Out to Lunch (15 page)

“Wayne Randolph Garland, you look her in the eye.”

Wayne doesn’t move.

“Wayne, please . . .”

He raises his head, looking like a kid who just found out he cannot have ice cream unless he eats all his peas. “No, she probably would not think it is as cool as I do.”

“Wayne, I promise, if someday YOU would like to be immortalized in this way, if I’m around I will try and make it happen. But Aimee . . .”

“Would DIE OF MORTIFICATION.”

“Would hate it. You’re right.” He sighs deeply. “Well, back to the drawing board! Ha, literally! I’ll call him and say we are looking for something more traditional. Never fear, we’ll get it right.”

I had hoped the failed sketch would mean the complete end of the project, but at least we have more time again. “Okay, Wayne. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I wouldn’t want to do something Aimee would hate.”

“Okay, I have to go home, walk the dogs.”

“Good plan, Stan. So I’m picking up Noah Friday afternoon, you still available to come with us to the holiday party at Elliot’s store?”

I had forgotten I agreed to that. I swallow every instinct to back out of it. “Sure. What time?”

“It goes from five to eight, but we are shooting for seven, hang at the party for a bit, grab a bite after. Want us to come get you?”

“Nah, I’ll meet you there.”

“Perfect. Should be a blast.”

“I’m sure it will be.” A nightmare. “I’m looking forward to seeing Noah, and I know Eloise is excited for the ornament class Saturday.”

“He’s got all his printouts of the superhero logos. I think he’s very happy with his theme.”

“Well, he comes by it right!”

“True enough.”

I walk to the door, grabbing my coat off the rack and putting it on, retrieving my purse from the console table next to the door.

“See you Friday, then.”

Wayne moves forward and grabs me in a big hug. “Bye, Jenny,” he says into my hair.

“Bye,” I say, into his shoulder.

* * *

I
get home, clean up the remains of what I believe used to be a leather pot holder that Chewie appears to have mistaken for a snack, and take both dogs for a long walk. Once we get home, I change into my cooking blacks. I get the chef’s whites when you work in a restaurant, and I used to wear them for events. But home cooking? I have an endless set of black leggings with black T-shirts. Because cooking is messy, and I’m a slob, and no amount of bleach will really salvage whites once you spatter them to hell with demi-glace and chocolate and beet juice.

I head to the kitchen to get set up for my annual holiday baking. I used to make a million different cookies and treats, never fewer than a dozen different things in every gift box, but by the time the holidays rolled around, I was exhausted and cranky. And now that I’m out of the business, I don’t have the same need in terms of holiday giving. No big clients to impress or huge staff to acknowledge. I bring stuff to Christmas Eve with Andrea and Jasmin and Gene, and some to bring with to the Brands’ on Christmas Day. Some for the Library, where we keep the buffet full of our favorite holiday treats to keep customers high on sugar and shopping. I send some to my parents, who I won’t see till I go visit for Passover in March. Some for Noah and Wayne. I used to send some to Brian, but now that feels weird, so I sent a plant for his office instead. I learned the hard lesson a long time ago to just make one or two things that I can do in bulk. This year I am doing praline pecans, an old family favorite, easy and addictive. And a festive holiday dark chocolate loaf cake, with pistachios and dried cherries and white chocolate chips.

I get out my huge seven-quart KitchenAid mixer, and head to the basement, where I have ten pounds of gorgeous halved pecans in the chest freezer, and a pallet of organic eggs from Paulie’s Pasture in the commercial refrigerator I use for entertaining and overflow. Upstairs, I focus on separating eggs, reserving the yolks for making pasta or custard later. Beating whites, melting butter, I can feel my shoulders unclench as the scent of toasted sugared pecans caramelizing fills the house. Volnay and Chewie are curled up together sleeping after their exercise.

“Looks like you are getting the holiday spirit after all.”

I’m trying to.

“Well, I promised you I wouldn’t die within a week of a major holiday, so at least you don’t have to be maudlin.”

You also promised we’d have the rooms next to one another in the old people’s home.

“Well, one out of two.”

Yeah.

“For what it’s worth? Nothing makes me happier than to see you actually having some holiday cheer in your life.”

For what it’s worth, I’d trade all the holiday cheer in the universe till the end of time to have you back.

“I know. And I love you, schmoopy. But you’re hanging in there. As well you should.”

I love you too, schmoopy.

I salt the still-warm pecans with some flaky sea salt, and a little bit with a few tears I hadn’t realized I still had in me.

14

E
lliot’s store, Cosmic Comix, is in a storefront on Clark Street in the Andersonville area. Which makes it an even bigger pain in the ass, since parking is notoriously difficult in this bustling Chicago neighborhood to begin with, but even more so during the holiday season. I circle the area no less than a dozen times before I finally find someone leaving a spot about three blocks away. The unseasonable warmth we’ve been enjoying has continued, and no snow yet, which is a blessing for everyone except those who believe more in White Christmases than they do in being able to get around. I’ll take this, myself. Especially when I have to walk a quarter of a mile to get from my car to my destination. This whole semiretired-homebody thing has spoiled me when it comes to being out and about. I run my errands during the day midweek when normal people are working, and my social life tends to focus on hosting at my house, especially now since that mostly consists of hanging out with Brian, who always sleeps at my place because of the dogs.

I get to Cosmic at around seven fifteen, noticing that Wayne’s Escalade is parked right in front.

“I bequeathed him my parking karma.”

Couldn’t have shared a little with me?

“Nope. Having bad parking karma keeps you humble.”

I open the doors, and head into a surprisingly large space. The small storefront belies a fairly enormous store, as these places tend to go, this is no six-hundred square foot hole-in-the-wall. The place is very deep, and duplexed up with a large central staircase leading to the second level. And unlike the somewhat dingy place I imagined, with bad fluorescent lighting and dusty boxes of dolls and toys on warped shelves, this place is bright, clean, and appears to be very smartly merchandised. There are about thirty or forty people milling around, looking in the glass locked cases at mint condition action figures, signed memorabilia, and authenticated movie and television props, as well as what I assume are the more valuable older comics. The walls are lined with the newer comic books, and I’m overwhelmed at the sheer volume of them.

I personally went through a brief
Archie
thing in kindergarten, and a serious
Doonesbury
phase in high school and college. And I still love a good
Calvin and Hobbes
collection. But other than that? Comics were never my thing. Nor sci-fi or fantasy or video gaming or any of the associated genres. I have seen some of the more famous movies; obviously, you can’t grow up in the ’70s and ’80s without being aware of the original Star Wars series, Christopher Reeve Superman movies, and the original
Batman
TV show. I even had a crush on Adam West when I was little. But it isn’t something that stuck, and by the time Dungeons & Dragons hit the scene and Atari moved beyond Pong, I was out. I’ve never read the Harry Potter books. I wouldn’t know
Star Trek: The Next Generation
from
Stargate
.

A shapely woman with jet-black hair in a high ponytail and severe bangs revealing a swath of tattooed stars down the back of her neck that complement the tattoo sleeves she is sporting, wanders over.

“Can I take your coat?” she asks.

Flabbergasted, I hand it over and receive a chit in the form of what appears to be some sort of eight-sided space currency. She disappears into a side room that is emitting an eerie blue glow, and I head in search of Wayne and Noah.

“Jenna!” A voice behind me calls out. “You made it!”

I turn around. “Hi, Elliot.” He comes forward to give me a hug. Elliot is maybe only three or four inches taller than I am, five eight or five nine at the most. He’s wearing old, ripped jeans that sag, being entirely without ass to hold them up, an ancient T-shirt from the old
Heavy Metal
animated movie, and a black sportcoat that is somewhat threadbare. But to his credit, despite being a little disheveled, he smells good. Like a combination of baby powder and cookies.

“How are you?” he asks, concern in his pale green eyes. Elliot, like Wayne, has something of a baby face, but luckily he embraces it and doesn’t festoon it with ridiculous facial hair. He’s clean shaven, looking about sixteen except for the slightly thinning sandy brown hair in a classic Gary Sandy feathered cut that takes me back to my roller disco days. He always reminds me of when you see a teen idol all grown up, there is a little of the not-young-anymore Shaun Cassidy around the edges, and despite his youthful demeanor, there are some tiny lines beginning to appear in the corners of his eyes.

“I’m okay. Hanging in there. You?”

“Good, good, you know. It’s that time of year we retailers love and hate in equal measure. But can’t complain. And our boy seems to be keeping his chins above water.”

“He does at that.”

“I know he’s very lucky to have you right now.”

“Well, I think I’m probably more a pain in his ass, but it’s nice of you to say. I think he’s far luckier to have you and Georgie and the boys supporting him.”

“Well, hell. None of us have ever had much luck with ladies to start with, and certainly not the kind of luck to be with someone like Aimee. To land her and then lose her? That is a colossal tragedy for geeks everywhere.” He smiles, and his eyes sparkle wickedly.

I can’t help but laugh. “Well, regardless, it’s great that he has you guys to keep his spirits up.”

“We do what we can. Can I get you a drink?”

“Sure, what are you pouring?”

“For the masses? Various things in bilious colors served over dry ice for appropriate sci-fi effect. For you, I have a secret stash of Buffalo Trace bourbon in my office, which I am serving over ice with the merest splash of ginger beer and a lemon twist. But only for my friends.”

“That sounds great, thank you.”

“No problem. And between us, stay away from the buffet and stick to the passed hors d’oeuvres. These monkeys double dip and manhandle the cheese.”

“Good to know. Thanks for the heads-up.”

“Wayne and Noah I think are upstairs; I’ll find you with your drink momentarily.”

“Thanks, Elliot.”

I make my way through the crowd, bypassing the buffet, where a crowd of bearded and bespectacled men of indeterminate age are indeed manhandling the cheese and eating as if they will not see another meal till the second coming of Yoda, and head up the stairs. The second floor appears to be more regular books and graphic novels, DVDs and video games. There is a large-screen TV set up with various game stations, and Wayne and Noah appear to be engaged in an epic battle of some sort.

“Hey Jenna! I’m almost winning!” Noah says.

“He’s getting better. He might actually beat me this time,” Wayne says. I stand behind them, not at all sure what I am seeing, and absentmindedly accept a little phyllo triangle stuffed with a savory and sweet chicken mixture from a passing tray. It isn’t as piping hot as I might like, but it is crispy and well-seasoned, sort of reminds me of a Moroccan bisteeya.

“Ah HA! Gotcha!” Noah yells, and he and Wayne high-five. “Did you see that, Jenna? I won! I really won!”

“So you did, congrats.” Noah gets up from the chair and comes to give me a hug.

Wayne gets up and ruffles his hair, leaning over to kiss my cheek. “Hey Jenny, this guy really nailed me on that one.”

“I saw.”

“Never beat him before, that was the first time!” Of course it was; god forbid Wayne would let a kid beat him at some game.

“Well, I hope you make it a habit,” I say, trying to leave any judgment out of my tone.

“Yeah, me too!” The kid is wiggling with excitement.

Behind me I feel a presence. “Hey Wayne, Noah, um, Jenna.” Georgie. Who is exactly what you would expect a nearly fifty-year-old man named Georgie would be. Georgie is tall and gangly, with the most pronounced Adam’s apple I’ve ever seen outside of a Disney cartoon villain. His thinning, mousy brown hair is kept long. He wears a long black trench coat with an extralong red and yellow striped scarf everywhere. And his teeth are a shade I can only describe as gray. Not yellowed or brown, but actually gray. With sort of a hint of lavender. He is Wayne’s second best friend after Elliot, and while I’ve met him no fewer than twenty times over the years, to my knowledge we have never exchanged more than ten words.

“Hey Georgie,” I say.

“How are you?” He head tilts. The bastard.

“I’m good, thanks. You?”

“Good. Work is busy, so that’s nice, considering. But I’m ready for a break. Heading home to Michigan for a week for the holidays, see the family, play with the nieces and nephews, you know.”

This is officially more information than I have ever known about Georgie in eight years of his acquaintance.

“Sounds great.” Not really sure what else to say.

And then? Georgie turns and walks away without another word. Lord, the strangeness.

“Noah, stay with Jenny, I have to go to the little Jedi’s room.” Wayne heads for the restrooms.

“You know what is so cool, Jenna?”

“What’s that, little man?”

“My friends? All their dads let them win all the time. Board games, cards, video games, sports. My dad? He always tries his hardest because he says he wants me to try my hardest, and because he only wants me to know what it feels like to really win for real, and because he says the only thing better in the world than a winner is a gracious loser.”

I am gobsmacked. First of all, the fact that Noah appreciates the fact that his dad has never let him win all these years; and second, that it was actually a conscientious parenting decision as opposed to a juvenile need to win that drives Wayne’s actions.

“Yeah, I bet it feels really good to know that you won even though he was trying his hardest to beat you.” I hope no one else can see the lightbulb over my head right now.

“It. Is. AWESOME.”

“A beverage, milady?” Elliot comes over and hands me a short tumbler, and I accept it and take a sip.

“Delicious, thank you.”

“Hey Elliot! I just beat Dad at Hitman: Absolution!”

“No way! You really did?”

“I totally squooshed him.”

“That is amazing, dude. I still haven’t beaten him on that one. Congrats.” Elliot and Noah high-five. I take another sip of my drink, which is perfect, smoky bourbon, sweet heat from the ginger beer, a little brightness from the lemon twist; the ideal thing for a brisk evening.

“Hey, El, awesome party, man.” Wayne returns, wiping his hands on his jeans. I hope from having washed them, thinking of Elliot’s earlier buffet comment.

“The dryer broken in there?” Elliot gestures with his head at the bathroom. “Or you just trying to shrink those floods of yours to capris?”

“HA! That’s a good one, he totally burned you, Dad!”

Wayne grins. “What can I say. I was raised by wolves.”

“That you were, my friend, that you were.” Elliot laughs. “Well, we are about ten minutes to shutting this party down. Jenna, are you joining us for dinner?”

“Oh, I don’t . . . I mean . . .”

“Pleeeeeese, Jenna? Come with us! We’re going to Hamburger Mary’s and Dad said we can get the fried mac ’n’ cheese fritters.”

“Pleeeeese, Jenny? Come with us! We need a fourth if we’re getting the chili cheese Tater Tots,” Wayne pipes in, perfectly imitating Noah’s voice and inflection.

“Pleeeeese, Jenna?” Elliot is not to be left out. “Come with us! You’re the only one who will eat the fried pickle spears with me.”

“Okay, okay, uncle. I’ll come.” I can’t say no to all of them, and the bourbon is making me pliable.

The three of them high-five one other. High-fiving appears to be an essential part of guy communications.

“You guys go get a table, I’ll be there in fifteen,” Elliot says.

“Don’t you need help cleaning up?” I say, looking around at the party, which still seems to be in full swing. There is an hour of work at least once he gets everyone out.”

“That, my dear, is what twentysomething staffers are for. Once the party is officially over, I am off the clock and free as a bird. You guys head on over and order, and I will join you in mere moments. And Jenna? You order for me. This idiot will get me a medium well plain hamburger, and that will make me cry.”

He smiles at me and winks, and heads over to chat with a customer. Wayne, Noah, and I go downstairs and retrieve our coats from the be-inked girl, and head out in the direction of fried pub food, Noah wiggling in between me and Wayne, grabbing both of our hands, and swinging merrily.

* * *

Y
ou get that boy home to bed, I’ll walk Jenna to her car,” Elliot says. Noah has hit a wall. The long day, the drive from Madison, the excitement of the party, the enormous amounts of food . . . ten minutes ago his head hit the table, and he can barely keep his eyes open.

“Thanks, man. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. G’night Jenny, thanks for coming,” Wayne says to me over an armload of exhausted ten-year-old.

“’Night, Jenna,” Noah mumbles.

“Bye, guys.”

Wayne gets Noah strapped into the backseat, his head lolling back with pure exhaustion. He claps Elliot on the back, and heads around to the driver’s side.

“Nightcap? There is still some bourbon in the office. And I just want to do a quick check to make sure all is well, but I can walk you to your car first if you don’t want to come in,” Elliot says, gesturing at the now-dark store.