Everyone Worth Knowing (44 page)

shade of gray, and it literally shimmered as it hung down her back,

parted straight down the middle as it had been since she was a

teenager. She was tall and delicately thin, the type of woman

whose determined expression is the only clue that she's not quite

as fragile as she appears. As usual, she wore no makeup, only a

turquoise sun pendant on a whispery silver chain. "This is my

friend, Sammy. Sammy, my mother."

"Hello, Mrs. Robinson." He paused. "Wow, that sounds weird,

doesn't it? Although I suppose you're used to it."

"I sure am. 'Jesus loves me more than you will know.' Either

way, please just call me Anne."

"It's really nice of you to invite me over, Anne. I hope I'm not

intruding."

"Nonsense, Sammy. You both made our whole night. Now

come inside before you freeze."

We followed her through the simple pine doorway after pulling

a sneezing Millington from her Sherpa Bag and walked back to the

small greenhouse they'd installed a few years earlier "for contemplating

nature when the weather wasn't cooperating." It was the

only modern feature of the whole rustic house, and I loved it. Totally

out of place with the rest of the log-cabin theme, the greenhouse

had a minimalist Zen feel, like something you'd discover

tucked away in the spa of the latest Schrager hotel. It was all

sharp-angled glass with leafy red maple around the perimeter and

every imaginable species of plant, shrub, flower, or bush that could

conceivably thrive in such an atmosphere. There was a pond,

slightly larger than a golf-course sand trap, with a smattering of

floating lily pads and a few teak chaise longues off to the side for

relaxing. It opened out into a huge, treed-in backyard. My father

was correcting papers at a low wooden table lit by a hanging Chinese

paper lantern, looking reasonably well put together in a pair

of jeans and Naot sandals with fuzzy socks ("No need to buy those

German Birkenstocks when Israelis make them just as well," he

liked to say). His hair had grayed a bit, but he jumped up as spryly

as ever and enveloped me in a bear hug.

"Bettina, Bettina, you return to the nest," he sang, pulling me

into a little jig. I stepped aside, embarrassed, and kissed him

quickly on the cheek.

"Hi, Dad. I want you to meet my friend, Sammy. Sammy, this is

my dad."

I prayed my dad would be normal. You could never tell exactly

what he'd say or do, especially for a private laugh from me. The

first time my parents came to the city after I'd graduated from college,

I brought Penelope out to dinner with us. She'd met them at

graduation and once before—she probably barely remembered a

thing about them—but my dad didn't forget much. He'd kissed her

hand gallantly after I reintroduced them and said, "Penelope, dear,

of course I remember. We all went out for dinner, and you brought

that sweet boy. What was his name? Adam? Andrew? I remember

him being very bright and very articulate," he deadpanned without

a hint of discernible sarcasm.

This was my father's subtle way of inside-joking with just me.

Avery had been so stoned at dinner that he'd had trouble responding

to simple questions about his major or hometown. Even

though he hadn't seen Avery or Penelope in years, my father

would still occasionally call me and pretend to be Avery's fictional

dealer, asking me in a faux-baritone voice if I'd like to purchase a

pound of "some really good shit." We thought it was hysterical,

and he clearly couldn't resist taking a quick shot now and then.

Penelope, being accustomed to clueless and absentee parents, had

not detected a thing and simply smiled nicely. My dad knew nothing

of Sammy, so I figured we were safe.

"Pleasure, Sammy. Come sit and keep an old man company.

You from around here?"

We all sat. My father poured the Yogi Egyptian licorice tea that

my mother brewed by the bucket as Sammy carefully arranged his

large frame on one of the oversized beaded floor cushions scattered

around the table. I flopped between him and my mother,

who folded her legs Indian-style so gracefully that she appeared to

be twenty years younger.

"So what's the plan for the weekend?" I asked cheerily.

"Well, no one will be coming until late tomorrow afternoon, so

you're free until then. Why don't you guys see what's going on at

the university? I'm sure there's a good program or two," my mother

said.

"The campus ballet troupe is performing an early Thanksgiving

matinee tomorrow. I could arrange for tickets if you're interested,"

Dad offered. He had taught ecology at Vassar for so long and was

such a beloved professor on campus that he could arrange just

about anything. My mother worked for the campus health clinic's

emotional health department, dividing her time equally between

hotline work (rape crisis, suicide, general depression) and rallying

the university to adopt a more holistic approach to students' problems

(acupuncture, herbs, yoga). They were the pet couple of Vassar,

just as I knew they'd been the pet couple at Berkeley for so

many years in the sixties.

"Maybe I'll check it out, but you're forgetting that Sammy is

here to visit his family," I said, giving them both what I hoped

were warning looks to lay off. I spooned some of the unprocessed

brown sugar and passed the dish to Sammy.

"Speaking of which, what was Will's excuse again for not being

able to make it?" my mother asked nonchalantly.

Sammy stepped up before I could intervene, not realizing that

my parents had long been onto Will's pitiful stories and lies, that it

had become a favorite family pastime to tell and retell the new and

creative fibs he crafted. He and my mother were close, despite the

small detail that she was an annoying hippie liberal who refused to

affiliate with a political party and he was an annoying conservative

Republican who defined himself by one. Somehow they talked

weekly and even managed to be affectionate when together, although

each loved viciously mocking the other to me.

Sammy spoke up. "Wasn't it something about Simon's work?"

he said to me. "The Philharmonic called Simon at the very last

minute to fill in for an ill musician. They gave him no choice,

really. He just couldn't say no," he blurted out before I could screw

it up. He was loyal, I had to give him that.

My mother smiled first at me and then at my father. "Is that so?

I thought he said something about an emergency meeting with his

entertainment lawyer at their offices in New Jersey."

Sammy flushed, immediately convinced he'd somehow gotten

the story confused. Time to intervene.

"They know Simon's not filling in for anybody, Sammy, and

they know you know it, too. Don't worry, you didn't give anything

away."

"That was sweet of you, Sammy, but I simply know my dear

brother too well to believe the stories anymore. Where are they off

to? Miami? The Bahamas?"

"Key West," I said, topping off everyone's mugs.

"You win," my father conceded. "Your mother bet me he'd cancel

at the last minute and blame it on Simon. Frankly, I'm delighted

he finally moved past that tired old deadline excuse." They both

cracked up.

"Well, I'd better get dinner going," my mother announced. "I

went to the farmers' market today and got all their winter specials."

"May I help you?" Sammy asked. "It's the least I can do after

lying to you. Besides, it's been a while since I've been in a home

kitchen—I'd really appreciate it."

My parents peered at him curiously.

"Sammy's a chef," I said. "He studied at the Culinary Institute of

America and is planning to open his own restaurant someday."

"Really! How interesting. Do you currently cook anywhere in

the city?" my father asked.

Sammy smiled shyly, looked down, and said, "Actually, I

started doing Sunday brunch at Gramercy Tavern a few months

ago. It's a serious crowd. It's been a really good experience."

I felt a jolt go through me. Who was this guy?

"Well, in that case, come with me. Can you do anything interesting

with zucchini?" my mother asked, linking her arm with his

once he hoisted himself up from the floor cushions.

Within minutes Sammy was at the stove, while my mother sat

quietly at the table, staring at him in wonderment, unable to disguise

her delight.

"What are you making?" I asked as he drained a pot of noodles

before adding a splash of olive oil. He wiped his hands on the

apron my mother had provided (which read
IN ACCEPTANCE, THERE IS

PEACE)
and surveyed his progress. .

"Well, I thought we'd start with a pasta salad with roasted carrots,

cucumbers, and pine nuts, and maybe some zucchini antipasto.

Your mom said she wanted something casual for the entree, so I

was thinking of trying curried chickpea sandwiches on focaccia and

a side of stuffed red peppers with rice and escarole. How does

everyone feel about baked apples with freshly whipped cream and

this sorbet here for dessert? I have to say, Mrs. Robinson, you

picked some fantastic ingredients."

"Gee, Mom, what were you planning on making?" I asked, loving

the expressions on both their faces.

"Casserole," she said, never taking her eyes off Sammy. "Just

throw it all together and bake it for a few minutes, I guess."

"Well, that sounds great, too," Sammy was quick to say. "I'd be

happy to do that if you'd prefer."

"No!" my father and I shouted simultaneously. "Please continue,

Sammy. This is going to be a real treat for us," Dad said,

slapping him on the back and taking a taste of the chickpea mixture

with his fingers.

Dinner was amazing, of course, so good I didn't make a single

nasty comment about the lack of meat or the abundance of organic

food, but that was mostly because I didn't even notice. All my concerns

about the potential awkwardness of Sammy sharing the table

with my parents had evaporated by the time we finished our pasta

salad. Sammy glowed from the constant praise everyone lavished

on him, and he became chatty and happy in a way I'd never seen.

Before I knew what had happened, I was clearing the table alone

and my parents had sequestered Sammy back in the greenhouse

and were showing him the much-dreaded naked-in-the-bathtub

baby pictures and all the things I'd supposedly accomplished in my

life that no one besides the people who'd given birth to you could

conceivably care about. It was almost midnight when my parents

finally announced they were going to bed.

"You two are more than welcome to stay and visit, but your father

and I need to get to sleep," my mother announced, while

stamping out the last stub of her clove cigarette, a treat they shared