Page 31 of Rake

I’ve never been the settling down type, but if I were, I imagine I’d cook fun dinners with my partner and dine over long conversations about art, literature, politics: all of the things my father pretends to take an interest in for show. But he’s too soulless to truly care about culture.

I put the plates down and smile at Sasha. She’s taking everything in, observing. I’ve pushed her enough on the union today. Anymore and she might just up and leave. Take her chances. I need a little more time with her to help her see her way out of all this. The right way out, by taking me up on my offer.

“So where is your family from, originally?” I ask.

“Chelsea. Massachusetts, that is,” she says. “But before then, most of my relatives came from Scotland. Saunders is a Celtic version a pet name for Alexander, I guess. It means defender of men.”

She rolls her eyes at the last part.

She’s thinking of her father’s unworthiness, no doubt.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Given your work, that’s very apt.”

She blinks a few times, surprised. She recovers after a moment and asks me what Carney means.

“Victorious, or war-like.”

She lets out a real, genuine laugh. It has a musical sound.

“Very on the nose,” I admit. “Did your family ever make haggis? I haven’t tried it, but I hear if it’s made well it can be quite delicious.”

“No,” she says, playing with her pasta and smiling at me. God she’s pretty when she smiles. “No haggis. My Grandma Goldie—she was from Scotland originally—she said you might as well just put pepper in your oats and save yourself the trouble. The neeps and tatties we had though. Grandma Goldie always made sure we kept Burns Night.” Her smile falls. “We haven’t really done it since she died, though.”

Neeps and tatties. Turnips and potatoes. Those I don’t have, but I do have Scotch Whisky and a book of Robert Burns’ poetry.

“Well, technically you’re supposed to celebrate on his birthday.”

“The twenty-fifth of January,” she says.

I know, but I don’t say so.

“It’s not for a few days, but I don’t think he’d mind an early party.”

I pull out the whisky and pour us each a glass.

We give him a little toast and take a sip of the liquor.

“Do you have any favorites of his poems?” I ask.

She takes another swig of the liquor and closes her eyes.

“John Anderson, my jo, John,

When we were first acquent;

Your locks were like the rave,

Your bonnie brow was brent;

But now your brow is beld, John,

Your locks are like the snaw;

But blessings on your prosty pow,

John Anderson, my jo.”

I’m transfixed watching her recite the rest of the poem. Jo is slang for sweetheart, and the poem is in the voice of a woman proclaiming her love for her aging husband. There’s, naturally, a filthy version, but I’m glad it’s the clean one I’m hearing from Sasha.

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