Aftertaste (30 page)

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Authors: Meredith Mileti

BOOK: Aftertaste
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“Nothing. He just let out a little wine.”
Richard lets out a guffaw. He's startled by the stream of urine suddenly escaping his body and struggles to bring himself under control.
“I don't think I've ever heard you tell a joke before,” Richard says, as the two of us hobble back to his bed, exhausted.
“I don't think I've ever told a joke before, at least not as an adult,” I say.
Richard stops and turns to look at me. “Well, you have fine comedic timing, my dear. Where did you come up with that one?”
“
The Big Golden Book of Jokes,
” I tell him.
“You bought a book?”
“Yup, I sure did. At the variety store.”
We arrive at the side of the bed. Richard begins to pivot a fraction of a second too early, landing on the bed with a thud and bringing me down on top of him. His face is grim, but he wraps his arms around me and kisses me roughly on the top of my head.
“I hope you bought the unabridged edition. I think we're going to need it.”
 
Chloe wakes early the next morning. The move and the new surroundings have unsettled her. I bring her into bed with me, hoping she'll go back to sleep, but she doesn't, which means neither can I. Chloe has been out of sorts for the last several days. She, like Richard, is a creature of habit, wanting order restored to her baby world but being unable to ask for it, instead communicating her desire in tetchy cries, shortened naps, and fitful sleeps. Today is Wednesday, Gymboree day. Unfortunately, though, the move has put me behind in my research—three hundred and fifty words and four recipes on low-fat Southwestern favorites due on Monday—and I really should spend the day cooking and writing. But we haven't been there in almost a month, and I wonder if Chloe misses it.
I haven't left Richard alone yet, except to run across the street to the market, but Gymboree is across town so we'll be gone at least a couple of hours. When Richard awakens, I feed him and Katherine their morning eggs, and we spend some time reviewing the buzzer system, so that Richard can let his physical therapist in at noon. I tuck his cell phone and a bottle of water into a small canvas bag attached to his wheelchair. Richard wheels himself over to where he has his set of Steelers DVDs spread out across the entire length of the twin-sized hospital bed.
“I'm looking for the San Diego game, from the '75 season. See if you can find it for me, will you?”
“Are you sure you're going to be okay?”
Richard doesn't answer, but nods, fumbling with his headphones.
“What if you have to go to the bathroom?” I ask, worrying about the sixteen-ounce bottle of water I've just tucked into Richard's bag.
“I won't,” he says, trying to untangle the cord to the headset.
“You don't have to wear those. No one else is here.”
“I know. I like them,” Richard says, putting them on.
“But you might not hear the buzzer if your therapist comes early.”
Richard looks up at me and smiles sweetly, holding his hand to his ear and pretending not to have heard me. “I'll be fine. Go. Please,” Richard says too loudly, having found and inserted his DVD.
In the month since Chloe's last Gymboree class, her sense of balance has become more refined. To my surprise and her delight, she is now able to climb the five steps of the slide holding on to me with only one hand. When she positions herself at the top of the slide, I hover near her, my arm outstretched, careful not to touch her, but she soon grows impatient with my hovering and reaches over to push my arm away.
“No,” she says, frowning at me.
“A clear and assertive ‘no.' Quite unlike her mother, I see.” I looked around the gym at the beginning of class and didn't see Neil and Eli, so I'm surprised when I turn around to find them standing right behind me.
“Hi,” I say, surprised. “I didn't see you.”
“We're starting on potty training. We've spent most of the class in the little boys' room,” Neil says, placing a hand on the small of his back and stretching. “Man, those potties are low.”
I smile at him, feeling suddenly awkward.
“I've left you several messages,” Neil says. “And I haven't heard from you, well, unless you count the thank you note. I guess I should take the hint.”
Since I deleted Neil's message a couple of weeks ago, he's called me three more times, calls which, largely because of Richard, I've been too busy to return. “I'm sorry. A friend of mine had—”
“I know,” Neil says. “Your friend, Ruth, mentioned it. I'm sorry about Richard. We met at Chloe's party, remember?”
I nod.
Ruth hadn't mentioned that Neil was asking about me, hardly surprising given the circumstances. Although Ruth and I had made up, we seem to have agreed tacitly not to mention Neil, and I haven't been to Gymboree since the accident. In the scope of things, the life and death matters of the last few weeks have overshadowed any potential romantic entanglements. Still, it must have been painful for Ruth to have had to field Neil's questions.
“I've been preoccupied,” I tell him. “I'm sorry.”
“Well, at least you were able to get those thank you notes written,” Neil says, with a tight smile.
I'd written the notes while sitting at Richard's bedside waiting to see if he would ever emerge from his coma. When Eli begins tugging urgently on Neil's pant leg, he gives me a curt nod. “Excuse us,” Neil says formally. “Nature calls. Again.”
We avoid each other for the rest of the class.
During “The Bubble Song,” I sneak little glances at Neil, who steadfastly refuses to look in our direction. Eli, who looks nothing like Neil, sits on his father's lap and rests his head on Neil's chest. Apart from noticing Eli's red hair and freckles, I hadn't really realized how little they resembled each other. How does it make Neil feel to look into his son's eyes and see his wife? Does he find it comforting or is it a constant reminder of his loss? I cannot presume to imagine which, but it makes me thankful that Chloe looks like me.
chapter 27
The primary responsibilities of a sous-chef are to anticipate the chef's needs and to do all the uninteresting tasks competently and without complaint. Richard is failing miserably. His physical therapist noted on his progress report that he needs to be using his right side more and that anything I can do to encourage him would be beneficial. So I've put him to work soaking corn husks and ripping dozens of little strands with which to tie low-fat tamales.
“I couldn't do this before my accident. What makes you think I should be able to do it now?”
“Stop complaining. If you were in my kitchen, I'd fire you.”
“I am in your kitchen,” Richard says petulantly. “Besides, I don't even like tamales.”
“Too bad. It's what's for dinner. I've got to get this column finished, and I need to test these recipes.”
He ruins the next two husks, deliberately, I suspect. His lips are set in a grim line, and his hands curl into small, loose fists as he weakly pounds the table. “Okay, okay, I think that's enough. Thanks, Richard,” I tell him.
He removes his apron, dusts off his paisley bathrobe, and tries not to look smug as he wheels himself over to the window where he begins pawing through a stack of library books Fiona has brought him.
I'm just in the process of filling the last of the corn husks with the masa harina when the door buzzes. It's Ben Stemple, a tool chest in one hand and a couple of brown paper bags in the other.
“I was in the neighborhood and I remembered that I never activated the water lines on that pasta spigot. I thought I'd stop by, hook 'em up for you. I've given up on your promise to cook me dinner, so I brought my own,” Ben says, depositing the two large, grease-stained paper bags on the counter. “I'm willing to share, but I'm warning you, it's not up to your standards. I got it from that little Oriental cart on Twentieth. I'm not exactly sure what it is, though. My Chinese is a little rusty. And since I had no idea what kind of wine you drink with Chinese, this is what I came up with,” Ben says, pulling a six-pack of Sapporo from another brown paper bag. “I figured Japan was close enough.”
He stops short when he sees Richard in his bathrobe in the wheelchair. “Oh, I didn't know you had company.”
I make the introductions.
Richard sits up a little straighter in his chair, runs a hand through his wispy hair, and adjusts his paisley robe before shaking Ben's hand.
“If this is a bad time . . .” Ben says, looking from Richard to me, a puzzled expression on his face.
“No, not at all,” Richard says. “Hurry up on that spigot and maybe I'll be spared the low-fat tamales.”
Ben looks at me.
“No, really, it's great,” I tell him. “The kitchen is a bit of a mess, but do a good job and I'll pay you in tamales.”
“Deal, but you have to promise at least to try the stir-fried pigeon. It's a real delicacy, and besides, you'll be doing your part to help keep the neighborhood pest free,” he says, winking at me.
 
After dinner, Ben does the dishes while I put Chloe to sleep in the upstairs loft. When I come downstairs, Richard is propped up in bed reading
Lord of the Flies.
“I'd forgotten what a perfectly vile book this is,” Richard calls from the living room, mid-yawn. “I can't believe they assign this book to children. It's a wonder teachers don't have more sense.” He holds the book at arm's length, examining the cover.
“Where did you get that?” I ask.
“It was in the bag of books Fiona brought. I told her I wanted to read some of the classics, but I was thinking more along the lines of Henry James or Tolstoy,” he says, peering at us from over the rims of his reading glasses.
Ben, who is in the midst of drying dishes, studies Richard with a slightly bemused expression. Throughout dinner, a mismatched hodgepodge of ethnic food—Mexican, Chinese, and Italian—I'd gotten the feeling he was trying to find out who Richard is.
By the time we've finished the dishes, Richard is snoring, gently riffling the pages of
Lord of the Flies,
which lies open on his chest, with each prolonged exhale. I should be working on my column, a draft of which I'd hoped to finish tonight, but when Ben pops the lids on the last two beers, I take the one he offers me and lead the way out onto the balcony.
“The tamales were great,” Ben says, stepping outside. “The pigeon, not so good.”
I don't have any furniture outside yet so we sit on the floor, our backs up against the wall, our feet stretched out against the railing. Ben leans over and shuts the balcony door with the toe of his work boot. “So we won't disturb your, ah, friend?” he asks, gesturing toward Richard, who is sleeping just inside the doorway.
“Richard? You won't disturb him. Not unless you're planning to release a nuclear weapon. He's a very sound sleeper,” I tell him.
“Aunt Fi mentioned you've been friends for years, but is he—are you—?” He waits, hoping, I suspect, that I will fill in the blank. I don't. Ben sips his beer and peers thoughtfully at me.
“I've known Richard most of my life. He's an old friend,” I tell him, smiling. I'm deliberately being evasive because I'm enjoying the fact that Ben seems to be working so hard to find out.
“Just an old friend?” Ben asks.
“He had an accident and lives alone. It's easier for him to recuperate here with me and Chloe.”
“You're a really good friend,” he says, moving toward me. Ben's lips are dry and warm. and his kiss is teasing, his soft lips brushing mine, then pulling away. He kisses me again, lightly, gently, burying his face in my neck and my hair, before returning to my mouth. I can taste beer, breath mints, and something deeper, sweeter, like carrots maybe, and it seems the most delicious thing I've ever tasted. I want to give in to it, to eat my fill of him. Suddenly, he breaks away, and we part, like boxers in a ring leaning back against the brick, panting.
“I'm sorry,” Ben says quietly. “I've wanted to do that ever since the day I first met you. It was those damn bubbles.”
Despite the fact that I've enjoyed flirting with Ben, looked forward to it, really, his kisses have taken me by surprise.
I've gone years without another man besides Jake being interested in me, and I'm flustered by the sudden attention. I'm not sure how I feel about Ben and the possibility of anything more, but I owe it to him—and myself—to try to figure it out.
“Ben, I don't know if—” The words leave my mouth reluctantly, as if I'm speaking a harsh and unfamiliar language.
When I'm unable to finish, he sighs. “Who am I kidding? I'm not in your league.” His tone is nonchalant, but I can tell he's hurt. “You know I Googled you,” he says, sitting back against the wall and picking up his beer.
“You did?” I ask, surprised. “Why?”
“I wanted to get the scoop on you. You know, you're not exactly forthcoming with the personal details.” He looks at me, juts his head in Richard's direction, and shrugs. “Read a bunch of articles about you. Checked out Grappa. You're pretty big-time.” He drains his beer and stands up. “I better get going. Gotta hit the slag heap early tomorrow. Thanks for dinner, Mira,” Ben says. He offers his hand and pulls me to my feet. I'm hoping he will kiss me again, but he doesn't.
After Ben leaves, I make myself a cup of peppermint tea to try to quell the churning in my stomach. I turn on the computer and pull up the draft of the column I'd begun earlier, but it's no use. I can concentrate on only one thing, and it isn't low-fat tamales.
But, no matter how much I'd enjoyed Ben's kisses, I couldn't bear the thought of running into him at various birthday parties, holidays, and family occasions if things didn't work out between us. Because, however mismatched, the relationship between Fiona and my father seems to be thriving. Since I moved out last week, it's pretty obvious that Fiona has moved in. When we stopped over the other day, I couldn't help but notice my mother's china cabinet has been totally emptied and is now filled with Fiona's rather peculiar collection of crockery, plates, shot glasses, salt and pepper shakers, and other assorted knickknacks collected from her various travels. There's no trace at all of my mother's antique china, which I'd never really liked. Even so, it's a little hard to stomach its being replaced by a “What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas” commemorative nut dish.
And as if that wasn't reason enough, there's this: Despite my recent real estate purchase, I still haven't given up the thought that Chloe and I will return to New York someday. Even with overseeing Richard's recuperation, working on the column, and caring for Chloe, there's a certain restlessness I can't deny. Enid had been right; something's missing.
Earlier, Ben had said he found me by Googling me. I'm no stranger to Google, but I've never Googled myself, so before tackling my column I type in my name and hit Enter. Eighty-four hits. I click on the first one. Sure enough, there's a picture of me, a younger, fitter Mira, along with a short, and now significantly outdated, bio. There's also a picture of Grappa, taken from the street in springtime. The window boxes are in bloom. It was before we'd made much money, so I'd planted them myself. Though you can't see them in the picture, mixed in with the flowers are herbs and other edibles, thyme, rosemary, purple basil, and nasturtiums, whose cascading leaves hid tiny pockets of orange buds.
I click on the picture and peer at the screen, needing to see the pits in the front door that became more visible when I painted it with a glossy paint by mistake, and the brass kick plate I installed myself because Jake has always been hopeless with a screwdriver. I hadn't remembered those things until I looked at this photograph, and suddenly I'm afraid that I will forget them. I hadn't taken enough pictures of Grappa, and I feel grateful to have stumbled upon the gift of this outdated photo lingering in cyberspace, almost as precious as any baby picture of Chloe's.
Next, I Google Jake. There's a picture of him, a recent one. His hair is longer and swept away from his face. Underneath his bio are links to both Grappa and Il Vinaio. I click on the Il Vinaio link and find a picture of Jake and Nicola standing in an unfamiliar dining room. It looks like any of a hundred restaurants I've been to in my life, but despite the fact that I have no real connection to the space, I still feel a pang, a catch in my chest at the sight of Jake smiling into the camera, his arm resting across Nicola's shoulders. Nicola's face looks softer, rounder than I'd remembered it.
Once I start, I cannot seem to stop, Googling everyone I can think of: Richard, smiling in a yellow shirt and paisley ascot on his Web page; Dr. D-P, who, I learn, is president of her synagogue and a squash player. Even my father has a bio listing two of his most recent publications alongside a picture that looks like it could be from his high school graduation; he's still got hair and is wearing heavy black-framed glasses.
No one bothers to update a Web page with bad news. You don't fill in “I got fired” in between your job as chef de cuisine of the French Laundry and your next position as president of the Culinary Institute of America. You wait for the next best thing to happen to you before you update your Internet bio, each of us stopping at our last, best time. Ruth, Enid, Neil—all can be Googled. The only person I can think of who can't be Googled is Ben. Even Fiona, in a fuchsia sweater and matching lipstick, is smiling from the CMU Chemistry Department staff page. I try Ben, Benjamin, even the name of his plumbing company, Stemple Plumbing, but there's nothing. No record of his last, best time, and for that I envy him. He can fall asleep each night thinking maybe it hasn't happened yet.

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