Good Riddance
Page 12
Topic hijacked again, I said, “I was hoping to hear something more relationshippy.”
“Such as ‘I enjoy her company very much, and she seems to enjoy mine’?”
“No. More like ‘After the concert, we go back to her apartment and take off our clothes.’”
“Daphne! You’ve gotten very bold. Is it the actor’s influence? Or you think it’s how a sophisticated New Yorker talks?”
We’d reached my corner. “None of the above. It’s just that you and I never spent this much time together so you didn’t know what a badass I am.” I kissed him on one cheek. “See you Thursday. I’m bringing dessert. Any requests?”
“Yes! No smirking. No jokes or questions that have a sexual connotation.”
“I’ll try!” I was walking backward, smiling and waving.
He motioned Come back. I did, to where he was pointing at a menu board in front of a dingy bar, “happy hour 5 to 8.” He checked his watch. “Are you in a hurry? There may be something I should mention before Thursday. Nothing bad, just a possibly sensitive topic.”
I said sure. I even had time for—I checked the board—truffle fries. We sat at the near-empty bar and ordered two glasses of the house red. “This might come up,” he told me. “Kathi lost both her parents within a short time of each other, and it’s still raw. The mom went first and the dad had a heart attack driving down to Florida, where he was going to start his new life.”
“Just since you’ve known her?”
“No. But recently enough. The dad about a year ago. He might’ve survived the heart attack except for the crash. Or maybe it was vice versa.”
“Siblings?”
“A brother who lives in Hoboken. Commutes to the city by ferry.”
“Nieces? Nephews?”
“Does he have kids? I don’t think so. Never met him. But you can ask him yourself on Thursday.”
Oh dear. I worried until the night arrived that it would be a setup. But the brother, Denny, brought his fiancée, whose name I had a hard time catching, which turned out to be Alissa after I asked her to spell it. I gathered from the congratulations being offered that the engagement was new. He’d lived at home with his parents and suddenly had a house, its contents, no rent, no mortgage. The engagement ring had been his mother’s, in need of a professional polish, but I still faked an admiring gasp.
Kathi’s apartment was a loft in what was once a soap factory, with charmingly scarred floors and the biggest grand piano I’d ever seen except on a stage. Doors off the main room suggested a bedroom, maybe two. There was a giant worn Persian rug, two mismatched couches that were clearly dog-friendly, and a wall of pretty sunsets and crashing waves painted by her mother. “I was lucky,” she confided. “Not Denny’s taste.”
Speaking of pretty, Kathi herself: fair-skinned, blue-eyed, dark hair threaded with gray, in a bob with bangs. She was wearing a midcalf skirt, boots, a black turtleneck, and a lacy scarf. When I admired it, she said “Don’t look too closely! I made it years ago, and it was the last thing I ever knit.”
She served something I thought went out of style before I was born: chicken à la king over rice. Sure enough, the recipe was her mother’s, which made all five of us nod in sympathetic appreciation. The green peas, Kathi told us, were her own addition. On the side, steamed carrots, attributed to the helpful peeling by my father, who’d arrived early.
I asked in the manner of a friendly, interested guest what everyone did.
“You mean for the meal?” Alissa asked.
“No. In life. Jobwise.”
Alissa said she was going back to school, working toward a degree in accounting at Fairleigh Dickinson. Denny, she continued, was an accountant already, a CPA, with a master’s degree. They’d met at a firm where she’d been interning but didn’t start dating until that rotation ended.
“HR has eyes in the back of its head,” said Denny.
“Some people think being a CPA isn’t glamorous,” Kathi added. “But they love their work, and some of Denny’s clients—is this violating any confidence?—are theater people and actors.”
Proud sister? Check. Generosity of spirit? Check.
My father said, “I had the same guy do my taxes my whole professional life. Then he passed, and I left Pickering.”
Kathi gestured toward her brother with an open hand.
Denny said, “Might be too close for comfort,” then asked where I worked.
“I’m studying to be a chocolatier.”
“Are there jobs in that?” he asked.
I said I hoped so, but it might end up being nothing more than a hobby.
“Is that true?” my dad asked. “Because there aren’t jobs in that field? Or because you’re disenchanted?”
“It’s too early in the semester to think about placement.” And then to the table at large, “He worries too much about me. Sometimes I think it’s the real reason he moved here.”
“You know that’s not true! I’ve always wanted to live in New York!”
I waited a beat, then asked, “Even if he’s exaggerating, even if I had nothing to do with it, how many here think I won the dad lottery?”
Kathi’s hand shot up. She waved her arm strenuously, impersonating a teacher’s pet to excellent comic effect.
What had I prepared myself for? Not this woman. I must’ve been expecting her to possess a number of unattractive qualities based on my old piano teacher who was sour in demeanor and ever scolding due to my lack of talent and insufficient practice. My father asked what I was thinking; what was that dark cloud that had passed over my face?
I pointed to the giant piano as if that had been the trigger. “Remember Miss Gagnon?”
“Oh, God,” he said.
“She was my piano teacher—very scary,” I explained. “And her house smelled funny. I dreaded my lessons.”
“I hate to hear that,” Kathi said.
I asked her if her adult students practiced as much as they were supposed to.
“Either they practice, or they’re sad they haven’t practiced more. Don’t forget: no parents pushing them to take the lessons or stick with them when they want to drop out. They really want to be here.”
“Do you make them have recitals?”
“No recitals. A few, sometimes four or five of them, get together here once a month, very informal, wine and cheese, and whoever wants to play plays. It doesn’t feel like a performance, more like ‘Oh, I loved that piece. Can I learn it, too?’”
“It sounds so . . . pleasant,” I said.
“Did we do this to you?” my father asked. “Because I don’t ever remember forcing you to practice, let alone take lessons.”
“It’s not as if I had any talent, but she could’ve been a whole lot nicer. We never talked during my lessons! No conversation ever.”
“She wasn’t what you’d call an affable woman,” my father said.
“It has to be social,” Kathi said. “People don’t learn well when they’re anxious.”
“Maybe it’s time to take it up again,” my father said.
My lack of enthusiasm must have been plainly visible, inspiring Kathi to say, “Her chocolate lessons probably keep her busy enough.”
I was grateful for that, since it ushered in the topic of what I had in the oven, a flourless molten-chocolate cake. I said I’d better check on the dessert. Kathi asked, “Can I whip the cream?”
Was I being too proud by saying, “I do it by hand. Won’t take long. I kind of enjoy it.”
“She’s a professional,” my father said. “Almost certified.”
I didn’t contradict him. I would be mailed a piece of paper that could pass for a certificate, though merely issued by the educational packager I’d paid for my online course.
And, truly, the cake was delicious—hot, melty, semisweet. I complimented Kathi on her oven, that it heated evenly at the correct temperature. Rare! Alissa asked if I’d consider making a wedding cake.
“Yours?”
&nbs
p; She launched into her list of favorite cakes, favorite frostings, favorite brands of boxed cake mixes and how she doctored them before I cut in with “I wouldn’t be right for the job. You want a real wedding cake, which is a whole other specialty. This is just a dessert. I don’t even have the right pans.”
Denny said, “Plus, we’re getting married in New Jersey. It’s going to have to be a rum cake.”
“He means I have three Italian grandparents,” Alissa said.
“Do you have a date yet?” I asked.
“No,” said Denny.
“Except . . . Denny? Remember? The thrombosis?” Alissa said.
“One of her grandmothers might not make it if we wait too long,” Denny said.
“Then go for it,” I said.
“I know it takes months and months of planning. The wedding dress, the venue, the caterer, the florist,” Kathi said. “Not to mention booking the church.”
“Not to mention is right,” Denny mumbled.
I sensed a sore subject.
“He may not have told you that I was married before,” Alissa said. “I was very young. It only lasted two years.”
I said, “I can top that. I was married for under one year. It was a sham from start to finish.”
My father said, “Daff—let’s not get into that.”
Kathi helped change the subject by freeing Sammi, who came bounding out from behind one of the closed doors, doing laps between the table and the door, then lying down, ecstatic to see his mistress and my father, her underbelly offered for his attention.
I said, “It looks like she enjoys Dad’s company as much as he does hers.”
Kathi said, “We’re up to five afternoons a week. She can’t believe her good luck.”
“It’s mutual,” my father said.
Sammi lifted her head and was sniffing the air with such dedicated twitching that we all laughed. “She smells the chocolate,” Kathi said. “And she’s thinking Don’t tell me you finally used the oven! ”
Once again, it struck me that I hadn’t expected to like this woman. When she’d been only a name and a concept, she was too young, too cute with her spelling of Kathi, too eager to meet me, and certainly too eager to rope in my socially naïve father. But here she was: kind, hospitable, good-natured.
Lost in my character analysis, I wasn’t paying attention to the conversation about chocolate being toxic for dogs until I heard Denny ask my father, “So you walk dogs for a living?”
“Not exactly. I’m retired, so it seemed a good idea, to indulge my love of dogs without getting one of my own.”
“Retired from what?”
I waited for the answer that never failed to subdue any man who’d ever been assigned to detention. But what I heard from the most earnest man I knew was “Carnival barker. Why?”
Would Kathi jump in to assure her brother that her suitor had a bachelor’s in education and a master’s degree in secondary-school administration? She didn’t. “I think that’s what drew me to him in the first place,” she said. “I’d gone out with doctors and lawyers but never a carnival barker. Imagine the stories he has to tell.”
How could I resist adding, “My mother was a trapeze artist.” I closed my eyes and bit my lip. So tragic.
Denny said, “We should probably head back.”
Wouldn’t this be Kathi’s cue to say, “We were joking! Tom was a high school principal in a district consistently rated one of the top ten in the state!” But all she said was a sprightly “Thanks for coming! Thanks for the wine.”
She retrieved their coats, and we three plus Sammi walked Denny and Alissa to the industrial-size elevator. When its doors closed and we heard its lumbering descent, I said, “That was great, especially the improv.” And to Kathi: “You’re a quick one.”
“He deserved it,” she said. “No imagination. None. And no curiosity. What if your mother really had been a trapeze artist and that’s why your dad is widowed?”
I said no worries; they were nice enough.
“Good time?” my dad asked me with a glance toward our hostess.
“Can’t you tell? I’m leaving you two alone now. Oh, wait. Dishes. I should offer.”
They said no, no. You go. Have a nice evening. Thank you for the cake. Oh, that’s right—the bowl and the whisk and the pan. We’ll wash and return them next time we see you.
I said something uninspired like “Till then” or “No problem.” They both kissed me good-bye. I walked to the E train deep in daughterly contemplation. If I were a person who spoke to the dead, I’d tell my mother that her husband, who had loved her and forgiven her, who hadn’t been especially rewarded for that, was, on this cold December night, as lighthearted as I’d ever seen him.
20
When Did I Get So Mean?
It might have been a more thoughtful notification if Geneva’s update (“Oh, Daphne—hi; I have something to run by you.”) hadn’t been delivered nonchalantly when we crossed paths in the trash room.
“About . . . ?”
“The documentary. Yours and mine. It’s not going to happen.”
Just like that, unexpected and hugely welcome news delivered as if I had only a glancing interest in whether it was dead or alive. Trying to match her bloodless delivery, I said, “What a pity. Can I have the yearbook back now?”
“No! I need it more than ever.”
“For what?”
“Phase two.”
I waited. She busied herself rifling through several issues of someone’s discarded New Yorkers. “A whole new project?” I prompted.
“A whole new medium. Do you know what a podcast is?”
“Of course, but—”
“Maybe eight episodes. Maybe six.”
“About the yearbook, still? And my mother?”
“Most definitely. From all angles. Do you subscribe to any?”
“I do—”
“Everyone does! They’re hot. I’ll need a sponsor or two, but I have some leads. Would you be willing to be interviewed for the first episode where we talk about how I came into possession of the yearbook?”
“No.”
“Just a few minutes: You’ll say, ‘My mother left it to me. Even though I threw it away, I wanted it back. I fought it. Intellectual property blah blah blah’ so the listener immediately gets what I was up against.”
“You were up against my wanting what was rightfully mine.”
“So you say. I want the push-pull that you brought to the project. Every story needs tension.”
“Did you get questionnaires back from any of my mother’s students?”
“A few.”
“And?”
“Off-the-record, as you would say.”
“‘Off-the-record’ is then followed by the goods, which is whatever you don’t want to be made public.”
She smiled in a way I didn’t like. “Stay tuned. I hope to have the first episode up and running by March first.”
“Episode one being me saying, ‘I wanted it back. I still do. You stole it.”
“Along those lines, for sure. It’s not only backstory but the why of the whole thing. Why it meant so much to her that she left it to a daughter in her will.” Hugging the preowned New Yorkers, she smiled proudly. “I already have a name for the podcast, and I think it will grab everyone who ever graduated from high school and had one signed.”
“Let me guess: The Yearbook?”
“Wow,” she said. “Exactly.”
A Google alert I’d set up to monitor the fortunes and possible wedding vows of my ex-husband led me to a fine-print paid obit in the New York Times. His mother, the disagreeable Bibi, had died suddenly, no cause stated. The funeral was in two days at the Episcopal church where her husband’s affairs had taken root. Only a masochist would attend, I told myself. But wouldn’t an appearance attest to the evolution of my self-esteem?
I texted my dad. “Don’t suppose you want to go to my ex-mother-in-law’s funeral. It’s Tuesday, 11 a.m.”
“Because you raised me right.”
“Still—above and beyond. You’re up to seeing your ex-husband?”
“From afar, sure.”
Throughout our short conversation, he was exhorting the dogs to keep up, or stay, or stop doing whatever they weren’t supposed to be doing. I asked if Sammi was among today’s clients.
“Sammi I do alone.”
“Do you charge extra for private walks?”
“No. New Leash is good that way. If you tell them she has issues with other dogs, then a solo walk is fine.”
“Does she have issues?”
“You met her! None. It’s my personal preference.”
“She’s very nice.”
“She’s nine years old, but she has the enthusiasm of a puppy, don’t you think?”
“I meant Kathi.”
“Oh. Of course. She is, indeed, very nice. Sometimes I can’t believe what this job has led to.”
I told him I was happy for him.
“Good to know,” he answered, but I could hear in his tone a reprimand; I’d missed some boat in reporting my favorable impressions.
“You could tell I really liked her, right?”
“She liked you, too.”
“If I had a real table, I’d reciprocate.”
“You can’t afford a real table?”
Now I could. I had a few thousand unexpected dollars in my checking account, and the next installment from Sponsor Armstrong due in March. I said, “I just might do that.”
Between my hat, bought just that morning, an unseasonable black organza with a floppy Kentucky Derby brim, and the oversize tortoiseshell sunglasses, I hoped to achieve a look between incognito and conspicuous-attractive.
I took a seat midchurch on the aisle to facilitate a fast escape. I could see Holden in the front row along with, presumably, relatives. Bibi’s gleaming coffin was decorated with nonfloral cascading greenery that someone whispered was copied from Jackie Onassis’s casket embellishments.