by Evy Journey
“If you think I’m going to kill myself because I’m sick of being the loser, you’re wrong.”
I make a motion to get up from the couch but Marcia’s hand restrains me again. She raises her other hand and in it is a gun pointing at me.
“The contents are for you. Bitch! You’ve taken things from me long enough.”
“Marcia, I don’t understand. Leon and I are through.”
“It’s not just Leon. Brent, too.”
“But you said he was just a fling.”
“He made it clear from the beginning he was in love with another woman. So, I told him sex was all I was after. That like him, I couldn’t afford to have a relationship.”
“Oh, Marcia, I’m so sorry.”
“Are you? It didn’t take long for me to realize Brent meant you. But why you? Because you’re young? Pretty? Don’t a good mind and a giving heart mean anything anymore?”
I purse my quivering lips to suppress a sob. I can’t show Marcia I’m scared. But what to do? A deep breath, a strong, firm voice. “I want you to leave now, Marcia. Please go. I’ll forget this ever happened.”
“You’re not going to get off that easy.”
“Brent is on his way here.”
“Didn’t take you long, did it? As soon as Leon left …”
“It isn’t like that.” The truth hits me then. “The cans of worms, the pink letter. They all came from you. You followed me to get this address. You didn’t talk to Leon.”
“Voila! Catching on, at last. Can’t say I didn’t warn you. But you’re so thick-headed you ignored them.”
“I didn’t. The pink letter is why I went to see Brent. He’s coming to tell me what he found.”
Marcia shakes her head and sneers. “You think that will stop me? I’m way too deep in this already. Brent is as big a bastard as Leon. I thought he was different. They think I’m old and fat but they have no shame having sex with me, taking what they can from me.”
“You know you can’t get away with this.”
“I know. I don’t care. But you’ll go before I go. Take your pick. A gun is much quicker but it’s messy. Besides, if you mess up this apartment with blood and murder, you’ll have—I mean your parents—will have trouble selling it and it won’t be worth much. Your dying won’t help anyone. A suicide can be kept hush-hush.”
“Marcia, please don’t do this.”
She glares at me and shouts, “Open the bottle and swallow everything. Don’t make me shoot because, by God, I will.”
My shaking hands unscrew the bottle. I have a better chance surviving a bottle of sleeping pills than a gun. Those are my thoughts as I swallow the pills. Some drop on the couch, but Marcia doesn’t seem to care.
Marcia shoves the cup of coffee towards me. “Drink it. All of it.”
I’m gagging on the pills so I gulp the coffee. All of it. Thinking, hoping in the thickening haze in my brain that the caffeine would lessen the effect of the pills. Marcia seizes the cup from my hand, puts it down on the table.
I say, “I’m so sorry for you, Marcia.
Slowly slumping on the couch, I struggle to keep my eyes open. My last thought comes in a dream: Marcia is frightened. Is it my fading self that frightens her?
“Gina, I’m sorry.” Is that a dream, too? Marcia pries the bottle out of my hand but gathering whatever strength I have left. I won’t let go.
I hear quick steps. Is she running out of the room? Or is it Brent?
Epilogue
The lunch hour rush has finally eased up. I flex my back and arm muscles twice before I sit at my desk in the fifty-square-foot space that passes for my office. A window behind my chair brings in sunlight and fresh air, and keeps me from feeling hemmed in. Four feet in front of my desk is a large temperature-controlled pantry that lends some cool air to the room.
I sift through the afternoon mail, searching for an envelope from the university. I’ve been anticipating it the past four days. Today, it’s finally here. With a letter opener, I rip the top of the envelope, quickly scanning its contents: Three “As” and a “B.” As I expected. At the rate I’m going, I’ll get my degree in two and a half years; three, if I can’t take the courses I need.
The last year has been more hectic than the first two after I left home. Upon release from the hospital for overdosing on sleeping pills, I slowly recovered at my parents’ house. It wasn’t so much my body as it was my mind, my spirit, and my trust in people that needed to heal.
A few months later, the place my grandfather used to own went on sale. I decided to take full control of my life. It’s not yet the fancy restaurant of my dreams, but it gets me closer. I sold Leon’s condo and bought the small two-story building. Title in hand, the first thing I did was to take my Mom to see it.
We both stood across the street from it for a few minutes. Mom had become quiet and still, as if she couldn’t take another step. I saw tears rolling down her cheeks. She took my hand and gripped it so tight that it hurt.
I said, “Mom, it hurts.”
She glanced at me and let go of my hand. Wiping her face with her fingers, she said in a low, quivering voice, “I think it’s time for us to go back in.”
She put an arm around my shoulder and we crossed the street. It was then I began to understand what Leon meant about a legacy. I thought, my gaze fixed on the entrance to what was once Grandpa’s place: This is my legacy. It’s in my blood.
I unlocked the door and opened it into a long, empty, spotless, white space. Mom walked in slowly and stood still once again in the middle of it. She said, “I don’t remember it being this big. It looks so empty.”
Had she expected the place to be like it was when she was a child? It probably passed through several hands in the forty years since Grandma sold it. The previous owner I bought it from ran a sandwich shop.
I said, “It’s ours again. To turn into a food mecca that makes people smile when they bite into your tarts or my matelote de poisson. Like they once did for Grandpa’s dishes.”
Mom nodded. “What are we waiting for, then?”
She had brought a framed picture she got from Grandma. She tore off its brown paper wrapping and took a hammer and nails out of her bag. The picture is of Grandpa, in a chef’s uniform, smiling and standing next to a refrigerated food case. Mom hung it on the wall, a few feet from the entrance.
I knew then that coming back to this place was what she needed to finally bury memories of the cruelest thing that could happen to a child.
I wasn’t fully prepared to open and run a restaurant, or a French artisanal delicatessen like Grandpa’s, but with my family’s help, Laure’s advice and that of a business associate she hooked me up with, I opened my own brand of eatery after months of planning and hard work. I called it Chez Merleau, after my Grandpa’s last name.
My grandmother had kept Grandpa’s recipes. Recipes written in a mix of English and French that Grandma had to translate. From those recipes, Mom and I put together our first menu. I decided to put off inventing new dishes until we have a steady clientele.
Like Grandpa, I offer my versions of French classics—cassoulet, boeuf bourguignon, coq au vin, poulet basquaise. They’re vacuum-sealed in bags that can be heated a few minutes in boiling water. They’re popular enough that they sell out by late afternoon. There are also patés Mom makes; country hams and cheeses imported from France; both sweet and savory croissants and tarts that Mom, Sabine, Gerard, and I make together. Gerard’s interest in baking surprised us, and Mom thinks he’s a natural at it.
Business is picking up. But I prefer to expand my possibilities, so I enrolled at the university. I’ll have a bachelor’s degree in food science, minor in English, in three years. I’ll be striding towards thirty by then. I’ve come quite a ways from where I was six years ago. Not bad for someone from a white-trash neighborhood.
At a soft knock on the door, I look up. Rachel, one of two students who help with lunch hour rush,
stands by the door. We met at the university when we were both waiting in line to petition for a new section of a class which filled quickly. “Gina, there’s a guy at the counter. Wants to talk to you.”
“Come in, Rachel. Did he say who he is?”
“No. I didn’t think to ask. A tall youngish guy, dark suit, trim beard. He looks cool but a bit intimidating, like a lawyer. I’ve never seen one with a beard; his does look good on him, though.”
I laugh. “You’re tingling.”
She laughs, too. “Can’t resist cute guys.”
“I’d better go check him out then.”
“More your type, actually.”
“Then I’d be disappointed if all he wants is to place an order,” I say, laughing again.
“I think he needs something else. Looks a bit tense. Anyway, I’m going now. Nell is still here.”
“Yes, she stays until Sabine comes. Thank you for helping today. We’ll see you tomorrow. Use the back door. It’s quicker.”
“Okay, thanks. See you.”
From ten feet away, the man waiting at the counter looks vaguely familiar but he’s back-lit and shadows obscure his face. I can swear though that I’ve seen that build in that tall frame before. My curiosity mounts as I approach him. It can’t be, I murmur to myself. He’d never wear a suit like that and his boss probably won’t let him grow a beard.
I stare at the man, conscious of my heart thumping louder and faster. His mouth is stretched into a cautious smile but his eyes look …sad.
A couple of steps from the counter, I stop. I bite my quivering lip and grip the sides of my apron. My mind has gone blank.
“Regine,” he says, “how are you?”
The same voice from far away echoes in my brain, but in an anguished tone that chokes and dies away: Regine, my love.
I smile, cautiously, like he does. Did you really call me “my love?”
I take two steps to the counter, and grateful it’s there between us, I say, “Brent, as I live and breathe, resurrected from the abyss. In an impeccable dark suit.”
He wiggles his lapel and looks embarrassed. “I can explain this if you join me for coffee and croissant.”
“I’ll sit with you but I’ve just had lunch.” I’m lying about lunch because my guts are roiling and would reject intrusions from my gullet.
Sitting on a high stool by the counter, Nell is gazing out at the street, trying to look bored, though her eyes are bright with curiosity. Glancing quickly at me, she says, “I’ll bring your coffee and croissant to your table.”
I follow Brent to a table. He chooses one farthest away from other occupied tables.
“You’re looking great,” he says as soon as we sit down.
“How did you find me?”
“I worked as a detective, remember?”
“Worked?”
“I changed jobs a year ago.”
“Where you have to wear a suit and tie?”
“I was at court today. I now work at the public defender’s office.”
We both look up as Nell approaches. She places coffee, the croissant and a small pitcher of milk on the table. I say, “Thank you, Nell.”
With a smile, she arches an eyebrow at me. Nell doesn’t know my history and like Rachel, she thinks I’m married to Chez Merleau. Occasionally, they tease me about setting me up with their older friends, brothers or cousins. She turns to Brent with her sweetest smile and says, “Bon appetit.” She throws me another arched glance and sashays back to the counter.
Brent’s gaze follows her sashaying figure, but he turns to me as I hand him the milk. “You’ve decided to use your law degree? At the same office as that smart lawyer who got Cristi out of having to face trial?”
He pours milk into his coffee, takes a few sips, and pours a little more milk.
I say, amused, as he’s stirring his coffee, “Would you like some whipped cream on that?”
He grins. “No, thank you. You remember. And yes. I decided to change my priorities, which I can tell you more about later. But as to how I found you—” He looks up from his coffee. “Marcia told me. I was going to call your mother, but before I could, Marcia called to ask if we can remain friends.”
“Marcia,” I say bitterly. “She’s out, then.”
“No, but she may be out in a few months on good behavior. I won’t be surprised if she tries to contact you later. She’s in touch with Laure, who’ll probably take her back.”
“How kind and generous of Laure. But she won’t tell Marcia where I am, I’m sure. Marcia must have asked one of the cooks at Du Cœur.”
“Maybe. Anyway, she told me something else which concerns you.”
“Me? I’d rather she doesn’t concern herself about me anymore.”
“I understand how you feel but you should listen to this. It’s actually about Laure. And you.”
I shrug. “Anything about Laure is interesting, and I sure want to know if it’s about me.”
“Laure was interviewed by the San Francisco Magazine for her recommendations of up and coming chefs. You’re on her list of three.”
“No way! For real?” I’m grinning from ear to ear. How could I not? Laure’s recommendation would surely bring in many more customers. Chez Merleau attracts enough customers to break even, but an endorsement from Laure could mean gold.
Brent returns my smile with one that lights up his face. “For real. So a lot more people will know about your eatery.”
We gaze at each other for some warm, wonderful moments. It hits me, then, that heartfelt smiles are not only infectious; they can break down defenses. Wipe away any awkwardness we might have felt.
I say in a soft voice, my guard down, “I’ve always loved it when you smile at me like that. Your eyes shine like you’re happy and all is right with your world. ”
“Regine.” Brent leans toward me, reaches over to clasp my hand. He gazes intently into my eyes but he doesn’t say anything, as if he’s lost in thought.
Uneasy about the silence and how he’s looking at me, I say, “So, how’s Marcia?”
“She sounds okay. She called me that morning, you know, as soon as she left you to tell me what she had done to you. An attack of conscience, I think. Guilt can be a powerful thing.”
“I don’t want to talk about how she tried to kill me. It hurts too much. She was my best friend.”
“You know, there was never anything between us. It was over a couple of months after it begun. She had no one, Regine. Marcia is a lonely, tragic woman who was so distraught over what she did that I felt I had to stay in touch with her through her trial.”
“You’re kinder than I am.”
“I don’t condone what she did to you. But she isn’t bad at heart.”
“That’s what they all say. Including me when I excused Cristi for stabbing me. But it’s much harder for me to say it about Marcia because I looked up to her, trusted her almost as much as I trusted my mother. Then I find that she stalked me, sent me threatening messages, and then she tried to kill me.”
“Marcia had a lot of pent-up anger. It’s been building since she was jilted by the Oregon man she was engaged to. She dated Leon for a while, a relationship that lasted longer than most except yours. She saw you get everything she wanted and the dam broke. The nicest people are capable of killing when pushed to their limits.”
Brent must know what he’s saying and I can even believe that’s what happened to Marcia. But I don’t think it takes me closer to forgiving her.
I look away and say nothing. After some moments, he says “Will you have dinner with me?”
I regard him thoughtfully. “Is that why you came, to ask me to have dinner with you? You look as if it was a struggle to ask.”
He shakes his head again. “No … well, yes. I want to ask you out to dinner. But my mind is so full of things I want to say to you, and I don’t know exactly where or how to begin.”
“Well, then, let�
��s go out to dinner. I think that’s a good place to start. Can you pick me up at seven? I know a Japanese restaurant where we don’t need a reservation.”
Brent hesitates for a second before he says, “All right.”
He gets up but he doesn’t leave. He’s staring at me as if he wants to say something.
I rise from my chair and say, “We’ll have all the time we could want to say what needs to be said. Just a few more hours. ”
He nods, squeezes my hand, and walks away slowly.
*****
We have dinner that evening at a Japanese izakaya, which is like a tapas bar serving small plates with drinks. The place is buzzing—everyone is talking in excited voices fueled by bottles of sake. I don’t mind the loud conversations and Brent doesn’t seem to, either. I think we’re getting used to being together again and we’re taking it slowly. Or am I putting off painful explanations by taking him to this place?
I pause before I pick up a piece of shrimp as I mull over that question in my head. Why did I bring Brent here, apart from the fact that I love the food?
It’s a safe place. He did roil up my insides, froze me in place for a few moments when I saw him standing by the counter. I couldn’t tell then how I felt about having him come back into my life.He’ll change things. Take me out of my current comfort zone. Am I ready for that?
At Chez Merleau this afternoon, I watched him as he walked away. He seemed hesitant and I found myself thinking:. He’s seeking me out again. That could only mean he still loves me. How could I not seize this moment? He’s the one I’ve truly, deeply loved.
I wasn’t ready. Not at that moment.
I need to know how I feel about having someone other than myself to please and live for. Something other than Chez Merleau to focus on.
Tonight, in this lively crowd, we can both keep any emotions at bay while we sit here just keeping company with each other amidst a group of strangers. Enjoying this meal. Talking when we could above the din of sake-soaked voices. See what it’s like, feel what it’s like being together again. Maybe, as I get used to the idea that Brent is back in my life, I’ll also be able to cope better with whatever happens next.
