Life's a Beach Then You Die

by Falafel Jones

  Chapter Eight

  We were back in Ed’s car, heading to my place when he asked me, “OK. Who’s this guy, Horton and what do you think he knows?”

  I didn’t have all of the information I needed yet, so I limited my response, “Like I said, he did business with Ray. Sometimes people discuss investments with business associates. I thought he might know something more about Ray’s finances.”

  Ed appeared satisfied with my explanation. If he wasn’t, he didn’t let on but he still seemed upset from our visit with Kathleen. I was going to see Ed again tomorrow morning. I decided I’d give him the bad news about Ray’s criminal activities then.

  He dropped me off and as I entered my house, my stomach growled. I looked down at the culprit and realized I hadn’t eaten since lunch. Now was about the time Mariel and I would plan dinner. Maybe “plan” isn’t the correct word. Maybe I should say, “negotiate”. Due to my size, I have what I like to think is a healthy appetite. On the other hand, Mariel is five feet two inches and slim with a limited capacity for food. One reason Mariel stays so slim is she hardly eats. The other reason is she is obsessed about exercising.

  When we lived on Long Island, I once showed her a Newsday cartoon of two ragged, emaciated men stranded in the desert. One was crawling on his hands and knees. The other was doing sit ups. The caption read “I just don’t feel right when I don’t exercise.” She didn’t get it. When we went out to eat, I’d have dinner while she’d have a dinner salad. I don’t like to think I wolf down my food, but while I’d be sitting there groaning, wishing I could loosen my pants in public, she’d still be working on her dinner salad, dressing on the side.

  Due to her minor and my major interest in food, I did the cooking and she did the cleaning. I cared a lot more than her about what I ate and how it was prepared. She cared a lot more than I did about what kind of mess I left after I made our meals. It was a match made in heaven.

  All of this thinking about food made me hungry and made me miss her. I decided to call her at her sister’s. Her sister and their mother moved down from New York a few months after Mariel and I did. They each owned units in a condo about a mile south of us. It’s close enough we can see each other when we want to and it’s far enough we don’t have to when we don’t.

  Not wanting to get the whole family involved, I decided against calling my sister-in-law’s home phone. Instead, I would dial Mariel’s cell. I knew I was kidding myself about them not being involved. I was sure the three of them and possibly my niece if she was home from college, had already rehashed things a couple of times. I tried to admit to myself my real reason for calling the cell instead of the house phone was I didn’t want to talk to any of them except Mariel. I felt bad enough about her being upset. I’d feel worse if I had to talk with one of the other people who loved her.

  “Hello?” she asked.

  “Hi, it’s me”, I said. I knew she knew it was me. Mariel never answered her cell without first looking at the caller ID to see who was calling. This was my pitiful way of buying some time so I could assess her mood before we spoke.

  “I know.”

  On the Mariel Scale, a count of three words in two exchanges usually means she’s still upset but willing to talk. So far, so good. Maybe I could build on that if I was careful. “I was thinking this is when we usually talk about dinner.”

  “I’m going to have dinner here. We’re going to have some cottage cheese and fruit.”

  Cottage cheese and fruit for dinner sounded revolting, but the fact she told me what she was having was a good sign. If she were mad at me, she’d have only told me she was eating there. On the other hand, maybe she told me the menu to revolt me.

  “OK. I just wanted to check in and see how you’re doing. I’ll make something here.”

  “I’m doing fine, but how are you? Are you still at the house? I’m worried about you.”

  “Yeah, I’m still here.” My doorbell rang and I got up to answer it. “Wait a minute. Someone’s at the door.”

  “Don’t answer it,” Mariel said. “You don’t know who it is. It could be dangerous.”

  “I’m sure it’s OK. Crooks don’t generally ring the bell and announce themselves.”

  “They might if they want to know if someone is home before they break in. They might just ring the bell and hide.”

  “I’m sure it’s ok. Besides, the door is broken. I can’t lock it anyway.” I opened the door.

  “Max, please be careful. I’ll stay on the line. If there’s a problem, hang up and I’ll dial 911.”

  “Hi, Steve, Mariel, it’s Steve. He’s come to fix the door.”

  “Oh, Max. I’m so worried about you. Please come and stay here with us.”

  “No thanks, I need to see this through or you’ll never come home. We didn’t work this hard to get to the point where you’re afraid to be here.”

  She said nothing and then. “OK. I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  Steve had been standing there patiently looking over the broken doorframe while we talked. When I hung up, he said, “Hiya, Mr. Max. This doesn’t look too bad. I don’t have any new molding in the truck, but this piece broke off pretty clean. I think I can put it back with wood screws, slap some mud and paint on it and it’ll be just fine for now. If you want to beef it up, give me a call next week. I can come back with materials, strengthen the frame and install a stronger lock.”

  “OK Steve. Thanks.”

  We exchanged small talk while Steve repaired the door frame. As usual, he was quick, cheap and did good work.

  After he left, I realized this would be my first night alone in this house. Since we bought this place, six months ago, Mariel and I had spent each night here together. Our first night after taking ownership, we went out and bought an inflatable bed. We slept on it for a few days until our furniture arrived from New York. Now, it felt odd to be here alone.

  The house was strangely quiet. No CNN or MSNBC blared from the bedroom. Mariel’s a TV news junkie. When she’s home, she always has a TV on one of the cable news channels. The only exception is baseball season. Then she bounces back and forth between METS games and the news.

  On the bright side, I had a chance to make whatever I wanted for dinner. I decided to make an old favorite, Pasta Pesto Primavera. Mariel used to love it, but recently decided the carbohydrates in the pasta were evil. I got out the old stew pot my father used to use when I was a kid. In my parent’s home, my Dad used to do all of the cooking. He did it until the day he died. He liked to say he had to teach my mother how to boil water. Since I ate my mother’s cooking from time to time, I don’t think he was joking. I liked using that pot. It was of my few links to my old man.

  Early in our marriage, I burned some food onto a small pot and Mariel threw it out as she thought it would be too hard to clean. After that, we had a long talk and she assured me she would never do that with the old man’s stew pot.

  I filled the pot half way with cold water. While the water heated, I boiled a can of cannellini beans, blanched a bunch of broccoli, cooked some cauliflower and nuked a pack of frozen chopped spinach. After the water boiled, I poured in a box of rotelli and watched it dance in the hot water. When the pasta was al dente, I strained it and tossed it in a huge bowl along with pesto sauce, the beans and the vegetables.

  I filled a bowl with some pasta, found a fork, a glass, a bottle of red wine and brought my dinner out back to the pool. It was nice, cool, and quiet. The covered patio extended about 20 feet to the concrete pool deck, which was as wide the house and covered half the backyard. A screened enclosure around everything kept the bugs out, but there was still a nice breeze. Patio lights glistened on the shimmering water as I sat at the table and ate.

  “How’d I get into this?” I asked myself. I should have asked a smarter person, because I didn’t know the answer. I knew I needed more information but had no ideas on how to get it. The only lead was the bug in Ed’s office… if there really was a bug in
Ed’s office. I’d have to get equipment and look for one.

  I finished dinner, and went back into the house. By now, the path through the CDs on the floor was so well defined I almost didn’t notice the mess anymore. I realized I had better clean up before Mariel came back. If she saw all of this again, it might just remind her of how scared she was. Maybe, if things looked normal when she came home, she might feel more comfortable here. I spent less time than I thought getting the CDs and books picked up. Of course, now the previously alphabetized books and CDs were all stored in random order, but at least they were off the floor and out of sight.

  I picked up the things on the bedroom floor and stuffed them back into drawers and onto shelves. I shoved some of the stuff on my office floor into the closet and then piled the rest on top until I could get the door shut. Neatness would have to wait until I got some new boxes.

  Back in the kitchen, I got out the yellow pages, looked up a few likely places where I could buy what I needed and picked one. Tomorrow, I’d get up early and sweep Ed’s office. After loading the dishes into the dishwasher and tossing the empty wine bottle, I staggered off to bed.