Out to Lunch (10 page)

“HA!”

You are such a bad gloater.

“Too bad. You look utterly shaggable.”

Well I hope so, since I’m pretty sure Brian doesn’t think he is coming over for an actual meeting.

“My work here is done. Go forth and lay the lawyer. Get some action from the attorney. Jump the jurist. Bang the barrister. Climb the counselor. Solicit the solicitor . . .”

I’m laughing so hard; tears are streaming down my face. Volnay is looking at me like I have gone completely off my nut. Which I suppose I probably have, since the imaginary voice of my dead bestie is making me giggle myself apoplectic.

Cut it OUT!

Lucky for me, the doorbell rings before the Voix goes off on another tangent.

* * *

I
pop downstairs and open the door. Brian is standing there with a grin on his face, two steaming cups from New Wave Coffee in a cardboard carrier, and a bag in the other. I don’t smell anything that remotely makes me think of air freshener. He leans in and kisses me softly.

“Hello there.”

“Hello yourself.” I relieve him of his burdens, and can tell by the scent that the bag is full of croissants from La Boulangerie. I stand aside so that he can come in. He drops his briefcase on the floor by the door, hangs his black wool overcoat and gray scarf on the coatrack, then turns to me.

“You look awfully delicious this morning.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Shut up.

“Bitter, party of one.”

“There is something a little fabulously glamorous about you today.” He smirks at me, then steps forward and slides an arm around my waist, and begins to waltz me around, my hands occupied with coffee and pastries, while he whirls me with firm control around my living room.

“Dancing with Darrow. Monkeying with Matlock. Partying with Perry Mason. Boogieing with Brandeis.”

This last one makes me snort laugh, and Brian looks down at me, giggling like an idiot in his arms.

“Well now, I do love to see you laughing. I like that I can entertain you.” He leans down and kisses me deeply, so proud of his ability to amuse me. And I place the coffee and croissants on the console table at the foot of the stairs, and take his hand, leading him upstairs where he can indeed entertain me. Which he does. And blissfully, the Voix does not provide color commentary.

While he’s in the shower, I head back downstairs to reheat the coffee and pop the croissants in the oven to heat up a little, grabbing butter and homemade apricot jam out of the fridge.

Brian comes into the kitchen, pink cheeked and sloe-eyed, coat and tie over one arm, crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the neck.

I hand him his coffee, and gesture to the pastries and condiments.

“You are going to have to take the rest of these croissants to work with you, I cannot be trusted alone in the house with a half-dozen buttery, crispy pillows of deliciousness.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have brought so many, but that place will only sell them if you buy eight or more!”

I laugh. A Logan Square conundrum. “I know. One of the neighborhood quirks.”

“You hipsters with your crazy convolutions.”

I laugh. The transitional predominantly Latino neighborhood I moved into almost fifteen years ago has indeed become hipster central. Full of young men in skinny jeans and ironic T-shirts and scraggly facial hair, and young women in cotton sundresses with motorcycle boots, all blithely riding about on their vintage Schwinns with earbuds in, making motorists stabby.

“What can I say. We have our own ways.”

“Indeed you do. I hate to um, eat and run . . .” He blushes a bit, in light of the recent activities. It suits him.

“I know, you have very important legal things to attend to.”

“That I do.”

“Well, at least one of them won’t be helping Wayne with his new business.”

“This should be nutrient rich.”

I fill Brian in on the whole Wax and Lube proposal while he finishes the last of his coffee and pops the final morsel of croissant in his mouth.

“Did he really say an oil change slash Brazilian package?”

“Yep.”

Brian stands up, wipes his mouth, and brushes a stray couple of crumbs off his shirt before coming over to kiss me, tasting of coffee and apricots.

“Well, it is just another ten and a half months.”

“That it is. I do feel a little badly for him, though. He’s pretty lost and doesn’t have much of anyone to turn to for this stuff.”

“He’s an overgrown man-child who needs to get his shit together. I get that he is grieving, but dumb ideas are not exactly in any five stages I’ve ever read about. I don’t think I am ever going to understand what Aimee saw in that guy.” Brian slides into his jacket, and drapes his tie around his neck.

His statement makes me feel weird in the pit of my stomach. But I ignore it, and walk with him to the door.

“Thanks for the visit and breakfast,” I say as he puts on his coat and grabs his briefcase.

“Thanks for calling. A lovely surprise. We still on for the Bears game Sunday?”

We both have holiday-related plans for the rest of the week, but Brian snagged two seats for the game from the firm’s season tickets and invited me to join him.

“You bet. I have all my layers ready, and double hand and foot warmers. I warn you, I’m a Chicago girl, and a die-hard fan. Your date is not going to be all cute and perky in a little jacket and high-heeled boots, she is going to look like a navy and orange Stay Puft Marshmallow woman with Frankenstein feet.”

“I’ll look forward to that. And trust me, I will take Stay Puft and not bitching about being cold, over a fashion plate who begs me to leave at halftime any day.” Something tells me this is a very specific reference, but I’m going to ignore that.

“Good.”

“I’ll call you later to check in.”

“I’ll be here.”

Brian leans in and kisses me softly. “Good-bye sweet girls.” He leans down and gives Volnay a quick head rub.

“Good-bye.”

I watch him head down my front stoop before closing the door.

“You know NayNay? I do believe that now, I could actually do with a little nap before we have to do all this cooking.” She nods up at me seriously, and we pad up the stairs together for a short rest before the work begins.

9

A
ndrea is coming to pick me up in about thirty minutes to head to her folks’ house for Thanksgiving. I’ve got buttery yeast rolls from Aimee’s mom’s old family recipe, my cranberry sauce with port and dried cherries, and a batch of spicy molasses cookies sandwiched with vanilla mascarpone frosting. I also have the makings for fried shisito peppers, which I will make there. Andrea’s mom, Jasmin, is making turkey and ham, and braised broccoli and an apple pie, Andrea is doing a potato and celery root mash and a hilarious Jell-O mold that contains orange sherbet and canned mandarin oranges and mini marshmallows, and her dad, Gene, is making his mother’s candied yams and sausage corn bread stuffing. Benji is cooking and serving most of the day at the group home where he grew up, and will come join us for dessert, bringing his chocolate pecan pie with bourbon whipped cream.

Jasmin and Gene always have a great event, with a few orphans they collect, usually exhausted and grateful residents from Northwestern Hospital where they both work, Jasmin in orthopedics and Gene in cardiothoracic surgery. There is football on the TV, all of us rooting against the Lions, classical guitar music on in the dining room, a warm and welcoming buzz of conversation, and the noise of a busy kitchen.

My phone rings and I reach for it, just as I put the last container of cookies into the insulated bag that holds all my offerings. Mom.

“Happy Thanksgiving!”

“Hello sweetheart. Happy Thanksgiving. How are you doing?” Oy vey. I can hear the freaking head tilt over the phone.

“I’m fine Mom, really.” Subject change, please. “How are you and Dad?”

“You know, sitting up and taking nourishment.” She always laughs off their advancing years, but the fact is, they are both in their eighties and neither of them is in particularly terrific shape. Dad has already had one open-heart surgery and a pacemaker, and Mom has high cholesterol and is in need of a double knee replacement, but she won’t admit it. They live in a small ranch house in Berkeley, and Dad spends most of his time gardening, and Mom does what all women of her age seem to do, lunches and good works and cards. She is a serious bridge player and apparently something of a terror on the northern California circuit. “We are going to our friends the Osbornes for the day.”

“That sounds like fun.”

“That is a nightmare, they have eleven grandchildren under the age of nine. Everything will be sticky.”

I laugh. My friend Alana always said she didn’t want kids because they were sticky, and Aimee and I co-opted the phrase. It was more complicated than that for both of us, but at the end of the day, the fact that we both were childless by choice was a part of the strength of our bond. Especially as we got older and all of our friends started becoming parents and speaking that language that you vaguely recognize as English, but still feels like you need subtitles. Wiggleworms and
Backyardigans
and Graco and Britax and attachment parenting and helicoptering, and Aimee and I would smile and nod and look at pictures and go to showers and then head somewhere just the two of us and have a cocktail and toast the fact that we were in the no-kid thing together.

“Well, at least they’re good cooks.” Mr. Osborne is a whiz with the Big Green Egg smoker, and Mrs. Osborne was raised in Kentucky, and between them they can knock out a heck of a meal. We had dinner there the last time I visited my folks, and it was spectacular. He did a slow cooked brisket that was meltingly tender, and I’m still trying to figure out her recipe for cauliflower gratin.

“Why do you think we put up with all those little fingers in the appetizers? Dinner will be spectacular, and then all the kids go home to go to sleep and Daddy and I help clean up and drink a good bottle of Madeira with them.”

“Sounds like you will have a good time.”

“As will you.”

“Is Daddy around?”

“He ran to the store to get me some lemons.”

“Lemon cream pie?” My mom hates most pie, especially the holy trinity of Thanksgiving pies, pumpkin, apple, and pecan. But she makes a killer lemon cream, which is actually one of my favorite things to eat on Thanksgiving, a welcome bit of tart and bright after so much richness.

“Of course. So, what are you doing with your time these days?”

My parents are very confused about my work life, or lack thereof. I think they believe I should either still be working or doing some sort of major volunteering or something. And they aren’t entirely wrong, which of course puts an undertone of disapproval on their part and guilt on mine into all of our conversations.

“You know, just doing all the stuff I have to do.”

“Okay.” She knows I’m deflecting. “I’m sure you know what is best for you, sweetie.” Which means that I have no idea what is best for me, but she doesn’t want to argue about it today.

“I do, Mom.” Which means I probably don’t, but the one thing we agree on is that neither of us really wants to go into more detail.

“We are both so sorry for what you are going through, and we love you very much, and we are here if you need us.”

“I know, Mom. Thank you.”

“Love you to the moon.”

“And back again.” I’ll make a point to call when I get home tonight so I can talk to my dad. The older they get, the more the age issue complicates our relationship. By the time I was born, they were both forty. I never had young parents. I never had parents like Andrea who were cool and hip and even though they are older, don’t feel fuddy-duddy. The four-decade gap between my folks and me is a chasm, and since they live so far away and I only see them once or twice a year, it doesn’t ever seem worth it to be terribly confessional about my life with them. We keep things simple and surface. But I do sometimes wish that they were younger, more able to connect with me. I adore them and we have a great time when we are together, but it isn’t as intimate as it might be if they had had me in their twenties or thirties.

* * *

I
feed Volnay and finish getting my stuff together. Brian texts me that he’ll be insane all day, but wishes me a Happy Turkey, and says he’ll call tomorrow. It still feels a little weird with him, and I’m realizing that this is the first time I’m dating someone new since we sold the company, and for the first time in my life, I am wondering if the person I’m dating might have ulterior motives. Not that I really think Brian would be with me because of the money, but it still feels weird how much he knows about my personal finances.

“Who cares if he wants you for your money, you aren’t going to marry him; as long as he also seems to want you for sex, enjoy! Isn’t landing hot partners supposed to be one of the perks of money? Pretend you are an old man, and you’ll be fine.”

The Voix finishes her speech just as the bell rings. Thank goodness.

“Happy Thanksgiving my soul sister!” Andrea envelops me in a big holiday-sized hug, wearing a terrific-looking wool coat in a fabulous shade of deep poppy orange, and a knitted brown mink infinity scarf Aimee gave her last Christmas.

“Happy Thanksgiving to you. And I thought you hated that, what did you call it? Shroud of dead weasels?”

Andrea looks sheepish. “I did. I mean, I thought I did, but then that last cold spell in February? I put it on, and, um, I kinda actually love it. I get all kinds of compliments on it, my dad says it makes my eyes sparkle, and it is really warm . . .”

“And I am a GENIUS. Why does no one trust my geniusosity?”

Of course. “Aimee Knows Best. Let me tell you about my morning a couple of days ago. It involves pink lounging pajamas with a matching robe . . .”

* * *

H
oney, hand me that last platter, would you?” Jasmin gestures to the lovely silver tray that held a glistening pile of candied yams dusted with toasted praline pecans, it seems, mere minutes before.

I pick up the tray, sneak a last bit of crispy pecan topping from the corner as she swipes at me with a towel.

“Leave the girl be, Jazzy, she can’t resist my momma’s yams.” Gene reaches over me and picks his own little crumb, and Jasmin swipes at him as well.

Dinner was amazing, the turkey moist and savory, all the sides appropriately rich and filling, the wine free flowing, the conversation light and fun. Jasmin and Gene sparring lovingly. Their neighbors, empty nesters John and Sophie, who do their own thanksgiving on Fridays so that their kids can be with in-laws today, are a lovely couple, and she is originally from France, so I get to practice my French with her. Andrea engaging in some serious flirty banter with a new doctor from her mom’s group, a cute single guy in his midforties named Law, recently moved here from Cincinnati, who specializes in sports injuries and made us play “name the Cub” whose knee he recently scoped. Mike and Mark, two very sweet if somewhat sleepy residents from Gene’s department, both coming off of twenty-four-hour shifts with semibedhead and dark circles, and so strangely interchangeable in look and manner that I can barely tell them apart.

The guys are all crashed out in the den watching football, John and Sophie begging out early to do their own prep for tomorrow, and Andrea, Jasmin, and I doing a first round of cleaning up to help digest before the onslaught of desserts.

Jasmin shoos Gene out of the kitchen with some mutterings in Spanish, the only word I caught was
loco
. He grabs her around the waist from behind, kisses the side of her neck loudly, and goes to join the boys.

“Okay, Missy.” Jasmin points at me with the scrub brush, flicking some bits of foam in my general direction. “How are you doing?” This is not head-tilty. This is not patronizing or condescending or even presumptuous as these questions seem to be when you have lost someone close to you. This is pointed, specific, knowing.

“I am doing fine, I think.”

“Mami . . .” Andrea says in that tone that indicates this is delicate.

“Mami nothing,
niña
. There was an empty seat at our table this year.”

“Two,” Andrea says, reminding us all of the times Aimee and Wayne would come to Thanksgiving. Wayne is surprisingly unobtrusive at holidays. I think the crowds make him uncomfortable, and certainly at Jasmin and Gene’s house, the conversation leans fairly intellectual. Wayne would usually put his head down, pick around a plate, trying to convince himself that turkey is just a big chicken, and mostly eating rolls and mashed potatoes and waiting for dessert. I always sort of appreciated him at holidays, because he stayed out of the way and was quiet, and rarely did anything too annoying.

“You’re right, two. Thank you, honey. Wayne is doing okay as well?”

“He is,” I say. “He’s spending as much time as he can with Noah, and his friends have really rallied around him.”

“Andrea told us about the arrangement Aimee put you both in.”

I smile at Andrea to let her know that I’m fine with her having shared this information. She winks at me.

I try to find the right words. “It’s unusual. But we’re finding our way.”

“Well, it makes sense to me.”

“It does?” Andrea asks, incredulous.

“Of course! Aimee wants you to see him the way she saw him, and she isn’t here to make that happen. I understand that. Do you think your Dad was everyone’s top pick for me? Completely from outside my community, a surgical resident working insane hours, distracting me from my own residency, who knocked me up and eloped with me to Las Vegas? On a TUESDAY?”

“MAMI!” Andrea says in mock horror.

“What? We were working a million hours, and were constantly exhausted. I barely remembered to eat, let alone take my birth control pills regularly.” This? Right here? Is the kind of thing that would never come out of my mom’s mouth.

Andrea shakes her head and takes the platter Jasmin has now finished washing to dry it and put it with the others on the counter.

“I’m sure everyone loved Gene,” I say, reaching for a gravy boat from the dish rack to dry it off.

“Everyone did not love Gene. There was a language and culture barrier. It was still shocking to some to see an interracial couple. My family thought he was a gold digger, a know-it-all, and a corrupter of their perfect child and ruiner of the American Dream.”

“Gold digger?” Andrea laughs. Her maternal grandparents were hardworking middle-class Dominicans, who always had their tiny house full of recently emigrated cousins crashing on couches and floors. They owned a small bodega in their neighborhood on the northwest side, and would never have been thought wealthy by any standard. Gene, on the other hand, was raised in Bronzeville in a huge gorgeous brownstone by parents who were leaders of the black bourgeoisie, owners of over a dozen local businesses including five banks, three grocery stores, two clothing stores, and a popular soul food restaurant chain run by Gene’s Aunt Bettie.

Jasmin laughs as well. “They were immigrants. They had their prejudices.”

“They thought any black man must be a poor, nappy-headed thieving Negro from the housing projects, on welfare with ten illegitimate children and a heroin habit,” Gene pipes in, having wandered in to get a round of beers for the football crew.

“So there was that,” Jasmin says.