Dim Sum Dead (10 page)

“That’s it? He wins with an empty pot? Now
that
I don’t buy. He might have had more courage than the rest of those other wimps, but so what? That doesn’t show leadership ability. What do you think Bill Gates would say if one of his managers brought him an empty pot? I’ll tell you what he’d say: You’re fired. Let’s face it, Ping was a nice guy, salt of the earth, yadda, yadda, but he didn’t get the job done.”

I looked at Arlo. “His honesty was the most important quality.”

“Yes, I get the story, Mad. But I disagree, honey. Honesty sounds nice and everything, but it just does not play in our modern world. Results are what matter. If the emperor wanted flowers, then it’s the guy who brings him flowers that gets the job done. Anything else is just excuses.”

“Arlo!”

The waitress brought our late supper. Arlo took a look at his bun and made a sour face. “I thought I said no sesame seeds. Could you take this back?”

She looked down at the plate, and said, “Oh.” She squinted up at Arlo and looked like she was about to say something. Instead, she just turned around with his plate. It was at that moment I pushed my chair back.

“Mad? Hey! Where are you going?”

I grabbed my purse from the floor and stood up. I took one long last look at Arlo. I took it all in. His familiar funny handsome face. His tousled hair. His mouth. His wide shoulders beneath his designer blue-denim shirt. His slim waist, zipped into expensive jeans. His long, slender fingers with their nibbled fingernails. His Rolex. His “I ♥ El Lay” key ring with the keys to his Porsche. His dead cell phone.

I turned and walked away.

“Hey, Mad. What’s going on? Madeline!” Arlo had raised his voice a notch, getting the attention of just about everyone in the semifilled room.

I had made it about ten feet before I stopped and turned. “I just realized something. I’ve been with the wrong guy. I don’t need a guy with an Emmy and an ulcer. I need someone who can bring me an empty pot.”

“Madeline. That’s nuts.”

“Not to me.” I walked back to our table, flushing hot. I stood there, looking down upon him. Seeing him now. “Arlo. I want different things than you do, that’s all. I don’t know what took me so long to realize it. I just need something else.”

“You want kids? Is that it? You think you want a baby?”

“NO! I don’t want a baby!” I shouted. “I want honesty. That’s what that story was about, you moron! I want a little freaking honesty from the man I love.”

I looked up and realized everyone in the place had just clammed up, watching Arlo and me. Our waitress stood off to one side, holding the plate with Arlo’s hamburger and its new, de-seeded bun.

“I want an honest man, Arlo. I am in serious need of an honest individual who can eat a freaking hamburger with the works.”

“Mad. What exactly is going on here? First you drown my cell phone, then you insult my burger. Are you trying to tell
me something?” Arlo looked more upset than I can remember seeing him.

“We’re over, Arlo. We’re past tense. Get it now? We are done.” I turned and started to run.

“Wait. Are you saying you’re breaking up with me?”

And as I ran out the front door, as it slowly closed on its hinge behind me, I could hear a chorus of “YES!” ring out from the dozen of our disturbed fellow diners who all, apparently, got the message of
The Empty Pot.

Out on Riverside Drive, I took a deep breath of cool air. Okay, I could have managed that in a more dignified way. But damn. I felt good. A few cars cruised by on Riverside, but the street was generally empty. During the day, this street sees a lot of traffic. Its shops bustle. Its restaurants hum. But at night, everyone leaves their jobs in the nearby studios and heads home to the furthestmost burbs and hangs with their families. I heard the sound of an engine turning over from somewhere, but otherwise the street was pretty quiet. The Media District of Burbank kind of rolls up by nine, and the hubbub on its main drag dies down.

Still all pumped up from dumping Arlo, I took a deep breath and exhaled three years of my romantic life. Looking back at the doors to La Scala Presto, I knew Arlo was not going to follow me out, was not going to come rushing to stop me on the sidewalk, was not going to beg me to talk about it. Don’t get me wrong. I knew that beneath his shock, he was terribly hurt. On the other hand, the waitress had just delivered his hamburger.

The pitiful thing was, I understood his logic. Just like I knew he would be crying tonight, later, in private. I understood him, loved him, flaws and all. But the realization that I had never been half-so-well understood by Arlo in return hit me now, hard as a fist, choking me up all of a sudden. Blinking back tears, I turned to walk around the block to where I’ d left my car. I’ d parked it on Yucca up at the next corner.

That’s when I first saw her—a tiny thing, only just old enough to walk, dressed in miniature black leggings. I waited to see her mom coming after her. This intersection at
Riverside and Yucca was a fairly busy one. Even with the early-morning light traffic, I expected such an unsteady tot to have an adult by the hand.

The little black flare-legged pants got to me. I looked down at my own clothes. I had come straight from the Sweet and Sour Club party. I was still dressed in white V-neck tank top and black flare-leg pants.

The little girl tottered all the way to the corner, and I was beginning to feel a tiny ripple of alarm shoot up the back of my neck. The child, perhaps twelve months old, looked over to where I stood, sixty feet up the sidewalk.

“Hi!” I started walking toward her and she stood stockstill, big almond-shaped eyes fastened on mine.

What was she doing out here at night, anyway? Don’t babies go to sleep earlier than this? Shouldn’t she have a parent looking after her? As I slowly came closer she looked back down the side street, toward the spot beyond my vision where I presumed her adult must have been standing. I was just about to reach her at the corner and get a look down the side street. I felt like yelling a little at the idiot who would leave a baby alone so long on a major street corner.

The child had big, very dark eyes. Her deep bangs covered her forehead like thick, shiny fringe. As I approached, she backed up a few faltering steps, almost backing off the curb.

“Wait there, honey,” I said, in that singsong cartoon voice people use to talk to babies, an octave above normal speech. “Wait, wait, wait…” I crooned to her, as she teetered on the edge of the foot-high sidewalk curb.

Just when I needed it most, it became clear that I was lacking a vital rescue skill. I just don’t have that squeakyvoice thing down. Without friends who have babies, I’ve never practiced. Who knew it would be such a drawback? Shit!

“Wait there…”

The child took one more baby step backward. In an instant she tumbled down into the street.

“NO!”

I watched her fall, heard her cry out, and then I looked up.
An F-150, big and dark maroon, was just entering into the intersection. But, instead of driving straight in its lane, it began veering toward the curb. The truck crossed through the intersection, heading toward the fallen child. I processed all this in an instant. Man, he was going to pull it right up along the curbside, and crush her. I jumped down onto the asphalt, screaming and waving my arms. The truck’s brakes screeched. The baby wailed. I admit it—my pulse racing—I kept screaming, making eye contact with the man behind the wheel, reaching down for the little girl. Not quite clearing the intersection, the nose of the pickup truck came to a stop only a few feet from us as I scooped up the baby.

I was not processing input precisely. I didn’t think, oh my God, we were almost run over, instead I marveled at how light and how warm she was. Holding her to me safely, I jumped back up onto the sidewalk. But immediately, I was jolted by sound. I heard the explosive crunch of metal. The pickup truck, which had stopped in the intersection, had just been hit hard. Rear-ended. With the powerful momentum of the Corolla that smacked into it, the truck jumped forward, propelled curbward, coming at us again.

I hung on to the crying child and turned, moving as fast as I could away from the new threat. The impact of the collision had enough force to ram the truck to the curb and, in another second, lift it up and onto the sidewalk, just a few feet from us. I backed up as far as I could go—holding a crying, wriggling baby in my arms—pinned up against the stucco wall of the corner picture-frame shop. I could do nothing more than watch, horrified. The pickup truck came straight at us, still out of control. The driver, a man in his sixties, gave me frantic eyes from behind the windshield. He put up one hand in front of his face, unable to watch as he hit us. I turned away, shielding the crying baby with my body, but not before I saw his ring. On his pinky, a chunky golden ring. That’s what I had forgotten!

The F-150, I realized, had not struck me. I turned around to look. There, on the sidewalk, the maroon pickup had suddenly lurched to a stop, its front bumper only ten inches from my knee.

S
ometimes you have to believe in fate.

You don’t want to, of course. You want to be modern and cynical and scientific—that is, if, like me, you’d been raised by rational, unromantic parents in the Midwestern suburbs. As life goes on, if things occasionally seem odd and even a bit overly coincidental, you don’t wig out and go all Mulder. You remind yourself about laws of probability and mathematics and odds. You want to believe in randomness, in one-out-of-a-bazillion chances, in luck. But then sometimes, maybe when you are least expecting it, like when you are standing on some odd Burbank street corner, hugging a little girl you hadn’t known existed only moments earlier, some unsettling “fateful” thoughts may come to mind. At such a moment, you might start to lose a bit of your Scully cool.

What if?

What if, say, I had not gone out to dinner. What if I had not dropped a particular object (blue Ericsson X12) into a particular drink (large, full, just Sweet ‘n Low’ d)? What if I had not told Arlo good-bye, and walked out before tasting my Leon Chop Salad with chicken, what then? Was every choice, every decision, and every act leading to that one moment at the curb? Does all the stuff, both good and bad, that happens to us in our seemingly random lives nudge us in a very specific direction?

The baby I was holding in my arms began to settle down. My heart was still pumping hard. My hair felt damp with
perspiration. My ankle throbbed from where I’d nicked it early this morning. I must have scraped it again when I jumped back onto the sidewalk.

Around us, I began to notice a lot of noise. The driver of the truck seemed to be yelling how sorry he was. There were people coming out of a couple of restaurants on the block, attracted by the nauseating crunch of fenders. Voices shouted, “Are you all right?”

I put the child down. Unaccustomed as I was to such intimate baby contact, I didn’t want to intrude on her space. But as soon as I put her down she put her hands up, looking at me.

“Caroline! Oh my god. Oh my God.” The NBC guy pushed through the little throng. He looked out of his mind. Truly.

“Is she yours?” I realized my throat hurt. From screaming probably.

“Oh my God.” The NBC guy picked up his daughter. “She was asleep in her car seat. I didn’t want to wake her, you know? I was only going for a quick salad. Oh my god. My wife is working late, so I…I just thought the baby would be more comfortable with her seat belt loose. She’s only fourteen months.”

“You left her in your car?”

“She was sleeping, and I was only gone fifteen minutes. I didn’t want to wake her. How did she open the car door?” He held his daughter gently. He kissed the fine black hair on the top of her head. She looked comfortable now, and unconcerned.

“Where were you?” I asked, astonished at his stupidity. “She could have been…” Well, there was really no reason to point out the obvious. Besides, I saw something on that foolish NBC guy’s face that one rarely observes. I saw him get it.

“I came out here. I checked on her. But then I had to finish a call.”

“You what?” I asked.

He looked at me, frantic. “It was an idiotic call. I was mad
and getting loud, you know. I didn’t want to wake her up. I just walked around the block to finish it. When I came back around the corner, I heard the noise over here. I had no idea Caroline was involved. How could I have known she would…?” There were tears in his eyes. “…that she wouldn’t be safe?”

“Well, she’s okay.” I said, feeling the energy sap out of my limbs. “She’s okay now.” People do dumb things. It happens. And who ever expects such danger waits on a quiet night like this?

“I know you,” he said, as the sound of a police siren wailed in the distance, growing louder. “You did a party. You’re…” He shook his head.

“Madeline Bean.”

“Yes.” He looked at me again and then he looked at the smashed truck perched awkwardly up on the sidewalk. “I will never forget this.”

I felt a little weak. I looked for Arlo among the small crowd, but he wasn’t there.

“I’ll never forget this,” the father said. “Never. I’m…Can I do something for you? I mean to thank you?”

“Why don’t you take a little time off work?” I suggested.

The baby began to close her eyes, her head heavy on his shoulder. He shifted her in his arms so she’d be in a more comfortable position.

“I’m going to quit.”

“You are?”

“I have never been so sure of any decision in my life.”

I nodded and told him, good for you, but I knew. It was only the fear talking. He had made a mistake that almost couldn’t be taken back. But in time, in a few hours or a few days, he’d remember his other fears—the payments due on his BMW and his mortgage and his MasterCard. He’d be overcome again with the fear that the network’s new pilots were crap, or that the fall season would tank and someone would figure out that programming executives like him were just gamblers, guessing and playing for time.

And yet. Wait. I was beginning to see past my pat, cynical
side, wasn’t I? I was. And, I figure, if you’re going to turn to the freaky side and start believing in fate, you have to remain open to the entire woven entity that is life.

If it was fate that drove me to break up with Arlo at exactly the moment in time that would propel me to that one particular street corner whereupon a child’s life was teetering, then wasn’t it equally possible—probable, really—that the father of that child was meant to learn this sickening lesson at just this moment in his life?

I watched the shaky NBC guy cradle his daughter. I had to have hope. I had to hope he would wise up. I had to hope this fateful “hand from hell” would slap him awake, here in the middle of the night. Perhaps now he’d realize that he owed more to this little one than he did to the American viewing public. He owed her an entire lifetime of caring and tending. I hoped he’d retain, at the very least, the vivid memory of how much she needed him.

Which is why, friends and neighbors, I do not long for babies. Having children is a shattering responsibility. I bit my lip, knowing I wasn’t ready to take it on, wondering if I ever would be.

In this mood, I started home. I had frankly had enough of this day. More than enough. Lee Chen’s warning of an accident. How do you explain that? On the other hand, what about her predictions of stability. Of happy me and happy Arlo in our happy home with our two happy babies?

I pulled into my little cul-de-sac, weary and sad. But, I soon realized, not alone.

Out on the steps that lead up to my front door, someone sat and waited. In the dim light, I couldn’t be sure. But perhaps Arlo, after all, had decided…

As I pulled into my driveway, my headlights swung two arcs of white light across the tile-and-stucco steps.

Chuck Honnett was sitting there at 2
A.M.
, waiting.

For me.