Page 55 of Sweet and Salty

Is it a difficult word to say? It’s only two syllables, both perfectly self-explanatory. A person could mumble them and it would still be intelligible.

Still, I smile. I eat grilled bratwurst piled with onions cooked in the local Golden Rose lager. I watch semi-feral kids splashing on the lakeshore with their buckets and shovels. The bag of chips I brought disappears in seconds, distributed onto bamboo-based compostable plates.

Rory and his son come over to my glowering spot while Laura and her mom head to the lemonade table. Frannie left town right after the wedding. “What’s got you so grumpy?” Rory asks.

“I like the grumpy lumberjack,” Davey says, plopping down beside me and stealing a handful of pretzels off my plate. “Do you get to use a power saw? My dad used it once and it was so cool.”

“No, I mostly just sell the tools.”

“Oh.” Davey glances down toward the lake. “Dad, can I go play?”

“Sure. Just stay where I can see you.”

We watch Davey run down to the lakefront where one of the other kids hands him a shovel and they all start digging in the mud. For what, I have no idea.

“So what’s going on with you and my sister?” Rory asks, spearing a pickle with deliberate intention.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re living in her apartment. How is it going? Have you made any headway on your cabin?”

I deflate. Not that I’m eager for a stay-away-from-my-sister chat, but the truth is something I’m not prepared to discuss. “Honestly, I’ve been pretty busy. I haven’t managed to do a lot of repairs with the cabin. I might let the lease expire and look for another place to rent.”

“Really.” Rory says it like he doesn’t believe a single word. “You know, my brother, Bobby, he’s the dreamer in our family.”

“That makes sense.” It’s a huge left turn in the conversation, but Laura has now told me plenty about Bobby, and I’m eager not to discuss my relationship. Or lack thereof.

“He always has big plans, and everyone bends over to help him because he is just so damned enthusiastic. And Frannie? Frannie’s more practical, but she’s got a wild streak. And lucky too. All of us took Mom to Vegas for her sixtieth birthday, and Frannie went on such a winning roulette streak, the hotel comped our rooms. But Frannie has always needed guidance.” Rory shakes his head and neatly clips his pickle in half with his teeth.

“It must be nice to have siblings. I’m an only child.” Truth. Maybe I’ll come out in the plus column after all.

“That’s too bad. I would have been lonely as an only child. That’s why my parents had Laura and me at the same time, youknow. Ma is Laura’s birth mom, and Mom is mine. We were born three days apart.” Rory grunts. “After they learned their mistake that time, they spaced out Frannie and Bobby, but only by a year.”

“You were lucky too,” I say. My food is getting cold but I have no appetite. Marie is talking to the tattooed bookstore lady, Emma, and Laura stands by a tree blossoming with white flowers, staring at her phone. I really hope she’s received that email from the TV producer.

“I was. I am. Mostly we’re all lucky because we have Laura.” Rory picks up his paper napkin and drapes it over the leg of his jeans. “She’s the one who drove Bobby to hockey practice twice a day when Ma got too sick. She’s the one who prevented Frannie from marrying a stranger in the hotel bar in Vegas. She’s the one who makes sure Davey and I don’t eat solely frozen lasagna and boxed macaroni and cheese.”

Ah, so that’s the direction of this conversation. “I don’t want to hurt her. Your sister is amazing. She deserves a lot better than me.”

Rory claps a hand on my shoulder. “I’m glad you agree. You know, they always say people can’t change who they are. You’re on your best behavior when you’re dating, but then the shit gets real.”

“Right.” A kernel of anxiety twists in my gut.

“I don’t agree with that conventional wisdom. I think people can change if they want to. If it matters to them. When Davey was born, I was lost. But I pulled myself together, because he needs me to be better than I am.”

Both of us turn our attention to his son, who is befriending a tourist family wearing matching pink and yellow T-shirts.

“I understand,” I say quietly.

“Great.” Rory finishes his plate of food and stands. “I’m going to get a piece of pie, so I have a very important question. Cherry or apple?”

“I don’t know. They both sound good.”

“True. Hey, it’s a horse apiece, am I right?”

He walks off without enlightening me as to what that phrase means.

A weight I can’t shake hangs heavy on my shoulders. Laura. I should find Laura.

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