A Measure of Darkness
Page 8
She stood, shoving her hips out like a gunslinger. “Take care. Officer.”
* * *
—
ON MY WAY out, I stopped to scan the corkboard. Homeless trans youth 16–21 met on Monday nights at eight. I tore off a tab.
The receptionist passed by with a mug of tea. “FYI, there’s no groups tomorrow.”
“Right,” I said. “When do they start up again?”
“After the New Year.”
“Thanks very much.”
The receptionist said, “Have a nice holiday.”
I wished him the same.
CHAPTER 10
Monday, December 24
Before Amy and I started dating, I wasn’t much of a cook, and while I defer to her expertise in the kitchen, I don’t think it’s boasting to say I’ve learned a lot in the last year and a half. I enjoy myself, anyway. An antidote to the job.
The smells are nice smells.
The instructions are clear, the quantities measurable.
The meat doesn’t have a family.
* * *
—
AMY SAID, “MINCE me a shallot, please?”
“Yes, Chef.”
“And take the pie dough out of the freezer.”
“Yes, Chef.”
“I prefer Doctor.”
“Yes, Dr. Chef.”
Minestrone, garlic mashed potatoes, roasted root vegetables, butternut squash ravioli, beef potpie, duck confit; soda bread with caraway seeds and raisins; chocolate chestnut soufflé. A scattershot menu, reflecting the dearth of firm holiday traditions on either side. Amy’s father comes from a long line of Jewish atheists. Her mother, herself a marvelous cook, comes from a long line of Italian atheists. My family cooked a little more often than we went to church, but we didn’t do either very often or very well. I grew up on boxed mac-n-cheese, peanut butter sandwiches, and Sunday-morning SportsCenter.
The quantity of food reflected Amy’s strategy for conflict deterrence. Our parents were meeting for the first time. Mouths busy chewing couldn’t argue.
“Yours are fine,” I said, crosscutting. “It’s mine we’ve got to worry about.”
She unwrapped the dough and set it on the counter to thaw. “I just want everyone to get along.”
I said, “By ‘everyone’ you mean me and Luke.”
“I’m expressing a general sense of optimism.”
“I’m going to say it one last time,” I said.
“Clay—”
“We didn’t have to invite him.”
“He’s your brother.”
“And?”
“And he’s your brother.”
“All I’m saying, if you’re trying to limit the number of variables, he’s first to go.”
In the four months since Luke’s release from prison, I’d seen him face-to-face half a dozen times. One obstacle was my schedule: I worked odd hours, and in my free time I often felt too wiped to do much more than watch TV. I suppose if I felt highly motivated, I could’ve invited him to watch TV with me.
I didn’t feel highly motivated. That was the main obstacle.
“It sounds like he’s happy at his job,” Amy said.
“You talked to him?”
“He called to ask if he could bring anything.”
“I didn’t know he had your number.”
“I assume your mom gave it to him,” she said.
“I didn’t know she had your number.”
“Anyhoo,” she said, stirring soup. “I told him we’re set.”
“Pretty sure the only thing he knows how to make is meth brownies.”
“Clay.”
“All right, all right.”
Beneath our laughter lay a fundamental difference in how we each viewed the world. Psychologists believe people can change. They have to, or else what’s the point of psychology? The opposite is true for law enforcement. We rely on the principle that people tend to make the same stupid mistakes, over and over.
“Do you think,” Amy said, “they’re expecting us to announce that we’re engaged?”
“You know, it hadn’t crossed my mind till you said it. But—yeah, I bet they are.”
“Should we disappoint them early?”
“Like at the door? Take their coats. We’re not engaged.”
She snickered.
I went to the fridge for butter. “Or,” I said, “we don’t have to.”
“Have to what.”
“Disappoint them.”
I had my back to her and wasn’t sure what her silence meant. Then I faced her and still wasn’t sure.
She stared at me, the ladle loose in her fingers. “Did you just propose to me?”
“I think I did.”
She stepped to the cutting board and picked up the knife.
“Are you—eh. Amy?”
She took an unpeeled shallot, halved it width-wise, cut a quarter-inch slice. Poked out the middle sections to form a floppy ring.
“Try again,” she said, giving me the shallot ring.
“Amy—”
“Ah ah ah.”
I knelt down. “Amy Sandek, will you marry me?”
She extended her hand.
6:28 p.m.
We agreed not to tell them right away; we agreed not to tell them at all, unless it felt right, which would be mutually confirmed in private.
When evening arrived, we were giddy with our shared secret.
Her parents arrived a couple minutes early. My parents arrived a couple minutes late. Introductions were made, drinks poured, small talk kindled. Amy and I steered them toward topics of mutual interest. Sports for my mom and her dad. The housing market for her mom and my dad.
Once the conversations had left the shore, wobbling, but afloat, we escaped to the kitchen to finish getting ready.
“So far, so good,” she whispered.
“We should tell them now,” I said, taking down bowls. “While everyone’s still happy.”
“Let’s eat first.”
I glanced at the microwave clock. Five to seven. “You told Luke six thirty, right?”
The doorbell rang.
Covering the distance to the door in a few long strides, I reached for the knob, bracing myself for the usual minor shock.
Fourteen months and half an inch separate Luke from me. He looks like me, too, if you edit out the effects of hard living on his skin, hair, and teeth. For years he had a goatee, which helped. But he shaved it off after his release, and seeing him now is like staring into a dirty mirror.
I opened the door.
A woman said, “Hello.”
She was white, with curly brown hair and round black eyes, mildly heavyset, wearing a fringed print skirt and an embroidered peasant blouse. Short, maybe five-one. Pressed up close behind her, Luke looked like he was sprouting out of the top of her head. A mutant sapling in a too-small pot.
“You must be Clay,” she said. “I’m Andrea.”
She stepped over the threshold to wrap me in a hug. Strong perfume, tickling my nose. “It’s so wonderful to meet you.”
Luke smiled. “Nice shirt, dude.”
From the living room, my mother said, “Hi, honey. Come on in.”
Andrea remained clutching me, her face nuzzled in my armpit. I was doing my best not to sneeze. Luke sidled past, clapping me on the shoulder as he went.
I heard Amy say, “No problem at all, let me just grab another place setting.”
“This is so special,” Andrea said. She held me at arm’s length. “So, so special.”
* * *
—
OVER SOUP, THERESA Sandek said, “So how did you two meet?”
/> Andrea and Luke exchanged a smile.
“I took her class,” he said, reaching for her hand. “She was my teacher. Is.”
“At—” Theresa began, before stopping.
“Please,” Andrea said. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Yes, at the prison.”
Paul Sandek asked what she taught.
“Mindfulness.”
“I think it’s terrific that they offer that,” Paul said.
“For sure,” Andrea said. “I feel a mindful approach can benefit everyone. But there aren’t too many groups of people who need it more than the incarcerated.”
“She wasn’t incarcerated,” Luke said. “Just to be clear.”
“I volunteer.”
“She drives from Salinas,” Luke said. “Two hours.”
“Wow,” Theresa said. “That’s commitment.”
“It’s important work,” Andrea said.
“Soup’s delicious,” my father said.
“Thank you,” Amy said.
“And how long,” Theresa said, “have you done that?”
“Practiced?” Andrea said. “Or taught at Pleasant Valley?”
“Either. Both.”
“Eight years practice, teaching for three.”
“Andrea works as a trauma counselor,” my mother said.
“How lovely,” Theresa said.
“I’m not sure I’d call it lovely,” Andrea said.
“No, of course not. I should’ve said—”
“Important,” Paul said.
“Yes, important,” Theresa said.
“It’s healing,” Andrea said.
“You two have a lot in common,” Luke said to Amy. “Career-wise.”
Amy smiled. “I’m sure we do.”
“Well,” I said.
Everyone looked at me.
“I mean,” I said. I looked at Andrea. “What kind of degree do you have?”
Amy began reaching for bowls. “Anyone for seconds?”
“I’m asking,” I said, “cause Amy went to grad school. She has a PhD. I’m not sure what it takes to become a trauma counselor.”
“There’s a certification,” Andrea said.
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Like, are we talking online, or—”
“Honey, can you give me a hand with these, please?” Amy said.
“Actually, Clay,” Andrea said, “from what I understand, it’s not that different from what you do.”
“I’ll get it,” my father said, standing.
“No no no no no, not allowed.” Amy smiled. “Honey.”
I took Luke’s bowl. “Save room.”
* * *
—
WHEN WE WERE alone in the kitchen, Amy said, “Stop it.”
“I’m not going to sit there and let them pretend she’s your peer.”
“Yes, you are,” she whispered, pouring soufflé batter, “because I’ve been cooking for three days, and because she’s not doing anything wrong.”
“It doesn’t bother you? How smug she is?”
“No, it doesn’t, and if I don’t care, you shouldn’t, either.”
“She shouldn’t even be here.”
She wiped her hands on her apron and handed me the platter of duck. “I love you. Don’t be an asshole.”
* * *
—
AT THE TABLE, Luke was talking about his job in the stockroom at the San Leandro Walmart.
“It’s temporary,” my mother said.
“I don’t mind,” Luke said. “I’m in there at three a.m., it’s kinda nice. Quiet.”
“Tell them the big news,” Andrea said.
Luke grinned. “Which one.”
“He’s playing basketball again.”
“Coaching, more like,” Luke said.
“Good for you,” Paul said. “Where at?”
“Late-night league.”
“For high-risk youth,” Andrea said. “It helps keep them off the street.”
“What a wonderful idea,” Theresa said.
“We meet at McClymonds,” Luke said. “You should come with us sometime.”
Realizing he was talking to me, I laughed, shook my head. “Yeah.”
“A real baller? They’d love it. They’ll eat it up.”
“College baller,” I said, reaching for the bread basket. “Anyhow I’m asleep.”
“It’s not every night, just Tuesdays and Saturdays.”
“They start each game with a ten-minute meditation,” Andrea said.
“That part was her idea,” Luke said.
“Have you ever thought of giving it a try?” Andrea asked me.
“Basketball?” I said.
“Meditation.”
“It really helps,” Luke said. “Like with your knee.”
“Nothing can help that,” I said.
“I think what Luke is saying,” Andrea said, “is that a mindful approach can help you live with, and in, the present, including fully experiencing the moment-by-moment reality of your body. Is that right?”
“Totally,” Luke said.
“I do live with it,” I said.
“That’s the idea,” Andrea said. “Since you are already living with it, regardless.”
“Or like with job stress,” Luke said.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“It’s important to have an outlet,” Andrea said.
Paul said, “Am I misremembering, Clay, or were you planning on taking a woodworking class? I seem to recall Amy saying something about that.”
I nodded. “Or blacksmithing, I haven’t decided yet.”
“Blacksmithing,” Theresa said. “How fun.”
“Where’s this?” my father said.
“Urban Foundry. I have to see what they’re offering in the spring.”
“Blacksmithing sounds like an excellent outlet,” Paul said. “All that wham, bam!”
Andrea said to me, “There was that shooting a few nights ago. Were you there?”
“I was.”
“It must be difficult.”
“For the victims and their families it is.”
“You’re a victim, too, though. Maybe not the victim, but a victim.”
“I try not to think of it that way.”
“It’s interesting that you feel there’s a correct way to think about it.”
I shrugged, called to the kitchen: “Honey? You okay in there?”
“Right out,” Amy called.
“You seem reluctant to talk about it,” Andrea said.
“I can’t,” I said. “It’s an open case.”
“What’s the other big news?” my father said.
Amy emerged balancing mashed potatoes in one hand, ravioli in the other. She passed them down opposite sides of the table. “What big news?”
Andrea looked at Luke.
“You tell them,” he said.
“We’ll tell them together,” she said.
“Okay,” he said.
Andrea said, “We’re getting married.”
A beat. Then everyone came alive at once: my mother tented her hands over her mouth, and Paul said, “Wow,” and my father leaned over to shake Luke’s hand, and Amy looked at her mother, who was touching Andrea’s arm and saying “Congratulations” while Andrea sat there, beaming, soaking it in.
I shook a large dollop of potatoes onto my plate. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” Luke said.
“When’s the big day?”
Luke made a who knows face. “We’re not there yet. Her lease is up in March, then she’ll move and we’ll figure it out from there.”
“We’re just enjoying this moment, right now,” Andrea said.
“As well you should,” my father said.
“Don’t wait too long, though,” my mother said.
Amy sat down. She was staring at the tablecloth, her mouth pinned shut, and I felt a crazy bolt of rage. I tried to meet her eye, to let her know that I saw her hurt and was ready to start throwing punches in her defense. To show this usurping clown and my fool of a brother what was what.
Then I realized that Amy was in fact struggling not to laugh.
Across the table, Andrea was telling Paul and Theresa about how strange it was going to be for her, leaving Salinas, where she had grown up and spent her entire life. My father announced that everything was delicious, amazing, delicious. My mother eyed my brother and me, ready to jump in and separate the dogs.
I handed Luke the mashed potatoes. “I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks, man. I appreciate it. Thanks again for having us.”
“Our pleasure.”
“It’d be cool, though,” he said. “To play sometime.”
There was a sincerity in his voice. An alien warmth.
Do people change?
“Maybe,” I said.
“Awesome.”
Andrea sniffed at the ravioli. “Are these gluten-free?”
* * *
—
DISHES SOAKING, LEFTOVERS in foil, Amy and I sank down on the sofa.
“Well,” she said, leaning against me. “Andrea seems nice.”
I laughed.
“I’m glad we waited to say anything,” she said.
“Right, we wouldn’t want to upstage her on her special day.”
“Very special.”
“So so so special.”
“You know,” Amy said, “I’m wondering if I misunderstood Luke.”
“How’s that.”
“When he called. Maybe he asked if he could bring someone. Not something.”
“That’s a generous interpretation.”
“I try.”
“What was so funny before?” I asked.
“When…? Oh,” she said. “The look on your face.”
“My face?”
“Like you showed up to prom and your best friend had on the same dress.”