The Oakdale Dinner Club

by Kim Moritsugu

  Sam said, “Drew — do you know Alice? She and Mary Ann have been friends since high school.”

  Drew nodded at Alice. Furtively. “We met last time. When I met Hallie.”

  Drew’s moodiness aside, Alice realized she was standing with two of Mary Ann’s prospective guys, and here was her opportunity to further the cause. “So, tell us, Drew,” she said, “what’s it like to work with Mary Ann? Sam and I don’t see her work side. I bet she’s very competent and organized. Is she?” Help. She was making Mary Ann sound like a drone. “In an attractive way, I mean.”

  “Mary Ann at work? Yeah, she’s good. Excuse me, guys. I need to get another beer.”

  He walked away, and Sam said, “It’s true what you say about Mary Ann. She does seem competent, and together.”

  “And attractive.”

  “Yes, that too. So how far into India proper do you think Alexander the Great went?”

  Kate joined the buffet line behind Sarah, who was taking very small amounts of food: the thinnest sliver of Tom’s torta rustica, a tablespoonful of rice. Kate was following suit when Sarah stopped and said to Mary Ann, across the table, “Sorry, dear, what did you bring again? I’ve forgotten.”

  “I brought a dessert called Chocolate Orgasm.”

  There were a few titters at this announcement, and a woman whose name was Amy or Lisa, Kate couldn’t remember which, asked Mary Ann how a Chocolate Orgasm differed from the usual kind of orgasm. Was it easier to achieve? Kate did not find that comment or question humorous, and neither did Sarah, from the weary look on her face. Everyone else laughed, though, and listened to Mary Ann explain that she’d found the recipe in a new cookbook she’d bought called Cooking for Lovers.

  “So if you’re in the mood for excitement,” Mary Ann said, “do try a Chocolate Orgasm.”

  Later, Kate would ask herself why she’d felt compelled to speak up, where her words came from, and why couldn’t she have just risen above, but she said, “You’d better save some for Tom and me. After twenty-five years of marriage, we could use a kick-start.” And turned away to avoid being on the receiving end of a what-the-fuck look from anyone.

  “What did you think?” Tom said to Kate, in the car on the way home. “Did the evening meet expectations?”

  “Yes and no. For one thing, I failed to see the appeal of Mary Ann.”

  “I must say — her cake did not strike me as very orgasmic.”

  “Me either. I thought it was more like its maker — pleasant but a little dull.”

  “What about Sam? For a cuckold, he seemed in good spirits.”

  “That’s because he’s oblivious to Hallie’s misdeeds. Though Drew isn’t. The only time his gloom lifted was when I told him I’d known Hallie in college.”

  “It’s not our place to intervene in their lives, Kate.”

  “I won’t intervene. But I wonder if there’s some strange behaviour-altering contaminant in the air or the water out there that’s made Hallie do what she did. Or maybe in the food.”

  Mary Ann and Alice did the dinner club post-mortem by phone the next day.

  “How’d it go with making your move on Drew?” Alice said. “He seemed a little out of sorts.”

  “Forget about him. I got him alone in the garden before dinner and tried every trick in the book, even resorted to a repeat performance of throat baring, and it was like trying to seduce a chair. What’s the point of suggestive talk if he’s not listening?” Mary Ann sighed. “Tell me the truth, Alice, am I ugly?”

  “Of course not. You’re very attractive. Repeat after me: I’m very attractive.”

  “Phoebe thinks he’s involved with a married woman.”

  “He is?”

  “I don’t know. Or care. I’ve crossed him off the list.”

  “And Tom?”

  “Also eliminated. You were right — the wife does seem smart and with it. And he can be a bore — that way he talks. And I didn’t think much of the pie he brought.”

  “No? I liked it.”

  “But I loved those dumplings Sam made. Very toothsome. Like him.”

  “You’re back to him now?”

  “He’s my last chance.”

  “Can I suggest you forego the throat-baring move this time?”

  “I have a better idea. I’ve decided to get a dog.”

  15

  October 2010

  For Benny’s family party, Danielle had her farm workers clean up the kitchen garden and set up the outdoor furniture on the lawn, and enlisted one of them to help peel tomatoes, beard mussels, and chop onions. But it still took her two solid days of work time to get ready for the damn celebration, two days when she could have put together her new seed order, helped Ethan with his homework, or laboured on a project of her own choosing.

  On the first full day of party prep, she was shelling fava beans in her kitchen when an unexpected Mary Ann tapped on her screen door. Benny stood behind her. “And the last stop on our tour,” he said, “is the kitchen: Danielle’s sanctuary.”

  Sanctuary? Try prison. “Mary Ann!” Danielle said. “What brings you out here? If I’d known you were coming —”

  “You’d have baked a cake?”

  “No, but I might have tidied up a little. Come on in, and don’t mind the mess.” Danielle smiled a welcome, and silently cursed the house, her hair, and her apron for being in disarray. Bad enough she lived out on the country road, did she have to look so much the part? “Would you like a coffee?”

  “No, thanks. And don’t stop what you’re doing. I just wanted to say hello. I came out to see the puppies.” Mary Ann pointed to the mound of beans sitting on the counter. “Having company?”

  Benny said, “We’re hosting a big family party on Saturday. Twenty people for lunch. Danielle’s going all out for it.”

  A bean slipped out of Danielle’s fingers and across the floor. She picked up another. “I’m not going all out.”

  “Sure you are,” Benny said. “You should hear the menu, Mary Ann. It’s good enough to be written up in the Times by Danielle’s mother, Adele Beaumont.”

  “Adele Beaumont is your mother, Danielle? No wonder you’re such a talented cook. But I thought she was from France. Are you French?”

  “No, and neither is she. She pretends to be, though. She likes to pepper her conversation with French words. It drives me crazy.”

  Benny said, “Adele will be so impressed by the lunch you’re making, she’ll declare it magnifique.”

  Danielle stopped shelling. “What do you mean, she will be impressed? Don’t you mean that she would be impressed, if she were here, which she won’t be?”

  Benny wouldn’t meet her glare. He picked up a pile of bean casings and dropped them into the compost bin. “I forgot to tell you. She called this morning when you were in the shower, and I invited her to come out Saturday for lunch. She hasn’t seen my family in years, since our wedding.”

  “You invited her out here to eat a meal I’m going to cook? When I’ve never ever cooked a meal for her?”

  Mary Ann said, “I should be going. I’ll let you know about the puppy, Benny.”

  Benny held the door for her. “I’ll walk you to your car. And feel free to bring your husband out to take a look before you decide.”

  “Not my husband, but thanks, I may bring the kids. Bye, Danielle. Good luck with your party.”

  The screen door closed behind them, and instead of throwing a cleaver at the wall Danielle ran her bean-scented hands up and down her face.

  Sam still wanted to quiz Mary Ann about her computer background for the Celeste character in Samosa Special (a more distinctive title than Murder in the Kitchen, he’d decided), but it was hard to know how she’d take a request to meet him for coffee to talk it over. He’d gone to her dinner club feeling like he was her special guest after she’d made a suggestive comment about wanting to eat him with her eyes. Had he misunderstood? Maybe. At the party she’d seemed quite chummy not only with Tom, but with Drew. On separat
e occasions, Mary Ann had been tucked away with each of them, heads bent together, close.

  His uncertainty about her motives was part of the reason why, though he’d seen her at school several times since, he hadn’t raised the subject of his research. Also because there was always someone else around, or one of the kids needed attention, or Chutney had to be controlled. How convenient instead that she called him on a cold Friday morning, when he was at home working on his outline, and thinking about making aloo gobi for his lunch, which meant he would have to go buy potatoes and cauliflower, and chop them, and toss them with spices and oil, and roast them, and there would be the morning gone.

  “I’d like to get some advice from you,” she said.

  “I want to ask you something too, but you go first.”

  “No, you start. What is it?”

  “I need some research information about working with computers for my novel. Nothing too complicated, just background. I thought I might buy you a coffee sometime, ask you some questions about the field.”

  Her voice was cheery, enthusiastic. “Sure. I’d be happy to tell you anything I know, which isn’t much. And I want to talk to you about dogs. Kayla’s been bugging me to buy one for months and has sworn she’ll walk it, so I went out to the Pringles’ farm to see their puppies. But before I make the purchase, I thought I’d see if someone sane who had a dog could talk me out of it.”

  “In that case, how about we have that coffee, and talk about both topics?”

  “What do you say to lunch instead? Today. The kids are having pizza lunch at school, so you’re free, right? Or is that too short notice? I’m thinking we could try the new Italian sandwich place that’s opened up in Pembroke.”

  Sam’s heart was beating fast, he had no idea why. “Uh, sure,” he said. “Lunch today would be great. Should we take one car or two?”

  Sam’s shirt and jeans were clean and pressed, which Mary Ann regarded as a good sign: he’d wanted to look nice for her. Except that he chose a table by the window, in full view of passersby, which indicated that he didn’t consider their meeting to be in any way clandestine: a bad sign. Unless what he was really saying was that he was unsure of Mary Ann’s intentions. Time to clarify them.

  When they were seated with their sandwiches, Mary Ann said, “How’s the writing going? Are you churning out pages daily?”

  “Not exactly, no.”

  “Why not?”

  “I get distracted a lot. By the arrival of the morning mail, by cooking shows on TV, by sudden overwhelming urges to nap.” He opened his notebook. “But talking to you is a step forward — I need to gather some substantive details that I can work into the story.”

  Mary Ann imagined Alice making a joke about some substantive details that Mary Ann could work into her story and hid a smile. “Okay,” she said. “Ask me questions, and I’ll try to answer them.” She bit into her sandwich.

  “Let’s start with training. Where would an IT person of today have been educated, what would she have studied?”

  Twenty minutes later, sandwiches and computer questions finished, Sam said, “It’s your turn to ask me about dogs. What do you need to know?”

  “My family had one when I was a kid, and I remember it being such a pain to walk him that I wonder if getting a dog now would be a mistake. Do you regret yours?”

  “I have mixed feelings. Chutney can be a nuisance, but he’s very good at unconditional love and acceptance. No matter what I do or don’t do all day, he loves me just the same.”

  Now there was an interesting response, heavy with subtext. But how to pick up on it? Mary Ann said, “I suppose we can all use more affection.”

  “What kind of dogs do the Pringles breed?”

  “Golden retrievers.”

  “I think they need a fair bit of exercise.”

  “Who walks the dog in your house?”

  “Me. The only person with idle time in his schedule. I walk him three times a day. Three times a day I go outside, clear my head, and think about whether this novel is a lost cause.”

  “If writing is what you want to do, what you believe in —”

  “Yeah, but is it? That’s the question.” He balled up his napkin. “I keep doubting myself, and wondering if my story and character hang together. Take my female character Celeste, for instance. I’ve been wrestling with her motivation, trying to figure out what would make her go for the hero, Simon. He’s no handsome devil, he doesn’t talk much, he has a shady background. He’s a cook in a diner, for god’s sake. And she’s supposed to be outgoing, pretty, and smart. Why would she like him?”

  Here was Mary Ann’s in. “Maybe,” she said, “she could fall in love with the food he cooks for her. Or with the line where his jaw meets his neck, right there.” Mary Ann pointed at Sam’s chin. “Maybe she doesn’t get enough affection in her life either, and longs to be held in his arms.”

  Sam leaned back in the spindly chair, almost tipped it over. “You make my story sound like a romance.”

  “Isn’t it a romantic mystery?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  Mary Ann called Alice late that evening. “So Sam and I went for lunch today, and I think we’re talking genuine affair potential.”

  “Why are you whispering?”

  “Josh is still up, and I don’t want him to hear.”

  “Where’s Bob?”

  “I don’t believe anyone by that name lives here.”

  “He’s moved out, and you forgot to tell me?”

  “He’s in Australia. Or Hong Kong.”

  “Don’t give me that. You know what country he’s in.”

  “He’s away for three weeks. You want me to check his itinerary, tell you exactly which city he’s in today?”

  “Sorry. It’s none of my business.”

  “Wrong. Our love lives are each other’s business. And now that mine has passed the all-important lunch stage, soon to be followed by the meeting to go buy a puppy stage, what’s happening with yours?”

  “Mine?”

  “Have you had lunch with your guy yet?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “I should probably make the next move.”

  “You have to. You must. The timing is right. I can feel it. The planets are moving into a favourable alignment.”

  “Favourable for what?”

  “Good sex. Which I think I can expedite for at least one of us if we convene another meeting of the dinner club, at your house.”

  The morning of the family party day, Danielle had a long list of last-minute things to do, and had expected Benny to entertain Ethan and Alex while she did them, had thought he would keep them out for a few hours and give her some quiet time. Not just drive them to their soccer games, pick up the cakes from Sarah, and bring the kids home right after, to get underfoot.

  Alex walked in the house in his muddy soccer cleats. “I’m hungry. Can I have a snack?”

  Danielle put down the lettuce she was washing and dried her hands. “Take off your cleats and tell me what you’d like. A rice cake with cream cheese? An apple?”

  “Crackers and cheese, please. With orange cheese.”

  Ethan came in, sat down next to Alex at the counter. “Me, too. I want a snack, too.”

  It was just past eleven. The guests would arrive in an hour. If Danielle could feed the boys a snack and sit them down in front of the television, she should still be able to get everything done in time. She pulled out Alex’s rice crackers from the cupboard, Ethan’s wheat crackers, laid out six crackers on separate plates for each child. She found a clean cutting board and a knife, pulled a hunk of cheddar out of the fridge, started cutting thin slices off it.

  Alex said, “Kayla Gray said at soccer she’s going to buy a puppy from us. But she can’t take Hero, right?”

  The knife slipped, cut Danielle’s finger, left a half-inch-long gash. “Shit!” she said, and dropped the knife, sucked at the wound, tasted blood.

  Ethan sang, “You
said shi-it, you said shi-it.”

  “Shut up, dickhead,” Alex said.

  Danielle took her finger out of her mouth, watched the blood ooze up. “Stop it, both of you.” She turned on the cold tap, let the water wash over the cut. “Stop it right now. And don’t swear like that in front of the family today, please.” Her finger throbbed. She held it aloft, bent down, and reached with her free hand under the sink for the box of Band-Aids she kept there.

  “But Ethan is a dickhead!” Alex said.

  “Mommy said shi-it, Mommy said shi-it.”

  Danielle screamed, at top volume, “SHUT UP!”

  Both boys were stunned into silence.

  “I can’t take this crap right now,” Danielle said. “Any of it. Where’s Daddy?”

  Alex said, “He’s out with the dogs. And Kayla can’t have Hero.”

  Danielle pulled the Band-Aid tight around her finger, slid the snack plates toward them, took milk out of the fridge, schooled her voice, made it calm. “Daddy and I haven’t said for sure that you can keep Hero.”

  “Ow!” A cry from Alex. “Mommy, Ethan kicked me!”

  Danielle banged the jug of milk on the counter, and a big plop of milk spilled out. “That’s it. I’m going upstairs to lie down. Do what you want. Kick each other, eat your snack, swear your heads off. Just don’t bug me.”

  The bed was soft. A cool breeze blew in through the open window. Danielle lay down — just for a minute — and closed her eyes. She was so tired. She’d been up late the night before, corralling plates and cutlery and glasses and vases.

  She still had to preheat the spaghetti cooking water, finish washing the lettuce, find some more serving dishes. There was no time to rest, but her body sank into the bed and dreams began to seep into her mind. She unwrapped her Band-Aid — she’d put it on too tight, her finger was pulsing painfully. Blood still oozed from the cut. She floated downstairs, held her finger above the simmering pot of pasta sauce, watched blood drip into the pot, stirred it in with a long wooden spoon.