Two of a Kind

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  “Around five.”

  “So you’re free in the morning.” She sipped her coffee.

  “Yeah.”

  “Why not come to church with me? Not for a service,” she quickly added. “A bunch of us volunteer to make Thanksgiving dinner for the residents of a local shelter.”

  “You make food for, like, homeless people?”

  “Yes,” Christina said. “That’s exactly what we do.”

  “I am so down with that.”

  It took Christina a moment to realize he was saying yes. “Your father can come too,” she added. “That is, if he wants to.”

  “Yeah, he’ll want to,” Oliver said. The rice pudding was gone. “He likes pretending he cares about other people.”

  “Do you really think he’s so bad?” she asked, and when he didn’t answer, she gave in to the urge to reach across the table and tousle his blond hair. Then she tensed, waiting for the push back. There was none.

  • • •

  Emerging from the subway station, Christina turned the corner and began walking up Carroll Street. There they were again—the Indian couple. Only this time they had two other people with them; one had a camera and was taking pictures of her house. She accelerated her pace, wanting to catch them in the act. What right did they have to take photographs? But before she reached them, her phone buzzed. It was Phoebe Haverstick. Christina hesitated; she did not want to miss Phoebe’s call, but she wanted to talk to these people as well. In her moment of hesitation, the Indian man saw her coming and tapped the photographer on the shoulder. He turned in her direction and then they all scurried into the waiting car. They were gone by the time Christina reached the house.

  “—and I hope I’m not disturbing you,” Phoebe was saying. “But I really needed to talk to you.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  “It’s the painting,” Phoebe said.

  “The portrait.” Christina thought again of the clear-eyed girl and her wondrous hair. The Indian couple began to recede.

  “Ian thinks we can get a lot of money for it. More than a million dollars, in fact.”

  “That is a lot of money.”

  “The problem is I don’t want to sell it,” said Phoebe. “I’d like my girls to be able to live with it. Grow up with it, even.”

  “If money is not a pressing issue—,” said Christina.

  “It’s not,” Phoebe said. “We’ll have enough money to pay for college. Ian earns a good salary, plus we have investments, savings. My aunt left us money too; she was always very generous.”

  “Well, if you don’t have to sell it, you shouldn’t. It seems to mean a lot to you.” Christina wondered about the reason for this call; Phoebe had already made her decision.

  “That’s what I think. Ian doesn’t see it that way, though. He thinks of it the same way he thinks of my great-aunt’s furniture—another piece of junk.”

  “Very valuable junk,” Christina murmured. “In more ways than one.”

  “He says he sees no reason to live with a useless artifact from an outmoded time. Those were his words, or close enough.”

  “That’s really too bad,” Christina said. “But I’m still not seeing how I can help you.” She had not yet let herself into the house.

  “You know the appraiser. Maybe he could help. He could explain that the painting would appreciate in value and that the children would be able to sell it at some point if they wanted to.”

  “Couldn’t you tell him that?”

  “I know Ian. He thinks I’m being sentimental. But if he hears it from an expert, he might see it differently.”

  “That’s true.” She took out her key and opened the door. Just as she was going inside, she caught a glimpse of Charlotte Bickford opening her door—and then shutting it again very quickly.

  “Please, would you do this for me? I’d be so grateful.”

  Christina thought it over. It would be a smart move to help Phoebe, who was after all paying her for an extensive job. But even more than the self-interest involved, she felt some empathy for this woman, some sense of kinship born of their mutual regard for that painting. Christina understood the deep tug that objects exerted. “All right,” she said. “I’ll call Derrick.”

  “Thank you, thank you!” Phoebe effused.

  Christina walked into her office in search of Derrick’s number. She had not heard from him since that awkward encounter at his loft. Maybe if she made it clear she was calling in a purely professional manner, he’d pick up or respond. But when she called the number on Derrick’s card, she was surprised to hear a recorded voice telling her that the number was no longer in service and no further information was available.

  Christina stared at the phone. Maybe she had called the wrong number. She tried again, punching in the numbers very carefully. The message was the same. On the bottom of the card was Derrick’s cell phone number written in pencil. Fighting the rapidly rising tide of panic, she tried that number as well. There was a ringing and then someone picked up!

  “Derrick, it’s Christina,” she said in a rush. “I hope you’re not angry at me, but I was worried—”

  “Derrick?” said an unfamiliar voice. “Derrick no here.”

  “But this was Derrick’s number,” she said. “Derrick Blascoe.”

  “No Derrick,” said the voice, which had a thick accent of some kind. “Derrick no.”

  “Maybe you know something about where he is—,” she began, but the person on the other end clicked off. She stared at the phone for a few seconds. Then she went in search of her coat.

  It wasn’t cold outside and Christina walked so quickly that by the time she reached Derrick’s place on Union Street, she was sweating. The workshop occupied the ground floor; there was a metal gate that covered the window. Well, that didn’t mean anything one way or the other. It was the night before a holiday weekend; of course it was closed. She stepped back and crossed the street so she could look up. The windows on the second floor were dark, but again, that signified nothing. Maybe Derrick was out of town. She crossed back over and moved to the doorway. There was an intercom with the names of all the tenants. Christina looked for his name amid the others, and that was when she saw it: the freshly exposed space where his name had been—and now was no longer.

  TWENTY-THREE

  At ten minutes to eight the next morning, Oliver stood in front of the Old First Reformed Church on the corner of Seventh Avenue and Carroll Street in Brooklyn. His fists were jammed into his pockets and the hood of his sweatshirt covered his blond curls, but he was still cold. It was early; he had left himself plenty of time to get here from the Upper East Side. He wasn’t sorry Andy couldn’t make it. He’d had an emergency—his kick-ass celeb patient, Xiomara, had cramping or something and he’d rushed off to the hospital to deal. Oliver imagined his dad really got off on his power—not only could he bring babies into the world; he could also keep them from getting here ahead of schedule. Whatever. He was just glad the universe had cut him a break.

  The door opened. A giant of a guy with a frizzy red beard and a perfectly weathered Elvis Costello T-shirt looked him over. “Are you waiting for dinner? Because it won’t be ready for a while. But you can come in and get warm if you want.”

  “Actually, I’m waiting for Christina Connelly. I’m going to be, like, helping out.” This guy thought Oliver was one of the homeless people they were going to serve later on? How hilarious was that?

  “You’re with Chrissy?” Red Beard cracked a big smile. “Well, come on in. No point in freezing your buns off out there.” So Oliver followed him inside. Red Beard lumbered along ahead, past wooden pews, stained-glass windows, and a wooden cross hanging up on the wall. When they got to the kitchen, Red Beard stopped. “This is where all the action is today. Chrissy will be here any minute. You might as well put on an apron and I can introduce you to every
one.” He indicated a stack of aprons piled haphazardly on a counter.

  Oliver nodded, looking around. The kitchen was twice the size of the living room in his apartment, with worn linoleum floors and banged-up-looking cabinets. A guy at one of the two deep sinks was washing what looked like a mountain of cranberries, two other guys were hauling in a ginormous basket of sweet potatoes, and by the windows, two women and a girl were spooning globs of pumpkin mush into pie tins lined with dough.

  Something about the girl made Oliver look again. She was around his age, and everything about her seemed round: big, brown eyes, full face, boobs that strained against her apron, round, plump ass that poked out from the other side of it. Even her glossy brown hair, braided and wound around her head, made a circular shape. When she smiled, which seemed to be about every five seconds, dimples appeared in her cheeks. She must have sensed him staring, because she looked up from what she was doing and smiled again, this time right at him. Before he could walk over to her, Christina came rushing in.

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry!” she said, shaking some drops from her hair. It must have started raining. “I didn’t mean to be so late. But I see Robbie found you and brought you inside.” Oliver looked over at Red Beard; so that was his name. The girl had gone back to the pies.

  “Hey, Chrissy!” Robbie said, and engulfed her in a giant hug. Oliver watched as Christina deftly extricated herself from the guy’s massive embrace.

  “Come with me,” she said, linking arms with Oliver while simultaneously undoing the buttons on her soft gray coat. She looked kind of wrung out, like she hadn’t slept, and he wondered whether she was sick or something. “This is Josh,” she said, indicating the shorter of the men. “And this is Lee.” Lee gave Oliver a slow wave, and Josh gave him a smile.

  Oliver watched as Christina moved off to the other end of the kitchen, plucking an apron from the pile as she went. He wanted to ask her whether she was okay, but Josh was showing him where the knives were and Lee was telling him what he had to do. And maybe this wasn’t the best place to talk anyway. He’d catch her later. He soon became so engrossed in the chore of preparing the sweet potatoes—snip off the ends, prick with a fork, and wrap groups of three or four in foil—that he didn’t notice Jordan until she was right next to him.

  “Hey,” she said, smoothing back her hair in its tight bun. She wore jeans and a black turtleneck sweater; her hair was perfectly smooth already.

  “What’s up?” He hadn’t seen her since the day they had run into each other over the summer, but he’d friended her on Facebook. Instead of a profile picture, she’d posted a shot of ballet shoes. They were made of pink satin, but they were in lousy shape, toes frayed, stained, and crushed.

  “Nothing really,” she said. “You’re helping out here today?”

  “Your mom asked me to.”

  “That sounds like my mom,” she said. “She wants everybody in the circle.”

  Then Christina called Jordan’s name and she went off to another part of the kitchen. He finished with the potatoes and moved on to stirring the cranberry sauce, whipping cream for the pies, and basting the turkeys—there were four of them—that Robbie had hoisted into the ovens. The girl with the braids came over to say hi; she said her name was Summer.

  “That’s a cool name,” he said. “It fits you.” Up close she was even prettier.

  “You think?”

  “Yeah, I do.” He wanted to say that she reminded him of all kinds of summery things—waxy, pink blossoms on a branch, dark cherries dangling from their stems, plums bursting their skin—but thought she’d think he was weird.

  “Thanks,” she said. “What’s your name?”

  “Oliver.” He hoped he could hang out with her some more today. The rain outside had stopped and the sun shone in the windows above the stove, weakly at first, but then brighter. The kitchen grew warm; the various smells—turkey, pie, potatoes—from the oven were amazing. Someone put on music; it was nothing he recognized, but he liked the jazzy sound. Soon people started singing along—Robbie, those guys Josh and Lee, Summer, a woman named Miriam, and another one named Louise. Christina came over to where he stood by the sink, scrubbing a pan. Her cheeks were flushed and her apron was speckled with grease. “How are you doing?” she asked.

  “Great,” he said. “This is fun. I’m glad you asked me.”

  “We host a dinner here once a month,” she said. “We always need help.”

  “You mean you do all this”—he gestured around him—“every month?”

  “Not turkey; turkey’s just for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Easter we do lamb. The rest of the time we rotate. Chili or stew—something like that.”

  Around one o’clock everything was winding down. Summer said she had to go but told him to text her. The food was pretty much cooked. Oliver helped Jordan and Louise set the tables in the meeting room upstairs. The table coverings and napkins were paper; everything else was plastic. But Christina had brought bags of pinecones, acorns, and gourds, and she was busy arranging them into centerpieces. “They look nice,” he said. “Really nice.”

  People were standing at the doors now. People in really shabby clothes, holding steaming plates with both hands. They had been served their food down in the kitchen and were now coming up here to eat it. “Is it okay to sit down?” asked a tiny, wrinkled woman whose hair looked like Brillo.

  “Of course it is,” Christina said, stepping away from the table.

  Oliver stepped back too, and stood alongside Christina as the guests began to file in. Some of them had crammed bags looped around their wrists; others wheeled suitcases behind them. One guy had a shopping cart with a wood board across the top; he used the board like a tray. The faces Oliver saw were old and young, black, Hispanic, Asian, and white. A few scowled and a few seemed to have no expression at all. One guy was talking to himself. He sounded angry. Also loud. “I told them not to ask me again,” he said. “I told them.”

  Oliver noticed that people began to move away from him. His wispy beard was matted and he was pulling anxiously on the ends. “Why are they asking me this again?” he pleaded. “Why?” He walked over to the woman with the Brillo hair. “Is it because of you?” he said menacingly. “Did you tell them to do it?” The woman shrank back. “I know you did it!” He was shouting. “It was you, it was!” He spun around, arms flailing. A hand glanced off Brillo lady’s shoulder and she uttered a little shriek.

  “Now, Matt, you know Claudia wouldn’t do anything to hurt you.” Robbie appeared at the man’s side and took him gently by the elbow. “No one here would hurt you. We’re your friends, remember?” Matt looked like he wanted to carve a piece out of Robbie, but then Lee materialized at his other side and the two men led Matt off, talking to him softly. Oliver noticed that Christina was standing next to him.

  “Is that guy okay?” he asked.

  “Not exactly. But Robbie and Lee know how to handle him.”

  Oliver watched as Robbie sat down with Matt, leaning over the table and talking earnestly to him. Lee had brought over two plates of food and was putting them down.

  The sun, brighter now, shone in through the big windows.

  The sight of these people patiently filing in cracked something open in Oliver, something he had not known was shut so tightly until this second. These past few weeks, he’d gotten up, gotten dressed, and aimlessly bounced through the hours like a pinball. But today was different. He looked down at his hands, which were raw from scrubbing all those pans. There was a cut on his left index finger from where a knife had slipped; Louise had given him a Buzz Lightyear Band-Aid she had in her purse and Buzz’s face was wrapped around his finger.

  Everyone was eating now. Lee moved between tables, pouring cider from a gallon jug. Louise had a basket of hot rolls and was distributing those. People were spearing their turkey, biting into their Brussels sprouts, getting cranberry sauce on their chins
or the fronts of their shirts. They were eating, drinking, taking in the food that he’d helped provide. Even the crazy dude had a place at the table. Was there anything more important? Anything, like, more real? Christina said that the church members made a meal once a month. He could come back again. Come back and help. Looking around at the guests in the room, he felt as full as if he’d been at the table with them. His father had said, over and over, that he couldn’t just sit around; he had to apply himself to something. Well, he’d just figured out what that something was. This is it, he wanted to tell his father. This is what I’m going to do.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Christina waited in the Riverside Drive lobby while Andy gave their names to the doorman. Although she had hoped for a more intimate way to celebrate her birthday, Andy felt obliged to put in an appearance at the annual Hanukkah party thrown by one of his colleagues at the hospital. “We’ll have our own private party later,” he said. “I’ve booked a room at the Carlyle.” She had to admit that sounded nice.

  Riding up in the elevator, he gave her hand a little squeeze. “You’ll like the Gottliebs,” he said. “They’re terrific people.” Christina said nothing. Most everyone there would know one another and many of them were successful doctors at Andy’s hospital. Jewish doctors. It seemed natural that such a crew would be Andy’s friends as well as colleagues; it wasn’t like he had time to be cultivating indie filmmakers or aspiring opera singers. How they would respond to a decidedly non-Jewish interior designer from Brooklyn remained to be seen. At least she was confident about her dress, a secondhand Chanel made of plum-colored velvet and piped with black grosgrain ribbon.

  “Andy!” Bill Gottlieb, their host, was at the door of the sprawling apartment clapping Andy on the back. “Come on and have a drink!”

  “Bill, this is Christina Connelly,” Andy said. Christina extended her hand as Bill looked her up and down. There was a brief, loaded silence and then Bill turned to Andy. “Where have you been keeping her?” he said. Christina smiled in relief and allowed Andy to lead her into the room.