How to Change a Life

by Stacey Ballis

  We’ve always been a small clan. I never knew any of my grandparents, Claire and Buddy never had kids, and no one seems to be in touch with the extended family at all. We’d occasionally take in friends at holidays, to fill out the table a bit, but most often we were just the five of us. And then four. And now we are three. I tried again to get Mom and Claire to come today, but apparently there was a marathon on TCM that needed attending to. I promised to stop by on my way home with leftovers for them.

  “I’m glad you’re here, El, thanks for coming,” Teresa says, watching me look down the table at the bacchanal. One thing about a dining table this long and this full and noisy, it creates little pockets of privacy and intimacy. Everyone else is engaged with each other, and we can sit in our own little bubble at the end, marveling at the astounding messy fabulousness of it all.

  “Thank you so much for having me. Really, what a wonderful tradition.”

  “Yeah. It’s endless, the cleaning and cooking and cooking and cleaning, but it’s worth it. Do you ever think about it? Would you want this? Any of it?”

  I smile at her. “I never really knew if it was for me, but now . . .”

  “Now?” She looks at me expectantly.

  “The idea is kind of appealing, to be honest. Not at quite this scale . . .”

  She laughs. “Yeah, I’d keep it somewhat rational if I were you. But family, a husband, maybe kids?”

  “It’s not an unpleasant thought.”

  She narrows her eyes at me. “You met someone,” she says.

  I can’t help it, I grin. “Maybe.”

  “O-M-G. Who? How?”

  “A friend of Lawrence’s. Very nice man. It’s going well, so far. I don’t want to jinx anything.”

  “Holy shit, that is so great. I’m really happy for you. But when do we get to meet him?”

  “When I know for sure.” Or as sure as I can know. When he’s met my mom and Aunt Claire and they tell me that they like him. When the words “boyfriend” and “girlfriend” aren’t still so foreign and exotic on our tongues. I want him to come back and ring in the New Year with me. Maybe tell me he loves me. I want to be really, really super sure before I let him meet Teresa and Lynne. Especially Lynne.

  “Okay, okay. Can I have his name?”

  “So you can go all stalkery with the Google and find shit out about him online? Absolutely not!”

  “Damn. Does Lynne know yet?”

  “No, she’s been so busy with the new job and the new dog that I haven’t seen her.”

  Teresa’s face falls a bit. “That poor doggie.”

  “Oh, they’ll be fine, just need to do the training.”

  “I meant spending Christmas in the kennel!”

  “What?!” I hadn’t heard anything about this.

  “Yeah, she had church last night and family stuff today and then I guess she is leaving for the week to visit friends in L.A. through New Year’s, so she boarded him starting yesterday. I feel so bad—he’s so small and she just got him, and nine days seems like a long time to be apart.”

  “I thought she was staying in town!” I can’t believe Lynne would just take off and leave her new puppy.

  “Yeah, she was going to stay and work, but apparently Angelique closes all her stuff down between Christmas and New Year’s every year, and some friend of hers reached out, so she just planned it last minute.”

  “That is so shitty.” I can’t help myself.

  “Well, she deserves a vacation . . . I mean . . .”

  “No, it’s shitty, T. It’s selfish. She has a brand-new puppy. That is a huge responsibility. Nine days is a really long time to be apart, to have training interrupted. It isn’t fair to the dog. For what? Convenience while she goes to family functions? A vacation? She could have taken the gift of the week off to be here with him and training every day, to really bond and get him on a good schedule. Instead, she just drops him off like luggage with strangers and takes off? C’mon, Teresa, that is really self-centered behavior.”

  I can see the conflict in Teresa’s eyes. Deep down, she knows I’m right. But her impulse to defend Lynne is strong. “I know he’s a handful, and she’s doing it all on her own . . . maybe she needed a break? She said the place she is boarding him will be doing training stuff with him while she’s gone.”

  “T. There’s no such thing as dog training. There’s only people training. Yeah, anyone can teach a dog to sit or high-five with enough time and treats; that’s tricks. But the key to puppy training is that it’s essentially training the owner to behave in certain ways, to support the dog in being the well-behaved version of himself that he naturally wants to be. If your dog shits in the house, it isn’t the dog’s fault—the dog doesn’t want to shit in the house—it’s the owner’s fault for not taking the dog out in time. If the dog is destroying stuff, it’s because the owner isn’t providing enough attention or activity. A dog isn’t inherently destructive; he’s just bored or understimulated. Lynne doesn’t need someone else to train her dog, she needs to train herself to be attuned to the needs of the dog, to giving the dog a schedule to rely on. Jesus, T, how old were your kids before you left them behind for a week’s vacation?”

  Teresa blushes. “I’ll let you know when it happens.”

  I shake my head. Of course she’d never gone on vacation without her kids. “Okay, then. Proving my point. Also, side note? You want a little more spice, maybe plan a trip for the two of you and let someone in this room watch your boys for a week. They’ll be fine. Just saying.”

  “Noted. And you know Lynne. She’s not instinctive about that stuff.”

  “No, she isn’t.” I can see on Teresa’s face that the conversation is making her uncomfortable, and it’s Christmas, so I pivot quickly. “Anyway, whatever. I hope she is having a nice Christmas and that she has a good vacation. More importantly, are you getting ready for your big teaching day?” I’ve got Teresa scheduled for a full day with Ian early in January to teach him some classic Italian dishes, including how to do pasta from scratch, basic Sunday gravy, meatballs, and a classic risotto.

  “I hope so. I’m a little nervous. From your description he’s a much more sophisticated chef than I am.”

  “He’s got some serious skills, but he needs some of that Mama cooking in him. A little bit of the Italian soul food in his repertoire.”

  “Well, I can help with that!” She spears a chunk of sausage and pops it in her mouth.

  “Yes, you can.” I twirl a forkful of linguine and stuff it in my face, marveling at how the simple slick of good olive oil, a hint of garlic and parsley, and slippery noodles are so perfect.

  “I keep meaning to tell you, I took the boys to that Mexican place you recommended!”

  “Más allá del Sol? How did it go?”

  “It was so much fun. I ordered just what you said, the melted cheese with sausage, and the little rolled-up chicken things, and then we got a bunch of stuff to share and taste. I promised them as long as they tasted everything, we could stop by McDonald’s on the way home if anyone didn’t like dinner and was still hungry. But they ate everything! It was really delicious.”

  “See? A little adventurousness can work sometimes. Plus, it keeps you out of McDonald’s.”

  “Well, we still had to go to McDonald’s. They didn’t love the desserts so much, so they wanted McFlurrys on the way home.” She laughs. “But change is slow, right? At least it was a start.”

  “It’s a really good start.” I wink at her and we drink our glasses of rich Chianti, and eat like it’s our last meal, and let ourselves be swept into the loud wonderful din of the room.

  And all I can think, for the first time since I thought I was pregnant when I was with Bernard, is that it’s possible I do actually want some piece of this for myself. Maybe I really do.

  Fifteen

  Mm-mmm. Don’go,” Shawn sa
ys, snuggling into my back. I wiggle back against him, feeling the warmth of him soaking into my body. We’ve barely been out of bed since he got home yesterday morning.

  I did the girlfriendly thing and picked him up at O’Hare, shocked at the volume of luggage he had with him from such a short trip. Turns out between receiving a bunch of Christmas gifts and his mom sending him home with a month’s worth of home-cooked goodies, he always leaves with one bag and comes back with three. We came straight to my house and had a lunch feast of his mom’s amazing cooking: glazed ham, bread dressing, green beans she cans herself with salt pork, and a sweet potato pound cake that is beyond delicious. We took Simca on a walk to try to burn off some of the food, the whipping Chicago winds getting a chill well into our bones, came back to take a luxurious hot shower together, and fell into bed. We rose around ten p.m. to raid his goodies again, opting for a small pan of macaroni and cheese, which we ate in bed, one dish and two forks, and abandoned on the nightstand when we couldn’t resist each other anymore, the sex playful and energetic.

  I’m finding that the more time we spend together, the more fun I have. Sex with Bernard was always such a serious thing: long, deep, meaningful looks, strong eye contact, murmured phrases of love and longing. Sex with Shawn has that, but so much more. There is also talking and laughing and joking. We acknowledge the parts of lovemaking that are silly and funny and embrace laughing together. I only ever laughed with Bernard once, when he kissed his way up my body and said that I was the most delicious thing he had ever eaten, which was apparent from the glazed doughnut appearance of the lower half of his face, which I pointed out with a giggle, telling him he looked like a baba au rhum. He immediately lost his erection and didn’t sleep with me for three days. That was the end of playful and funny with him.

  Shawn can make me laugh in bed without it being a challenge to his masculinity, and I love the way we can start and stop and talk and not talk for hours. Just before dawn he reached for me again in the dark and we were silent and half-asleep as we came together, moving slowly, languidly, toward release and then slipping back into sleep without untangling.

  “I can’t stay. I have to go drop everything off at Lawrence’s, get everything there all set up and organized so that tonight I don’t have to abandon you too often to my mom and Claire’s interrogations to putter in the kitchen.”

  “Okay, fine. But I can come help, right? Be your schlepper?”

  This makes me chuckle, his use of Yiddish. “Yes, if you insist, you can be my Shabbas goy.”

  “Okay, I’ve been working on my vocabulary, but what is a shamus boy?”

  “Shabbas goy. Technically a gentile man who does things for Jews on the Sabbath that they aren’t allowed to do themselves, like turn lights off and on or carry keys.”

  “You can’t carry keys?”

  “Only if you’re very observant.”

  “I’ve got a lot to learn,” he says seriously.

  “Not really. We’re only culturally Jewish, not observant at all. Hence my ability to enjoy your mother’s amazing ham yesterday.”

  “You did at that. I’m going to send her a note today telling her that you hit that ham like a shark hitting chum.”

  I swat his arm and sit up, stretching, feeling that wonderful feeling of delicate aches, my body reminding me of the endeavors of the night before, of this morning. He traces a hand down the length of my side, leaning forward to plant a kiss in the small of my back.

  I turn to look at him and he throws his hands up in surrender.

  “I give. Work it is. Can we shower first? Maybe eat something?”

  “Yes and yes.”

  This morning’s shower is much more functional than last night’s, a perfunctory but loving mutual soaping up, with some strategic lather placement for entertainment value. We towel each other off and get dressed, and Shawn offers to take Simca for a walk while I rustle up some breakfast. By the time my man and my pup are back, there are scrambled eggs with some of the leftover ham and scallions and cream cheese, thick slices of sourdough toast lavished with butter, and freshly squeezed grapefruit juice. We tuck in, and I take him through what I need to do for the day.

  “Sure you don’t want to bail? I wouldn’t blame you.”

  “Nope, I’m all in. I want to watch my baby work.”

  I wash up the breakfast stuff, and Shawn dries. Then I start to get all of the food that I’ve been prepping all week ready for transport. There is the standing prime rib roast, which I salted three days ago and have left uncovered in the extra fridge to dry out. I place the roast in a large Ziploc bag and put it in the bottom of the first rolling cooler, and then the tray of twice-baked potatoes, the crispy shells stuffed with chunky mashed potatoes enriched with cream, butter, sour cream, cheddar cheese, bacon bits, and chives, and topped with a combination of more shredded cheese and crispy fried shallots. My coolers have been retrofitted with dowels in the corners so that I can put thin sheets of melamine on them to create a second level of storage; that way items on the bottom don’t get crushed. On the top layer of this cooler I place the tray of stuffed tomatoes, bursting with a filling of tomato pudding, a sweet-and-sour bread pudding made with tomato paste and orange juice and lots of butter and brown sugar, mixed with toasted bread cubes. I add a couple of frozen packs, and close the top.

  “That is all looking amazing,” Shawn says.

  “Why, thank you. Can you grab me that second cooler over there, please?”

  He salutes and rolls it over. I pull the creamed spinach out of the fridge, already stored in the slow cooker container, and put it in the bottom of the cooler, and then add three large heads of iceberg lettuce, the tub of homemade ranch dressing and another tub of crispy bacon bits, and a larger tub of popover batter. I made the pie at Lawrence’s house yesterday morning before heading to the airport—it was just easier than trying to transport it—and I’ll make the whipped cream topping and shower it with shards of shaved chocolate just before serving. I also dropped off three large bags of homemade salt-and-pepper potato chips, figuring that even Lawrence can’t eat all of them in one day and that there will hopefully be at least two bags still there when we arrive. Lawrence insisted that he would pick up the oysters himself.

  Once the coolers are filled and Shawn has loaded them into my car, I gather up the equipment I’ll need, Shawn dutifully checking each item off the list as I put it in a bag.

  “You’re like a general prepping for battle,” he says, looking over my time and action plan for the day.

  “Yep. Have to be prepared. You ready?”

  “I’m at your service, ma’am.”

  “Let’s do this.”

  • • •

  I check myself in the mirror one last time. My black jersey wrap dress hides a multitude of flaws, and more importantly will hide any accidental spatters that might occur while organizing the dinner. I’ve got my hair up in a tight, lacquered chignon so that I don’t accidentally drop any in the food. I’ve been getting pretty good at my makeup with all the practice, and have kept it shimmery and simple tonight. I’m wearing my Christmas necklace from Shawn, my diamond studs, and a pair of black wedge heels that are fancy enough for a party but are also secretly super comfy.

  I head downstairs and feed Simca and get my purse organized. Shawn dropped me off a couple of hours ago, after we got everything set up at Lawrence’s, and then he went home in my car to unpack and get ready for tonight, and should be here any moment to fetch me. I’m still nervous about Shawn meeting my mom and Claire, but hopefully with the other people at the table, it won’t be too bad.

  I’m just swiping on a layer of gloss when the doorbell rings.

  Oof. Never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for me.

  Here. We. Go.

  • • •

  Darling, they’re mad for him,” Lawrence says, pinching my tush in the kitchen while I s
erve up slices of the decadent and silky chocolate cream pie onto flowery china plates.

  “Stop that.” I elbow him. Lawrence always gets weirdly handsy when he’s had a lot of champagne, and tonight it has been flowing. But it is more naughty grandfather than truly lascivious. I peek around the corner into the dining room and can’t help but smile. Shawn has my mom on one side, Claire on the other, and whatever story he’s telling has them blushing and giggling like schoolgirls. I was originally mortified that Lawrence placed us apart, but he has a strict “no couples sit together” rule for dinner parties, so I was with him at the other end of the table with Jerry and Todd. Logical, I know. Todd is a major foodie and I suspect secret local James Beard Award voter, although he’ll never cop to it. They are like the culinary Oscars and the voters are all sworn to secrecy. Jerry is just one of those guys who is at ease in any room, so there was plenty of good conversation at our end of the table, and, of course, Lawrence is always a good time. I spent half the time craning my neck around with my ears open to see what was going on at the other end of the table with my boyfriend and my family.

  “Everything was delicious, my pet, truly. And don’t you worry about that man of yours, he has them eating out of his hand.”

  “He seems to have that effect on people.”

  “You look happy, Eloise. Really.”

  “I’m tentatively optimistic.”

  “Why tentative?”

  I lick a bit of cream off my finger after I slide the last piece of pie onto a plate. “Why do you think? It’s too easy, too fun, too perfect. The sex is too good, he makes me laugh too much, he’s charming the bejesus out of my family.”