Aftertaste Page 6

  It was sweet of him to ask about Thanksgiving. It would be nice to have some company. I’d invited Renata and Michael, but they were going to be in Bermuda. Hope has been hinting around for an invitation, but the thought of two single, middle-aged women alone with a turkey breast had been simply too depressing to contemplate, so I hadn’t picked up the bait. It would be nice to have Richard, though. He’d liven things up, and I’d invite Hope, too—a good deed, I tell myself.

  By the time I finally put Chloe down for a nap, it’s already two o’clock, and I’ve yet to call Jake back. I reach his voice mail and leave a message for him to call me. I also call Richard, who is probably at today’s Steelers game, and leave him a message as well. “Hi, it’s Mira. I’m still on the streets, temporarily at least, but I’m resisting all attempts at rehabilitation. If I can’t manage to graduate from anger management, they will lock me up and throw away the key. Help! We would love to see you for Thanksgiving, and yes, I promise I will call my father.”

  But I don’t, not yet at least.

  It’s the sort of rainy day in mid-November when the lamps need to be lit in the middle of the afternoon and you find yourself wishing you owned a cardigan. While Chloe sleeps, I change my clothes. No reason to greet Jake in a flour-covered sweat suit. I put on a blue V-necked sweater and, almost as an afterthought, loosen and brush my hair. The apartment, which I take some pains to tidy up, is suffused with a cozy, apricot glow, the rich woodsy smell of a long-simmering soup, and the heady aroma of freshly baked bread. I turn on the gas fireplace, put on a Diana Krall CD, and settle into the sofa with the Sunday Times. The doorbell rings a little after three, and when I open the door, Jake is standing there in the doorway, holding a small stuffed gorilla.

  “Hi.”

  “Hey,” he says, gesturing sheepishly with the gorilla and looking around me into the apartment.

  “Sorry, ah, come in. Chloe’s still sleeping. I tried to call you. Did you get my message?”

  “Yeah, I did. You didn’t say what you were calling about, and I was in the neighborhood anyway, so I just came.” There’s an edge to his voice, as if he thinks I’m trying to get away with something. He takes off his windbreaker, which is slightly damp and smells of cigarette smoke. You wouldn’t think it, but quite a few chefs smoke. I’d quit years ago, long before I’d even met Jake, but he still occasionally smoked, usually when he’d had a few too many. Or when he was nervous.

  For reasons I can’t fathom, Jake seems desperate to see Chloe. He was probably afraid that I was going to cancel on him, when actually nothing could have been farther from the truth. I want Jake to see Chloe.

  He hangs his coat on the hook by the door. Like he still lives here. Then, he makes for the sofa, sits down in the spot I’ve just vacated, and begins flipping absently through the Times, the gorilla in his lap.

  “Nice gorilla.” My voice is teasing and, if I’m not mistaken, a tad flirtatious.

  I’ve gotten him to smile at least.

  “She ought to be getting up any time now. It’s late for her to be sleeping,” I tell him, even though it isn’t. I don’t offer to wake her, which I’m sure Jake would prefer so as not to have to sit in awkward silence in a living room that used to be his. “Want some minestra? I think I got the last spollichini of the season.”

  Jake follows me into the kitchen, lured presumably by the promise of the luscious legume, and grateful, I’m sure, for something to do. He lifts the lid and gives the soup a stir, closing his eyes and allowing the steam to waft up and moisten his face.

  “Buono,” he says, giving it a taste. Standing beside him I’m filled with longing, a jolt so piercing that I have to grab the counter to keep from doubling over. I can’t believe he’s no longer mine to touch, to hold, that we can’t just take advantage of the fact that Chloe is napping and tumble into bed together. Jake looks up from the soup and meets my eye, a brief look, but I can tell he knows what I’m feeling.

  “I’ll have some,” he says, looking quickly away.

  I reach into the cupboard behind the stove for a bowl, which I hand to Jake without looking at him. He ladles himself some soup and picks up a bottle of wine on the counter.

  “Okay?” he asks.

  “Sure, it’s already open,” I say, handing him two glasses. While I get myself some soup, Jake pours the wine, and we eat in silence at the kitchen table where we have probably sat no less than a thousand times.

  “Marvin’s family is producing some really great pork,” Jake says, out of nowhere, his mouth half full. Marvin Castelli is a farmer we know in Bucks County, whose family produces some of the best goat’s milk cheese in the country.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. We were out there last weekend. He’s just back from San Daniele. Spent three months there studying their curing methods. His prosciutto is not quite there, but give him time. The pork was good, though. No, better than good. I’m thinking of placing an order.”

  The “we,” I’m sure, includes Nicola.

  Jake helps himself to more wine and reaches over to refill my glass. “At some point we should talk about making some seasonal changes to the menu. The holidays are almost here.”

  “Sure,” I tell him, “maybe after our meeting.”

  “Meeting?”

  I’m tempted to remind him none too gently about the meeting we have scheduled with our lawyers the Thursday after Thanksgiving to dispose of the remaining marital assets. It was the thinly veiled reference to Nicola that made me want to remind him that all this companionable eating together really hasn’t changed the fact that we are about to be divorced.

  “Oh, that meeting.” Jake takes another bite of soup and chews thoughtfully.

  We stare into our empty soup bowls. Jake looks across the table at me as if he’s about to say something. I’m feeling hot and muddled, and the wine has caused an unpleasant flush to spread across my neck. Suddenly, I’m confused about everything, about why Jake is here, about why I didn’t tell him this was Chloe’s nap time, about whether we could ever exist like this, two parents who aren’t together showing up at school functions, chatting amiably over punch and cookies at the PTA Fun Fair.

  I gather up the bowls and take them to the sink, glad to have my back to him. I can tell without turning around that he’s standing behind me. Suddenly, Jake reaches around me and puts his hand on my arm. He is standing so close that I can feel his breath on my hair.

  “I’m sorry, Mira,” he whispers, his voice so soft and low I think I’ve imagined it. Because he is standing so close to me, I brush against him as I turn around and suddenly we are kissing. It is strange and thrilling to be in his arms. Jake’s hand cradles my head, his fingers entangled in my hair. With his other hand he grabs my arm and pulls me closer to him. His movements are rough, angry even, which I easily mistake for passion, because it’s what I want. I feel the tears on my face, and I’m trembling and crying and gulping for air but all I can do is breathe in Jake, his mouth and tongue. His body is pressed close, his arm encircling my waist. It’s several seconds before I realize that it’s he who is crying, not me. Jake pushes me from him and I stumble, hitting the small of my back against the counter. My legs are weak, and I’m shaking. He puts both arms on the counter and hangs his head. I have never seen him cry before.

  For several seconds I stand there with my back pressed against the counter. Then, I reach for Jake and put my hand consolingly on his arm. He shakes it off, not violently, but firmly, and stalks off in the direction of Chloe’s room.

  I don’t know what he means to do and, terrified, I follow him. The blinds in Chloe’s room are partially drawn, and the murky afternoon light is filtering in, casting violet shadows on the walls, the bed, on Chloe’s face. Jake stands by her crib looking down at her. His back is to me, so I cannot see his face, cannot tell what he is thinking, or if he’s still crying. The opening of the door has disturbed Chloe. It begins as a gurgle, a whimper, followed by a tetchy, disgruntled half cry. Jake doesn’t mov
e, and because Chloe isn’t used to the inactivity of adults whom she has summoned with her cries, she becomes more insistent, kicking her feet, attempting to rid herself of the blanket in which she’s become entangled. And because I don’t know what is best, best for Jake I mean—Chloe can survive a few minutes’ cry—I don’t do anything. I let her cry, hoping she can’t see me standing in the doorway. He reaches into the crib and draws his hand gently across her cheek. She rolls away from him and onto her stomach, bent on escape. I lurch as Jake reaches into the crib to pick her up because I can’t remember him ever picking her up and I’m not sure he knows how.

  She’s heavy and awkward in his arms, and he turns helplessly toward me. When Chloe catches sight of me, her cries become more piercing, and her little body grows rigid with indignation. I take her from him, pulling her close to my chest, and I move closer to Jake, so she can see him. She tugs at my shirt, and I know she wants to nurse. I take her chubby little fingers in my own and kiss them. “She’s hungry and wet, poor thing, that’s all.” My voice is hushed, meant to soothe them both. “Jake, there’s a bottle of juice in the fridge. Why don’t you get it? I’ll change her diaper, and then you can feed her.” Jake leaves the room wordlessly, and I turn on Chloe’s lamp and get her a clean diaper. She’s calmer now, soothed by the low sound of my voice and by my familiar touch. “Daddy’s coming with your juice. Be nice,” I whisper. Don’t scare him. Make him love you. It isn’t until I hear the front door catch, as it only does when you shut it very slowly and quietly, that I realize Chloe and I are alone.

  chapter 7

  Before we opened Grappa, Jake and I would often walk down to J.J. Walker Park on our summer evenings off to cheer for whichever Little League teams were playing that night. We’d sit in the bleachers and watch the sweaty little boys spitting, swinging their bats, chalking their hands, and chewing big wads of bubble gum we knew they were pretending was tobacco. Surrounded by their grubby, ice cream–smeared siblings and their tired, happy parents, we would cheer loudly and zealously for the losing team.

  I can remember thinking back then that Jake was the sort of person I could imagine one day coaching our child’s team. And from there it wasn’t too much of a stretch to picture him in a tie and jacket, kneeling close to the stage in order to snap a photo of our budding little Mozart knocking out “Twinkle Twinkle” at her first piano recital. Seeing the naked pleasure on his face as the chubby shortstop finally managed to catch the ball, watching him cheer with such utter abandon for a bunch of sweaty little kids he didn’t even know, it had been easy, I suppose, to mistake his zeal for reserves of untapped paternal warmth. It never occurred to me that he could cheer with such abandon precisely because they weren’t his children.

  Could I somehow have foreseen Jake’s reaction to parenthood? Surely there must have been some clues, some evidence that Jake would have behaved as he has, but no matter how many times I replay scenes from our pre-Chloe marriage, I cannot find them. Was there some terror lurking in his past, some way in which his own parents had failed him that could explain his reluctance to connect, even in some small way, to his daughter? If there was, he hadn’t shared it with me, and I could not divine it.

  Jake’s father is a distant man, but not an unfeeling one. Jake’s mother is a sweet, pleasant woman. But we didn’t see them much. I really don’t know Jake’s parents particularly well and, in fact, have only spoken to them once since the split. They have never shown much interest in Chloe, which of course irritates me, but I suppose not all grandparents are kid people, especially those who fancy themselves too young, too fit, and too much on the go to be saddled with such an elderly moniker and all of its encumbrances.

  But, if I thought I could look for clues in Jake’s past, then I also had my own to contend with. If something in Jake’s past was keeping him from being a father to Chloe, then what of mine? I had loved being pregnant, relished every ache and kick. I gave up wine with dinner and drank milk by the gallon. I endured the discomfort of long days on my feet in the kitchen, not to mention an aching back, so consumed had I been with wanting Chloe. But where had that come from?

  Certainly not from my own mother, a woman who could count among her many accomplishments speaking fluent French, making a perfect soufflé, and drinking a fifth of Seagram’s daily. No, credit for my being any kind of a decent mother goes to my father, who did his best, who braided and brushed my hair at night, who read to me and coached my softball team, who made sure I practiced the piano and that my homework was done. Parenthood isn’t something you can force on a person. Had my father realized this too? Had he wanted me enough for the two of them? Had I wanted Chloe that much?

  I feel a pang of guilt at the thought of my dad, whom I haven’t called in over a month. He has left me two messages in the interim, short ones, to the point and without one whit of guilt-inducing rhetoric embedded in them. He isn’t the type to call often, but I know he’s been worried about me lately. He is, by nature, a solitary guy, a widower and a professor of theoretical physics at Carnegie Mellon University, one who would rather contemplate the mathematical irregularities of the universe than hold a conversation with a fellow human being. Yet, he’s solid and stoic, ready to be helpful so long as it doesn’t involve an overly emotional response.

  I’ve done my best to spare him the details of my separation. My humiliation would have embarrassed him, and, as for the sordid details, I’ve never really progressed psychologically to the point of being able to talk about sex in front of my dad. I’d even put off telling him about the separation for several weeks, thinking that it might blow over and Jake and I would be back together and he would be none the wiser. That I’ve been too immersed in my own personal funk to even return his calls is wretched.

  Later in the evening, I call him, intending to invite him for Thanksgiving, along with Richard. I’m startled to get his machine at nine thirty on a Sunday evening, when he is always at home watching PBS. Not only that, he has recorded a new message, one that actually lets the caller know he or she is talking to a person with a name and not just some phone number. “Hi, this is Joe. I’m not here, so leave a message at the beep, and I’ll get back to you.” His voice sounds peppy and cheerful. Usually his message is something like “Hello. You have reached six-zero-nine-four-five-zero-seven.” My father does not say “oh” for zero, this being one of his pet peeves—“oh,” he will tell you, “is not a number!”

  “Dad? Hi, it’s Mira. Just calling to see how you are. Oh, and to invite you for Thanksgiving. I know it’s last minute, but Richard called and said he’s coming, and Chloe and I would love it if you can come too. Talk to you soon.” At the last second, my throat begins to close, and I’m suddenly overcome with missing my father, his comforting, calm, and logical approach to any of life’s conundrums. I whisper a throaty “Love you, Dad,” just as the machine beeps.

  The next morning, after dropping Chloe off at day care, I stop at the Beanery for a cappuccino, something I almost never do. Usually, I prefer to get into work early and have coffee there, but this morning I’m avoiding the restaurant, not certain whether Jake will be there, and dreading the inevitable awkwardness of our next meeting. Just in case he is at the restaurant when I get there, I decide to make some notes about the seasonal menu changes. That way we will have something to discuss apart from what did and didn’t happen yesterday. I’m intrigued by Jake’s mention of the Castelli Farms pork. And anything made with wild boar. Perhaps a wild boar ragout with braised carrots and fennel. Sausages are a must, lamb and spicy pork, served with black pepper flecked polenta. Mussels steamed in sweet vermouth, a salad of chicory and fresh anchovies with a warm caper vinaigrette. Finally, armed with enough ideas to ensure that we need never mention yesterday, I’m ready to take on Jake.

  Only when I arrive at Grappa, it’s not Jake who is waiting for me, but Nicola. I haven’t seen her in months—I figured she was staying out of my way. I’m so surprised to see her sitting on a stool at the pastry station that
I stop dead in my tracks at the kitchen door. She’s wearing a pair of faded black, drawstring pants and an oversized chef’s tunic, probably Jake’s. She’s cut her hair short in a pixieish bob (probably to better hide the bald spot, I think with satisfaction), and if the look is slightly less sultry, she makes up for it by looking utterly, charmingly, the gamine.

  She swivels on her stool at the sound of the door, tucks her short hair behind her ears, and flashes me a saccharine smile. Of all the things I could be thinking, I’m struck by the fact that I can’t ever recall seeing her in the strong morning light. When I was working full-time and she was maîtress, she typically didn’t come in until the dinner shift. She appears out of her element here, in the morning in her outsized clothes, making me think, as I so often have, that she is a woman suited to the night.

  I’m tempted to hint darkly that I think her brave, or to wonder aloud if we are alone, when I hear Tony whistling in the walk-in where he’s probably hiding, so as to observe the fireworks from a place of relative safety.

  “Relax, Mira, I won’t report you for violating the restraining order,” she says coolly. “Jake is sick. He has food poisoning. Hasn’t moved since he got back from your place yesterday.” She flashes me an accusatory look. “You’ll have to fill in tonight.”