question whether he deliberately sought out disappointment. Then he met Shannon. She was sunny enough for both of them, baggage and all. His and hers.
"You can't fix my legs," she had said when her father brought Jim into her bedroom. Somehow--perhaps guessing that she had been a cheerful soul before the accident—he had known to answer, "I don't do legs. I'm here for the flabby arms." She stared, stung, her gaze flicking to her sagging arms. "You'd be flabby, too, if you were stuck in bed for a year."
"This is what I would do if I were stuck in bed for a year." Where he had gotten the nerve he would never know, but he had startled the heck out of her, himself, and her father by lying down on the bed beside her and curling ten reps of a five-pound dumbbell. They had held eye contact for the full ten reps of the right hand, and ten more of his left.
As they lay face-to-face on the sheets, six inches apart, her father gaping like a guy at a zoo, Jim had thought, God, what a pretty girl, and a smile had begun to light her blue eyes.
With their eyes still locked, Jim had rolled on his side, balanced on his hand, and started one-arm push-ups. The smile had traveled over her face and she said, still holding Jim's gaze, "Daddy, go away."
Where, Jim still wondered, had he gotten the nerve? How had he sensed that she was ready to emerge from despair? In any case, it had worked.
He could never make her walk normally. No one could. But he could help her get strong. Though that success had led them both to a new form of despair. "I don't want to be your job."
Suddenly the loud-hailer clacked on—Will was doing his "me hearties" voice. "Now hear this. All hands to the galley.
Them that helps bake apple pie gets a slice. Them that don't, starve." Jim stayed on the bow long enough to preserve his dignity, then joined Will below, tempted less by food than by the prospect of any break in the routine. Will did his cooking at night, when the boat was the coolest.
"Hey, there you are," Will greeted him. "You start the crust. Sift two cups of flour into the big mixing bowl. Put the bowl in the sink. Remember what I told you: your only friend in a rolling galley is the sink."
Jim put the bowl on the counter instead and immediately regretted it. Will helped mop up the spilled flour. His crust, Will promised Jim, contained no unhealthy hydrogenized oil and only half a stick of butter for the whole pie. "We're here for apples, not butter." He showed Jim how to cut the butter into the flour with two knives. "Utensils only. Piecrust likes an icy touch." He put half the pastry aside in the cooler.
"Now I'm going to let you in on a secret. Never trust a woman, or a man, for that matter, who covers an apple pie with a top crust. A top crust steams the apples—ruins them. Now I know what you're going to say: your mom makes a little chimney in the middle of the crust, or she pricks it with a fork. Sorry, Mom, you can't vent the steam with pricks and chimneys."
"My mother bought pies at the Grand Union."
"And I suppose your old man never taught you how to change a tire."
"He called Triple A."
"You'd have been better off in a foster home. Your parents robbed you of a hands-on life. It's never too late to change—I told you, you did a good job crimping that head stay.
"
"It was like working on the bike."
"Just remember you're dealing with a thousand times the
loads—all right, half the dough we'll roll out for our bottom
crust. The other half, we'll put aside for our crumb topping." A wine bottle served as Will's rolling pin. He flattened
the dough between sheets of waxed paper. "Note, we're not
handling it too much, not pummeling it over and over, so we
don't make it tough. Find the apples in the freezer—righthand side, halfway down. In and out quick as you can—save the cold—use the flashlight?'
Jim pawed through the Ziploc bags of fresh chickens Will had washed and salted before he froze them, dry-aged strip steaks, pork
"You can't fix my legs," she had said when her father brought Jim into her bedroom. Somehow--perhaps guessing that she had been a cheerful soul before the accident—he had known to answer, "I don't do legs. I'm here for the flabby arms." She stared, stung, her gaze flicking to her sagging arms. "You'd be flabby, too, if you were stuck in bed for a year."
"This is what I would do if I were stuck in bed for a year." Where he had gotten the nerve he would never know, but he had startled the heck out of her, himself, and her father by lying down on the bed beside her and curling ten reps of a five-pound dumbbell. They had held eye contact for the full ten reps of the right hand, and ten more of his left.
As they lay face-to-face on the sheets, six inches apart, her father gaping like a guy at a zoo, Jim had thought, God, what a pretty girl, and a smile had begun to light her blue eyes.
With their eyes still locked, Jim had rolled on his side, balanced on his hand, and started one-arm push-ups. The smile had traveled over her face and she said, still holding Jim's gaze, "Daddy, go away."
Where, Jim still wondered, had he gotten the nerve? How had he sensed that she was ready to emerge from despair? In any case, it had worked.
He could never make her walk normally. No one could. But he could help her get strong. Though that success had led them both to a new form of despair. "I don't want to be your job."
Suddenly the loud-hailer clacked on—Will was doing his "me hearties" voice. "Now hear this. All hands to the galley.
Them that helps bake apple pie gets a slice. Them that don't, starve." Jim stayed on the bow long enough to preserve his dignity, then joined Will below, tempted less by food than by the prospect of any break in the routine. Will did his cooking at night, when the boat was the coolest.
"Hey, there you are," Will greeted him. "You start the crust. Sift two cups of flour into the big mixing bowl. Put the bowl in the sink. Remember what I told you: your only friend in a rolling galley is the sink."
Jim put the bowl on the counter instead and immediately regretted it. Will helped mop up the spilled flour. His crust, Will promised Jim, contained no unhealthy hydrogenized oil and only half a stick of butter for the whole pie. "We're here for apples, not butter." He showed Jim how to cut the butter into the flour with two knives. "Utensils only. Piecrust likes an icy touch." He put half the pastry aside in the cooler.
"Now I'm going to let you in on a secret. Never trust a woman, or a man, for that matter, who covers an apple pie with a top crust. A top crust steams the apples—ruins them. Now I know what you're going to say: your mom makes a little chimney in the middle of the crust, or she pricks it with a fork. Sorry, Mom, you can't vent the steam with pricks and chimneys."
"My mother bought pies at the Grand Union."
"And I suppose your old man never taught you how to change a tire."
"He called Triple A."
"You'd have been better off in a foster home. Your parents robbed you of a hands-on life. It's never too late to change—I told you, you did a good job crimping that head stay.
"
"It was like working on the bike."
"Just remember you're dealing with a thousand times the
loads—all right, half the dough we'll roll out for our bottom
crust. The other half, we'll put aside for our crumb topping." A wine bottle served as Will's rolling pin. He flattened
the dough between sheets of waxed paper. "Note, we're not
handling it too much, not pummeling it over and over, so we
don't make it tough. Find the apples in the freezer—righthand side, halfway down. In and out quick as you can—save the cold—use the flashlight?'
Jim pawed through the Ziploc bags of fresh chickens Will had washed and salted before he froze them, dry-aged strip steaks, pork
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