by Evy Journey
My happiness. I can’t admit to Marcia that what she said about passion and love gives me pause. Can I honestly say marrying Leon will make me the happiest of women? If marrying money and a very attractive man is the best thing that could happen to me, then I would say yes. But I’m not being honest with myself. Since accepting Leon’s proposal, I have realized I don’t have total control over what happens to me. I must make my choice among the alternatives fate offers me. A sad, sobering thought.
Out of the blue—or so it seems—I say to Marcia, “How’s Brent?” As I ask, I feel a flutter in my breast I can’t define. All these months, I’ve tried not to think about him, but he invades my brain at moments when I least want him to. Moments when the person I should be thinking about is Leon.
“Well, we’re still at it. He’ll be glad to hear you asked about him. He asks me about you, too. I’m sure he’ll be eager to know you and Leon are getting married. Sometimes I think he takes too much interest in what’s going on with you.”
“I don’t think Brent has any special interest in me, except as a caring friend. I haven’t seen him since the dinner at your place.”
“Oh, yes, I’m sure that’s it. I think he is a very caring person.”
“For people in general, anyway.”
Frowning, Marcia stares at me thoughtfully. “Maybe that’s his problem. He’s incapable of relating to anyone in particular. It’s lucky I’ve not fallen in love with him.”
“Yeah, it’s lucky.”
“He’s still an animal in bed, though, so I’m not complaining.”
I shouldn’t care how Brent is in bed or anywhere he cares to be, but Marcia’s blathering on about him sinks me down in the dumps.
Marcia once said we’re pathetic loners. Neither of us is strictly a loner now. We’ve become pathetic compromisers.
Three years ago, I took control of my life. Or so I thought. I was full of hope that I could go after what I want if I worked hard enough at it. But here I am, still doomed to resigning myself to choices I can’t control.
I carry my regrets and melancholy back to the kitchen, but I know that in no time at all, I’ll get so absorbed in what I’m doing that they’ll be pushed back into a vault in my brain for things I should deal with. But only when I could.
Mom and I have been talking about the snacks Grandma used to buy every time they went to Chinatown when they were kids. Little dumplings of rice flour—pouches for all kinds of savory fillings. Shrimp, scallops, pork, chives, pea sprouts, mushrooms. The milky ice tea with gelatinous balls at the bottom that they had fun eating. I’ve also been learning new techniques that Guy says Laure learned working with some well-known chef in Spain. Techniques that get to the essence of food and how we experience eating. I have so much to learn. I hope to find ways to add an Asian touch to French dishes using those techniques. One day.
*****
By the end of that week, Leon and I move to his apartment. It’s at a nice location with views towards the bay. Although close to a bustling commercial district, it’s high up enough that noise on the streets dissipates to a faraway drone.
Up there, on the topmost floor, I feel like we’re in some kind of cocoon, protected and cut off from the world. It’s fine if that’s what you want, but I’m discovering that isolation bothers me.
I have ranted against my old neglected neighborhood, but there, with people living so close to you, you get drawn into their lives. There’s a sense of community that develops.
At Leon’s father’s house, I had Sara and Luciano. I tended the vegetable garden and picked flowers with Sara. On mornings when I didn’t work, I went with Luciano to his favorite bakery. Sometimes, the three of us chatted over coffee around Luciano’s kitchen table. I felt at ease with them, connected with them. It helped that they came from backgrounds similar to mine. But I believe what drew us closer were those moments when we did things together.
After we settle down, Leon goes home to his family again. This time, he’ll tell his father he’s getting married. That night, he doesn’t come home.
*****
Can we meet at the Emeryville coffeehouse? This recent text message is why I now stand at ten o’clock in the morning the following day, looking for Brent in this coffeehouse. To say that I didn’t expect to hear from him again doesn’t come close to describing how his message affected me. The catch in my breath, the burning in my eyes as I suppress an urge to cry. Why only now, Brent?
It’s the same hour I was here for the first and only time before today. I see Brent at the corner opposite where we sat before. This corner is like a living room with two low coffee tables and two loveseats arranged far enough from each other for intimate conversations. Most customers who come to this place often do work; they prefer the desk-height tables along the banquette.
He rises as I approach. I’ve imagined this meeting often enough in my head that I can smile casually.
“Hello, Regine,” he says. He smiles but his eyes are veiled.
“Hello, Brent, it’s been a while.”
He picks up the two cups, one of them lidded, on the coffee table and sits down with me. He hands me the lidded cup.
“Soy milk latte for you. It should still be hot. It’s only been waiting for you a minute.”
I say, looking at his half-full cup, “Thank you, you remember. You drank all that whipped cream already?” I’m trying to lighten up the palpable unease we’re trying to hide from each other. But, it’s in vain.
He smiles—barely. Finishes his coffee in one long drink. Sets the empty cup on the floor. I’m sipping my latte slowly.
“You asked me to meet you here, Brent. We haven’t talked for months. Is there something you’re dying to tell me?”
With knitted eyebrows, he gazes into my eyes. “Is it true you and Leon are getting married?”
“I said yes, but his parents haven’t given us their consent yet.”
“Gina, you know what kind of a man he is.”
“You know what kind of a man Leon is, Brent?”
“I’ve investigated two cases that involved him. I know enough. Two women driven to assault because of how he treated them.”
“Have you ever thought that maybe those two women are fragile? You can’t blame Leon for what they are.” I’m conscious that I’m just repeating something Leon said to me months ago.
“Maybe, but I don’t think that’s enough to get him off the hook. He should have been more careful who he chooses to victimize.”
I agree with Brent but I chafe at the implication that I’m one of Leon’s victims. “He never loved anyone before me. He told me so. Why else has he chosen to marry me?”
Brent sighs. “Maybe he does love you. But do you love him?”
“It’s none of your business, isn’t it? There’s nothing between you and me and you have Marcia.” I almost choke as I say this, swallowing tears threatening to betray me.
Brent gazes into my eyes again. “I’ve made a mess of this, haven’t I? I thought you loved me.”
I feel the tears coming. Tears of denial. Lying tears. “I can’t love someone who doesn’t love me. You chose Marcia.”
He looks away. “Not really. It’s more like I used her. Before I met you, I’d taken care not to fall in love. My work is consuming. The stress can be relentless. Worse, seeing all that violence eats at your humanity, your soul. I convinced myself commitment to a woman will only hurt both of us.”
He rubs his knitted brow and glances sideways at me. “But I met you and I began to doubt my choice to devote my life to my work. Is search for justice, for truth more important than love? Can’t they coexist? Do I want to spend my life alone? Am I sure I need no one? Marcia was like a sedative. She wasn’t interested in a permanent relationship. She said she only wanted my body, that she couldn’t live with men like me. With her, I didn’t have to ask myself those agonizing questions.”
“What are you trying to tell me, Brent?”
<
br /> He takes my free hand in his and says, “I love you, Regine. I’ve loved you since that dinner at Marcia’s.”
Tears are threatening my composure. I shake my head. “It’s too late, Brent.”
I snatch my purse on the floor by my feet and bolt from the chair, out of the coffeehouse. My latte spills on my skirt but I ignore it, dumping the nearly-full cup in a trash bin outside the door. Brent calls my name, but I don’t stop.
A few paces away, Brent catches up with me. Tears are now flowing down my cheeks. Tears infused with chaotic emotions. I swipe my wet cheeks with the long sleeve of my shirt.
“Regine, please don’t leave like this. It hurts me to see you cry.”
I stop and face him, not caring that we’re on a busy street. “Why didn’t you tell me you loved me that last night I called you? I was waiting for you to say so.”
He shakes his head, his eyes mournful. “All I can say is I am a stupid selfish, cowardly idiot. I knew what you wanted to hear; what you wanted me to say. I knew how I felt but I couldn't say it. My work has been the passion of my life. I can’t just let go of it.”
This time, I shake my head in regret. In sadness. In helplessness. “Can’t they coexist? But you’ve already asked yourself, haven’t you? It’s too late, Brent.”
“Do you love him?”
“I learned to love him. Leon is a gentleman, a charmer, an accomplished seducer of women, but he’s honest. And I know he does care for me. He’s shown me that.”
“Am I wrong to think that you loved me once?”
“No.”
“And you no longer love me.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore. Let’s just move on.” I look into his mournful eyes, touch his cheek. But he doesn’t grasp my hand to kiss it like he did the night of the dinner at Marcia’s. “I’ll be thinking of you, Brent. Always.”
I walk away, leaving Brent standing, people rushing past him.
22
Why does life have to be so hard? It’s not only how we choose to act that affects what happens to us. Timing, events, chance, other people. They can all change our lives. Many times, beyond our control and not to our liking.
Back home after seeing Brent, I walk around the apartment. Restless, brooding, trying not to give in to my despair. Trapped. But unwilling to hurt Leon or Marcia.
In late afternoon, the concierge at the apartment building calls me to tell me a package is waiting for me at his desk in the lobby. I’m puzzled. I’ve shared this address only with my family, and haven’t yet given it to Laure.
But, maybe, this package comes at just the right time. I need to get away from my thoughts, the urge to cry, or kick anything within reach of my feet.
The package is small but too big for the mailbox, and a little heavy for its size. It has no return address.
I shake it and whatever is in it hardly moves. It must be an object that fits the box snugly. It has been sealed with tape on all four sides and on the center where flaps meet. Why has the sender taken care to seal the box well? Why isn’t there a sender’s name?
Maybe I should throw the box in the trash, unopened. But I’m more curious than afraid. And the box may just contain what I need to distract me from my blue mood. Besides, I know no one who hates me so much they’d try to harm me by mail.
I place the box on the dining table to fetch a knife. I hesitate for an instant before I slice the tape holding the flaps of the box together. What if there’s something harmful in the package? But I’ll never know unless I open the box, will I?
Still uneasy, I cut the tape in three quick slashes with the edge of the sharp butcher knife. When the flaps have been fully released, my worries overcome my curiosity about the contents of the package.
For a minute I stare at the top flaps, now sprung an inch at the center opening. Maybe I should wait to open it until Leon is home. The next minute, I’m convinced it’s silly to think the box could contain anything dangerous.
With a flick of the knife, I push the right flap up; then I push the left. And I gasp, recoiling in surprise and disgust.
Holding my breath again, I take a step toward the box to take a closer look. Inside is a can, slightly open. Wriggling, revolting, flesh-colored worms fill the can; a few spilled onto the bottom of the box. There must be hundreds of these creatures in the can.
A note in large letters is tacked on to the inside of one flap: “Don’t open this can of worms.” That message is all I needed to propel me into action. Is this a joke? Whatever it is, it doesn’t scare me.
I rush to the kitchen, yank a garbage bag and a pair of latex gloves from the bottom cabinet below the sink. Striding back to the dining room, I wiggle my hands into each of the two gloves.
I pick up the box by the flaps, and dump it into the bag. As I was about to twist the bag close, I decide to rip out the note. It could be evidence. Just in case. I also decide not to throw out the bag, for the same reason. But will it smell bad when the worms die in it?
Why not video the can of worms in the box? I remove the box out of the bag, pull out my cell phone, and do a forty-second video of the writhing, slithering worms.
I put the box back into the bag, twist the bag, and secure it with a tie. By the time I place it in the cabinet below the kitchen sink, my knees begin to wobble.
How bizarre. Why would a stranger bother sending a package like that to me? This experience is just plain creepy, much more disconcerting than when Leon had me followed to find out where I lived. True, it’s dramatic—but it’s also vague. If the sender wants to tell me not to mess with something that’s likely to lead to problems, he or she would have done better to say what that something is.
I’m still a bit shaky from the can of worms when Leon arrives at the apartment at the usual time. I haven’t seen him since the day before.
I wait until after dinner to tell him about the worms. He listens, frowning and pursing his lips in distaste.
“Do you want me to show you the worms and the note?”
He crinkles his nose in disgust, “No! No, I don’t need to see them. I don’t want to see them. I’m pretty sure they’re disgusting.”
“Do you think we should do something about it?”
“But what can you do? You don’t know who it came from. And you can’t think of anyone who hates you enough to send it. How about Cristi?”
“No, she couldn’t. She’s really a rather nice person.” I was about to say, “and not that imaginative.” But I say, “She’s not capable of a cruel joke.”
“It’s probably just a malicious anonymous prank. Let’s hope it ends there.”
“Aren’t you curious what the message meant—Don’t open this can of worms?
“Probably just part of the prank to scare you. Clever message, though.”
After I turn off my lamp to go to sleep that night, I realize the can of worms has, in fact, helped put my meeting with Brent out of my mind. It also made me forget to ask Leon how the visit with his father went.
It’s too late at night to talk about it, but I nudge Leon, who’s just turned off his lamp.
“What happened with your Dad today?”
“Let’s talk about it tomorrow. Too tired right now.” He busses me quickly on the cheek and pulls the comforter up to his shoulders.
Usually, I fall asleep soon after my head hits the pillow, but these days, I fidget a while before sleep comes. Tonight, as I close my eyes, I force myself to imagine the many dishes my future restaurant would serve. Dishes that infuse the essence of ingredients into a single bite. Maybe, I should experiment with foam. Or those tiny spheres that burst with flavor. They’re like fish eggs. But they also resemble those larger balls at the bottom of the milky teas Mom had when she was a kid.
I’ve fallen asleep many times before while dishes on oversized plates paraded through my mind. This time, though, to my dismay, a few plates carrying squirming worms follow rice dumplings filled with salmon and spinac
h. Then, I find myself lying on a bed full of slithering worms. They’re strangely cool and velvety against my skin. Not entirely unpleasant.
I try to get up from bed, but my body feels too heavy. So, I scream. Brent will hear me, I’m sure, and pull me out of these worms. Here he is, calling my name and placing his arm around me. What took you so long?
I open my eyes and stare at Leon’s face. “Shhh. You had a nightmare.”
Snuggling closer to Leon, I say in a quivering voice, “I’m sorry to wake you up.” My words end in a sob I can’t suppress.
“It’s okay. Go back to sleep.”
But the images from the dream make me shudder and keep me awake for a couple of hours.
The next morning at breakfast, Leon tells me his father isn’t happy about us getting married. Lines are etched deeper on his forehead and he’s clenching his jaw. “That’s how I expected him to react. He has this need to control my whole life. If I let him, he’ll dictate exactly who I’ll marry.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t go through with it.”
“No, we’ll go ahead with it, with or without his consent. I’m betting his desire for an heir is stronger than his impulse to control me.”
“Don’t you think it’s better if he gives us his blessing?”
“I’ll try one more time. I think I should bring you home to dinner. He might change his mind. He likes beautiful women and he’s a gourmand.”
*****
“I got a weird package in the mail two days ago,” I say to Marcia on Wednesday.
“Why? What’s in in it?”
“A can of worms.”
“What do you mean a can of worms?” She’s frowning and chuckling at the same time.
“A can of worms. You know, those long, tiny, slimy, wriggly creatures you find in your garden.”
“That’s bizarre. Who was it from?”
“Don’t know. No return address. Leon thinks it’s a prank.”
“Could be. Anything in the package to give you a clue who it’s from?”
“No, but there’s a note: ‘Don’t open this can of worms.’”