“Matt didn’t come back to our cabin last night,” said Regan, her voice low, resigned. “Was he with you?”
“What?” said Lee. “Oh my God, what are you talking about?”
“Regan, what’s the matter with you?” said Charlotte. “Seasick,” she whispered to Cord. Cord closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“What’s the matter with Lee, is the question,” said Regan evenly.
“Jesus,” said Lee, examining her laminated menu with great concentration. “I’m going to just forget you said that.”
“I’m not hungry,” said Regan, putting her napkin on her plate and standing. “I’ll see you guys on the excursion line at ten.” She walked out of Shells, and the table was momentarily quiet.
“I’m having an omelet!”cried Charlotte.
“We should talk about Regan and Matt,” said Cord. “Obviously, she needs our help.”
“I love omelets!”Charlotte insisted. Cord gripped his thighs with his hands. Ah, his mother. She smelled of Chanel No. 5. Her love was so heavy. As a child, he’d yearned for her to take care of him, and as an adult, he’d felt he had to deny who he was to keep from breaking her. But he was fragile, too! Though he wanted to run from the table, Cord didn’t move. He was going to have to have just one limoncello to get through the day. Just one, and maybe two.
A YOUNG WOMAN INa tight red tank top was talking about how old her family’s olive press was. It was very old. Regan touched the giant limestone circle, which rolled around a big tub to squash the olives. She’d never wondered where olive oil came from. People asked insipid questions:
How many times a year do you press the olives?
What do you do with the olive fruit after extracting the oil?
Can I buy some of your olive oil?
Do you live here at the farm?
Exactly how many years has this exact stone been in use?
Could I press olive oil in my apartment?
And on and on. Did people really care about the answers to these questions, or were they all just trying to impress the woman in the tank top? Or impress one another?
Regan tried to focus on the mechanics of an olive press, but her mind wandered. Had Matt received the telegram? Where had he spent the night? After the Michael Jackson musical revue, he’d gone to the Galaxy Bar “for a nightcap” and he’d never returned to their cabin. For the first time in years, she didn’t know what he was having for breakfast. Regan felt angry, sure, but also sorrowful. She hadn’t realized how sad it would feel to burn her life down. She’d imagined feeling triumphant.
Regan vividly remembered her childhood days in a rental apartment with a bathroom off the dining room. She could visualize Lee, her hair wrapped up in one towel, her body in another, standing by Charlotte’s china cabinet, yammering into the wall phone. She could see Cord, his long legs sprawled out in his cramped room, comic books surrounding him, Depeche Mode blasting from his boom box. Somehow she’d labeled those days a humiliation. She’d based her choices—her giant house, her daughters’ schools, her constant attention to family life—on erecting a wall between her grim childhood and her bright future. But she was beginning to see that the camaraderie with her brother and sister, the yummy microwaved dinners, the way they’d crowd around the small TV to watchFamily Feud,yelling out answers—in some ways, those days had been wonderful. She promised herself now:it will be okay.
Matt must have received the telegram. He’d be getting ready to go. And as soon as that domino fell, Regan was going to need money.
After the olive press demonstration, their group was seated before an outdoor stage. A piece of driftwood had been painted with the wordsFURMAGG E MILLICENT. The crowd buzzed in anticipation.
On one side of the stage was a stove with a huge metal tub of water coming to a boil. Four bowls were arranged on the table, as well as a display of bottled oils and honeys. Dried peppers, onions, and three stuffed cows were suspended from the driftwood. Two heavyset women appeared, one in a yellow T-shirt and the other in a shapeless, sleeveless housedress. An American kid in a fedora began videotaping.
“Welcome to the making of the cheese!” cried the woman in yellow. The older woman (Millicent?) began stirring the pot on the stove. “This on the side, it is not boiling water, but boiling whey, ya?” said the woman in yellow. “And believe me, this is really hot now. When the whey boils, raise up on top of it another type of cheese, like white cream that she have to skim off.”
The older woman plunged her arms into one of the bowls on the table, and her cohort detailed the process of mixing in the curds, of kneading and the hours it took to create a braided round. “You can have a nice picture with Millicent if you just wait,” she said. “She doesn’t speak English, but…get your cameras ready.”
Obediently, everyone raised their phones. Millicent lifted her fresh cheese out of the bowl, her face sweet and ruddy.
“You ready? Now Millicent has something she say to you.”
Millicent said, “Cheese!”
At the cheese tasting afterward, a young man brought around trays of limoncello. The liquid tasted like medicinal cleaning fluid, but Regan’s shoulders unfurled, just a bit. Regan saw Cord staring at her drink. His desirous gaze made her worried. “Cord, are you okay?” she asked.
“Fine,” he said, standing and striding toward the farm animal petting area. Lee stood and followed him. Pigs rushed toward the siblings, grunting.
“This really is delicious,” noted Charlotte. Regan longed to join her siblings, but she stayed next to Charlotte. She looked at her mother, both frail and mean. It was time.
