Authors: Evan Marshall
Crushing Crystal (21 page)
“Wonderful! Wonderful!” Gita shouted as the class spilled vegetable scraps on the floor, and dripped raw egg all over her countertops.
At the end of the class we got to eat our omelets, which I must say wasn't an especially rewarding part of the class. But Gita insisted that we eat every bit of the eggs we cooked blindly. “However these may taste to you, today's omelets are the most delicious omelets you will ever eat in your life,” she proclaimed dramatically.
I think not, Gita. My omelet has more blood in it than egg.
When I returned home that night, I called Sophie and told her about the cooking class. “You've got to leave your business cards at the Y,” I told her. “Sooner or later, someone's going to lose a finger, and with your luck it'll be a pianist.” Then I cooked what was truly the best omelet I've ever made before. And I did so with my eyes wide open.
Chapter 22
I
t was Sunday morning and I had four days to kill before leaving for Los Angeles. Jennifer and Adrian were off to see
Sunset Boulevard
. Sophie was spending the day with Oscar and Devy. The guys were on a weekend getaway to South Beach. And Matt was in France shooting the final scenes of
Sour Milk.
t was Sunday morning and I had four days to kill before leaving for Los Angeles. Jennifer and Adrian were off to see
Sunset Boulevard
. Sophie was spending the day with Oscar and Devy. The guys were on a weekend getaway to South Beach. And Matt was in France shooting the final scenes of
Sour Milk.
I had already visited practically every gallery in the tristate area over the last few weeks. I had read every book on my list. I even scanned Reilly's back issues of
Men's Health
one lonely night.
Men's Health
one lonely night.
After
Meet the Press
, all that was left on television was the all-dolls edition of the Home Shopping Network, basketball, and
Brady Bunch
reruns. While flipping channels I came dangerously close to calling Dionne Warwick's Psychic Friends, and if I didn't already own a ThighMaster, I would have ordered one. I watched an old guy who was way too excited about something called the Juice Weasel. After that I actually watched the second half of a
Flintstones
episode.
Meet the Press
, all that was left on television was the all-dolls edition of the Home Shopping Network, basketball, and
Brady Bunch
reruns. While flipping channels I came dangerously close to calling Dionne Warwick's Psychic Friends, and if I didn't already own a ThighMaster, I would have ordered one. I watched an old guy who was way too excited about something called the Juice Weasel. After that I actually watched the second half of a
Flintstones
episode.
Since it was Sunday, I couldn't even go to the post office to collect the last of the singles letters for Reilly, and take comfort in the fact that there were hundreds of women in New York who were even lonelier than me.
The next call I made was my last resort.
“Prudence, what an unexpected surprise.”
“Hello, Father. What are you up to?”
“I'm not up to anything, Prudence,” he defended.
“No, I mean what are you doing today?”
“I was going to go out on the boat this afternoon. Why do you ask?”
“Oh nothing, I was just going to invite you in to the city for lunch or something,” I said.
“That sounds great, Prudence. Do you want me to come in, or would you like to spend some time on the
Little Mermaid?
Everyone around here thinks it's too cold to go out on the water.”
Little Mermaid?
Everyone around here thinks it's too cold to go out on the water.”
“I get seasick, remember? You come to me.”
“Okay,” he said. “Is everything okay?”
“It's fine. I'm just bored and thought you might want to blow a few hours together.”
“I can't think of a better way to blow my time, Prudence. Where do you want to meet? What would you like to do?” he asked. Already, he was too much for me.
“I'm not sure. Why don't you just swing by the loft and we'll decide then, okay?”
“Okay.”
About an hour later, Father rang the downstairs buzzer and I rang him in. “Wow, this is some apartment,” he said, looking around.
“You've never been to my home?”
“Not inside,” he reminded me.
“Oh, well come on in. I'll pour a few drinks and we'll figure out where we want to go.”
“Can I sit in these chairs?” he asked. “They look like museum pieces.”
“Aren't they fabulous? Chad and Dan's friend Rodrigo carved this, and another local guy did the maple one. Sit, sit, they can take your best shot.”
“Chad and Dan are friends of yours I assume?” Father asked.
“Yeah, they own the gallery downstairs. Well, technically Chad owns it but, you know, what's his is his and all that. So how's retirement treating you, Father?”
“It's a little soon to tell really, but I'm looking forward to traveling. Did I tell you that Carla and I are going to Europe this June for a music festival of some sort? I really couldn't tell you the name, but you know how Carla loves music.”
“Um, no actually I didn't.”
“Really? She's a classical violinist. I thought you knew that. She graduated from Juilliard, you know?”
Carla graduated from Juilliard?
“Carla graduated from Juilliard? Carla your wife?”
Father laughed. “Oh yes, she's really quite gifted. I think she would have been an outstanding performer if, well, you know. I don't think she has any regrets though. She loves being a mother, and teaching has been very rewarding.”
“Teaching?”
“Teaching. Yes, she teaches violin,” Father told me.
“Wow, who'd of thunk it?” I said, chewing the celery of my Bloody Mary. “So how'd you guys meet anyway?”
“Oh Prudence, I don't really want to rehash all this old stuff,” Father said.
“Give me a break. I know you guys hooked up while you were still with Mom. Just tell me where you met her.”
He sighed in concession and finished his drink. “Can I get a refill please, Pru?”
“Can I get an answer, Father?” I said as I stirred my own drink.
“Carla was an intern at Phil's and I met her,” he said.
“Phil? Chamber Orchestra Phil? Wait a second, did you say she was an intern? Oh Father, that's so Bill Clinton of you. You've got to be kidding. She was an intern?!” I burst into laughter. Composing myself, I continued, “Okay, okay I'm sorry, so what next? She comes up to you and says âWanna see my thong?' How does it go from there?”
I had somewhat mixed emotions over the fact that his story of meeting and falling in love with Carla sounded almost cute and romantic. His gaze left my apartment and took him back twenty-five years ago to a time when a spark plug of a young woman laughed at his insights, challenged his politics and made him feel young.
He laughed remembering one of their dates. “One day we were on our way out to dinner after her music class and it was pouring rain,” he began. “We're waiting forever for a cab like everyone else in the city. So along comes this checker cab and we're thrilled because we're soaking wet, and starving and I've got to catch the eight-forty train back home, and this big burly guy runs right in front of us and grabs our cab. So I'm thinking, just let it go, there will be another cab. This guy looks pretty big and not like someone I want to mess around with. So then Carla gets right up in his face and starts in. âWhat is it about you that makes you so important that you can have
my
cab?' So the guy kind of laughs and goes for the door handle when Carla makes this insane face and grits her teeth. Then she holds up her violin case and says to me, âBoss, this guy ain't respecting you. Lemme open this baby up and show him why I'm called The Fiddler.'”
my
cab?' So the guy kind of laughs and goes for the door handle when Carla makes this insane face and grits her teeth. Then she holds up her violin case and says to me, âBoss, this guy ain't respecting you. Lemme open this baby up and show him why I'm called The Fiddler.'”
“Carla said this?” I asked.
“Not only did she say it, she had a perfect
Godfather
accent.”
Godfather
accent.”
“So what did you say?”
“I didn't say a thing,” he recalled. “The guy couldn't figure out if she was kidding or not so he just told us to take the cab. And he apologized.”
“Wow. Carla Gambino,” I laughed.
Father's grin disappeared only when he returned to the present to explain to me that his marriage with my mother had been in trouble for many years before. “I never wanted to hurt your mother, but our marriage was very empty. She'll be the first one to tell you that.”
“But you didn't just leave Mom,” I told him, fighting not to let my voice flutter.
“Well,” Father said, looking down at his shoes. “Carla got pregnant and I had to make a choice. The original plan was that I would stay with your mother until you went to college, but then, well, I wanted to do the right thing by the baby.”
Each word was like someone blowing air into a balloon in my throat.
“It was a hard choice to make, Prudence. You've got to believe me when I tell you that. It was the toughest choice of my life.”
“But you chose the baby over me,” I reminded him.
“No, I chose Carla over your mother. I didn't think I'd have to choose between my children. I wanted you to be a part of my life, Prudence, but you would have nothing to do with me. I called constantly. Day after day, you got on the phone, said two words to me and hung up. Do you remember what those words were?”
Sperm Donor.
“Sperm donor. You called me a sperm donor,” he said.
Still do sometimes.
“Then you didn't even call me that. You just refused to come to the phone. You wanted nothing to do with me.”
“You should have tried harder. I was only twelve, of course I wanted something to do with you, you were my father. I wanted you to win me back, to make it up to me, to convince me that you still loved me, but you just gave up and disappeared,” I said, immediately regretting the disclosure. I wished this was the sort of thing Father could've figured out on his own.
“You're right, Prudence. I should have tried harder. Walking away for all those years is one of my greatest regrets in life. I am ashamed of how I behaved,” he said, his eyes welling with tears. “I can't tell you how many nights . . . ”
No, don't cry. Please don't cry, Father. Don't look at him. Think about something else. The Juice Weasel is no ordinary juicer. Its high-speed blades help get the most possible juice out of every single vegetable, which means more nutritious vitamins for you and your family . . .
“. . . were unbearable, but I've changed and grown a lot over the years and I want to make it up to you now. Can't you see how hard I'm trying now?” His confessions pulled me like an ocean current, stronger than me and impossible to fight. As much as I tried, I couldn't keep myself on the shore.
“Yes, I see that you're making an effort, but it's very hard for me to trust you, Father. I can't promise that I ever will. Do you know what it was like when I graduated from Michigan and everyone assumed Wally was my father? I didn't correct anyone because how could I explain that you wanted to go on an Indian Princess camping trip more than watch me graduate from college?”
“I had no idea it was so important to you. I didn't think you really wanted me there,” he said.
“Father, the only thing harder than sending you the invitation and admitting that I wanted you there was your telling me you were busy that weekend. You even made some offhand comment about the preteen years being really important for Ashley and you to bond. Do you have any idea how that made me feel? Every time I have opened the door to let you in, you've turned away. At least when I shut you out, the choice is mine.”
I've said too much already. Vilma told me never to undress on demand and yet I am emotionally stark naked right now because Father decided he wanted to have a heart-to-heart. Change topics immediately. The weather. His travel plans. The Juice Weasel if we must.
“Anyway, so Paige got into Brown, huh? You and Carla must be proud.”
“I'd be a lot prouder if she stopped hanging around with these hoodlums,” he said. “They all look dead to me with that black hair and those pale faces. She's got a boyfriend who has a pierced tongue and eyebrow, and every time Paige buys a pair of pantyhose, she comes home and immediately starts ripping them to shreds before she'll wear them.”
I love you, Paige!!!!!
“Lots of kids are into the gothic look these days, Father. It's not a big deal. Listen, if she got into Brown, she's obviously got her head screwed on straight. Give the kid a break about her clothes. Believe me, by the time she gets out of Brown, she'll be into something new. She'll probably head the campus Young Republicans by her sophomore year.”
“Then she's really in for it,” Father said.
“So where is this music festival that you and Carla are going to in June?”
Not Italy, not Italy. Anywhere but Italy.
“Paris,” Father answered.
Merciful mother of God, I praise thee.
“Carla wants to spend the entire month touring France. Who knows where we'll end up, though.” Father walked to the kitchen and poured himself another drink. “Another for you?” he offered.
“Thanks.”
“So where's Reilly off to these days?” Father asked. I hadn't thought about whether or not I was going to tell him about our separation. I decided I'd give him the bare minimum information. Just as much as he needed to know.
“Reilly doesn't live here anymore,” I said.
He raised his eyebrows, surprised. “Really? Since when? Why did he leave?”
“Why do you assume he left?” I shot. “Maybe I kicked him out.”
“You kicked him out? What did he do?”
“I didn't kick him out,” I said. “It was a mutual thing. We both decided it would be a good idea for him to move out.” Then for no reason, I simultaneously laughed and cried as I said, “Seeing how I'm getting married to someone else in a few months.”
“What?!” Father asked, handing me a tissue from his coat pocket. “What are you talking about, marrying someone else? Who else are you marrying?”
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