The Lost Family

by Jenna Blum

  Gregg was slumped in an armchair, watching All in the Family. The room was resinous with the skunk smell of pot. On-screen Archie called his son-in-law a Polack meathead, and the audience laughed.

  “Want to join me in the shower?”

  Gregg stared stonily ahead, then used the remote to turn off the TV. The picture dwindled to a small white cube and blinked out. “Sure. If you’re done with your calls.”

  His voice had a nasty edge June hadn’t heard before. “What’s the matter with you?” she said.

  “Nothing. Why would you think anything’s the matter?”

  “Because you’re acting like a jerk.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion.”

  “Well, that’s my opinion.”

  Gregg took a toke from the joint. June waited. “I’m going to get ready,” she said finally. “Can you please pass me my cigarettes?”

  Gregg reached for the pack on the bedside table and pegged it in June’s direction. June ducked, and the Marlboro box bounced off the bathroom door.

  “What is your problem?” she said.

  Gregg pinched out the joint and turned the TV back on. Now it was the Jeffersons, movin’ on up.

  “Fine,” said June. “Up yours. I’ll go to dinner by myself.”

  “Oh no, you won’t.”

  “Oh yes, I will.”

  “You don’t even know where our reservation is.”

  June laughed. “Like I care. I’ll go somewhere else.”

  “Not without me, you won’t,” said Gregg and got up.

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  * * *

  It turned out Gregg had booked a table at the Radisson, in the famous Golden Flame Room on the top floor. They awaited the elevator in silence; when it came, they boarded and stood a foot apart, June in her green halter gown, Gregg in his suit. There was Muzak: raindrops kept falling on their heads. Gregg stood at parade rest, hands clasped in front of him, gaze straight; the dent on his forehead was more prominent now with his short hair, in the overhead light. Their afternoon interlude in this very elevator seemed to have happened to other people. Who was he, this big silent boy? They ascended, watching the lighted numbers.

  June had heard about the Golden Flame Room, but she had never been there; it was much like the Rainbow Room in New York, a rooftop restaurant surrounded by windows. All the men in June’s life seemed insistent on taking her to dine in the sky. June remembered Peter pretending he couldn’t waltz and felt a pinch of pain. The hostess led them to their table: a ringside seat to the dance floor, with a fine view of the Minneapolis horizon, the Mississippi and beyond it the Gold Medal Flour sign glowing red, and the Golden Strings Orchestra. On either side of the musicians’ platform were the Golden Flames: two plumes of fire shooting regularly to the ceiling from two torches and, to the oooohs and aaaahs of the diners, turning rainbow colors. The orchestra, seven tuxedoed young men and seven damsels in gowns, plucking away at cellos, violins, guitars, and harps, was playing “Tea for Two.” They looked like refugees from The Poseidon Adventure.

  They segued into “Candle on the Water” as Gregg shouted something at their waitress that ended with “. . . martinis!” June took a cigarette from her clutch and waited. When Gregg didn’t lean over to light it, she picked up a Golden Flame Room matchbook and did it herself. They stared at the Golden Flames; the fire shot up, and the lenses of Gregg’s glasses flared orange, red, green, and blue. “Oooohhhhhhhhh,” the diners said. “Aaaaahhhh.” Over the music came the soft roar of propane.

  The waitress returned with their martinis, and June picked hers up. “Hold on,” said Gregg. “We haven’t toasted.” He smiled sweetly and lifted his glass. “To your husband. A salut.”

  “Very mature,” said June.

  “How do you think that felt?” Gregg said. His lips pulled back from his teeth, and behind his glasses June could see the whites of his eyes around the pupils; she realized he was truly furious, and for the first time she felt a little afraid. “Sitting there like a chump while you sweet-talked him like that?”

  “Sweet talk?” said June, “that wasn’t sweet talk! That was a wife trying to sound normal so her husband wouldn’t suspect anything. Which I think he might, by the way.”

  “Good,” said Gregg. “It’s about time.”

  “What are you talking about! How can you say that?”

  Gregg drained his drink. “If he doesn’t know by now, I’ll tell him myself.”

  “Don’t . . . you . . . dare.” June stood up, fists clenched, nails digging into her palms. “I’ll kill you if you do.”

  “Go ahead,” Gregg nearly shouted. “This is killing me already. What do you think this is for me, June?” and June was astonished to see his eyes reddening with tears. He took his glasses off and pinched his nose. “Some little joke? A summer fling? You think I ball every horny wife at the club, that I came halfway across the country for fun and games? I love you, June.”

  June stood very still, holding the back of her chair. “What?”

  “I said I love you.”

  The waitress returned. “Two chicken Kiev specials,” she sang, “with rice pilaf . . .”

  Gregg took the plates from her. “Okay, thanks,” he said. He looked back at June, who hadn’t moved. “You have no reaction to my telling you I love you?”

  June had many, the most prevalent being confusion, like the roaring of a big shell on her ears. “You don’t even know me,” she said.

  “Sure I do.”

  “No, you don’t. You just think you do. You think you know me because we’ve spent a couple of months screwing—”

  “I know you think you’re old even though you’re the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen. I know you have a raspberry birthmark. I know you’re double-jointed. I know you’re funny. I know you’re lonely. I know you’ve tried, but your marriage isn’t working. I know you want more. I know you want more from your life, June.”

  That did sound convincing, June had to admit. But—

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, and fled.

  She was halfway to the door when Gregg caught up with her. He grabbed her arm.

  “Wait,” he said.

  “Let go,” she said.

  “I will if you listen. Will you listen?”

  “Go ahead,” she said.

  Gregg took both of June’s hands in his. They were standing half on, half off the dance floor, on carpet and parquet, sequins of light from the disco ball scattering in their eyes. Waitresses eddied around them, carrying folding stands and big trays.

  “I came here,” Gregg said, “to ask you to go away with me.”

  “We’re already away,” said June.

  “I mean away-away. For real. I’m going to California, June. After Labor Day. As soon as my contract at the club is up.”

  “How long have you known this?”

  “All along.”

  “And you’re just telling me now?” June tried to wrench free. She had predicted Gregg would leave, hoped for it, even—why was she feeling tearful now? It was this whole upsetting scene. “Give me the room key.”

  “I will, I promise. Just one more minute.”

  June wrestled with him. She was strong from tennis and housework, but Gregg of course was stronger. She stopped.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  June glared. “What else, macho man,” she snapped—which was in fact the song the Golden Strings Orchestra was now playing.

  “I always knew the club was a temporary gig,” Gregg said. “I was just saving up money. I can’t live in my parents’ basement forever. I’ve been there since I was discharged. It’s been a long two years.”

  “I get it, but—”

  “Listen.” Gregg put his hand on June’s cheek. “So I got in touch with a buddy of mine I served with—he’s in Long Beach. He says I can crash with him until I find my own place. That housing’s cheap. I can go to USC or UCLA on the GI Bill—finally finish
college. Sun. Sand. New beginnings. Sounds pretty good, June, doesn’t it?”

  It did. June asked, stalling, “What are you going to study?”

  “Oceanography.”

  “Oceanography!” She started to laugh.

  “What?” said Gregg, looking hurt. “I like whales.”

  June laughed. She laughed and laughed, until tears ran down her face. She bent at the waist, but she couldn’t stop. She saw ladies’ pumps and skirt hems, men’s loafers and trouser cuffs, whisk past on the dance floor; Gregg’s giant shoes remained in place. When June straightened up, he was standing with his arms crossed, just watching.

  “Better?” he asked.

  June wiped her eyes. “Yes, thanks.”

  Gregg used the tail of his tie to dry June’s face. She thought of Peter then, how he was never, in any circumstance, without his handkerchief, and stepped back.

  “I’m flattered,” she said. “It’s very sweet, what you’re asking me to do. But—”

  “Don’t,” said Gregg. “Don’t do that, June. Don’t say no before you’ve really thought it over, given it a chance.”

  “But—”

  “What’d I just say?”

  “It’s impossible. I have a husband. And a daughter you’ve never even met!”

  “A husband who, with all due respect, doesn’t love you the way you deserve. This is 1975—people get divorced every day. As for your daughter, I’d love to meet her. I’m really good with kids.”

  “B—,” June started to say, and Gregg put a hand on her mouth.

  “Just for now,” he said, “just for tonight, don’t say no. Think about it. I know you want a fresh start as badly as I do, June. Just think about it for one night, okay?”

  June sighed. Lassitude overcame her, from laughing and crying and from having gotten very little sleep the night before. She looked over at the Golden Flame Orchestra. They were all so young, these girls in their gowns and boys with beards; who knew where their lives would take them, what wretched decisions they would face?

  Gregg lifted her hand and kissed it. “Dance with me,” he said.

  He drew her onto the floor. The orchestra was playing “Honey Bun” from South Pacific. “That’s you,” Gregg said, as he pulled June in; “my doll, dainty as a sparrow. Compared to me, anyway.” He sang along:

  Where she’s narrow, she’s as narrow as an arrow,

  And she’s broad . . . where a broad . . . should be broad!

  He squeezed June’s corresponding body part and she whacked him on the shoulder. “Hey!” she said.

  Gregg grinned. “I didn’t write the lyrics, Mrs. R.”

  “Excuse me,” said a man next to them—a portly gentleman in a tuxedo, dancing with a lady who had an impressive gray beehive. “Pardon me, young fellow. Care to settle a bet for my wife and me?”

  “Sure, if I can,” Gregg said.

  The man winked at June. “Are you two honeymooners?”

  “We are, as a matter of fact,” Gregg said, just as June opened her mouth to say no.

  The man turned to his wife, who was rolling her eyes. “You owe me a dollar, Jeanette,” he said. “I told you—it’s easy to spot the ones in love. You can always tell.”

  * * *

  The next morning they got up early, not wanting to squander their rapidly dwindling time. Gregg suggested room service, but June said, “C’mon, I want to take you to one of my favorite places,” and after they dressed, she led him out onto the Nicollet Mall. The sun was bright, the bricks shining, the shopkeepers just rolling the grates up the windows. At Burt’s Shoes, Gregg chose a hideous pair of green platform clogs for June, the toes curled as if elves had made them; at Brown’s Contemporary Clothing, June selected circus-striped pants for Gregg. “I think I’d rather wear a mini,” he said. In fact he was still in his banker’s suit, which was starting to look a little rumpled. It was the only thing he’d packed, he admitted sheepishly. He stood behind June and put his arms around her, turning her to face their reflection in the glass. “What d’you think, Mrs. R?” he said. “Pretty cute couple, huh?”

  “You sure are, Mr. Rockefeller,” said a voice from a nearby bench, and up rose one of the hippies they’d seen last night—in a stovepipe hat and bell-bottoms, though sans shirt. “You take care of her,” he said, “take care of that angel.”

  “I intend to,” said Gregg, “if she’ll let me.”

  “That’s why we’re all on this earth, to take care of each other,” said the hippie, and he whipped off his hat. “You wouldn’t happen to have a quarter, would you?”

  “For you,” said Gregg, “I’ve got a dollar,” and he dropped a bill in the hippie’s hat and bowed back to him, and they strolled on.

  “That was generous of you,” said June as they reached where she’d wanted to go—Bridgeman’s lunch counter. “By the way, if you don’t mind my asking—how are you affording all this?” The Radisson wasn’t cheap.

  Gregg drew back in mock offense. “You think I’m just some po’-ass tennis pro? I’m a vet, baby. Uncle Sam be payin’ for this trip. You got yo’self a real liiiive sugar daddy.”

  “I’ve got myself a real jive turkey, is more like it,” said June. She stepped daintily over the threshold in her platform sandals as Gregg held the door.

  “Groovy place,” he said, looking at the long lunch counter, the checkered green and gray floors, the row of red vinyl booths.

  “I used to come here when I was a kid,” said June, “on buying trips with my mom.” The waitress nodded for them to take a seat, so Gregg chose the window booth.

  “Welcome to Bridgeman’s, home of the LaLaPaLooza,” the waitress chanted, dropping menus on the speckled Formica.

  “Thanks,” said Gregg. “What the heck is a LaLaPaLooza?”

  “That,” said June, pointing to the photo on the sun-faded menu, and the waitress recited, “Our famous sundae, eight scoops of ice cream—pineapple rings—pineapple caramel and strawberry topping—mixed nuts—bananas slices—whipped cream and maraschino cherries—eat the whole thing and it’s free.”

  “Well, obviously that’s for me,” said Gregg.

  “For breakfast?” said June.

  “Santorelli’s rule,” said Gregg. “If there’s an in-house sundae, you have to eat it.”

  “Same for you?” said the waitress.

  “Oh, God, no,” said June. “I’ll have half a grapefruit and coffee. Black.”

  She lit a cigarette as Gregg pulled over the glass of crayons near the jukebox and the waitress poured coffee. June just wanted to savor this moment: the sun slanting across the table; her muscles sore in a way that spoke only of pleasurable activities; Gregg’s hair still damp from the shower and combed in furrows. June still wasn’t used to how he looked with short hair. Nor was he; “I don’t have a forehead,” he’d said that morning in the bathroom, squinting at himself in the steamy mirror; “I have a fivehead.” His hair, at twenty-seven, was already thin at the crown; would he be completely bald in five years? June wondered. Ten?

  “So,” said Gregg, without looking up from the place-mat puzzles he was working on: circle the hidden words, find what’s wrong with this picture. “Have you given it more thought?”

  “What?” said June.

  He glanced up at her. “What we talked about last night,” he said, and then he sat back as the waitress served his sundae. “Good grief,” he said.

  “Don’t forget,” June said with a sadistic smile, “you’ve got to eat the whoooollllle thing.”

  “No sweat,” said Gregg and applied himself to his ridiculous mounds of ice cream. June sipped her coffee and watched, both repulsed and amused. Naturally Gregg would order ice cream for breakfast—he was practically still a child, after all. But June had to admit there was something refreshing about his appetite, how he ate and enjoyed whatever he wanted without considering its pedigree. June admired Peter’s dedication to his profession, of course she did, along with his proficiency at it—but he could be so . . . fuss
y. Did anyone but chefs really care whether tomatoes came from a local farm or the A&P? Or go into raptures over white asparagus, or fly into rages about a broken-yolked egg? June had once seen Peter fire a man for oversalting a sauce, scream at another for not wiping down a plate’s rim before he ran it to the dining room. They were among the few times she’d seen him truly angry. She didn’t understand it—his passion consumed him. What did it really matter whether the Brie was served at the ideal temperature or the beef for brisket Wellington came from flank steak or top round? Food was food.

  Gregg held out a spoonful of ice cream to June. “That’s cheating,” she said.

  “I won’t tell if you don’t,” he said, and June accepted the bite. Butter pecan—a flavor she hadn’t tasted since childhood. She’d forgotten how much she loved it.

  “Well?” Gregg said again.

  “Well what?”

  “You know well what,” he said.

  “It’s only been twelve hours,” she said. “Give me a few more minutes.”

  “Fine,” said Gregg.

  He set the empty sundae boat aside and returned to his puzzles, pushing his glasses up onto his nose with his pointer finger. June watched him circle a beach ball on a stove, a duck with a bow tie, an upside-down lamp. Was she even going to consider this? Was she really? California: home of the silver screen, of Hollywood hopefuls, of—as Archie Bunker said—fruits and nuts. June didn’t want to be in pictures, but finally she could work! There had to be plenty of movie stars’ wives with pots of money and no taste who would welcome June redecorating their mansions.

  But Peter. This would hurt. Badly. He would be shocked, his pride injured, and he would miss June—in the academic, abstract way a husband misses the wife who has shared his bed and set out his suits and shoes. Sol and Ruth would be thrilled, their opinion of June and all slippery shiksas confirmed, a brand-new opportunity to fix Peter up with a nice Jewish girl. Maybe somebody Peter’s own age; maybe a widow, so they’d have that essential grief in common. Although June imagined Peter would scorn such attempts. Without June, he’d probably return to the bachelor ways he’d been set in when she met him, working twenty hours a day, seven days a week—testing recipes, stalking the best meat and produce, sleeping at the restaurant. The kitchen was Peter’s real love, after all—and the memories it contained.