Fight Song A Novel - By Joshua Mohr Page 0,44
one night as they sat in front of the pickling fridge.
“What?”
“We’re a couple of pickling rocket scientists.”
“What’s that?”
“Rocket scientists are probably the smartest people in the world. And no one knows more about pickling than us. So we’re a pair of pickling rocket scientists.”
“Cool.”
“What’s on the menu tonight, garÇon?” she asked.
“What did we have last night?”
“Cherries.”
“Then not cherries.”
“What will it be?”
“Nectarines?” Coffen said.
“A fine choice.”
She stayed slumped in her beach chair while he went to retrieve the nectarines from the pickling fridge. It was always Coffen’s job to grab whatever jar, which meant he had to get close to the plums, their likeness to human hearts always scary. Like they’d been cut from their chests and dropped into spicy brining solution, saltier than tears.
Coffen tried to open the jar but couldn’t. Brought it over to her and she cracked the seal. “Would you like to do the honors and taste the first bite?” she said and handed it back to him. “I’m not all that hungry tonight, garÇon.”
She only had four bites of cherries last night, and Coffen knew that without some prodding, she’d barely have any tonight, too. “You need to eat.”
“That’s what they say, but I haven’t been this skinny since high school,” she said. “We should tell the world about the pickled fruit diet. Get everyone in shape. Honestly, I’ve lost eleven pounds since he left.”
Coffen stuck a fork in the jar and impaled a nectarine, then took a bite off it. Vinegary juice dripped down his hand and wrist, which he licked off, running his tongue all over his forearm.
“Fancy manners,” she said.
“We’re out of paper towels.”
“Bon appétit, I guess.”
“Bon appétit,” he parroted back.
“Sorry I can’t cook right now.”
“These are good.”
“I’ll get it together soon.”
“Want some?” Coffen held his nectarine-on-a-fork out to her, offering it with a hopeful smile. And it was a sincere expression. He meant that smile. The American Medical Association might not have pimped this skewered nectarine dinner as a rounded meal, but Coffen could not have cared less: These were happy memories, the two of them together on the beach chairs in the garage.
Happy memories don’t have to be of happy times.
Bob’s mom took the forked nectarine back from him and bit a small bite, mostly nibbling skin. “Bon appétit,” she said again. “The chef highly recommends it. The chef has guests from all over the country come to dine on this delicacy.”
“You already said that.”
“Oh.”
“Will I see Dad again?”
“Now I remember saying that. Sorry.”
“Will I see him soon?”
“My mind is jumpy right now.”
“When?”
“He’ll come to his senses. You don’t leave your family. He knows that. Everyone knows that.” Coffen’s mom smiled at him without much conviction. Then she added, “For our next course, can we have a plum? I’m in the mood for something sweeter. I didn’t already tell you that, did I? I’d hate to think I’m retreading all my material tonight.” She handed the stabbed nectarine back to Bob.
Obviously, he didn’t want to go to the fridge and fetch a jarred plum, the fruit that reminded him of harvested hearts. But the idea of getting his mom what she wanted was more important to him. She needed to eat. Eleven pounds was too much weight to lose. A bite of cherries and a nibble on nectarine skin was no way for her to take care of herself.
Coffen peeked in and grabbed the jar. He was able to open this one on his own, the seal popping. Then he lodged a fork in the heart and handed it to her.
“He could come back soon,” she said and took a bite of it, which made him feel great, seeing her eat something.
“He could come back tomorrow,” Coffen said.
She nodded.
“He could come back tonight,” Coffen said.
“You never know,” she said, handing the plum to him, but he didn’t dig in; he was too excited.
“He might be parking the car right now out front,” Coffen said. “Right?”
She slunk down a bit in her beach chair.
“What do you think, Mom? Couldn’t he be parking?”
“I doubt it.”
“Maybe I’ll go out front and look. Do you think he’s out there?”
“Anything’s possible,” she said.
“Can I go check?”
“If you want.”
“I hope he’s out there,” Bob Coffen said, holding and finally eating the heart.
Now, sitting with the mop bucket, sitting miles away from his wife and kids, it’s hard for Coffen not to think that this is rock bottom. Maybe his mother-in-law had been right when she called Bob an anchor around Jane’s neck. Maybe he was dragging the