The Exit Coach

by Megan Staffel

  “It starts tomorrow and every Thursday afternoon after that. That’s when Mrs. Bruder shows up. Housekeeper and spy. My daughter is concerned that being so young you might be a little inexperienced. She wants to get someone in here who can cook.”

  “Oh! I’ve learned vegetable soup! I’m going to make it for you today. I practiced last night and it was good. Or at least I thought it was!”

  “Well, I’m afraid it has to be more than that. Pot pies, shortbread cookies, roast chicken, waldorf salad. Rich, buttery, Jewish meals. I told her you’d been to culinary school. Also, we have to work on attitude. Make you less timid. Turn you into someone that Mrs. Bruder, a formidable busybody who reports directly to Jennifer, will not want to cross. Attitude, you see, comes from confidence which you, my dear, possess very little of. Which is appropriate for your age,” he added quickly, seeing her despair. “So what we’re going to do is add just a little bit of arrogance into your personality. Okay? Not much. We won’t overdo it.”

  He couldn’t tell what she was thinking and marveling at her ability to seem so agreeable, he went on. “Mrs. Bruder is very prompt, comes at one, leaves at four. And for those three hours we’re going to make you a different person. You’ll mostly be in the kitchen, but she’ll have to come in to mop the floor. It will be enormously annoying for you, but you’ll put up with it. You will signal that to her. All right? We’ll plan on roast chicken with rosemary and onions and a rich gravy.”

  “But I’ve never roasted a chicken in my life.”

  “Everyone can roast a chicken. Even if, despite decades of sublimation and diaspora your genes were never polluted, which was how they would have thought of it, with the genes of a Jew.” (You show-off! What’s the result of all of this fancy talk? Huh? Nothing will ensure her quiet faster than that.)

  And it did. She was meek and submissive and he schooled her all day long: what to wear, how to talk.

  “You’re the boss here. Okay? So show me how you’re the boss.” Playing the part of Maxi he said, “Mr. Abram, how am I supposed to clean when she’s in there cooking? This won’t work. It’s me or her. We both can’t be here.”

  Ava didn’t even try. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say something. What about anger?”

  She put her hands on her hips in an unconvincing way and in an unnatural tone proclaimed as though she were reading a script: “I’m sorry. Mr. Abram hired me to cook for him and that’s what I have to do.”

  “No!” he cried. “She’ll know it’s an act. You’re not in it. Remember: you’re a great cook and you have no patience. Okay. Try again.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Bruder, but we’ll have to work it out.”

  “No patience, remember?” But it was hopeless. She had no talent, not a glimmer, not a seed of the ability to transform. He wheeled himself into the music room and put on Mary Lou Williams playing piano in a Chicago club where none of the fat cats thought a woman was worth listening to. It was 1930 and her heart was in her fingers. It had to be if she were going to get through that door. He turned the sound up. “This woman has a body!” he called to Ava. “She’s in her body and she’s talking about what that feels like. That’s what you have to do. Feel the rhythm. It’s your heartbeat. Your heart swings. See?” He didn’t even know if she could hear him. “They stole my legs you see, so now all I’ve got is my chest, my shoulders, my arms, my head. But I’m feeling it.” He was positioned where he could look out of the windows and and move just for himself and the birds and the bats, just him and the holy audience of the trees along Central Park West. He moved for the trees. And when the song was over (and why did it have to end?) he lifted the needle, and there was a deep and pure cessation of everything he had been feeling and in a calm and infinitely patient voice he said, “Try it again.” He didn’t shout it, but he turned around and saw that she was standing behind him. He said Maxi’s lines, she said hers, and she was just as stiff and wooden as before.

  So maybe it wouldn’t work. Maybe it would all go to bust and he would be back to where he was, which was alone, and after all, that was his preference. And she would be elsewhere. Where, he wondered, but he couldn’t, for even a moment, imagine another place that someone as ineffective as her might go to.

  “Don’t I have to cook something?” she asked.

  “Indeed you do,” he said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. But it was all a bust. He went through the motions. He sent her down to the street with a list of ingredients for the market where he had a credit and with his credit card to a clothing store. He could imagine Jennifer on that subject. You sent her out with your credit card?

  She came back with so many bags she could hardly get through the door. Did you find something?” he asked, and after she stashed a big bag in the closet, carried the other ones to the kitchen, (putting his credit card and the receipts on the counter first thing), she said, “I think so.” He didn’t ask for more information. She wasn’t his daughter, after all. So he watched as she unwrapped a chicken. She rinsed and dried it and set it on a plate. He talked her through how to prepare it for roasting, how to make gravy without lumps, how to mash potatoes. He forbid her to write anything down. “Just listen,” he said. “Picture each step as I describe it. Picture yourself doing it. Be in your body. Dream about it tonight and by tomorrow, we’ll see.”

  She looked uncertain.

  “You will roast that chicken so it will be the best roast chicken it can possibly be. You are the one who knows how to do that. Be arrogant.” There. He was done. He looked at her for confirmation and her expression was eager but vacant. The lack of attitude unsettled him.

  But by one o’clock the next day, the apartment was filled with a delicious odor. Maxi eased her bulk plus all of her satchels and packages through the door. “Someone’s cooking?” So he wheeled out and Ava came forward, wiping floury hands on her apron. “It’s so lovely to meet you!” she cried, flashing that big, ridiculously wholesome smile, thrusting her small white hand towards a startled Mrs. Bruder.

  “Whatch you cookin here? Smells mighty good.” She walked towards the kitchen, but Ava ran to intercept. “Sorry! Off-limits! Got a million things going on and everything’s measured out. Cookie batter, gravy, salad dressing. All happening.”

  “Well how am I supposed to clean?”

  “I’m sorry, but there can’t be any interruptions. Everything’s timed to the minute. Maybe. . . .” She stared off into space. “How long are you here?”

  “I have to leave by four or I miss my bus.”

  “Well, that would work. I’ll get out of your way at three forty five. You can have fifteen minutes. That should be plenty of time, sweep the floor, mop. I’ll do counters and dishes as I go. Will that work for you?” Hand on her hips, she made it clear there was only one answer.

  “If you keep your end, I keep mine.”

  “All right then.” She patted her tightly blue jeaned butt and turned around, leaving the housekeeper startled and him in a blur of surprise and love.

  6.

  He hadn’t said what she should spend. Or even what he wanted her to get. Can you find yourself some clothes that will make you look older? Slimmer pants, maybe? Something more. . . he had paused to choose the word . . . robust for a blouse? Walk along Broadway, you’ll find something. The pants were easy. She found a pair of jeans that were tighter than what she normally wore. But the top she was unsure about. Robust? How could a blouse be robust?

  Cleopatra had trained her to buy only from the sales racks. Still, there was a lot to look through. She didn’t like spangly or sparkly, she didn’t like tight or low-cut. She looked at one ugly thing after another, getting more and more agitated. She was wasting his time. So maybe pants would be good enough and she should just give up on the blouse. Gathering her purse, the pants she was going to buy, she headed towards the cashier and it was while she was standing in line that she flashed on Cleopatra’s photo album. There was her model. That was the woman she was suppo
sed to become.

  So she went back to the sales racks and as she pushed the hangers aside, she saw the blouse she should have. It was made of a stretchy, sparkly material with puffy sleeves and a deep neckline. It made her look chesty and maybe that was what he meant by robust. She bought five plastic bangles for her wrist and the next day, in alien clothes and bangled arms she became Cleopatra of the kitchen. It was easy; she became the very person she had been trying all of her life to escape.

  Over the next month he sent her out twice to buy clothes. She didn’t see the necessity, but he said Maxi would get suspicious if she wore the same thing every week. She couldn’t take her new clothes home (how would she explain?) so she kept them in a plastic bag at the top of Harvey’s closet and wore them only on Thursdays.

  One day, late in the afternoon, the door opened and a big man swept in and started to sing. “Isn’t it bliss? Don’t you approve? One who keeps tearing around, one who can’t move.” He had a beautiful voice, but that was all he sang. Then he twirled and laughed and leaned down to untie his shoes.

  Ava came out of the kitchen.

  “Ava Gardner, pleased to meet you. I’m Peter Finch.” He noticed her shocked expression and said quickly, “No, no, not at all. I am, at the moment, an underemployed choreographer named Ruben. But I have some prospects and I’ve come to see my dad. Where is the old man?” He held out his hand, gave hers a polite shake, and then skated in socks down Bruder’s hallway. Ava heard them go into the music room and as she worked in the kitchen, she heard laughter and music drift out. Salmon was grilling in the broiler and she was chopping vegetables for a noodle salad, something she was inventing on the spot. Experiment! I’ve given you a good foundation. All you have to do now is get creative. Butter, thyme, rosemary for meat, okay? Olive oil and dill for vegetables and fish. Pepper for everything, white and black, and paprika always. Salt for some things. Taste and use your judgment.

  She heard the music change. Now it was faster, more energetic, happy. “No, that’s not right either,” Ruben cried.

  There was more discussion. The wheelchair creaked over the floorboards and then something slow came out of the speakers. A sad, lonely voice. But it wasn’t a voice; it was an instrument.

  “Maybe.”

  “Slow is always better.”

  “I don’t know, Dad. Maybe it is when you’re eighty five.”

  “Ha! You’re wrong about that. Slow is always better.”

  “But I wasn’t thinking blues.”

  The dishes were done; the counters were clean, the salad finished, and all she was waiting for was the fish. Till it flakes, he told her.

  “The man and the woman could move in opposite directions away from each other. Why not take over the entire space? Something like….”

  She heard some shuffles and Harvey said, “Yeah, like that.”

  It flaked. So she turned off the oven and put some shortbread on a plate to carry in to them.

  Ruben was twirling around on one foot, a shock of bleached hair, arms roped with muscles, hands open in the air. She stood at the doorway and when he saw her, Ruben paused.

  “Oh! Sorry! I just thought that maybe you would want some cookies. I’m really sorry to interrupt. I was just wondering … well, cookies! Anyway, sorry again. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Nice to meet you!” Ruben cried, turning back to his father, dismissing her. But Harvey said, “Wait a minute. All we need’s a body. She can’t dance, but at least you can see how it will work.”

  “Dad, I’m sure she has somewhere to get to.”

  Harvey said, “Ava, can you give us half an hour or so?”

  “Oh! I was just going to change my clothes.”

  “Fifteen minutes? Ruben, tell her what you want.”

  “Dad, really, this is an imposition.”

  “It’s all right. Tell her.”

  Facing her, Ruben said, “So… you have the time?”

  “Sure,” she said, feeling herself blush.

  “Ever do any dancing?”

  But Harvey answered. “Dancing won’t work with her. Just a body.”

  “Okay, so something really simple, a triple step, triple step. We’re going to glide two steps, triple step, triple step, glide two steps, triple step, triple step. Like that. Just do the best you can, nothing matters. So, Dad, music again, we’ll hold hands facing each other, triple step, triple step, and then when I tell you, we’ll start to move apart, triple step, triple step. Ready?” He held out his hands and she took hold, facing him.

  As soon as the music started he began to bounce softly in place. “See? Like this. Feel it.”

  She bounced the way he did and it felt good, she could do it. They began to move apart, farther, farther. She kept herself in check. All in control.

  “Good, you’ve got the step, good.” And then after they crossed the floor back again Harvey said, “Ava, try putting attitude in it.”

  “Dad, don’t push. It doesn’t matter. It’s only practice and she’s fine as. . . .”

  But Harvey didn’t wait for him to finish. “Ava,” he said, “do Thursday.”

  That was all she needed. Her hips got loose, her steps got small and sticky, and her chest filled with her mother’s hatred for these two men.

  “Now we triple step back towards each other, triple step, triple step, till we’re facing and I do a dip. Okay?” She faced him and without any pause he moved into her body and held it more gently than anyone had ever held her. “Trust me,” he whispered. She wanted to crush him. She let all of her weight go into his arms, but it didn’t hurt him at all; he lowered her down, all the way to the floor, and then back up.

  Harvey clapped. “How’d it feel?” he asked, looking at Ruben.

  “Actually, it felt good. I think it’s the right tempo. Thank you, Ava,” he said, and turning back to his dad he asked, “How did it look?”

  “Great. Go with the slow. It has more sex in it. I’ll see you tomorrow,” Harvey called as Ava backed out. She changed into her regular clothes, but before leaving, she popped into the room again. They were deep in conversation, one grey head next to one blonde and the cookies were untouched. Very quietly, she let herself out the door.

  7.

  The chicken was too dry, too salty. It had a beautifully crisp skin, but she’d cooked it too long and the breast meat was tasteless. The salmon was done to perfection. The next day he showed her how to make mayonnaise and then taught her to mix it with yogurt and garlic and dill to get a light, zesty, sauce, perfect for cold fish.

  He had parked himself, and he did use that word, because with the chair he was more of a vehicle than a man, and angles, turns, spacing were things he had to consider. So he had parked himself at the widest part of the galley kitchen and she did what he told her mostly with her back to him, moving from refrigerator to stove, to sink, to cutting board. She was getting better with the knife. Could almost dice like a professional.

  But it was too intimate. Her awkward elbows, the movement of her shoulder blades, the downward tilt of her head so the long white neck was revealed to him, brushed by that thick, blunt hair. He didn’t oogle. That part was retired. Without regrets. They’d had a good time, he and his libido and now, without it, he felt smarter, more attentive. But he watched.

  “How do you know about this?” she asked.

  He laughed.

  “You’re like an expert.”

  “I was a good cook, I will say that. But it’s easy. Once you know a few basic things: mayonnaise, béchamel sauce, roasting, stewing, how to use spices, it’s wide open. Pie crust.”

  “Your wife didn’t cook?”

  “No, she had no feel for it. I think she would have been content living on take-out. People do that, you know.”

  She never took the bait. Someone else might have said, Oh we get take-out all the time. But with her, absolutely nothing of her other life escaped. Oddly, it turned him into a teacher: This is how people talk to one another. This is how they become frien
ds. They reveal things about themselves. Like this:

  “My wife. You know her name, Alice. Alice Long. She did three things in her life besides being wife and mother. She sang, she travelled for her career, and she attended to her looks. I managed her career. That’s how we met. I discovered her and was her agent. She managed her beauty.”

  “How can a person manage beauty?” she asked. “Aren’t they just beautiful or not beautiful?”

  “Well, that’s what you might think. But beauty can be enhanced. Everyone has it, some people simply need to coax it out. Alice was a nice looking woman to start with. She had good hair, good facial structure, but she always felt she was too heavy in the buttocks, and of course, she wanted more bosom. Women are never satisfied. You must know that, don’t you?”

  She ran the chopping knife under the spigot and moved from chopping onion to garlic. “I don’t know. I feel like I don’t really know how I look. I mean, what the mirror shows you depends on the lighting. I look terrible under fluorescents.”

  “For Alice, how she looked was a constant occupation. Facials, manicures, clothes, makeup. The whole bit. She did exercises every morning, walked a mile a day at least. She never took taxis. Not even if it was raining.

  “Alice wanted to hire a cook. Ruben was small, and we were very busy. But I had a better idea. I bought a couple of cookbooks and I taught myself and once I learned a few things we ate well, we really did, and it wasn’t that much effort. I cooked in quantity so it would last a few days.”

  When she moved to the sink he saw neat piles of chopped vegetables. “The mayonnaise?” she prompted.

  “Ah, the mystery! Unless you’re a physicist, of course. But how is it that by blending three loose ingredients, egg, oil, lemon juice, you create a substance that is solid? Common people, like us, who don’t know the laws of behavior, can be awed by simple transformation. So go ahead, start the machine, now pour one half cup oil in very slowly, a thin stream. Then the lemon juice. You’ll start to see it coagulate.”