Good Enough to Eat

by Stacey Ballis

  I’m enjoying a piece of Kai’s chicken and some of the wheat berry pilaf when Delia flies through the door, buoyed on a gust of wind. She pulls the bright red knit cap off her head, and shakes her braids Medusa-like.

  “Children, it is colder than a witch’s tit out there. Please tell me there is coffee in the pot.”

  I look at Kai, and he looks at me, and then we both look at Delia sheepishly.

  “Good lord, I don’t know what the hell I am going to do with you two!” she blusters, heading back to the kitchen, stripping off her parka and dumping it in the closet on her way past, muttering to herself. Neither Kai nor I drink coffee, both of us preferring tea. He never acquired a taste for it, and I can’t drink it without remembering that Andrew used to make the coffee every morning, that we used to sit and have breakfast together and discuss our upcoming day, and that when he would kiss me goodbye—real lingering kisses, often with tongue, not the usual married morning peck most couples offer—he would taste of deep-roasted brew. My thirst for coffee seems to have disappeared from the moment I pitched that coffee cup at his head.

  Since neither of us indulge, we only remember to put a pot on for Delia about every third day. Kai and I laugh, listening to her mumbling rant, which is still going in the kitchen. “I swear!” we hear, and Kai says, “I think that is my exit cue.”

  “Don’t leave me with her,” I beg in false fear. “Ashley isn’t coming, I’ll be all alone at her mercy.”

  “You should have thought of that and remembered to make the diva her coffee,” he says, going to the closet and getting his coat, winding an endless blue scarf around his delicate neck. “I need to head over to Paulina Meat Market and pick up a hanger steak for dinner, Phil has been craving red meat lately.”

  “Say hi to the guys for me.” I love the butchers at Paulina. They know their business, wouldn’t dream of selling you something less than perfect, and can eyeball a ten-ounce New York strip like no one else. Plus they make all their own sausages, and like to slip me a salami stick with a wink when I leave. If I weren’t so sure it would be the death of me, I’d be very tempted to marry one of them.

  “Will do.” Kai pulls on his gloves, and shouts back toward the kitchen. “Bye, Delicious!”

  Delia pokes her head out and smiles at him. “Stay warm, baby boy.”

  He bows. “Have a good night, Mini Mel.”

  “See you tomorrow, Kai. Thanks for everything.”

  “You got it. And Melanie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Next Sunday, come to dinner. I’ll cook light and healthy, I promise. Just you and me and Phil, okay?”

  I look at his earnest face, the effort he is making. “Okay. I’ll come. Let me know what I can bring.”

  His grin lights the room. “Will do. We can talk menu tomorrow, you get final approval on everything!”

  I laugh at him. “You are a kook. Go buy dinner for your man.”

  “Later!” he says, and bounces out the door.

  “That boy gone yet?” Delia calls out.

  “Yep,” I call back.

  Delia comes out of the kitchen, carrying a steaming cup, and sits beside me at the table. “I cannot handle that child without some caffeine, you hear me? Can-not-han-dle-him.” She takes a deep swig, and I can’t believe it doesn’t scorch the inside of her mouth. Then again, I always assume with her history that she must have a very high tolerance for pain. She sighs delightedly. “Ahhh. So much better. How was the morning?”

  “Good,” I say around a mouthful of chicken. “Slow at first, but a pretty good lunch rush. But this quiet right now doesn’t bode well.” I look out the large front windows into the street, where there is already the sense of impending darkness. Minimal foot traffic. We are likely to be dead all afternoon. Which means I have to pray for a really big after-work rush from the people who get off the El a block away.

  “Doesn’t look like we need to do much back there, the case seems pretty stocked.”

  “Yeah, we should be fine. We can do some prep for tomorrow morning, but it should be quiet.”

  Delia takes another deep draught of her coffee. “Good. I can use a quiet afternoon. Those kids at the shelter are making me crazy. Christ, I never saw such a passel of devils in my life.”

  “Are there a lot of kids over there?” I never really thought much about it, but obviously if women run away from their husbands, they are going to take their kids with them.

  “Oh, child, about twenty or so. And most of them hateful little monsters.”

  “Well, I have to assume, with what they have been through, what they have seen . . .” I’m at a loss to fully understand what the experience would do to anyone, let alone a child.

  “Yes, well. That may be true. But that doesn’t mean they don’t get on my last nerve.”

  “You never wanted kids of your own, D?”

  It is a casual question, but personal nonetheless, and we are only slowly finding our way to that kind of trust. She gets very still, and looks down at her hands. I almost take back the question, not wanting to offend her or make her uncomfortable, but then she starts to answer me.

  “I had a beautiful baby boy. Walter. He died. We were at the park, and he got stung by a bee. He was really allergic, that ana-whatever-shock reaction. Just rolled his little eyes back and stopped breathing. By the time the ambulance came he was gone. Just two years old. I got pregnant again, but Deon got into one of his fits, and I lost the baby. Nothing ever took again. Probably better, wouldn’t have wanted to put kids through what I been through.”

  There is tightness in my chest. I reach a hand out and take hers. It is callused and rough, the hand of someone who has known many hours of hard labor. I squeeze. She squeezes back.

  “What about you, missy? Why didn’t you and that no-good asshole you were married to have a munchkin or two your own selves?”

  “There was no time, there was no urgency, no pressing need. And now I’m too old and there is no husband. I was never sure I really wanted them, and just let the time go by. Andrew and I were so driven to get to a certain place in our careers, and whenever we would talk about it, we would talk about how great our life was together, and not wanting to upset the balance. But I think on my end it was all a front for me not wanting to take on a pregnancy at that weight, and on his end a basic deep-rooted selfishness. By the time I got healthy enough to believe my body could handle it and produce healthy offspring, I was starting the business, and now Andrew is gone . . .” I drift off.

  “And good riddance to bad rubbish, I always say! God has a purpose, honey. For both of us. If we were supposed to be mothers, we would be. And if we weren’t meant to be mothers, it is because we need to be free for some other plan.” I envy Delia’s faith. Religion was never a major part of our lives. Dad was Jewish, Mom was Lutheran, neither practiced. As kids we did Chanukah and Passover with Dad’s folks and Christmas and Easter with Mom’s folks, and never did much of anything ourselves, and by the time I got to college, all four grandparents were gone, and we hadn’t really taken much to any of their traditions, throwing our energy instead into secular holidays like Halloween and Thanksgiving. I try to put faith into the universe as a general practice, but I see the strength Delia has when she gets here Sunday afternoons straight from church. The way she really means it when she says she believes God has a purpose.

  “So, what shall we do with this afternoon?” she says.

  I think about my past and hers. The lives we are trying to reclaim.

  “Why don’t we work on cupcakes? Chocolate cupcakes with vanilla icing.”

  MACARONI AND CHEESE

  The directions on the blue box were so easy. Boil the water, and salt it. Put in the pasta. Cook till the noodles are done. Drain. Put the butter in the still-hot pan and add the noodles back on top. A quarter cup of milk, the bright orange powder from the package, a vigorous stir, and into a bowl. Try to wait a few excruciating minutes, because the sauce thickens if you can stand to wait. Which
I never could. Mom only rarely allowed it in the house, decrying it as entirely without nutritional value, and only buying it when there was going to be a babysitter for a special treat. But at sixty-eight cents a box at any convenience store or gas station, a young girl with even a modest allowance can afford to pick up a box on her way home from school. It was our secret, the macaroni-and-cheese afternoons. At least once a week Gillian and I would sit with our warm bowls in front of Tom and Jerry cartoons and Brady Bunch reruns, then carefully wash the pot and bowls and spoons and put them away, laughing at how much fun it was.

  The letter was taped to my door when I got home. One sheet, on the condo association letterhead.

  Dear Melanie,

  As you are aware, several owners have complained about the heating situation this winter, prompting the association to hire a HVAC specialist to do a full inspection of the building. We have discovered that the problem is a combination of the age and size of our original equipment, insufficient insulation in the “G” and “H” units, and an improper venting situation in the building’s systems. Since none of the units are in the hands of original owners, there is no legal recourse with the developer. We have, as the bylaws require, received three different estimates for the repairs, and have chosen a contractor to begin making the repairs on the first of next month. This work will require a special assessment of $15,000 per unit, which has been approved by the association. The assessment is due no later than March 5. Please make the check out to the association.

  We will get in touch when the work is scheduled for your unit, no less than five business days before the workers are scheduled.

  I know that this unexpected expense is an unfortunate thing, but I assure you that the money you will save in the long run on your heating costs, as well as the improved equity in your unit, will make up for it. We understand that not all of you may have the amount liquid at this time, and we are happy to discuss the association making a loan to you for up to two-thirds of the assessment amount, at a reasonable interest rate, with a twelve-month repayment plan.

  If you have any questions or concerns, please feel free to contact me.

  Kurt Jacobs, President

  Ravenswood Manor Condo Association

  Fifteen thousand dollars. Due in three weeks. My arm is shaking, and the letter drops from my hand. The store is netting less than five hundred dollars a week after expenses. I have just under twelve thousand dollars in my checking account, the last of the divorce settlement after buying the condo. This assessment will mean giving up a huge percentage of my liquid cash, and would also mean that a slow month at the store would bankrupt what little I would have to reserve for protection in the blink of an eye. It also means that I’ll have to get the difference somewhere. Even at a low interest rate, it will still be nearly a thousand unexpected dollars a month to pay back the association if I decide to take their money. I have some retirement savings, but between early withdrawal penalties and the tax burden, not to mention the very real possibility that without them in my old age I would become a ward of the state, I’d have to be close to living on the street before I’d dream of tapping into them.

  I collapse on my couch, feeling the tightness in my chest, the sting in my eyes. Just when I am feeling like maybe my life is going to be okay, life has other plans. I think about the thousands and thousands of dollars I spent on spa treatments and clothes and handbags and vacations at fifteen-hundred-dollar-a-night hotels. I think about the money that flew through my hands: fresh flowers all over the house every week, a full-time housekeeper, extravagant gifts to everyone in the office at the holidays. And stupid me, never fancy jewelry that you get to keep and has resale value, not antiques or art that you can auction off in tough times. Oh no, just massages and six-hundred-dollar-a-pair shoes, and fancy restaurant dinners with two-hundred-dollar bottles of wine. I own the store and this condo outright, same with my car. But in this economy, with my tiny profit margin and the crappy real estate market, I’m not qualified for much of an equity line on either property. I was too proud to take alimony from Andrew. I didn’t want the constant reminder of him, even in check form.

  “What would you like to do about maintenance payments, Melanie? The law is clear, you’d be entitled to a percentage of Andrew’s income,” Bill, the attorney handling our collaborative divorce, asks me.

  I look across the table at Andrew, whose glare is steely. He clearly thinks I’m about to nail him to the wall. “I won’t be needing maintenance.”

  Both Bill and Andrew look surprised. “Are you quite sure?” Bill says, in a voice that seems to imply he thinks I’m an idiot, especially now that there is such a marked discrepancy between my income and Andrew’s. I love the feeling of surprising them both, of being strong and independent. “I’m absolutely sure.” Andrew can keep his money to spend on Charlene. I’d rather have less and know it is mine.

  I look around my sanctuary, which now has the taint of being flawed. Broken. Somehow, it makes me love it more, knowing that just under the surface things are amiss. Just like me.

  I breathe deep, trying not to lose it. Trying to stem the anger that is building. I get up and start to pace around, rudderless and suddenly starving. Fuck it. Fuck it all.

  I call Philly’s Best and order a large cheesesteak sandwich, extra meat and extra cheese, a side of garlic bread, and an order of onion rings. By the time I take my shower, getting the day’s grime off me while sobbing into the steaming sting of the water, and get into my sweats, the doorbell is ringing.

  Soft, chewy buttery bread, steaming seasoned meat, gooey cheese, crispy, salty onion rings. I eat standing at the kitchen counter, barely pausing between bites. In less than fifteen minutes there are only crumbs left. This is always the point when I sort of wake up, when the self-loathing kicks in. The anticipation of the food, gloriously bad for me, high in fat, calories, sodium, and guilt. The first bite the only one that fully registers.

  If picking up the phone to call for food is the easiest call to make, the next one is the hardest.

  “Hello?”

  “Carey. It’s Melanie.”

  “Eleven thirty your time, so are we attempting to prevent the binge or are we seeking absolution for the binge?” There is no accusation in this, just a genuine interest in my status.

  “Bless me, sister, for I have sinned. I have had wanton congress with a Philadelphia cheesesteak and a bushel of onion rings.”

  “Wow, Philly’s Best binge. That is serious. What happened?” Carey knows all my binges. She knows that if I have PMS I turn to chocolate and if I’m horny I turn to carbs. She knows that if I’m lonely for family or friendships I bake, and that if I’m stressed about the business I make rice pudding or crème caramel. And she knows that if the whole world explodes, I turn to the one place that not only delivers till midnight, but takes me back to my undergrad days at UPenn, when I gained the freshman forty while making straight A’s and sleeping with an endless series of slightly malnourished geeky grad students.

  “Just found out that my condo is doing a special assessment of fifteen thousand dollars, due in three little weeks, to cover some necessary building repairs. This after I got home from the store, where I had to tell Ashley, the extern, that I couldn’t give her much of a recommendation, based on her performance, which made her cry. For three hours. Sniffling and wheezing all over the kitchen till I finally just sent her home. All I wanted was a hot bath, a glass of wine, a decent meal, and some Without a Trace reruns on TiVo. And instead there is a note taped to my door telling me that I’m about to be even more completely broke than I currently am, and before I knew it . . .”

  “Cheesesteak and onion rings,” she says.

  “And garlic bread,” I admit.

  “And how did it feel? Eating all that?”

  “I didn’t feel much of anything. I mean, it tasted amazing for a couple of bites, and then blind mechanics until it was just gone.”

  “And now?”

  “And now I am ove
rstuffed, bloating, retaining water as we speak, and relieved to be living alone, because not only was no one here to witness a truly disgusting spectacle, but the attack of toxic Philly farts that is going to hit in about fifteen minutes is going to make even me wish I didn’t live with me.”

  Carey laughs. And I laugh at the enormity of my own ridiculousness.

  “Honey, I can’t speak to how your colon is going to react to what you ate, but how long do we have to work on you forgiving yourself when you have a difficult meal?”

  “I know, I know. I should have put it on my good china and lit a candle and savored every mouthful, stopped when I started to feel full, and then moved the hell on. Damn you, Philly’s Best!”

  “See, you know what you should do. Food isn’t the enemy, Mel. Philly’s Best isn’t the enemy. There is no such thing as a bad food, just an inappropriate amount of food. There is nothing you can’t eat, if you eat it in moderation. And you know that better than anyone in the world. You know you can always call me when you want to talk, but don’t feel like you have to call me to confess your sins, because there is no sin in eating. Ever. And the more you fill your life with primary food, the more love and laughter and good work you have, the less you will need the other food. But when life throws you a curve, like it clearly did today, and you don’t have time or energy to go to a museum or watch your favorite movie, or go on a date, then eat what you want, just eat it purposefully and with joy.”

  “Thanks, Carey. I needed to hear it for the millionth time.”

  “It’s what I’m here for.”

  “I’ll talk to you at our usual time on Thursday.”

  “Unless you need me before then . . .”