Off the Menu (38 page)

Y
ou can pick him up from Best Friends anytime before six. They have his leash, toys, poop bags, treats … everything you’ll need. Here are bowls for water and food. I just leave the food bowl full, he will monitor himself. Watch the treats, and please don’t feed him people food.”

Patrick laughs. “I can’t help it, he loves my cooking.”

“Ha-ha. Seriously, no people food.” After a couple of tense weeks, Patrick and I are almost back to normal. I waited two days after the Maria show debacle and then met him for breakfast before work that Monday. We had a long talk, and we both listened, and I think he really heard me. I explained to him about my stage-fright problem, and my fear of being in the public eye.

“I don’t get it, Alana. You’re so great with the students, you’re great when you’re in staff meetings or dealing with the studio crew, and I’ve seen you in a bar full of chefs telling the stories, commanding the attention. What is the deal with being on camera?”

I take a deep breath. “There are two problems. One is the stage fright. I’ve had it since I was a kid. All those silly scenes in movies where the kid freezes on stage trying to remember a line, or knocks over scenery, or throws up on his neighbor? All taken from my life. My general klutziness? Increases exponentially when people are watching. When I was six,
I knocked over the flagpole during an assembly. Onto the principal. Sliding his toupee off one side of his head. When I was eight? At the school-wide spelling bee, when it was my turn, I tripped over my own goddamned feet walking up to the podium, and slid on my knees over half the stage, dead-ending at the foot of the proctor, and when I tried to stand up, with the whole audience laughing at me, I went right UP HER SKIRT and we got all tangled and I knocked her over too.”

Patrick laughs.

“IT’S NOT FUNNY. When I was thirteen I threw up in the middle of the school holiday pageant. Into the orchestra pit. And the piece de resistance: when I was in college, I sharted on myself during my final presentation for my Shakespeare class. Not just a public FART, a public SHART. Audible and then smellable to everyone in the room. So yeah, every time I think of doing anything with an audience, my stomach clenches, I break out is a Nixon-esque sweat, my heart races, and my bowels loosen. Because historically, whenever people are watching, I’m at my worst. And in my life, with my insane family, sharing a room with Nat, the damn cousins in and out of the house all day, people were ALWAYS watching. No haircut, clothing choice, pound gained, boy dated, grade received went without comment from the peanut gallery. Everything I ever did happened under the watchful scrutiny of no less than a dozen people. I do the things I’m good at, and I avoid the things that are destined to make me a laughingstock. I keep my head down and take pride in what I do, and I know that if I do make a mistake, it is just my mistake, it isn’t fodder for other people’s amusement or discussion or opinions.”

“But when you teach? You’re so good with those kids …”

“It’s different. It’s quiet, it’s what I know, I feel safe.”

“Alana, I’m not asking you to go on
Circus of the Network Stars
for chrissakes, we’re talking about
cooking
. It’s what you know, it should be safe. Bruce would be producing, and you’d be there with
me
.”

“And what if I become one of those idiots who is always dropping the sauce, and hacking off chunks of fingers, and not getting the food on the plate in time? What if I become one of those people everyone makes fun of?”

“So what if you do? Alana, if you do it right, we win, which we both know you would love. If you do it wrong, we make good television, and we still win because it will keep the show funny and entertaining and on the air. The people who know you, will still love you and be proud of you. And if you would just do what I do and laugh at the parts of yourself other people make fun of, they can’t hurt you. Your family and friends, for everything they have seen you do, for every humiliation you have suffered in front of them, aren’t they still your biggest fans?”

It’s true, they are. It’s also true that Patrick is the king of calling himself out for the stuff any tabloid or snarky blogger might say about his lifestyle, his dating habits, the way he dresses or any other fodder for disparagement. He owns it all publically, jokes about it openly in interviews and articles, and even brings it up in front of his staff.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t want you to do something that you genuinely don’t want to do. But you are one of the most competitive people I know. You are always pushing yourself to be your best, and I’ve watched those shows with you, I’ve heard you say what you would do better or different, and I think you and I would kick some serious ass and not embarrass ourselves enough
to not try. I think you should do the thing that scares you. Because only you can flip the script. And at the end of the day, if you can get past your fear? We would have a really good time AND make a bucket of money.”

There is a lot of validity in what he says. But wanting to change my relationship with this particular phobia and actually doing it are two different things.

“Patrick, I appreciate that, I just, I still need some time to think about it, okay? I have a lot of other considerations, and I need to process it at my own pace.”

“Okay. That’s fair. But I can only hold off the network for another couple of weeks, and then you’re going to need to make a decision. But I promise not to nudge you about it, is that fair?”

“Yeah. That’s fair. And Patrick, thank you for taking Dumpling this weekend.”

“I figured you and RJ deserved a nice, quiet weekend away.”

Which we do. RJ and I have both been crazed at work. It’s been hard enough to just find time to be together, and with him so stressed I haven’t wanted to push him on the whole moving-in-with-me thing. I think he’s finding it harder to wrap his head around leaving his place and his neighborhood than he thought.

“Seriously, Patrick, he’s getting fat, keep the treats to a minimum and NO PEOPLE FOOD.”

“Okay, okay, good lord, you’d think you didn’t trust me.”

“Don’t even get me started on that.”

“Fair enough. Look, I’ve got this. Let me have a weekend with my little furry buddy, and you have a weekend with yours.”

“Very funny.”

“Really, I hope you and RJ have a great time. I like him, you know, I really do. He is a terrific guy and he really loves you and treats you well. You have my permission to keep him.”

“Thank you for your support.”

“Get out of here and go have a great weekend and I’ll see you Sunday night.”

“Okay. Bye, Patrick.”

I grab my bag and head home. RJ is sneaking out of work early so that we can get to the cabin before rush hour hits.

He arrives just as I am finished packing up. The drive to the cabin is uneventful and beautiful. Chicago is actually having a real spring this year, but underneath it you can feel summer coming. The air is losing its postwinter softness and the sun is burning hotter. Everything is lush and green, and when we get to the cabin it is actually hot enough to get into the pool.

We cook burgers on the grill, eat on the back porch, watch a ridiculous movie he has been dying to see called
Sharktopus
. Half shark. Half octopus. All killer. And, not surprisingly, the result of a government experiment gone awry and out of control. It is deliciously ridiculous. Plus fun to say. Sharktopus. Awesome!

We sleep with the windows open. The cool Wisconsin air is just the ticket, and we don’t get out of bed till eleven the next morning. We hit a local diner for enormous breakfasts, and then go antiquing in Richmond. RJ buys a beautiful old coat rack, which he says will look great next to my front door. We spend the afternoon in the pool while two racks of ribs that RJ gave his magic rub to two days ago slowly smoke on the grill. I make my classic potato salad, and steam asparagus. RJ’s ribs are the best I have ever tasted, no sauce, just the perfect seasoning and amount of smoke. We lick fingers and
feed each other spears of asparagus and then delve into the frozen custard we picked up in Richmond for dessert.

After dinner we take a walk in the woods, stopping to sit and dunk our feet in the icy cold creek, still running high with all the recent rainfall.

When we get back to the cabin, RJ opens a bottle of champagne and says he has something for me.

“Present?”

“Yep.”

I clap my hands. “Goodie! But I don’t have anything for you ….”

“You might, you never know … wait there.” He goes to the bedroom and returns with a slim package. Inside there is a fabric-covered book, and when I open it there is a picture of us that Bennie took on our first trip to New York.

“Awww.”

I flip through the picture book. It is the whole history of our relationship, with pictures of us and funny captions. Pictures of our families and friends. Pictures of a can of Pamplemousse LaCroix, the cover of
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Klay
, Oscar Wilde, and gougères. The pictures are funny and lovely, and the captions hilarious. I love that he would pull this together, this celebration of our time together. Then I get to a picture of us from my birthday party, with the caption
While this book might be at the end, you and I are at the Beginning. I love you more than I ever thought it possible to love anyone.

I turn the page and there is a picture of JP, with the caption
I love this part!
and then a picture of Dumpling with the caption
Do it already!

Do it? Do what? I turn to look at RJ, and discover him next to me on one knee.

I shake my hands in front of me. “Oh! Oh! Oh!” My heart races, and I’m sort of bouncing on the couch.

“Alana,” RJ says, his eyes welling up with tears.

“YES!”

“I love you very, very much.”

“YES!”

“And I’ve never been happier in my whole life.”

“YES!”

He keeps telling me how great I am and how happy I make him and how much he loves me and loves us and I can’t stop saying “yes” and finally he says, “Will you marry me?”

“Absolutely yes with all my heart!” And then I am in his arms and we are kissing and our tears are mingling on our cheeks and life is exploding with perfect.

When we finally stop laughing and crying, he reaches in his pocket and pulls out a small box. Inside of which is the single most perfect ring I have ever seen. A large center stone in a radiant cut is surrounded by a delicate line of diamonds on a thin platinum band with little diamonds all the way around. It is elegant and simple and beautiful and very, very me.

“Holy SHIT!” I can’t help the words flying out of my mouth—it is a truly spectacular ring, with more sparkle and fire than I have ever seen.

RJ laughs. “I guess I did okay!”

“It’s perfect.”

“I’m so glad. Your sister and I had a good time picking it out.”

“That sneak. She never said.”

“I’m sort of amazed you didn’t know, frankly, especially since everyone was in on it.”

“Everyone?”

“Well, I asked your folks for their blessing …” He goes on to tell me about the whole secret adventure he has been on for the past couple of months, including having Patrick take the dog this weekend.

“You are amazing. I am the luckiest girl in the whole world.”

We smooch some more, and go to the bedroom and make love, and whisper the word fiancée at each other in the dark, and look at my ring sparkle in the moonlight coming through the bedroom window. And then we get up to make a few key phone calls.

My parents are very excited. They said it was “as if a mountain has fallen off the shoulders” not to have to try and keep the secret anymore, and let me know that there is a surprise family dinner scheduled for Sunday night so that we can all celebrate together. My siblings tell me it is about time, and all the nieces and nephews yell congratulations at me and “Uncle RJ.” I take a picture of the ring with my phone and text it to Bennie and Maria and Barry and the girls with the note, “I’m having a good weekend, how about you?”

We call RJ’s parents, who we are scheduled to go visit in a few weeks, and I speak with them on the phone, and they seem warm and lovely and very excited for us and looking forward to meeting me in person.

We are just getting off the phone with them when it rings again. Patrick.

“I was just about to call you! I know you know, but yes, it is official, and we’re very happy and …”

“Alana.” His voice is rough, and very serious.

“What is it?” My heart sinks.

“There’s been an accident. It’s Dumpling. You have to come home.”

M
i amorrrrrr.”
Maria floats into the sitting room at the Lake Forest Animal Hospital. “’Ow is he? Better?”

“Still touch and go.”

Barry squeezes my hand.

“New recruits. I’m going to let you guys visit and head back. Call me if anything changes, okay?”

“Okay. Thanks for coming, I really appreciate it.”

“Hey, that’s my guy in there. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

He kisses my cheek, and then Maria’s and heads out.