Morning Glory

by Sarah Jio

  “Dad’s a former English professor,” Jim says with a wink.

  “Now, Penny,” he says, “did you have a chance to start the novel I left on your porch yesterday?”

  “Dad,” Jim says, a bit startled, “this is Ada.”

  “I don’t mind,” I say, hoping Gene isn’t worried that I’ve been offended. I wonder what it must be like to live with dementia, and I also wonder who Penny is.

  “Jim, dear!”

  Behind me is Jim’s mother. She’s wearing a blue velour leisure suit. Her delicate skin is wrinkled and hangs over her high cheekbones. By the way she looks at me, I can tell that though her exterior may have aged, she’s still as sharp as a tack. “Who’s this young lady?” she asks, walking toward us with a bit of a limp. I remember her broken hip, and I’m surprised to see her out of bed.

  “Mother,” Jim says with a tsk-tsk in his voice. “Should you be up walking?”

  She kisses his cheek as her gray hair, cut into a blunt bob, swishes against her cheek. “I’m fine, dear,” she says. “Your father, on the other hand . . .” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “. . . is not having a good day.”

  Jim nods. While his mother seems a little annoyed, he just looks saddened by his father’s state. “I know.”

  “So who is this beauty?” she asks, looking at me. “Tells us about yourself, Miss . . . ?”

  “Santorini,” I say.

  “Oh, you’re an Italian? You don’t look Italian.” She’s blunt and bold, and I might take offense if she were thirty-five rather than pushing eighty.

  “Yes,” I reply. “I mean, well, I was married to an Italian.”

  “Ah, divorced,” she says. “Everyone is these days.”

  “No,” I say a little more defensively than I intended. “My husband died.”

  “I’m so sorry, dear,” she says, shaking her head. “What a pity.” She offers me her hand. “I’m Naomi.”

  “So nice to meet you. You have a lovely home.” I don’t know why I said it. The home isn’t lovely. It’s actually dark, and the air smells like medicine and sadness. But I have a habit of talking too much when I’m nervous, and I’m nervous now.

  “You’re tense,” she says. “Come sit down.”

  “Mother worked as a psychiatrist for forty years,” Jim says in an apologetic tone. “She can’t help herself.”

  “I’m fine,” I say, forcing a smile.

  “No, you’re not, dear,” Naomi says. “Where’s your grief coming from? The death of your husband?”

  She is not like Dr. Evinson. Her eyes pierce the wounds I’ve tried to keep hidden, the ones that, after two years, still feel raw. She can sense my pain, and I feel as if her prodding isn’t the least bit therapeutic.

  I glance at my watch. “It’s been lovely meeting you,” I say quickly, “but I really must go.”

  Naomi smiles curiously at me, and her eyes follow me as I walk to the door.

  Jim’s expression says, “Sorry,” and I nod to him, then look to the couch, where his father has fallen asleep.

  No matter how much time passes, I know I won’t be able to stop cooking for two and a half. And as I warm the cast iron skillet and drizzle in a bit of olive oil, I can almost feel James’s arms around my waist, his lips against my neck. How many times did I push him away because I was too busy? How many times did I say, “Not tonight”? I drop the chicken breasts in the pan and listen to them sizzle. How I wish he were here now. How I wish I could have those moments back. All of the moments.

  I slice the bread, prepare a quick vinaigrette to drizzle over the chopped romaine, then squeeze a lemon wedge over the chicken in the pan and sprinkle it with chopped garlic, the way James used to. Finally, I uncork the wine and pour a splash into the pan, breathing in the intoxicating scent.

  “Hi, my love,” I hear him say. No one ever called me that before him. It was the Italian in him. The romantic. My Romeo.

  “I miss you,” I say. My words reverberate in the lonely space in the kitchen.

  “I want you to be happy,” he says.

  “But I can’t,” I say. “Not without you.”

  He shakes his head. “You have to try.”

  “I don’t know if I can, James,” I say.

  “Do it for me?”

  I wipe away a tear and carry my plate of chicken, salad, and a slice of crusty bread out to the deck. It’s after six, and though the breeze is light, there are still a few sailboats inching along the lake with sails puffed out. I take a bite and notice Alex paddle up to his dock in a green kayak. “Hi,” he says, climbing out onto the deck as his eyes meet mine. He’s wearing jeans, a blue T-shirt, and a gray baseball cap.

  “Hi,” I reply.

  “I take it you haven’t burned the place down yet,” he says with a grin.

  I hold up my plate and smile. “Success.”

  He nods. “Whatever it is, it smells amazing.”

  I shrug. “Just chicken. Nothing fancy.”

  “Well, it sounds better than takeout.”

  I think of the extra chicken breast in the pan, the bread on the cutting board, and the bowl full of salad I’ll never eat. “Why don’t you come over?” I say suddenly, hardly recognizing my own voice.

  He sets his oar in the kayak and his smile widens. “Really?”

  “Sure,” I say. “But full disclaimer: It’s nothing cookbook-worthy.”

  “That’s the best kind,” he says. “I’ll just get my camera, then.”

  He returns from the houseboat with his camera strapped around his shoulder, then climbs into the kayak again to paddle toward my dock. “Hi,” he says a moment later. I watch as he climbs out onto the deck and ties the kayak to a cleat, then he takes his hat off, holds it to his chest, and bows. “Thank you.”

  I can’t help but laugh at the dramatic gesture. “For what?”

  “For saving me from Thai food.”

  “Oh, but I love Thai food.”

  “So do I,” he says. “But after fifty-six consecutive nights of green curry and spring rolls, well, you know.”

  “Come on,” I say, standing up. “Let me make you a plate.”

  He follows me inside to the kitchen, and I dish up his dinner. I set it on the bar, and he immediately whips out his camera. “Do you have a cloth or a piece of fabric? Something for a background?”

  “I really don’t think this dinner is photo-worthy.”

  “Yes,” he says. “It is. Look at the gloss on the chicken.” I don’t tell him it’s one of the few things I know how to cook.

  I pull out a striped dishcloth from a drawer near the sink. “Will this work?”

  “Yeah,” he says, looking into the viewfinder. The flash goes off once, then twice. He slips off his shoes and climbs onto the counter. I can’t help but notice how his biceps move as he lifts the camera and then positions it over the plate. One more flash, then another. “There,” he says, jumping down beside me. His arm brushes mine as he keys through the images stored on his camera. “See?” he continues, pointing to the image, which looks one hundred times more appetizing than the dish I made.

  “Wow,” I say, astonished.

  “Not bad, huh?” he says, grinning. “And I didn’t even have a food stylist.” He leans in and whispers mockingly, “They’re a fussy lot.”

  He leans over the bar, slices into the chicken, and takes a bite. “Good,” he says, covering his mouth.

  I smile. “Well, anything would taste good after a thousand days of takeout.”

  “No,” he says, with sincerity in his eyes, “you’re a great cook.”

  I nod and find another wineglass in the cupboard. “Can I pour you some white?”

  “No thanks,” he says. “I don’t drink.”

  We make small talk as he finishes his dinner, then I refill my wineglass and we sit on the sofa overlooking the lake.

  “I found your book,” I say. “The barbecue one.”

  He nods. “What did you think?”

  “It looks great. James
Beard award—very impressive.”

  He shrugs. “I gained fifteen pounds shooting that book.”

  “I can see why.” I want to ask about his coauthor, but I don’t. Instead, I inquire about his former career. “Do you miss traveling? The work you did in Sudan?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Sometimes.” He looks out to the lake, as if willing a stiff wind to carry him away. “I didn’t ever think I’d give up foreign correspondence work. It was my calling.”

  “So why did you?”

  His eyes look distant for a moment, faraway, before he looks at me again. “Because I thought I had a more important job to do at home.”

  “And did that ‘job’ work out?”

  “I wanted it to,” he says, “but it never could. It never would.” He rubs his brow. “How about you? Did your work bring you out here?”

  “No,” I say. “I left all that behind in New York. Time for a new chapter.”

  Our eyes lock. “It’s awfully quiet in here,” I say a bit nervously. “There must be a stereo.”

  Alex points to a cabinet on the wall and walks toward it.

  “I see you know my house better than I do,” I say.

  He grins. “The guy that rented it before you was a fisherman. Friendly guy, but he had a thing for whiskey. Lots of whiskey. I had to help him home more than a few times.”

  “Oh,” I say. “That explains the fishhook in the laundry room.”

  He smiles and turns back to the stereo. He fiddles with the antenna, but all that comes out of the nearby speakers is static. “No reception. Let me see what old Joe left in the CD player.”

  “Old Joe?”

  He nods. “The fisherman.” A familiar melody suddenly drifts through the little living room. It makes me freeze, and I don’t know why. And then I hear the silky, sweet sound of Karen Carpenter’s voice.

  “‘Rainy Days and Mondays,’” Alex says.

  I can’t find my voice. I just stare ahead, fighting back the tears.

  Alex sits down beside me. I know he senses that something’s wrong. “I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “If you don’t like it, I’ll turn it off.”

  “No,” I say. “No. Please don’t.” I wipe a tear from my eye, just as another spills onto my cheek. “My husband loved this song.” I smile. “Which made him the only straight man on earth to love the Carpenters.”

  Alex grins. “The only two straight men on earth.”

  I smile again. For some reason, I feel as if someone has lifted a great weight from my shoulders, just for a moment. “James died on a Monday,” I say.

  We sit there for a moment listening to the song together, each alone in our own thoughts, until Alex reaches over and takes my hand in his. I don’t let go.

  Chapter 9

  PENNY

  I’ve just cleared the breakfast dishes and have put a loaf of bread in the oven for lunch, honey whole wheat, when I nestle on the couch next to Dex. “Did you have a good time last night?”

  He doesn’t take his eyes off the newspaper. “Yes, it was a good party.” He has a headache, I know. I saw him reach for the aspirin after he woke up.

  I smile when I think of the way he carried me up the stairs to our bed and held me like he used to. But a mere eight hours later, the spell has lifted. He seems distracted and sullen.

  He sets the paper down on the coffee table and turns to me. “I’m going to be spending the next week in my studio,” he says matter-of-factly.

  I bite my lip. “I don’t understand.”

  “What don’t you understand?” he snaps. “I have to work. And that’s that.”

  I stand up and walk to the kitchen. My eyes sting.

  “Penny,” Dex says, his face momentarily softened.

  I nod, then open the oven door and peer in at my bread, which is rising nicely and taking on a perfect shade of golden brown. I hover long enough to let a lone tear fall from my eye. It lands on the oven door and evaporates as if it never existed.

  “Darling,” Dex continues, walking to the kitchen. “Please, don’t take my work so personally.”

  Dex is right, of course. He’s an artist. And being married to one requires the patience of a Tibetan monk. Hasn’t Dex always said that he divorced his first wife because she required constant maintenance? No, I don’t want to be high maintenance, and yet I do want to be loved. Is it too much to ask for him to come home each night?

  “I’m sorry,” I say, finally facing him. “I just hate it when you’re gone so long. I get lonely here.”

  “My psychiatrist thinks alone time is good for me,” he says.

  I want to say, “Does your psychiatrist ever consider what’s good for me, your wife?” But I let a few moments pass, and then I nod. “Dex, you know I only want you to be happy.”

  He pulls me close to him and kisses my cheek. “That’s why I love you so much.”

  Dex left before noon, opting for the café downtown over a homemade Reuben sandwich on fresh-baked bread. I try not to take it personally and wrap the extra sandwich I made in waxed paper before putting it in the fridge, which is when I hear a quiet knock at the back door.

  I look up and see Jimmy standing on the deck outside, with his nose pressed up against the glass.

  “Morning, honey,” I say.

  “Can I come in?” he asks, wide-eyed.

  “Does your mother know where you are?”

  He shrugs. “She’s working today. Besides, she doesn’t care where I am as long as I’m not bothering her.”

  “I’m sure that’s not the case, Jimmy,” I say.

  He walks into the living room and plops onto the couch. “It always smells nice in your house,” he says. “Like a bakery.”

  “Thanks,” I reply. “Are you hungry?”

  He nods.

  I hand him Dex’s sandwich and he unwraps it hastily. “I got an A on my book report,” he says between bites.

  “Good job, honey,” I say. “I bet your mother was proud.”

  He shakes his head. “She doesn’t like bugs.”

  “Bugs?”

  “The book was about bugs.”

  “Oh.”

  “She wanted me to do a report on a book about a guy named Fried.”

  “Do you mean Freud?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  I smile. “I’ll be honest,” I say, “I like bugs better.”

  Jimmy looks vindicated. “Will you take me out in the canoe?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, remembering Naomi’s warnings about Jimmy. “Your parents will be looking for you soon.”

  He shakes his head, and something about his eyes, pleading, lonely, makes me say OK. “But we can’t be out long.”

  He stands up and wraps his arms around my waist. “Thank you, Penny.”

  The lake is glorious today, sparkling and smooth as glass. The canoe glides through the water effortlessly, like a knife through butter.

  After we paddle out to the center of the lake, we stop and bob on the water for a while. It’s peaceful here. Jimmy sets his oar down in the well of the canoe and turns around in his seat up front to face me.

  “I wish I was good at something,” he says suddenly.

  “Oh, Jimmy, you’re good at lots of things.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m not smart in school.”

  “That’s not true,” I say. “You just haven’t found your thing yet—you know, your special skill. Everyone has one. It just takes a while to figure out what it is.”

  He’s wide-eyed. “What’s yours?”

  “Well, I do like to bake.”

  “You make good cookies,” he says.

  “Someday I’d like to open a bakery.”

  He looks thoughtful for a moment, then smiles to himself. “I’d like to be a comic strip writer.”

  “Jimmy!” I exclaim. “That’s a wonderful goal!”

  He pulls a piece of paper from his pocket and hands it to me. It’s folded several times into a small square, and I unfold it carefully.
/>   “It’s not very good,” he says quickly.

  I shake my head, astonished by the way he drew the people and dog in the little comic strip, then smile at the punch line. “It’s excellent,” I say. “You should show this to your parents.”

  Jimmy shakes his head and quickly retrieves his creation, folding it again before tucking it in his pocket. “No. They don’t understand comics.”

  “Well, they understand talent, and they’ll be very proud of you.”

  He shrugs and turns back to the water, and I look to the shore, where our dock looks like a tiny speck in the distance.

  “Penny?” he asks, turning to me again. “Will you ever have a baby?”

  I smile nervously, a bit startled by his question. I think of the last time I spoke to Dex about the subject. He patted my knee and said, “Become a father at my age?” And yet, I long for a child. I can’t help but think that if I had a baby, I wouldn’t feel so alone. That it might complete the missing piece of me, fill the hairline crack in my heart that I knew Dex can never fully occupy. But after almost three years of marriage, it has become clear that something is wrong. And maybe that something is me.

  “Jimmy,” I say, choosing my words carefully, “I’d love to have a baby, more than anything in the world. But sometimes things don’t work out the way you want them to.”

  “It’s not fair,” he says, frowning. “You want a child and don’t have one, and Mother has me, but she never wanted one.”

  “Oh, dear,” I say quickly. “Don’t say that. You know that’s not true. Your mother loves you very much.”

  He doesn’t say anything else as we paddle back to the dock, but then his eyes light up when he sees Collin on his boat. He’s fastening a thin piece of wood in place at the stern. “Can we go say hello to him?”

  I don’t see the harm in paddling over, so I nod and change course, parking the canoe in front of Collin’s deck.

  “Well, hello there,” he says, tipping his cap at us.

  Without asking permission, Jimmy leaps out of the canoe onto the deck. “May I see your boat?”

  “Jimmy, I—”

  “It’s all right,” Collin says kindly. “I could use another pair of hands this afternoon.”