gave up hope. (No, Bart thinks, not everyone. Not Mitzi.) But Ruby Taylor gave up hope. She fell crying into the arms of her teaching assistant, who smoothed Ruby’s hair and told her the future still held promise and light. This all may have happened before Centaur died.

  What is Bart to think but that girlfriends, women, love, and marriage are pursuits best left to others.

  On Friday, Bart wakes up and feels just the opposite. He thinks that if Centaur could see him, he would scream in his face like Sergeant Corbo, the meanest, ugliest, toughest drillmaster in the USMC, and tell Bart to “GO GET THE GIRL!”

  Bart spends $150 on a bouquet from Flowers on Chestnut, and he walks right in the door of Bayberry Properties. Allegra is sitting at a desk in the very front of the office. She is wearing a soft white sweater, a patchwork suede miniskirt, and a pair of suede boots. She looks even more beautiful than she did when she was dressed as a geisha. Her dark hair is now long down her back.

  “Special delivery,” Bart says, holding out the flowers. “For Miss Allegra Pancik.”

  Allegra sees him and the flowers and puts two and two together, and whereas she has every right to tell him to buzz off for not calling or texting when he said he would, she gifts him a radiant smile.

  “I thought you forgot about me,” she says.

  “Forgot about you?” he says. “Impossible.”

  Allegra floats around the office, holding the flowers up like a trophy.

  “I need to find a vase,” she says. “And I want to introduce you to my aunt and uncle.” She beams at him. “I thought I’d imagined everything that happened Tuesday night. I thought I’d dreamed it.”

  “Not a dream,” Bart says. He suddenly remembers that when he blew out his birthday candles, his wish was that he and Allegra would live happily ever after. “I just had stuff to do the past few days. My family was all visiting, and I pretty much ignored them at the party, so…”

  “I know,” Allegra says. “I felt so bad about that.” She finds a vase under the office’s kitchen sink, and she fills it with water. “These are going right on my desk where everyone can see them.” She touches his arm. “Thank you, Bart.”

  He wants to kiss her, but there are other people in the office. Most of them are at desks, on their phones or engrossed with their computer screens, but Bart can’t risk compromising Allegra’s professionalism. Even now her phone is ringing. He needs to let her go.

  “Have dinner with me tonight,” he says. “Fifty-Six Union, seven thirty. I can pick you up, or…”

  “I’ll have my dad drop me off at the restaurant,” Allegra says. “And you’ll get me home after?”

  He nods. “See you then.”

  When Bart gets back home, he finds Mitzi on the side porch smoking a cigarette. Bart checks the time on his phone. It’s three o’clock in the afternoon—four and a half hours until he will next see Allegra. But Mitzi smoking in the middle of the day is a new development, and not a good one.

  “What’s up, Madre?” he says.

  Mitzi waves the smoke away but does not extinguish the cigarette, despite the fact that it is nearly burned down to the filter. “That envelope Eddie Pancik dropped off earlier?” she says. “It was a listing sheet. I’m selling the inn after your father dies.”

  “You are?” Bart says. He’s not sure how to react. Is this good news or bad news? On the one hand, it sounds like good news. Mitzi has made a decision to stop running the inn. On the other hand, selling the inn seems inconceivable. It’s the only home Bart has ever known, and it’s the only place Mitzi has ever lived on Nantucket, except for a long-ago summer rental. “What will you do then?”

  “I haven’t decided yet,” Mitzi says. “Your father told me you want to reenlist for active duty?”

  “He did?” Bart says. Bart wasn’t sure Kelley had absorbed this piece of news.

  “As much as it terrifies me, I think it’s a good idea,” Mitzi says. “You aren’t happy here, that much is obvious. You need a sense of purpose. You need to create a life. They won’t send you back overseas, I wouldn’t think.”

  “Probably not,” Bart says. There is appeal in going where the action is, but he has also considered officer training school. His dream is to become a drill sergeant at Camp Lejeune. He would love nothing more than to be on the other side of basic training. He knows firsthand the mental toughness it takes to be a Marine. He was held prisoner for two years; he watched his fellow troops die. And he survived. He is tougher, meaner, and uglier than even Sergeant Corbo. He regards his mother. “I thought you would be against it. I thought you would throw yourself on the ground in front of my feet and beg me not to go back.”

  Mitzi drops the butt of her cigarette into an empty Diet Coke can on the railing. The Diet Coke throws Bart for a second loop. Has Mitzi been consuming the stuff? Cigarettes and Diet Coke and selling the inn? Do Mitzi’s further plans include moving to Vegas to participate in the World Series of Poker?

  “I have some happy news,” Bart says.

  Mitzi raises her eyebrows in expectation, but it doesn’t erase the deep lines of sadness from her face.

  “I have a date tonight,” Bart says.

  He gets to the restaurant early so that he is standing out front when Eddie Pancik pulls up to drop off Allegra. Bart opens her door and helps her out of the car. She’s wearing a black knit dress that clings to her unbelievable figure and a pair of leopard-print high heels. She is, in the words of his fellow Marines, smoking hot.

  Bart pokes his head into the car to address Eddie. “I’ll have her home on the early side, Mr. Pancik,” he says. “I know she works tomorrow morning.”

  “Thank you, Bart,” Eddie says. “You kids have fun.”

  Eddie drives away, and Bart takes Allegra by the hand. He holds the door to the restaurant open and ushers her inside. The restaurant is lit by candles, and Bart and Allegra are seated at a cozy, tucked-away table.

  “This is so romantic,” Allegra says. “This is a real, grown-up date.”

  “I figured I’d better bring my A game,” Bart says. “I know you’re used to smooth operators like Hunter Bloch.”

  “Oh please,” Allegra says. “I’m all finished with smooth operators like Hunter Bloch. I want…”

  Bart leans forward. He can hear Centaur’s voice in his ear, saying, PAY ATTENTION TO WHAT SHE WANTS!

  “… I want a real man.”

  A real man, Bart thinks. What does Allegra mean by that? Probably she means she wants someone strong, intelligent, competent. Someone who has achieved something noteworthy: in Bart’s case, joined the Marines, been captured, and been held prisoner. If Hunter Bloch were to walk into this restaurant right now and make a snide comment to Allegra or try, somehow, to win her back, Bart would bring Hunter to his knees, using only one hand. But Bart knows there are other elements that go into being a man, qualities that his father and his brothers have that he has yet to develop.

  Patience.

  Thoughtfulness.

  “Let’s order a bottle of sparkling water,” Bart says. “I don’t want you to get carded or have it be awkward.”

  “You can order a drink,” Allegra says. “I don’t mind.”

  “That�
�s okay,” Bart says. “I look forward to spending an evening sober with you.”

  “You’re very sweet,” Allegra says. “Thank you.” She locks eyes with Bart, which is intoxicating enough. Bart thinks about nine-year-old Ruby Taylor kicking Charles Buford Duke right above the ankle bone with her Mary Jane, or whatever shoe little girls down south wore, and stealing his heart forever. Centaur showed Bart the spot on his right leg that Ruby had kicked.

  I get it now, Bart thinks. I get it! He takes Allegra’s hand across the table. There’s music in the restaurant—Eric Clapton singing “Wonderful Tonight”—and Bart feels like pulling Allegra up to dance. He’s alive, they’re alive; it’s their first real date and they’re going to need to tell their children about it someday, so why not make it a story? Bart stands up.

  “Dance with me,” he says.

  She doesn’t say: Here? Now?

  She doesn’t say: But no one else is dancing. Everyone else is eating dinner, Bart. This is a restaurant, not a nightclub. Everyone will look at us.

  Instead she says, “Okay.” She rises and moves into his arms. She fits right under his chin even in her heels. Bart is suddenly very glad that Mitzi taught him to dance when he was young, despite his mighty protestations. Someone must have also taught Allegra, because she is graceful on her feet, fluid and poised.

  The song ends. The other diners clap. Allegra curtsies. Bart feels that, wherever he is, Centaur approves.

  Everything is fine. Everything is better than fine—until the chicken.

  Bart blames himself initially. He wasn’t paying attention when Allegra ordered her dinner; he was too busy deciding between the steak-frites and the Nantucket bay scallop special. They agreed to split the mussels as an appetizer, which were delicious in a coconut curry broth over jasmine rice. Bart insisted on taking the mussels out of the shells for Allegra. He was a real man, meaning he would do the lowliest of chores for his beloved. He would plump the pillow for her every night, he would bring her coffee in bed every morning. He would clean the gutters of their imaginary house; he would stop by the store for eggs or butter or tampons without complaining.

  During the mussels they talked about their past relationships. Bart wanted to get it all out in the open now, on their first date, instead of later, a month or six weeks later, when his attachment to Allegra, and therefore his jealousy, would be greater.

  “You’ve had boyfriends other than Hunter Bloch, I assume?” Bart said.

  “One boyfriend in high school,” Allegra said. “Brick Llewellyn. He was my year. Do you remember him?”

  “No,” Bart said. He didn’t add that high school hadn’t really been his thing. He’d skipped a lot and done no activities. After school he and his best friend, Michael Bello, had smoked dope, wrecked cars, stolen beer, and thrown parties. If this Brick Llewellyn wasn’t an established derelict, Bart didn’t know him.

  “He was a good guy. Still is. He’s very smart, goes to Dartmouth. He hates me. I cheated on him with this jerk named Ian Coburn.”

  “I know Ian,” Bart said. “And you’re right. He’s a jerk. He drove that red Camaro.”

  Allegra had a mussel suspended over the bowl. “I learned my lesson with Brick. I hate myself for what I did to him. I won’t ever cheat again.”

  Bart nodded. He hadn’t been a saint either, although in his case, he’d never committed seriously enough to anyone to have his extracurricular activities count as cheating. “I had a sort-of girlfriend named Savannah Steppen. She was more like a friend with benefits. That was really it, Savannah and the nameless, faceless conquests I made as a young Marine.”

  “I remember Savannah,” Allegra said. “She was beautiful.”

  “You’re beautiful,” Bart said.

  They grinned at each other, holding hands across the table.

  And then the chicken arrived.

  Allegra says, “Oh, this looks good.”

  Bart stands up. His fault: he wasn’t listening. If he had been listening, he would have steered her toward the lamb or the gnocchi.

  “I have to step outside,” he says.

  Allegra looks more surprised than affronted, although certainly she is both. It’s unspeakably rude: their food has just arrived, it’s hot now, appetizing now, and if Bart leaves, then Allegra can’t politely start.

  “Is it… do you…?” Allegra says. She must not know what to think. Maybe Bart has to make a phone call, maybe he smokes and can’t hold off his craving for nicotine one more second. Maybe he found the story of Allegra cheating on Brick Llewellyn off-putting.

  “I don’t feel well,” Bart says. “I need air.” He strides for the door and steps out into the cool night.

  He hears Centaur screaming, WHAT ARE YOU DOING? IT WAS GOING SO WELL!

  It’s chicken, man, Bart tells him.

  He’s not a real man after all. He has issues. He’s a mess. His parents tried to get him to see a therapist. Mitzi had an appointment all lined up, and Bart agreed to go, but at the last minute he detoured to the beach instead, where he waited out the hour in his car, radio blaring.

  Chicken.

  He’s afraid of the chicken. No, afraid isn’t the right word. He can’t be in its presence. He can’t look at it or smell it, and he certainly can’t eat it. Even the word chicken makes him ill.

  The door to the restaurant opens and Allegra steps out.

  “Bart?” she says. “What is it?”

  He turns his eyes to the street. He is blowing this date. He has blown it already. Bart feels Allegra’s hand on his shoulder. She’s touching his new blue cashmere jacket.

  “Tell me what’s wrong,” she says.

  Can he tell her? If he tells her, will she understand? She’s outside without her coat. He wants to send her back inside, but he can’t banish her and he doesn’t want to go back to the table.

  “When I was… while I was captured… ,” he says.

  She moves her hand to cup his elbow and sidles her body up to his. When she speaks, her voice is in his ear. “Yes, tell me. It’s okay, Bart. You can tell me.”

  “We ate potatoes,” he says. “Every day, every night, potatoes—no butter, no oil, no salt or pepper. Just the potatoes, either boiled or roasted in the ashes of the fire.”

  “Yes,” she says.

  “And then, one day, we had chicken. There were chickens scratching around the camp. They produced eggs, which the Bely ate; we were never given any eggs. But then there was spit-roasted chicken and we all got some, and it was, I kid you not, the most delicious thing I’d ever eaten, that piece of chicken.”

  “Yes,” Allegra says.

  “And then, the morning after we ate the chicken, one of us was chosen. The first day it was Private Jacob Hiller. And we thought, ‘Okay, J-Bear’—that was our nickname for him—‘is a big, burly guy, maybe they need him to help with digging a hole or fetching water or chopping wood or whatever.’ But J-Bear never came back. They marched him to this place called the Pit and they killed him.”

  “Oh… ,” Allegra says.

  “And it went on like that. We eat potatoes for days or weeks, then there’s a chicken roasting, and the next morning another soldier is taken away and marched to the Pit.”

  “No!” Allegra says. She’s crying softly.

  “We never knew when it would happen,” Bart says. “Until they roasted the chicken. Then you knew it was coming, but you didn’t know who they were going to pick.” Bart takes a deep breath of the night air and squeezes his eyes shut. “I’ll tell you what, Allegra. I loved the rest of those guys so much that every single time I wished it would be me.”

  “No!” Allegra says.

  Bart shakes his head and snaps back to himself. “I’m sorry.”

  Allegra says, “I’m going back inside. I’ll have them take the chicken away and I’ll get the scallops instead.”

  Bart bows his head. “Thank you,” he says.

  Allegra disappears through the door, and Bart takes another moment under the black sky an
d the stars.

  He told her.

  He told her and she understood. She still likes him, he thinks.

  He hears Centaur’s voice: GET BACK TO YOUR GIRL!

  “Okay, okay,” Bart says. “I’m going.”

  AVA

  It’s a Tuesday afternoon, a week after Bart’s party. Ava emerges from the subway, goes to pick up her laundry, and considers Vietnamese food for dinner. She can either get takeout or go to the place on Second Avenue and sit at the bar. A warm, fragrant bowl of pho is what she needs, along with a roasted pork banh mi.

  She climbs the four flights of stairs to her apartment, unlocks the knob and the deadbolt, and steps inside to experience the ecstasy of her own place.

  Her phone rings. It will be Margaret, not Potter. Potter teaches until seven. It’s quarter of six, though, which is too close to broadcast time for it to be Margaret.

  Her mother retires at the end of the week. She will finally be free at the dinner hour!

  When Ava checks her phone, she sees an unfamiliar number, a 650 area code—what is that?—and it’s not a phone call, it’s a FaceTime. Who could this be? It’s not Shelby’s number or any of her siblings’. It’s not Nathaniel Oscar, thank goodness, or Scott Skyler. Could it maybe be Kelley, using the phone of one of the hospice nurses?

  There’s only one way to find out. Ava accepts the FaceTime request.

  “Hello?” she says. She hasn’t given one thought to how she must look after a full day of teaching, her evening commute, and climbing all those stairs.

  The screen on her phone shows a dark-haired man in a yellow polo shirt. There is someone sitting beside him.

  “Ava?” the man says. “Ava Quinn, is that you?”

  “Yes?” she says. She smiles at the screen, squinting, trying to figure out just who this is. The voice is accented, British, sort of familiar, someone she has spoken to recently—but who?