Gravesend

by J. L. Abramo

  My place is on the other side of the kitchen. It's two stories. I turned the downstairs bedroom into an office and library and built a bedroom, big bath, and deck upstairs.

  Beyond the Great Room there's the back lanai with our outdoor dining area and the big Jacuzzi.

  The fountain in the back yard is new. Rafael Sabatino, Valerie's father, gets credit for it. Here earlier this year, he noticed my struggles with pond construction and suggested a fountain as an alternative. A month later a bronze mermaid arrived. She had plumbing any girl would be proud to call her own. Richie and I filled in the pond excavation and set up the fountain in a flower bed. Unlike most fountains, the water never pools in this one. It just empties from the mermaid's hands as she's washing her hair, spills down her body and splashes across the volcanic rocks that we've arrayed at her feet. There, where you'd expect it to pool, it sort of disappears. Richie figured out how to do it. Eventually, he'll figure out how to rig power to that winch.

  I've set up a half-assed gym in the big tool shed, a couple of bags, a bench, and some free weights. And we have beautiful flowers and herbs and vegetables and six big old palms and the beach and the South Pacific and the Whaler and the outrigger canoe. We also fish from the canoe, the way the natives did centuries ago, spreading nets at night and bringing them in at sunup.

  If you believe you can have too much good, healthy fun, it's probably not right for you.

  Good as it is, it would fail with just one bad apple, so I keep hoping the new neighbor will show up recommended by someone I trust. And I don't trust a lot of people.

  I don't solicit neighbors and I don't solicit the kind of action Muhammad just called about. There are two reasons I don't knock on doors with my hat in my hand, and the other one is I don't wear a hat.

  I didn't know how long I'd be gone. I had plans to meet Valerie in New York for Christmas and one thing could lead to the other. The evening now looked like a Sam and Teresa reunion, an Estelle adoration, and an aloha to me, Harry Pines.

  ***

  We divided responsibilities.

  I'd cook two side dishes that I'd enjoyed at Mario Batali's restaurants in Manhattan when Valerie and I were there last spring. One is deep-fried potato croquettes seasoned with parmigiano reggiano that I'd been served at Babbo, and the other, from Esca, is a well-flavored green bean thing called Fagiolini in Padella.

  Leanne said she'd grill the tuna on the big Weber we keep on the back lanai, using a rub of garlic, rosemary, lemon zest, parsley, and extra virgin olive oil. Richie does great vichyssoise and we'd open with that. Cindy would have hostess duties, selecting the wine, entertaining the guests while we prepared the meal, and earning the seat at the head of the table. I know it sounds like grown-ups acting like college kids, but what the hell.

  Leanne, who is on the music faculty at Chaminade University in Honolulu, has been teaching me the clarinet for about a year. When I began to express guilt a few months back about the donation of her professional time, she suggested a trade.

  "Teach me to cook," she said.

  "You can cook."

  "I mean a big meal full of dazzling recipes for a lot of people."

  "I'd be swapping amateur instruction for professional."

  "Not so. You used to cook at Serena's."

  "But not as the chef. That's her. I was kitchen flunky."

  "Modesty bores me. And you don't do it well. Teach me to cook."

  "Okay." We were in the front room of my apartment, finishing a lesson. "Let's visit the scene of the crime." We walked the thirty feet to the communal kitchen.

  "To begin," I said, "fill a stock pot half full and bring it to a low steady boil."

  "Okay. Why?"

  "It's like in those old Western movies where the baby's about to come and they get the daddy out of the way by telling him to go boil some water. It's like that. And, you never know, it might come in handy. Maybe you'll want to throw bones or trimmings or something in there to make a stock. Might want pasta."

  "Makes perfectly good sense to me."

  "Then there're these things to remember before you chop your first onion.

  "Get your hair out of the game. I think a ponytail'd work for you. Or a bun. Like you wear it when you go to school."

  "Not one of those big hats?"

  "Maybe for Halloween. Get an apron, a plain, belted apron without the bib. White is best. Long is good. No flowers or pictures, no cute quotes. Keep a towel tucked in the waistband." Mine was on a hook and I used it as a demo. "The skirt of the apron and the towel're what you mostly use for grabbing hot things. Williams-Sonoma sells cute quilted mittens, but you can't use them for a little thing, the lip of something. Get a smock, or a shirt you can spare to the cause. Nothing too baggy, sleeves not quite to the wrist. Comfortable rubber-soled shoes you don't worry about if things spill on them. Mine are slip-ons," I pointed to them on the floor by the door, "so when I leave the kitchen I can leave them behind."

  I slow-walked the room, proprietarily.

  "Survey your domain. Learn where everything is so when you need it, you just reach for it. Pots, pans, all the skillets, all the knives, all the ladles and spoons and scoops. Everything. If it's not there when you reach for it, you are entitled to kill whoever moved it."

  "I think that should be whomever," she said.

  "No. Here's the rule on that. Always use whichever form makes you feel good."

  "Okay. Good rule. Easy to remember."

  I took one of the cookbooks from the rack beside the refrigerator and flourished it. I said, "Read the recipe." There's an obnoxious pedagogue living within me. "Study it. Understand what it's all about. So you're not just proceeding step-by-step but actually creating something."

  Leanne saluted a little sarcastically, getting into the spirit of the diatribe.

  "Then put the recipe aside. It's a concept, not a road map. Somebody else's proportions aren't as important as your own taste buds. Cook with an attitude. Invade the food. Touch it, taste it, listen to it cook.

  "Above all is ingredients. Use only the best. Only the freshest. Grown nearby, too, if you can find it. Substitute something fresh or home grown for what's called for in the recipe every time."

  She said, "Don't think because I'm not writing this down, I'm not taking it very seriously."

  "You better be. Now, that's what you do before you begin. After that comes the fun part. Preparation and cooking. We'll partner on that for a few weeks. You'll be my apprentice. I'll abuse you."

  At that she laid down a lascivious little moan.

  Watching us one day at our work, moving around the kitchen, subconsciously anticipating each other's positions, Cindy said, "Fred and Ginger. Together again."

  "What do you do about picky eaters?" Leanne asked me one day.

  "End the relationship."

  Cooking with Leanne Fitch has taught me it's a good thing for a man to work closely with a woman he's not trying to take to bed, especially if the woman looks as good as she does.

  ***

  Estelle's requirements, as expected, brought the evening to an early end. Richie and Leanne and their dates had tickets for the Norah Jones concert on the other side in the Waikiki Shell at the foot of Diamond Head. They were running late, so Cindy said she and I would tidy up. She said, "You kids go on and have fun. Your dad and I'll do the dishes. And don't stay out too late."

  In the kitchen, finishing up, she said, "I've got something in mind."

  "That's a good sign."

  "Yeah. It is. I'm thinking about layin' up in the Jacuzzi with a bottle of wine and something nifty on the stereo. And I'm interested in company. Not generic company, either. I was thinking of you." And gave me a big girl look.

  Cindy's a big girl in every sense but the literal. Or, to be specific, the vertical. She's just a few inches over five feet. I met her nearly two years ago when she drove in to check out the work we were doing on the place. She's a flight attendant, for United, and, planning to relocate her base from San F
rancisco to Honolulu, had heard about my piece of paradise through one of those hearsay linkages that makes you glad it's not admissible in court.

  She moved in while the work was going on around her, just as I had.

  One day back then she strolled up to me as I was struggling with something in the yard, maybe the wrought iron sections of the back fence that protect my flower beds. I was stripped to the waist and drenched in sweat. She was wearing shorts and a skimpy tank top that stopped way short of her belly button. She carried a pitcher of lemonade and two plastic glasses.

  She said, "Damn, you look good. Take a break." And sat down on the lawn in the lotus position and poured the lemonade. I joined her. I looked at her crotch, I couldn't help it, and then the rest of her. Light brown hair streaked with blond and worn to her shoulders. Green eyes full of mischief. And a mouth that's always just coming off a sensual little smile or working up to one. And I thought how good it was to be alive.

  She took a big drink and said, "A little business?" It was a question. I nodded. "Here's the thing, Harry. I've got the strongest sex drive any girl was ever born with. No kiddin'. I'm a walking orgasm. If there was anything to that bullshit about nymphomania, I'd be the poster girl. Okay? Take my word for it. In fact, you're gonna have to take my word for it. That's what we're talking about. I want you to know I've been wondering if I oughtta come out here and tell you I'm not gonna live here, I'm gonna live someplace else, just so I can fuck your ears off every time I take a notion. Because, dumb as I can be sometimes, I'm not gonna be dumb enough to live here in this lovely place and carry on with you at the same time. That would be world-class stupid. So, I've been thinking I'd come out here and tell you I'm clearing out, moving on, so, what the hell, let's go to the nearest soft place and get it on."

  She paused and took another drink, holding her hand up, palm out, to let me know she had more to say and it wasn't yet my turn to talk. She lowered the glass, wiggled her butt into the lawn, and said, "And I think it would be the heroin of sex. Addictive. I do. I really do. Ohhh, I tremble just thinkin' about it. But I've come to my senses. I keep looking around at what you're doing here, what this place is going to look like when you're finished, and I keep noticing what kind of a fine guy you are, a really good guy, and I think, Cindy, this place can be your home if you'll just let this hunk here be a damn good friend and nothing else. So that's what I've decided. And I thought you ought to be the first, the second counting me, the second person to know. Harry Pines, you are off limits for me and I'm off limits for you. Until and unless one of us takes up residence someplace else. Understood?"

  I wiped sweat from my face and said, "Cindy, you're evicted."

  She dumped her lemonade in my lap.

  ***

  In the kitchen, wiping the counters clean, I considered her Jacuzzi proposition. I figured it was innocent, devoid of any carnal agenda, but I thought, what the hell, she's good company and a great friend, and decided to go along with it anyway. I said, "Okay. But first I'm going to take a long walk on the beach with a Dominican Cohiba."

  "Won't bother me if you smoke it in the Jacuzzi," she said.

  "I've tried that. It gets soggy."

  A while later, when I came in from the beach I saw low lights spilling from the Great Room onto the back lanai and heard Diana Krall singing "I Love You Just The Way You Are" and got jealous of Elvis Costello all over again. I crossed the yard and took the three steps up to the lanai and heard Cindy, off to my left, say, in a low, throaty voice, "Hey, Batman."

  She was in the Jacuzzi, leaning against the back side of it, her arms spread along the ledge, a wine glass by one hand, a wine bottle by the other, and her glorious breasts floating unadorned in warm bubbles below a smile that said I bet you never saw anything much better than this your whole life long.

  I took a slow admiring look and ended up on her eyes. I said, "Can you keep a secret?"

  "Sure."

  "I'm only human."

  "Good. Can you keep one?"

  "Sure."

  "Then no one'll ever know."

  "What about that heroin thing?"

  "You'll have to sweat it out."

  "No, I'm worried about you."

  She giggled. She slid her hands into the water and wiggled and came up with the bottom of the missing top, tossed it aside. "See what's there on the table?" It was an empty wine glass. She raised the bottle. I unbuttoned my shirt and let it fall, loosened the drawstring on my shorts and dropped them at my feet, and got rid of my Ralphs and my shoes. I took the glass, stepped into the water and waded across to the bottle. She filled my glass. She put the bottle down, dipped her finger in her wine, and touched it to the end of my pecker which, having a mind of its own, didn't need the encouragement.

  She raised her glass to mine, said, "To a long overdue indulgence." I drank mine empty in one long swallow. She laughed and did the same. I lowered into the water. She took my glass from me and put it, and hers, on the ledge. She reached her hands behind my head, took my neck in two strong palms, and pulled my face to hers. With her mouth an inch from mine, she said, "Here's the deal, Harry. I love you and you love me. Friends don't get better than us. But we're never going to couple up. Never. Trust me on that. Women know that kind of thing. This might happen again and it might not. I think maybe eighty-twenty against, probably more like ninety-ten. But either way it's not going to interfere with anything more important for either of us. Anything. Can you handle it?"

  "Shut up," I explained.

  With our faces still close, I ran my thumbs along the soft inside of her thighs to the crease where they met her torso and played there. After a minute, I worked my thumbs gently on her vagina, spread it open and dawdled some more. Then I slid just slightly inside her. She sighed and brought her lips even closer to mine, still not touching, and said, "I want to get fucked without getting kissed."

  We scarcely moved our bodies for longer than I would have thought possible, brought each other to climax with grips and grasps and muscle stunts, stared in each other's eyes and didn't kiss. When she came, she shuddered over and over and drool appeared at the side of her mouth and I lapped it up it with my tongue and then her chin fell to her chest and I kissed the top of her head.

  She expelled me with a little squeeze, took a deep breath and stood up. She gathered her suit and the wine bottle in one hand, said, "Bring the glasses," and grabbed a good hold of the hair on the top of my head and pulled me up. We went up the back stairs to my balcony and to my bedroom.

  We slept now and then, I'm sure, because I remember dreaming. But not for long. Seems to me a little twice-thinking's a good idea before going to the mattress but, once there, I'm big on reckless abandon. So was Cindy.

  When the sun crept in, she said, "I'm ruined, Harry. I need to sleep now. And you've got a flight to catch."

  She rolled over and fell asleep and I got up. In the shower I thought about consequences and then decided I'd let Cindy be the exception that proves the prime oxymoron.

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