How to Fall

by Edith Pearlman

  “I already told you: I don’t know why they never had children,” Kazuki had snapped. “I suppose you’re always asking them why I never got married.” No, she wasn’t. She’d met plenty of Kazukis, comfortable solitaries, not yearning after men, not yearning after women.

  “Marvin and I discussed it only once,” Fogg told her. “They kept trying, you know, well maybe you don’t, anyway it got too late and not everyone wants to go to Romania, who can tell what you’d come back with; and not everyone wants to hire a surrogate or have a blind date with a sperm bank.” She’d looked at him sharply; but his expression was innocent. “I think they’ve adjusted. They like our son.” And so Pinky, cold with fear, imagined Inez snatching up Blessed Event one Thursday night, running with him into the black street, leaping onto a trolley, then a train, then a bus, finally crossing the Mexican border... Fogg, not party to this vision, serenely polished wineglasses.

  Christmas—two months ago now; turkey stuffed with olives—had turned out to be like Sunday suppers, only longer. There was a tree and there were presents. Marvin and Inez gave Pinky earrings, which she guessed she’d have to wear. Fogg and his wife gave her a book about the South Pole, which she guessed she’d have to read. Kazuki and his mother gave her a framed print of Hokusai’s The Great Wave. She liked it. Her mothers sent a red bathrobe.

  After dinner they sang carols. Kazuki—whose father had been Irish, though no one could tell by looking at him—sang “Mither Machree” in a strong tenor. “I inherited two cuisines,” he said. “They cannot be folded into each other,” he lamented.

  Pinky amused the baby. Marvin beat Fogg’s wife at chess. Everybody played poker. Kazuki’s mother won three dollars. There was no talk about animal rights, same sex marriage, the National Endowment for the Arts, or the work of Djuna Barnes.

  Now Pinky turned her attention to odd jobs—grating horseradish for the salad dressing, slicing potatoes for the Patate, trundling the barrow over to the cleaners to pick up the white tablecloths that were used only on Thursdays. She had to wait while a guy who looked like Albert Einstein left an old tweed suit to be cleaned. The thing was shredding. He was an absent-minded physicist, for sure—but too old, and much too short.

  Then it was six o’clock. She went upstairs to put on her waitress’s black dress and her earrings.

  The room and bathroom over the kitchen had been scrubbed and painted before she moved in. Striped curtains beautified the single window—curtains run up by Inez on one of the gloomy days when she stayed home. On the floor lay a woven rug Fogg found in a yard sale. The Great Wave hung over the bed.

  Among the new things Pinky had discovered two pieces of old evidence.

  One was a vial of pills lying on its side in a back corner of a bookshelf. The vial was dusty, its label long since curled off; and the pills were various shapes and sizes and pastel tints; and some were capsules, the slow-acting enteric kinds; and some were little halfovals, sliced by a razor.

  The other item was a photograph, stuck behind the middle drawer of the bureau. Three people smiled from the snapshot: Inez and Marvin, about ten years earlier, and an unidentified young man. His gold-rimmed glasses reflected light away from eyes and eyebrows. His hairline receded gently. His lips were drawn back into a sad smile.

  Not hard to figure out who he was. He was Marvin’s business partner. He was Inez’s lover. He had turned a knife against Inez when she refused to leave Marvin for him. He had been banished.

  Where was he now?

  How was he faring without his pills?

  Patrons began to arrive at seven forty-five, and by a few minutes past the hour almost all the tables were filled. Conversation strummed, laughter twanged. Kazuki stirred the soup and sang “Rose of Tralee” under his breath.

  Pinky and Fogg brought tall glasses of champagne to each guest. “My disappointment is profound,” Pinky heard an elegant man saying to Inez; and as he spoke he rose on the tips of his polished shoes. “I heard about The Local across the waters, in Paris.”

  “I am sorry you didn’t hear about the need for reservations,” Inez said smoothly. “Please come tomorrow for lunch; we may have some trifle left.”

  He bowed over her fingers.

  Most guests were not tourists. Guidebooks ignored The Local—it served dinner only on Thursdays, and it didn’t advertise. A recent newspaper review—newspapers did grudgingly pay attention—praised the food and then complained about the lack of choice.

  “Choice: what an overvalued commodity,” Marvin remarked.

  The early arrivals were finishing their champagne cocktails. Later ones were beginning theirs. The very latest were entering. The folding glass doors, now affixed with storm panes, were drawn together. The next-to-last customer entered, a furred woman—and how warm that gleaming longhaired collar looked against the windchapped face. Kazuki showed her to a table for one. A table for one was a financial loss, but The Local did not discriminate against isolates. The last foursome came in now, smiling at people here and there; and the door shut for good.

  Inez, serving champagne, paused to greet a pair of frequent patrons. Tonight they occupied the best place in the house—the crescent table in the far corner made by glass and wall, a table where two people side by side could observe the bar, and the kitchen, and the other guests. If they turned leftwards they could see the sidewalk glowing under golden street lights, and parked cars crusted with snow.

  Pinky cleared the champagne glasses. In the kitchen Kazuki ladled out the soup—puree of kale and broccoli. He put a spoonful of vinegary tomatoes in each bowl. Fogg uncorked bottles at this table, at that. Inez and Pinky served soup. Fogg poured wine. Fogg served soup. Marvin served soup. Inez ladled soup. Kazuki ladled soup. Blessed Event cheeped. Pinky served soup, and then stepped behind the bar. “Not yet,” she soothed. The baby smiled.

  A murmur of voices. A gentle slurping. The mild clatter of dishes being removed.

  A few minutes of repose.

  The salad, now, with horseradish dressing.

  Forks clinked against plates. Voices caressed voices. Pinky filled the dishwasher. Kazuki slid trays of Patate out of the oven and replaced them with trays of trout, which he had butterflied and lightly oiled and sprinkled with his private herb mixture. Inez stirred lemongrass carrots and caramelized onions. Pinky warmed the baby’s bottle. The five workers formed an assembly line: Kazuki at trout and Patate, Pinky at carrots and onions, Marvin and Inez and Fogg without apparent haste whisking the dishes to the patrons. The final two tables were served only by Marvin and Fogg. Inez, seated on a low stool behind the bar, had taken the now noisy baby in her arms; and only someone standing in the back corner near the restrooms could see her in the bar mirror, crouched over the little thing. Could see her, though not her scar. Could see her, though not her prominent canines.

  Pinky unloaded the soup plates from the dishwasher, put in the salad plates.

  Kazuki went into the back yard to smoke a narrow cigar.

  Fogg glided from table to table, adding wine to wine, mineral water to mineral water.

  Marvin stood in the corner near the restrooms, almost invisible. But Pinky in the archway of the kitchen knew what to look for. A metallic curve catching a gleam of light—his mustache. A starched wedge—the shirt under his tuxedo jacket. Four small triangles of pale blue neon—the whites of his eyes. He was watching, through the mirror: the gentle motherly crouch; the chin which had once been slashed; the mouthful of muddled teeth guarded by fangs.

  Peace descended upon Pinky—the contentment of the nourisher. The kid she’d been, preparing splashy meals, had never felt such satisfaction, though her skinny mothers tried to be appreciative. But they would have preferred suppers of soy butter and Granny Smiths. When she served okroshka they liked the pickles best. Trifle? They would have gagged.

  A newcomer to The Local lit a cigarette.

  Marvin moved forward. “I’m sorry—at the bar only.”

  The stranger took his habit to the bar a
nd sat down. Marvin placed the house ashtray within reach. The smoker could not see Inez and Inez could not see him.

  Peace descended upon the customers too. They bent forward toward each other across their messy plates—or, in the case of the woman alone, bent forward toward an invisible companion. They conferred—about business, about art, about the neighbors. Pinky heard the baby’s pleased burp, but only because she was listening for it. The smoking customer heard it too—she saw his face turn confusedly toward the kitchen, some funny noise, oh well. He stubbed out his cigarette and returned to his table.

  In a seemingly leisurely fashion the five staff members cleared the plates.

  A few minutes of repose.

  The cheese course now: a bit of Roquefort, a bit of pimentoed chevre. Kazuki was whipping the cream.

  Then another wait. How important the space between events, Marvin said.

  Kazuki drew the trays of trifle out of the refrigerator. He threw the whipped cream onto the trays as if he were tossing a bucket of suds onto the sidewalk. Despite this offhandedness the cream settled in gentle peaks on one pan and then on the other until each looked like a Hokusai scene. He cut the dessert into squares. Fogg’s wife, her shift over, slipped into the kitchen. Inez and Pinky and Fogg served trifle and Marvin went around with his coffeepot. “Yes, caffeinated,” he said without apology. And wasn’t it amazing, it was always amazing, people drank the caffeinated coffee; and Pinky was sure that within an hour they’d all be asleep like the baby behind the bar, now blissfully snoozing on his mother’s shoulder.

  And she too—she who had needed three hundred milligrams of Trazodone when she was living at home—she too slept eight hours every night, unmedicated.

  But tonight she was suddenly awake.

  Plonk. Plonk. Rubber against brick; she knew that sound.

  She went to her one window and surveyed, like a princess, the porched three-decker houses, and the gabled Victorians, and the few elms remaining: elms far apart enough not to have caught or transmitted the Dutch Disease. Necessary space, Marvin said. Moonlight turned the snow in their back yard into satin, like a wedding gown, like the two wedding gowns they wore the day they got married, she Pinky then four, the flower girl. . . And there, standing in the middle of that oblong of glistening white, his familiar face raised to hers, about to throw the tennis ball again, was the man in the picture.

  Plonk.

  Their eyes met.

  Let me in? he mouthed.

  So she did.

  “They changed the lock!” he said, throwing his coat deftly at the hook. It landed, it swung... “Who are you?”

  A staff member, she said; his replacement, she supposed; of course he could have his old job back, she quickly added.

  “Good Lord, no. I’m doing fine in Philadelphia. The lens business. That food we served gave me reflux. I was always trying new pills.”

  “Oh.”

  “I drove up on a whim; but I got here too late to wake up my sister.”

  “Oh.”

  “So I thought I’d crash at The Local. But the lock . . .” He rubbed his thick brows. “Could we have some coffee?”

  Pinky warmed the pot and poured coffee into mugs. He got brandy from the bar and laced each mug. She took the last piece of trifle from the refrigerator and cut it in half and put it on two plates on the trestle table. He laid out two forks. They sat opposite each other. His hair had receded further.

  “They changed the lock for my sake,” Pinky said. “To make me feel secure.”

  “Oh. Hey, this goo’s better than it used to be. Not quite loved, a foundling . . . Isn’t that how he says it?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “How does she seem?”

  Pinky considered. “Melancholy some of the time. Resigned the rest of the time. Happy on Thursdays.” She sipped, took courage. “I saw you in a photograph—I thought you were her . . . paramour.”

  “Hell, no, just the kid brother.”

  “And her chin—it wasn’t you who cut it up?”

  “Inez did that herself—no, don’t look like that, it was an accident with a grapefruit knife.”

  “I figured you’d been exiled.”

  “Dramatic, aren’t you. I walked out to live my own life. Our mother and father are dead. But Marvin and Inez kept acting like parents . . . Any more trifle?”

  “No. How did Marvin and Inez act like parents? My mothers, they mostly march for causes and otherwise sit in armchairs . . .”

  “They wanted me to tell them everything I did and thought. Hey. How many mothers have you got?”

  “. . . in armchairs, talking.” Hardworking women, growing old. How jolly the red of this bathrobe. Her eyes stung.

  There was a long silence; a peaceful lag.

  “Two,” Pinky heard someone say. “I have two mothers.” Was that voice hers? “I had a father too, but none of us met him. He was necessary but incidental. Would you like to borrow my sleeping bag?”

  “I’ll spread it out behind the bar,” he said.

  It was a month later. Kazuki had made the trifle this week. Pinky had made the okroshka. As always the reservation list was full. The meal was venison braised with raspberries. Fogg’s brother had shot the deer.

  Patrons were entering. One couple arrived on a motorcycle. A cab brought four others. The pair Pinky was watching for was coming by car. They were a little late. That would be Mary’s doing—fussing about locks, about lights, while Paula stood at the door of the house twirling her keys and whistling. But they were not very late. Pinky was opening a bottle of champagne when she saw them come in. Marvin ushered them to the crescent table. Inez poured mineral water and bestowed her generous smile. In the kitchen archway, Kazuki bowed. Fogg’s hand rested briefly on Pinky’s shoulder. “Easy does it,” he said.

  Carrying two golden glasses, Pinky walked forward to greet her parents.

  Vegetarian Chili

  To the Editor of Cuisine:

  Donna’s Ladle is charmed to be asked to contribute a recipe to your forthcoming issue “Crowd Pleasing.” We are not exactly a restaurant; but we can certainly use your guest chef’s fee of $250 to buy shopping carts and bras for our own guests and a sparker to light the burners on the stove. Josie’s eyebrows are only now growing back.

  To prepare vegetarian chili I soak beans the night before. The next morning, after opening the church basement door, yelling at the mice, turning on the stove, and welcoming the patrons who have huddled all night on the portico, I start cooking the beans. Then I follow these directions:

  Sort donated vegetables. Reject those too moldy to be identified. Chop. Do not let Maryanne near knives.

  Heat oil in pans; sauté veggies. Persuade Akisha’s children not to drown dolls in caldrons. Sit with Bridget, crying over the baby who died. Mix eggs, cornmeal and milk in likely ratio and set in oven. Do something about Gretel’s raw feet. Combine veggies, beans, tomato juice, chili powder. Skimpy? Extend with yesterday’s meatloaf; it’s mostly vegetables, to tell the truth.

  Chili and cornbread will serve seventy-five generously, fifty very generously. Usually serves 100, who are more or less pleased.

  Sincerely,

  Donna Crowninshield, Chef

  Rules

  One autumn Donna’s Ladle—a soup kitchen for women operating out of the basement of Godolphin Unitarian Church—became all at once everybody’s favorite cause. “There are fashions in charity just as in bedslippers,” sniffed Josie, who had been working as a volunteer since the Ladle’s beginning six years earlier. “Don’t count on this popularity to last, Donna.”

  Donna never counted on anything to last. But she was grateful for the new help. A group from a local synagogue undertook to deliver cooked delicacies. The members of the Godolphin Helping Hands raked each other’s closets for clothing contributions. Maeve, a nearby Catholic Women’s College, posted the Ladle’s flier on its bulletin board. As a result, a few eager students appeared almost every day. Some needed firsthand material
for term papers on poverty. The others showed up out of simple good-heartedness.

  “Mother Theresas in designer jeans,” said Josie privately to Donna. But to the Maeve students Josie was a model of patience, repairing the Cuisinart whenever they broke it, and demonstrating a restrained kindness toward the guests that the girls meant to emulate, really they did. They just couldn’t help overreacting to the tragic tales they heard. They were frequently in tears. Their eyes, even when red with weeping, were large and lovely.

  “Those kids are prettier at that age than I ever thought of being,” Donna remarked at a staff meeting. “Is it their faith?”

  Beth said, “It’s their smiles. All those buckteeth bursting out at you.” And she smiled her own small sweet crescent. “Orthodontia can be a cruel mistake.”

  Pam went further, grinning like a schoolboy. “Orthodontia is child abuse.”

  Her colleagues laughed at this distortion. They were not caseworkers, not sociologists, not child advocates—they were just the staff of the Ladle, three overworked young women—but they had seen children who had been abused. They had broken bread with the abusers. They had witnessed—and put a stop to—beatings by enraged mothers. “You can’t hit anybody here,” they each knew how to say in a voice both authoritative and uncensuring. A few weeks ago, Pam, turning white with fury hours after the event, reported to the others that she had interrupted Concepta peppering her grandson, a niño of eighteen months.