Authors: Meredith Mileti

Aftertaste (23 page)

BOOK: Aftertaste

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“How are you going to refer to me in the review?” Ben asks, while reaching for the last of the conch fritters we ordered as an appetizer. It's only after citing “truth in journalism” as justification for my having the last fritter that Ben agrees to even split it with me.

“What do you mean?”

“Come onâyou've read the Nibbler reviews in the paper. He always refers to his dining companion as BFONâBest Friend of Nibbler or MONâMother of Nibbler. You know, âEXSOON found the salad to be too heavily dressed....' Like that.”

“EXSOON?”

“Yeah, ex-significant other of Nibbler.”

“You read the restaurant reviews?” I ask.

“Sure, sometimes. I mean, the Nibbler's no Frank Bruni, of course, but still they're entertaining.”

“Frank Bruni?” I ask.

“Surprised?” Ben answers, his eyes narrowing.

“No, it's just that I haven't really given it much thought,” I tell him, trying not to offend him any further.

“Well,” Ben says, smiling at me, “my point is, you ought to come up with something that will distinguish yourself, some kind of gimmick. It'll make your piece a little more interesting.”

“Yeah, thanks, I'll think about it,” I tell him. What's even more surprising than his being an occasional reader of restaurant reviews is the fact that he also seems to have spent some time thinking about them.

Over lunch he talks a lot. In addition to offering a running commentary on the food, he also finds time to disclose that he makes his own beer, plays the bass guitar in a grunge band, and was formerly married to his high school sweetheart, but it hadn't worked out. Finally, over dessert, a pineapple crisp with a buttery brown sugar glaze, topped with homemade coconut ice cream, which we decide to share, Ben says, “So, what about your ex? What kind of a guy was he?” His eyes shift to Chloe, who has fallen asleep in her stroller. What he really means is, what kind of a guy leaves a little baby? But I don't want to talk about Jake.

I don't say anything and instead reach for another bite of the pineapple crisp, which is delicious. “You just want me to keep talking so that you can finish the dessert. Well, forget it,” I say lightly, spearing the last slice of pineapple with my fork.

Ben scoops a spoonful of the ice cream and gives me a speculative look. “Okay. Sorry. Forget I asked.”

I can't. I don't know why it's so much easier to talk while you eat, but now that the pineapple crisp is gone, there doesn't seem to be much more to say. I signal for the check.

“He's an okay guy, I guess. He just didn't want to be married to me anymore. He didn't want to be a father to Chloe.” In search of a distraction, I scrape the dish with the tines of my fork, trying to loosen the remaining caramel, which is stuck resolutely to the bottom of the ramekin.

Ben leans forward in his chair, rests his forearms on the table, and clasps his small hands. “That doesn't sound like an okay guy to me.”

chapter 20

Deadlines are an unavoidable fact of life for a journalist, and already I'm having trouble meeting them. Although I lost no time in eating at Koko's, it's taken me almost a week to write the review. I took Ben's advice and tried to come up with a gimmick that would make my piece unique and finally had come up with “BITER”âBuddy I Take to Eat in Restaurantsâwho in this case, I write, is a guy on a diet who orders only a small mango and jicama salad with the dressing on the side and then proceeds to eat everything in sight, starting with the bread basket and culminating in a near stabbing over the last forkful of the pineapple crisp. I'm hoping it's cute.

Because I wanted to run my review by Dr. D-P before e-mailing it to Enid, I stayed up ridiculously late last night to finish it. Dr. D-P is pleased with my progress and even takes a few minutes out of our session to read my review, which I present to her the instant I sit down, before I even take off my coat. I watch as she takes out her pen and begins making corrections in the margins.

“These are just little things, Mira. Sentence structure and, well, spelling. Doesn't your computer have spell-check?” she asks, without looking up.

“Some of them might be island words. Those aren't in spell-check,” I tell her, craning my neck, trying to see what she is writing.

“Hmm. You also might want to rethink BITER. It's a bit of a stretch, don't you think?” She scribbles some more on my review and then hands it back to me without further comment.

“Look at it later, Mira. This is fine, and the things I marked are all easy to fix. Now, let's talk about your next steps.”

I don't want to talk about my next steps. I'm not exactly sure what I wanted from Dr. D-P on the review, although something more positive and encouraging might have been nice. But as usual, she isn't deterred, running on about interview techniques and follow-up notes should Enid happen to call before our next appointment. Our session runs ten minutes over, and despite her more than usual dose of helpful hints and useful strategies, I leave feeling unsatisfied. I'm halfway to Ruth's to pick up Chloe before I realize why. I hadn't talked with Dr. D-P about what was really on my mindâmy lunch with Ben. How for the first time I hadn't choked on my words when talking about Jake.

The day before the big mah-jongg game, Ruth phones me at 7:00 a.m. just as I'm feeding Chloe breakfast. We'd planned on meeting at Gymboree later in the morning and talked about possibly taking the kids to lunch afterward so that I might quiz her on baking techniques and ingredients, in case anyone asks her about her recipes.

“I don't know what it is this time,” she says. “He was fine when he woke up, but now he's covered in hives.” Carlos, Ruth has discovered, is an allergic kid, breaking out in hives whenever he tries a new food. “The only things he had to eat yesterday were Cheerios, a couple of Kraft Singles, and some ham, all of which are on the Carlos-approved list.” I'm glad we're on the phone so Ruth can't witness my shudder. “Maybe it's me,” she continues. “I read an article about someone who was allergic to another person, except it was a husband who was allergic to his wife. They had to get divorced. Do you think Carlos could be allergic to me?”

“No, he's not. It's probably something in the air, or dust from the carpet or something. He's fine.”

“Well, anyway, the point of all this is that I can't go to Gymboree today, which is probably just as well,” Ruth says, groaning. “I stayed up too late last night studying that damned card, and I've got circles under my eyes that extend beyond my kneecaps. I look like shit.”

Ruth had ordered the latest official mah-jongg card from the National Mah Jongg Association. “Leah asked me if I had the 2011, so I lied and said yes. I just hope it comes in time,” she had told me last week. It had, but barely, arriving only yesterday. Since receiving it Ruth had tried to enlist my help in learning the various mah-jongg combinations, but I kept mixing up the cracks and the bams, not to mention the flowers and the dragons, so she quickly gave up on me. “You should probably stick to food,” she said. “That's your strong suit.”

Maybe I should be insulted, but the truth is I admire Ruth's academic approach to dating. I'm impressed by her desire to learn to cook and to play mah-jongg, not to mention her sifting through reams of fashion magazines and “how-to” books, culling for information designed to make her optimally attractive. “Look,” she says when I point this out to her. “I've been in school over half my life. I'm good at research. It's what I know.” But it makes me think about my own approach to love that, at this point, is nonexistent. I have never been particularly good at studying, and the few things I know outside of cooking, I've learned from experience, not from books. Maybe I should give the academic approach a try. If there's a self-help book out there for me, Ruth probably already owns it.

“Besides,” Ruth continues, “I don't think Neil's even going to be there today. When Leah called to confirm the time for the mah-jongg game, she mentioned Neil was going to be out of town on business this week. Oh, hey, can you come over after Gymboree? You've got to quiz me on these combinations.”

“I thought you told me I should stick to food.”

“You probably should, but I'm desperate.”

“I don't get it. What's the point of learning these when you just have to relearn new ones next year?”

“The point is an end to my spinsterhood. That's the point.”

Although Chloe always seems to enjoy the Gymboree classes, in the last few weeks it seems as if she's come to anticipate them as well. This morning as we make the turn onto Forbes Avenue and head toward the JCC, her little body strains, and she begins giggling. Then, when we get out into the gym, she looks around intently, searching for Carlos most likely, who by now, because of my growing friendship with Ruth, has become a regular fixture in her world. It seems that Chloe, if not her mother, has begun to build a life in Pittsburgh.

This morning they've set up what they call a “water center,” really just a plastic baby pool with some Dixie cups, a bunch of floating Ping-Pong balls, and a few rubber duckies. I'm in the process of wrapping Chloe in a waterproof smock when, to my surprise, we are joined by Eli, who rolls up his sleeves, grabs a smock from the hook, and toddles toward his father, who is by the door filling out a name tag. Funny, hadn't Ruth mentioned that Neil was out of town on business?

Perhaps it's because I now know his story, but there's something incredibly touching about seeing Neil, a tall man, on bended knee with his arms wrapped around his son. I watch as Neil gently guides Eli's head through the neck of the smock and ties the strings in the back. Then, before he stands, he kisses the top of Eli's head and ruffles his red curls. Neil's hair is a sandy color, flecked with silver, making me wonder if Sarah had red hair.

Neil and Eli join us at the water table, where Chloe is in the process of hoarding all of the rubber ducks. Eli approaches the table and makes a gentle attempt to wrest one from her tight-fisted grasp. When I move to intervene, Neil stops me. “No, don't. You've got to respect the Toddler's Manifesto.”

“The Toddlers have a Manifesto?” I ask, surprised.

“Yes. It starts: âIf I had it first, it's mine.'”

“What's the rest?”

“If I want it, it's mine. If it looks like mine, it's mine. If I had it five minutes ago and I want it back, it's still mine. If you lose it and I find it, it's mine. The toddlers express it much more elegantly, of course, but you get the idea. I'm surprised you don't know it,” Neil says, looking down at me with a smile.

“No, they really have to start inviting me to their meetings. And anyway, technically, Chloe's still an infant,” I tell him, taking two of the rubber ducks from Chloe and offering them to Eli. Chloe wails in protest.

“Well, then, you've got yourself a precocious child, I see.”

I smile at him.

“You're Mira, right?”

I nod.

“I'm Neil,” he says, offering his hand, which I take. His palm is cool and dry.

“Of course, I remember.” Just then, Neil's phone begins to ring. He releases my hand and reaches into his pants pocket to answer it.

It's a business call. Neil covers the receiver with his hand and mouths, “Excuse me,” while I join the kids at the water table and make a show of splashing around with them and pretending not to listen. After a few minutes, Neil hangs up and rejoins us.

“Haven't you heard, you shouldn't keep those in your pocket?” I ask him, bending low to reroll Chloe's damp sleeves.

Neil hangs his head and laughs. “Yes, just don't tell my mother. She's got her sights set on additional grandchildren.”

Without really intending to, the four of us spend the rest of the class together. I tell myself it's because, despite their initial tussle over the ducks, Chloe and Eli seem to get along very well.

“What can I say? He's a day care kid. He plays well with others,” Neil tells me when I comment on what an easy child Eli seems to be.

“It's nice you can at least take part of the day off to do this, though.”

“I've worked part-time since Eli was born. Well, not really part-time, full time, actually, but I work out of my house. One day a week my mother watches Eli, two days he's in day care here at the JCC, and I have him the other two days. He's a good kid. He's got some separation issues, but I suppose that's to be expected under the circumstances. I'm guessing you know my story?”

I nod. “I'm sorry about your wife.”

Neil nods, his lips pursed. “Thanks,” he says. “I assume my mother told you? She's put out an APB among her network of Jewish mothers. I'm sure she's preparing a feature article for
The Jewish Chronicle
just in time for the Passover issue extolling my virtues and advertising my availability. I suppose I should give up being embarrassed about it. You can't stop the machine.” Neil smiles wryly and then leans his head back and rests it against the cinder-block wall of the gym while we watch the kids roll around on the yoga balls in front of us.

“I'm sure Sarah was a wonderful woman.”

“Thank you,” Neil says, looking over at me, his eyes searching my face, startled perhaps, that I've said her name. It just slipped out, and the instant I say it, I regret it. It's too personal, too invasive, but ever since Ruth told me about Sarah, I haven't been able to stop thinking about her. “Thanks for saying her name. People don't like to. I think it makes them uncomfortable, but it's nice to hear it,” Neil says, giving my hand a brief squeeze.

As soon as “The Bubble Song” begins to play, Eli, Chloe, Neil, and I join the other moms and kids to sit in the parachute circle. Even though Neil apparently didn't mind, I'm still embarrassed to have intruded on his grief, and I make a point of not sitting next to him. Instead, Chloe and I choose a place on the other side of the circle. It's warm in the gym, and the wafting of the parachute lends a welcome, cool breeze. The kids take turns crawling in and out while the instructors blow bubbles and the adults move the parachute up and down, its thin silk casting shadows of red, blue, and gold on our faces.

In the coatroom after class, Neil seeks us out. “Eli and I are going to have a latte at the Coffee Tree. I don't suppose you ladies would care to join us?”

“I, ah, I mean
we'd
love toâChloe's a bear without her morning latte.” Neil's smile is warm. “But, actually, I've promised my friend Ruth that we'd stop over.” At the mention of Ruth's name, I feel my body deflate with the sudden realization that I've just wasted fifty-seven minutes of prime opportunity to help advance Ruth's agenda.

“I just figured since the kids seemed to have such a nice time playing together, you know?” Neil says.

“You remember Ruth. She was here a couple of weeks ago? She has a little boy, Carlos?” Maybe it's not too late.

Neil nods, absently. Silently, we gather our things, diaper bags, stray mittens, and boots.

The four of us are on our way out of the coatroom when we are intercepted by Rona Silverman, who's headed for the ladies' locker room. She's wearing a stylish brown and black pareo over her swimsuit and is in the midst of removing her bathing cap and shaking loose her frosted hair.

“Why, Mira, Neil!” Rona says, stopping mid-shake.

“Mrs. Silverman,” we say in unison.

“What I wouldn't give for those curls,” she says, running her manicured hand through Eli's thick curls. Eli buries his head in Neil's neck.

She looks at Chloe's nearly bald head and gives it a rub. “Don't worry, dear, it will grow,” she croons. “Besides, Eli's older, isn't he, Neil? He's what, almost two?”

“Yes, in June,” Neil says.

“Although, as I recall, he had a full head of hair from the moment he was born. Isn't that right, Neil?”

BOOK: Aftertaste

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