by Garth Stein
“Reference area?”
“Do you know your cluster schools?”
“No.”
She grimaces.“Go private, if you can afford it.”
“Actually, ” Evan says, “he probably won’t be going to school here.”
“Really? Where will he go?”
“He’ll probably go live with his grandmother. She’s in Walla Walla.”
“Oh, ” Randi says.“That’s a long weekend commute.”
Evan thinks about it. It’s so long it’s actually too long for a weekend commute. He wasn’t thinking weekends, he was thinking major holidays, he was thinking a week here and there, maybe a three-day extendo-weekend thrown in for fun. Things are changing quickly and he’s not keeping up. He’s got to realize that he’s not an uncle, he’s a father. Any decent parent—even Randi, who cares so little about her own body that she’s had gallons of India ink injected under her skin—would think about seeing his kid every single weekend. How can a weekend go by without seeing your kid? It’ll mean a lot of time on the road, but of course he’ll do it. How could he not?
“Well, ” he says, “you gotta do what you gotta do.”
“Tell me about it.”
THEY GO OUT for Thai food, and while they eat, Dean opens a whole new can of worms.
“When am I going to meet my other grandparents?”
Carl and Louise? He can meet them right after Evan tells them he exists. How’s that sound?
“You want to meet them?” Evan asks.
“You showed me their house.”
Yeah, but he didn’t think he’d actually have to produce a face-to-face meeting.
“Sure. I’ll give them a call and make a date.”
“They don’t even know about me, do they?” Dean asks.
Evan hesitates, searching for the right answer, which may or may not be the truth. Thankfully, Dean doesn’t push it; he turns the conversation to something else as they finish dinner.
They get home and hang out for a while in front of the TV. Dean seems relieved to have things settled, or at least as settled as they are. Things feel settled, even though they aren’t. Use Your Illusion, I and II.
Later that night, after they’ve both gone to bed, Mica calls.
“It must be late there, ” Evan says from the darkness, his sheets pulled up around his ears, blue light sneaking around the blinds of an otherwise empty room.
“It is, but I just got in and had something to eat. Traveling is a drag. How’s everything going?”
“Pretty good.”
“Tell me what happened with Dean.”
He tells her everything, although when he’s done he realizes that the way he’s phrased it makes it sound as if he and Dean staying together is a fait accompli.
“She may dump Frank, ” he adds because he doesn’t want to misrepresent the truth about how he sees the future playing out.
“I don’t think so, ” she says. “But it still sounds great, Evan. I’m glad you two worked things out.”
“So you’re not mad at me?” Evan asks.
“No, I’m not mad at you Evan. But don’t lie to me like that again. That was in the past. That was the old Evan. Don’t do it anymore.”
He promises he won’t; they say their goodnights. And he goes to sleep feeling a little lonely, a little sad, but also a little happy and cozy and comfortable. It’s strange having people in your life like a girl and a kid. It’s kind of nice. He rather likes it.
EVAN BOLDLY CALLs his parents and asks if he can meet with them, he has something important to discuss. Sure, they say, we were going to dinner tonight, why don’t you join us? Evan takes them up on their offer, not because he wants free food but because he figures a restaurant is, tactically, a good place for him to tell them about Dean: they won’t yell at him in public. Theoretically, at least.
He drops Dean off with Lars, who, like the mensch he is, has arranged for an evening of pizza and indoor go-karting. He drives back downtown and arrives at the restaurant, Orsenigo’s, right on time. He checks in with the hostess and discovers that he’s the first of his party; yes, he’d like to sit, please. The woman shows him to the table—a prime spot next to the window—and he waits. He isn’t surprised that he’s the first to arrive. Carl and Louise Wallace always arrive fashionably late, even when there’s no one to impress but Evan.
He glances around the dining room with the corners of his mouth turned down, and, admittedly, a bit of an attitude. Not at the restaurant or the patrons, who are all dressed quite nicely and speaking with enthusiastic yet subdued voices—cordial, affable, genial, perfect restaurant-mates, really—but at the idea that he will have to muddle through an Italian dinner—albeit one with a northern bent, without eating wheat or dairy. What he’d really like is a giant bowl of pasta with a pile of cheese on it.
Orsenigo’s is a trendy little trattoria near the Public Market, which is always crowded, no matter what time of the night, no matter what day of the week. The owner/chef, Luigi Orsenigo, is a near legend in Seattle, an author of countless cookbooks, a guest on national talk shows, and a proud sponsor of any charity event that’s even remotely related to food. The restaurant has a three-week waiting list, and those who are powerful enough to pull strings and get a last minute “day of ” reservation, are thankful to be offered a choice between a five-thirty or a ten o’clock start time. His parents have chosen Orsenigo’s simply because they can. They can choose it; they can change their reservation from two to three without a question. They can be assured that the table will wait for them, and never vice versa.
How this came to be is a story of its own. It seems that Carl and Louise were having dinner one night—having waited their three weeks—and Orsenigo’s wife, Christina, a pleasantly chatty hostess, mentioned something about her brother who was on a waiting list for a liver transplant at Harborview Medical Center. She was dismayed that her brother was so far down the list that he would likely perish before a liver became available. Christina had no idea (or did she?) that she was speaking with Carl Wallace, King of the Hill, Head of the Harbor. You see, as chief surgeon, Carl basically ran the place like his own personal playground.
“Here’s my card, ” he said to Christina.“Call me at home tomorrow morning.”
She did. And wouldn’t you know, suddenly her brother was on the short list for livers. Two weeks later, he was going in for pre-op. And wouldn’t you know, Carl steps in and embeds the new liver personally. Damn.
Now the deal is, when you save the life of the owner’s brother-in-law, you have about as much clout at a restaurant as you could hope for. Carl could call at eight o’clock on the eve of the new millennium and Orsenigo would give him the best table in the house, and toss in a free bottle of champagne for good measure. That’s why Carl and Louise like to go to Orsenigo’s. Not the food. Not the price. Not the view. The fact is, dining is a production, and you do get points for style.
Evan shakes himself out of his reverie. The bread boy has left a basket of bread on the table and, next to it, a shallow dish of rosemary-infused olive oil, a bit of cracked pepper and a pinch of sea salt. Evan would love to devour it. He’s angry at himself for not bringing along any rice crackers. If he doesn’t eat soon, he may starve to death at the table. His mother always tells him he’s too thin, he should eat some spaghetti. He tries to tell her that if he eats spaghetti, his brain will do things he doesn’t like. She doesn’t understand. When he tells her the doctor said so, she understands.
He waits fifteen minutes, then flags down a waiter and asks to order. He’s found it’s generally better to order without his father around, anyway, since his father, the most conventional of all conventional Western doctors, dismisses dietary intervention out of hand, and invariably becomes agitated, if not downright pissy, when it comes to ordering time for Evan. The waiter is kind and understanding and assures Evan his meal will be safe, and Evan is left to struggle over his upcoming confession.
Ideally, he doesn’t want
to have to struggle over it. He wishes it would come out on its own, as part of a joke or something. But if that were possible, he knows, it would have come out as a joke at some point over the past fourteen years. The fact that he could hold out this long without telling them is just evidence of how deeply embedded the secret is. He likes Dean. He really does. And he would like to show Dean to his parents. But he’s so petrified, so terrified about the actual moment of presentation, he really doesn’t think he’ll be able to pull the words from his mouth.
His appetizer arrives just as Carl and Louise enter the restaurant, a few ticks short of seven-thirty.
“Oh, good, you started, ” Louise says. Carl sits without saying a word. Doctors never apologize for keeping you waiting. They want to give you the impression that they were late because they were delivering a baby or binding the gushing wound of a stab victim or something equally important. Their time is more valuable than yours.
As soon as they are seated, a new waiter appears at the table. This one doesn’t look as friendly as the first. He’s thin, wrinkled, and has black, greasy hair.
“I am Mario, ” he says in heavily accented English, “the waitstaff supervisor. I will attend to you, personally. Would you like to see a menu, or may I order for you?”
There’s a brief hesitation. Thank God Evan’s already ordered. He knows Mario would totally screw up the concept of a wheat-free meal and dust everything with as much semolina as he could lay his hands on.
“I know what I’m having, ” Carl announces.“Veal chop, medium rare. Sauteed spinach, light on the oil. Green salad to start, lemon wedges on the side, no dressing. And a wine list.”
Bam, bam, bam. Like navigating an operating room. Sponge. Suture. Clamp that bleeder! Scalpel, stat!
Louise doesn’t have her act as together as old Carl.
“What are the specials?” she asks timidly. Evan can tell she wants to look at a menu—she certainly doesn’t want Mario ordering for her—but with Carl having just ordered and Evan already eating, she feels the pressure to produce a decent order. Stat.
But there’s no need for that, either. Because suddenly the man himself is standing at the table. Luigi Orsenigo, or just Luigi to his friends. A chubby young man with wispy brown hair, blue eyes, and a clean, heavily starched apron. Cute, without being overtly sexual. The women love him. The men don’t feel threatened by him. The perfect person to pound your veal.
“Buona sera, la famigliaWallace. Come state?”
“Luigi!” Carl bellows loudly enough so that the heads of other diners turn to catch a glimpse of the plump chef and the important people to whom he is attending.
“Your son was too hungry to wait for you, no? You were too hungry, no? Look at him, Dottore Wallace. He is such a good-looking boy. And look how he eats. Ah . . .”
Orsenigo loses himself in some kind of quasi-rhapsodic moment, absorbing Evan’s presence. Then, suddenly, he snaps out of it.
“Mario, ” he barks at the gangly waiter.“Per il dottore, la—”
“No, Luigi—” Carl interrupts.
Orsenigo freezes, comically, mid-syllable, his hands grasping the air, his mouth fully open, about to form some wonderful Italian words to describe the dishes fit for a king he will produce for Evan’s father.
“Carl’s on a diet. High blood pressure, ” Louise explains.
“Ah. A diet. Bene. You must stay healthy, no, Dottore Wallace? You cannot operate on yourself, I think, ha, ha! Va bene. Allora.”
Orsenigo falls into thought. Who will be the beneficiary of his cooking prowess, his mastery of the kitchen? He fixes his eyes on Evan’s mother.
“Signora?” Orsenigo asks slyly, with a hint of intrigue.
Louise blushes.
“I’m not on a diet, Luigi, ” she giggles.
“Benissimo! Mario. For la Signora Wallace, antipasto of wild mushrooms, sauteed in extra-virgin olive oil, topped with shaved parmesan cheese, and finished with olio di truffolo.”
Louise is melting in this guy’s butter. Notice how he emphasizes extra virgin. Evan is disgusted at the ridiculous cliché of a situation and his mother’s participation in it.
“A half portion, ” Orsenigo leers. “The signora is concerned about her figure.”
Louise blushes and Carl nods smugly, proud that his wife is being sought after by a genius cook. You can look . . . but keep your truffle pickin’ hands off her.
“Next, a small serving of linguini con vongole—”
“I’m full already, ” Louise playfully chimes in.
“A tiny portion, bella. Because it is your favorite, no?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Si. Ma, for the secondo piatto, she will have the whole red snapper, stuffed with olives, grilled until the flesh is perfect . . . firm, moist . . . fantastico. Fresh today. The best fish we have had all year. I will fillet it for you personally, bella.”
Louise is practically faint from this ordering process.
“Allora. And young Signor Wallace, you are fine?”
“I’m fine, ” Evan reluctantly admits, not really wanting to give this guy an inch.
“Molto bene.”
Luigi glances at Carl, who is studying the wine list.
“That wine list is no good to you here, Dottore. For your wine, I choose. You do not object to red, Signora?”
“Of course not, Luigi.” Louise smiles.
“Luigi, this is too much, ” Carl protests.“You’re running a business here.”
“Ba. Nonsense. This is the family of the man who saved my brother-in-law’s life. Food is food, mi amico, but blood is blood. As we say in Italy: la famiglia cosi fa tutti. The family is everything. Basta, I go.”
And he’s off, disappearing into the crowded restaurant. Evan watches as Orsenigo retreats. He smiles, he waves, he shakes the occasional outstretched hand. But he never makes a fuss even resembling the fuss he made over Carl and Louise. Which just goes to show you that if you work long and hard enough and you get some clout and some power to give a guy a new liver, some celebrity chef with a restaurant will kiss your ass.
“So, Evan, ” Carl beams across the table.“How’s the band faring?”
He must have gotten caught up in the moment. He never asks about Evan’s music. He must have figured he could soak up some of Orsenigo’s residual charisma and pretend like he gives a damn.
“Great.”
“Any gigs coming up?”
He says “gigs” like it’s some kind of toy word, not used in the real world.
“Not for a few weeks. Sorry.”
Carl and Louise share a proud smile, which makes Evan mad. They aren’t really listening, obviously, or they would have heard the answer to the question, which didn’t call for smiles. There’s something very Stepford about this whole scene. Evan doesn’t like it.
“Actually, ” he says, “there is something a little exciting. I got to sit in with Lucky Strike last week down at Jefferson Bank.”
“Lucky Strike?” Louise asks. “Is that a band?”
“Yes.”
“Never heard of them, ” Carl says.
“They’re pretty well known in the music world. Theo Moody—”
“Did you get paid?”
“No, I didn’t get paid. It was just a jam. But it was a full house, and everybody was really into it.”
“Oh, that’s nice, honey, ” Louise says.
“And we cut a demo. My friend, Billy Marx, is going to give it to some A&R people he knows.”
“Do we know Billy Marx?” Louise asks Carl.
“Black fellow, ” Carl says.“Very friendly, as I recall. There was an article about him in the paper a few years ago. Seattle black entrepreneur of the year or something like that.”
“That’s him, ” Evan says.
“How do you remember all that, Carl?” Louise marvels. He shrugs in response.
“And I met a girl. I think I’m in love.”
Both Carl and Louise drop their bread and stare at Eva
n, mouths agape.
“That’s wonderful!” Louise exclaims.
“I can’t tell you how long I’ve been waiting to hear that!” Carl says.“I was afraid you were gay!”
“Actually, she’s a man. A transgender. She’ll be a woman soon. Once she finishes the final round of hormone injections and gets her penis cut off.”
“Oh?” Louise gasps, shocked.
“Compliments of il Signor Orsenigo, ” Mario announces. God only knows how long he’s been standing there with that shit-eating grin, his greasy little hands wrapped around a hundred dollar bottle of wine.
Carl regains a bit of composure, pulls his eyeglasses out of his pocket and slips them on.
“Let me see that, Mario.”
Carl takes the bottle and glances at the label.
“You were joking about that, weren’t you, Evan?” he asks under his breath.
“Yes. She’s a real woman. She is half black, half Asian, though.”
“I’m not a racist, Evan. But I must admit I am a bit of a homophobe. It’s something I should come to terms with, I know. I’d just rather not have to do it with my own son.”
“She’s a woman. I promise.”
Carl nods, studies the label.
“That’s a fine bottle of wine, there, Signora Wallace, ” Carl says. He hands the bottle back to Mario, who bows politely and uncorks it. He pours a splash into Carl’s glass.
“Dottore, taste.”
Carl lifts the glass like it’s the holy grail and smells the wine. He savors the scent, examines the color, then sets the glass down.
“It’s just fine, Mario.”
“You do not wish to taste?”
“Tasting something that smells that good is pretentious, Mario. It feels a little cool. You must have brought it straight from the cellar. Let it be. We’ll drink it with dinner.”
Mario bows and vanishes into the throng of diners.
“So, ” Carl says, having fully regained his composure. “Where were we?”
Where were we? Evan was about to tell you that he has a son. Dean.
“I have one more exciting thing—” Evan starts.
