Two of a Kind

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

“It just wasn’t working out,” he said.

  “Andy, sweetheart, I know it’s not my business—”

  “You’re right—it’s not.”

  “Maybe you’re being too picky. I know Rachel, may she rest in peace, was a paragon among women, but Rachel’s gone and you’re still a young man—”

  “With so much to live for,” Andy finished for her. “Look, Ma, I know you mean well, but when a woman is not right, she’s not right. Better to just move on.”

  “Move on to what?” Ida said. “Another blind date, another woman who may or may not be right? And this Jennifer, she’s Jewish, right? That’s so important; you don’t want to go falling for some shiksa. At some point you just have to settle, Andy.”

  “When Dad left, did you settle? Was good enough good enough for you?”

  “I didn’t have your . . . opportunities,” she said with quiet dignity.

  Andy reached out to cover her small hand with his. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That wasn’t nice.”

  “No,” she said. “It wasn’t.” She looked around for the waitress. “I’d love another cup of coffee.”

  “I’ll get her attention,” said Andy, sorry he’d taken the bait. He signaled to the waitress; the conversation shifted to other, less volatile subjects. “Oliver seemed very . . . quiet . . . when we were driving out last night,” Ida said.

  “He’s been quiet for months,” Andy said.

  “Does he have any friends out here?”

  Andy shook his head. “I asked if he wanted to bring along his friend Jake from the city. He looked at me like I had suggested inviting the headmaster from his school.”

  “He must be lonely,” Ida said. “Maybe he’ll play cards with me. We used to play all the time when he was little. Go Fish, gin rummy . . .”

  Andy said nothing. He wasn’t sure that Ollie would want to play gin rummy with his grandmother. But what did he know? Jake had been his blood brother; what could have driven a wedge between those two?

  He ordered cinnamon-swirl French toast to go for his son and paid the bill. Ida went to the ladies’ room and he stepped outside. He was looking down at the fender of his Lexus—was that a scratch?—when he heard his name again. There was Christina, dressed all in flowing, summery white, a jaunty straw hat obscuring the top of her face.

  “What are you doing here?” He was unable to hide his delight.

  “Oh, we’re just day-trippers—Stephen has a place in Sag Harbor and we go out there a lot, but this morning we thought we’d drive over to East Hampton for a walk through town.”

  It was only then that Andy registered Christina’s escort, an exceedingly handsome black man who wore madras shorts and a very well-fitting shirt that emphasized his trim build. The man nodded, and Andy willed himself to be polite when they were introduced. Ida walked over and Andy introduced her as well; while they were chatting, he tried to decipher the body language between Christina and Stephen. The guy was certainly attentive, and stood closer to her than Andy would have liked. Was she dating him? Christ, he hoped not. It was only when he saw the tiny gold hoop in the guy’s ear that his jealousy dialed down a notch. Although the hoop wasn’t a guarantee, he had a hunch the guy was gay. But a hunch was only a hunch; he had to find out for sure.

  “What are you two doing for dinner?” he said, abruptly interrupting the conversation.

  “We didn’t have any special plans—,” Christina was saying while Stephen said, “Actually, there are three of us; my partner, Misha, is back in Sag Harbor.”

  Partner! Bingo! Andy grinned like an idiot. “Well, why don’t you all come over to my place? I’ll just boil up some lobsters and grill some corn and we can sit on the deck and enjoy it while watching the sun go down.”

  “That’s very gracious of you,” said Stephen.

  “You don’t have to go to all that trouble.” Christina looked straight at Andy.

  “Lobster?” said Ida, clearly puzzled by the turn the conversation had taken.

  “Great! Done! Settled!” Andy said. Partner. He liked the sound of that word, yes he did. “How’s seven? Is seven good?”

  “Who is Christina Connelly?” Ida asked when they were on their way back to the house.

  “Oh, she’s that decorator I told you about.” He had to stop himself from humming.

  “I remember,” said Ida. “You like her.”

  “Who, Christina?” He feigned nonchalance, all the while reveling in the serendipitous meeting. So Stephen had a place in Sag Harbor. So she came out here often. Who knew?

  “Yes. You like her a lot.”

  “Well, yes, I do. She’s been doing a very good job.” When Ida said nothing, he nattered on, “Ollie really likes her too; she’s really sweet with him.”

  “Sounds like you’re thinking of her as more than a decorator.”

  “And if I am?” He pulled into the driveway of the house and turned to look at her. “Is that a crime?”

  • • •

  Andy left Ida in the house with Oliver, who had finally gotten up, while he returned to town to buy groceries. Gliding the car into a vacant spot and putting it into park, Andy reviewed the list he’d hastily scrawled back in the kitchen. Lobster, corn, salad, sherbet, fruit, cookies. Stephen had insisted on bringing the wine for the evening, so he wouldn’t have to think about that.

  Andy had to admit that at this moment the plan seemed a little daunting—he’d never made dinner for six people before, especially not when there was one in particular he wanted to impress. But he broke the job down into its constituent parts: boil the lobster, grill the corn, chop and dice the salad vegetables, scoop the ice cream, slice the fruit, and arrange it on a platter. Hell, he brought babies into the world, didn’t he? How hard could it be to assemble a meal?

  Several hours later, racing around in the rental house’s kitchen, he found out. Even after pressing Oliver into service shucking corn, things were not going smoothly: long strands of corn silk were everywhere, tomato pulp and seeds covered his freshly pressed shirt, and the peaches were mealy. Fortunately he had the sherbet and a lemon chiffon cake, purchased on impulse from one of the nicer bakeries in town.

  “How are you doing?” asked Ida. She had changed, again, and was wearing a coral dress, gold sandals, and big gold earrings.

  “Okay. I think.”

  “I can help, you know.”

  “That’s all right, Ma. I’ve got it covered.”

  Ida looked pained. “You really want to impress her, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I do.”

  “But, Andy, I don’t think she’s Jewish. Is she?”

  “What difference does it make?” Though he had given this some thought too—not that he would tell her that.

  “What difference? To start with, you’re Jewish. I’m Jewish. Your son is Jewish. Rachel”—she let the name hang in the air—“was Jewish.”

  “Rachel is dead,” he said. “Rachel is dead and for the first time since she died, I feel a spark for someone, I’m really excited about someone, and you’re worried because she isn’t Jewish.”

  “You know about me,” Ida said, breaking the angry silence. “My past. What I went through back then. And all because I was Jewish.”

  “Yes, I know,” he said quietly. He did know about her past: the deportation, the camp, the small blue number that was still on her forearm.

  “So if you know, why would you do this to me? Why?”

  “I’m not doing it to you,” he said. “I’m doing it for me.” There was a pause during which he thought she might break down weeping. The moment passed.

  “I overstepped,” she said. “You’ll do what you want. You’re a grown man. I can’t help the way I feel, that’s all.” She looked down at her gnarled hands with their shiny, painted nails.

  “Look, they’ll be here any minute,” he
said. “Can you please, please, please just drop it?”

  Ida huffed off to set the table and Andy turned back to the meal. He opened the bakery box. The cake had shifted radically during the ride home; it was now totally squashed on one side. Andy checked his watch: too late to drive back to town to find a substitute. Damn.

  “Hey, when’s Christina getting here?” Ollie ambled out of his room in torn jeans, neon green sneakers, and a faded, stretched-out T-shirt that said, Coke: Good for Sipping, Spurting & Snorting. Jesus, did he have to meet company looking like that? Before Andy could say anything, the bell rang. Showtime.

  “Great to see you!” Andy gushed, shaking first Stephen’s hand and then Misha’s. “Come on in.” He ushered them inside and accepted the wine Stephen had brought without even looking in the bag. He was too interested in greeting Christina, who wore some diaphanous dress of a silvery gray, her silver bracelet, and a pair of simple but sexy black shoes. Her hair was swept up and back from her face in its usual style and two pearl drops quivered from her ears. “I’m glad you could make it,” he managed to say when she wandered into the kitchen.

  “Me too,” she said, but did not linger. He watched her retreating back with a slump of disappointment, but then he rallied: he had a dinner to serve. He pulled the salad from the fridge; he’d dress it when it got to the table. Right now he wanted to start the corn and light some candles. He hurried to follow Christina into the other room and caught the tail end of Misha’s comment about some off-Broadway play whose name he recognized. He had been dragged to it by Jen of all people; she had read the very positive reviews. “Oh, that was the play about those three sisters all in love with the same guy? What a melodramatic piece of crap,” Andy said.

  There was an awkward pause before Misha said, “The director is a very good friend of mine. We’ve worked together for years and I did the lighting for that production.” Andy said nothing; he wanted to stuff the words right back into his mouth. “The lighting was good!” he croaked. “The lighting was great!” The stupid candles would wait; he turned and fled to the deck, where the massive stainless-steel grill—ready to roast a bison should he have happened to spear one—gleamed in the setting sun. But when he went to turn it on, it wouldn’t light, and after several frantic minutes, he realized he was out of propane; he’d neglected to check the tank earlier in the day. Shit. Well, he’d have to boil the corn; he just hoped there was another pot in there big enough. He rummaged frantically through the cupboards. Too small, wrong shape—ah, here was something. He pulled it out and sent several others clattering to the floor. The conversation in the other room stopped and Ida called out, “Need any help?”

  “No, I’m fine. Fine!” He scuttled back outside, scooped the ears into the pot, sending several of them spiraling onto the deck below. Luckily, no one saw and he gathered up what he could, figuring that the boiling water would kill any germs. Then he placed the remaining ears of corn on the counter, filled two pots with water, and brought the salad out to the table.

  “Voilà!” he said, setting it down right in front of Christina.

  “This looks so nice,” she said. He reached for the vinaigrette he’d prepared earlier and poured it over the greens. But he was a little too enthusiastic and the dressing splashed up from the salad bowl, right onto Christina’s face and dress.

  “Jesus, I am so sorry!” he said.

  Christina said nothing and only reached for her napkin.

  “Seltzer,” said Stephen, rising from his seat. “Right away. Want me to get it?”

  “No, no, I’ll go,” said Andy.

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure it will be all right,” Christina said, dabbing at her chin.

  “Don’t do anything to the dress until he brings you the seltzer,” Stephen instructed as he sat back down. “You don’t want to set the stain.”

  Andy rushed into the kitchen, grabbed the unopened bottle of seltzer that he had fortunately picked up at the market. A quick twist of the cap and—whoosh! The seltzer erupted like a geyser, sending a spray all over the floor. Now it was slippery—great. All he needed was for his mother or one of the guests to fall. He grabbed a wad of paper towels and dove for the wet spot; his outstretched arm knocked the cake clean off the plate and onto the floor, where it landed in the puddle of seltzer. Jesus fucking Christ. The cake, now wet as well as lopsided, fell apart when he tried to rescue it. He dumped it into the trash, washed his hands, and returned to the table with the seltzer. “If it doesn’t work, I’ll pay to have your dress cleaned,” he said to Christina. “Or I’ll buy you a new dress.”

  “I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Christina said. Stephen wet the napkin with the seltzer and began dabbing.

  “Please,” Andy begged. “Let’s start.” He began by passing the salad bowl to Misha, whose eyes he still could not meet.

  “There,” said Stephen. “That should do it.” He sat down and they all began to eat. For a few minutes, it seemed like everything might actually be all right. The salad was good, and so was the dressing. When everyone had finished, Andy collected the plates and went back to the kitchen.

  The water was boiling in both pots; Andy set the timer and slid the corn in. When he went to retrieve the lobsters, he noticed a tin of chocolate-dipped biscotti perched on top of the fridge; he could serve that with the sherbet and no one would even miss the fruit or the cake. He pulled the tin down from its spot and set it next to the bags. See? He could do this, he could.

  Now it was time to cook those crustaceans. Even though the claws had been secured with rubber bands at the fish market, Andy did not want to put his hand inside the bags and instead used a pair of scissors to snip the paper away. There, black and gleaming, waited the lobsters. He looked at the one closest to him, noting the flecked pattern on its black shell, which, upon closer inspection, was not really black at all, but a medley of deep, aquatic blues, colors created by and uniquely suited to the ocean’s rayless floor. The creature’s antennae waved listlessly; he could swear the lobster was looking him straight in the eyes. The famous scene in Annie Hall was played as comedy: Woody Allen and Diane Keaton giggling as they tried to capture the escaping lobsters. Here, in this pristine East Hampton kitchen, the scene was more tragedy than farce. The lobster, and the five others sitting alongside it like a row of condemned prisoners, were going to meet their end, and he was the one who had to deliver them to it.

  The timer pinged, giving him a start, and he rummaged around looking for tongs so he could remove the corn from the water. It would cool quickly; he needed to get those lobsters into the pot. Andy turned away. He couldn’t. Could. Not. The lobsters, the pot, the dancing flame, the first moment they hit the water with an all-too-brief exhilaration before they began to feel the inevitable heat. “Andy?” He turned, and there she was, silvery dress a cloud of sparkles as she moved. “Is everything all right? You seem so . . . stressed.”

  Everything’s fine, he wanted to say. Instead he pointed to the row of lobsters and said, “It’s them.”

  She followed his mournful gaze. “I see.”

  “I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I can’t boil these guys.”

  “All right, then,” she said. “You don’t have to.” She walked over to the stove, turned off the flame, and poured the water down the sink. “Can you find me a bag? To carry them?”

  Grateful that she was taking charge, he looked under the cupboard again and came up with a roll of heavy-duty garbage bags. Christina divided up the lobsters, three to a bag, and handed him one. “We’d better hurry,” she said. “They won’t last long.” Astonished, he watched as she picked up a bag and carried it toward the door and then out onto the deck. “Well,” she said, stopping for a moment. “What are you waiting for?”

  Andy picked up his bag and followed her. They both kicked off their shoes and hauled the garbage bags down along the beach. The sand was cool and powdery under his feet until they
reached the water’s edge, where it turned gritty and damp. Christina set her bag down so that the opening faced the lapping waves. The first lobster tottered out, claws still secured. He reached for his Swiss Army knife and slit the rubber bands on each of the lobsters as they came out of the bags and scuttled toward the water. He saw the first one propel its body down and disappear into an oncoming wave, and then the next. Within minutes, there were only empty bags, the lapping waves, and the two of them. Andy was electrified, drained, and totally in awe of the woman standing by his side.

  “You,” he breathed, “are amazing.” And then he kissed her, a lingering, heat-infused kiss. He could have remained there all night, but he had a houseful of people to feed, so he reluctantly pulled away. “Now what the hell am I going to serve for dinner?”

  “Do you have eggs and milk?” she asked. He nodded. “And how about cheese?” He nodded again. “I hope you like corn frittata.” This time she was the one who kissed him—lightly, tantalizingly—before stepping back. “Because I do make a mean one.”

  When they got back up to the house, everyone was there to greet them on the deck. The story of the lobsters’ liberation was met first with disbelief, and then with great amusement and fanfare. Christina’s frittata was delicious. So were the biscotti and the pomegranate sherbet. The guests stayed late and polished off all the wine. Even Ida had a glass and declared it delicious. Then she sat down next to Christina; Andy immediately went into alert mode.

  “Where did you say your family was from?”

  “I didn’t, but they’re from Brooklyn. Park Slope actually,” said Christina.

  “And that’s where you live now?”

  Christina nodded. “In the same house where I grew up.”

  “But you’re not married anymore? You’re a divorcée?” Ida asked.

  “Ma!” Andy could not help himself. “Christina’s husband died. I told you that.”

  “You did not!” Ida said. “I hope I haven’t offended you.”

  There was a pause before Christina murmured, “No, that’s all right.” But a moment later she excused herself and got up.