Luscious Lemon

by Heather Swain

  “Lem?” Eddie calls from the bedroom. He emerges, befuddled in his boxer shorts and T-shirt.

  I hold my arms out for him. “You look like a hostage that’s just been released.”

  He shakes his head and rubs his eyes. “They were great.”

  “Stockholm syndrome,” I say. I hug and kiss him.

  “Don’t you think they did a nice job?”

  “Yeah,” I admit. “The place does look nice. Warm, cozy. Like a real home. Suitable for a child.”

  “They say they’re not done yet.”

  “What next?”

  “The nursery.”

  “We have a nursery?” I ask.

  “Apparently my office.”

  I shake my head. “We’re going to have to draw the line.”

  “Fine,” says Eddie as he heads back toward the bedroom, scratching his stomach as he goes. “Just as long as you’re here doing the drawing. They scare me.”

  In bed we lie side by side. I read because even though I’m exhausted, I’m too wound up to sleep. I thumb through cookbooks, trying to figure out how to use the overabundance of Parma figs we ended up with this week.

  Eddie rolls over and curls into me. He slings an arm across my belly. “My mom called today.”

  “Mm-hmm.” I think through the cheeses in the walk-in. How much gorgonzola do we have?

  “She’s excited about coming this weekend.”

  “Good,” I say, thinking more about a salad with figs and gorgonzola and a warm bacon dressing than Eddie’s mom.

  “Maybe when they get here, we could make a nice dinner and tell them about the baby.”

  I drop the cookbook to my lap. “You still haven’t told her?” He shrugs, helpless. “God, Eddie. Stop being such a wimp. Just tell her I’m bearing your bastard child and get it over with already.”

  “It doesn’t have to be that way,” he says.

  “What way?” I go back to my cookbook. Figs wrapped in bacon? Fig ice cream? Fig and melon appetizer?

  “Some people get married when they have children, Lemon.”

  “So what?” I say. I know I sound like a petulant idiot, but I don’t care. This conversation has gotten old fast.

  “Give me one good reason why you won’t marry me,” Eddie demands.

  I put the book down and look him straight in the eye. “You’re fat, stupid, ugly, and lazy.”

  He smirks. “Just the guy for you, then.”

  I laugh. This is why I love Eddie. He’ll only take so much of my shit. I go back to my book, thinking that maybe this little tiff is over. Maybe Eddie will drop it so that I can get my work done and go to sleep. But I’m wrong.

  “Are you unsure about me? About us?” he asks.

  This is worse. “I swear, Eddie. You’re more like a girl than I am.”

  He looks at me sadly. “Maybe we should go to a therapist.”

  I bark a little laugh.

  “I’m being serious. We need to think ahead about our lives. Because it’s not just our lives anymore. It’s our kid’s life, too.”

  “You want me to see a shrink so she can talk me into getting married? I have four aunts, fifteen cousins, and a grandmother who will happily do that for free. Anyway, what makes you think being married is the best thing for us or for this kid?”

  “I never said—”

  “Plenty of married people have worse relationships than we do.”

  “You’re not listening—”

  “Being married isn’t magically going to change everything. I’m not suddenly going to be some woman who sits at home knitting fucking baby booties all day. I’m not going to close my restaurant and devote myself full-time to cleaning up poop and anticipating your every whim and desire.”

  “I’ve never expected you to be like that.”

  “Why do you want to get married so badly, then?” I ask.

  “I’m an old fart curmudgeon, Lemon,” he says. “Underneath it all, I like traditions. I want a big wedding down in Georgia with all our family and friends there. I want a preacher and a flower girl and a band and a cake. I want to see you in a big white dress. I want a honeymoon.”

  “For God’s sake, Eddie. You sound like a fifteen-year-old girl. Should I get you a subscription to Modern Bride magazine?”

  “You don’t have a good reason not to marry me.”

  I pause. Take a breath. Try to find some reverence for the situation. I try to think seriously about why I’m so afraid to say yes. Slowly, I admit, “I don’t want to be like every other woman in my family who got married because she was pregnant, then gave up her entire life.”

  “Not every woman in your family is like that.”

  “Name one.”

  “Your great-aunt Anne Marie.”

  “She’s a nun.”

  “So?”

  “Not your mom.”

  “She’s dead.” I sit back against the pillows and stare straight ahead.

  “Are you afraid you’ll be like her?”

  “What was she like?” I ask, daring him to try to understand who my mother was when even I have no idea.

  “All I asked was for us to tell my parents together,” Eddie says.

  “Marriage is stupid,” I say, quickly reverting back to my default position so I don’t have to think about why I’m so opposed.

  “That’s mature.”

  “It’s just some dumb ceremony and a stupid piece of paper that proves nothing. And I won’t marry you just because you’re afraid to tell your mother that I’m pregnant.”

  “Okay, fine. Let’s just drop it,” says Eddie. He scoots over to his side of the bed and opens a book called The Expectant Father.

  “Now you’re mad,” I say.

  He flips the pages of his book crisply. “No, I’m not.”

  “Fine, neither am I.” I grab one of my baby books and open it to a random page. A man supports a naked woman in a squat as she grimaces. Jesus, I think. I want machines and tubes and drugs when this thing comes out.

  Eddie sighs. “I don’t want to fight with you.”

  “Then don’t.”

  He reaches for my hand. “Come on,” he coaxes.

  I flip the page. A blue squealing creature covered in goo stares up from the book. “For crap sake,” I say and show Eddie the picture.

  He smiles weirdly. “Are you scared?”

  “Terrified,” I admit.

  “Me, too.”

  I close the book and lay my head on his shoulder. “Can you please just tell them?” I ask.

  “We’ll call them from the delivery room.”

  “I’m already completely overwhelmed.” I hate to admit it, so I add, “Maybe I’m a wussy.”

  “You’re not a wussy,” Eddie assures me. “You’re tough, and you’ve put up with a lot of crap lately.”

  “But I can’t do anything else right now,” I say. “You have to take care of this one on your own.”

  “Okay,” he says and kisses my hair. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it. They’ll know before they get here.”

  “Thank you,” I say, and I close my eyes. At least that’s something I won’t have to worry about. One small thing off my plate, which has felt more and more full lately. I don’t know how I’m going to balance everything once this baby comes. Obviously some things are going to have to change.

  Chapter

  Thirteen

  ’S cilla and Bucky arrive on Friday morning in their dark red Cadillac. They pull up in front of Eddie’s brownstone, tooting and waving out the windows like the king and queen of the pet parade. Their two miniature schnauzers, Rhett and Miss Scarlett, scamper around the backseat, yapping and jumping, pressing their serious faces against the windows, leaving giant smudgy nose marks on the glass.

  Eddie and I sit on the stoop. As I watch them, half the gene pool of my child, my stomach feels like tripe stew. Eddie clutches my hand in his, most likely to keep me from fleeing.

  ’Scilla opens her car door and bursts out onto the curb in a gr
eat flash of magenta. Skirts twirl, jackets flare, a scarf flutters out behind her. “Hello, Brooklyn!” she hollers. “Georgia has arrived.”

  Eddie stands and laughs. “Good morning, Mother!” he calls down to her. “You look as fresh and pretty as spring tulips.”

  ’Scilla strikes a quick pose, and I see Eddie’s fine, delicate features in her face. She reaches for the back door, where Rhett and Scarlett scratch soundlessly at the window. She opens the door and releases her minions from hell. The dogs tumble out onto the sidewalk, yipping and yapping in tight circles around ’Scilla’s legs. “Yes, yes, I know, I know!” she tells the dogs. “It’s your big brother! You are so excited to see him!”

  One of the dogs, Rhett or Scarlett—who the hell can tell them apart?—drags its ass across the cement. The other one drops a giant turd in the middle of the sidewalk. ’Scilla claps her hands and howls with delight.

  I stay on the stoop and look on in horror as Eddie descends with his arms wide open. I imagine the scene in less than eight hours when Eddie’s family and mine mingle at Lemon, trying to find a common language over champagne cocktails and trays of paté. I’m certain it’ll be like watching a perverse nature special—the giant whooping cranes of Rhodesia encountering the feisty pygmy chimps of Borneo for the first time. Will they line up on either side of the room and size each other up? Circle one another, deciphering who’s the predator, who’s the prey? Will an all-out battle ensue for control of the canapés? All as a precursor for who will control this child’s destiny. Or will they peacefully coexist, discovering some astounding symbiosis, like rhinos and oxpecker tick birds, that will fascinate scientists for years to come?

  Eddie takes his mother in a sweet embrace. She clings to him like a beetle on a stick. I know I’m supposed to be happy that he has a good relationship with his mother, but frankly I find their affection a bit creepy.

  At the curb, the car rocks back and forth as Bucky unfolds himself from the front seat. He’s a large man with a giant head the size and shape of a pumpkin. His perpetually flushed cheeks give his shock of white hair a pinkish tinge. And, as always, he’s impeccably dressed in pressed khaki pants, a stiff button-down oxford shirt, and shiny leather loafers.

  “Well, there you are!” he shouts and raises an enormous hand once he’s free from the leather interior of the car. “Thought we’d never get here. Traffic on that Verrazano Bridge is a son of a bitch, I tell ya, a real son of a bitch!”

  Then he laughs, loud and hilarious, with his head thrown back and all his yellowing teeth showing. Eddie and ’Scilla join in the vast amusement while I wonder, would anyone notice if I simply slipped out the back? Shimmied down a drain spout. Snuck through the finely manicured gardens of Park Slope and slunk off to some anonymous bar on Fourth Avenue, where I could sip one coveted glass of crisp white wine very, very slowly. Of course, I haven’t moved at all. I’m too afraid, lest I draw attention to myself, but Bucky has spotted me anyway.

  “Lemon!” he roars as he reaches the bottom of the stoop. “Come on down here and give us a hug, girl!”

  Before I can make a move, the schnauzers zip up the steps and snap at my toes with their angry little mouths. Perhaps if I lie down and play dead, they’ll ignore me. Bucky mounts the steps after them and lurches toward me with his arms wide open. I glance down at Eddie, who watches with one arm around his mother’s waist and a look of pure amusement on his face. I’ll grind him up and feed him to the dogs for putting me through this.

  Bucky reaches me in three giant strides, lifts me off the stairs, and envelops me in a smothering hug. My face smooshes into his shoulder, which reeks of some spicy aftershave. I sling my arms over his broad back but can’t reach my hands together. He lifts me a few inches off the steps with an extra squeeze. The dogs nip at my exposed ankles.

  “Great to see you, Lemon! Great to see you!”

  I am back on the ground, with Bucky’s enormous mitt of a hand pressed against my belly. Then he leans down and yells into my navel, “Hello there, future grandchild! I’m your granddaddy Bucky!”

  “Well, Lemon, honey. I should say, you’re hardly showing at all!” says ’Scilla, as she and Eddie walk up the steps together, still with their arms intertwined around each other’s waists. “What are you now, four, five months?”

  Eddie throws his head back and laughs long and hard. “Hell, mama, she’s just ten weeks.”

  “Oh, well, honey.” She reaches out and pinches my side. “It’ll all come off when you start breast-feeding. I was the skinniest I’d ever been when I was nursing my boys. It’s a beautiful thing,” she assures me. “A beautiful thing.”

  I assume Eddie sees the wrath coming up on my face, because he quickly suggests we all go inside.

  “You owe me big-time,” I whisper in his ear. “My family is nothing compared to this.”

  After their luggage is stowed in the office/guest room/future nursery and ’Scilla has freshened up, we all sit politely on Eddie’s Pottery Barn beige couch and chairs covered with my mismatched moth-worn quilts and throws. My green-shaded library lamps look hideously out of place mingling with his fake Frank Lloyd Wright floor lamps. Despite my aunts’ best efforts, I see now that our apartment is a decorator’s worst nightmare. I can’t imagine what Eddie’s mother must think. Her house is full of themes: the Orchid Room, the Yachter’s Club, the Book Nook.

  I offer tea and coffee and a tray of pastries that Makiko made, hoping to distract ’Scilla from scrutinizing too closely. She settles herself in the middle of the sofa with Eddie on one side and the dogs on the other. She looks mighty happy, sipping her coffee and nibbling on an almond cherry scone.

  “Lemon,” she says in her breathy whisper, “these pastries are certainly yummy, darling. So light. Do you use lard?”

  “Lard?” I ask.

  “My grandmother swore by lard, and she made the flakiest pie crust you could ever imagine. Do you remember MeeMaw’s pies, Eddie?”

  Eddie nods. I think, MeeMaw? Could I allow my child to say that silly word?

  “They were great,” Eddie says. “Lemon’s grandmother makes a durn good pie herself.”

  Immediately upon talking to any member of his family, Eddie’s vowels expand and his vocabulary shortens. Words like durn and heckfire slip out of his mouth. Sometimes I think it’s all an act. As if any Princeton grad would say such things. But now I worry that they really do talk like that in Georgia, and that it’ll be hereditary.

  “Well, I for one cannot wait to eat at your restaurant tonight. Eddie tells me it’s magnificent,” ’Scilla raves. “And that Gourmet article. I showed half of Georgia. You must be the toast of the town!”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say—”

  “She’s modest!” Bucky shouts.

  “No, it’s just that—”

  “Never met a modest New Yorker!” Bucky cracks himself up. Guffs and huffs at his own joke.

  ’Scilla crushes up some of the cheese Danish in her palm and holds it out to the dogs. They snuffle at her hand. I wince at the sight of Makiko’s hard labor going down Rhett’s gullet.

  “Poor babies must be starving,” coos ’Scilla. “They both have Ménière’s disease, you know. Makes them carsick. I don’t feed them when we travel. Just give them a little bit of Dramamine before we set out and it does them a world of good. They sit in the back like little angels. Not ever a peep. But by now they must be famished. And it’s time for their medicine!” she announces gleefully.

  Out of her purse she extracts a large Ziploc bag full of pill bottles and packets. “Rhett has to take Prozac for his nerves,” she tells me. “Zantac for his stomach and Centrum for the trots from the mix of Prozac and Zantac. Poor little thing is just a bundle of nerves. And I’ve noticed lately that he stumbles when he pees.” She counts out each pill and makes a neat pile next to the pastry platter.

  “The staggering three-legged piss, I like to call it,” Bucky chimes in and then guffaws again until his face is as red and puffy as a roasted tomato.


  ’Scilla smooshes the mustachioed pup against her chest and nuzzles his ear. “Poor baby. I’m just sure he has a brain tumor. What else could it be?”

  “All the meds?” I offer, thinking that I will never let her near this baby. Eddie shoots me a wearied look. He learned a long time ago not to mess with his mother’s Munchausen syndrome by proxy for her dogs. Probably for fear that she will turn her medical obsession on him and insist that he be tested for West Nile virus and syphilis at the slightest cough.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” she says. “He’s disoriented. He ran into the door the other day, and sometimes he snaps at me, as if he has no idea who I am. The tumor might be pressing against his optic nerve.”

  Bucky takes a slurp of his coffee. “I’m not paying for goddamned brain surgery for that dog,” he grumbles, but finishes with a burble of laughter. “Damn thing has already cost us ten grand. Can you believe that? Ten grand for a dog!” Again the laugh.

  “Bucky!” ’Scilla says and clasps Rhett closer to her body. The dog looks on, glassy-eyed and defeated. “Rhett has given us the best years of his life, and you wouldn’t care for him in his declining years?”

  Bucky looks at Eddie and works himself up into a rumble of laughs. “Eddie, son, if I’m ever in as bad a shape as that there dog, just shoot me! Okay, son! Just put the gun to my head and—”

  “Oh, well, now you’re just being asinine,” ’Scilla says. She releases her death grip on the dog and pats his head fondly. “Don’t worry, Rhetty, Daddy loves you. He’s just too macho to admit it in front of Lemon.” She turns to me. “You’ll see, Lemon. Bucky is an absolute cuddle bear with his grandson. Broke down and wept, just wept, at the christening.” She stops a moment and cocks her head. “You are planning to christen the baby, now, aren’t you? Catholics do that, right?”

  “I’m not really a practicing Catholic,” I tell her.

  “Oh, well, then, whew, what a relief. We can do it down at our church with Pastor John Craig.” She leans over, elbows on her knees and reaches toward me. “You’ll love him, Lemon. He’s a real nice guy. Very modern interpretation of the Bible. Married Eddie’s brother. Wish you could’ve been there. Such a lovely service.” She winks at me.