* * *
HANNAH, WHERE ARE YOU, WHAT’S taking so long? yelled my mom from upstairs.
Mom was an epic summoner. Throughout the day she liked to bellow my name from some part of the house, most often her bedroom, and I would be expected to come running. Upon my arrival, she would then tell me she was exhausted (she was always exhausted), and I needed to go find something for her—a cup of coffee, her Good Housekeeping magazine, a small bowl of fancy mixed nuts.
Coming, Mom, I called out again, wearily this time.
Reaching the top of the stairs, I was greeted by the familiar smell of death, which was ever present in the top story of our home, an old house with a roof always in need of repair (even my industrious dad couldn’t keep up), and with numerous chimneys and crooked attics. Somehow squirrels or chipmunks or bats would find their way into our home, wedge themselves into an unfindable space, and then promptly lose the will to live.
(Han-aaaaah! Walt, what is wrong with that girl?)
I knew how they felt.
There was always a bag of lavender hanging from a hook at the top of the stairs. I held it to my face and took a deep breath before turning right toward my parents’ bedroom, and when I reached the open door, the first thing I saw was my father sitting on the corner of the bed, motioning me to hurry up. Moving into the room, I saw my mom lying on top of the bedcovers, her leg swathed in a thick protective cast and raised up on a stack of several pillows. It made me think right away of The Princess and the Pea.
Look, honey, I broke my leg, said Mom, sounding perfectly tranquil. And then she performed her sad-face pout, but I could tell that what she really wanted to do was burst into song—
I broke my leg
I broke my leg
Everyone has to do what I say
Everyone has to answer my call
For six weeks at least
Or maybe eight
With any luck
I broke my leg
Mom patted at a spot beside her on the bed. I went and sat down while my dad put his hands on my shoulders.
Oh, Hannah, it’s not your fault, said my mother.
My father squeezed me tenderly while I made a confused face.
It was your tea-party table, she said, you left it out in the den and I tripped and fell. But don’t blame yourself, honey.
Now I remembered what Pauly had said about something being his fault, and I knew for a fact that I hadn’t left any miniature tables in the den. I might not have been in the full flush of puberty, but I was a long way from make-believe tea parties. Pauly often used that table as a convenient joint-rolling surface, it being just the right height, like one of those trays with legs for eating breakfast in bed.
We’re all going to have to help your mom around the house a little more for a while, said my dad.
Which made me think instantly, Not all of us, Dad. You and I.
Mom gave me a look suggesting she was hurt on my behalf and then said, You don’t blame yourself too much, do you, Hannah?
I responded with a series of hard blinks and then a hard No!
My mom look horribly aggrieved. But you did leave that table right where I could trip over it, Hannah, she said.
What was I supposed to say? I wasn’t about to throw my brother under the bus, and anyway, there wouldn’t have been any point, my brothers’ vices were something completely ignored in our household, as if my mother had been hypnotized into not seeing the signs right in front of her—Bobby’s slurred speech and stumbles, the smell of weed that leached from Pauly’s room when he forgot to blow his smoke out the window.
Sorry, Mom, I said, without much enthusiasm.
My father squeezed my shoulders some more. It’s not your fault, Hanny Bee, but let’s be a little more careful in future. And for a while, your mom’s going to need a lot more help around the house. Can you do that for me?
Yes, Dad, I said, half-turning to look up at him beaming at me like he’d never been prouder, the same look I got from my father a dozen times every day.
Good girl, Hanny Bee. Wanna help me make dinner tonight?
Sure, I said, but I promised Jen that I’d go over to her house. It’s only an hour. Can I help when I come back?
At which point my father’s smile started turning to a wince as I heard my mom say, Oh, that is absolutely not happening, Hannah.
I turned back to face her, my mother looking breathless with irritation. How could I think to suggest such a thing at a time like this?
And not just today, she continued. While I’m in this cast, I need you to come straight home from school every day. No more going around to Jen Snell’s for a while.
No, I cried out, you have to let me go to Jen’s today, you have to, it’s all arranged.
It’s out of the question, Hannah.
Please, Mom, pleeease, I pleaded.
Jeesh, said my mom, you and that vapid little girl sit on the school bus together every single day. You have classes together. What more is there to talk about? No, I can’t spare you, Hannah, it’s settled.
But Cathy can help. (Cathy was our latest maid.)
Cathy finishes at three, she has her own family to worry about.
No, it’s not fair, I said, my voice getting louder. It’s like I’m being grounded and I didn’t even do anything wrong.
Nothing wrong? said my mom, her voice rising as she peered meaningfully down at her leg. This is ridiculous, Hannah, don’t act like you’re being punished. Puh-leeze.
That’s exactly what’s happening, I shouted, close to tears, I am being punished.
Then my mom shouted back, her voice a bitter rasp at the back of her throat. If helping around the house is such a punishment, then I get punished every single damn day of my life, Hannah.
There was nowhere else for my rage to escape, I had to spit it out and I yelled furiously back at her—I wish you’d broken your stupid damn neck!
There was a shocked pause, a moment of silence as if a clock had just stopped, and then my mom reached out and slapped me hard in the face.
In some sense the slap came as a relief because now I could cry, everything that had been building up could have its release, and my tears burst forth with a furious speed, my body stiffening with the sting of unfairness.
I got up from the bed and ran from the room, my father shouting after me, Hannah, you come back right now and apologize.
No, let her go, I heard my mom call out. Ungrateful wretch.
By the time I threw myself, wailing, onto my bed, I was certain that my life was absolutely over, that nothing in the world could be more painful than this and that now, thanks to my mother, I would never get close to Matthew Weaver.
And yet, on all three counts, I was wrong.
* * *
MIGHT EVERYTHING HAVE TURNED OUT differently if my mother hadn’t broken her leg that day? My guess is that, had I gone with Jen to Patch’s house that afternoon, had I got to know Matthew much earlier in 1982, the four of us would have become friends and surely then, however naive I was, I would have discovered at a much more leisurely pace that the Matthew I had invented in my head was not the Matthew that existed in real life.
Instead of this I would be kept at arm’s length from my fantasy for another eight weeks while my mother’s leg gradually healed. Eight more weeks in which I could paint an even more intricate Matthew inside my head, eight weeks of an intense burning at the unfairness of life as my brothers remained free to sink into their evening fogs after their days hard at work learning the family business, to use my mom’s frequently whipped-out phrase.
Really? However much I loved them, Bobby and Pauly were learning the family business about as much as I was learning the secret ways of the ninja. Only very rarely did either of them spend more than a couple of hours at the cement plant, although Pauly sometimes put in a longer shift if he was having trouble locating a new pot dealer, my dad having a long-held policy of quietly ushering out a steady string of his suppliers.
&nb
sp; So instead of getting to know Matthew and Patrick, I had to endure eight weeks in the role of Cinderella, performing household chores each day while pining for my prince, making and carrying drinks for my mom and cooking dinner each night with my dad, a series of Mom’s classics, such as French onion soup meat loaf (the soup coming in dehydrated form from a packet), tuna noodle casserole (sprinkled with crushed cheddar Goldfish crackers), and my brothers’ all-time favorite, chili con wieners.
For the next eight weeks, I talked it through obsessively with Jen every day at school. Had Matthew just made eye contact with me when we passed in the hallway? What did his look mean? Did he run his fingers through his hair a lot when I was around or did he just run his fingers through his hair a lot? Was his decision to wear denim that day some kind of secret sign?
Yes, for eight weeks everything built and built inside me until finally the cast came off my mother’s leg and that same day, Jen sauntered over to Matthew and Patrick between lessons, while I hung back in awe of my best friend’s astonishing possession of two functioning legs and a fully operational voice box while she fixed up a new liaison at the McConnell household for the following evening. Once the arrangements were made, Matthew waved at me and let out a kindly chuckle when I waved back with all the vigor of a fainting damsel.
The next morning I could barely contain the feeling gushing through my body as I stepped off the school bus with Jen, my eyes scooting around for a glimpse of him, oh Matthew, my gaze running fast up the school steps, taking them two and three at a time, and yes, there he was.
Only wait, because there she was, there they were.
Matthew, Matthew and Christie, Matthew and Christie kissing.
I remember that was the moment, for the first time in my life (although certainly not the last), I felt the very physical sense of my heart being broken.
NEW YORK, 2008
Patrick only blinks, twelve years old again, a small boy staring at a scene just out of reach.
How can it be him? But it is, Matthew, seated at a restaurant table, twenty-six years older, his dark hair swept back and faintly receding. Matthew in a suit and tie, although somehow he looks casually dressed, diagonal stripes in the tie, plaid shirt underneath, tiny polka dots peppering his pocket square.
Running at him and crushing his skull with a rock, leaping in front of the forty-ninth bullet …
Patrick looks down at the table. Glass, fork, knife.
… finding a splintered branch and driving it deep into his chest, fetching the slingshot from under the tarp and firing a perfect shot …
None of this makes any sense. And now Matthew is speaking. I’m sorry, Tricky, he says, I honestly thought there was no other way.
The name makes him dizzier still but Patrick manages to find some strength in his voice. Don’t you ever call me by that name again, he says.
Of course not, says Matthew, loosening the knot of his tie. Patrick, I’m sorry.
Sorry for what? For shooting Hannah? Half-blinding her? For leaving her for dead?
Of course I’m sorry about that, says Matthew. But wherever Hannah is in the world, I doubt she’d want to meet me for lunch so that I can apologize to her in person.
Wait, he doesn’t know that we’re married?
Patrick presses the heel of his hand to the bridge of his nose. So why did you trick me into meeting you here? he says.
I just wanted to get back in touch, says Matthew. But look, I can see already that I’ve made a huge mistake, he says. I knew this could prove awkward, only I thought you might sit down. And then we might talk.
Just walk away, Patch. You don’t have to do anything but turn around and leave.
He looks over his shoulder, the smooth flow of good service, plates floating in and out of view.
Wait, please wait, says Matthew. Patrick, look, I know this arrangement may have been stupidly clumsy of me but I promise it wasn’t a trick. He reaches inside his jacket, pulls out a business card and pushes it across the table.
Matthew Denby, Proprietor
St. Lawrence Supplies
We work with only the very best restaurants, says Matthew. St. Lawrence Supplies sources the finest lobster, mushrooms, lamb, oysters.
The business card is thick, plush, it rests between them on the table like a small pillow, the padding inside a ring box.
You changed your name, says Patrick.
Matthew’s smile twitches. Only half of it, he says.
A silent moment. And then Patrick pulls the business card toward him, flips it over. Printed address, phone number, fax. But also Matthew has written something in blue ink, the address of an apartment in Tribeca. How did you find me? he says.
I have an assistant who sends me things, says Matthew. Newspaper clippings, links to websites, the menus of new restaurants, that sort of thing. I try to keep my finger on the pulse of where food is headed, what ingredients might be in vogue in six months’ time. Food is like fashion, it gets carried along by certain whims, certain styles. She sent me a link to your website. I haven’t lied to you, Patrick, I genuinely enjoy what you do. Matthew locks his fingers, resting his hands on the tablecloth. Are you sure you won’t sit down? he says. One minute, I promise. The business proposal—it was a lure, yes, but it wasn’t a lie.
Patrick drops the card into a pocket. I’ve seen your delivery trucks all over the city, he says.
Good, says Matthew, we get around.
St. Lawrence Supplies, says Patrick, speaking the words in a contemptuous drawl.
Yes, I named it for the patron saint of—
Cooks, says Patrick.
That’s right, says Matthew, running his hand through his hair, a stray curl breaking loose, dropping over his brow and hanging there like a meat hook. He taps at the menu, his forefinger hitting the gold curlicues of Le Crainois. Jean-Jacques is one of our best customers, he says. He and I have become very close friends. I’d really like to introduce you.
This proposal, says Patrick. Whatever it is, it’s impossible.
Impossible? says Matthew. Why?
Perhaps he really doesn’t know, thinks Patrick. No, there are no photos of Hannah on the website. I never use her name. All I need to do is turn around and leave, there is nothing else to be done.
He leans heavily on the table. Listen very carefully, says Patrick. Don’t ever try to contact me again, you understand?
Matthew folds his hands in his lap. Of course, Patrick, he says. And once again, apologies for my misjudgment. I promise to keep my distance.
This is his cue to leave. And yet Patrick hesitates. Perhaps he wants to see if there are signs of rejection on Matthew’s face—Patrick doesn’t remember ever turning him down as a child. And now Matthew’s expression does seem to suggest some mild degree of disappointment.
Patrick looks down at him a moment longer, Matthew’s hair with a rich shine, his stubble dark, his eyes green. And then Patrick realizes something that startles him—Matthew is good-looking, perhaps even exceptionally so. The revelation unsettles him, as if somewhere a tale has taken a surprising twist.
And then at last he turns around.
But please, says Matthew, promise me you’ll think it through. You have my card. I just want a chance to talk everything through, Patrick.
He walks away.
* * *
RUN! PATRICK FEELS AS IF a spear is pointing at his back. Out through the sculptural twigs, past the bar and the greeter, who bids him goodbye, out into the mall, hard to breathe, trying to loosen a tie that’s not there, stepping onto the escalator.
Why didn’t I attack him?
No, you did the right thing, Patch. You didn’t listen to his proposal. You walked away.
But these are just words, only words, and the body knows better, Patrick’s muscles stiff and alert, an empty, sick feeling in the place where he carries his shame, a place he knows well, like a mole knows his tunnels. What did Matthew want? What was his proposal?
A second escalator. A third.
And then Patrick hears his name, a voice calling out to him from above.
Monsieur McConnell? Monsieur McConnell, please.
He turns and sees the plastic-clad tourists moving to one side of the steps. Pushing his way past them is Frédéric, the maître d’ from Le Crainois.
Monsieur McConnell, stop, please stop.
At the bottom of the escalator, Patrick hangs back and waits.
Thank you, Monsieur McConnell, says Frédéric when he reaches him. Please, this is something very important. Chef would like to speak to you.
That’s impossible, says Patrick. I’m not coming back.
I see, but this is not impossible, says Frédéric. I brought something, he says, raising his left hand, which is carrying a tablet computer, like a thin hardcover book.
Frédéric leads Patrick by the elbow to a viewing point that overlooks the gleaming atrium and spinning entrance doors. Please, says Frédéric, just give me a few seconds. He presses a button on the device, which lights up, and taps the screen a few times. Chef, excuse me, I have Monsieur McConnell now, says Frédéric, speaking into the tablet and then turning the screen to face Patrick.
On-screen, Patrick can see the chef standing in his kitchen, Jean-Jacques Rougerie, whom he recognizes from the newspapers and magazines, from the photos in his book, La Cuisine Précise. The chef is bent over a plate of morel mushrooms, inspecting them. He nods, the plates are whisked away and Jean-Jacques Rougerie looks up.
Welcome to my kitchen, Monsieur McConnell, he says. May I call you Patrick?
Yes, Chef, says Patrick, slightly starstruck.
You like my video linkup, Patrick? This way I can be in my restaurant in Paris and my restaurant in New York at the same time. Remarkable, no?
Grist Mill Road Page 12
