Intentions (12 page)

She looks at me, tilts her head, smiles, and says, “I guess
that’s kosher. As long as they go in the box and are there for everyone.”

I nod and put them in the box slowly, one at a time, so Randy can see what they are.

“Randy,” Mrs. Glick says, “the shirt you’re wearing has a hole in the back. It’s getting colder out, so I think maybe you should pick out a shirt from the box to wear over it.”

I’m about to say “or instead of,” but I realize what she’s thinking: don’t make him give up one shirt for another. He needs both.

Randy dives into the box, looking at them carefully.

While he makes up his mind, I blurt out to Mrs. Glick, “What temple do you go to?”

“I don’t belong to a temple,” she says. “Not much into organized religion.”

Wow, she seems so Jewish.

“Where do
you
go?” she asks me.

“Beth Am.”

“Oh, Rabbi Cohn,” she says. “I know him.” Her voice is cold. She does not smile. One of the few people in the universe who doesn’t love him?

How can I ask what I want to ask? But Randy is having none of this grown-up talk. He’s tugging on my arm.

“Rachel, Rachel, can I have this one?” It’s bright green with a yellow sports car on it. Not
my
favorite one, but that’s OK.

“Sure. You want help?”

“I’m not a baby,” he says.

He puts on the shirt, struggling a little, but then struts around showing off for the kids in the class. For a few seconds I see the
real Randy, the one he is with his friends, not the Randy he is with older people he’s trying to please, like me.

When we sit down to read, I think maybe he’s following along, but I’m not sure.

Saturday afternoon, I shower with
kavanah
. It wouldn’t be at all cool to show up at Jake’s covered in Band-Aids. I shave my legs, my pits, even my toes (thank you,
Catalyst
, for that tip). Then I shampoo, condition, exfoliate, moisturize, pluck, dry, style, conceal, lip-line, eye-line, lash-lengthen, curl, gloss, blush, polish, and primp, primp, PRIMP as if my life depended on it.

Which I’m sure it doesn’t.

It’s not like we’re going to be alone. I still think it’s a little weird he asked me to come over for dinner on a Saturday night, instead of going to the movies or something. Maybe he’s old-fashioned and thinks his parents need to approve of me?

In one way I’m relieved. I’m glad we’re going to take things slowly. I’m not ready to be
alone
alone with him. As it is, my poor stomach is in knots. I have no idea what to wear. I want to look sexy for Jake, but proper for his parents.

I think about calling Alexis to ask her advice, but I don’t. I can’t chance a mood kill. In the end I decide to dress “modestly,” as Grandma says.

A wrap dress, with a tank underneath so nothing shows. Leggings, ballet slippers. The dress is red, of course.

Mom comes up to see how I look, and she approves of the clothes. But when she looks at my face, she says, sweetly, “Wow. Makeup! You might want to take it down a notch.” I look in the mirror. It is a little much. Mom dabs a tissue here and there.

“You’re right, Mom, thanks. That’s better.”

“Perfect,” she says.

Even
I
think I look good. My hair is smooth, just a little wavy at the ends, not at all frizzy. Maybe there really is a God.

I call Jake on the way over. He tells me to come around the back. In through the kitchen. I must have passed some test.

I still can’t believe Mom said she didn’t know about Jason when I asked her this morning. She’d better keep her promise not to say anything, in case they don’t want people to know.

“Have fun,” Mom says as I get out of the car. “Tell the Schmidts hello.”

When I walk in, Jake is at the counter chopping. There’s music playing, a song I don’t know but I love right away. There is something cooking in a pan on the stove. It smells delicious.

Maybe this is not dinner with the parents.

“Hey,” he says as I slip my shoes off and leave them by the door.

“You cooking?” I ask. Obviously he’s cooking.

“Yup,” he says, smiling.

“Can I help?”

“Nah. How about you sit over there, on the stool across from me, and keep me company.”

I pull the stool up to the other side of the counter and sit down. He’s mashing garlic and then cutting it.

“Why do you mash it first?”

“Lets out the flavor.”

“How do you know that?”

“I used to watch a lot of cooking shows.”

I don’t say anything. I’m trying to picture this—Jake watching cooking shows.

“Back when my brother was alive, my mom didn’t have time
to cook much, and neither did my dad, so once I was old enough, I kind of took over.” He pauses, chops some more. “So I really love to cook. Do you think that’s weird?”

“No. Not at all. I love it.” It makes me love him, actually, right now, right here, for sure, but I won’t say that. Not yet. He has to say it first. Man, what am I thinking? We haven’t even made out yet. I mean, really made out. Like I really, really want to.

“What are you thinking about?” Jake asks. “You’re turning bright red.”

“Cooking?” I say, and laugh.

“Something hot,” he says, and we look at each other. Smoldering looks. Smoking looks. Something smells like smoke.

“Oh shit, the oil is burning!” he says, and runs over to the stove. “Well, that’s what I get for looking at you instead of at my pan. Got to start over.”

He throws the pan into the sink and runs cold water over it. It sizzles, steams, and eventually cools off enough for him to wash it and put it back on the burner.

“OK then,” he says, and grins at me.

“Could I get a drink of water?” I ask.

“Sure, there’s cold in the fridge.”

I look for the glasses. “There, above the microwave,” Jake says, and I pour him one, too.

We clink and drink. He downs his in one long gulp, his Adam’s apple bobbing. I have to look away; it is too sexy.

“So is it impolite to ask what you’re making?” I say after I finish my glass.

“No! I’m making gemelli with olive oil and garlic. A side of Swiss chard sautéed also in garlic and olive oil, and a little balsamic
vinegar. God, I hope you like garlic and olive oil. This meal is full of it!”

“I love garlic,” I say. “And olive oil.”

Jake looks at me, grins. “And if you like goat cheese, I’m going to add some of that to the Swiss chard, too.”

Nobody in my house cooks like this. I’m not even sure I know what Swiss chard is. But it all smells delicious.

“I’ve made a small salad, and I thought we could have fresh berries with whipped cream for dessert. If we’re still hungry.”

“Where are your parents?” I ask. It may seem like a non sequitur, but it’s not.

“They’re out for dinner with friends. They won’t be back for a few hours.”

I get up from my stool and put my glass by the sink. I stand behind Jake and wrap my arms around him. My head reaches his shoulder blades and I lay it there, my cheek to his back, and breathe in his scent.

Dinner is scrumptious. We eat at the kitchen table, surrounded by photos of his family, but it is Jake and the food that overwhelm me. The pasta is amazing, and the Swiss chard is the most delicious green thing I have ever eaten.

He found what he called “the heel” of a bottle of red wine, poured us each some in wine glasses. He said his parents wouldn’t mind. I think my parents would, but I drink it anyway. “To you,” he said.

“To you,” I say now. We each have a little bit left in our glasses. “This meal—God, Jake. Can I come here every night?”

He laughs. “Do you want some dessert?”

“I don’t need dessert,” I tell him.

“Good,” he says. He stands up and takes my hand, leading me somewhere.

“What about the dishes?” I ask. My mother brought me up right, after all.

“I’ll do them later,” he says. We go into the living room, and he makes a show of turning on the TV and finding an old movie to watch. Turner Classics on Demand has an old Humphrey Bogart on.

“Have you seen this?” he asks.

“I don’t think so,” I say, but we start kissing before the movie even begins.

I’ve made out with boys before, but with Jake it is different. It’s hot, but tender and sweet and, I don’t know, meaningful. It feels right, so right that I don’t feel scared or bad about myself, just happy, when his hand reaches up my dress and into my tank. I
want
him to touch me.

He is whispering how beautiful I am, telling me he loves my hair, my eyes, my arms, my legs, and I murmur things back to him, too.

Soon it feels urgent, I can’t wait, and he starts to untie my dress, but then I

pull

way

back.

I am afraid. I am afraid if we don’t stop, we could go all the way, and I am not ready for that.

“Jake, I—”

And he stops.

He looks at me, sees my face, sees
me
, and moves back a
little, too, though he is breathing hard. The kindness in his eyes overwhelms me. Well, maybe, maybe I will, we will, and I start to kiss him again and again and then all of a sudden—

I hear noises, voices.

His parents are home—and I don’t have to make a decision.

We quickly put ourselves back together, sit facing the TV, feet on the floor, and Jake even turns on a lamp.

“Oh, it smells great in here!” Jake’s dad booms. “Any leftovers?”

“We just came back from a huge meal, honey,” his mother says, and by then they are in the living room.

“Ah!
To Have and Have Not
. Great flick,” says Jake’s dad. “That’s the one where Bogart and Bacall fell in love, isn’t it?”

“Hi, Rachel, how was dinner?” his mother says, jabbing his father with her elbow. I haven’t seen her since the day I fled on my bike in the rain. I feel embarrassed (for so many reasons), but she gives me a warm smile.

Jake turns down the volume of the movie. I stand up.

“It was delicious, amazing,” I say, and reach out my hand to shake his parents’ hands. I pray I am all covered up and that I don’t have a bite mark on my neck.

We shake, and then it is awkward.

“Let me put the movie on pause,” Jake says.

“No, no, you go back to it,” his dad says. “We’re exhausted, we’re going upstairs.”

“Jake, you
will
do those dishes, won’t you?” asks his mom.

“I’ll do them,” I say.

“They’ll get done,” Jake says. “Mood killer,” he whispers to me as they walk upstairs.

“Maybe it’s a good thing,” I tell him. “If they don’t want
grandchildren anytime soon.” I laugh, but we both know it’s not a total joke.

My mind is racing ahead to Planned Parenthood and birth control. Am I really ready for this? I don’t think I am, but for some reason I smile.

So does he.

He grabs me into a big hug, but not a kiss, and says, “I don’t trust them not to come downstairs again. I have to cool down.”

“Let’s do the dishes.”

“What about the movie?”

“Doing dishes is safer than sitting on the couch.”

“True, that.”

I start clearing the table. I feel relieved that his parents came home. But also, I admit to myself, disappointed. I hope someday we’ll … But I can’t do that until I’m sure he, we … I don’t want to feel used, or dirty. Wrong.

Will I ever get Crying Bride’s sobs out of my head?

But this is Jake. Not
Him
.

We small-talk while we clean up, and then, after a few minutes of silence, Jake says, “I have to tell you something.”

The tone of his voice—so serious—scares me. “What is it?”

He clears his throat. Looks at me nervously. “What you said about grandchildren—my parents want to have another child. They’re adopting a little girl. From China. They’ve been talking about it pretty much ever since my brother died.”

Phew. I don’t know what I thought he was going to say, but I am so relieved. “Oh, that’s wonderful! That will be so nice for you!”

Jake grunts. He doesn’t say anything, just keeps scrubbing a frying pan.

“Isn’t it? Wonderful, I mean?”

“No.”

I wait.

“My whole life since he was born, it was all about Jason. Is it too much to ask that they focus on me my last few years at home?”

That’s not what he said before, on the school steps. He said that he had a good childhood. Instead of sympathizing, I blurt out, “But if they wait much longer, until you’ve gone to college, won’t they be too old?”

“They’re too old already, really. My mom is forty-eight and my dad is fifty.”

“So you don’t think they should do it at all?”

“No, no I don’t!” He slams down the pan and walks away. I don’t know whether to follow him. I don’t. I decide to wait for him to come back. I dry the frying pan and wash a bunch more dishes, put them in the dish rack. Finally, I hear the toilet flush and he comes back in. His eyes are red.

“I’m sorry. I know I seem like a selfish prick. I—It’s just how I feel. I know they deserve happiness, but why can’t they get it from me?”

“But you’re going to be gone,” I say softly. “And they won’t have anyone left.” Neither will my parents.

“You sound just like them,” he says. The accusation and the bitterness in his voice go through my heart like a knife.

“I’m sorry,” I say to him, reaching over to give him a hug. “I can’t know how you feel.”

“No, no you can’t,” he says, pulling away. “You will never know what it’s been like for me.”

Ouch. I
said
I couldn’t know. I feel like stomping out, but instead I look at him; he’s shaking.

I speak quietly. “You could try to tell me. I could try to understand—”

I trace a line down his spine with my finger. I feel him tense up, but I don’t stop. I go up and down his back, first with my finger and then with the palm of my hand. It feels so good to touch him. I hope it feels good to him, too. After a while he leans on the counter, and he seems to be relaxing, giving in to me a little, and then I hear footsteps. It’s his father walking into the kitchen.

I step back, take my hand away from Jake.

“God that meal was salty. Japanese. Delicious, but I’m dying for water.”