by Kelly Harms
Midway through the living room he stops and turns back to me. I am chasing him so fast I nearly bump into his solid body. I put my arms out to steady myself, then grab onto his shirt. “Noah?” I ask. “What’s happening?”
He looks at me, his eyes still warm though his face is frozen. “Janey, you’re wonderful,” he says, and I know from dating in high school that this is it. “Really you are.”
I lose my head right then. I start to cry and I clench tighter onto his shirt. I tip my head into his chest as if I can hide from this.
“But really, I’m not right for you,” I hear him saying, from another room, another house even. Is he even talking to me? Or is he saying this to someone else, in another life, in some other dimension?
“I’m not right for anybody,” I say softly into his shirt, and force my tears back up inside my head. I straighten and let go of his shirt. “I should never have made so much food,” I add, knowing as I say this how crazy I’ve been. I’ve fallen in love over a series of meaningless lunches and picnics and, and … rides in the car, for God’s sake. I’ve cooked enough dinner tonight to feed an entire relationship, beginning, middle, and end. But there has never been any relationship to feed. Only the one in my mind.
His shirt, where I am staring now, is wet in splotches: two eyes, a nose. There are two wrinkled patches where I was holding on for dear life. “Thank you for coming over,” I say, though I have no idea what I’m thanking him for.
“I’m so sorry about this,” he says, and leans over and kisses my forehead. I hold my breath, pinch my lips together tightly. “Good night, Janey,” he says, and then leaves me standing there, my eyes getting drier and drier, my thoughts going farther away. I think of everything I risked tonight. I think of everything I’ve lost. I don’t know how long I stand there before I cross into the kitchen and turn off each oven, kill the heat under each burner.
Then I clean up the soup bowls, put the spoons in the dishwasher, and throw the napkins in the laundry. When there is no trace of Noah ever having been here, when it is like the whole thing never happened, I go outside. Down to the rocks, to wait for the dark and the stars and the moon, and the only time I can talk to Ned.
NEAN
“The most underused tool in the kitchen is the brain.”
—ALTON BROWN, I’m Just Here for the Food
While Janey woos, I wander through the woods looking for J.J. We have made a date at that same pine needle forest that we first got down on, and I am looking forward to it with my whole heart. I’ve filched a bottle of wine from Janey’s expansive lineup, and J.J. is in charge of bringing paper cups and a blanket. What more do we need?
We need him to not be leaving. But that is not going to happen.
When I finally make it to our spot, he is waiting there, looking utterly relaxed. Now whenever I see him I imagine he is in the movie School Ties, moving confidently through the hallowed halls and grassy quads of Dartmouth with leather-bound books tucked under his arm. Apparently, in my mind, it is still the 1950s on every Ivy League campus.
I try hard to replace that image with J.J. the part-time gardener, wearing battered jeans and pushing a wheelbarrow. It’s hopeless now. To me, he will be preppy forever more.
“Nine more days,” I tell him, by way of hello. I’ve gotten into the habit of reporting to him on how much time we have left together—maybe because he is moving toward something, whereas I am being left behind, and I want him to feel guilty about this.
“Hello to you too,” he replies. “Is Noah at the house right now?”
I nod. “I got a peek at him as I skulked off. He looks cute, in his farmer way.”
J.J. cracks a big grin. “You Brown girls,” he says, lumping us together in his infuriating way. “Just can’t get enough of men who till the soil.”
“How many times do I have to explain this? We are not related. We just happen to have the same last name.”
J.J. shrugs. “You seem like sisters to me.”
I give him a little shove, pretending to be perturbed; secretly I am flattered. “Well, we’re not,” I say, just as much to myself as to him. “And don’t you forget it.”
“How about that wine?” he asks. “What did you find for us?”
I produce a bottle of wine with a picture of a French château on it. “Let’s see…” I squint at the label. “Côte Rôtie. That is French for ‘This will make you extra tipsy.’”
“My favorite vintage.” J.J. produces a corkscrew—see, this is why he goes to such a fancy college, because he thinks to bring a corkscrew—and soon we are into our first glass. Cup, I should say. The wine is truly wonderful, and for a moment I feel guilty that I took it out of the roster for Janey’s big dinner—but then, she did buy two bottles of the stuff. And it seems to pack a much bigger punch than the usual nonfancy wines. So I probably did her a favor.
J.J. seems to be following my thoughts. “I wonder what Janey and Noah are doing right now.”
The night is warm. I stretch out my legs in front of me and slip off my shoes. “Probably eating pork chops,” I say.
“Maybe…” J.J. curls up behind me, forming himself into a sort of lounge chair for me to lean on, and starts running his fingers through my hair. “Or maybe they’re too consumed by desire to eat…” He puts down a little trail of kisses on my neck and my whole body gets heavy.
Then I think of Janey consumed by desire and laugh. “Yeah right. Like Janey could think about anything besides the cooking. You should have seen that kitchen. Everywhere you look, food on top of food. It’s like going to the Old Country Buffet.” As soon as I say that I blush. I bet J.J. has never been to the Old Country Buffet in his life. Too busy eating lobster.
But J.J. laughs and his laugh is warm and inclusive. “I once went to the Old Country down in Portland when I was on a Cub Scout trip. We had a contest to see who could eat the most cottage cheese. I won. It was a weird feeling, riding home in the back of the school bus with my stomach full of cottage cheese.”
I snarf at this. “Why cottage cheese? Why not fried chicken, or chicken-fried steak, or something else yummy?”
“Because,” he says matter-of-factly, “unlimited cottage cheese is free with purchase of the salad bar,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “And the salad bar is way cheaper than the full buffet.” He leans in to whisper in my ear. “We also ate a lot of bacon bits.”
I tilt my head. “Seriously? You didn’t splurge for the $6.99 kids’ all-you-can-eat special? I don’t get you. Are you rich or poor?”
Another warm laugh. “I’m not sure. What’s the right answer here?”
“Poor,” I say with confidence, turning my shoulders so I can face him.
He shakes his head. “Nean, you are so weird.” Then he takes my face in his hands and kisses me.
* * *
A long while later, when the blood supply has returned to my brain and the wine is a distant memory, I talk J.J. into going back to the house with me. I am tipsy and well-loved, after all, and therefore starving. I think of the piles of food that were sitting on the island when I left—potatoes, fresh lobster, scallops, grits—and realize there’s no way I’m going to be able to resist a chance at leftovers. When I remind J.J. that Janey probably cooked plenty of extra pork chops, I practically have to run to catch up with him. He makes quick time back to the road and up past the farm, then cuts through the woods toward his gardening shed. When we get to the tree line about a hundred feet from the house I grab at him, using the full weight of my body to stop his meat-induced stampede.
“Wait,” I hiss, whispering as though the lovebirds inside might hear us approaching from this far away. “We’ve got to be stealthy or we might cramp their style.”
J.J. nods solemnly and we loop around so we’re on the ocean side of the house and start creeping toward the kitchen door, low, so that even if they’re in the back room they won’t see us. J.J. starts humming the theme from Pink Panther as we approach, and sudde
nly I get a fit of giggles, which I try desperately to stifle. “Hush!” I stage-whisper. “We must remain undetected. The future of your pork chops are at stake.”
This only makes J.J. creep more dramatically, and the sight of him up on his tippy toes, head bent low, with his index finger pressed to his lips, is my undoing. I clamp my mouth shut to push back the giggles but they escape from the sides of my mouth, and out my eyes.
He hugs me close to him, using his chest to muffle my giggles, but then I feel him start to laugh too, and soon we are both shaking with the laughter we’re trying to keep in, holding on to each other for dear life.
“Quiet,” I try to say, but it comes out on a gasp. “Think about Janey!” In an attempt to stop my giggles I imagine the look on her face if she saw us collapsed against the side of the house practically peeing ourselves with laughter. The thought of her furious expression actually makes me laugh harder.
J.J. shakes his head, hysterical. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He takes a huge breath. “Seriously, if we ruin her groove with Noah she will have us both killed, you know.” He sobers up a little and straightens me up by the shoulders.
“You’re right,” I say, nodding and panting. “All that cooking and prep work … if we screw it up for her now who knows when she’d get another chance to get laid.”
“Not until the grocery stores are able to restock, at least. Come on,” J.J. stands up to his full height and peers in the high kitchen window. “There’s no one in the kitchen.” He slowly, slowly creeps up the stairs to the kitchen door and turns the handle. There is no sound from within. He pushes it open about an inch and pokes his nose inside.
“The coast is clear!” he whispers excitedly. “And I see pork!”
The two of us tumble inside. I watch J.J. as he looks around at the spread of food, and then falls upon a metal pan sitting on a hot pad, where six enormous beautifully browned chops sit completely ignored and untouched. He pulls one up with his fingers, holding on to the bone, and takes an enormous bite like he’s eating a leg of mutton at the Medieval Times.
“Mmmm…” he says enthusiastically, if very softly.
I find my jackpot, a cold pot of lobster folded into thick, creamy rice, which also looks completely untouched. Using the wooden spoon from the pot, I bring a scoop to my mouth. The creamy sweet deliciousness makes my eyes roll back into my head and I moan around the mouthful. “Ohmmmphf.” When I swallow I add quietly, “Oh my God this is good.”
J.J. comes over and I hold out a spoonful of lobster for him. He tries some and his reaction is similar to mine. Then he looks over at the sideboard and his eyes get big.
“Wine!” he whispers. He starts for the line of bottles, but I stop him with an arm to the chest.
“Wait. Where is the happy couple?” I ask.
“They must be upstairs,” J.J. says with an eyebrow wiggle. “I haven’t heard a peep…”
I peer out the kitchen entryway and see nothing. Emboldened, I creep into the main living room. Nobody. No one in the three-seasons room either. To be extra safe I make sure they’re not out by the pool, but there’s nothing to see but the growing darkness outside. Jubilant, I rush back to the kitchen and give J.J. a giant smack on the lips. “No one’s down here!” I tell him, letting my voice get just a hair louder. “They must be upstairs getting it on!”
J.J. grins. “That means…” he gestures to the appetizing food that surrounds us in every direction and looks at me questioningly.
“Oh yeah, baby,” I say back, and go to the cupboard to fetch the largest plates I can find. “All this is ours.”
Now we truly dig in. We each grab forks and big soup spoons from the drawer by the sink and lug pans and platters full of lobster, bright orange-yellow spiced grits, bursting red tomatoes, tiny little toasts heaped with prosciutto, and massive amounts of mashed potatoes to the breakfast bar. J.J. brings over serving plates heaping with thin-sliced scallops and salad, artichoke leaves around a little tureen of creamy dip, and of course his pork chops still in the pan, and then pours us both big glasses of wine in the fancy bowl-shaped goblets that came with the house. We pull up stools at the kitchen bar and tuck in like wild beasts, straight from the dishes. I am two bites into the mashed potatoes, which, even cold, taste of heaven and earth both, thanks to those spendy black truffles and a generous topping of butter, when J.J. points to a large red enamel pot covered with a lid that stands on the bar about two feet out of reach.
“What is that?” he asks. His eyes are large and greedy, like a toddler spotting his first Slip ’n Slide.
“No idea.” I stand up on the rungs of my stool to reach the pot in question and drag it toward us. “I don’t remember seeing her make anything in this pot…”
Slowly I lift up the heavy lid. We peer inside and are silenced with awe. Within is a beautiful, lush, cherry dessert of some kind. Creamy butter-yellow custard forms the backdrop for vibrant cherry polka dots, painstakingly spaced out over the dessert to give the dish an incredible style and elegance—like something from the cover of a cookbook. One look at this dish and you can taste the bright juicy cherries and feel the silken cream on your tongue. I feel my mouth water.
“Whoa,” says J.J. “What is it?” I can see him stagger with the same wonderment I am feeling.
“I’m not sure, but it must be dessert. It looks amazing,” I add unnecessarily as I start to lower the lid.
“Hang on—” J.J. says, wielding his spoon toward the pot like a weapon of mass destruction. “I want a taste.”
“Don’t even think about it.” I slam down the lid and start scooting the pot out of his reach. “Did you see that thing? It’s gorgeous. We can’t spoil that—what if they are planning to eat it later? After?” I hit the word with as much significance as I can so J.J. will see what’s at stake here.
J.J. lowers his spoon hesitantly, keeping his eyes trained on the pot as it escapes his clutches. “No, you’re right,” he says slowly, as if he doesn’t quite believe it, turning back to his pork chop with lessened interest. “It’s too perfect.”
We sigh together, as if on cue. “Exactly. Too perfect for us,” I say. “Pass me some more wine.”
J.J. and I linger over our food and drink for at least an hour, maybe more. The rich meats and creamy starches make us lose track of time. I eat slowly, despite my ever-growing good wine buzz, tasting everything as carefully as I can, cherishing every bite, until it becomes painful to eat any more and I feel spacey and warm all over. All the while there is not a peep from upstairs, and I find myself goggling at J.J. in wonder when I realize how much time has passed. “Noah must be a stallion,” I say around a mouthful of wine.
J.J. looks at the big kitchen clock and then at me. “Holy cats. It’s almost eleven. I didn’t even realize how long we’d been in here.”
“Me neither. What do you suppose is going on up there?”
“I don’t know, but you should find out from Janey so we can try it,” he says, eyes bright. He has been drinking as much as I have, I can see. We both have adopted a certain precarious lean on our stools.
“Maybe we should practice our technique a little first,” I say, slurring my words just a bit and flipping my hair as sexily as I know how. “Before we add anything new to our repertoire.” I put my hand on J.J.’s thigh so he will know this is an invitation and not a dig on his skills. He grabs my wrist and moves my hand upward on his leg. I purr.
“Maybe we should,” he agrees, and then stands—or rather tips off from his stool—and lifts me off of mine. He gives me a loooooong with six o’s J.J. kiss and then surprises me by breaking away, looking me up and down, and then kissing me again right away, this time harder and more frenzied. I feel my already wine-addled brain melt. “Oh, my,” I moan.
The next thing I know we are up against the countertop, with my back to the acres of serving platters, my arms splayed behind me for balance, and my legs wrapped around his waist for dear life. I’ve never had this kind of crazed sex before, an
d I swear my eyes have burned up in their sockets, it’s so hot. I can’t see or hear anything and feel like a giant ganglion of exposed nerves. Things move fast and get more and more intense. At some point I swear I black out.
And then a sound does cut through the fog. It’s a cry. An anguished cry.
Oh shit.
My eyes spring open and I look over J.J.’s shoulders right into the red, unblinking eyes of Janey. My mouth pops open. “Oh shit.” I say, loud enough for J.J. to stop his movements instantly.
“What is it?” he asks, looking at my face and trying to hold my legs in place even as I go limp.
“Oh shit,” I say again, helpless for words, desperate to push J.J. away. “Oh Janey, oh my God.” I manage to wriggle away and get my skirt pulled into place at about the same instant, and quickly step out of my underwear, which are down around my ankles anyway, so I can run toward her. She is staring at me still, speechless. The look on her face is completely inscrutable.
J.J. by now has also figured out the situation and is scrambling for his jeans, but Janey isn’t staring at his bare naked ass as I would probably be doing in her shoes. She’s scanning the room with her eyes, taking in the empty bottles all around us. The stains from the wine I spilled on the floor. The missing bites from every platter and bowl and pot. The plates at the bar covered in half-eaten potatoes and pork chop bones. Surely it looks like a couple of animals got loose in here. The room spins. “Janey, I’m sorry about this, and the mess,” I say, frantic. “I’ll help clean it up. We thought…” I stammer to explain somehow. “We thought you and Noah were upstairs. We didn’t think you would mind.”
“Not mind?” she cries. “Not mind?” Her voice is high and panicky and I can tell she’s about to cry. I start sweating bullets, wondering what I should do to make this right. Should I hug her? Start cleaning? Put my undies back on? I’m afraid to approach her while she’s this upset. “This is my kitchen!” she shrieks, and I remember with horror that the last time she said that to me she attacked me with a duck. “You can’t just come in here and talk me into humiliating myself and then screw your boyfriend in my kitchen while I cry!”