Fridays at Enrico's

by Don Carpenter

  “Look,” her father said finally, “we felt pretty bad about my job, we came down here for a few drinks . . .”

  “Oh, Farley,” his wife said a little crossly. “We have to tell her.” She sipped at her cappuccino, and Jaime sipped at hers. It tasted like hot chocolate with brandy in it. “This is good,” she said, and took another sip.

  “All these years,” her mother began. “We’ve been telling you we were going out to play bridge.”

  “I understand,” Jaime said.

  “I don’t think you do,” her father said.

  “You didn’t want me to know you were just going out and getting drunk,” Jaime said. “I understand perfectly.”

  “That isn’t it at all,” her father snapped.

  “Yes, it is,” her mother said.

  “I forgive you,” Jaime said. Her stomach was still tight. She took another sip of the warming drink. The structures of her life were falling apart. Her illusions about her parents shattering left and right. They were not after all middle class people, respectable people. They were instead frauds, drunken unemployed frauds. And she was sitting drinking with them.

  “By the way,” her mother said.

  “I’m here to meet someone.” Maybe it was the brandy.

  “Good, you can introduce us,” her father said.

  “We didn’t want you to learn any bad habits,” her mother said. She and Jaime sipped their drinks and looked at each other. “Like drinking . . .”

  “Or lying,” Jaime said. Which seemed to destroy any bridge of friendship she and her parents might have been building. The three sat quietly while opera music, loud talk, and laughter filled the room. Eventually Charlie came in. Jaime spotted him standing by the espresso machine at the end of the bar, talking and laughing, now dressed in jeans and a brown sports jacket. Jaime wanted to jump up, run over, grab him by the arm and leave. But she didn’t. She seemed nailed into the booth. All she could do was pretend she hadn’t seen him, light her last Pell Mell, sip the last of her drink, and wait for Charlie to discover her. Just at that moment her mother said, “Where’s this boyfriend of yours?”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” she snapped, and Charlie walked up to them, a speculative look on his face.

  “Farley, Edna,” he said to Jaime’s parents. Of course he knew them. His favorite bar, their favorite bar.

  “I’m their daughter, hello,” Jaime said.

  “Move over,” Charlie said, and sat beside her, the four of them crowding the booth. “Hey Speedy!” he yelled at the old waiter. “Three cappuccinos and a Monica Bianca!” He grinned at Farley. “So you’re Jaime’s dad? That’s great!”

  “Uh, how do you know my daughter?” Farley asked.

  “Is this the man you were going to meet?” Edna asked Jaime with some alarm in her voice.

  “Yes, Mother,” Jaime said like a dutiful daughter. Yes, this hulking parker of cars is my date. But it was amazing how well they got along after the initial awkwardness. Maybe it was the atmosphere, all adults out having a good time, or maybe it was just the brandy. Charlie’s drink turned out to be hot milk, Kahlua and brandy, and Jaime switched over to that for her second drink. By then her father and Charlie were talking about war. Farley and Charlie go to war, she thought sarcastically, but then felt ashamed and listened to them. Her father had been in the army during World War II. There was a picture of him in his study, in uniform with two other young men. They had their arms on each other’s shoulders and smirked at the camera drunkenly, their hats askew. When Jaime had been little it made her proud that her father had more stripes on his sleeve than the other two. That was basically all she knew about his army career. He never spoke of it. She wondered with a start if his so-called novel manuscript was About The War, as Charlie’s was.

  “So, what kind of outfit were you in?” Farley asked Charlie.

  “Infantry,” Charlie said, and winked at Jaime.

  “Infantry,” her father said musingly, mashing another half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray. “Were you in during the war?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Charlie said. “Sure as shit, excuse me. I enlisted to get out of small town Montana—you know, enlist, beat the draft. Remember that one? Well, they got me good. I enlisted May 10, 1950. He grinned at Edna, who smiled back, quite a nice smile, Jaime thought. My God, my mother’s flirting with him.

  Charlie went on. “You know the rest. They ran us through basic at Fort Lewis and ran our asses right over to Korea. Excuse me,” he said again to Edna, who beamed at him.

  “I used to work for the Chronicle,” she said. “I’ve heard it all.”

  “Well, good,” Charlie said. “We can all speak openly then.”

  “Seen any combat?” Farley asked doggedly.

  “Well, sure,” Charlie said. “Quite a bit.” He didn’t go on, so Farley asked if he’d ever been wounded.

  “Actually,” Jaime said, just to break up the interrogation, “he was killed in the war.”

  “I never got shot or caught any metal,” he said to Farley, ignoring the interruption. “But I was a POW for a while and fucking near lost my right foot. Frostbite, you know. I did lose a couple toes. Purple Heart, ha ha.”

  “You have the Purple Heart?” her father said, the agonizing envy obvious in his voice. Charlie nodded and her father went on, needing to know the whole terrible truth. “Any other medals?”

  “Well, yeah,” Charlie said. “Good Conduct Medal. Pacific Theater Ribbon. Korean Service Medal. Bronze Star.”

  Farley finished his drink and looked around for Speedy. He seemed stricken. The Bronze Star. She didn’t know exactly what it was, but she knew it was something her father desperately envied. His face was redder and stricter than ever. Maybe he thought Charlie was lying. Maybe Charlie was lying.

  “You have a Bronze Star?” her father finally said, after Speedy had taken orders and left.

  Charlie sighed. “Well, yes I do. But not for anything much. Two or three of us got ’em.” He seemed to want to change the subject. “What about you?” he asked Farley. “What branch were you in?”

  “Oh, I was in the army too, but I have no medals,” Farley said tightly.

  “See any combat?” So Charlie wasn’t going to let him off. Jaime waited for her father’s answer.

  Farley weighed his words carefully. “Only with my superiors,” he said, and Charlie let out a huge laugh. “Well, didn’t we all have to do that!” he said, and the tension evaporated.

  “Okay, no more war stories,” Edna said, and put her hand on top of Farley’s. Jaime admitted to herself that through all the commonplace teenage animosity, she liked her mother.

  “Mom, you’re a good woman,” she said. She put her arm around her mother, who kissed her wetly on the cheek.

  “What a nice family,” Charlie said. “Well, we’re going out for hamburgers now. Care to join us?” He finished his drink and stood up. Jaime kissed her mother on the cheek and slid from the booth.

  “Thank you, no,” Farley said. To Jaime he said, “How will you get home?”

  “I’ll bring her, safe and sound,” Charlie said cheerfully. “Come on, Jaime. I’m hungry enough to eat the ass—well, I’m pretty hungry.”

  “You were going to say, ‘eat the ass out of a dead mule,’ weren’t you?” Farley said with a loose grin. “We said the same thing in my time.”

  Jaime and Charlie made their way up the bar to the front door, Charlie patting people on the back, saying hello to this one and that one, obviously he came in here a lot. And nobody had asked for ID. Of course she’d been with her parents, but Jaime made a mental note about the Tosca Cafe.

  6.

  The wind blew cold as they walked up Columbus to Broadway. Quite naturally Charlie put his arm around her shoulder to warm her, and she moved in next to him just as naturally.

  “Listen,” he said, “we can keep going up to where my car is parked, get the car started, drive all the way over to Van Ness, or we could turn right and get our burgers at the
pool hall. You ever eat one of Mike’s hamburgers?”

  “Who’s Mike?” It was almost two, and the street was nearly empty. They turned the corner and walked half a block to a crowded pool hall with a busy restaurant counter.

  “People come here after the bars close,” Charlie said. Flames and hissing came from the long stove behind the counter, where three cooks in white fried hamburgers and flipped what looked like scrambled eggs in little frying pans. Charlie pushed them up to the counter, and after a few minutes they were seated, watching the cooks. Charlie ordered for them both. “No mayo, no mustard, no lettuce or tomatoes, just fried meat and fried onions on these hollowed-out French rolls,” Charlie said, his eyes full of appetite. Jaime felt warm and entirely safe. She was also slightly drunk. She hoped she wouldn’t eat and then suddenly throw up. When the hamburgers came, on a sheet of waxed paper, there were little shriveled green peppers as a garnish, and Jaime picked one up and put it into her mouth. Tears came to her eyes. “Delicious!” she said.

  “Eat up,” Charlie said cheerfully, and took a huge bite, the juices running down his face and onto his hands as he ate. She bit into her big clumsy unadorned hamburger. It was the best she’d ever tasted. She wolfed it, getting juice all over herself, then ate her other little pepper and both of Charlie’s. Charlie ordered them little glasses of a strong, almost bitter red house wine, and they turned to watch the pool playing. The place was filling, with bartenders, barmaids, strippers, parking lot attendants, Italian men in blue suits and gray hats. Jaime was the only tourist in the crowd, but she didn’t feel like one. People kept coming up and saying hello. She wasn’t a stranger here, not with Charlie.

  The table in front of them wasn’t a pool table but a snooker table. Jaime had never seen one before. As they watched a slim young man named Tommy playing against a thickset older man named Whitey, Charlie explained the game.

  “Tommy’s better than Whitey, isn’t he?” she asked after watching a while.

  Charlie laughed. “Tommy’s a girl,” he said. “Watch how Whitey limps a little more as he falls behind. Tommy parks cars across the street, next to Enrico’s. Good snooker player.”

  And a lesbian, Jaime thought with a thrill of shock. The girl Tommy had been flirting with her. Grinning at her after good shots, shrugging after a miss. It was unmistakable. Tommy wore a men’s Hickory shirt, khaki pants, and little men’s Oxfords. She was obviously one of the better players, because a crowd was watching the game, generating a lot of bitter-smelling cigar smoke. Everyone was so cosmopolitan. She’d led such a sheltered life. With a shock she remembered that her father had lost his job. Middle class no more. Thrown into the street. But Charlie was here to protect her.

  “Don’t you love this dump?” he yelled at her. She smiled.

  “Let’s have another glass of wine,” she said. Maybe nobody in North Beach checked ID. Maybe that was why the place was a popular tourist attraction.

  “No more wine,” Charlie said. “It’s damn near three.”

  “Oh!” Jaime said. “I have to get home!”

  “I wanted to shoot some snooker, but okay, I told you I’d take you home, so off we go.” He slid off his barstool, holding out his hands to catch her. They were warm and dry. She loved his hands.

  Outside was cold, the street bare. “We could walk up Grant or climb the steps,” Charlie said.

  They climbed the Kearny steps, Charlie slogging along, Jaime taking three at a time. She got to the top ahead of him and perched herself on the low wall blocking the street, watching Charlie huff and puff his way up the hill.

  “You better quit smoking,” she said to him when he got to her, panting and holding his chest. He leaned against the wall beside her, almost sobbing for breath. Then he laughed. “You’re so young,” he said. “Come on.” He pulled her gently down off the wall and folded her into his arms. They kissed. Jaime had accepted that she’d sleep with him instead of going home. It seemed perfectly natural. She was probably more relaxed about it than Charlie. They walked up Kearny toward his apartment. When they got to his car he pushed her up against it and kissed her again. This was a lingering kiss, but gentle. When they broke she put her cheek against his and whispered, “Take me to your place.”

  “Don’t you want to go home?”

  “I want to be with you,” she said. She’d come down here hoping to find him, but not to sleep with him, just to talk, tell him about her life falling apart, ask his advice. All that seemed unimportant now.

  She stood in the middle of Charlie’s living room–bedroom while he went into the kitchen and turned on a light. The place looked eerie in this light. It wasn’t going to be a monk’s cell tonight. She no longer felt like sleeping with him, of course, but here she was, she had asked for this, and so poor Charlie was going to have to go ahead and seduce her.

  “Don’t you use a typewriter?” she asked as he came back into the half-light.

  “Sure I do,” he said, and pulled her to him. She let herself get pulled.

  “Uh-oh,” Charlie said, and let her go.

  He was too sensitive. She moved toward him and put her hands and cheek against his chest. “You have to do all the work,” she said. “I’m pretty scared.”

  “You sure you want to do this?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “But I guess you don’t. That’s all right.”

  “Do you want me to take you home?”

  “No, damn it, I want you to take me to bed.”

  “Then why’d you go cold?”

  “I don’t think you like me,” Jaime said. She was angry. All the liquor warmth was gone. She felt empty and stupid.

  “Well, putting it that way, I better take you home,” he said, with bitterness in his voice.

  “If I could just have a glass of water first,” she said in her smallest voice. She sat at his desk while he went into the kitchen and came back with a little cheese glass of water. He sat on the bed and watched her sip.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “I’ve had a bad time today. I’ll be all right in a minute.”

  “I really do like you,” he said. “Are you a virgin?”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “It explains everything . . . our reluctance . . .”

  Jaime stood up, her heart pounding. “I’m not reluctant,” she said, and came over and took his head in her hands and tilted it up and kissed him, pushing her tongue into his mouth. In a moment they were both on the bed, holding each other tightly, kissing and moaning.

  “Do it to me!” she cried out.

  7.

  Jaime’s father had been keeping a mistress, and he died at her apartment, actually in her bed. But Jaime didn’t discover any of this until the night before her father’s funeral. All she knew was that he’d died out of the house somewhere, of a stroke.

  It would have been exaggerating to say that Jaime and her father had been estranged at the time of his death, but they’d certainly been arguing. About Charlie, of course. After their first night together Charlie had brought her home around eight in the morning, a bright clear morning full of promise. She was already completely in love with him, but didn’t realize it yet. In fact she thought everybody must have felt this way after making love all night. She looked forward to feeling like this on many mornings of her life. She couldn’t understand why she’d waited this long.

  “This is it, huh?” Charlie said, squinting up at the house. “Looks like a real mansion.” Jaime kissed him and got out of the car.

  “See you in class,” she grinned at him.

  “You sure will,” he grinned back at her.

  She was surprised to see her father in the dining room in his bathrobe. She’d forgotten he had been fired, or hadn’t realized that of course this meant he’d be home all the time now. Unless he got another job. He looked awful, sitting there in his blue satin bathrobe with its pale red satin lapels. He wasn’t wearing his g
lasses and his eyes were red and somehow monkey-looking, like those of the primates in the zoo. Sad mad old eyes, she thought, and tried to bull her way through the situation.

  “Morning, Dad,” she said, and sat at the table in her usual spot.

  “What the hell do you mean coming in here at eight o’clock in the morning?”

  “I’m hungry,” she said, just as her mother came in from the kitchen, hung over, in her pink wrapper and her old pink mobcap that made her look like Martha Washington. Mom carried the coffee pot, and as her father began his harangue Jaime held out her cup to be filled. Charlie was too old for her, of course. And he parked cars, never mind his ambitions to be a writer. Everybody wanted to be a writer. Meanwhile he was just a parker of cars and a rapist, or practically, since he must have seduced or somehow forced Jaime. She wondered what her father would have said if he’d known that Charlie had been the first. She didn’t tell him. She took her lecture with her head erect, sipping coffee. She was damned if she’d look penitent. She didn’t feel the least bit penitent. Her father insisted she not go out with Charlie anymore, but her mother saved her.

  “Dear,” she said to him. “We can’t ask her not to date.”

  “We can ask her to stay away from men twice her age!” he said angrily, red face getting redder.

  “No, we can’t,” her mother said quietly. And it was over. But her father must have died feeling bad about his daughter.

  Jaime’s brother, Bill, flew in from Taipan, tanned and stricken. There was a kind of wake at their house that afternoon before the funeral, with a bunch of newspaper reporters in their best blue suits, standing around the living room getting drunk and talking about the good old times. After the last drunken reporter had been poured down the front steps, Jaime and Bill sat cross-legged on her twin beds in what had been Bill’s bedroom and talked. Jaime didn’t quite know how she felt about Bill. He’d always hated their father, and now his guilt and sadness were hard to bear. He was her brother, of course, and that must have meant something, but she felt remarkably cool toward him, even after such a long absence. Bill had been overseas for two years, and he was six years older than she, a mature young man who’d chosen a life in civil service. Bill had a thin face, thin body, and was the tallest member of the family at five eight. His only attractive feature was a pair of blue eyes even harder and darker than hers.