Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant (20 page)

Ruth’s reality, after his week of dreaming, struck him like a blow. She seemed clearer, plainer, harder edged than anybody he’d known. She wore jeans and a shirt of some ugly brown plaid. She was so absorbed in her game that she hardly glanced up when Cody walked in. “Ruth,” he said, and he held out the flowers. “These are for you.” She looked at them, and then drew a card.

“What are they?” she asked.

“Wel , roses.”

“Roses? This early in the year?”

“Greenhouse roses. I especial y ordered copper, to go with your hair.”

“You leave my hair out of this,” she said.

“Honey, he meant it as a compliment,” Ezra told her.

“Oh.”

“Certainly,” said Cody. “See, it’s my way of saying welcome. Welcome to our family, Ruth.”

“Oh. Wel , thanks.”

“Cody, that was awful y nice of you,” Ezra said.

“Gin,” said Ruth.

Late that afternoon, when it was time to go to the restaurant, Cody walked over with Ruth and Ezra. He’d had a long, immobile day— standing outside other people’s lives, mostly—and he needed the exercise.

It had been raining, off and on, and there were puddles on the sidewalk. Ruth strode straight through every one of them, which was fine since her shoes were brown leather combat boots. Cody wondered if her style were deliberate.

What would she do, for instance, if he gave her a pair of high-heeled evening sandals?

The question began to fascinate him. He became obsessed; he developed an almost physical thirst for the sight of her blunt little feet in silver straps.

There was no explaining his craving for the gigantic watch

—black faced and intricately calibrated, capable of withstanding a deep-sea dive —whose stainless steel expansion band hung loose on her wiry wrist.

Ezra had his pearwood recorder. He played it as he walked, serious and absorbed, with his lashes lowered on his cheeks. “Le Godiveau de Poisson,” he played.

Passersby looked at him and smiled. Ruth hummed along with some notes, fel into her own thoughts at others. Then Ezra put his recorder in the pocket of his shabby lumber jacket, and he and Ruth began discussing the menu.

It was good they were serving the rice dish, Ruth said; that always made the Arab family happy. She ran her fingers through her sprouty red hair. Cody, walking on the other side of her, felt her shift of weight when Ezra circled her with one arm and pul ed her close.

In the restaurant, she was a whirlwind. Ezra cooked in a dream, tasting and reflecting; the others (losers, al of them, in Cody’s opinion) floated around the kitchen vaguely, but Ruth spun and pounced and jabbed at food as if doing battle.

She was in charge of a chicken casserole and something that looked like potato cakes. Cody watched her from a corner wel out of the way, but stil people seemed to keep tripping over him.

“Where did you learn to cook?” he asked Ruth.

“No place,” she said.

“Is this chicken some regional thing?”

“Taste,” she snapped, and she speared a piece and held it out to him.

“I can’t,” he said.

“Why not?”

“I feel too ful .”

In fact, he felt ful of her. He’d taken her in al day, consumed her. Every spiky movement —slamming of pot lids, toss of head— nourished him. It came to him like a gift, while he was studying her narrow back, that she actual y wore an undershirt, one of those knitted singlets he remembered from his childhood. He could make out the seams of it beneath the brown plaid. He filed the information with care, to be treasured once he was alone.

The restaurant opened and customers began to trickle in.

The large, beaming hostess seated them al in one area, as if tucking them under her wing.

“Find a table,” Ezra told Cody. “I’l bring you some of Ruth’s cooking.”

“I’m honestly not hungry,” Cody said.

“He’s ful ,” said Ruth, spitting it out.

“Wel , what’l you do, then? Isn’t this boring for you?”

“No, no, I’m interested,” Cody said.

He could look across the counter and into the dining room, where people sat chewing and swal owing and drinking, patting their mouths with napkins, breaking off chunks of bread.

He wondered how Ezra could stand to spend his life at this.

When the first real flurry was over, Ruth and Ezra settled at the scrubbed wooden table in the center of the kitchen, and Cody joined them. Ezra ate some of Ruth’s chicken casserole. Ruth lit a smal brown cigarette and tipped back in her chair to watch him. The cigarette smel ed as if it were burning only by accident—like something spil ed on the floor of an oven, or stuck to the underside of a saucepan.

Cody, seated across from her, drank it in. “Eat, Cody, eat,” Ezra urged him.

Cody just shook his head, not wanting to lose his chestful of Ruth’s smoke.

Meanwhile, the other cooks came and went, some of Meanwhile, the other cooks came and went, some of them sitting also to wolf various odd assortments of food while their kettles simmered untended.

Ezra’s boyhood friend Josiah appeared, metamorphosed into an efficient grown man in starchy white, and he and Ruth had a talk about peeling the apples for her pie. Cody could not have cared less about her pie, but he was riveted by her offhand, slangy style of speech. She held her cigarette between thumb and index finger, with her elbow propped against her rib cage. She hunkered forward to consider some decision, and beneath her knotted brows her eyes were so pale a blue that he was startled.

They left the restaurant before it closed.

Josiah would lock up, Ezra said. They took a roundabout route home, down a quiet, one-way street, to drop Ruth off at the house where she rented a room. When Ezra accompanied her up the front steps, Cody waited on the curb. He watched Ezra kiss her good night—a bumbling, inadequate kiss, Cody judged it; and he felt some satisfaction. Then Ezra rejoined him and galumphed along beside him, big footed and blithe.

“Isn’t she something?” he asked Cody. “Don’t you just love her?”

“Mm.”

“But there’s so much I need to find out from you! I want to take good care of her, but I don’t know how. What about life insurance? Things like that! So much is expected of husbands, Cody. Wil you help me figure it out?”

“I’l be glad to,” Cody said. He meant it, too. Anything: any little crack that would provide him with an entrance.

Eventual y, Ezra subsided, although he continued to give the impression of inwardly bubbling and chortling. From time to time, he hummed a few bars of something underneath his breath. And then when they were almost home—passing houses total y dark, where everyone had long since gone to sleep;—what should he do but pul out that damned recorder of his and start piping away. It was embarrassing. It was infuriating: “Le Godiveau de Poisson,” once again.

Depend on Ezra, Cody thought, to have as his theme song a recipe for a seafood dish. He walked along in silence, hoping someone would cal the police. Or at least, that they’d open a window.

“You there! Quiet!” But no one did. It was so typical: Ezra the golden boy, everybody’s favorite, tootling down the streets scot-free.

On Sunday morning, Cody presented himself at Ruth’s door—or rather, at the door of the faded, doughy lady who owned the house Ruth stayed in. This lady toyed so fearful y with the locket at her throat that Cody felt compel ed to take a step backward, proving he was not a knock-and-rob man.

He gave her his most gentlemanly smile. “Good morning,” he said. “Is Ruth home?”

“Ruth?”

He realized he didn’t know Ruth’s last name.

“I’m Ezra Tul ’s brother,” he said.

“Oh, Ezra,” she said, and she stood back to let him enter.

He fol owed her deep into the interior, past a tumult of overstuffed furniture and dusty wax fruit and heaps of magazines. In the kitchen, Ruth slouched at the table spooning up cornflakes and reading a newspaper propped against a cereal box.

A pale, pudgy man stood gazing into an open refrigerator.

Cody had an impression of inertia and frittered lives. He felt charged with energy. It ought to be so easy to win her away from al this!

“Good morning,” he said. Ruth looked up. The pudgy man retreated behind the refrigerator door.

“I hope you’re not too far into that cereal,” Cody said. “I came to invite you to breakfast.”

“What for?” Ruth asked, frowning.

“Wel … not for any purpose. I’m just out walking and I thought you might want to walk with me, stop off for doughnuts and coffee someplace.”

“Now?”

“Of course.”

“Isn’t it raining?”

“Only a little bit.”

“No, thanks,” she said.

Her eyes dropped back to her newspaper. The landlady slid her locket along its chain with a miniature zipping sound.

“What’s going on in the world?” Cody asked.

“What world?” said Ruth.

“The news. What does the newspaper say?” Ruth raised her eyes, and Cody saw the page she had turned to. “Oh,” he said. “The comics.”

“No, my horoscope.”

“Your horoscope.” He looked to the landlady for help. The landlady gazed off toward a cabinet ful of jel y glasses.

“Wel , what… um, symbol are you?” Cody asked Ruth.

“Hmm?”

“What astrological symbol?”

“Sign,” she corrected him. She sighed and stood up, final y forced to recognize his presence.

Snatching her paper from the table, she stalked off toward the parlor. Cody made way for her and then trailed after. Her jeans, he guessed, had been bought at a little boys’ clothing store. She had no hips whatsoever. Her sweater was transparent at the elbows.

“I’m Taurus,” she said over her shoulder, “but al that’s rubbish, anyhow. Total garbage.”

“Oh, I agree,” Cody said, relieved.

She stopped in the center of the parlor and turned to him.

“Look at here,” she said, and she jabbed her finger at a line of newsprint. “Powerful al y wil come to your rescue. Accent today on high finance.”

She lowered the paper. “I mean, who do they reckon they’re dealing with? What kind of business am I supposed to be involved in?”

“Ridiculous,” said Cody. He was hypnotized by her eyebrows. They were the color of orange sherbet, and whenever she spoke with any heat the skin around them grew pink, darker than the eyebrows themselves.

“Ignore innuendos from long-time foe” she read, running a finger down the column. “Or listen to this other one: Clandestine meeting could solve mystery.

Almighty God!” she said, and she tossed the paper into an armchair. “You got to lead quite a life, to get anything out of your horoscope.”

“Wel , I don’t know,” Cody said.

“Maybe it’s truer than you realize.”

“Come again?”

“Maybe it’s saying you ought to lead such a life.

Ought to be more adventurous, not just slave away in some restaurant, mope around a gloomy old boardinghouse…”

“It’s not so gloomy,” Ruth said, lifting her chin.

“Wel , but—his “And anyhow, I won’t always be here. Me and Ezra, after we marry, we’re moving in above the Homesick. Then once we get us some money we plan on a house.”

“But stil ,” said Cody, “you won’t have anywhere near what those horoscopes are cal ing for. Why, there’s al the outside world! New York, for instance. Ever been to New York?”

She shook her head, watching him narrowly.

“You ought to come; it’s springtime there.”

“It’s springtime here,” she said.

“But a different kind.”

“I don’t see what you’re getting at,” she told him.

“Wel , al I want to say is, Ruth: why settle down so soon, when there’s so much you haven’t seen yet?”

“Soon?” she said. “I’m pretty near twenty years old. Been rattling around on my own since my sixteenth birthday. Only thing I want is to settle down, sooner the better.”

“Oh,” said Cody.

“Wel , have a good walk.”

“Oh, yes, walk…”

“Don’t drown,” she told him, cal ously.

At the door, he turned. He said, “Ruth?”

“What.”

“I don’t know your last name.”

“Spivey,” she said.

He thought it was the loveliest sound he had ever heard in his life.

The fol owing weekend, he drove her out to see his farm.

“I have seen al the farms I care to,” she said, but Ezra said,

“Oh, you ought to go, Ruth.

It’s pretty this time of year.” Ezra himself had to stay behind; he was supervising the instal ation of a new meat locker for the restaurant. Cody had known that before he invited her.

This time he brought her jonquils. She said, “I don’t know what I want with these; there’s a whole mess in back by the walkway.”

Cody smiled at her.

He settled her in his Cadil ac, which smel ed of new leather. She looked unimpressed.

Perversely, she was wearing a skirt, on the one occasion when jeans would have been more suitable. Her legs were very white, almost chalky. He had not seen short socks like hers since his schooldays, and her tattered sneakers were as smal and stubby as a child’s.

On the drive out, he talked about his plans for the farm.

“It’s where I’d like to live,” he said. “Where I want to raise my family. It’s a perfect place for children.”

“What makes you think so?” she asked. “When I was a kid, al I cared about was getting to the city.”

“Yes, but fresh air and home-grown vegetables, and the animals… Right now, the man down the road is tending my livestock, but once I move in ful -time I’m going to do it al myself.”

“That I’d like to see,” said Ruth. “You ever slopped a hog?

Shoveled out a stable?”

“I can learn,” he told her.

She shrugged and said no more.

When they reached the farm he showed her around the grounds, where she stared a cow down and gave a clump of hens the evil eye. Then he led her into the house.

He’d bought it lock, stock, and barrel— complete with bald plush sofa and kerosene stove in the parlor, rickety kitchen table with its drawerful of rusted flatware, 1958

calendar on the wal advertising Mal ardy’s oyster shel mixture for layers, extra rich in calcium. The man who’d lived here—a widower—had died upstairs in the four-poster bed. Cody had replaced the bedclothes with new ones, sheets and a quilt and down pil ows, but that was his only change. “I do plan to fix things up,” he told Ruth, “but I’m waiting til I marry. I know my wife might like to have a say in it.”