Out to Lunch

by Stacey Ballis

  Brian greets the dogs, who have come over to love him, and I grab the fudge balls out of the fridge.

  “Oh, crap, dog, really?” Brian mutters and I turn to see that Chewie has slimed his right thigh sort of spectacularly with slobber. I reach for a dish towel, dampen it a bit under the tap, and toss it to him to get the stuff off himself.

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault. It’s not even his fault. I choose to blame Wayne. He’s my personal Grinch.”

  Brian is still pouting about my not coming to Colorado tomorrow. I actually think the reason I invited him tonight was to try and mitigate his disappointment, but clearly he hasn’t gotten over it. He knows that Chewbacca is the reason I can’t ever spend the night at his place. Volnay would be welcome, but Chewie isn’t finished with his training yet, can’t really be trusted to not devour anything not nailed down, and by the time he’s ready, he’ll be way over the forty-pound weight limit regulation for the building. He blames Wayne for my inability to come on the trip with him, since I can’t kennel the dog. And frankly, I haven’t done anything but let him believe that, even though Wayne, Benji, and Eloise all have offered to take the dogs if I want to go out of town. And he doesn’t quite understand why I feel the need to go to Indiana to see the Brands, since there are so many of them and they will have Wayne.

  “Wayne is Mr. Christmas. And he would feel terrible if he thought he had somehow ruined yours.”

  “Wayne is Mr. Magoo, and while I believe he might feel terrible for approximately eleven seconds, I have faith he would get over it just in time to accidentally back over me with his car.”

  “Look, all fixed.” I gesture at his jeans, which are so dark you can’t even see where the damp towel was used. I’m desperate to change the subject. I’ve been feeling so much better about Wayne since the party at Elliot’s last weekend, and I want very much to hang on to that good feeling, especially since I’m still a little nervous about tomorrow. We have a three-hour drive down there, a full day of Brand festivities, and then a three-hour drive back tomorrow night. I’ve never spent that much time with him, and knowing that a full six hours is going to be one-on-one, I want to hold every ounce of happy thoughts in anticipation. “Besides, a little slobber never hurt anyone. He just loves you soooo much.”

  “If only he could love me less wetly.” Brian comes over to where I’m standing. “Now you on the other hand . . .” He leans in and kisses me deeply. And wetly.

  “I take your point.”

  “Before we go . . . I have something for you.” He pulls a long thin box from his inside jacket pocket.

  “I thought we weren’t doing gifts?” I’m mortified. After I told him I couldn’t go on the trip, we agreed that we wouldn’t do presents. And I took that seriously. I don’t have so much as a card for him.

  “I know. But then I saw this and I couldn’t resist.”

  “Not fair.”

  “I never promised to be fair. I’m a lawyer.” He grins.

  I take the box and open it. Inside is a delicate white gold chain with small diamonds spaced about every inch and a half. “Brian, it’s gorgeous. And it’s too much.”

  “Nonsense. It is perfect for you, and you deserve it. Someone in your life should be giving you gifts that are actually what you want and need. And don’t require such intense maintenance.” He gestures at the dog, and while the necklace is beautiful, I can’t help but thinking in a weird way that somehow it is about proving something about himself as it relates to Wayne. But I shake it off, because Brian is putting the necklace on for me, and pulling me to the powder room to admire it. And while it isn’t something I ever would have chosen for myself, I have to admit it does look very pretty. I can see why he would have thought to buy it for me.

  “Brian, thank you, it’s just so lovely. I’ll treasure it.”

  He beams, and we go back to the kitchen to get the food and head to the celebration.

  * * *

  A toast!” Gene raises his glass from the head of the table. “To a happy and healthy New Year for all of us, and a very merry Christmas. Thank you all for being here tonight. I especially want to thank my beautiful wife for everything she is, and for loving me for nearly forty-four years, and for our amazing daughter who brings us such joy and pride. And a moment to remember our beloved Aimee, whose spirit shines on us in these times of celebration, and will support us when things are difficult in years to come.”

  “To Aimee,” Benji says beside me.

  “To our wonderful hosts,” Brian says from my other side.

  “To all of us,” Jasmin says.

  We’re a smaller group tonight. As generous as Jasmin and Gene are at Thanksgiving, they tend to want to be more insular at Christmas; between Jasmin’s Catholic upbringing and Gene’s devout Baptist one, this night is the part of the holiday they save for themselves. They did a Christmas Eve brunch earlier today with Jasmin’s family. They’ll go to midnight mass later tonight, and Christmas service at Gene’s church tomorrow morning, after which they will stop by the group home to see Benji before heading to Gene’s sister’s house for a huge extended-family feast. After Thanksgiving, Benji convinced the kids at the home that it would be fun to host a Christmas Day dinner for the kids from two other local group homes, and Jasmin and Gene offered to sponsor the food costs for the event. I’m so proud of him, but ultimately I know it is the kind of idea Aimee would have had, and I can’t take credit for inspiring him.

  “Hey, you inspire him with the food, I inspire him with the altruism, between us we have plenty to be proud of.”

  That is true.

  So tonight we are just seven. Seven people, and twelve pounds of pork. I pick a piece of the insanely delicious crispy skin and feel it crunch between my teeth. Suddenly the ratio seems perfectly normal. Gene rubbed it with his secret spice mix early this morning, and it’s been roasting in a slow oven all day. Andrea’s creamy grits are the perfect thing to soak up the thick gravy, Jasmin’s parsnips and pears are caramelized and sweet, and everyone praises my chard and chickpeas.

  Andrea is sitting with Law, having had not one, but three real dates with the charming doctor since their Thanksgiving hookup, and Brian and I are scheduled to have a double date with them after the New Year. She seems happy and glowy, and even though she and Law have been dating such a short time, they seem very connected. And Jasmin and Gene clearly approve, which makes me wonder if his invite to Thanksgiving hadn’t actually been a sneaky fix-up.

  I look at Brian and wonder what it is that I don’t have that same glow. We’ve been together longer. He is certainly attentive, but not oppressively so. He’s so freakishly good-looking, smart, nice to me. I enjoy his company. We’re compatible in bed.

  “Compatible is not fantastic.”

  Compatible is frankly better than a lot of guys I’ve dated. Including Jack, if you must know.

  “Compatible is not sparkly.”

  Sometimes comfortable is more important than sparkly.

  “In pants, yes. In shoes and sex, no.”

  Oy.

  “Twelve hours to cook pork, and twelve minutes to eat it.” Jasmin is laughing at us, empty plates everywhere, and people leaning back in chairs, stuffed, but still tempted to reach for more. Law picks a piece of crackling off the shoulder, and Andrea slaps his hand jokingly.

  “Leave that boy alone, Dre. He can pick that pigskin all he wants. He knows a good thing,” Gene says with a wink.

  “Everything was just delicious,” Benji says. “I hope you all saved room for dessert!”

  Benji brought a fabulous-looking cake made out of twenty layers of crepes with thin layers of vanilla pastry cream in between, the top burnished and brûléed with a crispy burnt sugar layer.

  “I’m sure by the time we finish cleaning up, we’ll be ready,” Andrea says, and we stand to follow Jasmin to the kitchen. Gene motions the men to follow him to the living room, shaking his head at their desire to be helpful.

  “Stay out of
my wife’s kitchen, you’ll just make a nuisance of yourselves.”

  Benji stands, looking torn. Not sure if he should follow the other guys, or stay and help. I know he’d probably rather be with the girls, but he does take a certain pride in his masculinity. Jasmin saves him.

  “Benji, will you ask the other men if they would like coffee with their after-dinner drinks?” she asks. He gratefully scampers off with a job, knowing that if they say yes, she will ask him to make it, allowing him to shuttle back and forth and get the best of both worlds.

  “Didn’t we just do this?” Andrea asks.

  “Feels like it, doesn’t it. I, for one, am ready for the holidays to be over,” Jasmin says. “Takes it out of me more every year.”

  “You haven’t broken a sweat, and you love every minute of it.” Andrea laughs, kissing her mother’s cheek.

  “No coffees,” Benji says.

  “Okay. Thank you. Would you be a dear and pack up the leftovers? The containers are in the bottom cabinet next to the fridge.” Jasmin invents the new job, and Benji gives her a saucy salute and heads across the room to be useful. She turns to me, handing me the now-clean roasting pan to dry and gives me a wink.

  Jasmin is right as usual; by the time we are done cleaning, we have earned the desserts, and Benji’s cake is spectacular. Everyone loves the fudge balls as well, and soon we are all sated and somewhat sleepy. We all get ready to leave so that Jasmin and Gene can get ready to go to mass. Andrea and Law offer to drop Benji off so that he doesn’t have to take the train, and Brian and I head back to my place.

  Where we find the contents of his overnight bag, which he accidentally left in the kitchen with the dogs, strewn about, mauled and damp with slobber. There are four neat puncture holes in his tube of fancy Italian toothpaste that he special orders from some New York apothecary, and Chewbacca looks half-rabid with dried toothpaste foam all around his mouth.

  Brian is not amused. He also decides not to stay. “It’s not just the dog, I have the flight tomorrow, and I haven’t completely finished packing, I was going to have to get up early anyway. And as gorgeous as you look, that meal has sort of done me in, I don’t think I’m up for anything except sleep.”

  And I? Try not to look relieved. I help him gather the shreds of his pajamas and socks and underwear, the long-sleeved T-shirt he intended to wear in the morning, the decimated contents of his toiletry kit. His toothbrush is there, with all the bristles mysteriously removed. His comb looks like it went through the garbage disposal. His deodorant is simply gone completely.

  “Sorry about the dog, and everything. And thank you again for my beautiful necklace.”

  “You’re worth it.” He kisses me, and I believe he isn’t angry as much as he is just tired and really overstuffed, and wanting to get organized for his trip.

  “Thank you. Safe travels, text me or something if you want while you’re gone. But mostly have a great time and please be careful on the slopes. I’d like you back in one piece.”

  “You got it. I’ll call you. And I’ll be back on the thirty-first in time for New Year’s.”

  “I’m counting on it.” We have decided to just lie low and stay at my place for New Year’s, I’m making plans for a yummy meal that we can cook together, and we’ll drink great champagne and maybe watch an old movie or two. In addition to Elliot’s offer, Andrea and Law invited us to a party being held by one of his friends, Alana and RJ called to say they were having a small dinner party if we were interested, but I frankly don’t like being out and about on New Year’s if I can help it. It’s the one holiday Aimee and I disagreed about. She loved being at a party, all dressed up; I just always wanted to be home in comfy clothes with great food and great wine and no insanity.

  Brian kisses me one more time, and heads for home. I change into leggings and an oversized sweater and head downstairs to take the dogs for their last walk of the day. At this hour, we stay on the boulevard, where it is well lit, and keep things pretty brief, although this time I don’t head for home till both pups have done a complete toilet. I can’t clean up dog poop inside again today. Lucky for me, they both oblige with efficiency and we get home fairly quickly. I’ve already got everything pretty set to go for tomorrow, another set of fudge balls, two of the chocolate loaf cakes and two pounds of the praline pecans. Eloise-recommended books for the little ones, and iTunes gift cards for the older ones. Six bottles of a locally brewed gin called Letherbee, produced by one of the former bartenders from Lula, and my new house tipple, for all of the brothers. Five bottles of Lillet Rosé for the sisters-in-law. And for Wayne, a signed copy of a coffee table book called Oeuvre by an artist named Drew Struzan, who apparently has done many of the most famous sci-fi movie posters, including the iconic ones for the original Star Wars series. George Lucas even did the introduction for the book, and his signature appears beside the author’s. Elliot helped me with this one, and I get the feeling that the one hundred dollars I paid for it is way undermarket, but it was kind of him, since Wayne only drinks beer and that is somehow not a festive holiday offering.

  I put Chewie in his crate, and lock the kitchen gate, bringing Volnay up to bed with me. Eloise is coming tomorrow afternoon to walk the dogs and feed them, and Benji will do it tomorrow night after his dinner, so they will be fine even if I don’t get home till after midnight.

  I change into my pajamas and crawl into bed, thinking that tonight I’ll easily be able to skip the Ambien.

  “Psst.”

  What now?

  “Merry Christmas.”

  Merry Christmas, my friend. I hope it is very merry where you are.

  “It’s always merry where I am.”

  It was ever thus and so.

  16

  I can’t BELIEVE that Jordan did that,” Wayne says first thing as we pull out of the driveway.

  “I know. And no one ever suspected?” It’s just after nine, and Wayne and I are heading back to Chicago after a very long day. The drive down was uneventful, Wayne told me to sleep, and I used it as a defensive move, faking it for the first forty-five minutes, and finally actually sleeping for the next hour and a half, so by the time I was “awake,” we were almost there. We visited with everyone, exchanged gifts, played with the kids, admired new haircuts and clothes and generally got caught up. There was a brief sad moment during grace, when Aimee’s oldest brother, Brad, toasted her memory, but then it was all good food and drinks and wrangling eleven kids between the ages of four and sixteen. And then, when the little ones had been banished to the basement rec room to work off their extra energy where they couldn’t break something, Jordan popped his sixth beer of the evening and announced that he is gay.

  “First I’ve ever heard of it. I just feel bad for the kid, you know? Feeling like he had to hold that in all this time. I mean, Thom and Jean might have been a little rough on him if they had been here, but jeez, they’ve been gone since he was pretty little, and you saw how the rest of them reacted. Like he had said he wanted to be an accountant, or was going to buy a Prius. Total nonissue, totally supportive.”

  “Poor Jordan. He was always something of an odd duck.”

  “Well, it can’t have been easy. To lose both parents a year apart, have to be raised by your older brother, with your nieces and nephews who are practically your same age, that had to be rough.”

  “I’m sure. But he always seemed pretty good, good grades in school, did well in college, seems to have gotten a first job he likes well enough.”

  “Yeah. Never seemed depressed really, but disconnected somehow. Aimee never really felt terribly close to him.”

  “Well, I hope he feels better; it was great how everyone rallied right away and no one acted surprised or scandalized.”

  “That’s the truth, Ruth. A very interesting evening. And the dinner looked pretty good!”

  I laugh. They finally figured out to just have a burger in the fridge to throw on for him at these holiday feasts. “It was. Delicious. Wayne, I gotta ask, what i
s the deal with only eating eleven things? I mean, it’s clearly not a political or ethical choice, and you do have something in almost all the food groups, but I just don’t really get it.”

  “You must think it’s really stupid.”

  “I don’t really, well, maybe I do, I just wonder where it comes from.”

  Wayne pauses, and runs his hand over his full-on George Michael stubble that he has chosen for his holiday face. “Well, Elliot said he told you a little bit about how I grew up, and all.”

  “He did.”

  “So, there was this old lady who lived in the trailer park, three spots down from us. And I would sometimes do stuff for her; fix things you know, or change lightbulbs she couldn’t reach, stuff like that. And when I did, she would make me dinner. She only ever made roasted chicken, pork chops, thin chewy steaks, and burgers. Some sort of potato. Green beans, corn, or carrots. Always an iceberg lettuce salad with ranch dressing. That was it. But it was the best food I ever ate.”

  I think about what Elliot said about his upbringing, and my heart hurts for him. “It was nice that you had her.”

  “It was. School food was awful, but I had to eat it, so it felt like punishment. The only meals I ever ate that gave me any pleasure from the time I was about six till my mom died were those dinners with Mrs. Jennings. So those I guess are the only foods I ever associated with being safe and fed and taken care of.”

  “What about after you left? No desire to explore other stuff when your food was under your own control?”

  “When I got to college, I was work study, and worked in the dining hall as a dishwasher, and we didn’t get to eat till the end of the night, by which point your safest option is a burger, and everything else reminded me of the free lunches anyway. I guess it just stuck. I know it makes me kind of an ass, but it’s just what feels safe to me.”

  “Oh, Wayne. I had no idea.”

  “It’s not a big deal, Jenny. It is what it is. I manage to keep up my girlish figure!” he says, chuckling, patting his not-insubstantial gut.