One
Gina
Wednesday, September 4th
It begins with a phone call.
Gina Dewar is standing in front of the stove, simmering tomatoes with minced garlic and olive oil. To her left is a cutting board with fresh herbs and sliced jalapeño peppers. In a few minutes, she’ll add them to the frying pan and reduce the ingredients to a rich sauce, thick and spicy. Gina hums along with the fridge—there is something musical about their loud fridge. A crazy notion, but one that Gina is convinced of. She should know: so much of her time is spent in the kitchen. It’s her territory, her happy place.
The buzzing sound is unexpected.
Gina’s phone is alive on the granite island, Bobby’s name flashing on the screen. Gina steals a glance at the farmhouse wall clock: 5:33 p.m.
“Hello?” Her tone is tentative, confused. Bobby isn’t supposed to be calling her. His weekly staff meeting won’t be over for at least another hour. Gina knows her husband’s schedule better than her own—they’ve shared calendars for years. It’s Wednesday, which means he’ll leave Grand Central Station at 7:30 p.m. and arrive in Alma at 8:25 p.m.
“I’ll be home soon,” he says. “I took the five o’clock.”
“Did something happen?”
A pause. “I’ll tell you about it when I get home.”
Whatever it is, Gina wants to know right away. She doesn’t like to wait. Who does? But Calan is looking up from his computer, a frown on his face. Gina doesn’t want him to worry. He’s having a good day. He won’t get many of those now that the school year has begun. Calan is a sophomore in high school. According to his age, he should be a freshman. The decision to allow him to skip a year when he was only six years old had been a source of tremendous stress for Gina. Bobby had been thrilled, certain that it indicated his son’s burgeoning genius. And his teachers agreed. Gina was outvoted. Now, she worries it was a mistake. Maybe she should’ve put her foot down, insisted on Calan going through each grade at a normal pace.
She turns off the stove. The sauce can wait.
“All right, honey,” she says in a cheery tone. “See you soon.”
She puts the phone down, ignoring the familiar prickle of anxiety.
“Was that Dad?” Calan asks.
Gina takes a moment to admire her son’s angelic face: his upturned Cupid’s bow and sincere eyes. Calan has full lips and a heart-shaped face (just like Gina), and green eyes and strawberry blonde hair (just like his dad).
“Yep, he’s coming home early,” Gina says.
In the blink of an eye, Calan changes. A turtle pulling into its shell.
Gina resists the urge to hug her son. She doesn’t want to validate Calan’s negative feelings towards Bobby.
“What about his meeting?”
Gina shrugs. An attempt at a casual gesture.
“Is it Souliers?” Calan frowns. He’s a smart, sensitive boy: he can sense her unease. “Are we selling?”
Gina gives him a you know better than that look.
“What?” he says, lifting his palms. “Maybe he finally caved to the pressure.”
“This is your dad we’re talking about,” Gina reminds him. “He doesn’t cave. Alma Boots is staying in the family.”
Calan lifts his shoulders. His turn to feign apathy. Calan likes to pretend he doesn’t care what happens to the company, but Gina knows he keeps tabs on the potential deal. Last week, she’d borrowed his iPad and caught a pro-sale opinion piece open on his browser. Gina had read the article. The author argued that a sale to Souliers would be beneficial to all parties, especially to consumers. A misguided perception, obviously. Gina had scrolled down to the comments section, relishing the heated replies from people who had enough common sense to agree with her. Many had used the now-viral hashtag: #KeepAlmaBootsAmerican. She had added her own comment—anonymously, of course.
Bobby would never sell Alma Boots, especially not to a foreign conglomerate. Alma Boots has been in his family for nearly one hundred years. Still, Gina feels a fresh ripple of apprehension. Bobby’s voice had been tense, more so than usual. What if she’s wrong? What if he ran over the numbers and realized that a sale is inevitable? Selling Alma Boots would break Bobby’s heart. Not to mention the entire town’s—the factory is what keeps it alive, thriving. It’s a true company town.
“Would you prefer to have dinner in your room?” Gina asks. This is unprecedented. Family dinners aren’t optional in their house. Gina does not approve of isolationist eating, but Bobby’s voice had sounded unusually strained…
Calan grins. “I’m pretty sure you can guess my answer, Mom.”
“Oh, very funny. I thought you liked our dinners.”
Their Wednesday-night dinners are low-key affairs. They’ve been doing it for years now, ever since Bobby began holding staff meetings on Wednesdays, in the late afternoon. Every week, Gina tries a new recipe—she’s gone through six different cookbooks. She and Calan eat in the kitchen, not bothering to use proper placemats and drinking 7 Ups straight from the cans. A few weeks ago, Calan had confessed that he much preferred their casual meals to the chic Friday-night dinners at his grandmother’s house. It had made Gina’s day.
“With Dad here it won’t be one of our dinners.”
“No, you’re right.” Gina sighs. “All right, dinner in your room it is. But just for tonight.”
Calan stuffs his hands inside the pockets of his oversized gray hoodie. Lately, it’s all he seems to wear: jeans, a T-shirt and a hoodie, usually black or gray or beige. Almost like he wants to disappear inside a sense of self-imposed blandness. Although lately isn’t entirely accurate. It’s been years. Ever since the bullying began. Gina hadn’t been prepared for this part of having a teenager. And Calan isn’t even fifteen yet—his birthday is in December.
“Sweet, I’ll try out my new game. The graphics are supposed to be sick.”
“Remember you have school in the morning.” A pointless reminder. Calan is a nocturnal creature, Gina has long given up on getting him to go to bed early. His video games reek of unhealthy escapism, but they bring him joy, and he has very little joy in school.
Gina returns to the stove to finish the sauce. The homemade pasta is already cooked, set aside in a pot. When dinner is ready—freshly made pappardelle with arrabbiata sauce—Gina fixes Calan a plate.
A timer goes off. The cookies.
“Yum,” Calan says, eyeing the cookie sheet. “Chocolate chip.”
“I wanted to add macadamias, but I’m bringing them over to the new neighbors in the morning and you never know these days. Allergies.”
“Everyone likes chocolate chip.”
“Apparently, they’re just a couple, no kids.”
“How do you know?”
“Tish.”
“My grandmother, the knower of all things.” He gives her a kiss on the cheek. “Save me a couple?”
“I always do.”
Calan disappears up the stairs with his dinner, no doubt to lose himself in his video games and graphic novels. Gina worries. It’s a lot of screen time. Although, in all fairness, it’s not all passive viewing. Calan writes and illustrates his own stories, too. That’s something. An artistic endeavor. Gina is impressed at her son’s creativity (he’s very intelligent, he takes after his dad), but she wishes his interests weren’t quite so… antisocial.