Comfort Me with Apples

by Ruth Reichl

  “Are you telling me this for a reason?” I wondered.

  He smiled and said, “I think you better go now.”

  I was convinced I would never see him again. I felt the drama of unhappiness, as if I was watching this all happen to someone else. I touched his face but he didn’t touch me back. “Go,” he said. “Please go.”

  * * *

  Doug was back but I couldn’t stop thinking about Michael. I found myself wanting to talk to him, ask his opinions about books, about music, about things in the news. I felt that I could spend the rest of my life talking to him and never run out of things to say.

  “You seem very far away,” Doug said one afternoon when we were walking to the post office to buy stamps. “Is everything all right?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. It was an honest answer. The deep sexual connection I had felt with Michael both thrilled and frightened me. It occurred to me that the kind of calm, loving friendship Doug and I had might make great sex impossible. There had never been any tension between us, and there had never been any heat. Maybe, probably, he had discovered that he too could have great sex with someone who was not me. But I did not know how to talk about this with him; we had never discussed sex, never admitted to our lack of sexual interest in each other. And so, I merely said, “I don’t get the sense that we’re together anymore. We’re not even sure we want the same things.”

  Doug didn’t say anything, and I wondered if he was also struggling with the need to be honest about our relationship. But instead of pressing him I simply asked, “Is everything all right with you?”

  “I think so,” he replied. Which was, I realized later, not an answer at all.

  I thought about that the next day when I walked into his studio and he slammed down the phone. Too quickly. “Who were you talking to?” I asked.

  “That woman in Seattle,” he said.

  “You mean the one you stayed with?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Her. She has another project she wants to discuss with me. I may have to fly back up there.”

  “Again?” I asked.

  “She’s interested in my career,” he said.

  “So you are going for sure?”

  “I guess so,” he said. “But I’ll only be gone a week.”

  * * *

  “Doug’s in Seattle again?” my mother asked. “Doesn’t this worry you?”

  “Should it?” I asked.

  “If my husband kept disappearing,” she said crisply, “I’d worry about it.”

  “Oh, Mom,” I said, “he’s just pursuing his career.”

  “Take it from me,” she insisted, “life without a man is lonely. If I were you, I’d be pursuing him. Try to save your marriage before it’s too late.”

  “I’m not the one in Seattle,” I replied.

  “Maybe you should be,” she said. “Have you thought about that?”

  I had. But what would I say when I got there? “Remember me? I’m your wife”? Meanwhile I tried to think up an excuse to call Michael. It arrived in the form of a postcard from M. F. K. Fisher. “It would be so nice to see you again,” she had written in her fine, thin hand. “Come to lunch. Bring a friend, if you like.”

  * * *

  Michael agreed to come, but I could tell that he was uncomfortable about succumbing to the lure of lunch with a famous writer. He sat in hostile silence as we drove. I chattered on, too much, trying to fill the air between us. “Just shut up,” I kept telling myself.

  Then I began to worry about having a panic attack on the bridge. By the time I was pulling onto the Golden Gate Bridge my palms were wet and I could barely breathe. I can’t do this, I thought. But then I saw that they had closed the lane closest to the rail for painting, and I realized that if things got bad I could pull over. It was like an escape clause, and it was all I needed.

  It was beautiful on the Marin side, the hills like soft, dark humps above the Bay, and it got even lovelier as we drove north. By the time we turned off the highway, heading toward the delta, the air was smooth and we rolled down our windows. When I glanced over at Michael, the harsh lines in his face had gone away and he looked young, even vulnerable. “How did you get to know her?” he asked.

  “I wished,” I said, “wished so hard I actually made it happen. I’ve been reading M. F. K. Fisher since I was a little girl. For years, when nobody else had any intelligent interest in food, she was always there. It made me feel okay about myself, you know?”

  He nodded, but said nothing.

  “She can make you taste things just by writing about them, but that’s not the point. She actually makes you pay attention to your next meal, feel more alive because you’re doing that. When you read her you understand that you need to respect yourself enough to focus on the little things of life. She celebrates the everyday by making it seem momentous.”

  I realized that I was doing my best to make my subject seem worthy to this radical who had given up so much for his principles. But all he said was “You’re very beautiful when you’re animated like this.”

  “I knew that she lived in Sonoma, but I never would have just called and asked to meet her. I mean, it seems like such an intrusion. But I was wondering how I could manage it when Ms. magazine asked if I would write a profile.”

  “Ms.,” he said, sounding impressed. I felt a surge of pride. “How did it go with them?”

  I hesitated. Should I tell the truth? And then I recklessly plunged forward. “Not as smoothly as it might have. When I first went to see Mary Frances she said I could interview her on the condition that I let her read the piece before I turned it in.”

  “You agreed?” he said, sounding appalled. “You let her read it before publication?”

  I was sheepish. “I didn’t know you weren’t supposed to do that. My editor was horrified. But I’d given my word.”

  “What happened?” he asked, very cool again. He had backed away, and I was sorry I’d said anything.

  “She was very nice. She said the piece was fine. She didn’t ask for a single change. And later, after the piece appeared and she saw the changes the magazine had made, she wrote to say that she liked my original better than the one they’d printed. I did too.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they made me put in all this feminist crap.”

  He looked amused. “You’re not a feminist?”

  “It seemed so silly to get her to talk about all this stuff that doesn’t interest her. She’s a woman who really likes men. And likes being a woman. In ways that people of our generation don’t. If I was going to talk about her politics, I’d rather have talked about her year in Mississippi.”

  “Her year in Mississippi?” he said, genuinely interested now. “What year was that?”

  “Nineteen sixty-four.”

  “Sixty-four?” He swiveled around so that he was facing me fully. “Are you sure? Sixty-four was the year Schwerner, Chaney, and Goodman were killed. That’s really interesting. Why’d she go?”

  “She told me that she worked at the Piney Woods School that year. Have you heard of it?”

  “Of course I have,” he said, as if he was insulted by the question, “it’s a famous institution.” I did not tell him that I had never heard of the place before Mary Frances mentioned it, that I had been forced to look it up. Started in 1909, it was dedicated to giving black children a serious education.

  “I tried to get her to talk about it,” I told him, “but every time I brought up Piney Woods she changed the subject.”

  “I’m going to try,” he said. “I really want to hear about that.”

  Mary Frances was different with Michael there, softer somehow. We sat on her sofa, eating what she called “benne biscuits” and drinking small, icy glasses of wine. She had looked him up and down, openly, when I’d introduced them, and from that moment she addressed all her remarks to him. She really was a woman who liked men.

  And Michael was a man who could draw people out. When he asked about Mississippi
she did not say, as she had to me, “Maybe after I die some of what I’ve written about that difficult year will be published.” She reached down and picked up Charlie the cat, stroked him softly, settled back into her chair, and said, “The kids were all gone, and my father was dead. So I went down there to teach.” The tone of her voice was flat, as if a plus b equaled c, as if it were a trip to the grocery store, something that everyone did.

  “How did you even know about it?” he asked. His voice caressed the words, as if just knowing about it were something to be proud of. She walked right into the trap.

  “I’d known about it all my life! In the twenties a group came to La Jolla and gave a gospel concert to raise funds; after that I started sending them books and clothing. I did it for years. When the civil rights movement happened, I thought I’d find out if the South was as bad as everyone up here thought it was.”

  Michael looked at her admiringly. “And was it?”

  “It was worse.” She disappeared into herself for a moment, walking the streets of Mississippi, then said, as if from a distance, “I didn’t go to town at all while I was there.”

  “So you fought your battles at the school?” he asked.

  She gave him a long, cool look and said, “God no. I didn’t go there to fight anything. I just went.”

  “But the murders happened in 1964!” he said, as if it was impossible for him to believe that while freedom riders were pouring into Mississippi she had gone merely to teach. “Yes,” she said mildly. “Actually, I got to Piney Woods on June nineteenth. Later we found out that it was the same day the murders took place.”

  “Was the school in an uproar about the murders?”

  “Oh no,” she replied. “We lived a very isolated life. We had TV and radio, but we all worked so hard that there was no time for anything else. I remember writing to a friend that it was like being pregnant with a tornado outside the delivery room. You know it’s there, but you can’t stop for it.” She paused for a moment, looking backward, and her face changed. “God, I hated that place,” she said vehemently.

  “Why?” said Michael, so softly that I could hardly hear him. It was as if he wanted her to think she was asking the question of herself. And she answered that way, as if she were very far away.

  “There were signs everywhere saying things like ‘Work is the mother of contentment.’ The kudzu grew so fast you could watch it move up to destroy everything. I got up at five, finished my last class at nine-thirty at night, and I was exhausted all the time.” She shook herself a little, coming out of it. And her face grew warmer. “But the students were wonderful. It took six months before they would eyeball me. But after that I was without color, and so were they.”

  “Did you ever figure out why you really went there?”

  “No,” she said. “All I know is that I was not invited back. Because I was a troublemaker.” Then she stopped talking. The subject was closed.

  Afterward she gave us lunch, and we sat, languidly discussing her Hollywood years. She was charming, but after an hour she rose and took a small basket from the refrigerator. She handed it to Michael and said, “Now I’m going to send you on a walk.”

  She took us to the door and pointed up a path winding away from the house. “Just follow it until you get to a special place. You’ll know it when you get there. Save the contents of the basket until then. I won’t expect you back for a few hours.” Gently pushing, she set our feet on the path and went inside. We turned to see if she was waving us on, but of course she wasn’t. That would not be her way.

  “What a wonderful woman!” Michael said, taking my hand as we walked up the country lane. Birds were singing and we could smell the honeyed hay scent that you get in country that is more gold than green. “The first time I came to see her, Mary Frances gazed out the window and suddenly said, ‘I love my tawny hills,’ ” I told him. He turned and looked back. “Yeah,” he said, “like great lions lazing in the sun.”

  I was happy walking up the path, and I was aware that I was happy. I had seen what it would be like to be with someone whose interests were the same as mine, with someone who cared more for books than for art. I saw the possibility of a future that was one long conversation. But for this moment we did not talk much. Just held hands, walking and wondering what the place she had sent us to would be like.

  “Do you think we’ll really know when we get there?” I asked. “How far do you think it is? What do you think it will be?”

  Michael laughed, a great low, lazy laugh, and I loved him just for the sound of it. “Yes,” he said. “And I don’t know. And I don’t know.” Then he began singing, his voice deep and beautiful. He put his arm around me, and I could feel the start of each song, a low thrum in his chest.

  The path turned away from the golden hills and into woods, and suddenly it was almost dark and very cool. The trees above us grew close together, forming a leafy tunnel, and the scent changed to a darker one, of earth, leaves, and mushrooms. Twigs crackled beneath our feet. Bits of sunlight filtered through the leaves, making the path sparkle.

  “It’s like being in a cathedral,” Michael said, his voice improbably reverent. “Like walking beneath stained glass.” He was almost whispering as he went on: “I love churches. Sometimes when I’m really sad I go in and light candles. I love the dark, and the waxy smell, and the feeling of hope in the air. If God were anywhere, he’d be in a place like this, don’t you think?”

  But all I said was, “Look!” Because we’d found the place. The trees ended just ahead, and we started running, laughing, delighted. It was a deep pool at the end of the forest and straight ahead was a waterfall. Just as we arrived a bird started to sing, loudly, on a branch above our heads.

  And finally I replied, “Yes, if God were anywhere, he’d be here.”

  * * *

  There was a bottle of wine in the basket, a long green one, and we stuck it in the pool to chill before pulling off our clothes and jumping in ourselves. The water was soft, in the way that only spring-fed ponds can be, like a caress against the skin, and we swam in circles, talking. When we reached the waterfall we found there was a hidden ledge behind it, a shelf of smooth rock we could lie on, hidden from even the squirrels and birds that were our only neighbors. We snuggled together there, then emerged into the sunlight to drink the wine and eat the cool cucumber sandwiches Mary Frances had packed in linen napkins. And as we lay in the sunshine, a line of Mary Frances’s went shooting through my head.

  “Chexbres was there of course. And we celebrated with the first of ten thousand completely enjoyable drinks. . . . Everything was all right after that.”

  * * *

  It was dark when we got back to Mary Frances’s house, and she looked at us and smiled. “It’s magic, isn’t it?” she said.

  We did not go home that night. Or the next.

  CHANNING WAY SHRIMP CURRY

  Afterward I knew I should move out of Channing Way and spend time by myself. I felt as if I was in love with both Doug and Michael, and I didn’t think that was possible. I didn’t even know if either of them wanted me.

  It was time that Doug and I told each other the truth, no matter how hard that might be. But Doug was always away, and it was easier to keep quiet; once everything was said there would be no turning back. In the meantime, I clung to the comfort of my commune. I felt safe on Channing Way, and I cooked a lot of shrimp curry. It was my way of saying thank you.

  This is a classic American curry, and very much a product of its time. It is also perfect commune food: It’s delicious, good for a crowd, and doubles or triples easily.

  1 onion, chopped

  2 garlic cloves, smashed

  1/2 stick (1/4 cup) unsalted butter

  4 tablespoons curry powder

  1/2 teaspoon ground ginger

  1/2 teaspoon ground cardamom

  1/4 teaspoon cinnamon

  1/4 teaspoon turmeric

  1/2 teaspoon pure red chili powder, or to taste

  1 t
ablespoon all-purpose flour

  1/2 cup heavy cream

  1 cup well-stirred canned coconut milk

  2 cups chicken broth

  2 teaspoons freshly grated lime zest

  2 pounds large shrimp, peeled and deveined

  2 tablespoons fresh lime juice, or to taste

  salt and pepper

  Accompaniment: and mango chutney

  Garnish: raisins, salted roasted peanuts, chopped candied ginger

  Cook the onion and garlic in the butter in a heavy 5-quart pot over moderate heat, stirring, until the onion is softened, about 4 minutes. Add the spices and flour and cook, stirring constantly, for 1 minute. Whisk in the cream, coconut milk, broth, and lime zest and bring just to a boil. Simmer the mixture, stirring constantly, until it begins to thicken, about 2 minutes. Add the shrimp and simmer, stirring, until the shrimp turns pink and is cooked through, about 4 minutes. Stir in the lime juice, and add salt and pepper to taste.

  Ladle the curried shrimp over rice and top with garnishes. Serve the mango chutney on the side.

  Serves 6.

  8

  FIVE RECIPES

  Winter: Sweet Potato Pie

  And then, as if things weren’t confusing enough, I got mugged. Afterward I started baking sweet potato pies, standing in the kitchen at Channing Way for hours, cutting flour into butter, watching the fat disappear into the soft white powder. I found solace in the precision of the gestures: filling a glass with ice cubes until the water was so cold it made my fingers ache, dribbling the icy liquid into the flour until it came together in loopy clusters. I liked the softness when I gathered them up, liked pressing them into the suggestion of a ball.

  Sweet potatoes would not have been my filling of choice, but it was winter and they were cheap.

  Rolling out the dough I replayed the mugging, over and over. I was going to dinner with a colleague, a wine writer. We had gone into his garage and climbed into his car. I heard a voice say, “Stop.” And then I saw the black gloves come up against the car window, and the tall body doubled over to peer into the Porsche. I saw the gun, with its long barrel, and its sight on the end like an ugly snout. I did not see a face, ever.