Out to Lunch (16 page)

“No more bourbon for me, I’m driving,” I say. “But you can check the store if you want. I’d actually love a water.”

“Of course. Nothing like the salty fried goodness of Mary’s to suck all the spit out of your mouth.”

“Exactly.”

Elliot unlocks the door and slips inside, turning off the alarm and turning on the light. He steps aside so I can come in, then relocks the door behind me. Dinner was actually a good time. I hadn’t been to Hamburger Mary’s before, but the food was terrific versions of pub grub, great burgers, and a cool atmosphere. It was actually fun to be there. Noah is always funny, and Elliot good-naturedly ribs Wayne and calls him on his crap, and they all defer to me in very old-school gentlemanly ways. I don’t think I’ve ever spent an entire evening without being annoyed by Wayne, and even when he dropped the open ketchup bottle into my purse, I just couldn’t get it up to be overly annoyed at him. That is probably the bourbon. And the fact that I never really loved this purse anyway.

“Hey, I gave you that purse.”

They can’t all be winners.

“Come on in, I’ll grab you a water,” Elliot says, heading for the door marked Office. I follow him, and again am shocked. Elliot’s office is clean, elegant; English Arts and Crafts desk, old barrister’s bookcases, sleek computer system, chocolate leather couch, more like a professor’s office than a comic book store owner. I was expecting toys and mess.

I sit on the couch, and he hands me a bottle of water from a small fridge in the corner.

“I’ll just be one second,” he says, powering up the computer, and pulling out a small pair of reading glasses. He scans over something, smiles, types a little, and then shuts down the computer. “Sorry, I have a client in Japan who needed to check in.”

“Wow. What did he want?”

“I’ve been helping him build his private collection for the past few years, there is a specific item he has wanted me to track down for him, which I finally acquired earlier this week. He was quibbling a little about price, but finally agreed to what I wanted, so I had to send him the account information for the wire transfer.”

“Doesn’t he have a credit card?”

“Not that he can charge four hundred and fifty grand on.”

I almost do a spit take. “Um, four hundred and fifty THOUSAND dollars? Are you selling him black tar heroin?”

Elliot laughs. “No, I tracked down a Detective Comic number one from 1937 for him. Very rare, and this one is in amazing condition.”

“That is insane.”

“Lucky for me.”

“So what is the markup on something like that?”

“Well, this time I actually got it in a big lot from an estate, we didn’t even know it was in there, just knew the guy had been collecting since he was a kid, and he was in his eighties. It was over three thousand books, so we knew we’d make our money on it. But this was a huge, important find.”

“So, if it isn’t too presumptuous . . .”

“I bought the lot for about 70K. This one is the only really ridiculous item, the rest will go for between fifty and twenty-five hundred each, which is what I figured when I bought them.”

“Congrats, that is really fantastic.”

“A good day.” He nods. “So I think Wayne seems to be hanging in there. How do you think he’s doing? Really?”

“I think he’s okay. I think we’re all okay. It sucks, but we had time to face it, to prepare. He has you and the guys and Noah.”

“And you.”

“I think I’m less support and more of a babysitter, but it’s nice of you to say.”

“You’re more support than you think. And let’s be honest, he needs a babysitter. The man raised himself, it’s a small miracle he walks upright.”

“Wayne doesn’t really talk about his family, Aimee never said much except that he wasn’t in communication with any of them.”

“I knew Wayne back in Missouri; we grew up together. He was other-side-of-the-tracks trailer trash. Mom was a drunk, essentially a hooker who got paid in drinks and the occasional bit of cash or wad of food stamps. Never knew his dad, who took off after knocking Mom up, never to be seen again, but he had a couple mean drunk biker uncles who liked to beat him up for grins.”

“That must have been awful. Did you know it was going on at the time?”

“He didn’t really talk about it till we were older. I knew he hated his house, just didn’t know specifics.”

“Wow. How did you guys get to be friends?”

“I was one of those sickly kids, asthma that I eventually grew out of, but held back a year because I missed so much school. We bonded like geeks bond. Best friends since fifth grade, his mom finally drank herself to death when we were seniors in high school, and he lived with me and my folks to finish out the year, and then he and I ended up at Wash U together.”

Now I feel shitty. “I had no idea it was so hard on him growing up.”

“He doesn’t talk about it. When his mom died he just said that now his life could start, and he was never going to look back. I think he looks for the positive side of everything because he knows what really crappy looks like.”

I take a sip of water. And suddenly every nasty little thing I’ve ever thought about him feels like salt in a wound I didn’t know existed. “It’s kind of amazing when you think about it.”

“Look, Jenna, it isn’t like Wayne is perfect. Our crew is a bunch of overgrown misfit children. Wayne had it the worst growing up, but we all had the unpopular weirdo freak thing in one way or another. I like to think that a combination of decent brains and a fairly good sense of humor kept us all from becoming tragic statistics.”

“You mean criminals and meth heads?”

Elliot laughs. “Exactly. And at a certain level, I think we all cling to our weirdness because it insulates us from trying to fit in and failing. My brother is really fat, like four hundred pounds. Last time I tried to get him to lose weight, he said he deep down didn’t want to know what would happen if he was thin. Because if you are forty and four hundred pounds and single with a crappy job, no one expects much. He said he didn’t want to get thin and find out that still no one wanted to date him or hire him, because then he would have to know that it wasn’t the weight, it was just him.”

“That is really sad.”

“Yes it is. And I always thought it was pretty amazing that Aimee was one of those rare individuals who was secure enough in being A-list normal that she could afford to see the awesomeness that is Wayne, and was always very cool with the rest of us. She never tried to change him or make him fit her world, she never cut him off from us; she just let him be and loved him and let him love her. She was a great, great lady.”

And suddenly I am weeping, for my friend who is gone, for her spirit which was even more amazing than I knew, for Wayne’s horrible childhood, for me being small. Elliot comes over to the couch and puts his arms around me.

“I’m sorry, I know how much you miss her. Shhhh.” He holds me and rubs my back and lets me cry.

“Sorry. Sometimes . . .”

“Sometimes you just gotta cry. I get it. Totally.” He hands me a Kleenex.

“Thanks, Elliot. For seeing her. Her specialness. And for sharing that with me about Wayne.”

“Hey, I like to think we are all friends. And you really are the only one who will eat the fried pickles with me.”

I laugh. “Anytime.”

He smiles. “You okay?”

“Yeah. But I have two dogs at home with their legs crossed.”

“Let me walk you to your car.”

He locks up again, and we walk the three blocks in silence.

“Thanks Elliot.”

“You betcha.” He grins wickedly at me. “Hey, I’m having a small do for New Year’s Eve. Wayne is coming; if you don’t get a better offer, I hope you’ll join us.”

“It’s a lovely offer, and as soon as I know my plans, I’ll let you know.”

“Wayne says you’re seeing someone, you’re welcome to bring him.”

“That’s very sweet. I’ll figure out the plan and shoot you an e-mail.” I make a mental note to send some pecans and chocolate cake to him at the store to thank him.

“Sounds good. Get home safe, Jenna.”

“I will.”

He kisses my hand, and I get into my car. And for at least four blocks, I can see him in my rearview mirror, watching me drive away.

15

B
e prepared for them to not love him.”

I’m not in love with him myself yet, but why would they not love him?

“Because they love you and they want the best for you. And he is perfectly fine, but he isn’t going to make them jump up and down.”

I don’t need them to jump up and down. I just want him to be there.

“Why?”

Because he is in my life and they are my family.

“But what is he? You still haven’t once called him your boyfriend.”

He’s the guy I’m dating.

“And?”

And that’s enough.

“For them or for you?”

Hopefully for all of us, for now.

“Okay. Remember you said so.”

Can I get dressed now?

“I’d check that dog before you get fancy.”

Crap.

“You said a mouthful.”

This is the moment the unmistakable smell wafts its way up my nostrils.

“CHEWIE!” I run out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. The puppy, who’d followed me upstairs with Volnay when I came up to shower, is sitting on the bench at the foot of my bed. Next to a pile of poop that I presume must have come from a brontosaurus wandering by, based on the sheer size.

The puppy looks neither apologetic nor sheepish. He sits next to his friend, The Enormous Stank Dump, tongue lolling, one string of drool dripping from the tip all the way to the small puddle forming next to him. Great. Remind me to call Ayers and tell them to rename the bench the Shit and Spit Bench.

“DOWN,” I say, using my deepest register, in what our trainer calls the Voice of God. “Bad boy.” And I toss on my robe and go downstairs to get the proper cleaning equipment. Deep down, I know that this is my fault; we took an abbreviated walk during which Chewie peed but didn’t poop, but I was in a rush to shower and change. Brian is picking me up soon to go to Jasmin and Gene’s for Christmas Eve. In all fairness, he had taken not one but two enormous dumps on our morning walk, so I convinced myself that he was just done for the day and would do his business on the last walk of the day before bed. But the one thing that every dog trainer has ever told me is that while dogs are responsible for general destructive behavior like plant dumping, shoe chewing, and garbage strewing, when it comes to going to the bathroom in the house, that lands squarely on owners. No dog that has been properly watched and paid attention to and walked appropriately will go to the bathroom in the house except in a dire emergency or illness.

I manage to get the bench cleaned up, and properly doused with enzyme spray to prevent future occurrences, by which point I’m really pressed for time. I pull on a pair of black velvet jeans, a sparkly gray tank, and a black sweater. A pair of black suede wedges, a wide bracelet made of about fifty thin silver chains, my diamond studs. I pull my hair into a ponytail, slap on some makeup, and get downstairs just in time for Brian to ring the bell.

“Hello, beautiful,” he says, leaning in to kiss me. He looks fabulous in dark wash jeans, a French blue shirt highlighting his eyes, with a black and gray tweed sportcoat.

“Hello, yourself.”

He comes in, and follows me to the kitchen, where I have packed up my offerings for tonight. Instead of the more traditional Christmas ham, Gene is going with a twelve-hour slow-roasted pork shoulder. Jasmin is making roasted parsnips with pears, and Andrea is doing creamy grits. I’m bringing Swiss chard with chickpeas, and made some Brazilian fudge balls, sort of a cross between fudge and caramel, and insanely delicious.

Brian greets the dogs, who have come over to love him, and I grab the fudge balls out of the fridge.

“Oh, crap, dog, really?” Brian mutters and I turn to see that Chewie has slimed his right thigh sort of spectacularly with slobber. I reach for a dish towel, dampen it a bit under the tap, and toss it to him to get the stuff off himself.

“Sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. It’s not even his fault. I choose to blame Wayne. He’s my personal Grinch.”

Brian is still pouting about my not coming to Colorado tomorrow. I actually think the reason I invited him tonight was to try and mitigate his disappointment, but clearly he hasn’t gotten over it. He knows that Chewbacca is the reason I can’t ever spend the night at his place. Volnay would be welcome, but Chewie isn’t finished with his training yet, can’t really be trusted to not devour anything not nailed down, and by the time he’s ready, he’ll be way over the forty-pound weight limit regulation for the building. He blames Wayne for my inability to come on the trip with him, since I can’t kennel the dog. And frankly, I haven’t done anything but let him believe that, even though Wayne, Benji, and Eloise all have offered to take the dogs if I want to go out of town. And he doesn’t quite understand why I feel the need to go to Indiana to see the Brands, since there are so many of them and they will have Wayne.

“Wayne is Mr. Christmas. And he would feel terrible if he thought he had somehow ruined yours.”

“Wayne is Mr. Magoo, and while I believe he might feel terrible for approximately eleven seconds, I have faith he would get over it just in time to accidentally back over me with his car.”

“Look, all fixed.” I gesture at his jeans, which are so dark you can’t even see where the damp towel was used. I’m desperate to change the subject. I’ve been feeling so much better about Wayne since the party at Elliot’s last weekend, and I want very much to hang on to that good feeling, especially since I’m still a little nervous about tomorrow. We have a three-hour drive down there, a full day of Brand festivities, and then a three-hour drive back tomorrow night. I’ve never spent that much time with him, and knowing that a full six hours is going to be one-on-one, I want to hold every ounce of happy thoughts in anticipation. “Besides, a little slobber never hurt anyone. He just loves you soooo much.”

“If only he could love me less wetly.” Brian comes over to where I’m standing. “Now you on the other hand . . .” He leans in and kisses me deeply. And wetly.

“I take your point.”

“Before we go . . . I have something for you.” He pulls a long thin box from his inside jacket pocket.

“I thought we weren’t doing gifts?” I’m mortified. After I told him I couldn’t go on the trip, we agreed that we wouldn’t do presents. And I took that seriously. I don’t have so much as a card for him.

“I know. But then I saw this and I couldn’t resist.”

“Not fair.”

“I never promised to be fair. I’m a lawyer.” He grins.

I take the box and open it. Inside is a delicate white gold chain with small diamonds spaced about every inch and a half. “Brian, it’s gorgeous. And it’s too much.”

“Nonsense. It is perfect for you, and you deserve it. Someone in your life should be giving you gifts that are actually what you want and need. And don’t require such intense maintenance.” He gestures at the dog, and while the necklace is beautiful, I can’t help but thinking in a weird way that somehow it is about proving something about himself as it relates to Wayne. But I shake it off, because Brian is putting the necklace on for me, and pulling me to the powder room to admire it. And while it isn’t something I ever would have chosen for myself, I have to admit it does look very pretty. I can see why he would have thought to buy it for me.

“Brian, thank you, it’s just so lovely. I’ll treasure it.”

He beams, and we go back to the kitchen to get the food and head to the celebration.

* * *

A
toast!” Gene raises his glass from the head of the table. “To a happy and healthy New Year for all of us, and a very merry Christmas. Thank you all for being here tonight. I especially want to thank my beautiful wife for everything she is, and for loving me for nearly forty-four years, and for our amazing daughter who brings us such joy and pride. And a moment to remember our beloved Aimee, whose spirit shines on us in these times of celebration, and will support us when things are difficult in years to come.”

“To Aimee,” Benji says beside me.

“To our wonderful hosts,” Brian says from my other side.

“To all of us,” Jasmin says.

We’re a smaller group tonight. As generous as Jasmin and Gene are at Thanksgiving, they tend to want to be more insular at Christmas; between Jasmin’s Catholic upbringing and Gene’s devout Baptist one, this night is the part of the holiday they save for themselves. They did a Christmas Eve brunch earlier today with Jasmin’s family. They’ll go to midnight mass later tonight, and Christmas service at Gene’s church tomorrow morning, after which they will stop by the group home to see Benji before heading to Gene’s sister’s house for a huge extended-family feast. After Thanksgiving, Benji convinced the kids at the home that it would be fun to host a Christmas Day dinner for the kids from two other local group homes, and Jasmin and Gene offered to sponsor the food costs for the event. I’m so proud of him, but ultimately I know it is the kind of idea Aimee would have had, and I can’t take credit for inspiring him.

“Hey, you inspire him with the food, I inspire him with the altruism, between us we have plenty to be proud of.”

That is true.

So tonight we are just seven. Seven people, and twelve pounds of pork. I pick a piece of the insanely delicious crispy skin and feel it crunch between my teeth. Suddenly the ratio seems perfectly normal. Gene rubbed it with his secret spice mix early this morning, and it’s been roasting in a slow oven all day. Andrea’s creamy grits are the perfect thing to soak up the thick gravy, Jasmin’s parsnips and pears are caramelized and sweet, and everyone praises my chard and chickpeas.

Andrea is sitting with Law, having had not one, but three real dates with the charming doctor since their Thanksgiving hookup, and Brian and I are scheduled to have a double date with them after the New Year. She seems happy and glowy, and even though she and Law have been dating such a short time, they seem very connected. And Jasmin and Gene clearly approve, which makes me wonder if his invite to Thanksgiving hadn’t actually been a sneaky fix-up.

I look at Brian and wonder what it is that I don’t have that same glow. We’ve been together longer. He is certainly attentive, but not oppressively so. He’s so freakishly good-looking, smart, nice to me. I enjoy his company. We’re compatible in bed.

“Compatible is not fantastic.”

Compatible is frankly better than a lot of guys I’ve dated. Including Jack, if you must know.

“Compatible is not sparkly.”

Sometimes comfortable is more important than sparkly.

“In pants, yes. In shoes and sex, no.”

Oy.

“Twelve hours to cook pork, and twelve minutes to eat it.” Jasmin is laughing at us, empty plates everywhere, and people leaning back in chairs, stuffed, but still tempted to reach for more. Law picks a piece of crackling off the shoulder, and Andrea slaps his hand jokingly.

“Leave that boy alone, Dre. He can pick that pigskin all he wants. He knows a good thing,” Gene says with a wink.

“Everything was just delicious,” Benji says. “I hope you all saved room for dessert!”

Benji brought a fabulous-looking cake made out of twenty layers of crepes with thin layers of vanilla pastry cream in between, the top burnished and brûléed with a crispy burnt sugar layer.

“I’m sure by the time we finish cleaning up, we’ll be ready,” Andrea says, and we stand to follow Jasmin to the kitchen. Gene motions the men to follow him to the living room, shaking his head at their desire to be helpful.

“Stay out of my wife’s kitchen, you’ll just make a nuisance of yourselves.”

Benji stands, looking torn. Not sure if he should follow the other guys, or stay and help. I know he’d probably rather be with the girls, but he does take a certain pride in his masculinity. Jasmin saves him.

“Benji, will you ask the other men if they would like coffee with their after-dinner drinks?” she asks. He gratefully scampers off with a job, knowing that if they say yes, she will ask him to make it, allowing him to shuttle back and forth and get the best of both worlds.

“Didn’t we just do this?” Andrea asks.

“Feels like it, doesn’t it. I, for one, am ready for the holidays to be over,” Jasmin says. “Takes it out of me more every year.”

“You haven’t broken a sweat, and you love every minute of it.” Andrea laughs, kissing her mother’s cheek.

“No coffees,” Benji says.

“Okay. Thank you. Would you be a dear and pack up the leftovers? The containers are in the bottom cabinet next to the fridge.” Jasmin invents the new job, and Benji gives her a saucy salute and heads across the room to be useful. She turns to me, handing me the now-clean roasting pan to dry and gives me a wink.

Jasmin is right as usual; by the time we are done cleaning, we have earned the desserts, and Benji’s cake is spectacular. Everyone loves the fudge balls as well, and soon we are all sated and somewhat sleepy. We all get ready to leave so that Jasmin and Gene can get ready to go to mass. Andrea and Law offer to drop Benji off so that he doesn’t have to take the train, and Brian and I head back to my place.

Where we find the contents of his overnight bag, which he accidentally left in the kitchen with the dogs, strewn about, mauled and damp with slobber. There are four neat puncture holes in his tube of fancy Italian toothpaste that he special orders from some New York apothecary, and Chewbacca looks half-rabid with dried toothpaste foam all around his mouth.