Grist Mill Road (14 page)

The next morning I could barely contain the feeling gushing
through my body as I stepped off the school bus with Jen, my eyes scooting around for a glimpse of him, oh Matthew, my gaze running fast up the school steps, taking them two and three at a time, and yes, there he was.

Only wait, because there
she
was, there
they were.

Matthew, Matthew and Christie, Matthew and Christie
kissing
.

I remember that was the moment, for the first time in my life (although certainly not the last), I felt the very physical sense of my heart being broken.

 

NEW YORK, 2008

Patrick only blinks, twelve years old again, a small boy staring at a scene just out of reach.

How can it be him? But it is, Matthew, seated at a restaurant table, twenty-six years older, his dark hair swept back and faintly receding. Matthew in a suit and tie, although somehow he looks casually dressed, diagonal stripes in the tie, plaid shirt underneath, tiny polka dots peppering his pocket square.

Running at him and crushing his skull with a rock, leaping in front of the forty-ninth bullet
 
…

Patrick looks down at the table. Glass, fork, knife.

 
… finding a splintered branch and driving it deep into his chest, fetching the slingshot from under the tarp and firing a perfect shot
 
…

None of this makes any sense. And now Matthew is speaking. I'm sorry, Tricky, he says, I honestly thought there was no other way.

The name makes him dizzier still but Patrick manages to find some strength in his voice. Don't you
ever
call me by that name again, he says.

Of course not, says Matthew, loosening the knot of his tie. Patrick, I'm sorry.

Sorry for what? For shooting Hannah? Half-blinding her? For leaving her for dead?

Of course I'm sorry about that, says Matthew. But wherever Hannah is in the world, I doubt she'd want to meet me for lunch so that I can apologize to her in person.

Wait, he doesn't know that we're married?

Patrick presses the heel of his hand to the bridge of his nose. So why did you trick me into meeting you here? he says.

I just wanted to get back in touch, says Matthew. But look, I can see already that I've made a huge mistake, he says. I knew this could prove awkward, only I thought you might sit down. And then we might talk.

Just walk away, Patch. You don't have to do anything but turn around and leave.

He looks over his shoulder, the smooth flow of good service, plates floating in and out of view.

Wait, please wait, says Matthew. Patrick, look, I know this arrangement may have been stupidly clumsy of me but I promise it wasn't a trick. He reaches inside his jacket, pulls out a business card and pushes it across the table.

Matthew Denby, Proprietor

St. Lawrence Supplies

We work with only the very best restaurants, says Matthew. St. Lawrence Supplies sources the finest lobster, mushrooms, lamb, oysters.

The business card is thick, plush, it rests between them on the table like a small pillow, the padding inside a ring box.

You changed your name, says Patrick.

Matthew's smile twitches. Only half of it, he says.

A silent moment. And then Patrick pulls the business card toward him, flips it over. Printed address, phone number, fax. But also Matthew has written something in blue ink, the address of an apartment in Tribeca. How did you find me? he says.

I have an assistant who sends me things, says Matthew. Newspaper clippings, links to websites, the menus of new restaurants, that sort of thing. I try to keep my finger on the pulse of where
food is headed, what ingredients might be in vogue in six months' time. Food is like fashion, it gets carried along by certain whims, certain styles. She sent me a link to your website. I haven't lied to you, Patrick, I genuinely enjoy what you do. Matthew locks his fingers, resting his hands on the tablecloth. Are you sure you won't sit down? he says. One minute, I promise. The business proposal—it was a lure, yes, but it wasn't a lie.

Patrick drops the card into a pocket. I've seen your delivery trucks all over the city, he says.

Good, says Matthew, we get around.

St. Lawrence Supplies, says Patrick, speaking the words in a contemptuous drawl.

Yes, I named it for the patron saint of—

Cooks, says Patrick.

That's right, says Matthew, running his hand through his hair, a stray curl breaking loose, dropping over his brow and hanging there like a meat hook. He taps at the menu, his forefinger hitting the gold curlicues of Le Crainois. Jean-Jacques is one of our best customers, he says. He and I have become very close friends. I'd really like to introduce you.

This
proposal,
says Patrick. Whatever it is, it's impossible.

Impossible? says Matthew. Why?

Perhaps he really doesn't know,
thinks Patrick.
No, there are no photos of Hannah on the website
. I never use her name. All I need to do is turn around and leave, there is nothing else to be done.

He leans heavily on the table. Listen very carefully, says Patrick. Don't ever try to contact me again, you understand?

Matthew folds his hands in his lap. Of course, Patrick, he says. And once again, apologies for my misjudgment. I promise to keep my distance.

This is his cue to leave. And yet Patrick hesitates. Perhaps he wants to see if there are signs of rejection on Matthew's face—Patrick doesn't remember ever turning him down as a child. And now Matthew's expression does seem to suggest some mild degree of disappointment.

Patrick looks down at him a moment longer, Matthew's hair
with a rich shine, his stubble dark, his eyes green. And then Patrick realizes something that startles him—Matthew is good-looking, perhaps even exceptionally so. The revelation unsettles him, as if somewhere a tale has taken a surprising twist.

And then at last he turns around.

But please, says Matthew, promise me you'll think it through. You have my card. I just want a chance to talk everything through, Patrick.

He walks away.

*   *   *

RUN! PATRICK FEELS AS IF
a spear is pointing at his back. Out through the sculptural twigs, past the bar and the greeter, who bids him goodbye, out into the mall, hard to breathe, trying to loosen a tie that's not there, stepping onto the escalator.

Why didn't I attack him?

No, you did the right thing, Patch. You didn't listen to his proposal. You walked away.

But these are just words, only words, and the body knows better, Patrick's muscles stiff and alert, an empty, sick feeling in the place where he carries his shame, a place he knows well, like a mole knows his tunnels. What did Matthew want? What was his proposal?

A second escalator. A third. And then Patrick hears his name, a voice calling out to him from above.

Monsieur McConnell? Monsieur McConnell, please.

He turns and sees the plastic-clad tourists moving to one side of the steps. Pushing his way past them is Fr
é
d
é
ric, the ma
î
tre d' from Le Crainois.

Monsieur McConnell, stop, please stop.

At the bottom of the escalator, Patrick hangs back and waits.

Thank you, Monsieur McConnell, says Fr
é
d
é
ric when he reaches him. Please, this is something very important. Chef would like to speak to you.

That's impossible, says Patrick. I'm not coming back.

I see, but this is not impossible, says Fr
é
d
é
ric. I brought some
thing, he says, raising his left hand, which is carrying a tablet computer, like a thin hardcover book.

Fr
é
d
é
ric leads Patrick by the elbow to a viewing point that overlooks the gleaming atrium and spinning entrance doors. Please, says Fr
é
d
é
ric, just give me a few seconds. He presses a button on the device, which lights up, and taps the screen a few times. Chef, excuse me, I have Monsieur McConnell now, says Fr
é
d
é
ric, speaking into the tablet and then turning the screen to face Patrick.

On-screen, Patrick can see the chef standing in his kitchen, Jean-Jacques Rougerie, whom he recognizes from the newspapers and magazines, from the photos in his book,
La Cuisine Précise
. The chef is bent over a plate of morel mushrooms, inspecting them. He nods, the plates are whisked away and Jean-Jacques Rougerie looks up.

Welcome to my kitchen, Monsieur McConnell, he says. May I call you Patrick?

Yes, Chef, says Patrick, slightly starstruck.

You like my video linkup, Patrick? This way I can be in my restaurant in Paris and my restaurant in New York at the same time. Remarkable, no?

Yes, Chef, says Patrick.

Please, I am Jean-Jacques to you, Patrick, always Jean-Jacques for my friends. The chef turns and speaks firmly to someone offscreen. Not glossy enough, more butter, he says. And then, looking back up, he says, Now, Patrick, I cannot say what happened just now and why you leave so fast. But Mathieu is a good friend of mine. And I think it is true that everything can be made better with good food and excellent wine, yes? And we have prepared a surprise for you, a meal that is truly unique. We have some ingredients from Mathieu. His
morilles
right now? Excellent. And we use some of your own recipe ideas that I see on your website, Patrick, we mix them with a few ideas of our own, I think we have something exceptional. Perhaps you can return, eat and then I show you around my kitchen. You think it is possible?

Thank you, Chef, but no, another time, perhaps.

I cannot change your mind? You see, I wanted maybe to invest. And also to help out if I can.

Invest? Invest in what?

In this business of yours with Mathieu, of course. Your Red Moose Barn, no? First I see there being one restaurant but then many more. I read your recipes online, see your ideas, I think this is something exciting. Old but new. This is a very modern idea, I think.

Red Moose Barn?

Of course. And Mathieu says the two of you grow up together. This is the best way, the strongest. Like brothers, you know? Because you must fight, always fight in this business. For a restaurant not to die you need courage and strength. And this is why Mathieu's company is called St. Lawrence, I think. St. Lawrence for courage and strength. You know the story of this saint, Patrick?

I do.

To the left, Fr
é
d
é
ric, I have only half a face, says Jean-Jacques.

Fr
é
d
é
ric tilts the screen.

Better, says Jean-Jacques with a sigh. Now, St. Lawrence, he says, yes, this is a story about heart, about faith. And in Rome, of course, they kill St. Lawrence for his faith. They cook him alive on
un
 …
un uh
 … how do you say, like in the American football?

A gridiron, says Patrick.

Gridiron, yes. They roast St. Lawrence alive on a gridiron over hot coals. But as he was dying, still he showed them his courage and strength to the end.

Patrick starts to laugh.

Jean-Jacques Rougerie smiles up at him. Of course, he says, this legend is so grotesque all we can do is laugh. It is truly something terrible that we cannot imagine.

No, says Patrick, I'm laughing because I remember how the story ends.

The end? says Jean-Jacques. But this part is the most grotesque of all. I think perhaps you have a darkness in you, Patrick, no?

What else can Patrick do but laugh? He is standing in a shopping mall talking to the world's most famous chef via a small screen held by a man called Fr
é
d
é
ric. Tourists pass by and stare at the curious scene. And, remembering how the story ends, Patrick snorts and covers his mouth to hold back the laughter. But the laughter will not be held back. Still, Patrick tries to speak, the words coming out in short bursts. St. Lawrence said … He told them … (Patrick wipes a gathering dampness away from his eyes.) He said,
Turn me over
 
… Turn me over
 
… I'm done on this side
.

And then Patrick laughs so hard that Jean-Jacques, whose arms are now folded at his chest, starts laughing as well. The two men stand there at either end of a video link laughing together, ten seconds, twenty, and now they are both laughing too hard, their howls and tears feeding each other, so that when the laughter is ready to die it is rekindled by the other man's laughter.

Now Fr
é
d
é
ric is laughing as well, a low chuckle that causes the screen to shake. Several passersby stare at them, this curious scene being played out, some of the passersby being affected by the contagion of the laughter as well.

Patrick bends his knees and holds his thighs, unable to see the shaky screen until he wipes away more tears. And then at last, when this feast of laughter is almost over, Patrick waves at Jean-Jacques Rougerie, the gesture sapped of its strength, so much has he been laughing. The chef tries to say something but the words are caught up in the last gasps of his laughter and before he can get them out, Patrick walks away, rubbing his sides.

Turn me over, I'm done on this side
. And as he steps on the escalator, Patrick turns to see Fr
é
d
é
ric switching off the screen, smiling to himself at the increasingly endearing strangeness of the world, of New York. And especially
les Américains
.

*   *   *

THE SUMMER IS AS HOT
and slow as the pre-Maine summers of his childhood, the air with a watery quality, Patrick feeling submerged in the city whenever he steps outside of his building
to shop for groceries or follow Don Trevino, the only two activities he can bear in the life-sapping heat. Outside of the apartment he feels himself becoming attuned to all the anger in the world, as if New York is soaking into him, wave after wave, horn after horn, voices everywhere screaming obscenities into their phones, the city infecting him with a fever that gets worse by the day.

Soon Patrick can feel himself getting more and more angry about incidents that don't quite happen. A cyclist who thinks about running a red light as he's crossing the street. A woman leaning past him in the greenmarket, almost snatching the bunch of dinosaur kale he's considering. So much potential for conflict in the city, like a tray of metal balls being rattled together, and after each near miss Patrick replays the event in his head but with a twist, as if the incident
has
actually happened, the collision, the theft, hearing himself yelling abuse, seeing himself throwing punches …