Off the Menu

by Stacey Ballis

  I take a deep breath. I call his cell. Straight to voicemail. I call his house phone. I can’t hear it ringing in the house. Okay, Alana, don’t be insane, he probably has his cell on vibrate, and something is obviously wrong with his house phone because you are standing right outside the window and you would hear it. He is asleep with the game on. Go home and he will never know you were here behaving like a stark raving lunatic. I turn to leave.

  “Alana?” RJ is standing on his stoop, looking at me quizzically.

  And I? Burst into tears.

  He comes down the stairs, and puts his arms around me, shushing me. When he realizes I am not in pain, and nothing tragic has happened, he leads me inside, where I snuffle into a Kleenex and try to explain why I am there.

  “I promise, I’m not insane, I just … You didn’t call, and you didn’t answer when I called, and your back was so bad and you said you were going to do laundry and I thought maybe your back went out and you were on the floor and …”

  “Shh. Honey. I’m fine. I came home, and wanted to get the laundry in, started some work, fell asleep with the game on. Never heard the phone ring. I’m sorry I didn’t call. But this is a little bit of crazy behavior.”

  “I know. I was just getting ready to leave. I wasn’t going to ring the bell, I swear.”

  “Look, I’m tired, you’re tired, and I think I do understand why you’re here, and I’m going to assume this is just an anomaly and I know it comes from a place of caring. And I really am sorry I didn’t call.” But for the first time in our relationship, he is looking at me like maybe I’m not as easy and normal as he thought. And I realize that just like I have been secretly waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the magic to fall away, he might have been thinking the same thing. Actually, this makes me feel somewhat better. To know that maybe he is scared too, that he isn’t so blithe about believing in our magic. I know that, as disappointing as my past relationships have been, his have been in some ways worse. We don’t dwell in the past, but there have been some clues about a couple of his exes that imply a rough time. And knowing that maybe he harbors his own fears and trust issues makes me feel both less insane and the teensiest bit more confident in what we have.

  “I swear this is not my usual. And you’ve forgotten to call a couple of times before and I haven’t come over. It was just because of your back, all I could think was that you were hurt and couldn’t call for help.”

  He smiles at me the way you smile at a small child. “Well, it was sweet of you to worry and very rude of me to not call. I’ll make you a deal; I’ll try to remember to be better about calling, if you promise to not assume I’m dead if I forget now and again.”

  “Deal.”

  “Thank you for caring about me enough to be so worried and to come all the way over here.”

  “You’re welcome. Thank you for caring about me enough to not break up with me for acting like some crazed stalker.”

  I kiss him, and he walks me to the door. “I would never break up with you for caring about me. And I don’t think you’re crazy.”

  “Okay.” I feel like such a complete idiot, and just know that even though he is being kind and understanding, I’ve taken something of a step back in his estimation.

  “Alana?”

  “Yeah?”

  He grins. “Call me when you get home.”

  “You bet I will.”

  And I do.

  17

  I open the oven at my parents’ house and pull out the pans of chicken. In the other room, I can hear the buzz of my insane family as they compete to try to impress RJ with funny stories, details of exceptional children, and embarrassing tales of my youth. The whole gang showed up for this Shabbat, including Aunt Rivka and Uncle Eli. Luckily the cousins have scattered to the four winds, two on the West Coast, two on the East, and one in Amsterdam, so it’s just the insanity of the immediate family. RJ claims that he is jealous, he just has his folks and sister and her family, and isn’t able to really be close to his extended family in the way that my family is.

  Nat wanders in to see if I need any help. “He is so freaking charming. Mama and Papa are eating out of his hand.”

  “I know, he’s good-manned adorable.”

  “He really is. And he seems to just fit, here and at your party and with your friends and stuff. And you guys are so, I dunno, easy together. Do you think he’s the one?”

  I take a deep breath. “I do. I really do.” I haven’t dared say it out loud, but there it is, my secret joy and terror all in one.

  She throws her arms around me. “Good for you, Lanuschka. That makes me very happy.”

  “Okay, okay, let me get this chicken organized, would you? Aren’t there children to deal with out there?”

  “Fine. You better be careful, mouth off too much and this family will vote you off the island and keep RJ instead.” I swat her on the butt and shoo her back into the melee. But I can’t keep from peeking down the hall; RJ is flanked by my parents, with my niece Lia in his lap. He is laughing at something she is whispering in his ear, and my folks are grinning ear to ear. My heart swells with pride to see him so connected already, and to hear from Nat that everyone approves. Not that I was worried. After the last schmegegge I brought home, the bar was very low. But it increases my joy to see how well RJ fits in.

  I get the chicken out on a platter. I fluff the kasha varnishkes, sautéed buckwheat groats with little pasta bowties, and spoon it into a large serving bowl. Glazed carrots, steamed green beans, pickled beets. Rivka has brought the challah, as usual, and RJ brought wine. I’m discovering that when he says he has an interest in wine, what he means is that he has enormously vast knowledge, is so good that wine importers invite him to come on buying trips to France to help taste the wines and make notes to advise them on their purchases, and that he has a cellar so deep that it will outlive him. Tonight he has brought three magnums of a gorgeous Burgundy, and a bottle of port older than me. I mean, it’s no unlabeled Polish vino, but it’ll do.

  I’m just getting ready to call everyone in for dinner, when the doorbell chimes. Who on earth?

  I walk out to see who it is, and there it is, the only thing that could spoil this perfect night.

  Patrick.

  My mom is hugging him, and the nieces and nephews are jumping up and down and running around him. He is carrying a casserole dish, and has a huge Toys R Us bag over his shoulder. Jenny takes the food from him, while Sasha relieves him of the bag, and tells the kids they can have it after dinner, removing the temptation to the hall closet. RJ is standing back watching, and I immediately go to his side.

  “Oy. You ready for this on top of everything else?”

  He kisses the side of my neck, right under my ear. “Born ready, baby.”

  Patrick makes his way through the crowd and finally lands in front of us. “This must be the famous RJ.”

  “Hello, Patrick, it’s nice to finally meet you.” They shake hands firmly. I’m waiting for a black hole to open in the floor, or a break in the space-time continuum. But nope, nothing exciting. Just Patrick meeting my boyfriend, as if it is the most normal thing in the world.

  “Mama …” I say, as she walks by.

  “Vat? Is shabbas. Patreek ees alvays invited shabbas.”

  “Yeah, Alana. I am always invited shabbas,” Patrick says, putting his arm around my mother and kissing her cheek.

  “And yet, this week, no one mentioned it to me.” I should have known Patrick would weasel his way into this dinner, especially when he overheard Gloria and me talking about how much she liked meeting RJ and telling me that the dinner would be great, especially now that he had bonded with my siblings at the party. Whatever. I’m not going to let it bug me.

  Patrick’s offering for the meal, short rib tzimmes, joins the rest of the items on the buffet, scarily perfect and utterly traditional, completely incongruous coming from someone who oozes Gentile out of his pores. Mama must be sneaking him family recipes now. Everyone walks do
wn the line, entering the kitchen through the door from the living room and exiting out the other door to the dining room, plates full of delicious.

  We are not a religious family. For us Shabbat dinner is just an excuse to get the family together. But we do say the three key prayers, wine, candles, bread, just to honor the tradition. Mama lights the candles. “Baruch ata Adonai, eloheynu melech ha’olam asher kiddushanu bat mitzvoh tov vitzi vanu le chad lich ne’er, shel Shabbat.”

  Papa breaks a piece off the nearest challah, the shiny mahogany crust of the braided bread giving way to soft yellow interior. “Baruch ata Adoani, eloheynu melech ha’olam hamotze lechem mein ha’aretz.”

  Mama looks around to see which of us will step up for the blessing over the wine. Suddenly, at my elbow, RJ says, “Shall I?” And raises his glass.

  Mama nods.

  “Baruch ata Adonai, eloheynu melech ha’olam, boray prei hagofen.” His Hebrew is perfect, if somewhat strange spoken with the slight lilt to his voice, a tiny remnant of the Tennessee accent he has all but obliterated in his thirty years in Chicago.

  Papa claps delightedly, and Mama grins. My siblings nod approvingly, and the kids at their end of the table giggle, but they don’t really know why. Patrick, sitting on my other side, raises his glass to RJ, leaning over me slightly. “Showoff.”

  “Not bad for a shaygetz, huh?” RJ says, using the somewhat derogatory word for a Gentile man. “It’s not my first rodeo.” It’s not Patrick’s first rodeo either, he’s probably been at a couple of dozen of these over the years, but he’s never offered a prayer.

  “You do very goot,” my mom says.

  “You can be shabbas goy!” Aunt Rivka says.

  We all laugh, even Patrick, who must suddenly feel like the second cutest girl at the dance. I lean over to him and whisper, “I’m glad you’re here. And I hope you get a chance to really chat with RJ.”

  “Alana, if you like him, I’m sure he’s great. You don’t need my blessing. He seems fine.”

  I’m not particularly sure why it hurts my feelings, but it does. Every single person in my life who has met RJ has raved, gushed, expressed personal delight at having made his acquaintance. Patrick’s casual dismissal of “fine” really rubs me the wrong way. I’m about to call him on it, when RJ takes my hand under the table.

  “Thank you for bringing me here.” And my ire melts away. If Patrick has his head so far up his own ass that he doesn’t want to make an effort to know this spectacular man, that is entirely his loss.

  “Thank you for coming. And thank you for being.”

  “Being what?”

  I lean over and kiss him. “Just being.”

  After dinner is over and we are all stuffed to the gills, Patrick retrieves the bag he brought and turns it over to the kids who tear into it with wild abandon, unearthing an endless trove of dolls and action figures and new games for the Wii. The gaggle of cousins dig in, finding something for everyone to get excited about.

  The rest of us divide and conquer, some of us cleaning up in the kitchen, some getting the tables and chairs squared away, and much to my chagrin and delight, my dad, Patrick, Uncle Eli, and RJ step out on the porch for cigars. That should be fairly priceless. I begin to head in that direction, to save RJ if need be, but a hand on my arm stops me.

  “Leave it, Lana,” Nat says. “He’s fine. That’s a man who doesn’t need anyone to fight his battles or protect him. You want him out there, and you want him out there without you. Trust me.”

  “I just …”

  “Don’t. He’s great, honey. Leave it be.”

  When it is finally time to head out, RJ receives hugs, kisses, back slaps, and shoulder grapples from my entire family as we make our way to the door. He receives an open invitation to return from both of my parents, and each of my siblings has requested a double date with us in the near future. And Joshie breaks away from the Wii long enough to come running down the hall and launch himself into RJ’s arms, whispering something very serious in his ear.

  “You bet, buddy. That’s a date.”

  “Thank you, Uncle RJ!” he says, and runs back down the hall.

  “Uncle RJ!” Sasha says.

  “What on earth did you promise my kid?” Alexei asks.

  “He mentioned that he was sort of interested in art these days. I told him that a good friend of mine is a curator at the Art Institute, and that he can take us on a private tour of the stuff in the vaults.”

  “Oh, goodness, he would just love that,” Sara says. “Thank you.”

  We head to the car, Patrick following along behind us.

  “Nice to meet you, man,” Patrick says as we get to the car, offering a firm handshake.

  “Very nice to meet you as well, Patrick, I’m glad you were here.” RJ shakes back.

  “I’m sure we’ll hang out again soon.”

  “That would be great.”

  “You’re a lucky guy, my Alana is the best.”

  “Yes, she is.” RJ puts his arm around me.

  “Even if she does fart in her sleep,” Patrick says, and my jaw hits the ground. He has just broken the barrier, referenced our one night together, and shattered the unspoken understanding between us to pretend that the incident never happened. And worse, he’s done it in such a casual and insulting manner.

  “Only rarely. And I think it’s cute. Sort of musical really.” RJ is unflappable. Luckily for me, I confessed about my error in judgment with Patrick during the trading of basic info about exes, with limited details, and he was totally cool about it.

  Patrick seems a little thrown by the lack of reaction from both RJ and me. But I refuse to be baited.

  “We should all have dinner or something one of these days. Patrick, you can bring, you know, whoever your agent sends for the evening,” I say pointedly.

  “Ha. Funny.” But he doesn’t look amused. He does rally, ever the smooth one. “Alana, my princess, have a great weekend, I will see you Monday. RJ, see you soon, I hope.” He kisses my cheek, jumps into his new Escalade, and takes off.

  “Think we should follow him to be sure he doesn’t try to bust a drug dealer or take down a mob boss?” RJ asks.

  “I think he is going to have to take care of himself tonight. I have more important things to focus on.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as making my fabulous boyfriend know how happy he makes me.”

  He opens the car door for me, and kisses me. “I’m up for that. Did he really just try to make me jealous about your one-night stand? Really?”

  “I have no idea what the hell that was. Marking territory, maybe. I would imagine he is very threatened by you.”

  “Well, at least he didn’t piss on you.”

  “That would have been a Dumpling move.”

  “Which is why he is having a sleepover!”

  We ride back to RJ’s place. Barry has Dumpling tonight. Considering his behavior of late, I couldn’t risk bringing him to RJ’s, even though he was invited. RJ has rugs worth more than my car, and I can only imagine what my crazy dog could do to one of them.

  We settle into his den, and he brings in a couple cans of Pamplemousse, which he is now as addicted to as I am. We clink cans, and snuggle up. JP, his cantankerous cat, jumps up into my lap, purring like a kitten.

  “That cat hasn’t liked anyone since the first Bush administration. But look at him love you. How is it possible you were single, you wondrous woman?” he asks.

  “I’m really really picky. What about you?”

  “I had pretty much just written it off. Failed marriage, failed long-term relationships. I just thought, focus on work, friends, family, play my guitar, and head off into the sunset alone like a good cowpoke.”

  I look up at his sweet face. “I’m glad you didn’t give up.”

  “I sort of had. But you brought me back.” He leans in and kisses me. “You and Michael Chabon!” Apparently it was my listing The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Klay as the book I was currently re
ading that was the piece of the puzzle that finally got him to answer me on EDestiny. It’s one of his favorite books, and he took it as a sign. “Falling in love with you is the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

  “And the best thing that has ever happened to me.” I pause, and take a deep breath. “I really love you, RJ Oliver.”

  He smiles widely, and I can see that there are tears shimmering in his eyes. “Truly?”

  “Truly, madly, deeply.”

  And nothing in the world has ever felt more utterly and comfortably true.

  18

  I gather the kids around me at the end of class.

  “So, one at a time, what did we learn today?”

  Joseph throws his hand in the air. I nod at him. “Well, we learned about food safety and proper cleaning and storage, and the danger of cross-contamination, so we really learned that my moms has been trying to kill the family for years.” We all laugh.

  “We learned about the differences between processed foods and whole foods,” Max says. “And how it can be healthier to eat some real things like butter and olive oil instead of processed saturated fats like margarine and Crisco.”

  “We learned that if something is too spicy you have to drink milk or eat bread and not drink water, and that Helena has a mouth made of asbestos!” says Aretha, referring to the chicken vindaloo that Helena brought in as her traditional family recipe, in which the level of spice blew all our heads off.

  Renaldo raises his hand. “We learned that you can take a recipe and make it healthier by replacing certain ingredients.” Renaldo had brought in a rich pork stew that we lightened up by adding more veggies, trading out turkey breast for the pork, and just searing the chunks of meat in a little oil instead of deep frying them.