“I LOVE HIM!” She throws her arms into the air, and drops her chin on her chest. “I mean, I think I might want to love him, or something. He is so smart and weird and none of his clothes match, and he looks like he needs a haircut, even when he just had a haircut, and one of his eyes is hazel and the other one is blue, like three-D glasses, and when he smiles, which isn’t a lot, he has these tiny little baby teeth, perfectly white and even, like a row of corn kernels, small, but not gross small, just like, different. And he has beautiful hands and he only listens to music on actual records, like big black plastic records, and he’s from Nebraska!”
This all comes out in a rush, as if any of it would make sense to me, as if she were giving a woman’s usual litany of the ideal guy. But where most of us would say that he was smart and funny and kind and cute with a great butt and a good relationship with his mother, Nadia has offered up a series of qualities that I think only she can understand.
“Well,” I say, sort of at a loss. “If he’s from NEBRASKA . . . that is, um, something.”
Nadia looks at me. And then she smiles, crooked teeth winking, eyes wide. “I guess that all sounded totally bizarre, huh?”
“Yeah, little bit.”
“What do I do?”
“Tell you what; I’ll see if I can spend the night tonight at Nate’s. There is a really nice old cognac in the bar. Ask him to stay for a nightcap, look him in the eyes and tell him that you like him, that you are attracted to him, and while you don’t want to pressure him, if he was thinking it might be time to take it to the next level, you are feeling ready for that. My guess is, he’s probably just a real gentleman and wants to be sure that you are ready. Tell him you want him. I bet the night gets passionate very quickly.”
“You’re right. I have to let him know. Thanks, Mel!” She grabs me in one of her attack hugs, rocking me back and forth, and then disappears into her room to keep getting ready.
I call Nate.
“Hey!” he says. “I’m just jumping in the shower, and I’ll be over within the hour.”
“Hey, yourself. Wish I were there to help with the rub-a-dub.”
Nate laughs. “Me too. What’s up? Do you need me to bring anything besides the wine?”
“Nope, just wanted to know if it would be okay for me to come crash at your place tonight.”
“Of course. You know I’d never turn down your company. I thought we weren’t sleeping over tonight since you have to be at the store early tomorrow?”
“We weren’t but I want to give Nadia home-court advantage with her boy tonight, making myself scarce.”
“You are a good woman. That is a very sweet thing to do. And that makes me extra lucky! Something to really look forward to. I’ll see you soon, kitten.”
“See you soon.”
I head back to my bathroom. If I’m going to be staying at Nate’s tonight, there is some extra primping to be done.
This is the longest meal I’ve ever suffered through, and if Nathan Gershowitz pinches my thigh one more time under the table, or nudges me with his foot, or goes into the kitchen to get something and raises his eyebrows at me over Nadia’s and Daniel’s heads, I’m going to fucking punch him in the throat.
Daniel arrived forty minutes late, by which time the tenor of the evening had already slid downhill. Nate, thinking he was helping me out with my curiosity problem, basically spent those uncomfortable forty minutes interrogating Nadia with all of his investigative skills. She deftly answered all his questions about family and background and history without actually giving away any information. And since he is a documentarian, he couldn’t let it go. The more she dodged sharing real info, the more he pressed. “What did your dad do for a living?” “What did you do for Christmas?” “Where do your siblings live?” He was relentless, and Nadia, who had been sitting straight and feeling confident, and ready to take on confronting her guy, sank into the couch, her shoulders dropped, her eyes unsparkled. I grabbed Nate and asked him to help in the kitchen, and whispered for him to knock it off, but I didn’t really do it in a very nice way, so he narrowed his eyes at me and clearly was irritated. By the time Daniel finally arrived, we were all grateful for what we assumed would be the relief of a new person.
Not to be.
Nadia was now really nervous, and Nate made no less than three snarky jokes about Daniel being late, including one where he implied that her boyfriend was so excited to see her he clearly forgot where she lived. Daniel is as quirky as one would expect, based on Nadia’s description, and has alternated between not participating at all in the conversation and giving long, incomprehensible monologues related to the inner workings of computers and his admiration of some guy he calls The Woz. He picked all the apples out of his salad, and left the rest. “Celery. No. No food with strings.” He separated the meatballs on one side of his plate, and the pasta on the other, ate the pasta one strand at a time, and waited till it was gone to eat the meatballs. “Don’t really like to mix my foods.”
He also brought every other bite to his nose and sniffed deeply before eating.
On the one hand, I’m sort of grateful for his peculiarities, since Nate seems now more interested in poking at me to indicate some sort of amazement at this kid’s oddities than in being irritated at me for chiding him. On the other, I’m watching Nadia practically disappear she is getting so small, and she is inhaling everything in sight, taking huge second and third helpings, which makes me very concerned, since bulimia, like any eating disorder, never goes away, never leaves your psyche, and this bingeing behavior might lead to a relapse.
I take advantage of the current lull in conversation to ask if everyone has finished with the main course. “Nadia, why don’t you and I clear, and we’ll bring dessert to the living room. Nate? Daniel? Tea or coffee?”
Daniel pats his mouth delicately, and then drops my grandmother’s linen napkin directly onto his plate, where I can see it soaking up the remains of the tomato sauce. I cringe inwardly and suppress all desire to jump across the table and pluck his eyes out with the salad tongs. “Not for me,” he says blithely. “Can’t drink brown liquids.”
Nate rolls his eyes. “I’d probably prefer bourbon.”
Nadia and I clear the plates. She grabs the napkin off Daniel’s plate as soon as we get into the kitchen, and begins running it under cold water, scrubbing it together, adding the dish soap in a frantic attempt to prevent the damage we both know is already beyond help. Her shoulders are shaking.
I put down the plates, touch her back, and she flinches. I pull her around and into my arms, and stroke her hair. “Guess this wasn’t such a good idea I had, huh?”
She laughs and sniffles. “This is a disaster.”
“I’m so sorry, sweetie, I really thought we could all just have a good night and get to know each other better.”
“I know. And I don’t know what happened. Daniel isn’t usually THIS strange, I mean, you know, he’s an odd little rabbit, but tonight, this is really the most ridiculous behavior, I just don’t know where it came from, and your napkin . . .” She trails off.
“It’s a napkin. I have a full set, it’s one of twelve. And I can only fit six people at that table anyway. He couldn’t know.”
She whispers at me violently, “He’s thirty! He could know that you don’t drop a fabric napkin on your plate! He could know that you show up to a dinner party on time! He could know that you don’t have to give some weird explanation for not wanting to eat or drink something, you can just politely decline. HE COULD KNOW TO JUST FUCKING LEAVE THE MEATBALLS IN THE PASTA WHEN YOU EAT SOMETHING SOMEONE HAS MADE FOR YOU!”
We laugh. “Guess you’re not asking him to stay over tonight, huh?”
“Not a chance.”
I think for a minute. I think about what I would do in her place. If it had been me who suffered what she has suffered tonight, I would have waited till everyone was gone, and then eaten every bite of the leftovers. I would have made a huge bowl of popcorn drizzled w
ith butter and polished it off in front of the television. I think about how truly tempting it will be for her, all alone, to binge more and then purge, to have some control over something. And I make a decision. “How about we have some dessert and something to drink and then kick these retarded boys out and watch girl movies all night?”
She looks up at me, eyes wide. “Really?”
“Really. Frankly, I think neither of them deserve our company tonight.”
She smiles wide, and hugs me. “Thanks, Mel.”
I hug her back. “C’mon. Let’s get the dessert out there. The sooner we serve them the sooner they’ll go.”
I slice squares of the apple galette, and put them on plates with forks. Nadia pours Nate a neat bourbon, and we head out to the living room.
Nate and Daniel are talking in low voices, and stop when we enter the room. They accept their plates, and the four of us sit in awkward silence as we eat the light, crisp galette, the crust buttery and shattering, a whisper of apple melting on top, the light fig glaze providing a caramel depth.
“This is really good,” Daniel says softly.
“Delicious,” Nate says, taking a deep draught of his bourbon.
We finish our morsels, and I motion Nate into the kitchen with me.
“I’m going to stay here tonight after all,” I say.
“Yeah. I sort of figured.” He runs his hands through his hair.
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. Sorry for putting you in this situation, sorry for snapping at you before, sorry for bailing on you . . .”
He leans forward and kisses me gently. “Me too.”
“Thank you. I love you.”
“I love you too. Want me to get that idiot out of here so you and Nadia can talk about how dumb men are?”
I laugh. “Please.”
He kisses me again. “Done and done. I’ll call you tomorrow. Maybe we can grab a late bite or something when you get off work tomorrow night?”
“Sure, sounds good.”
We head to the living room.
Nate claps Daniel on the shoulder. “So, buddy, what do you say, should we thank these gorgeous women for dinner and get out of their hair?” He says it in a way that doesn’t really make it a question, but more of a proclamation. Daniel looks flustered, but gets up anyway.
“Thank you for dinner, Melanie. It was very nice.” He puts out his hand and I give him mine in return. His hand is surprisingly soft. His sleeves are frayed around the cuffs, and there is something about this that suddenly seems sort of dear. He smiles, somewhat pained, and lets go of my hand to hug Nadia. He whispers something in her ear that makes her smile sheepishly.
Nate comes over and holds me tight, kissing the top of my head. “See you tomorrow, beautiful. Love you.”
I look up into his face. “Love you.”
They leave together, and Nadia and I look at each other.
“Thanks for trying,” she offers, shrugging.
“Yeah. Let’s never do this again.” We laugh. “We’ll leave the kitchen for tomorrow. Pajamas in ten minutes?”
She grins. “You bet.”
She heads down the hallway, and I go to my room to change. The evening was a disaster, and I have to worry about my fragile roommate, who has suffered more than anyone ought to for the sake of a nice evening at home, and who, despite her best efforts to the contrary, needs me. And I, despite my best efforts to the contrary, sort of like it.
CHILI
Andrew and I, while we didn’t entertain much at home, were famous for our Super Bowl parties. The festivities eventually got sort of legendary. Our last Super Bowl party was also the last time Andrew and I made love. He hadn’t touched me in months, claiming everything from exhaustion to strained muscles from racquetball to sinus headache. I’d actually wondered if we would bother with the party, now that I wasn’t at the firm anymore, but when our Bears actually made it to the big game, the party became essential. We pulled out all the stops, had T-shirts made with the official Super Bowl logo, bought Bears caps for everyone. Things had been so tense between us, our first real rough patch, I thought. We’d been so disconnected, but at the party, we were our old selves, hosting and laughing and our hearts breaking when the Colts beat us. We stayed up late with our friends, commiserating over chili and beer, and when we went to bed, Andrew reached for me and we fell into each other as we always did. Different, quieter, gentler. He touched me with tenderness, as if I were fragile, as if I were some delicate flower he didn’t want to damage. A couple of months later, he left. I haven’t made chili since.
“Today, Miss Nadia, we are making chili.” An assignment from Carey. Food does not have power, not over us, not over our emotions, not over our lives. The only food you should ban from your life is food that you dislike for its own inherent qualities, not for the qualities you imbue it with. I’ve purged phrases from my vocabulary like “chocolate pudding is the devil” and “Cheetos are out to get me.” I’ve tried to stop thinking about food as “bad” or “good,” and only to think about it as fuel for my actions, sustenance for my body, pleasure for my soul. Carey was talking about a new chili recipe she had tried that she loved, a low-fat ground chicken version with green chilies and white beans and offered to send me the recipe. When I admitted that I hadn’t eaten chili, one of my former favorite foods, in more than a year and told her why, she told me to get the fuck over it, reclaim and disempower it, and remember it only as a source of joy. And protein. Ever dutiful, I’ve got Carey’s recipe in my bag, have made some initial changes to it, and am actually looking forward to cooking it today.
“Cool. I love chili.”
“I used to love it. I’m hopeful that I will love it again.”
“Excellent. So, um, Mel, I, um, have an idea for the business,” Nadia says quietly beside me in the car on the way to work.
Things have been pretty good between us since the dinner party debacle. I think she really appreciated my choosing her over Nate, and while she’s still vague about her past, she is more open about her thoughts and feelings, seems to be more relaxed at the store, more comfortable at home. Every time I think about trying to get more information out of her, I remember what Delia said about some people needing to keep their past in the past, and suppress the urge to press her. She and Daniel are still hanging out, and she confided that they have indeed consummated their relationship, and that it was better than she anticipated. She is referring to him as her boyfriend, and while I don’t particularly understand the attraction to him as a person, I am proud of her attraction to him as an idea, someone stable and unlikely to con her, cheat on her, or leave her in emotional ruin. I can’t say that I hope they survive, but I hope they hang in there long enough for her to realize that she deserves someone to be nice to her, that she doesn’t have to give more than she receives, that love shouldn’t be a source of pain. She’s also been slowly getting more involved at the store, chatting with customers, asking Kai to show her some basic knife skills, giving Delia neck and backrubs when she gets tired and sore from lots of chopping and stirring and schlepping bags of produce.
“You do, huh? What’s that?”
Her voice is low, almost sheepish. “Well, you know that Sacramento Sloane business? The low-cal food delivery service?”
“I do.” One year, relatively early in our marriage, Andrew got handed a big case that was being run out of the Los Angeles office, and had to go out there for six weeks. I thought I’d take the opportunity to maybe drop a few pounds, and signed up for the service. It was exorbitantly expensive, and the food was inedible. I’d eat the miniscule portions, add a salad, a piece of fruit, and then an hour later I’d be face-first into a bag of chips, or on the phone ordering real food.
“Well, you know Janey thinks they killed her mom?”
I almost slam on the brakes. “What?!?”
Nadia laughs. “Yeah. A couple of years ago, Janey’s mom, who had been subsisting entirely on fast-food takeout and things fried in bacon grease h
er entire life, decided that she would try and lose some weight. She was pretty heavy, and was having some cardiac issues, so she signed herself up for Sacramento Sloane. They made her first delivery on Monday afternoon. She ate her first meal for dinner Monday night. By Tuesday she was dead.”
“Food poisoning?”
“Heart attack. But still. Anytime anyone says Sacramento Sloane, Janey says, ‘She killed my mom, you know.’ It’s pretty silly. Anyway, I was just thinking, people spend a lot of money on that stuff and it isn’t very good. What if you started a delivery business yourself? I mean, wouldn’t it just mean making more of what you already make for the store and packing it up? You could charge for delivery or people could pick it up at the store . . . you know . . . I’ve just been thinking about it lately.”
I’m stunned. It’s a brilliant idea, and a logical one, and something that never in a million years would have occurred to me. It would be a big undertaking, but is such a natural offshoot of what I’m already doing, I can’t believe I haven’t thought of it myself.
Nadia takes my stunned silence for disapproval, and jumps back in. “I’m sure you probably don’t want to deal with it, and just want people to come to the store, never mind . . .”
“It’s brilliant.”
“What?”
“It’s brilliant. You’re brilliant. I never thought of it, but you’re a genius!”
Nadia looks at her lap, and grins. “You really think it’s a good idea?”
I pull the car into the parking space behind the store and turn off the engine, turning to face her. “Honey, it’s fucking AMAZING. And I love you for thinking of it, and if you’re interested, and it works, I’d be able to have you on full-time to run it.”
“Really? You’d let me do that?” She seems shocked.
“It’s your idea, why don’t you do some research into what other services are available in Chicago, what they provide and what they charge. I’ll pay you an extra few hours to track down the info, and then we’ll see if this is something that makes sense for us. If it does, we’ll see what we need to do to make it happen, and if we get the business, then it can be your baby. You handle the customers and orders and I’ll handle the food. Deal?”
Good Enough to Eat Page 13
