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Authors: Meredith Mileti

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BOOK: Aftertaste
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For several seconds I stand there with my back pressed against the counter. Then, I reach for Jake and put my hand consolingly on his arm. He shakes it off, not violently, but firmly, and stalks off in the direction of Chloe's room.
I don't know what he means to do and, terrified, I follow him. The blinds in Chloe's room are partially drawn, and the murky afternoon light is filtering in, casting violet shadows on the walls, the bed, on Chloe's face. Jake stands by her crib looking down at her. His back is to me, so I cannot see his face, cannot tell what he is thinking, or if he's still crying. The opening of the door has disturbed Chloe. It begins as a gurgle, a whimper, followed by a tetchy, disgruntled half cry. Jake doesn't move, and because Chloe isn't used to the inactivity of adults whom she has summoned with her cries, she becomes more insistent, kicking her feet, attempting to rid herself of the blanket in which she's become entangled. And because I don't know what is best, best for Jake I mean—Chloe can survive a few minutes' cry—I don't do anything. I let her cry, hoping she can't see me standing in the doorway. He reaches into the crib and draws his hand gently across her cheek. She rolls away from him and onto her stomach, bent on escape. I lurch as Jake reaches into the crib to pick her up because I can't remember him ever picking her up and I'm not sure he knows how.
She's heavy and awkward in his arms, and he turns helplessly toward me. When Chloe catches sight of me, her cries become more piercing, and her little body grows rigid with indignation. I take her from him, pulling her close to my chest, and I move closer to Jake, so she can see him. She tugs at my shirt, and I know she wants to nurse. I take her chubby little fingers in my own and kiss them. “She's hungry and wet, poor thing, that's all.” My voice is hushed, meant to soothe them both. “Jake, there's a bottle of juice in the fridge. Why don't you get it? I'll change her diaper, and then you can feed her.” Jake leaves the room wordlessly, and I turn on Chloe's lamp and get her a clean diaper. She's calmer now, soothed by the low sound of my voice and by my familiar touch. “Daddy's coming with your juice. Be nice,” I whisper. Don't scare him. Make him love you. It isn't until I hear the front door catch, as it only does when you shut it very slowly and quietly, that I realize Chloe and I are alone.
chapter 7
Before we opened Grappa, Jake and I would often walk down to J.J. Walker Park on our summer evenings off to cheer for whichever Little League teams were playing that night. We'd sit in the bleachers and watch the sweaty little boys spitting, swinging their bats, chalking their hands, and chewing big wads of bubble gum we knew they were pretending was tobacco. Surrounded by their grubby, ice cream–smeared siblings and their tired, happy parents, we would cheer loudly and zealously for the losing team.
I can remember thinking back then that Jake was the sort of person I could imagine one day coaching our child's team. And from there it wasn't too much of a stretch to picture him in a tie and jacket, kneeling close to the stage in order to snap a photo of our budding little Mozart knocking out “Twinkle Twinkle” at her first piano recital. Seeing the naked pleasure on his face as the chubby shortstop finally managed to catch the ball, watching him cheer with such utter abandon for a bunch of sweaty little kids he didn't even know, it had been easy, I suppose, to mistake his zeal for reserves of untapped paternal warmth. It never occurred to me that he could cheer with such abandon precisely because they
weren't
his children.
Could I somehow have foreseen Jake's reaction to parenthood? Surely there must have been some clues, some evidence that Jake would have behaved as he has, but no matter how many times I replay scenes from our pre-Chloe marriage, I cannot find them. Was there some terror lurking in his past, some way in which his own parents had failed him that could explain his reluctance to connect, even in some small way, to his daughter? If there was, he hadn't shared it with me, and I could not divine it.
Jake's father is a distant man, but not an unfeeling one. Jake's mother is a sweet, pleasant woman. But we didn't see them much. I really don't know Jake's parents particularly well and, in fact, have only spoken to them once since the split. They have never shown much interest in Chloe, which of course irritates me, but I suppose not all grandparents are kid people, especially those who fancy themselves too young, too fit, and too much on the go to be saddled with such an elderly moniker and all of its encumbrances.
But, if I thought I could look for clues in Jake's past, then I also had my own to contend with. If something in Jake's past was keeping him from being a father to Chloe, then what of mine? I had loved being pregnant, relished every ache and kick. I gave up wine with dinner and drank milk by the gallon. I endured the discomfort of long days on my feet in the kitchen, not to mention an aching back, so consumed had I been with wanting Chloe. But where had that come from?
Certainly not from my own mother, a woman who could count among her many accomplishments speaking fluent French, making a perfect soufflé, and drinking a fifth of Seagram's daily. No, credit for my being any kind of a decent mother goes to my father, who did his best, who braided and brushed my hair at night, who read to me and coached my softball team, who made sure I practiced the piano and that my homework was done. Parenthood isn't something you can force on a person. Had my father realized this too? Had he wanted me enough for the two of them? Had I wanted Chloe that much?
I feel a pang of guilt at the thought of my dad, whom I haven't called in over a month. He has left me two messages in the interim, short ones, to the point and without one whit of guilt-inducing rhetoric embedded in them. He isn't the type to call often, but I know he's been worried about me lately. He is, by nature, a solitary guy, a widower and a professor of theoretical physics at Carnegie Mellon University, one who would rather contemplate the mathematical irregularities of the universe than hold a conversation with a fellow human being. Yet, he's solid and stoic, ready to be helpful so long as it doesn't involve an overly emotional response.
I've done my best to spare him the details of my separation. My humiliation would have embarrassed him, and, as for the sordid details, I've never really progressed psychologically to the point of being able to talk about sex in front of my dad. I'd even put off telling him about the separation for several weeks, thinking that it might blow over and Jake and I would be back together and he would be none the wiser. That I've been too immersed in my own personal funk to even return his calls is wretched.
Later in the evening, I call him, intending to invite him for Thanksgiving, along with Richard. I'm startled to get his machine at nine thirty on a Sunday evening, when he is always at home watching PBS. Not only that, he has recorded a new message, one that actually lets the caller know he or she is talking to a person with a name and not just some phone number. “Hi, this is Joe. I'm not here, so leave a message at the beep, and I'll get back to you.” His voice sounds peppy and cheerful. Usually his message is something like “Hello. You have reached six-zero-nine-four-five-zero-seven.” My father does not say “oh” for zero, this being one of his pet peeves—“oh,” he will tell you, “is
not
a number!”
“Dad? Hi, it's Mira. Just calling to see how you are. Oh, and to invite you for Thanksgiving. I know it's last minute, but Richard called and said he's coming, and Chloe and I would love it if you can come too. Talk to you soon.” At the last second, my throat begins to close, and I'm suddenly overcome with missing my father, his comforting, calm, and logical approach to any of life's conundrums. I whisper a throaty “Love you, Dad,” just as the machine beeps.
 
The next morning, after dropping Chloe off at day care, I stop at the Beanery for a cappuccino, something I almost never do. Usually, I prefer to get into work early and have coffee there, but this morning I'm avoiding the restaurant, not certain whether Jake will be there, and dreading the inevitable awkwardness of our next meeting. Just in case he is at the restaurant when I get there, I decide to make some notes about the seasonal menu changes. That way we will have something to discuss apart from what did and didn't happen yesterday. I'm intrigued by Jake's mention of the Castelli Farms pork. And anything made with wild boar. Perhaps a wild boar ragout with braised carrots and fennel. Sausages are a must, lamb and spicy pork, served with black pepper flecked polenta. Mussels steamed in sweet vermouth, a salad of chicory and fresh anchovies with a warm caper vinaigrette. Finally, armed with enough ideas to ensure that we need never mention yesterday, I'm ready to take on Jake.
Only when I arrive at Grappa, it's not Jake who is waiting for me, but Nicola. I haven't seen her in months—I figured she was staying out of my way. I'm so surprised to see her sitting on a stool at the pastry station that I stop dead in my tracks at the kitchen door. She's wearing a pair of faded black, drawstring pants and an oversized chef's tunic, probably Jake's. She's cut her hair short in a pixieish bob (probably to better hide the bald spot, I think with satisfaction), and if the look is slightly less sultry, she makes up for it by looking utterly, charmingly, the gamine.
She swivels on her stool at the sound of the door, tucks her short hair behind her ears, and flashes me a saccharine smile. Of all the things I could be thinking, I'm struck by the fact that I can't ever recall seeing her in the strong morning light. When I was working full-time and she was maîtress, she typically didn't come in until the dinner shift. She appears out of her element here, in the morning in her outsized clothes, making me think, as I so often have, that she is a woman suited to the night.
I'm tempted to hint darkly that I think her brave, or to wonder aloud if we are alone, when I hear Tony whistling in the walk-in where he's probably hiding, so as to observe the fireworks from a place of relative safety.
“Relax, Mira, I won't report you for violating the restraining order,” she says coolly. “Jake is sick. He has food poisoning. Hasn't moved since he got back from your place yesterday.” She flashes me an accusatory look. “You'll have to fill in tonight.”
Ignoring the dig at my culinary prowess, I reply just as coolly, “That's impossible, I'm afraid. And even if it were possible, I don't take orders from you, Nicola. You work for me, remember?”
“Yes, well. Would you like me to call Jake so he can tell you himself?” Her tone is proprietary and condescending.
Concealing from her the horror that particular suggestion evokes, I begin to consider the odd fact of Nicola's presence here this morning, which cannot be explained solely by Jake's specious case of food poisoning.
Jake would not have told her what happened at the apartment yesterday. That would have been a mistake of gargantuan proportions and one that an experienced adulterer like Jake would never make. There's a strange glimmer in Nicola's eyes as she fixes me with her intense gaze, and suddenly it dawns on me that she's worried. Worried that something happened yesterday between Jake and me, and she's here looking for clues she thinks I will reveal. And so I smile at her, an utterly false smile, one that hints of secrets and clandestine meetings, of
satisfaction
.
“Don't disturb him,” I say casually, taking off my raincoat and depositing my bag next to her on the pastry station. “I'll take care of it.” Without giving her a chance to respond, I set off in the direction of the walk-in. Tony is there, crouching in the corner, riffling through a basket of wild mushrooms.
“Good morning, Tony,” I call, my voice louder than it needs to be. “Do we have any pumpkin pasta sheets left, or do we need to make some more? How are we on sage?” Tony and I have worked together long enough for him to know that this let's-get-down-to-business tone is all for Nicola's benefit, and he has the good grace to play along.
“Plenty,” he says, tossing me a bunch of sage and gesturing over his shoulder to the pasta. “How about we do some fried sage leaves?” He lowers his voice. “Don't worry. The crew will be here in a few, and we can figure out what to do about tonight. About Jake.”
I nod, and he gives me a wink as he squeezes past me with the basket of mushrooms. Nicola is on the phone when I come out, probably with Jake, because she turns away and lowers her voice as I pass.
I set out my supplies for the pasta and head into the office, where I write Jake a note, including a draft of my proposed winter menu and suggesting that he go ahead and place an order for the Castelli Farms pork. I also attach the meat and fish orders for the week after Thanksgiving, which need to be put in today. Normally I would leave them for him in the office, but since he won't be in, I'll send them home with Nicola, figuring that he can take care of them from there.
When I see that she is off the phone, I hand her a large, brown envelope containing the orders and tell her that Jake needs to see this ASAP, and if he is not up to taking care of this, he's to call me this afternoon. Nicola eyes me speculatively as she takes the envelope. She doesn't stay long and leaves without saying good-bye, a fact I barely notice because by then I'm deep into the pappardelle. Tony appears a few minutes later with two espressos, into which he pours hefty shots of anisette.
“It's still morning, so I thought we needed the coffee to be legit. It's not tippling if you have it in coffee, you know. Besides, you look like you need it.” He hooks the stool from the pastry station with his foot, drags it over and sits. “What was
she
doing here this morning?”
“I have no idea. I thought her kind only came out at night.”
Tony smiles as he raises his cup.
“Salute!”
he says, knocking his back and standing up. “I'm on for tonight, if you need me.”
“Thanks, I might be able to stay, too, if I can get Hope to watch Chloe.”
“Don't worry; it won't be a problem,” he says. I'm not really worried, but wonder if I look it, because Tony has now mentioned it twice. It is, after all, a Monday night, and Mondays are notoriously slow in the restaurant world. People have eaten out all weekend and are more inclined to eat at home on Mondays than any other night of the week.
After eight, the lunch crew gradually filters in, and Tony and I put together a lineup for the evening. We tag an extra two for the kitchen tonight, neither of whom is thrilled at the prospect of working a double shift. Not that we are giving them a choice, especially because Tony informs me that we are booked solid, including two large corporate parties. So much for the usual slow Mondays.
Hope returns my call at the height of the lunch rush and I can't take it, but she leaves a message that she will be available tonight. All I need to do is get Chloe to her, which means that I will have to leave temporarily around four to pick Chloe up from day care and get her to Hope.
While I'm gone, Jake calls in to leave a few instructions. Tony takes the message, which includes the fascinating tidbit that Nicola won't be in either, as she is also feeling unwell. Tony and I scramble around for a few minutes looking for someone to fill in out front and decide that we can do with one less in the kitchen and send Ellen home to change. This latest wrinkle is a nuisance because Ellen, while a competent prep cook, hasn't worked the front before, and it is particularly important to make a good impression on the corporate parties.
Stuff like this happens all the time in restaurants. People get sick or don't show up. You get used to working shorthanded. Successful chefs go with the flow, learn to improvise, but not before taking out their frustrations on the staff, the line cooks, prep cooks, bus boys—anyone who has the misfortune to be in their paths. Most cooks I know have foul tempers, and I'm no exception. Most outbursts that happen during service can be forgiven. You can apologize later, and you do. And if you're on the receiving end, you get so used to being yelled at that pretty soon you don't hear it. I've been there, too.
BOOK: Aftertaste
5.02Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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