Two of a Kind (11 page)

“What difference does it make?” Though he had given this some thought too—not that he would tell her that.

“What difference? To start with,
you're
Jewish.
I'm
Jewish. Your
son
is Jewish.
Rachel
”—she let the name hang in the air—“was Jewish.”

“Rachel is dead,” he said. “Rachel is dead and for the first time since she died, I feel a spark for someone, I'm really
excited
about someone, and
you're
worried because she isn't Jewish.”

“You know about me,” Ida said, breaking the angry silence. “My past. What I went through back then. And all because I was Jewish.”

“Yes, I know,” he said quietly. He did know about her past: the deportation, the camp, the small blue number that was still on her forearm.

“So if you know, why would you do this to me? Why?”

“I'm not doing it
to you
,” he said. “I'm doing it
for me
.” There was a pause during which he thought she might break down weeping. The moment passed.

“I overstepped,” she said. “You'll do what you want. You're a grown man. I can't help the way I feel, that's all.” She looked down at her gnarled hands with their shiny, painted nails.

“Look, they'll be here any minute,” he said. “Can you please, please,
please
just drop it?”

Ida huffed off to set the table and Andy turned back to the meal. He opened the bakery box. The cake had shifted radically during the ride home; it was now totally squashed on one side. Andy checked his watch: too late to drive back to town to find a substitute. Damn.

“Hey, when's Christina getting here?” Ollie ambled out of his room in torn jeans, neon green sneakers, and a faded, stretched-out T-shirt that said,
Coke: Good for Sipping, Spurting & Snorting
. Jesus, did he have to meet company looking like that? Before Andy could say anything, the bell rang. Showtime.

“Great to see you!” Andy gushed, shaking first Stephen's hand and then Misha's. “Come on in.” He ushered them inside and accepted the wine Stephen had brought without even looking in the bag. He was too interested in greeting Christina, who wore some diaphanous dress of a silvery gray, her silver bracelet, and a pair of simple but sexy black shoes. Her hair was swept up and back from her face in its usual style and two pearl drops quivered from her ears. “I'm glad you could make it,” he managed to say when she wandered into the kitchen.

“Me too,” she said, but did not linger. He watched her retreating back with a slump of disappointment, but then he rallied: he had a dinner to serve. He pulled the salad from the fridge; he'd dress it when it got to the table. Right now he wanted to start the corn and light some candles. He hurried to follow Christina into the other room and caught the tail end of Misha's comment about some off-Broadway play whose name he recognized. He had been dragged to it by Jen of all people; she had read the very positive reviews. “Oh, that was the play about those three sisters all in love with the same guy? What a melodramatic piece of crap,” Andy said.

There was an awkward pause before Misha said, “The director is a very good friend of mine. We've worked together for years and I did the lighting for that production.” Andy said nothing; he wanted to stuff the words right back into his mouth. “The lighting was good!” he croaked. “The lighting was great!” The stupid candles would wait; he turned and fled to the deck, where the massive stainless-steel grill—ready to roast a bison should he have happened to spear one—gleamed in the setting sun. But when he went to turn it on, it wouldn't light, and after several frantic minutes, he realized he was out of propane; he'd neglected to check the tank earlier in the day. Shit. Well, he'd have to boil the corn; he just hoped there was another pot in there big enough. He rummaged frantically through the cupboards. Too small, wrong shape—ah, here was something. He pulled it out and sent several others clattering to the floor. The conversation in the other room stopped and Ida called out, “Need any help?”

“No, I'm fine. Fine!” He scuttled back outside, scooped the ears into the pot, sending several of them spiraling onto the deck below. Luckily, no one saw and he gathered up what he could, figuring that the boiling water would kill any germs. Then he placed the remaining ears of corn on the counter, filled two pots with water, and brought the salad out to the table.

“Voilà!” he said, setting it down right in front of Christina.

“This looks so nice,” she said. He reached for the vinaigrette he'd prepared earlier and poured it over the greens. But he was a little too enthusiastic and the dressing splashed up from the salad bowl, right onto Christina's face and dress.

“Jesus, I am so sorry!” he said.

Christina said nothing and only reached for her napkin.

“Seltzer,” said Stephen, rising from his seat. “Right away. Want me to get it?”

“No, no, I'll go,” said Andy.

“Don't worry. I'm sure it will be all right,” Christina said, dabbing at her chin.

“Don't do anything to the dress until he brings you the seltzer,” Stephen instructed as he sat back down. “You don't want to set the stain.”

Andy rushed into the kitchen, grabbed the unopened bottle of seltzer that he had fortunately picked up at the market. A quick twist of the cap and—whoosh! The seltzer erupted like a geyser, sending a spray all over the floor. Now it was slippery—great. All he needed was for his mother or one of the guests to fall. He grabbed a wad of paper towels and dove for the wet spot; his outstretched arm knocked the cake clean off the plate and onto the floor, where it landed in the puddle of seltzer.
Jesus fucking Christ.
The cake, now wet as well as lopsided, fell apart when he tried to rescue it. He dumped it into the trash, washed his hands, and returned to the table with the seltzer. “If it doesn't work, I'll pay to have your dress cleaned,” he said to Christina. “Or I'll buy you a new dress.”

“I'm sure that won't be necessary,” Christina said. Stephen wet the napkin with the seltzer and began dabbing.

“Please,” Andy begged. “Let's start.” He began by passing the salad bowl to Misha, whose eyes he still could not meet.

“There,” said Stephen. “That should do it.” He sat down and they all began to eat. For a few minutes, it seemed like everything might actually be all right. The salad was good, and so was the dressing. When everyone had finished, Andy collected the plates and went back to the kitchen.

The water was boiling in both pots; Andy set the timer and slid the corn in. When he went to retrieve the lobsters, he noticed a tin of chocolate-dipped biscotti perched on top of the fridge; he could serve that with the sherbet and no one would even miss the fruit or the cake. He pulled the tin down from its spot and set it next to the bags. See? He could do this, he could.

Now it was time to cook those crustaceans. Even though the claws had been secured with rubber bands at the fish market, Andy did not want to put his hand inside the bags and instead used a pair of scissors to snip the paper away. There, black and gleaming, waited the lobsters. He looked at the one closest to him, noting the flecked pattern on its black shell, which, upon closer inspection, was not really black at all, but a medley of deep, aquatic blues, colors created by and uniquely suited to the ocean's rayless floor. The creature's antennae waved listlessly; he could swear the lobster was looking him straight in the eyes. The famous scene in
Annie Hall
was played as comedy: Woody Allen and Diane Keaton giggling as they tried to capture the escaping lobsters. Here, in this pristine East Hampton kitchen, the scene was more tragedy than farce. The lobster, and the five others sitting alongside it like a row of condemned prisoners, were going to meet their end, and he was the one who had to deliver them to it.

The timer pinged, giving him a start, and he rummaged around looking for tongs so he could remove the corn from the water. It would cool quickly; he needed to get those lobsters into the pot. Andy turned away. He couldn't. Could. Not. The lobsters, the pot, the dancing flame, the first moment they hit the water with an all-too-brief exhilaration before they began to feel the inevitable heat. “Andy?” He turned, and there she was, silvery dress a cloud of sparkles as she moved. “Is everything all right? You seem so . . . stressed.”

Everything's fine,
he wanted to say. Instead he pointed to the row of lobsters and said, “It's them.”

She followed his mournful gaze. “I see.”

“I'm embarrassed to admit it, but I can't boil these guys.”

“All right, then,” she said. “You don't have to.” She walked over to the stove, turned off the flame, and poured the water down the sink. “Can you find me a bag? To carry them?”

Grateful that she was taking charge, he looked under the cupboard again and came up with a roll of heavy-duty garbage bags. Christina divided up the lobsters, three to a bag, and handed him one. “We'd better hurry,” she said. “They won't last long.” Astonished, he watched as she picked up a bag and carried it toward the door and then out onto the deck. “Well,” she said, stopping for a moment. “What are you waiting for?”

Andy picked up his bag and followed her. They both kicked off their shoes and hauled the garbage bags down along the beach. The sand was cool and powdery under his feet until they reached the water's edge, where it turned gritty and damp. Christina set her bag down so that the opening faced the lapping waves. The first lobster tottered out, claws still secured. He reached for his Swiss Army knife and slit the rubber bands on each of the lobsters as they came out of the bags and scuttled toward the water. He saw the first one propel its body down and disappear into an oncoming wave, and then the next. Within minutes, there were only empty bags, the lapping waves, and the two of them. Andy was electrified, drained, and totally in awe of the woman standing by his side.

“You,” he breathed, “are
amazing
.” And then he kissed her, a lingering, heat-infused kiss. He could have remained there all night, but he had a houseful of people to feed, so he reluctantly pulled away. “Now what the hell am I going to serve for dinner?”

“Do you have eggs and milk?” she asked. He nodded. “And how about cheese?” He nodded again. “I hope you like corn frittata.” This time she was the one who kissed him—lightly, tantalizingly—before stepping back. “Because I do make a mean one.”

When they got back up to the house, everyone was there to greet them on the deck. The story of the lobsters' liberation was met first with disbelief, and then with great amusement and fanfare. Christina's frittata was delicious. So were the biscotti and the pomegranate sherbet. The guests stayed late and polished off all the wine. Even Ida had a glass and declared it delicious. Then she sat down next to Christina; Andy immediately went into alert mode.

“Where did you say your family was from?”

“I didn't, but they're from Brooklyn. Park Slope actually,” said Christina.

“And that's where you live now?”

Christina nodded. “In the same house where I grew up.”

“But you're not married anymore? You're a divorcée?” Ida asked.

“Ma!” Andy could not help himself. “Christina's husband died. I
told
you that.”

“You did not!” Ida said. “I hope I haven't offended you.”

There was a pause before Christina murmured, “No, that's all right.” But a moment later she excused herself and got up.

Andy had to wait a few minutes before he was able to get Ida in the kitchen alone. “What did you go and say
that
for? Are you trying to get rid of her?”

“It was an accident,” Ida said, sulking. “Like what happened with the cake.”

“How did you even know about that? Anyway, there were cookies!”

“Yes, there were cookies, Mr. Big Shot. Cookies that were so hard I nearly broke a tooth!” And with that, she swept regally—or as regally as was possible for someone of her diminutive stature—from the room.

•   •   •

The
next day it rained and they decided to drive back to the city early; they reached Andy's apartment by five. He called a car service and stood under an umbrella in front of the building with Ida while they waited for it to arrive. She hugged him good-bye without mentioning Christina again and he was relieved to be spared. Upstairs, Oliver, who had slept the entire ride back, was now wide-awake. “I'm going out,” he said.

“Oh?” Andy said. “Anywhere in particular?”

“I'm . . . going over to Jake's.”

“Jake.” Andy smiled. He hadn't heard that name in a while and was glad to hear it now. “Bring him out to the beach with us next time we go.”

A stricken look seemed to cross Oliver's face. “Yeah, sure, whatever,” he said.

After eating the leftovers of a dinner Lucy had prepared, Andy checked his phone. Nothing. He turned to his e-mail. There were messages, including a thank-you from Stephen, but none from Christina. It was as if the other night had not happened.

Then it hit him: he should contact her. She was obviously a holdover from the days when the girl—or woman—was supposed to wait for a signal from the man. Immediately, he began tapping out a message and then stopped. What should he suggest? Dinner? Movie? Theater? Then he realized it didn't matter. He just wanted to see her again.

A
v
enue C had been busy enough on this Sunday night, with lots of people strolling along in the summer dark. But once Oliver turned the corner, he saw that East Seventh Street was deserted. He walked quickly until he came to the battered metal door and knocked. Nothing happened, so he tried again. When there was no answer, he pressed his ear to the scarred surface. The guy he'd met in the head shop on St. Marks Place had given him specific instructions: north side of East Seventh Street, between Avenues C and D, two steps down, a gray metal door with no number on it. This had to be the door, and behind it, the place. He knocked again, pounding his fist.

This time the door was yanked open and a guy with rust-colored dreads under a top hat stared at him. “Yeah?” He wore suspenders but no shirt, and a pair of denim cutoffs so bleached they were white.

“Jojo sent me,” Oliver said nervously. Jojo was the kid Oliver had met in the head shop. “He told me to ask for Raven.”

“Raven's in there,” said the dread guy with a sharp jerk of his chin. “You can come in, but you better be quick. He's kinda busy.”

Oliver followed him inside. The door slammed shut behind him with an awful, wheezing clang; he had an urge to push it open and run. But Jojo said Raven could get weed, so Oliver wasn't going anywhere until he'd scored. Since he was no longer speaking to Jake, his supply had dried up. In desperation, he'd started hanging out at the head shop; that was where he'd met Jojo, and Jojo had directed him here.

The room was dimly lit, with exposed pipes running along the low ceiling and up some of the walls. There was carpeting so filthy it was hard to tell what color it had been, and the place was filled with a weird assortment of furniture: an imitation-suede couch with collapsed springs and stuffing oozing from its various slits, a claw-footed bathtub covered by a thick wooden board, a row of seats that looked like they had been yanked from a movie theater.

On one side of the room there was a pool table; the guy he assumed was Raven was holding court next to it. His hair was the shiniest, blackest hair Oliver had ever seen on a person, and it framed his face in graceful waves. It was actually pretty, like a girl's, except Raven's mean, glittering eyes and thin slash of mouth were neither pretty nor girlish. He held a pool cue in his hands, but he did not actually seem to be playing. Instead, he was telling a story to the bunch of guys ringed around him. The story ended and the guys laughed. Oliver took the opportunity to edge closer.

Raven was on him in a nanosecond. “Do I know you?” he said. The laughter stopped.

“Jojo sent me—,” Oliver began.

“Like I care,” snarled Raven.

“Yeah, well, he said that you had . . . I mean, I've got money,” said Oliver.

“I don't want
your
money,” Raven said. He used the pool cue to poke Oliver in the chest. “Now get out. Go back to your mama.”

Mortified, Oliver turned and went for the door. As he pulled it open, he heard Raven's falsetto:
“Jojo sent me,”
which made all the guys burst out laughing again. The tip of the cue had caught the soft space between his ribs; it hurt.

Out in the street again, he didn't know what the fuck to do. Why had Jojo sent him to Raven? Did he get off on humiliating people? The door squealed open and Oliver jumped away, expecting another poke from Raven's cue. But it was Dread Guy. “You looking for weed?” he asked.

“Why are you asking?” Oliver was not about to walk into another trap.

“I heard what happened in there and I felt sorry for you, man. I'd sell you something if you wanted.”

“Like what?”

“Like this.” Dread Guy reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, rumpled paper bag. He unfurled the top and invited Oliver to sniff.

“How much?” he said warily.

“Fifty,” said Dread Guy.

“Are you fucking crazy?” That was, like, a total rip-off. So much for Dread Guy feeling sorry for him.

“It's really choice stuff.”

“So you smoke it.” Oliver turned to go. He wanted the weed, but no way would he pay fifty for what was at most thirty dollars' worth.

“I'll throw these in too.” Dread Guy opened his hand. In his palm were four oval tablets.

“Vicodin?” asked Oliver.

“Mystery pill,” said Dread Guy. “But it will make you feel good.”

Oliver didn't usually like pills; he preferred weed, which was in his mind a natural high, as opposed to a chemical one. Still, he wanted the weed, and the pills might be all right, especially if he used the two together. “I'll give you forty,” said Oliver.

“Fifty's my price,” said Dread Guy. “And you'll be back for more—you'll see.”

“All right.” Oliver handed him two twenties and a ten. He took the tablets and put them in the bag; then he shoved the bag way down into the pocket of his jeans, where it made a little bulge. He'd have to find a new hiding place; he didn't want his dad finding
this
stash.

Later, at home, Oliver rattled around the apartment. His dad's door was closed, which meant he was asleep—good. Although he was itching to try some of the weed he'd just scored, he knew the smell would linger. Better to try one of the pills instead. He crushed it with the back of a spoon and snorted the resulting powder.

Then he went back to his room and flipped open his laptop. He was about to do something he knew he shouldn't do, but what the fuck, he was going to do it anyway. He logged onto Facebook, where, amazingly enough, neither Delphine nor Jake had unfriended him; he could follow—and had been following—their time together in Provence.
Toujours Provence
, he remembered bitterly. The open book on the floor of Jake's room was like a taunt, a fucking punch in the gut. Only he was the one who'd punched Jake, and then, like the wuss that he was, regretted it.

So there they were: against various backdrops of palm trees and blue sky, Jake feeding
pommes frites
to Delphine; Delphine offering Jake a lick of
glace au chocolat
to Jake. They both looked tan, happy, and totally into each other. And look, here was Jake showing off the tattoo he'd gotten: a map of France on his left forearm. What a total suck-up. What if she dumped him? He'd be stuck with that stupid-ass map on his skin forever.

Oliver suddenly felt thirsty. Maybe it was the pill. He got up, taking the laptop along, and went into the kitchen, where he downed a tall glass of water and immediately poured another, which he drank more slowly. The door to his mom's office was open. The room was different now; the desk was gone, and there was now a bed in its place. There were several bolts of fabric propped in a corner and a new chair he did not recognize. The mattress was still covered in plastic and on top of that was a shallow cardboard box. He left the empty glass on the granite counter and went over to investigate.

There was all the stuff that had been on his mom's bulletin board. He picked up a pair of ticket stubs from
Rent
, which she had taken him to see. Some of his friends' parents had been a little shocked;
too much adult content
, they said. But he'd loved the play and loved his mom for understanding that he was old enough to appreciate it. She never talked down to him; that was only one of the things he missed about her.

Usually, seeing all this stuff would have bummed him out. But the pill must have been, like, blunting his perceptions or something, softening them so that the raw, jagged edge of pain was gone.
She touched this,
he thought, his fingers rifling through the contents of the box.
And this, and this.

As he stood there, the room started to melt, the walls becoming elastic, the window, liquid. He lurched toward the door. Maybe he'd feel better somewhere else. Laptop tucked under his arm, he made it into the living room. Yeah, that was better. It was dark in here, dark and quiet; the only light came from outside, the water sparkling insanely, like all the stars had dropped from the sky and were floating on its surface.

Oliver sat on the couch and opened the laptop again. What had he been looking at? Oh yeah. Jake and Delphine. He started to read some of Jake's posts:
Loving la vie en rose,
posted Jake.
Vive la France.
That was the best he could do?
Vive la France
? He'd never thought Jake was some kind of brain, but really, this stuff he was posting was a new low, even for him. He was, like, a retard, not that you were supposed to say that anymore. A fucking moron.

Then he came to another photo: Jake and Delphine on the beach, arms wrapped around each other's waists, squinting slightly from the sun and smiling. Jake wore bright red baggy trunks and a blue bandanna tied around his head, channeling some hippie dude from the sixties. Delphine wore a black bikini bottom . . . and nothing else. Her tits—smallish, perfectly shaped, and capped with delicate little nipples—were out there for anyone and
everyone
to see. And there were no visible tan lines either. He knew about those beaches where the girls went topless; it was, like, very European. But to think that Delphine would be one of those girls—it just did not compute. Oliver stared at the picture. He knew that it would be gone very quickly; Facebook didn't allow any nudity on the site. But until it was taken down, he could look as long as he liked. He kept thinking it was a mistake of some kind, that he was not seeing what he was seeing.

And then he got it: the mistake had been
his
. He'd been wrong about Delphine, completely and totally wrong. It wasn't that she was, like, a slut or something. It was just that she was not different, not special. She did not have a rare soul. She was just a girl, prettier than some, cooler than most, with a great accent, and great tits. But his longing for her ended that minute. Game over. Done. He looked long and hard at the picture, as if to memorize it.

Then he navigated away from the page. He would never look at it again. In fact, he never even wanted to look at this laptop again; it was, like,
tainted
. He closed it, a practically brand-new MacBook Air, and held it in his hands. Now the living room had started to sway too. He could swear the floor was trembling and the furniture was humming, a low, soft murmur. It was actually kind of a nice sensation. The laptop, though, seemed dangerous, like it was leaking poison gas. He had to get rid of it, make sure he could not see it or touch it again.

With some effort, he stood and went into his dad's study. On the desk sat a digital clock whose green numbers glowed with eerie precision: 12:32. There seemed to be some significance in that—it was a new day. Still clutching the laptop, Oliver went to a door that led to a balcony. When his mom was alive, she liked to sit out here early in the morning and “feel the city waking up.” He had not been on that balcony since she died and he didn't think his dad had either. The lock in the door stuck a little, but he pushed and was able to get it open.

Outside, there was a breeze, and the fuzzy gray clouds tumbled along like a bunch of wasted kittens. The balcony did not face the street, but the back of the building. This was good. He did not want to hurt anyone. He just wanted to be free of it, free from that picture. The ledge of the balcony was high, but Oliver was tall enough to reach over without straining. He looked down first. As he expected, no one was there. Then he raised the laptop up, like an offering, up and over the ledge. He released his grip and let the thing drop. There was no sound, at least not any he could hear. And it was too dark to see anything. But the act of letting go was a release and his face bloomed in a peaceful smile. The laptop was gone. He felt rinsed with an enormous sense of relief, and calmly, he walked back into the kitchen for yet another tall, cool glass of water.