Out to Lunch

by Stacey Ballis

  I’m predominantly a “gift cards for anyone between age twelve to twenty, books for the younger set, and booze for grown-ups” kind of gift giver. Aimee was the one who loved finding the perfect thing for everyone, searching for just the right thing. I’m a boring and unimaginative gift giver.

  “Not true. You gave great gifts.”

  Sure, to you. Because you always said, This is exactly what I would like. often with coupons to get it on sale, or a link to the right website. But for people who are less forthcoming, I’m dullsville and predictable.

  “Looks like you’ve been a one-man wrapping center,” I say, gesturing at the table in the other room.

  Wayne laughs. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell you that I want to open a personal wrapping business. Which three days ago I actually thought might be a good idea, but after all of that, I don’t even want to think about wrapping anything ever again. I don’t know how Aimee did it! She made it look so easy.”

  “Aimee made everything look easy.”

  “Well, except laundry.”

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. “True enough, she was really terrible at laundry.”

  “Hey, now . . .”

  “Remember when she shrank the alpaca throw blanket?” Wayne says, shaking his head. “Turned it into a five-hundred-dollar dishcloth.”

  “No one told me alpaca was essentially fancy wool. How did I know it would shrink?”

  “Or when she missed that one blue sock in the bottom of the hamper after your anniversary party and turned all your good white table linens pale blue!” I say, remembering the frantic phone call the next day.

  “I remember the first time she did laundry after we got married, she didn’t realize how much more laundry two people make versus just one, and just put it all in one load the way she usually did, and broke the machine. Suds everywhere, and soaked clothes we had to wring out in the tub and then schlep to the laundrymat.” Sigh. He always says laundrymat. It is second only to supposably and nucular in my list of annoying mispronunciations.

  “I’m very uncomfortable with this discussion.”

  “Thank god you took over.” Wayne, from Aimee’s reports, is a laundry guru. “Or the two of you wouldn’t have had a towel or pair of pants left.”

  “Or socks! Every time she did laundry she lost at least seven socks. I don’t know how she did it.”

  “THE DRYER EATS THEM! I’m sure of it.”

  “I remember the first time we did laundry in college, Aimee had never done it before. EVER. Jean always did laundry for the kids, and never thought to teach Aimee or the boys to do their own. So we grab all our stuff to take it to the machines in the basement of the dorm, and Aimee just stood there, and burst into tears. She had no idea even where to begin.”

  “Yeah, she told me that story. I just told her that even the world’s most perfect woman couldn’t be amazing at everything, or she’d be boring. That’s the truth, Ruth.” We smile at each other, and for the first time, I’m only feeling warmth toward him. I always idolized Aimee more than a little, she seemed to be everything I wasn’t. But it is easy to forget that she was also human with foibles and quirks and some of her own annoying traits.

  “I don’t know what you could be referring to.”

  Um, do you really want me to make a list?

  “Yeah, never mind.”

  Thought so.

  “So, Wayne, let’s see these sketches.”

  “You betcha.” He pulls the folder over and takes out three sheets of paper. My whole heart sinks.

  “What on God’s green earth is THAT?”

  “I think he did an interesting job,” Wayne says. “He thought he would bring in the proscenium aspect of theater that is missing in outdoor space, and represent Aimee sort of coming through that proscenium, breaking the fourth wall in the way that outdoor theater does sort of by nature. So you have this rectangular frame and Aimee is both framed by it, but also coming through it.”

  I’m looking at these sketches, and something is sitting weirdly. It is clearly going to be bronze. A large rectangle with a full-body representation of Aimee sort of half in the frame, with her arms and torso reaching through in a manner that I assume is supposed to be her reaching out to the people in the quad. It reminds me of something. Something annoying. Something awful. Something Aimee . . .

  “AAAAAUUUUGGGGGHHH!!!! Nononononono. Is he insane?”

  Would hate.

  “Um, Wayne, what do you really think of this sketch. Deep down. As it relates to Aimee.”

  “Well, I dunno. I mean, it’s an artist she loves, for the university you guys went to, for a space that meant a lot to her . . .”

  “Holy crap, I’m goddamned Han Solo in carbonite.”

  THAT’S IT! That’s what it looks like. Jesus, involve Wayne, and somehow Star Wars is in evidence.

  “Wayne. Does this remind you of anything?”

  He looks at it closely. “I don’t know, it seems a little familiar, but I can’t place it specifically.”

  “Well, let me ask you this. Could you see it hanging, um, I don’t know, in Jabba the Hutt’s lair?”

  “Oh my god. She’s carbonite Han.” I can almost see the lightbulb over Wayne’s head.

  “EXACTLY!”

  “That is SO COOL!”

  “Oh, hell no.”

  “Um, Wayne . . .”

  “I mean, that is awesome! And I didn’t even think of it! But total rock star. Good eye, Jenny, look at you knowing your SW references!”

  “Wayne, I want you to look me in the eye and tell me that Aimee, our Aimee, would want to spend eternity referencing Han Solo in the middle of a college quad.”

  Wayne doesn’t look up. “She might love it . . .”

  “Wayne.”

  “Wayne Randolph Garland, you look her in the eye.”

  Wayne doesn’t move.

  “Wayne, please . . .”

  He raises his head, looking like a kid who just found out he cannot have ice cream unless he eats all his peas. “No, she probably would not think it is as cool as I do.”

  “Wayne, I promise, if someday YOU would like to be immortalized in this way, if I’m around I will try and make it happen. But Aimee . . .”

  “Would DIE OF MORTIFICATION.”

  “Would hate it. You’re right.” He sighs deeply. “Well, back to the drawing board! Ha, literally! I’ll call him and say we are looking for something more traditional. Never fear, we’ll get it right.”

  I had hoped the failed sketch would mean the complete end of the project, but at least we have more time again. “Okay, Wayne. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I wouldn’t want to do something Aimee would hate.”

  “Okay, I have to go home, walk the dogs.”

  “Good plan, Stan. So I’m picking up Noah Friday afternoon, you still available to come with us to the holiday party at Elliot’s store?”

  I had forgotten I agreed to that. I swallow every instinct to back out of it. “Sure. What time?”

  “It goes from five to eight, but we are shooting for seven, hang at the party for a bit, grab a bite after. Want us to come get you?”

  “Nah, I’ll meet you there.”

  “Perfect. Should be a blast.”

  “I’m sure it will be.” A nightmare. “I’m looking forward to seeing Noah, and I know Eloise is excited for the ornament class Saturday.”

  “He’s got all his printouts of the superhero logos. I think he’s very happy with his theme.”

  “Well, he comes by it right!”

  “True enough.”

  I walk to the door, grabbing my coat off the rack and putting it on, retrieving my purse from the console table next to the door.

  “See you Friday, then.”

  Wayne moves forward and grabs me in a big hug. “Bye, Jenny,” he says into my hair.

  “Bye,” I say, into his shoulder.

  * * *

  I get home, clean up the remains of what I believe used to be a leather pot
holder that Chewie appears to have mistaken for a snack, and take both dogs for a long walk. Once we get home, I change into my cooking blacks. I get the chef’s whites when you work in a restaurant, and I used to wear them for events. But home cooking? I have an endless set of black leggings with black T-shirts. Because cooking is messy, and I’m a slob, and no amount of bleach will really salvage whites once you spatter them to hell with demi-glace and chocolate and beet juice.

  I head to the kitchen to get set up for my annual holiday baking. I used to make a million different cookies and treats, never fewer than a dozen different things in every gift box, but by the time the holidays rolled around, I was exhausted and cranky. And now that I’m out of the business, I don’t have the same need in terms of holiday giving. No big clients to impress or huge staff to acknowledge. I bring stuff to Christmas Eve with Andrea and Jasmin and Gene, and some to bring with to the Brands’ on Christmas Day. Some for the Library, where we keep the buffet full of our favorite holiday treats to keep customers high on sugar and shopping. I send some to my parents, who I won’t see till I go visit for Passover in March. Some for Noah and Wayne. I used to send some to Brian, but now that feels weird, so I sent a plant for his office instead. I learned the hard lesson a long time ago to just make one or two things that I can do in bulk. This year I am doing praline pecans, an old family favorite, easy and addictive. And a festive holiday dark chocolate loaf cake, with pistachios and dried cherries and white chocolate chips.

  I get out my huge seven-quart KitchenAid mixer, and head to the basement, where I have ten pounds of gorgeous halved pecans in the chest freezer, and a pallet of organic eggs from Paulie’s Pasture in the commercial refrigerator I use for entertaining and overflow. Upstairs, I focus on separating eggs, reserving the yolks for making pasta or custard later. Beating whites, melting butter, I can feel my shoulders unclench as the scent of toasted sugared pecans caramelizing fills the house. Volnay and Chewie are curled up together sleeping after their exercise.

  “Looks like you are getting the holiday spirit after all.”

  I’m trying to.

  “Well, I promised you I wouldn’t die within a week of a major holiday, so at least you don’t have to be maudlin.”

  You also promised we’d have the rooms next to one another in the old people’s home.

  “Well, one out of two.”

  Yeah.

  “For what it’s worth? Nothing makes me happier than to see you actually having some holiday cheer in your life.”

  For what it’s worth, I’d trade all the holiday cheer in the universe till the end of time to have you back.

  “I know. And I love you, schmoopy. But you’re hanging in there. As well you should.”

  I love you too, schmoopy.

  I salt the still-warm pecans with some flaky sea salt, and a little bit with a few tears I hadn’t realized I still had in me.

  14

  Elliot’s store, Cosmic Comix, is in a storefront on Clark Street in the Andersonville area. Which makes it an even bigger pain in the ass, since parking is notoriously difficult in this bustling Chicago neighborhood to begin with, but even more so during the holiday season. I circle the area no less than a dozen times before I finally find someone leaving a spot about three blocks away. The unseasonable warmth we’ve been enjoying has continued, and no snow yet, which is a blessing for everyone except those who believe more in White Christmases than they do in being able to get around. I’ll take this, myself. Especially when I have to walk a quarter of a mile to get from my car to my destination. This whole semiretired-homebody thing has spoiled me when it comes to being out and about. I run my errands during the day midweek when normal people are working, and my social life tends to focus on hosting at my house, especially now since that mostly consists of hanging out with Brian, who always sleeps at my place because of the dogs.

  I get to Cosmic at around seven fifteen, noticing that Wayne’s Escalade is parked right in front.

  “I bequeathed him my parking karma.”

  Couldn’t have shared a little with me?

  “Nope. Having bad parking karma keeps you humble.”

  I open the doors, and head into a surprisingly large space. The small storefront belies a fairly enormous store, as these places tend to go, this is no six-hundred square foot hole-in-the-wall. The place is very deep, and duplexed up with a large central staircase leading to the second level. And unlike the somewhat dingy place I imagined, with bad fluorescent lighting and dusty boxes of dolls and toys on warped shelves, this place is bright, clean, and appears to be very smartly merchandised. There are about thirty or forty people milling around, looking in the glass locked cases at mint condition action figures, signed memorabilia, and authenticated movie and television props, as well as what I assume are the more valuable older comics. The walls are lined with the newer comic books, and I’m overwhelmed at the sheer volume of them.

  I personally went through a brief Archie thing in kindergarten, and a serious Doonesbury phase in high school and college. And I still love a good Calvin and Hobbes collection. But other than that? Comics were never my thing. Nor sci-fi or fantasy or video gaming or any of the associated genres. I have seen some of the more famous movies; obviously, you can’t grow up in the ’70s and ’80s without being aware of the original Star Wars series, Christopher Reeve Superman movies, and the original Batman TV show. I even had a crush on Adam West when I was little. But it isn’t something that stuck, and by the time Dungeons & Dragons hit the scene and Atari moved beyond Pong, I was out. I’ve never read the Harry Potter books. I wouldn’t know Star Trek: The Next Generation from Stargate.

  A shapely woman with jet-black hair in a high ponytail and severe bangs revealing a swath of tattooed stars down the back of her neck that complement the tattoo sleeves she is sporting, wanders over.

  “Can I take your coat?” she asks.

  Flabbergasted, I hand it over and receive a chit in the form of what appears to be some sort of eight-sided space currency. She disappears into a side room that is emitting an eerie blue glow, and I head in search of Wayne and Noah.

  “Jenna!” A voice behind me calls out. “You made it!”

  I turn around. “Hi, Elliot.” He comes forward to give me a hug. Elliot is maybe only three or four inches taller than I am, five eight or five nine at the most. He’s wearing old, ripped jeans that sag, being entirely without ass to hold them up, an ancient T-shirt from the old Heavy Metal animated movie, and a black sportcoat that is somewhat threadbare. But to his credit, despite being a little disheveled, he smells good. Like a combination of baby powder and cookies.

  “How are you?” he asks, concern in his pale green eyes. Elliot, like Wayne, has something of a baby face, but luckily he embraces it and doesn’t festoon it with ridiculous facial hair. He’s clean shaven, looking about sixteen except for the slightly thinning sandy brown hair in a classic Gary Sandy feathered cut that takes me back to my roller disco days. He always reminds me of when you see a teen idol all grown up, there is a little of the not-young-anymore Shaun Cassidy around the edges, and despite his youthful demeanor, there are some tiny lines beginning to appear in the corners of his eyes.

  “I’m okay. Hanging in there. You?”

  “Good, good, you know. It’s that time of year we retailers love and hate in equal measure. But can’t complain. And our boy seems to be keeping his chins above water.”

  “He does at that.”

  “I know he’s very lucky to have you right now.”

  “Well, I think I’m probably more a pain in his ass, but it’s nice of you to say. I think he’s far luckier to have you and Georgie and the boys supporting him.”

  “Well, hell. None of us have ever had much luck with ladies to start with, and certainly not the kind of luck to be with someone like Aimee. To land her and then lose her? That is a colossal tragedy for geeks everywhere.” He smiles, and his eyes sparkle wickedly.

  I can’t help but laugh. “Well, regardless, it�
��s great that he has you guys to keep his spirits up.”

  “We do what we can. Can I get you a drink?”

  “Sure, what are you pouring?”

  “For the masses? Various things in bilious colors served over dry ice for appropriate sci-fi effect. For you, I have a secret stash of Buffalo Trace bourbon in my office, which I am serving over ice with the merest splash of ginger beer and a lemon twist. But only for my friends.”

  “That sounds great, thank you.”

  “No problem. And between us, stay away from the buffet and stick to the passed hors d’oeuvres. These monkeys double dip and manhandle the cheese.”

  “Good to know. Thanks for the heads-up.”

  “Wayne and Noah I think are upstairs; I’ll find you with your drink momentarily.”

  “Thanks, Elliot.”

  I make my way through the crowd, bypassing the buffet, where a crowd of bearded and bespectacled men of indeterminate age are indeed manhandling the cheese and eating as if they will not see another meal till the second coming of Yoda, and head up the stairs. The second floor appears to be more regular books and graphic novels, DVDs and video games. There is a large-screen TV set up with various game stations, and Wayne and Noah appear to be engaged in an epic battle of some sort.

  “Hey Jenna! I’m almost winning!” Noah says.

  “He’s getting better. He might actually beat me this time,” Wayne says. I stand behind them, not at all sure what I am seeing, and absentmindedly accept a little phyllo triangle stuffed with a savory and sweet chicken mixture from a passing tray. It isn’t as piping hot as I might like, but it is crispy and well-seasoned, sort of reminds me of a Moroccan bisteeya.

  “Ah HA! Gotcha!” Noah yells, and he and Wayne high-five. “Did you see that, Jenna? I won! I really won!”

  “So you did, congrats.” Noah gets up from the chair and comes to give me a hug.

  Wayne gets up and ruffles his hair, leaning over to kiss my cheek. “Hey Jenny, this guy really nailed me on that one.”