After the ceremony, they walked as a group back to Gramma’s where her neighbors and friends gathered and reminisced for most of the afternoon. They were an artsy bunch—old men with long, graying hair pulled back in ponytails, women in flowing colorful smocks and sandals with socks. Her house overflowed with food, which they ate together as one friend strummed his guitar and others sang. Rounds of rowdy laughter came from a group huddled around Kaira’s photograph albums, giving Arden reason to smile.
Stephen expressed a particular interest in the china cabinet and the clay pitchers Kaira had collected over the years. “I’m a potter myself,” he explained.
Arden opened its double doors to show him Gramma’s unique collection. “Every one of them is handmade,” she said, lifting the smallest and recalling when it was purchased after watching a potter at work in Williamsburg. She replaced it and asked, “Do you use a wheel?”
Stephen nodded, his lips twitching toward a smile, which he covered with the back of his hand.
Arden noticed the perfect line of his nose, his broad, strong chin and, when he dropped his hand to take the pitcher she handed him, his even white teeth. “What’s the grin about?”
“I don’t know,” he said, hiking his shoulders. “I like to make one-of-a-kind things you might put on a mantle.”
“You’re an artist then, “Arden guessed. “Like Gramma.” His sensual hands turned Gramma’s pitcher, and it occurred to her that he might be gay. “You live with Bernie Jacobs, don’t you?”
“Yes, and Anna Robertson,” he added, exchanging one pitcher for another. “The Catholic Church bought the house from someone who had a kiln out back, something Bernie and Anna have no interest in, but it seemed to be just waiting for me.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Synchronicity, I like to call it. We worked out a housing deal, rent-free for services. For me, that means encounter groups and youth groups. We hold meetings in the studio, which forces me to keep it clean.” He raised his eyebrows and took out another glass piece that seemed out of place in Gramma’s collection. “What’s this?”
“It’s a porrón,” she remembered, “for sharing wine.”
Made in Spain of blown glass, it had a long spout pulled from a rounded base to the full height of the vessel for dispensing, and there was a corked opening at the top for filling it. Surprised that she remembered the name for it, Arden said, “I always thought it looked like part of a chemistry set.” A mental picture of her father teased her then, his head thrown back, neck arched and mouth open, while he poured wine in a stream down his throat and swallowed both rhythmically and effortlessly.
At the sink, she removed the stopper and filled it with water. “Like this,” she said, lifting the porrón over her face at arms’ length. She aimed its spout carefully at the back of her open mouth so that the rush of water filled her throat and shut down all attempts to swallow. She choked and water rushed over her face, laughter gurgling in her throat. She dropped her head over the sink, coughing, to recover.
Stephen laughed and pulled paper towels for her to dry her face.
“Whew,” she said, sucking in air. “It takes practice.” She handed him the porrón, saying, “Here you try,” trading it for more paper towels and wiping at her face and the front of her blouse.
“Later,” he said, grinning and setting it aside.
“Come on, try it.”
“I’d rather try with wine,” he said.
“That’s fine,” she said.
“No, I’d rather just drink some wine. Why don’t I go out and buy us a bottle?”
“There’s some here,” she said, nodding toward a small wine rack and pointing to the cabinet above it, which held the glasses. “She keeps a corkscrew—kept a corkscrew—in the right top drawer.”
“You have some too?”
“Rioja,” she said, “near the bottom.”
After selecting a bottle of Rioja, he uncorked it and poured.
Arden savored a mouthful, rolling it over her tongue, feeling its silkiness, noting its light fruit. She swallowed, eyes closed, feeling Gramma’s presence as if she shared the moment.
Stephen inhaled the bouquet, then tasted. “Very nice.” He set down his glass and went back to examining clay pitchers, seemingly self-conscious about her eyes on his hands. “Caused by an iron,” he explained. “Happened when I was a toddler.”
Arden shook her head, regretting that she had noticed. “I’m sorry.”
“I reached up on the ironing board,” he said, “and when the iron fell on my hand, I couldn’t get it out.”
“How painful.” Arden winced. “Where was your mother?”
“Running to save me. She spent the Fourth of July in the hospital with me, both of us sedated, she says.”
“Does it bother you still?”
“Only this one nail catches on fabrics and sometimes scratches the slip as I shape my pottery.” He showed her.
Arden felt comfortable with Stephen. He had a way of putting her at ease, and she liked that. “When can I see your work?”
“Soon,” he said, abruptly bringing her back to Gramma. “Did you look for letters in the back of the cabinet?”
“There aren’t any letters! The drawers are full of linens and flatware. I’ll show you.” Bending over and sliding out the bottom drawer, she showed him, “Tablecloths and dresser scarves.”
“Don’t,” he protested her reaction.
“Middle drawer,” she continued, “place mats, napkin rings, napkins.”
“You don’t have to prove it to me,” he said.
“I’ll prove it to myself, then. If there are letters here, I want to know it. Top drawer: flatware, same as always. I don’t think there was anything to what she said in the hospital. I think she was incoherent due to the brain injury.”
Stephen studied the side of the cabinet. “Wonder why the top drawer isn’t as deep as the lower two?” He fingered the upper side panel and traced a hinge at the rear. “See this?” Under the pressure of his fingertips, as he moved them along the panel toward a midline crack, the panel nudged.
Arden was transfixed by his fingers on the curious panel, one she now observed in a new way. The possibility that Gramma had kept something private hidden in this cabinet—which was so familiar—was unsettling.
Having no drawer pull or knob, the panel gave no clues as to how it might open, but Stephen fumbled at pushing and pulling and attempted to tease it out with a fingernail. Then he unfolded his pocket-knife and offered it to Arden.
“Should I?”
“Why not? What if there’s really something here she wants you to find? I have a hunch there is.”
With apprehension, she handed the knife back. “You try,” she said. “Do you mind?”
He took it and slipped the blade into the panel and teased it out.
A gasp escaped Arden’s lips as she inserted a finger and swung it open. Hinged back all the way to the wall like a fan was a quarter-circle drawer stuffed with paper, dozens of thin pages of airmail stationery.
“Letters,” she mumbled.
All were hand-written in a script that tilted slightly left of vertical with a frequent dramatic flourish. A long oval Q began the address, “Querida Mami,” and, in closing, a thin pointed A to begin the signature “Alvaro.”
“My father.” Tearing, her eyes met Stephen’s. His glittered with satisfaction. “You were right,” she said.
As she fumbled through pages, she noticed a date, and her heart raced. She held it out for Stephen to read.
“The fifteenth of February, this year,” he said. “Last month.
“Last month,” Arden repeated.
“There’s another panel on the other side. Should I open that one too?
“Yes.” Arden reeled with the implications.
“This is personal,” he said after opening a second drawer full of similar pages. “Maybe I should go.”
Stunned, she could only nod.
“You need some rest,” he said. “It’s been quite a day.”
Stone silent, she saw him to the door. “Goodnight,” she managed, and, “Thanks.” He gave her a quick hug and left.
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