Quick Study

by Maggie Barbieri

  I ignored that. “I’m having dinner at Jane Farnsworth’s.”

  “No idea who that is.”

  “Accordion Boy and Bagpipe Kid’s mother.”

  “Oh.”

  “Anyway, she invited me over and said I could invite a friend. She’s divorced and she’s a doll, just adorable, really. So, I thought that I would invite Jack because he’s single, too, and then it won’t be uncomfortable when we’re together . . .” I babbled, hoping to persuade him of my good intentions.

  He started laughing. “You’re going to fix up Jack McManus with a woman you’ve had two conversations with.”

  Well, when he said it like that, it didn’t sound like a great idea. “I know it’s not a perfect plan.”

  “Not a perfect plan?” he asked. “It’s about as imperfect a plan as I could think of.”

  “Well, I already invited him so it’s too late.”

  “I’ve got to see this. What time is it happening?”

  “You can’t come. You’re not invited.” Smooth, Alison.

  “Oh,” he said. He hadn’t considered that. “You know what? I’ve got to run. I’ll talk to you later.” He hung up.

  I wasn’t exactly sure what his mood had been at the end of the conversation, but I was left with that sick feeling I get when I’ve really screwed things up. I was going to have to have the push-up bra surgically applied to my torso so that I was ready for the make-up sex that was hopefully going to take place once I pulled off this setup.

  I swiveled back in my chair and faced my desk, my head in my hands. I heard movement outside my door and realized it was time to teach my first class of the day, a freshman composition course for struggling students that sucked the life out of me every time I taught it. It started at ten fifty, met three times a week, and lasted the requisite one hour, which was about all I could take.

  Sometimes I wondered why I had gotten into teaching in the first place, and then I would read an essay of such beauty and remarkable clarity that I would regret ever questioning myself. I didn’t think I would be moved to tears on this day with this particular class, but you never know.

  I steeled myself for the inevitable onslaught of illegible and incomprehensible five-paragraph argument essays that I would encounter, but before I could enter the classroom, I ran into Kevin.

  “Lunch?” he asked.

  “After I teach this class, yes,” I said. “But it has to be on campus because I have a one ten class, too.”

  He looked at me closely. “You OK?”

  I bit my lip, trying to stifle the sob that was stuck at the back of my throat. “I guess.”

  He grabbed my hand. “We’ll talk later,” he said gently. “Go teach.”

  I went into the stuffy classroom, the one with a window up so high it was unreachable, and tossed my messenger bag on the desk. I scanned the crowd for anyone over six feet and saw that the usual duo of basketball center Calvin Marks and small forward Jessie Mindeiro had chosen not to attend class and that the window would therefore remain closed. “Five-paragraph essays,” I commanded, and held out my hand.

  Fifty minutes later, I had come no closer to explaining the term “ad hominem” as it related to Diana Morgan’s argument that the mayor’s congestion pricing plan would hurt New Yorkers, not help them. “Diana, you can’t call the mayor a ‘sniveling mound of flesh.’ Do you understand why?” I asked. “Though I do applaud your accurate use of the word ‘sniveling.’ ”

  The other fifteen students in the class laughed. I looked up at the clock and saw that we had five minutes left. “So, let’s review: no arguments against the person. Your premise must support your conclusion. I’m talking to you, Diana. And if the premise is true, the conclusion is likely true.” I clapped my hands together dramatically. “And you are dismissed.”

  The students got up and exited the classroom as quickly as they possibly could, a few giving me good wishes for a nice weekend. I pulled my papers together and shoved them into my bag, turning to erase the board. The door swung open as I got to the words “ad hominem.”

  Crawford took a seat at the front of the classroom. “So, what about this premise? My girlfriend persists in going out with another man. Jack McManus is another man. Therefore, my girlfriend is going out with Jack McManus.”

  I sat down at the desk. “That premise is true in execution but not true in fact. Or as it relates to me.”

  Crawford folded his hands in front of him. He looked oversized and out of place at the small desk, much like my basketball player students did when they chose to attend class. “How do you figure that?”

  “Crawford, I’m not interested in Jack. I went to the Kraecker party because I wanted to snoop around. I now know that that wasn’t a smart thing to do.” I looked down. “And out of some misguided attempt to help someone not be quite so lonely anymore, I decided to take him to Jane’s tomorrow night. Plain and simple.”

  “How do you know she’s lonely?” he asked. “You didn’t even know her last name until about two weeks ago. And you still can’t remember her sons’ names. Your argument is faulty.”

  Good point. “I’m just assuming that she’s lonely.”

  “And when we assume, what happens?” he asked. He didn’t expect a response because he got up from the desk and stood over me. “I’ve decided on a new tack.”

  I looked up. “And what’s that?”

  He smiled, not unkindly. “My new motto is ‘if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.’ Meaghan, Erin, and I will be joining you at Jane’s tomorrow night.” I started to protest but he held up a hand. “Figure it out. Tell them you have extra guests and invite them to your house.” He started for the door. “Or cancel it altogether. It’s on you. We’ll be coming to your house at seven, so whether we go to Jane’s for dinner or we stay at your place, it’s up to you to handle it.”

  “This is so not fair!” I cried, but the sound of his footfalls were already echoing in the empty hallway.

  Kevin showed up at the door a few minutes later and took in my distraught face. “Did I just see . . .?” he asked, hooking a thumb toward the hallway.

  I nodded.

  “He seemed like he was in a big hurry,” he reported. He pulled at his collar, the priest version of Rodney Dangerfield.

  “You could say that,” I said. I pulled the strap of my bag over my shoulder; a thought occurred to me. “What are you doing tomorrow night, Kev?” I asked sweetly.

  Twelve

  My first thought when I awoke the next day was: must get boot heel back from Cranky McCrankypants.

  I had an action-packed day in front of me, starting with Jose Tomasso’s funeral at ten o’clock and ending with the mega–dinner party that I was now throwing. Jane Farnsworth had been exceedingly gracious about the change in plans and was looking forward to having dinner at my house, or so she said. I’m glad she was excited; I had no bloody idea what I was going to make and how I was going to make it, considering I had to serve at the Lord’s Bounty in between the funeral and the dinner party. I wasn’t even dealing with the fact that I would be meeting Crawford’s daughters for the first time, something that normally would have sent me into an emotional tailspin. Given the events of the day, there was no time to get my panties in a bunch about that one. I rolled out of bed at eight, figuring that an early start was absolutely necessary if I was going to get everything done. I decided to look through the local paper when I got back from the boot heel reconnaissance mission to find out what their suggestion would be for feeding ten people in the easiest, most impressive way possible.

  I took Trixie out and gave her a quick walk up and down the street, doing my best to do the “stern owner” routine. If dogs had the capability to laugh, she would have been roaring at me. We made sure to avoid Chez McCrankypants and went down the other half of the street, where she had tremendous success in completing the task at hand. Actually, she was a little too successful; I was beginning to wonder if her food was to blame.

  After depos
iting her back at the house, I crept down the other half of the street to see if I could find my boot heel, which, as luck would have it, was not on the McCrankypants lawn but in an area that would be designated public property by any judge in the land: next to the sewer. I picked it up and hurried back to the street, muttering, “Don’t know you. Don’t like you. Never will.” I was back at my house before being seen by anyone on the block.

  When I got back home, I laid the broken heel on the counter and considered it for a moment. I decided that no good ever came from my wearing high heels. To wit: once I was wearing a gorgeous pair of black suede pumps and got shot by an old schoolmate of mine who also happened to be the head of a New York crime family. Another day, I was wearing the only pair of Manolo Blahniks I owned (courtesy of Max) when I was kidnapped by aforementioned schoolmate, who was quick to note my expensive choice of footwear. Leave it to a woman to acknowledge spectacular footwear even as she considered blowing your brains out. I concluded that these incidents proved that I was not a high-heel wearer but a sneaker or clog wearer. If I was going to be in that much danger all the time, I had to wear sensible shoes. Once I got through the funeral, to which I had to wear something at least a little fancy, it was back to my trusty Danskos. I could run, jump, swim, and do just about everything in those shoes.

  The only thing in my refrigerator was a leftover container of takeout shrimp scampi that heated up very nicely in the microwave and a six-pack of iced coffee. I put both on the counter alongside my local newspaper and proceeded to scarf down the scampi, roasted garlic chunks and all. It did occur to me that I might be especially fragrant later in the day, but I threw caution to the wind and ingested more garlic than I probably should have. I washed it down with an iced coffee as I read through the paper and skimmed the restaurant section to see if anyone boasted a kitchen that could prepare a gourmet dinner for ten or so. As luck would have it, there was a place in town that fit the bill and was actually open at that early hour: Tony’s Delicatessen. My heart sank.

  Tony’s my deli man and, interestingly, a sixty-something-year-old guy who thinks I’m the hottest thing this side of sopressata. I know how that sounds, but it’s true. I don’t know what it is, but he practically molests me every time I enter the place, which, until recently, had been frequently. Over the years, and particularly after my divorce, he had really stepped up his attempts to hold hands and kiss me. So out of concern for his feelings and my own, I stopped going there.

  Yes, I knew there were other places in Dobbs Ferry to go for what I needed, but none were open and I was pressed for time. I showered and dressed quickly in a black suit and heels and headed to the center of town to order the food for dinner, steeling myself for the onslaught of affection I would receive from Tony.

  Tony was uncharacteristically quiet when I entered the store, the jangling bell over the door signaling my arrival. He turned around and regarded me with a look that was a cross between longing and disappointment.

  “Hi, Tony,” I said as nonchalantly as I could, pretending that I had been there every day since my last visit over the winter.

  “Alison. Hello,” he said guardedly.

  I approached the counter and pulled a takeout menu from the holder next to the cash register. “Tony, I need dinner for a dozen or so people for tonight. Can you help me with that?” I skimmed the menu. “I’d like a tray of chicken francese, a tray of lasagna, a green salad, and garlic bread. Can you do that?”

  He looked nervously toward the kitchen. “I’ll have to ask Lucia.”

  I shrugged internally. Go ahead, I thought. I wasn’t sure why he was so nervous and I didn’t even know who Lucia was—it had always seemed that Tony’s was a one-man operation—but I leaned against the counter and watched as he marched slowly toward the kitchen. A few words were exchanged in Italian, only one or two familiar to me. After a few seconds of silence, I heard the sound of pots and pans being thrown and more Italian, but this time it was accompanied by an ear-piercing howl. I crumpled the menu in my hand and tensed. Tony came out of the kitchen five minutes later, looking chagrined.

  He stood in front of me, the counter separating us. “Yes,” he said, nodding, “we should be able to do that for you.”

  I looked toward the kitchen and then back at Tony. “Are you sure?” I asked.

  He pulled a notepad from his apron pocket and a pencil from behind his ear. “Yes,” he said again. “What time would you like to pick it up?”

  “Tell-a her-a we close at seex!” the disembodied voice screamed from the kitchen.

  “How’s five forty-five?” I asked, mentally calculating how long it would take me to drive from the Lord’s Bounty back to Tony’s. I figured I would have to ditch my community service responsibility a full half hour before it was over in order to make all this work and prayed that there would be enough other people serving to make up for my absence. “And can I pick it up hot?”

  Tony scratched a few words on the pad, careful not to catch my eye. Clearly, he knew that the woman in the back was crazy and he didn’t need my acknowledgment of that fact. “Of course.” He calculated the total and looked up. “That will be eighty-three dollars.”

  I pulled out my checkbook. “A check OK?”

  “For you, of course,” he said, and a small smile appeared. His hand crept across the counter and touched mine. I pulled back and began writing.

  Another pan made its way across the kitchen in the back, creating a thunderous racket. I looked at Tony and he shrugged apologetically. I pulled the check out of the folder and quickly settled the bill without having to endure any further chitchat or public displays of affection. I fled the store, wondering just what in the hell was going on in there.

  I headed north on Route 9 toward Croton-on-Hudson, where the Escalantes and Jose worshipped, according to the obituary that I had read in the paper. The funeral was being held at a church in the town just north of where the Lord’s Bounty was held and I found it easily, maneuvering into a spot not far from Crawford’s cruiser. It had never occurred to me that he would be there, so concerned was I with my broken boot heel and ordering dinner, but it made sense. One of the first times I had seen him he had been at the funeral of a former student of mine, where seeing him sing Catholic hymns in his solemn, Crawford-like fashion had immediately endeared him to me.

  I got out of the car and picked my way across the uneven pavement of the sidewalk outside the church, praying that I wouldn’t get my heel stuck in a broken piece of macadam and take a tumble. A face plant was the last thing I needed today after having run the Tony/Lucia gauntlet. Walking with my head down presented other challenges, though, and I looked up when I hit a solid mass of flesh.

  “Fred. Hi!” I said.

  He was standing a few feet from the front door of the church studying a sign adjacent to the stone building that read: READING THE BIBLE PREVENTS TRUTH DECAY. His brow was furrowed and his lips were moving. After a few moments during which he ignored me and the fact that my face had been in his chest a few minutes earlier, he broke out into a smile. He shook his head. “ ‘Truth decay,’ ” he said, continuing to shake his head, chuckling. He turned and looked at me, seemingly noticing me for the first time. “Oh, Alison. Hi,” he said distractedly. He bent down and gave me an awkward hug. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  I tried to remain casual about the whole thing, looking around his girth to see if I spied Crawford. He was about a half block down the street, talking to a short, dark-haired woman with the most impressive tuchis I had ever seen. Carmen Montoya, I thought. He had not done that backside justice in his description. Packed into black dress pants, it looked like she was smuggling a basketball into the funeral.

  “Huh?” I said, suddenly aware that Fred was waiting for a response from me.

  “You. Here. Why?” he asked in his usual caveman speak.

  “Oh, that. Well, I’m friends with the Escalantes,” I said, continuing to stare at Crawford and Carmen.

  Fred rai
sed an eyebrow. “You are?”

  I nodded, returning my attention to him. “Yes. I met them at the Lord’s Bounty. You know, that place where I serve meals every Saturday night?”

  He continued to look down at me.

  “What? I can’t be friends with them?”

  He pulled a picture out of his pocket. “Who’s this then?”

  I studied it. “Jose Tomasso.” His picture had been all over the papers so I would have had to have been on another planet not to know who he was and what he looked like.

  He shook his head. “Not him,” he said impatiently. “The woman.”

  She was of indeterminate age and ethnic origin and standing beside Jose in the photo. I took a guess. “His wife?”

  Fred gave me a disdainful look and I knew that I had guessed wrong. “Good friend you are.”

  “Well who is it, then?” I asked.

  He crossed his arms over his massive chest. “You don’t know, I’m not telling.” He sniffed the air in a manner not unlike that of my golden retriever. “What did you have for breakfast? Smells like shrimp scampi.”

  “Good guess,” I said.

  “Trying to ward off vampires?”

  “Funny.”

  “Seriously, dude, lay off the garlic in the A.M. The smell’s giving me a headache.” He started off down the street, heading in the direction of Crawford and the woman with the spectacular rump.

  “Oh, thanks.” Wonderful suggestion, albeit a little too late to do anything about. I rustled around in my purse to see if I could come up with a breath mint but found only a dirty packet of Alka-Seltzer, a tube of Dramamine caplets, and a cough drop covered in lint, which I stuck in my mouth. Surely the scent of Mentholyptus would cover the garlic.

  Fred caught up with Crawford and Carmen, all of them assiduously ignoring me as I passed within ten feet of them before entering the church. So that’s how we’re going to play it, I thought, as I threw Crawford a withering glance. I took a seat on the right side of the church a few rows from the back. The church was small—about twenty pews on either side of the aisle, which were rapidly filling up with a diverse group of people, some Hispanic, some not. I got the sense, watching the people take their seats, that this was a close-knit community and that a lot of people had come out of respect for the Escalantes and not because they were especially close to them. I saw Kerry and Rebecca take seats on the other side of the church and recognized a few of the other servers from the Lord’s Bounty scattered throughout as well.