Out to Lunch

by Stacey Ballis

  “So why the open mind when it comes to desserts?”

  “Ahh. That’s easy. Elliot’s mom ran a bakery. Every day he’d sneak me something she had brought home, something that hadn’t sold the day before. Never mattered what it was, it was sweet, so I guess I never had any negative associations with desserts.”

  “Have you ever tried anything else, I mean since college?”

  “Nope. Never really saw the need. There is almost always a burger or steak or chicken or chop on a menu at restaurants. I know how to cook everything I eat. Makes shopping a breeze. And is only really a problem eating at people’s houses, but there’s always a Mickey D’s en route!”

  I laugh, since there isn’t much else to do. “Well, if there is ever anything you think you might like to try, I’d be happy to go with you or make it for you.”

  “That’s very nice, Jenny. You never know. Maybe this old dog will look for a new trick one of these days!”

  My phone rings. It is Brian calling to wish me a merry Christmas.

  “Did you make it to Snowmass okay?”

  “I did. O’Hare was pretty quiet, but my flight was full. We’re all here and we just got back from dinner, so I wanted to catch you.”

  “Wayne and I are just heading back.”

  “Well you probably can’t talk with him there, huh?”

  “I don’t want to be rude.”

  “Not at all. I’m pretty beat anyway. I’ll try and call you in the next day or so.”

  Wayne looks over at me. “If you don’t mind my saying, but there’s something about that guy I don’t really trust.”

  “Wayne, that guy is your lawyer, if you don’t trust him, that’s sort of a big deal, globally.”

  “Not like that, I trust him with the lawyer stuff. But I don’t trust him with you.”

  “I appreciate your concern, but you have nothing to worry about. I can take care of myself.”

  “I dunno, that Jack was no prize. Thank god you didn’t marry that schmuck. Do you know how horrible it was for me and Aimee to think that you were going to foist him on us for the rest of our natural lives? With his wine snob BS, and his weird obsession with his dental health? And the way he just never let anyone get a word in edgewise, especially you? I’m not afraid to tell you, Jenny girl, that guy was a total tool. You dodged a bullet on that one. That’s the truth, Ruth.”

  I’m stunned into complete silence. But oddly, instead of being angry, I just want to laugh. To think that Wayne felt exactly about Jack the way I have always felt about him? That is like a weird Christmas “Gift of the Magi” moment.

  “Well, lucky for all of us, he bailed, never to be heard from again.”

  “Thank god.”

  “Not to worry. I’m pretty sure I’m not going to marry Brian.”

  “Ugh, for sure don’t do that. Aimee would come back from the dead just to smack you in the head.”

  “I totally would.”

  “We’re just dating.”

  “Exclusively?”

  I think about this. I’m not seeing anyone else, but we haven’t had the official discussion about it, and a wise woman once told me that unless a man has said the word “exclusive” to you, you should assume he is dating other people.

  “She also told you to be sure to provide your own condoms for quality control.”

  “No, Wayne, we aren’t dating exclusively.”

  “Good. I mean, don’t go all Girls Gone Wild or anything, but I think you should date other people.”

  “Duly noted.” I think it somewhat hilarious that Wayne is taking my dating life so personally.

  “He’s protective of you. The way I would be if I weren’t all Ghost of Christmas Past up in here.”

  Wayne leans forward and presses Play on the car stereo. I’m shocked to hear the strains of A-ha coming out of the speakers.

  “Wayne, is this the ’80s station?”

  “Nope, I made a couple of driving CDs for us.” He gestures to a CD case. I pick it up and read his little handwriting. Three CDs. Filled with classics from the ’70s and ’80s, and all my guilty pleasure faves. Styx, Journey, .38 Special, Men at Work, Fine Young Cannibals, Oingo Boingo, INXS.

  “You have Free to Be . . . You and Me in here!”

  “Well, of course. It was the only record I had until I was fourteen.”

  “You’re killing me.”

  “Hey, Rosey Grier said it’s alright to cry, and frankly, that’s the only advice I’ve ever used consistently as much now as I did as a kid.”

  “More guys should know that and take it to heart. That it’s okay for them to do it and okay for girls. Jack hated when I cried. He always said that he felt like it was inherently manipulative.” I’m suddenly remembering why it was so easy to give him the ring back, and wondering why on earth Aimee never said anything to me about him. And then I look at Wayne. And it is clearer than I might like to admit.

  “Aimee never cried much, but when she did, I always just let her get it out. I know it makes things better to have the release.”

  “Yeah. It does.” I pause, and then forge ahead. “Noah said sometimes he can hear you crying at night.”

  “Yeah. Night is when I miss her most. Every night we’d get into bed and trade days, you know? Lying in the dark, what was great, what sucked, what was funny that we’ve been waiting all day to share. Even when she got home late from some party, I’d wake up and we’d lie there and trade days. And now I get into bed and she’s not there, and she’s not coming later, she’s just gone. No one to trade days with. Makes it feel sometimes like the day didn’t happen, you know, because there was no one to witness it.”

  This brings tears to my eyes. “I know what you mean. She called me every morning. Same thing. To touch base, to plan, to reflect. To have the connection.”

  “Yeah.”

  “He was okay, right, I mean, not worried or anything?”

  “He’s a very levelheaded little guy. He said he understood why you were sad and that you have plenty of people to help you.”

  “That kid and marrying Aimee are the two things I ever did totally right in my whole life.”

  “The Best of Times” comes on next. “I’d call these CDs a solid third,” I say. Wayne laughs and reaches over and takes my hand. His hand is a little sweaty, but strong, and he holds on, and I let him, and we sing together at the tops of our voices as we head home. “The best of tiiiiiiiimmmmmmmmeeessss . . .”

  * * *

  I walk in my door at a little after midnight. I’m hoarse from singing; Wayne and I did car karaoke all the way home. As soon as I come through the door, Chewie and Volnay come running down the hall to greet me in a happy jumping pile of dog. There is a note on the side table from Benji saying that they are fed and walked and that he cleaned up the mess in the kitchen, and that I should move my plastic goods out of the lower drawers, which Chewie has apparently figured out how to get into, and that I’m going to need more Saran Wrap and Ziploc bags.

  “Dog? In case you were curious? This whole Marley and Me act you have going on is not cute, and you are not getting a movie deal.” Chewie looks at me quizzically. “And you? Are you not supposed to be training him?” I say to Volnay. She looks up at me as if to say that he is adopted and apparently this is nature not nurture.

  “I give up. And I’m too tired to complain. Time for bed.” But as I head to the kitchen to get Chewie in his crate, he shoots right up the stairs with Volnay. By the time I get up there, they are both curled up on my bed. I’m feeling a little cramped from the long hours in the car, and decide to leave them there while I take a hot bath. As the tub fills, I think about everything Wayne and I talked about.

  “He’s not so bad, when you scratch the surface, huh?”

  He’s got his moments.

  “Admit it, you like him.”

  I’m getting to know him. And I like him more than I did.

  “You like him.”

  I still don’t get it. I mean, okay, I can see tha
t he has the ability to be somewhat less constantly irritating than I have previously experienced. But that still doesn’t explain him being your grand passion. You loved everything cosmopolitan and sophisticated. Your favorite word was elegant. You wanted everything in your life to be beautiful. How did you end up with Wayne? I mean, seriously. Not being a total waste is one thing, I can see that he has some qualities, but that is a far leap to love of your life.

  “You’ll see.”

  I strip off my clothes, put my hair in a bun on top of my head, and lower myself into the steaming water. Suddenly I bolt upright.

  You don’t have some weird creepy fantasy about me getting together with Wayne, do you?

  “Okay, GROSS. If there weren’t a strict no-ralphing-in-heaven-policy, I would totally throw up right now. I just meant that you will see. You will eventually see why I adored him above all other people including you, and I hope you’ll see that you can have that too. With someone else. Because if you hook up with my not-so-merry widower, I will come back from the dead just to cut a bitch.”

  Thank god.

  I sink back into the water, letting the heat soak into my bones and relax my muscles.

  “AAAAHHHHH!” I yell as nearly fifty pounds of puppy lands on my chest, then slides half into the tub, freaks out, and scratches the bejesus out of me getting himself out of the tub.

  Nothing sexier than an overweight, naked, wet woman with red welts all over her torso and thighs chasing a soaking puppy all over the house. Wayne might not be as awful as I always thought, but this gift that keeps on giving that he has foisted upon my life is not exactly keeping him off my shit list.

  * * *

  By the time I get Chewbacca into his crate, a feat that takes the better part of a half an hour and four pieces of bologna, and clean up the broken vase in the hallway that fell off the table when Chewie slammed into it, my adrenaline is going. Despite the fact that it is now well after one in the morning, I’m wide awake. And I really don’t want to take a pill, because it’ll throw my whole day off tomorrow if I sleep till noon or something. I lie in bed, Volnay snoring on the pillow beside me, in the dark with my iPad, scrolling to see if there is anything I want to watch on my Netflix queue. Aimee convinced me not to put a television in my bedroom.

  “It’s dangerous. Bedrooms are for sleeping and sex. TV in the bedroom is not elegant.”

  But it is nice when you can’t sleep. Or when you’re sick.

  “You have that tablet thing for that. TV in the bedroom is a slippery slope. You should at least have to get out of bed to be a couch potato.”

  Nothing really sparks me on the queue, but I’m too lazy to get up and go downstairs to see if there is something good on the food channels or an infomercial I haven’t seen yet. I check my e-mail and decide to shoot off a note to thank Elliot.

  E-

  Just wanted to thank you so much for helping me with the book for Wayne. He really was very touched, and I think it was the perfect thing. You’re officially in trouble, since now I’m going to have to rely on you for all of his birthdays and Christmases in perpetuity. I really appreciate it, and hope your holiday was joyous.

  Best,

  Jenna

  I look at a food blog I love called Sassy Radish for a minute, thinking I might want to try the recipe for sweet potato, parsnip, and carrot latkes with harissa, when my e-mail dings.

  J-

  It was my absolute pleasure to be of assistance. And frankly, I’m delighted to think you would rely on me for anything. Did you just get back this late? I hope it was a good day, and not too marred by Aimee’s absence. I know that holidays always seem to intensify loss. My dad and brother and I always really miss Mom most at this time of year. I hope there was enough happy around you to keep things buoyant, or at least enough booze to make things joyful. Any chance I’ll be seeing you New Year’s?

  E

  That’s so sweet of him.

  E-

  Thanks for the thoughts; it was pretty joyful all things considered, even without getting overly boozily lubricated. And I’m so sorry; I didn’t realize your mom was gone. Were you able to be with your dad and brother today? Thank you so much for the New Year’s invite, I believe the plan is to lie low and have a fuddy-duddy New Year’s. Brian is just getting back from skiing that morning, so I don’t think he’ll be up for a party, I’m fairly doubtful we’ll even see midnight. But I’m sure you’ll have a great time!

  J

  J-

  I’m actually still here in sunny Missouri, driving back tomorrow. Mom passed away about ten years ago, but thank you for your kindness. Luckily my aunt hosts, dozens of cousins and an enormous ham, turkey with all the trimmings, and I make my famous gingerbread, and we stuff ourselves and sing carols, and we all wear horrific holiday sweaters and do a truly massive White Elephant swap. A good day. And just enough family time to appreciate them, and not get overly claustrophobic in the old twin bed. Sounds like a nice plan for you for New Year’s, but you’ll be missed.

  E

  E-

  Um, famous gingerbread? I didn’t know you cooked. Recipe, please.

  Your day sounds quite lovely. Although that many tacky holiday sweaters in one place might give me the heebie-jeebies. Which is probably a bad thing for a Jew to say, now that I look at it.

  Going to try and get some sleep, have a safe drive back tomorrow.

  HA! Never would have thought of that, but you’re right, looking at it is kinda funny.

  Sleep well, Jenna.

  E

  And then, surprisingly, I do.

  17

  I’m bundling myself up for the walk over to the Library. I’ve got confirmation that at the moment we are completely without customers, due I’m sure to the icky weather and the New Year’s preparations. No one ever needs last-minute New Year’s food books. But Chewie has never been there, and the trainer told me at puppy class last night that if there is a place I’m going to want him to spend a lot of time, I should acclimate him as soon as possible. He’s already met everyone except Lois, who apparently has baked a new batch of her famous peanut butter dog biscuits in his honor. The store is closing at three, but I want to get there this morning so that I’m home and settled before Brian gets there around two.

  And even though the weather is gross, I’m looking forward to getting out of the house. Yesterday was a bad day. Aimee’s birthday. She would have been forty-two.

  “Younger than you!”

  I turned forty-two the week before Aimee died. I didn’t even realize it was my birthday until my parents called to wish me a happy day.

  Aimee loved her birthday. And she never let anyone shirk on celebrating just because she was smack in the middle between Christmas and New Year’s. And god forbid you tried to pull the “I got you one bigger gift to cover both.”

  “Hey, they are not the same thing. Two different events. Two presents. That’s the rule. Anything else is bullshit.”

  Aimee always popped out of bed on her birthday bright eyed and full of glee and high expectations.

  I? Woke up yesterday with a horrible sinking feeling, rolled right over and went back to sleep. I slept the sleep of denial till nearly eleven, by which point Chewie had not only shit on the kitchen floor, he had apparently practiced his Ice Capades routine upon it, managing to get it well and truly spread around, ground into the wide grout on my terra-cotta floor, smeared on the kickplates of half the cabinets. After screaming at the poor dog and smacking him a good one on the snout with the New York Times Dining section, I spent a full hour and a half on my hands and knees weeping angry tears of frustration, scrubbing dog shit of a particularly foul nature, much of which had already dried to rock hardness while I was wallowing in bed trying not to think about all the birthdays Aimee would never have.

  By the time I was done, my hands were red and chapped from the scalding hot water I’d dosed with bleach, both my knees were black and blue and swollen, and Chewie was cowering in the living room. Wher
e he had peed right by the door, since in my eagerness to get the mess cleaned up, I had forgotten to do so much as let him out into the backyard. And then I really lost it. Spectacularly. Curled up in a fetal position on the living room floor, sobbing so hard I could barely breathe, the dolphin noises coming out of me horrifying both dogs, who ran around and around me, licking any skin they could find and whining.

  I eventually got up. Shook it off. Took a shower. Took some Advil. Then Brian called, and just when I needed someone to tell me that the whole thing was hilarious and a great story to bounce me out of my funk, he launched into another anti-Wayne, anti-dog tirade.

  “Seriously, Jenna, I know you don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, but enough is enough. You’re a grown woman. If you don’t want something in your life, you can do something about it. Half-Brain has to realize that he can’t just do these things that have such huge consequences for other people. Give him the dog back, tell him you’re sorry, explain to Noah it wasn’t a good fit, and be done with it.”

  “I can’t think about that right now.”

  “Well then, to a certain extent, you get what you deserve on this one. If you don’t have the courage to just say what you want and need, you live with the results.”

  “That’s a little harsh.”

  “Just the way I see it. Sorry you’re having a bad day. Really, I am. We’re heading out to the mountain. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon and hopefully the dog will behave himself between now and then, and we’ll have a very nice New Year’s.”

  And then he was gone. And I? Dove headfirst into a tub of mocha chip ice cream and a bag of salt and vinegar potato chips and ate my way out.

  It was, as they say, not a good day.

  But today, today is fine. I’ll take Chewie to the Library, and tell everyone about the literal shitstorm, and they’ll laugh and make me feel better, and then we’ll come home and Brian will come back and we’ll make the small prime rib I picked up. Brian requested old school New Year’s, and I’ve come up with what I think is the perfect menu. Iceberg wedges with a homemade Thousand Island dressing and bacon bits. Prime rib, slow roasted in a very forgiving technique I developed after years of trying to make it for weddings and parties where the timing of the meal can be drastically changed based on length of ceremony, or toasts, or how well the venue staff can change over a room. Twice-baked potatoes, creamed spinach. I have a stack of crepes already made, ready to be turned into crepes suzette with butter and brown sugar and orange zest and flambéed with Grand Marnier, because if you go old school, something needs to be set on fire. With homemade vanilla bean gelato to cut the richness, of course! I’ve got two bottles of vintage Krug, a bottle of thirty-year-old Giacosa Barolo red label, and a 1985 tawny port. I spent an insane amount of money over at Howard’s Wine Cellar, but hell, what’s the point of being a millionaire if I don’t drink ridiculously well now and again?