‘Bettina, don’t be ridiculous. Of course you’ll bring him by for dinner!’ My mother all but shrieked into the phone.
‘Mom, I’m sure he wants to get home. He’s here to see his family, not mine.’
‘Well, be sure to extend the invitation. We never get to meet any of your friends, and it would make your father very happy. And of course, he’s more than welcome at the party tomorrow. Everything’s all set and ready to go.’
I promised her I’d relay the information and hung up.
‘What was that all about?’ he asked.
‘Oh, my mother wants you to come over for a late dinner, but I told her you’d probably want to get home to your dad. Besides, the stuff they try to pass off as food is atrocious.’
He was quiet for a second and then said, ‘Actually, if you don’t mind, that’d be really nice. My old man isn’t expecting me until tomorrow, anyway. Besides, maybe I could help out in the kitchen, make that tofu a little more palatable.’ He said this tentatively, trying to sound indifferent, but I sensed (prayed, hoped, willed) that there was something more.
‘Oh, uh, okay,’ I said, trying to come across as cool but instead sounding mortally opposed to the idea. ‘I mean, if you want, it’d be great.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive. I’ll give you a ride home afterward, and I promise not to keep you trapped any longer than absolutely necessary. Which will still be long enough for them to try to convert you to a meat-free lifestyle, but hopefully it’ll be bearable.’ The awkwardness was over. I was ecstatic. And slightly terrified.
‘Okay, that sounds good. After the stories you’ve told me, I feel like I have to see them now.’
My mother was sitting on the porch swing wrapped in multiple layers of wool when we pulled into the driveway, which bisected the nearly six acres of land they’d lived on for a quarter-century. The hybrid Toyota Prius they kept for emergencies (I often wondered what they’d think if they knew that Hollywood’s entire A-list drove them, too) sat in the driveway, covered by a tarp, since they rode bicycles 99 percent of the time. She threw down the book she was cradling in her mittened hands (Batik Technique) and ran to meet the car before I’d even put it in park.
‘Bettina!’ she called, yanking open the driver’s-side door and clasping her hands together excitedly. She grabbed my arm and pulled me out into an immediate hug, and I wondered if anyone besides my mother or my dog would ever be so happy to see me. We stood there for a moment longer than was necessary and I immediately forgot how much I’d dreaded this visit.
‘Hi, Mom. You look great.’ And she did. We had the same long, unmanageably thick hair, but hers had turned a beautiful shade of gray, and it literally shimmered as it hung down her back, parted straight down the middle as it had been since she was a teenager. She was tall and delicately thin, the type of woman whose determined expression is the only clue that she’s not quite as fragile as she appears. As usual, she wore no makeup, only a turquoise sun pendant on a whispery silver chain. ‘This is my friend, Sammy. Sammy, my mother.’
‘Hello, Mrs Robinson.’ He paused. ‘Wow, that sounds weird, doesn’t it? Although I suppose you’re used to it.’
‘I sure am. “Jesus loves me more than you will know.” Either way, please just call me Anne.’
‘It’s really nice of you to invite me over, Anne. I hope I’m not intruding.’
‘Nonsense, Sammy. You both made our whole night. Now come inside before you freeze.’
We followed her through the simple pine doorway after pulling a sneezing Millington from her Sherpa Bag and walked back to the small greenhouse they’d installed a few years earlier ‘for contemplating nature when the weather wasn’t cooperating.’ It was the only modern feature of the whole rustic house, and I loved it. Totally out of place with the rest of the log-cabin theme, the greenhouse had a minimalist Zen feel, like something you’d discover tucked away in the spa of the latest Schrager hotel. It was all sharp-angled glass with leafy red maple around the perimeter and every imaginable species of plant, shrub, flower, or bush that could conceivably thrive in such an atmosphere. There was a pond, slightly larger than a golf-course sand trap, with a smattering of floating lily pads and a few teak chaise longues off to the side for relaxing. It opened out into a huge, treed-in backyard. My father was correcting papers at a low wooden table lit by a hanging Chinese paper lantern, looking reasonably well put together in a pair of jeans and Naot sandals with fuzzy socks (‘No need to buy those German Birkenstocks when Israelis make them just as well,’ he liked to say). His hair had grayed a bit, but he jumped up as spryly as ever and enveloped me in a bear hug.
‘Bettina, Bettina, you return to the nest,’ he sang, pulling me into a little jig. I stepped aside, embarrassed, and kissed him quickly on the cheek.
‘Hi, Dad. I want you to meet my friend, Sammy. Sammy, this is my dad.’
I prayed my dad would be normal. You could never tell exactly what he’d say or do, especially for a private laugh from me. The first time my parents came to the city after I’d graduated from college, I brought Penelope out to dinner with us. She’d met them at graduation and once before – she probably barely remembered a thing about them – but my dad didn’t forget much. He’d kissed her hand gallantly after I reintroduced them and said, ‘Penelope, dear, of course I remember. We all went out for dinner, and you brought that sweet boy. What was his name? Adam? Andrew? I remember him being very bright and very articulate,’ he deadpanned without a hint of discernible sarcasm.
This was my father’s subtle way of inside-joking with just me. Avery had been so stoned at dinner that he’d had trouble responding to simple questions about his major or hometown. Even though he hadn’t seen Avery or Penelope in years, my father would still occasionally call me and pretend to be Avery’s fictional dealer, asking me in a faux-baritone voice if I’d like to purchase a pound of ‘some really good shit.’ We thought it was hysterical, and he clearly couldn’t resist taking a quick shot now and then. Penelope, being accustomed to clueless and absentee parents, had not detected a thing and simply smiled nicely. My dad knew nothing of Sammy, so I figured we were safe.
‘Pleasure, Sammy. Come sit and keep an old man company. You from around here?’
We all sat. My father poured the Yogi Egyptian licorice tea that my mother brewed by the bucket as Sammy carefully arranged his large frame on one of the oversized beaded floor cushions scattered around the table. I flopped between him and my mother, who folded her legs Indian-style so gracefully that she appeared to be twenty years younger.
‘So what’s the plan for the weekend?’ I asked cheerily.
‘Well, no one will be coming until late tomorrow afternoon, so you’re free until then. Why don’t you guys see what’s going on at the university? I’m sure there’s a good program or two,’ my mother said.
‘The campus ballet troupe is performing an early Thanksgiving matinee tomorrow. I could arrange for tickets if you’re interested,’ Dad offered. He had taught ecology at Vassar for so long and was such a beloved professor on campus that he could arrange just about anything. My mother worked for the campus health clinic’s emotional health department, dividing her time equally between hotline work (rape crisis, suicide, general depression) and rallying the university to adopt a more holistic approach to students’ problems (acupuncture, herbs, yoga). They were the pet couple of Vassar, just as I knew they’d been the pet couple at Berkeley for so many years in the sixties.
‘Maybe I’ll check it out, but you’re forgetting that Sammy is here to visit his family,’ I said, giving them both what I hoped were warning looks to lay off. I spooned some of the unprocessed brown sugar and passed the dish to Sammy.
‘Speaking of which, what was Will’s excuse again for not being able to make it?’ my mother asked nonchalantly.
Sammy stepped up before I could intervene, not realizing that my parents had long been onto Will’s pitiful stories and lies, that it had become a favorite famil
y pastime to tell and retell the new and creative fibs he crafted. He and my mother were close, despite the small detail that she was an annoying hippie liberal who refused to affiliate with a political party and he was an annoying conservative Republican who defined himself by one. Somehow they talked weekly and even managed to be affectionate when together, although each loved viciously mocking the other to me.
Sammy spoke up. ‘Wasn’t it something about Simon’s work?’ he said to me. ‘The Philharmonic called Simon at the very last minute to fill in for an ill musician. They gave him no choice, really. He just couldn’t say no,’ he blurted out before I could screw it up. He was loyal, I had to give him that.
My mother smiled first at me and then at my father. ‘Is that so? I thought he said something about an emergency meeting with his entertainment lawyer at their offices in New Jersey.’
Sammy flushed, immediately convinced he’d somehow gotten the story confused. Time to intervene.
‘They know Simon’s not filling in for anybody, Sammy, and they know you know it, too. Don’t worry, you didn’t give anything away.’
‘That was sweet of you, Sammy, but I simply know my dear brother too well to believe the stories anymore. Where are they off to? Miami? The Bahamas?’
‘Key West,’ I said, topping off everyone’s mugs.
‘You win,’ my father conceded. ‘Your mother bet me he’d cancel at the last minute and blame it on Simon. Frankly, I’m delighted he finally moved past that tired old deadline excuse.’ They both cracked up.
‘Well, I’d better get dinner going,’ my mother announced. ‘I went to the farmers’ market today and got all their winter specials.’
‘May I help you?’ Sammy asked. ‘It’s the least I can do after lying to you. Besides, it’s been a while since I’ve been in a home kitchen – I’d really appreciate it.’
My parents peered at him curiously.
‘Sammy’s a chef,’ I said. ‘He studied at the Culinary Institute of America and is planning to open his own restaurant someday.’
‘Really! How interesting. Do you currently cook anywhere in the city?’ my father asked.
Sammy smiled shyly, looked down, and said, ‘Actually, I started doing Sunday brunch at Gramercy Tavern a few months ago. It’s a serious crowd. It’s been a really good experience.’
I felt a jolt go through me. Who was this guy?
‘Well, in that case, come with me. Can you do anything interesting with zucchini?’ my mother asked, linking her arm with his once he hoisted himself up from the floor cushions.
Within minutes Sammy was at the stove, while my mother sat quietly at the table, staring at him in wonderment, unable to disguise her delight.
‘What are you making?’ I asked as he drained a pot of noodles before adding a splash of olive oil. He wiped his hands on the apron my mother had provided (which read IN ACCEPTANCE, THERE IS PEACE) and surveyed his progress.
‘Well, I thought we’d start with a pasta salad with roasted carrots, cucumbers, and pine nuts, and maybe some zucchini antipasto. Your mom said she wanted something casual for the entrée, so I was thinking of trying curried chickpea sandwiches on focaccia and a side of stuffed red peppers with rice and escarole. How does everyone feel about baked apples with freshly whipped cream and this sorbet here for dessert? I have to say, Mrs Robinson, you picked some fantastic ingredients.’
‘Gee, Mom, what were you planning on making?’ I asked, loving the expressions on both their faces.
‘Casserole,’ she said, never taking her eyes off Sammy. ‘Just throw it all together and bake it for a few minutes, I guess.’
‘Well, that sounds great, too,’ Sammy was quick to say. ‘I’d be happy to do that if you’d prefer.’
‘No!’ my father and I shouted simultaneously. ‘Please continue, Sammy. This is going to be a real treat for us,’ Dad said, slapping him on the back and taking a taste of the chickpea mixture with his fingers.
Dinner was amazing, of course, so good I didn’t make a single nasty comment about the lack of meat or the abundance of organic food, but that was mostly because I didn’t even notice. All my concerns about the potential awkwardness of Sammy sharing the table with my parents had evaporated by the time we finished our pasta salad. Sammy glowed from the constant praise everyone lavished on him, and he became chatty and happy in a way I’d never seen. Before I knew what had happened, I was clearing the table alone and my parents had sequestered Sammy back in the greenhouse and were showing him the much-dreaded naked-in-the-bathtub baby pictures and all the things I’d supposedly accomplished in my life that no one besides the people who’d given birth to you could conceivably care about. It was almost midnight when my parents finally announced they were going to bed.
‘You two are more than welcome to stay and visit, but your father and I need to get to sleep,’ my mother announced, while stamping out the last stub of her clove cigarette, a treat they shared when they were in a festive mood. ‘Big day tomorrow.’ She extended her hand to my father, which he took with a smile. ‘So nice to meet you, Sammy. We just love meeting Bette’s friends.’
Sammy leapt to his feet. ‘Nice to meet you both as well. Thanks for having me. And good luck with the party tomorrow. It sounds great.’
‘Yes, well, it’s a tradition, and we hope to see you there. Nighty-night,’ my father said cheerily, following my mother into the house, but not before he leaned in and whispered a fervent thank-you to Sammy for allowing him one edible meal.
‘They’re great,’ Sammy said quietly when the door had closed. ‘After the way you described them, I was honestly expecting circus freaks. But they couldn’t be more normal.’
‘Yeah, well, it depends on your definition of normal, I guess. You ready?’
‘Uh, sure. If you are.’ He sounded hesitant.
‘Well, I figured you’d want to get home, but I’m totally up for hanging out if you are,’ I said, holding my breath the entire time.
He appeared to think about this for a minute and then said, ‘How do you feel about hitting the Starlight?’
It was official: he was perfect.
I exhaled. ‘Great call. It’s only the best diner on earth. Do you love it as much as I do?’
‘More. I used to go there by myself in high school, if you can even believe how humiliating that is. I’d just sit there with a book or a magazine and a cup of coffee. It broke my heart when the original wart lady left.’
The Starlight had been the epicenter of our high school social life, the place I’d spent the better part of my teenage years, hanging out with my friends who, like me, weren’t quite pretty or cool enough to be considered popular, but who could still confidently claim superiority over the dorks and losers (mostly the horrifyingly antisocial math and computer types) who unwillingly occupied the rungs beneath us. The social hierarchy was strictly maintained: the cool kids monopolized the smoking section, the severely socially challenged played video games at the two booths all the way in the back, and my crowd (assorted hippies, alternative punk kids, and the socially striving who hadn’t quite made the big leagues yet) held the half-dozen tables and the entire counter space in between. The guys would sit in one booth, smoking and discussing – quite suavely, and with the strong suggestion of expertise – whether they’d sacrifice blow jobs or sex if forced to decide at gunpoint, as we, their loyal girlfriends (who weren’t doing much more than kissing any of them), gulped coffee and analyzed in great detail which of the girls at school had the best clothes, chest, and boyfriend. Starlight was the Poughkeepsie version of Central Perk, only slightly stickier and with fluorescent lights, brown vinyl booths, and a waitstaff where each employee, incredibly, possessed either a sprouting facial wart or a missing finger. I loved the way some people remain devoted to their childhood bedrooms or summer-vacation spots, and I returned, like a homing pigeon, every time I went back to town. The idea of Sammy there alone made me sad and nostalgic.
We settled into the least sticky booth we coul
d find and pretended to examine the plastic menus, which hadn’t changed in decades. Even though I was stuffed, I debated between cinnamon toast and fries and then decided that carb-loading was acceptable outside the Manhattan city limits and got both. Sammy ordered a cup of regular coffee. One of my favorite waitresses, the woman with the longest hair of all growing from the wart near her lip, had snorted when he’d asked for skim milk instead of cream, and the two were now involved in some sort of glaring contest across the room.
We sipped coffee and chatted and picked at the food.
‘You never mentioned you were doing brunch at Gramercy Tavern. I’d love to come by.’
‘Yeah, well, you never mentioned that you were salutatorian of your class. Or that you won the Martin Luther King Award for cross-cultural community service.’
I laughed. ‘Boy, they didn’t miss a thing, did they? I thought it was lucky you graduated three years before me so you wouldn’t remember any of that stuff, but I should’ve known better.’
The waitress refilled Sammy’s mug and let a little of the coffee splash for good measure.
‘They’re proud of you, Bette. I think that’s so nice.’
‘They were proud of me. It’s different now. I don’t think my newfound ability to draw celebs to Bungalow 8 and get written about in gossip columns was exactly what they had in mind for me.’
He smiled sadly. ‘Everyone makes compromises, you know? Doesn’t mean you’re any different from the person you were back then.’
The way he said it made me want to believe it. ‘Can we get out of here?’ I asked, motioning for the check, which, regardless of how many people were in the party or what was ordered, always amounted to exactly three dollars per person. ‘I think I need to conserve my energy for tomorrow’s festivities, which I’m hoping to convince you to attend. …’
Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection Page 67