Pinch of Love (9781101558638) Read Online Free PDF Page B

eyes are followed by a cat, lumpy and practically lopsided with fur balls, a little potato sack with legs. It sits and meows. Old Man Bedard’s cat. A true barn cat.
    EJ laughs. “Bastard,” he says. “You scared me.” He tosses the butter tub into the bin, and the cat scampers toward the street.
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    Â 
    Nick
    November 2, 2006
    From: [email protected]
    To: [email protected]
    Â 
    Â 
    Hello, Pants.
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    We are setting up our sleeping bags in the lunchroom of the school, which has already been rebuilt in the year-plus since the hurricane. It sort of sucks to be sleeping on a cafeteria floor, but I remind myself that it’s better than being homeless like so many of these people were, and still are, in many cases, or so I’m told.
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    We finally rolled into town at night, so I couldn’t see much because it was dark. But I guess tomorrow I’ll get the lay of the land. They’ll be gutting one little house. By they, I mean everybody else but me and Dennis: Pastor Sheila, Father Chet, Chief Kent, France, EJ, and Russ. I mean, technically Dennis and I are supposed to remain unbiased outsiders as they work. He’ll report on the missionaries; I’ll take pictures. We’ll do a story and photo-essay for The Wippamunker when we get back. Shouldn’t be too hard.
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    How was your cardiology appointment? I told Father Chet and Pastor Sheila that you were having some heart issues, and now they are praying for you. That sort of freaks me out, their praying, but they are “people of the cloth,” so I guess I should expect it. They even had us all praying in the van at one point. The eight of us holding hands with our eyes closed.
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    Anyway, I think you’re going to be fine, Pants. I feel it. Seriously, Zell—when I get home I’ll go to all your appointments with you, every single one. But hopefully you won’t have many more appointments, because you’re going to be all right.
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    When you write back tell me what the doctor said.
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    Take care of those perfect 34Cs. I will nuzzle them in my dreams. I will write to you every day and call you when I can.
    Â 
    Nick

2
    Zell
    T HE SUN’S UP,and the trash-picked stained-glass window overlooking my second-floor landing casts a reddish hue. I lean on my bedroom door, opposite the attic door. I hold Nick’s nearly destroyed present. Gently, I shake it. The cube’s contents knock softly. What makes that noise? Nothing, I tell myself. Nothing at all but dust, air, and melted ghost.
    The doorknob opposite me is glass. It reflects a tiny me, still in coat and hat. I cover tiny me with my mittened hand. I turn the knob. I push open the attic door one inch. Two inches. I push hard, with my shoulder and arm, because the door scrapes the floor.
    The smell of stale attic hits me.
    Balls.
    I can’t do it. I can’t open the door any farther. I tug it toward me until it latches and leave the cube in the hallway.

    MOMENTS LATER, I shiver on the back steps, watching Ahab pee like a girl dog next to the frozen hydrangea. As he pees he swivels his pointy ears—one black, one white—and sniffs the air, which still smells of burned plastic. It also smells of winter: old snow over dead grass over frozen earth.
    One mile away Mount Wippamunk is a big bump on the horizon. It’s a true monadnock—an isolated peak. Nick taught me the meaning of that word, a Native American word. The trails ribbon out and down like raindrop paths on a window. Already, even this early in the day, skiers and boarders look like fleas jumping side to side.
    â€œI like your dog.”
    Ahab stops peeing and looks around.
    The girl, my neighbor, leans out an upstairs window. Her hair is unbraided under the red ski hat.
    â€œHi,” I say. “Sorry about yesterday. I was upset.”
    â€œIt’s okay. I get angry, too, sometimes. I’m