What Nora Knew (18 page)

If Charlie and I didn’t like each other, how could Angela share her excitement over his dirty talk in bed (already heard about that) or that twisty, flicky thing he does with his
tongue (heard about that, too) or the fabulous way he nibbles her ass. I never share sex stories about Russell. He has never nibbled my ass. We never ripped off our clothes and did it on his dining table. Good news, I should think, for our Saturday-night dinner guests.

*  *  *

Saturday afternoon the party host and hostess procured groceries at Fairway. If you’ve never been there, just imagine the most chaotic, crowded maze of quiches, soups, anchovies, organic this, organic that, whitefish salads, exotic nuts, hand-sorted chilies, cheeses imported from third-world countries, an entire olive oil section (not just a mere shelf), goose fat, dandelion greens; and if you’re lucky, you might even pick up a quart of milk and half a dozen eggs.

The Fairway layout makes no sense. The narrow aisles turn every odd way. The cookie aisle requires two sharp turns. It’s where New Yorkers play bumper car. But, oh, the quality! People, like Russell, who live on the West Side, bragged for years that they couldn’t possibly move to the East Side and give up Fairway. Then Fairway announced they were opening a store on the Upper East Side, and now West Side residents have to say they can never leave Lincoln Center.

“Nirvana,” Russell said. “Taste this South African Peppadew.”

“You aren’t supposed to taste it,” I said to him. “They don’t want the customers sampling their Peppadews.”

“One doesn’t hurt. And it’s not like I’m not buying
some.” He scooped a spoonful of the bright-red little peppers into a plastic container. “Let’s taste the grapes and make sure they’re sweet.”

“Why don’t we just ask them to boil up a lobster and see how that tastes?”

We elbowed our way around the coffee-bean section, past the flat-bread section and the dried-apricots section, to the mustards section, where Russell studied labels and I watched two women duke it out over who was first in the ten-items-or-less line. Russell chose a mango curry mustard and we kept going. Our cart was already heaped with Bibb lettuce, feta cheese, walnuts, toilet paper, cauliflower, potatoes, and a giant loaf of sourdough. A pile-up of carts caused a major stall in the aisle with the elevator. One floor of Fairway food heaven is not enough; there’s another floor with more soups, more olive oils, more exotic nuts and quiches, along with a health store to stock up on vitamins and Tom’s toothpaste, and Fairway’s very own restaurant, which displays cupcakes right across from the health store. “Maybe we should order in,” I said. “I don’t think we’ll make it as far as the butcher counter.” We angled and banged and snaked through the crush past a fish counter the size of a small submarine and over to the refrigerator case of raw chickens, where I immediately averted my eyes. I hate raw chickens. They look so vulnerable.

“What about dessert?” Russell asked, his eyes widening and my stomach gripping as he said it. The bakery counter was on the far other end of the store and blocked by a sea of humanity.

“Screw it,” I said. “We’ll serve ice cream.” Ice cream was doable. Only an aisle away from the chickens. By the time we got back to Russell’s apartment, we were both exhausted.

I set the table. Russell tossed the salad. I washed potatoes. Russell reset the table. He didn’t approve of my placemat selection. Russell’s the only man I’ve dated who has three placemat patterns. Gifts from ex-girlfriends. He removed the orange-and-gray basket-weave pattern, replacing it with the sailboats-and-clouds pattern. I wanted to buy him new placemats, but then he’d have four girlfriend patterns. I’d have chosen plastic mats with states and capitals.

“So what do you know about this Hunkster guy?” Russell asked, meaning Kristine’s new boyfriend.

“Not much. They’ve been dating a week.”

“And we’re entertaining them?”

“An intense week.”

“Does anyone know his real name?” Russell was lining a broiler with aluminum foil, sprinkling garlic and salt on a chicken. I was rearranging the freezer to make room for the Rocky Road.

“She only calls him Hunkster. Maybe that is his real name. What would you name yourself if you were dating online?”

Russell paused from his chicken prepping; he seemed to be giving my question careful thought. “Sledge. I’ve always wanted to be named Sledge.”

This was news to me and not necessarily of the positive variety. “That’s a pretty scary-sounding moniker,” I said,
“and probably not wise in your line of business. But if you’d like, I’ll call you Sledge.”

Sledge went back to his chickens. Covered them in foil and deposited them in the fridge with the salad.

Angela and Kristine had never been to Russell’s apartment. You can tell a lot about a person from their decor, although I think most single men’s apartments look like they’ve come off an assembly line, Russell’s being no exception. The dark wood. The big leather couch with the rolled arms. The flatscreen TV bigger than the couch. The dining table that also served as his desk was long enough for three chairs on either side—black leather, of course—but it was narrow. If you ate across from someone, the edge of your plate bumped against their plate, ruling out niceties like candlesticks, centerpieces, or serving bowls.

I’d already warned Kristine that under no circumstances was she allowed to show up and suggest rearranging Russell’s furniture. Or critique his artwork. The black-and-white photo over the sofa that he had ordered from the
New York Times
. Depression-era construction workers eating lunch on a steel beam of the Empire State Building. In the kitchen, a photo of the
Hindenburg
exploding.

The buzzer rang exactly at seven. By then, the salad was tossed, the chickens were cooking. I’m always impressed with guests who arrive at the precise minute they’ve been invited. Do they walk around the block for half an hour assuring they can pounce on your bell not at 6:59, not at 7:01, but at the prescribed 7:00 p.m.? I have never been that type of guest but I admire the ones who are.

“Send them up,” Russell said into his intercom without bothering to ask send
whom
up.

“How do you know it’s not a couple of murderers?” I asked, while we both waited at the open doorway for whatever felons happened to step off the elevator. It occurred to me that Hunkster500 might be a murderer. Kristine hardly knew him; she’d met him online. I was glad the table wasn’t set with any steak knives.

Hunkster and Kristine emerged from the elevator. He was tall, like her, and had excellent posture, like her. His build was somewhere between scrawny and skeletal, his Adam’s apple as prominent as his nose. He was wearing jeans that looked two sizes too big, cinched in at the belt, and a short-sleeved shirt revealing knobby elbows. Hunkster was holding a bottle of wine. Kristine was holding Hunkster’s knobby elbow. She looked happy. Glowing, just-got-laid-type happy.

“This is Hunkster,” she said. The men shook hands.

“Is that what you’d like us to call you?” Russell asked.

“Or would you prefer Mr. 500?” I said.

“If Kristine likes Hunkster, that’s fine by me,” he said, his smile broad, delighted.

“Then that’s fine for Sledge and me,” I said.

“It’s really thoughtful of you to ask us over,” Hunkster said. He handed Russell the wine bottle. Russell said he loves rosé. (Russell hates rosé.) We showed the guests in and Kristine surveyed the living room. “Your apartment looks exactly how I expected it,” she said to Russell, forcing a smile.

Russell said thank you.

“That sofa sure looks comfortable,” Hunkster said, nudging Kristine in the ribs.

“Sure does,” she said, nudging Hunkster back. “But I’d move it down half a foot.”

“Wine?” I said to her.

“Cheese?” Russell said to Hunkster, holding out a plate.

The buzzer rang again. Russell picked up the intercom. “Send them up,” he said again.

While we waited in the doorway for Angela and Charlie, Kristine and Hunkster made out on the sofa. The elevator doors opened and Angela and Charlie broke apart from a giggly embrace. Angela smoothed her hair, smoothed her polka-dot sundress. I felt like Russell and I were the parents of wayward teenagers.

“Nice to see you again,” Charlie said to me. He was as sunburned as when I’d met him at SpeedLove, his face and scalp clean-shaven.

“Is this a one-bedroom or two-bedroom?” Angela asked as soon as she walked into the apartment. I hoped she wasn’t going to ask if there was a spare bedroom.

Russell turned on a side lamp. I poured wine.

“Kristine, you look beautiful in this light,” Hunkster said.

“So do you, Angela,” Charlie said.

I turned to Russell, waiting for him to say how striking I looked in the glare of his three-way bulb. “Peppadew, anyone?” he asked.

At dinner I sat next to Kristine and Hunkster, and across from Russell, who sat next to Charlie and Angela. Underneath
the table Hunkster and Kristine were rubbing knees, Charlie and Angela played footsy. More hands were under the table than on the table. It’s a good thing we didn’t serve corn on the cob.

Where were my girlfriends? These two strangers looked like Kristine and Angela, sounded like Kristine and Angela, but these women were a couple of horny-assed sex kittens. A full-scale traffic tangle was taking place under the narrow table—Charlie massaging Angela’s hand, Kristine stroking Hunkster’s thigh. I was waiting for Kristine’s eyeglasses to steam up. But nobody seemed to notice or care. Our dinner party had turned into a high school make-out party.

“So, dear, how was your day today?” I asked Russell.

Maybe tomorrow morning he’d surprise me with the poetry book, read a poem or two. We’d watch
Meet the Press
and eat omelets.

Russell and I cleared the plates, and passed out bowls of ice cream. Charlie spoon-fed Angela. Hunkster licked a drop from Kristine’s mouth. I lost my appetite.

“Gee, nine fifteen already!” Angela said. The guests weren’t eager to stick around.

“Crosstown traffic’s a nightmare on a Saturday night,” Charlie said.

“We have to get up early tomorrow,” Kristine said, looking at her watch.

“For church?” I said.

“Well, don’t let us keep you,” Russell said.

After they’d finally left, Angela whispering, “I knew
you’d connect,” and Kristine whispering, “I knew you’d like him,” I closed the front door and apologized to Russell. “I had no idea my friends were so immature,” I said. “Here I expected an intellectual evening, exchanging views and opinions and getting to know one another better, and what do we get? The back of a bar-mitzvah bus.”

I headed into the kitchen to scour the broiler. Russell cleared the ice cream bowls off the dining table and joined me. “We’re lucky we have an adult relationship,” I said, pounding at the bottom of an Ajax can, drowning the broiler in enough powder to scrub an army barrack. I gave that broiler the cleaning of its life. “All that mindless infatuation. Crazy lust. We should open the windows to clear out the endorphins. It’s ridiculous.”

But as I said the words, I didn’t believe them. And Russell said nothing at all.

I stayed over at Russell’s Sunday night. Monday morning he did his forty-five push-ups, gargled his salt water, and fed his turtles. Then I fed Russell. I made him toast with jelly. He left for his office and I walked over to Cafe Lalo on Eighty-Third.

If I owned a café, I’d ban all writers. They set up their laptops, shell out two bucks for a small coffee, and hog all the tables while pretending they’re Ernest Hemingway at the Café de Flore. I am one of these writers, so I know how annoying we can be. But Lalo’s lovely. Italian lights strung through the trees; ivy-filled flower boxes beneath French windows. Inside, the decor is Cheerful Parisian with waitresses as beautiful as the pastries. That must be a requirement for working there:
gorgeous.
Remembering to offer a menu or bring the check? Not necessarily.

Lalo’s not only lovely but it’s also semi-famous, at least locally, because the scene in
You’ve Got Mail
where Meg Ryan’s waiting to meet her pen pal was filmed there. Every time I see that scene I want to shout,
Meg! What the hell’s wrong with you? Don’t you realize Tom is NY152 and the guy you’re supposed to love!
But that’s half the fun, waiting for Meg to figure it out, while she’s sitting in Cafe Lalo.

I set up my laptop and ordered a small coffee. I’d only gotten as far as the title for my new assignment, “Organic Restaurants Are Spreading Like Pesticides.” Already bored, I clicked on the file for one of my essays. Then my luck, I dropped an index card on the floor and, as I was picking it up, I spotted Cameron Duncan sitting back-to-back to me, wearing his Cincinnati Reds cap. I sat up fast and hunched over my computer, hoping he didn’t notice me. Why wasn’t he drinking coffee in his own neighborhood where he belonged? Even though our chairs weren’t touching, once I knew he was behind me, I could
feel
him, like a dog sensing a storm. I wanted him to finish his coffee and leave. How was I supposed to concentrate?

About when I was thinking maybe I should say good morning, acknowledge him, get it over with, comment on what a coincidence it was that we were both having coffee in the same place, and then get back to my work, I heard him say, “Good morning!” He turned his chair sideways, leaning around toward me. “What a coincidence that we’re both having coffee in the same place.”

“How ’bout that,” I said. “This isn’t your neighborhood.”

“This isn’t your neighborhood. We’re both crashing.”

He moved over to sit at the empty chair across from mine, carrying a coffee cup in one hand and a plate of eggs in the other.

“I’m here to work.” I emphasized the word
work
in a way that any normal, sensitive person would take as a hint. “Why are you here?”

“I have a ten o’clock meeting. But I love this place, so I came uptown early.” He didn’t say what kind of meeting and it seemed rude to ask. What if it was for a prostate exam? Or with his parole officer? “The eggs are great. Want a taste?” he asked. “Maybe you can put down that computer cover of yours. It blocks your lovely smile.”