Hardest to Love

by Sidney Ivens

  “She was dying. What else could she do with the money? Put it in a trust? Let’s say she had. You would’ve blown it by now. You’ve blown money, wrecked cars, quit Wharton. You sold the Aston. All this time, I’ve bailed you out, given you a great job within the company. I’ve groomed you for management, and you still go behind my back. When you had everything handed to you. You’ve had it easy. Too damn easy.” There’s a flash of teeth as his lips curl, and then his face takes on a strange blankness. He presses a palm to his forehead. “When I was a kid, I loved this dog, a Corgi my mother got me. Dudley. Yeah. Dudley. I took that dog everywhere. The old man’s inspecting a new property in Vegas, and he’s mad at me for talking back. He has the driver stop and pulls the dog out of my arms. Dumps him right there. I turn and look out the rear window, and Dudley’s standing in the middle of the two-lane road, panting like crazy. It’s boiling outside. Less than a mile up the road, we spot a coyote. I begged my father to go back to get him. Begged him. He says, ‘dog eat dog.’” My father squints his eyes shut as though he’s got a splitting headache. “Dog eat dog.”

  More applause and cheers come from the big room next door.

  My father has never talked like this, and I’m stunned. That’s why he never let me have a dog. Any kind of pet, not even a goldfish.

  “Dad—” My voice comes out hoarse. I don’t know if he’s even heard me. As I reach for his arm, there’s a noise at the door.

  The same production guy interrupts with a knuckle rap. “Mr. Zaccardi. Sir. You’re on in five.”

  The old man clears his throat, straightens, and pulls on the hard-ass mask again. “Now you’re bothering me with some pissant sports bar that’s going to fail, so what? Lexi scouted out the new Division One location for me, and yeah, I green-lighted it. You should’ve seen it coming and you didn’t. Whose fault is that, Nick? You used to be on top of everything. Sports, movies, TV. You knew athletes and rappers personally. When you were working for me, you checked out the neighborhoods and trends. You knew where the competition was. But you got your nose too far into this stupid bookstore. And your nose too far up her pussy.”

  I’m on him, pulling on his collar and tie, spittle flying from my mouth. “Don’t you dare talk about her like that.” I shove him to the wall, claw at him. His shirt’s tearing at the buttons, and two A/V guys come up behind me and pull me off him. I’m shouting, and more heads are turning. They’re looking at me like I’m crazy, like I’m off my meds and my straightjacket’s loose. Someone says to call for security.

  I’m still trying to reach for his arms, his jacket, anything. “She’s class, and you’re not used to that. She can’t be bought.”

  My father laughs as he pulls on his cuffs and adjusts his tie. “Best piece of advice I can give you. Everyone, and I mean, everyone, can be bought.”

  A new solemn voice interrupts, one of the hotel managers. “Sir. He’s here.”

  Dad exits the A/V room, and I’m still behind him, staggering a little from the hands and arms holding onto me. At the double-door entrance to the dining area, I spot Bobby DeVille crossing the lush carpeting. His booted footsteps are silent, and his loud sparkly turquoise Western shirt less so. On his feet are silver-tipped black cowboy boots. Sleeves rolled up, he extends a tattooed arm and a hand, greeting my father with an awed smile, like I’d seen so many people react, that initial shocked registration that, hey, this famous guy’s real.

  “Welcome aboard.” My father claps a hand on his shoulder.

  DeVille nods and they head back out, toward the Affluence Room.

  I’m standing less than ten feet away, but DeVille’s oblivious to me. I stare at the two of them as they retreat. The A/V people resume their posts. The waiters continue prepping the tables. I’m too frozen to move, my jaw slacked open. I lost DeVille, my strongest business asset, and the new Division One location seals Tailgaters’ fate.

  A janitor wheels out a sixty-five-gallon plastic trash can. My OPEN FOR BUSINESS sign might as well be stuffed inside it.

  Dead-tired, I drive back to Tailgaters. Trudge upstairs to the third-floor apartment, my feet dragging the weight of cinder blocks.

  Elena’s waiting, her pretty face worried. Hands clasped together, she’s in a gray suit and heels, white silk shirt.

  “Tiffany called. She’s handling the PR for—”

  “The contest. Yeah. So everyone’s heard the glorious news.” I toss my leather jacket on one of the toffee chairs.

  “You’ll find another chef.”

  “Oh, yeah. I’ll go pluck one from a tree.” I unfasten two buttons on my Chambray shirt, feeling grungy, like I belong under an abandoned bridge in a crack-induced stupor. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

  “I told Dustin I was taking a longer lunch.” She comes over in a light fragrant cloud and strokes my arm like a nurse would, just before the doctor plunges a hypodermic into my shank. She hitches in a breath, about to say something I won’t want to hear. “Nick—”

  “No pep talks.”

  Her gaze shifts direction. “They delivered a final proof of the menu.”

  “On second thought, go on. Say it.” That I’m fuuuucccked. I want to rail, yell, flip over the table. Dark matter’s got a grip on me, an oily black negativity that’s dissolving me from the inside. “Two sports bars within two blocks of each other? He’s already placed ads all around campus. Division One West is sponsoring sports teams and community events. You’ve seen the crowds.”

  I fall into one of the leather chairs, the cushion making its swoosh.

  Elena comes over to stroke my hair. “You have every right to be raging angry at DeVille. Give yourself some processing time. Do you want me to handle the proof?”

  I shake my head.

  She tugs on my arms, and I’m on my feet, following her down the hall to her aunt’s former bedroom. I sit on the edge of the bed, head throbbing.

  “Lay down for a couple of minutes. Lay down and close your eyes.”

  In a clicking of heels, she heads down the hall to the bathroom and prepares a damp washcloth, reminding me of the night after the hockey game. She returns and places the cold terrycloth on my forehead.

  I reach for her hand and pat the mattress. She kicks off her black patent pumps and lays down next to me. We stay quiet for a few minutes, staring at the cracked ceiling, her dressed to the nines, me Rumpled-stilskin.

  “Nick.”

  “Ruh-roh.”

  “I’ll be flying to Boston next Thursday. I fly back . . . Tuesday.”

  Next Thursday is St. Patrick’s Day and the NEW EATS debut. Two days after the contest—Monday—I officially open Tailgaters.

  Cool fingers close around my left hand. “I’ll call on Monday. I’ll check constantly to see how things are going. It’ll be like I’m there.”

  But it won’t. I can’t hold her over the phone or see her face. Disappointment sits like wet clay in my gut, but I decide to be bigger than the gloom hanging over the room. “First ever business trip. I bet you’re stoked.”

  She beams. “I am.”

  It takes only a trickle of encouragement, and she lights up like that. She’s blossoming before my very eyes, becoming more beautiful and sure of herself every day. Living her own life, and I haven’t told her. Starting this business has absorbed my every waking moment. I knew it and I warned her and we still got involved.

  “I’m . . . proud of you, Leen.” It’s the first time I’ve used her nickname.

  Her eyes well up, and she leans over to kiss me, her lips leaving a trace of lipstick. “I’ve got to go.” She gets up and leaves the room in a flurry of clacking. The front door closes.

  I sling the wet washcloth to the floor with a plop.

  I wait until I know she’s in her car and left the area. The person I most wanted to be there will miss opening day. I let out a roar worthy of the Hulk as his clothes split open.

  The next few days fly faster than a NASCAR qualifier.

  At the third-floor apart
ment, she’s poking around the zipper pouches to her black carry-on. “Almost forgot toothpaste.”

  I slip my arms around her waist and nuzzle her neck. “Let me drive you to the airport.”

  “You’ve already cost me an hour, you randy monster.”

  I kiss the other side of her throat and push back her hair. At the base of her head, damp dark curls cling to her skin from the nice little workout I gave her.

  She nudges away my roaming hands. “So it’s Craig Hagie.”

  “Hagin.” My number-one choice for DeVille’s replacement. Five years of lead chef experience. I stretch my arms above my head, my loose shirttails opening around my waist. “Offered him the job yesterday. He’s good.” I fasten the buttons to my shirt and thread my leather belt through the jean hoops. “Not DeVille good, but he’s competent.”

  “DeVille.” She rolls her eyes. “De Devil.” She slides her cell back into the front pouch of her purse. The woman has endless pouches.

  The buzzer goes off. “Say goodbye to that sound.” I fasten my buckle while I head for the stairs. “It’s finally replaced tomorrow.”

  Whistling, I charge downstairs. Chris waits at the locked entrance, wearing his camo jacket, a newspaper-wrapped present under his arm. A big red bow sticks out from his armpit.

  I open the door, letting in a rush of brisk March air.

  We give each other a hug.

  “Aunt Rob wanted me to remind Leen about the taxi.”

  “Yeah, well.” I grin. “She’s been a little delayed.” I nod toward the package. “That ticking?”

  He smiles. “You’ll see.”

  We tromp upstairs, where Elena’s put on the kettle in the kitchen, acting the prim English lady fussing over imported teas.

  “How are you liking the new house? Probably weren’t crazy about that spring snow we just had, having to shovel the drive.”

  “Ah, yeah.” Chris hooks his jacket over the maple coat rack near the door, a homey addition purchased with Elena’s new salary. “That’s kinda why I’m here.” He shoves hands into his jeans pockets, and his forehead and eyebrows crinkle upward in a plea. “It’s about a job.”

  Elena stops dunking her tea bag.

  “Think you could use me somewhere?”

  “Chris.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Restaurant work is a ton of pressure. Rushes are brutal.”

  Even though my back faces her, I can feel it, her blue eyes on high beams.

  “Tell you what,” I say. “Let me get off the runway with this thing. Then we’ll talk.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Got it. Forget I asked.”

  “No, I mean it. We’ll talk.” But the words come out fast and slick, as phony as the smile I’ve plastered on.

  “Listen, you guys were having a moment, and I interrupted.” He pats the wrapped box on the small table. “Think my sister and aunt would call this a housewarming gift.”

  “Whoopee cushion?”

  He laughs and reaches for his jacket.

  “Stay. We’ll watch the Bulls lose to the Celtics.”

  “Naw. I gotta get going.” He holds out a fist and I bump his knuckles with mine. He leaves, his work boots clomping on the stairs.

  When I turn toward Elena, her arms are crossed, her lips a tight line.

  The tea kettle sends up a shrill whistle. She turns off the stove and shifts the kettle to a cold burner. Most any life form with an XY gene recognizes this phenomenon, the female silent treatment.

  “Operating a grill-and-steel cooktop is intense, and I’ve seen him crack, Elena. So have you.”

  “I’ve seen you crack, Nick Zaccardi.” Her hands are on her hips. “He started ringing up orders during Christmas, and he was terrific. He can learn to do it. All it takes is patience.”

  “A bar is different from a bookstore. Alcohol can make people more aggressive.”

  “He’s not been drinking lately. At all.”

  “I’m not talking about him. Suppose a customer has too much to drink and becomes nasty. Or he could get overwhelmed with multiple orders. Forget things. If a customer complains and another needs special assistance, he could get frustrated. You want him to lose the confidence he’s started to get back? I’m looking out for Chris here, okay?”

  “It feels like you’re looking out for Nick. Like you want things to be easy for Nick. For him to fit the image of Nick’s cool new bar.”

  I fling up my arms. Arrrggh.

  “Chris could ease into it. You can start him doing errands or deliveries, and then work his way up.”

  “Tell you what. You recommend him for a job where you work. As your associate.”

  “He doesn’t have the degree or training for it.”

  “Exactly.” I stare at her, my hand squeezing the leather edge of the chair. “Unless you’re telling me that restaurant work is easy.”

  “He’ll work hard. He’d give you the chance if the situation was reversed.”

  “Did you put him up to this?”

  “I can’t believe you’d ask me that. It took a lot for him to ask. A lot.” Her eyes blaze a darker blue in this growing thundercloud of a mood. “He’s got pride, too.” She pushes aside the full cup of brewed tea and grabs the handle of her carry-on.

  “Elena. Elena, I’m sorry.”

  She retreats into that cool shell of hers, a new reservoir of poise that I both like and don’t like. Sliding into her new longer-length tan coat, soft as a blanket, she adjusts a Scottish plaid scarf around her neck. Swings her purse straps over her shoulder and reaches for her puff hat and mittens. She hasn’t worn them in awhile, and I’ve been happy to see them.

  I step closer to her and reach for the handle to her luggage. “Let me carry this down for you.”

  Stiffening, she shakes her head. “No.” That’s firm. A don’t-push-me no. “I’ve got to make sure he’s okay.”

  Falling back into habit, helicoptering the family. And it’s my fault. “I’ll go with you.”

  At the door, she stalls, staring at the floor. “Maybe we both need this separation.”

  Inside my gut, there’s a cave-in. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “We’re hot, we’re cold. You’ve been stressed out.”

  “Just a teensy understandable, don’t cha think?” I exaggerate a pinch, tone sarcastic as hell.

  With a shake of her head, she leaves. I go to the windows, watch her cross the street to the parking lot, her plaid scarf blowing behind her tan collar. She’s dragging that poor carry-on like a carcass. Its wheels bounce against sidewalk grooves and the concrete curb.

  A text chirps on my phone and I grab it, thinking it might be her.

  Nope. Craig Hagin, the head chef guy I just interviewed. He’s accepted a job at a large hotel. Thanks but no thanks.

  Screen door hitting my ass.

  Awesome timing there, buddy. I fling my phone into one of the caramel chairs, and it bounces to the floor. The way things are going, the Grim Reaper will swing by and want to party.

  Hot, itchy, aggravated, I grab the package, eager to escape this cymbal crash of an afternoon. I rip open the wrapping. It had been guy-wrapped, invisible tape slapped on hastily, the newspaper bulging at the ends.

  It’s a wooden plaque engraved with crisscrossed pool sticks, and a Photoshopped Liam Neeson holding a cue ball.

  WELCOME TO NICK’S BILLIARD ROOM

  The white card’s written in shaky oversized letters, and I think of how Chris might’ve looked after his Afghan tours, his head bandaged, at a table, struggling to write his name. I read the message.

  NICK:

  FOR YOUR “CASA.”

  —Chris

  The red bow falls from my palm, the adhesive square no longer sticky. Nothing is sticking right. The casa is nada, and Lexi sent the pool table to a rec room graveyard. My doors open Monday, and I don’t have a head chef.

  My girlfriend’s furious.

  The newspaper wrapper crunches in my fist.

  I’m not a successful kingmaker
or restaurateur. Not the cozy fireplace guy. The jury’s leaning frog, not prince.

  Blinking, I stare at the red bow on the floor.

  I’m not even a decent friend.

  Maybe God and Karma are tag-teaming me, sending the same message, that I’d made a fatal mistake leaving Division One, like a bad sports trade that cost the team the season. If I’d stayed with Dad, I’d be managing multiple Division Ones by now. Host rock star parties at the condo. Show Chris how to bank a pool shot. Drop off Elena at the airport in the Aston. Make love to her with that Lake Michigan view. Take care of her in style.

  The old man’s right, and I’d have to tuck my tail between my legs and tell him. I run to the bedroom to change and, later, grab my leather jacket, keys, and phone.

  The skeletal frame of a Vietnam-era Huey guarded the VFW’s brick building, and the flag pole clanged from the wind. Twenty minutes after leaving Nick, Elena drew in the flaps of her coat and entered, wrinkling her nose. Although cigarettes were prohibited, smoke clung to the patrons’ clothes, as did a lingering sadness, the things they couldn’t un-see, the friends they’d lost.

  She stopped short of the bartender’s station, noting Chris’s regular buddies weren’t there.

  Instead, her brother sat next to two men in their seventies. One had gray hair pulled taut from his face, his straggly braid bursting into split ends. The other man was almost bald and wore a lumpy green vest. Chris acknowledged her with a wave, and his drink still fizzed from the CO2 tap. “No need for a sniff check. It’s just Coke. Mike, Les, this is my sister.”

  The two old men nodded and resumed staring into space. On the jukebox played an old 1960s favorite of her aunt’s, “Put A Little Love In Your Heart.”

  Her brother shifted on the duct-taped bar stool and cupped the base of his glass with both hands. “He’s upset, Leen. Nick jokes, but he’s upset.”

  “I am, too. For you.”

  “I can handle being turned down. You may not think so, but I can. The doctor said yesterday that I was doing a lot better. The brain wiring’s improved. I think Nick’s rubbing off on me.”