A Cold Piece of Work

by Curtis Bunn

  “Marie, I’m not drunk anymore, so believe me when I tell you that I’m glad you’re my friend,” he said when he got back to the bed. He pulled himself under the covers and clutched a pillow across his chest.

  “I’m sorry about last night and I’m really sorry about never giving us a chance. As I told you last night, even though I don’t remember saying it, I decided a while ago to deal with women from an emotional distance. It’s a cold way to be, but it protected me from being...you know…”

  “Hurt? Heartbroken?” Marie interjected. “You can say it, you know? Men. Always trying to hang on to that one last raggedy piece of manhood.”

  Solomon laughed. “You know what I mean. The point is that I respect and appreciate you and the friendship we have.”

  “Thanks for saying that,” she said. “You actually are really good when you’re sloppy drunk because you said something very similar to that last night. But I appreciate it more now since you seem to be aware of what you’re saying.

  “And since it seems like you’re going to survive your alcohol poisoning, I want to say one thing before I leave: Many times a man’s downfall is his pride. You told me, in so many words, that you loved that woman and you knew she loved you. So, what is the point of not being together? To prove you didn’t give in first? That’s really not cute or macho. It’s dumb.”

  Solomon heard Marie, even agreed with her, but pride and principles overruled him. His pride, combined with his issues, made it a certainty he would not contact Michele.

  He missed her. He wanted her back. He even, in a flash moment of truthfulness, admitted he needed her; he had no desires for anyone else. But his principles would only embrace her if she made all the concessions. She had to dismiss the notion of usurping his authority on how he disciplined his son. And she had to apologize for thinking he was a chronic abuser.

  That same morning, Michele was less contemplative. She went on a date. A fellow caterer, Joseph Dancer, had been eyeing her for some time. They had met at Taste of Atlanta, and had stayed in touch on occasion via phone and e-mail.

  Joseph’s most recent contact included inviting her to a friend’s 40th birthday party in Southwest Atlanta. His phone call came soon after Michele awoke that morning, feeling particularly grim about her prospects with Solomon. She, in fact, was mad at him.

  She thought: How could he go nearly six weeks without talking to me? He left me again, only this time he didn’t sneak off. He just walked away. How could he be such an Ice Man? Didn’t we really have something? He must not have loved me at all. And when is he going to disappear on Gerald?

  That last thought made her angry. He hadn’t given any indication he would discard his son; he had been actually remarkable with him. But he was remarkably cold toward her, which left her feeling like he could dismiss them both at his whim.

  While making breakfast with those thoughts swirling around her head, Joseph called. He had known Michele for more than a year and finally worked up the audacity to ask her out.

  “Sure,” she answered him. “Why not?”

  “Why would you do that?” Sonya said that afternoon, when Michele told her of her plans.

  “Because I can’t sit around and wait on a man who might not ever come back.”

  “But you love Solomon and you don’t have any interest in this other man. It’s not fair to him.”

  “He’s a nice guy,” Michele said.

  “Wow, really? That’s ninety-nine percent of the men in the world. If that’s the first and best thing you can say about him, then that tells you something.”

  “I’ve known him a long time, but I don’t really know that much about him,” Michele said. “So I’m going to find out if there’s something more I like about him. What’s wrong with that?”

  Sonya did not answer. She knew her cousin—if her mind was made up, it was not to be altered.

  “I’ll pick up Gerald at about six,” she said.

  And at precisely seven o’clock, Joseph rang Michele’s doorbell. It was if he was standing at her front door waiting for the hand to move to the twelve.

  “Wow,” Michele said. “Talk about being prompt.”

  She was ready, too. He came inside for a few moments and off they went to the party. But Solomon was all over her. First of all, she had heard of the restaurant before, but remembered when Joseph got there that Solomon had placed it on their list of spots to visit.

  Then she measured everything about Joseph against Solomon. His looks: He was a subtly good-looking man. No really distinctive features, but he dressed neatly and carried himself with a self-assuredness that was attractive. He had the complexion of Terrence Howard with a slim frame.

  His height: he was not as tall as Solomon and about equal to her in heels. His cologne: It was not flagrant; but not the intoxicating Cartier or John Varvatos Vintage of Solomon. His manners: He walked out of the house before her and only came over to open her door after she stood there waiting for him to do so.

  Still, determined to have a good time, she tried to put Solomon out of her head and initiated a mindless conversation about the weather in Atlanta versus the weather in Texas, where he was from.

  They arrived hungry at Marc and Deilah’s beautifully decorated contemporary home off of Cascade. Joseph said he had been cooking all day and Michele’s thoughts of Solomon ate at her appetite.

  When they entered the house, Joseph morphed into a gregarious, life-of-the-party sort, which was opposite his calm, relaxed demeanor Michele had seen. He put his arm around her and introduced her to about a dozen others.

  “If you think I can cook, wait until you taste this woman’s cooking,” he said.

  Michele smiled and looked at him with a quizzical expression. He had no idea of her cooking talents. She was irritated. Why was he posing as if they knew each other beyond the initial meeting, phone calls and e-mails?

  They went to the basement, where a bar was set up. He ran into three guys he knew and they immediately ordered shots of tequila. “Want one?” he asked Michele.

  “No, thanks,” she said. “I will have a glass of wine.”

  After he took the tequila shot, she asked him about complimenting her on her cooking. “Oh, I was just trying to do some marketing for you,” he said. “These people like to do parties.”

  “But you don’t know if I can cook or not.”

  “Someone who looks as good as you do has to be able to cook.”

  His attempt at flattery made no sense and augmented her irritation.

  “Where’s the food?” she asked.

  A woman in the basement heard her and answered the question. “It’s upstairs. I’m about to get some myself. You can go with me,” she said.

  She was Deilah, the hostess. “Beautiful home,” Michele said. “Thanks for having me.”

  Joseph stayed at the bar, drinking. Upstairs, Deilah introduced Michele to more people and led her to the food. It was an elaborate spread of fish, chicken, rice, potatoes, broccoli salad, crab cakes and green beans.

  It was awful. Bland. Overcooked. Disappointing.

  Michele curbed her appetite by eating three cupcakes. But she was not fulfilled—or happy.

  She went back downstairs to find Joseph, but he was not there. On her way upstairs, she ran into Deilah, who told her Joseph was on the deck at the back of the house.

  When she stepped out there, she found Joseph and a few other guys smoking cigars.

  “Hey, Michele, come on over,” he said. He introduced her to the men and offered her a cigar, which reminded her of Solomon. He convinced her to try one with him and she actually enjoyed it; they would share one on occasion.

  “No, thanks,” she said. She could not bear the notion of getting that heavy cigar smoke on her clothes and in her hair. “I’m going to go back inside.”

  “I’m coming right in,” Joseph said.

  And just as he said, Joseph returned to the house to find Michele in the kitchen, listening to a few women discussing the awful trea
tment of President Barack Obama.

  “Hey,” Joseph said into her ear. She could smell a horrible combination of cigar and alcohol on his breath. “How’s it going?”

  “Fine. Fine,” she said.

  “Good. Did you get a chance to eat?” Joseph asked. She did not detect it at first, but he seemed eager, in hindsight, to hear Michele’s answer.

  “I did,” she said, softly so no one else could hear her. “I hope it’s all right to say this to you, but the food was terrible.”

  Joseph’s face turned sour.

  “What’s wrong?” Michele said. “You hated it, too?”

  “No, I didn’t hate it,” he said, anger evident in his voice. “You’re the only person I know who doesn’t love it.”

  “Why are you so angry?” she said. “You know the caterer or something?”

  “I’m the caterer,” he said, staring at her with eyes that, if they could burn, would disintegrate her.

  A sheath of embarrassment covered Michele’s body. Usually quick with a comeback, she had nothing.

  “I’m so sorry, Joseph. I don’t know what to say.”

  “You’ve said enough,” he said, and walked away.

  Michele was left standing there. She wanted to talk to Joseph, but there were no words to soothe her abrasive critique of his work. As a caterer herself, she understood how devastating and embarrassing it would be.

  She searched the house for Joseph; she wanted to profusely apologize. She also wanted to tell him how subjective peoples’ tastes were and as long as others enjoyed his food, he should dismiss her words as nothing more than a picky person venting.

  But she could not find Joseph. She searched the basement, the living room, deck and kitchen. She asked the friends he had cigars with and Deilah, the hostess. No one knew where he was.

  Finally, Michele decided to go outside, to the car, to see if he was there. And he was.

  “Joseph, I’ve been trying to find you. Why did you just leave like that?”

  “I didn’t want to curse you out.” He put his drink to his mouth and followed it with a tug off his cigar. He blew the smoke toward Michele’s face.

  “I guess you’re the master chef, that you can go around telling me that my food sucks,” he said. Anger seeped from every word. And embarrassment, too.

  “I’m sorry, Joseph. You know almost everything is subjective. For every person who wasn’t thrilled with my food, there were a dozen more to validate it. So, don’t let what I said invalidate you. You know you’re a good chef, and people have told you that.”

  “Yeah, but you didn’t.” He was almost pouting.

  “I’m sorry I offended you. I wasn’t trying to; I didn’t even know you prepared the food.”

  “Why would my friends have an event and let someone else cater? Of course, you knew I catered it. That’s one reason I wanted you to come with me… That was a bad decision.”

  “I can’t apologize enough, Joseph,” Michele said. She was tired of apologizing and about ready to explode. “I don’t know what to say.”

  She wanted to say, “Grow up and take criticism like a man. Learn from it and get better.” Instead, she held her tongue.

  “So that’s it? You don’t have anything else to say?” Joseph asked.

  “I don’t know what I could say to make it better for you. I know you want the truth from people. That’s how we know what to work on and what not to. Clearly, the guests are enjoying the food. You should focus on that,” Michele answered.

  “First you tell me my food is horrible and now you’re telling me what to focus on. Let me tell you something: You can soak your clothes in gasoline and go to hell.”

  If he was looking to get a fiery response out of Michele, he succeeded.

  “Can you take me home now? And maybe by the time you drop me off you will have grown up,” she said.

  “Now I’m a child; okay,” Joseph said. “Well, I’m sure your mother told you to never ride with kids, so let’s see if you can get an adult to take you home.”

  They stared at each other for a few seconds. He took the final bit of his drink and downed it, then took a puff of his cigar. He leaned over and blew the smoke in her face, and brushed past her and back into the party.

  Michele was so livid she could have burst into tears. She was hurt, angry and fighting mad. She looked around the subdivision and had no idea where she was. She did not want to go back into the house, but she had no other recourse.

  She entered and saw Joseph standing in the kitchen with a few guys. They all turned toward her, laughing. She found Deilah and asked her to call a cab.

  “What? Why?” she asked.

  When Michele explained that Joseph would not take her home, Deilah was not happy.

  “Between you and me, the food isn’t great,” she said. “But he’s been a family friend for a long time, so we’re in a real bind when it comes to looking at someone else to do the food.

  “Whatever, I’m really disappointed he’s being this way. My brother is here. He can take you home. You live all the way in DeKalb County, right? That’s too long a drive for a taxi. Who knows how much that would cost?”

  “If your brother doesn’t mind—”

  “Hold on,” Deilah said. She caught her brother Anthony’s attention and waved him over.

  During the introduction, they checked each other out. Cute, Michele said to herself.

  Anthony was quickly impressed. Yeah, she can ride; I mean, get a ride anytime.

  “But you shouldn’t leave now. We’re about to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ and cut the cake; and Joseph did not make the cake,” Deilah said, laughing.

  “How well do you know Joseph?” Michele said. “I don’t want to cause any drama. I came here with him and was going to leave with him. But he’s acting like a child.”

  “I know him well, but we’re not friends; he’s my brother-inlaw’s friend,” Anthony said. “So don’t worry about that.”

  He led Michele back downstairs, to the bar where they got a glass of Shiraz and sang “Happy Birthday” and generally enjoyed each other’s company. Before long, she saw Joseph staring at her in the distance.

  “I actually have to get up relatively early, so I’m ready when you are,” Anthony said.

  “Let me thank your sister and I’m ready, too.”

  On the way out, Joseph came by. “You ready to go?”

  “I’m gone,” she answered. Anthony politely grabbed her by her elbow and led her out the door.

  “I’m going to say you can charge his behavior to alcohol,” Anthony said of Joseph.

  Michele liked that. He could have tried to squash Joseph to elevate himself. Instead, he seemed to believe he would get where he wanted to go on his own merits. That was different from a few guys she encountered who did all they could to make themselves look better by making another man look bad.

  On top of that, Anthony was handsome and a gentleman. They talked and laughed all the way up Interstate 20 to the Candler Road exit.

  “Why do you have to get up so early on the weekend?” Michele asked.

  “Well, I work at Coca-Cola and we have an event that I have to help coordinate.”

  And just like that, Solomon was back on her mind.

  “Coca-Cola, huh? Do you know a guy there named Solomon?”

  “I do,” Anthony said. “Good people. We’ve hung out a few times. He’s definitely good people. How do you know him?”

  Michele was confused on how to answer. Anthony had struck her attention, which was really good considering how the night had gone. Would telling him about her past with Solomon make a difference to him? Should it make a difference to her?

  “Well, he’s the father of my son,” Michele said.

  “Hold up,” Anthony said, alternating between looking at her and the road as they drove along. “I’ve heard about you. This is crazy. I can’t believe this.”

  “What have you heard?”

  Anthony did not have it in him to lie. Although he
was more than mildly interested in Michele, he was a strict adherer to “man codes.”

  “I heard that you all are not together now and that he’s mad at you,” he said. “But I also heard that he’s pretty much miserable without you. Guess how I heard this?

  “He used to date my cousin, Marie. She told me. He ended it with her and told her all about you and basically how much he loved you.”

  Michele’s body warmed up. She knew Solomon to be ice cold, so, day by day, her hope of hearing from him diminished. This news gave her optimism, for she knew in the deepest recesses of her heart, she belonged to Solomon Singletary.

  “Atlanta is too small,” she said. “In five minutes, I learned you know two people I know here and I don’t know that many people.”

  “Well, a woman once told me that if you play ‘Negro Geography’ long enough, two people will find common friends,” he said. “And that’s true.”

  They arrived at Michele’s door.

  “Can I give you some gas money, please?” she said. “This was very nice of you.”

  “I appreciate the offer; you’d be surprised how many women don’t have that courtesy gene in their DNA. But I’m good. I’m really glad we met.”

  “Thanks for everything,” Michele said.

  “My pleasure,” Anthony said. “And good luck with Solomon. I think you love him, too.”

  “Why do you say that?” Michele wanted to know.

  “I can tell. You probably didn’t even realize it,” he said, “but when I told you what my cousin said, an expression came over your face.”

  “What are you, some kind of mind reader?”

  “No, I just pay attention to detail,” Anthony said. “I noticed you didn’t say I’m wrong… Goodnight. Nice to meet you.”

  CHAPTER 25

  ON THE BRINK

  For all the vibes Michele and Solomon had floated in the universe, they still did not come together. Their pride and stubbornness ruled.

  It was silly because they both missed each other, wanted to be together, but refused to make the initial contact that would at least start a dialogue about a possible reconciliation. This was not foolish pride; it was masochistic pride. They only hurt themselves.