by Darien Gee
He tries to take her arm but she shakes herself free from his grasp. “You should come over for dinner sometime,” she calls to Janet. “I make a mean beef bourguignon!” She turns to Philippe. “I do it with a watercress and pear salad. Delicious.”
Philippe sighs. Hannah sees the throb of his jugular and wishes she could do some kung fu, karate-chop move that would take him out. But she doesn’t know kung fu. She doesn’t know any sport really.
“Just go, Hannah.” Philippe holds the door open, waiting for her to leave.
Instead Hannah walks over to Janet before Philippe can stop her. “I can’t believe you’re sleeping with him,” she says. “You know he cheats on his wife, right?”
Janet avoids her and looks to Philippe instead. “Philippe …” she intones, her lilting voice carrying a hint of warning. When did Janet get a lilting voice?
Philippe quickly intercepts the two women. “Hannah, stop it.” He puts his hand protectively on Janet’s arm.
Hannah stares at him. Why does Hannah have to stop anything? She hasn’t done anything wrong. She’s the one who has something to say, who is in the right here. She’s the jilted wife.
But as she looks at her husband and his lover in the back rooms of Symphony Center, Hannah feels her bravado slip away. She has every right to be there and yet it’s clear who doesn’t belong.
Hannah straightens up, praying that she won’t cry, at least until she’s out of the building. That she leaves with dignity. She doesn’t say anything when she hears Philippe calling to her, lamely saying that he’ll call her tomorrow. She says nothing at all, but holds her head high and walks out of the room.
“No, that is not a good idea.” Julia is adamant about this point. They’re back at the hotel, having raided the minibar. Jack Daniel’s for Julia, a wine cooler for Hannah. “You cannot poison your husband.” She’s pretty sure Hannah is just upset, but she also saw a flash of possibility, and it makes her nervous.
“Ex-husband,” Hannah corrects with a vehemence. She’s paging through Joy of Cooking in search of the perfect recipe. Julia wasn’t surprised to see it in Hannah’s bag, knowing that she carried the book with her everywhere so she could skim recipes while standing in line or waiting for the light to change. “Here, look! Philippe loves quail. Something about small defenseless game birds. I can do a Spicy Maple-Roasted Quail. He won’t know what hit him.” The look in Hannah’s eyes is wild but gleeful.
“Stop!” Julia covers the page with her hand, forcing Hannah to look at her. “You’re not thinking straight, Hannah.”
“Of course I’m not thinking straight! I just walked in on my husband kissing another woman. In public!” Hannah slams the book shut, her eyes brimming with angry tears. “All my life, I’ve been the good girl. I studied hard, I practiced all the time, I ate my vegetables. I got a good night’s sleep. I never snuck out, never partied, never disobeyed my parents.”
Julia looks at her friend. “There’s nothing wrong with doing the right thing, Hannah.”
“But what’s the point? I worked hard to become the best cellist I could be, and then I got hurt. I saved myself for marriage, and then my husband cheated on me. I tried to keep my body in good shape, and then Janet Vandesteeg goes out and buys new breasts!” Hannah takes a swig of her wine cooler then looks at the small bottle in disgust. “Look at me! I can’t even get properly drunk! What am I, in high school?” She throws it in the trash and marches over to the minibar. She rummages around until she holds up a bottle of Smirnoff vodka. She unscrews the top and takes a sniff, then makes a face, her resolve faltering. “Ugh. I can’t do it. This stuff is nasty.”
Julia stretches out on the bed, gazes up at the ceiling. What would she do if Mark cheated on her? The thought is ludicrous—Mark isn’t the kind of person who would do that sort of thing. At least, he used to not be. Julia isn’t sure anymore, tries to remember the last time they slept together. It was a long, long time ago. She had asked him about it once and he said he didn’t mind, that he understood, but did he really? Besides, she’s the one thinking about moving on, about putting the past behind them, including their marriage. So why does it matter if Mark has slept with someone? Julia winces, uneasy, because even as she contemplates a life without him, she feels hollow at the thought of him with someone else.
Hannah is rifling through the mini fridge, testing each bottle of alcohol with no luck. Despite her agitation Hannah still looks elegant and beautiful, and Julia feels a wave of tenderness for the young woman. “Hannah,” she says. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to find something that isn’t completely revolting so I can get myself into a drunken stupor.” She holds up a bottle of whiskey and gives it a taste. “Ew.”
“Who says you’re supposed to end up in a drunken stupor?” Julia asks.
Hannah screws the cap back on the whiskey, dejected. “It just seems appropriate under the circumstances.”
Julia rolls to her side. “Says who?” she wants to know. “Everyone’s different. That’s what they used to tell me in the beginning, that everyone grieves differently, but if you aren’t going through the steps in the right order, and in the right amount of time, people start to think something’s wrong with you. Everyone’s got their own definition of what they think is appropriate under the circumstances. Forget them. You just need to do what’s appropriate for you.”
“I’m not like you, Julia.” Hannah puts her hands over her face.
Julia stares at her. There it is again, another faint echo of Livvy. Livvy was always comparing them, because their parents were always comparing them. It used to irritate Julia to no end, because she didn’t understand why Livvy didn’t just ignore their parents and get over it. But now, to hear a woman as accomplished as Hannah compare herself to Julia—Julia who passed out in Madeline’s house, Julia who is a bundle of raw emotions and clearly not quite ready to be out in the real world—she’s beginning to wonder if she’s been too hard on Livvy growing up. Or even now.
Hannah is crying, distraught at her own apparent failures as a person. Julia wishes they could rewind to the beginning, to a time pre-Philippe, pre–musical prodigy even, and start over. Be yourself, she’d tell the young Hannah, just like she told the young Livvy. But maybe even then it wouldn’t make a difference. Even with our environment shaping us, we are born as we are. Julia sees this more and more with Gracie, who embodies her name. Grace. Julia never has to say, Be yourself, because Gracie always is.
“Hannah,” Julia says gently. “My sister Livvy spent a lot of her childhood trying to do what she thought other people wanted her to do.” Julia remembers Livvy polling her friends to see what kind of birthday party they thought she should have. “She tried very hard to be appropriate. It didn’t work out so well.”
“Why not?”
“Because Livvy is Livvy.” Julia pushes a wisp of hair away from Hannah’s damp face. “She came into her own her junior year when she made the varsity cheerleading team. Stopped apologizing for who she was, stopped asking permission. But she was still easily affected by what other people thought of her. Probably still is.”
“Livvy is lucky though.” Hannah looks up.
Julia smiles. “Really? How so?”
“Because she has you.”
Julia opens her mouth to respond but doesn’t know what to say.
“I’m not close to my brother, Albert. I never was—it’s very hard to talk to him. He’s a very angry person, especially toward my dad. The whole Chinese push-your-kids-to-excel thing didn’t really work on him.”
“Why? What happened?”
“Nothing happened. He did what my dad told him to do—got into Harvard undergrad, then Yale for medical school. He’s the head of pediatric surgery over at Johns Hopkins. He married Lynn, who’s an endocrinologist. They have two kids who are going through the exact same workup we did growing up. We see each other once a year but it’s always pretty painful.” Hannah makes a face. She sweeps the small alcohol bottles into t
he wastebasket, a look of satisfaction on her face when she hears them clink again each other.
Julia tosses her own bottle into the trash can, too. “Livvy and I don’t talk anymore. We haven’t in years.”
“Because of what happened to your son?”
Julia nods.
“But you were close! Albert and I never even had that.”
Julia picks at a loose thread on the bedcover. “It’s complicated, Hannah.”
Hannah doesn’t disagree. “I bet she misses you, though. I would.”
Julia drops her shoulders and gives a sigh. “Death is a big thing,” she says simply. “It changes a lot of things.”
Hannah nods, but she seems sad at the thought, and Julia doesn’t want her to feel bad about something that no one can really do anything about. “Hannah, it is what it is. It’s like you and Albert now, I guess.”
“Oh God, I hope for your sake it’s not. Bleah.” She makes a face so comical that both women break out in grins.
“Whatever the case, you need to step back into your own skin, Hannah. Remember who you are and just take it all one step at a time.”
“One step at a time?”
“It’s an annoying truth. Nobody knows that better than me.” Julia nods to the bottles in the trash can. “Anyway, you have too much class for that. You’re not really a minibar kind of gal, Hannah. You used to play for the New York Philharmonic, don’t forget that. Let those other gals drink themselves silly. You should be ordering room service instead.”
Hannah brightens, considering this. “Room service. I’m pretty sure they have caviar. I can definitely see myself drowning my sorrows in some beluga. I haven’t saved my money for nothing.”
“Exactly.” Julia grins.
Hannah walks over to the desk and looks through a large leather binder imprinted with the hotel’s logo. “Oh,” she exclaims. “They have a bath sommelier!”
Julia’s never heard of this. “What’s a bath sommelier?”
“Someone who actually prepares a bath for you in your room. Listen: Sink into your tub as aromatic fragrances surround you, tantalizing your senses, bringing you to a renewed state of relaxation …” She looks up at Julia. “I could use a renewed state of relaxation right about now.”
“Then I think you’ve found your vice. Let’s order room service and I’ll watch a movie while your bath sommelier gets you set up.”
“A movie?” Hannah asks, looking worried. “Are you sure? We could probably get you a massage or a pedicure …”
Julia shakes her head, her hand already on the remote. Julia wouldn’t mind a massage or pedicure, but she hasn’t seen a movie in years. Not in a movie theater, not on TV, not anywhere. It’s a secret, guilty pleasure; one she wouldn’t—couldn’t—let herself have back home. She’ll choose a comedy, something funny, because she’s still not ready for any serious drama—she’s had enough of that. And if she’s not tired after one movie, she’ll watch another one. “Honestly? I can’t think of anything more perfect.”
A. A. Gilliland, 58
Bike Me! Shop Owner
“Hey, Double A! Are you finally going to join us or what?” There are three guys on bikes waiting for him in the parking lot, revving their engines, chrome pipes crackling.
A.A. shakes his head like he does every Saturday when he closes shop. “Nah, you go on.” They heckle him a bit, poking fun until they get bored. Then they give him a farewell nod and roar out of the parking lot, earning a flood of disapproving stares from pedestrians walking around the tiny Avalon strip mall.
It’s true that the guys do look like thugs with bandannas wrapped around their heads, a couple of tats, and the requisite black leather outlaw gear, but A.A. knows better. One guy, Bill, is an accountant. Another owns a pool-cleaning business. Another is a trust fund baby who got turned on to bikes by his ex-wife, a former exotic dancer. These guys can’t tell a camshaft from a brake pad, but who is A.A. to judge? There aren’t a lot of die-hard bikers in Avalon, so A.A.’s grateful for the guys going through a midlife crisis—it keeps his business afloat. More power to ’em.
A.A.’s best friend is Isaac, who goes by the nickname Iz. Iz built his own custom chopper with a shovelhead engine, and it’s a work of art. Iz is one of those genius types, a mathematician and overall cool guy, the only fly in the ointment being that Iz still lives with his eighty-eight-year-old mother. Iz is a purist and can’t stand the guys that ride the imported sports bikes.
“They do those damn stunts on the interstate,” Iz complains. “They actually pop wheelies! And then they wave and expect me to wave back. It’s embarrassing.”
A.A. is more sympathetic. “Aw, come on. A lot of us started out riding metrics. Not everyone can afford a Harley.”
“It’s not just that. It’s the kids on these bikes these days. They think they know everything. But they don’t respect the road, and they don’t respect the bike.” Iz shakes his head in disgust, clearly put out. A.A. realizes with a chuckle that they’re right up there with the old guys in the Caddys and the ladies in the boat-size Buicks, complaining about all the young whippersnappers and their bad manners.
At fifty-eight, A.A.’s straw-colored hair has turned an early gray. He keeps it tied back in a ponytail, which keeps it out of his face and basically makes his life a heck of a lot easier. He’s been letting his mustache and beard grow out and doesn’t mind that he looks bushy and a bit unkempt. He likes his “uniform”: T-shirts and his black leather jacket studded with all his Harley badges and pins. He’s a big guy, almost 6′2″, broad-shouldered, a Scot on steroids. He’s not on steroids, of course, he just has good genes, but he hears the guys whispering. He couldn’t care less. He was raised by his grandmother from the age of five; she taught A.A. a thing or two, sometimes the hard way.
“Aye, you can’t worry about what other people think,” she’d declare, smacking her wooden spoon on the counter of the small house they shared. “They’re all idiots, and if you spend your life trying to get into somebody else’s head then you’re an idiot, too.” Then she’d tug on his ear until he’d yell, just to make sure he got the point.
So even though he looks like a walking cliché, A.A. is a man comfortable in his own skin. Let people say what they will.
It’s six o’clock, and A.A. is ready to go home. He’s not much for drinking or staying up late in bars, and he’s lived on his own long enough to have developed some rituals he doesn’t like interrupted. For example, on Sunday nights he does the books for the shop, which gives him a clear picture of what he needs to make in the upcoming week.
On Monday nights he does his laundry. He irons his pants and boxer shorts. Don’t ask him why, but there’s something about neatly pressed pants that he loves.
On Tuesdays he does his grocery shopping for the week.
Wednesday nights he does takeout and watches documentaries on PBS. He loves biographies and anything that has to do with war veterans. Once a month he’ll rent a movie and watch that instead.
Thursday evenings are reserved for any repairs on his house or the two rental properties he owns on Madison and LeBell.
On Fridays he’ll hang out with Iz, have dinner and maybe shoot some pool. He’ll head home and get himself a good night’s sleep because the next morning, rain or shine, he likes to ride.
There’s one more thing A.A. does without exception. He does it every Saturday evening, starting at 7:00 P.M., and he loves it almost as much as he loves his bikes.
He bakes.
He knows the recipe for Granny’s shortbread by heart (the key being real butter and brown—not white—sugar), and can turn out Eccles cakes, empire biscuits, scones, and Struan Bread without a thought. He’s not intimidated by complicated recipes and doesn’t mind investing the time to learn new techniques.
But today A.A. is experimenting, in the mood for something different. He got a bag of Amish Friendship Bread starter from his dentist and has already modified the recipe to include a symphony of dried fruit and
nuts. Lately he’s been trying to come up with heart-healthy recipes, so he’s reduced the amount of oil and is using applesauce instead. He’s going to use egg substitute in lieu of whole eggs and will skip the pudding mix altogether, trying a bit of ricotta and yogurt cheese instead.
He divvies up the starter per the instructions, figuring he’ll give a bag to Iz, Bill, and the pool-cleaning guy. The divorced guy still can’t cook for himself and A.A. doesn’t want him tossing this in the trash.
He dusts two loaf pans with cinnamon, a touch of vanilla sugar, a pinch of nutmeg. He turns on the radio and whistles to “Smoke on the Water” by Deep Purple. If he had time for another hobby, he would learn the guitar. Maybe next year.
A.A. pours the batter into the pans, careful to scrape out every last bit with a rubber spatula. If it turns out okay, he’ll take a loaf to the senior recreation center tomorrow during his lunch break. He goes there every week and they’ve come to expect a visit from him and some home-baked goods, as well. He’ll have a cup of coffee and ask people about their week, help with any heavy lifting or whatever else might need to be done. If he has time he’ll jump in for a quick game of cards or backgammon, maybe hold the yarn for Mrs. Pickering’s knitting. And of course he can’t leave without seeing the latest round of grandchildren pictures tucked in wallets and hanging from key chains.
He does the dishes while the bread bakes, his small kitchen quickly filling with the sweet smell of dried apricots and toasted pecans. The bread still has another thirty minutes to go before it’s ready, so A.A. cranks up the music then settles into Granny’s old wooden rocking chair with the latest issue of Biker magazine.
