Gamers and Gods: AES

by Matthew Kennedy

The last of his lunch crowd regulars had finally gone. Manny was about to switch off the grill when the bells on the front door jingled as it swung outwards to admit a gust of hot and humid Florida air, followed by the colorful but diminutive figure of Agnes Neuburg.

  Manny had been looking forward to settling in with his dog-eared copy of Michener's The Source. Sighing on the inside, he made himself smile at Agnes. “How are you this afternoon, Mrs. Neuburg?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh, please, Manny, haven't we known each other long enough now to call me Agnes? There's no need to be so formal.”

  But I don't want to call you Agnes, he thought. It's a step onto a slippery slope. Yes, he knew her name was Agnes. Of course he knew her name was Agnes. But to encourage familiarity, that he was avoiding. Not out of respect for Saul Neuburg, God rest his soul. But out of respect for his Lizzie.

  Or was Darla right after all? Was his hermeticity misguided, clinging so tenaciously to his enshrined memory of a lost love? Was he using the memory of his wife to avoid the terrors and inconveniences of modern dating? Or was he punishing himself?

  I was the one who insisted we take little Darla to see country of my birth. I was the one who talked Liz into spending her sabbatical in one of the most dangerous places on Earth. Me. She would have been content to live her entire life in England, most likely. But no, I had to drag her halfway around the world to see a place she had no roots in. She died because of my selfishness.

  You didn't know what was going to happen, he reminded himself. But it didn't change anything. On dark and lonely nights he liked to fantasize that she was still alive somewhere, perhaps with amnesia, like a character in a bad soap opera. And of course he had always insisted to his daughter that her mother was still alive. But was it a real feeling that he had, or merely hopeless optimism? Maybe Darla was right. Twenty years, it was enough grieving. Maybe he should let go of the past and embrace the present. He was painfully aware that Agnes found him desirable. This obsession of hers, he did not return. But didn't some people say love is a choice? Wouldn't it be better to spend his life with someone who loved him, instead of hiding in his shell mourning the one woman he had ever loved? Agnes was not a bad person. He could do worse...

  She's waiting for me to say something, he realized. There I go off in my head. I've been doing too much of that lately. I'm adrift in a sea of loneliness, and the diner isn't an anchor, it's an albatross. But I'm slow to change my ways. He saw the concerned look in Agnes's eyes. “I'm sorry, Agnes,” he said. “I was daydreaming again. What would you like?”

  “Thinking of her again? You're a good man, Manny. But, forgive me for saying it, life is for the living. 'It is not good that the man should be alone', isn't that was God said, in Genesis?”

  “So it is written,” he agreed. “But I'm not alone. I have Darla.”

  “She can't stay with you forever, Manny. I'm sure you wouldn't want that. Soon she might meet a man and get married, and then where will you be? Hiring some waitress too young for you and wondering whether you can control yourself forever? Oh, just listen to me babbling, it's none of my business, I know. But I worry about you.”

  I'm sure you do, he thought. You worry that I'll settle for someone else. But the thought shamed him. To judge another for seeking love, merely because he was trapped in his own memories, that was not worthy. And now, I'm judging myself again. Truly, I am the grand master of guilt. “What can I get for you today?”

  “You could get happy, but that's too much to ask, I'm sure. I don't want to be any trouble. Do you have anything already made?”

  He scratched the stubble on his cheek. Did I forget to shave today? “Well,” he said after a moment's thought, “I've got some 'hot slow' just cooling off in the fridge. I could warm that up for you, if you like.” At her look of confusion he added “you know, cholent.”

  Her face cleared. “Ah, cholent! Yes, please, that would be fine. But why did you call it 'hot slow' … is that a regional name?”

  “My mother used to call it that,” he said. “ She said cholent came from the French words for hot and slow. It's a popular dish to have at Shabbat, because It's slow-cooked and you can start it early on Friday to have for lunch the next day without working.” He didn't mention that he was open on Saturdays. Most of his customers weren't Jewish. He frequently made cholent for himself because it reminded him of his late mother's cooking. It was a hearty stew of beef, potatoes, barley, onions, beans, flower, oil and spices.

  “From the French words?”

  “A lot of the Ashkenazi families that came to Germany and Russia passed through France first,” he said. “Of course, she might have been wrong. Others have told me that the name derives from she'lan which means 'that rested', as in overnight. In the Old Country, families would put their pots of cholent into the local baker's oven so that the ovens, which stayed hot all night, would slow-cook the stew for them.”

  “It's kosher, then?”

  “I'm afraid not,” he told her. “I'm not a rich man, you know. My mustering-out pay and bonuses got me this diner, but I don't have enough for separate cookware and all that. I hope it doesn't shock you, but I haven't worried about keeping kosher for a long time now. Darla's mother preferred British cuisine, you see.”

  “Do you do bangers and mash, then? Or bubble and squeak? I had them once.”

  “No,” he said, turning away to the fridge so that she couldn't see the expression on his face. No need for her to share his pain. “I haven't done any of that since I lost Lizzie. I stick to pretty basic stuff now. Not much call for Brit food here in Orlando these days, anyway.”

  She was silent while he got out the tub of cholent and put it in the microwave to warm.

  “Darla keeps after me to call you back,” he said, to change the subject. “I guess you must think me gornisht helfn, beyond help, when I don't return your calls. I hear you could buy and sell me twice over. Your husband was a better businessman then I'll ever be.”

  “Oh, stop.” she said, smiling. “I'm comfortable, yes, but I know you're not that shallow. You're doing fine here, from what I can see...as far as money goes. But what about companionship, Manny? Have you given up on that? Elizabeth wouldn't have wanted that for you, I'm sure.”

  He sighed, reaching up to get a bowl for the stew. “I'm sure you're right. I've been doing a lot of thinking about it lately, I admit. It's hard for me to argue with Genesis. I know men aren't meant to live without a better half. But I have to be honest with you, Agnes. It's very hard for me to let go of Liz.” The microwave beeped and he slid the tub out and poured it into the bowl. “We were so close, sometimes when she called me I would pick up the phone before it even rang. Half the time, I could tell what she was hungry for even before she knew. After all these years, I still feel her in the middle of my head, as if she were still alive.”

  He set the steaming bowl of cholent in front of her. She took the opportunity to cover one of his hands with hers before he could pull it back. “I get it, Manny,” she said softly. “You loved her very much, so much it's like she's still here. I'm not trying to chase your memories away. It's the same with me and Saul. For years, I kept waking up expecting him to step out of the shower, like it was all a bad dream in a soap opera, the Virus taking him from me. I know about cherished memories. When you really love someone, part of them will always be with you.”

  Manny freed his hand and wiped his eyes with the corner of his towel. “Sorry,” he said, “sometimes I think I put too much pepper in the cholent...it makes my eyes water. You're right. Life is for the living. I suppose in my selfishness I often act like I'm the only person who has lost someone precious. All I'm saying is, you're still an attractive woman, Agnes. It's not you, it's me that has the problem, and I know it.”

  After she left, Manny turned the sign in the front door around from OPEN to CLOSED and sat down at one of the tables to think. Can I start over, this late in life? On the heels of that though came the retort. Late in life? You're fifty-one,
Manny. The way medicine is going these days, you might have at least another fifty years. Do you want to spend it alone?

  I don't know if I can let go. Should I force myself to? He felt himself teetering on the edge of a decision...and he didn't know what that decision was. His chest felt tight suddenly, and his hands were trembling. Unable to think, nearly unable to breathe, his hand came up to his shirt pocket and reached inside.

  The picture was old, but the lamination had preserved it all these years since that morning in Tel Aviv when she had slipped it into his jacket pocket. There he was, and baby Darla on her first birthday. She was staring at the cake uncomprehendingly as if some alien artifact had landed on the table. And Liz was there, heartbreakingly beautiful as always. It was the only picture he had of her that had not burned to radioactive ash with his luggage and hers, when Tel Aviv and Haifa smoked with the heat of a thousand suns.

  Manny throat closed, and he choked up, and the dams in his eyes broke open again. His shoulders shook as he let himself go, opening up to the grief pent up within him and just going with it, letting the sudden flood of tears roar out as they sometimes did, letting the drops run down his cheeks and wet the table. But he made no sound, as if somehow the absence of wailing would mean it wasn't really happening, that he was okay, that it was just a random combination of pepper and nervous tremors.

  After a minute or two the fit passed, leaving him shaken and empty. He put the picture back in his shirt pocket and bowed his head to do something he had not done in twenty years. Give me a sign, he prayed. Any kind of sign that you care about me, God. I'm not asking for a burning bush. I know you don't do special effects these days. But please, I'm lost, I'm broken, and I don't know what to do. Just a little sign, like the words Let Go or else Hang On. Anywhere, on a billboard, I don't care. But something. Please. I am begging you. Give me something to tell me what to do!

  And the register beeped.

  Manny jerked, startled, and then laughed at himself bitterly. Good grief, he thought, get a grip, you old fool. That's not God, it's another game email for Darla, probably from that Farker she met. Maybe the two of them were an item. He wasn't so blind that he hadn't noticed how eager she had been to get online lately, gulping her food instead of tasting it.

  He dried his eyes, then the tabletop, and stood up. It was none of his business. She could read it when she came downstairs. He picked up Agnes's empty bowl and spoon and tossed them in the recycler, then turned toward the staircase, intending to tiptoe up to see if Darla was awake. As he did, something red blinked in the corner of his eye.

  Turning back to the register, he saw it was a READ RECEIPT REQUESTED notice below the green EMAIL RECEIVED notification. Whoever had sent the message wanted to know it had been read. Curious, he found himself stepping closer. Maybe I should check it out. After all, what if we lost power before she wakes up? It might get lost. He hit the ENTER key and words spilled out onto the screen:

  Manny –

  I'm alive, my love. I thought you were dead. I got Farker at PanGames to send this because the account my doctor set up for me doesn't include external emails. Farker knows how to reach me. Meet me in cyberspace as soon as you can. Yours forever, Liz.

  P.S. It's really me. I hope you haven't forgotten that Toad-in-the-hole recipe.

  Manny stood stock still for a moment, pulse rocketing, the blood thundering in his head. He read it through five times, hardly able to believe it. Was it a trick? But he had never even told Darla about the recipe that brought them together. It had to be real.

  A minute later he flew out the door with a fistful of unused travel vouchers and flagged down a taxi. “Get me to the PanGames building,” he told the driver. “I don't care what city it's in. Just get me there. If this isn't enough, I'll get you the rest when we get there.”

  Chapter 65: Aes: Crispians