“Maybe I should just see if Paula is still in her office,” the fat cook was saying.
“Don’t bother,” Virginia said. “I’ve already talked to her. Dumb as a box of rocks. Next she will be hearing from my lawyer.”
Virginia didn’t have a lawyer. But that didn’t stop her from making that very threat more times than she could count in a single week. What was wrong with the world these days, that you had to threaten someone with a lawsuit every time you turned around? Why was it the only way to make people listen? Had the whole world gotten so obsessed with money?
“Oh,” the fat cook said. She licked her lips and took a small step backward, her hands fluttering to the front of her apron. “I’m very sorry we’ve disturbed you.”
“Yes,” Virginia said. “Disturbed. You did. And if you don’t keep the noise down, I’ll be calling the police.”
Chuy barked again. A petite girl in the back of the room wrote something down in her notebook.
“And I recognize you,” Virginia said, lifting her cane to point at the girl. “You’re that Rebecca Aaronson person, the one from the newspaper.”
The girl sat up straighter, her reporter’s face so icy Virginia could practically feel it coming off of her.
“You’re a reporter?” the fat cook asked. “I . . . I . . . Nobody told me about . . .” She seemed incredibly flustered by the news, her hands now leaving the front of her apron and running themselves through her hair instead.
“Aaronson?” Aunt Cathy said. “You don’t even celebrate Christmas.”
“Catherine Marie!” Joan scolded.
“What? Aaronson? Isn’t that Jewish?”
“That’s just not something you say, Aunt Cathy,” the fat cook said. “Reporter? You’re sure?”
“We actually celebrate both in my family,” Rebecca Aaronson said coolly from her stool. “And, yes, I’m a reporter. For the Tribune. But I’m here to learn to cook. See?” She turned her notebook around, and everyone leaned in to study it.
Everyone except Virginia, of course. She was done talking. Done fighting. Done just trying to get some peace and quiet. Done begging for privacy. She was so very tired. It felt like she’d been trying forever.
Well, you have, Ginny, she heard Ernest say. You’ve been fighting for eleven years. Might as well be forever. Maybe it’s time to wave the white flag. Stop fighting. Just get along. Ernest never knew what he was talking about.
The fat cook had turned to her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t really know them yet. Well, those two are my aunt and my mom. But the others . . . You don’t think she’s going to write an article about the class, do you?”
Virginia knew what the right thing was to say and do. She knew she was supposed to tilt her head to one side, offer a soft smile, and maybe even rub the fat cook’s arm as she told her not to worry about a thing, that her class would be wonderful, these ladies would turn out to be great friends, and any article written would say nothing but positive things.
Instead, she gathered herself into a hard little bundle—her favorite posture—and frowned.
“Keep the noise down or I will call the police!” she said, then, seeing the horror wash over the fat cook’s face, felt satisfied. She nodded once, then turned and plunged out into the cold, the wind whipping her bare arms into goose bumps instantly.
Chuy barked three times as she placed him on the sidewalk, then coughed, hiked his leg, and peed on the door.
CHAPTER TEN
Now that Gary had enlisted a bass player, “Let It Be” was somewhat recognizable.
Although Bren still had a hard time thinking of John as a bass player. She knew what he really was—an accountant with a beer belly and a great secret recipe for grilled burgers that he refused to share with anybody, not even his best friend of twenty-some-odd years.
But apparently once one middle-aged man dug out the electronic toys, his friends couldn’t help dusting theirs off, too. Because, shockingly, John had a bass guitar, brittle and scratched, from college, that he was just dying to practice his—also brittle and scratched—skills on.
Yet he had somehow managed to improve the sound coming from downstairs, which Bren followed, her heart too heavy from the weird thing that happened at her first class to even begin to concentrate on the appetizers she was practicing for the next class.
After that old woman had left, Bren had a hell of a time getting back on track. Even though the ladies had seemed open to it, once they’d ironed out that Aunt Cathy was a lot of offensive things but anti-Semite was not one of them, and that they could, indeed, park in front of the store, and that dog hair hadn’t really drifted into anyone’s berries, which didn’t matter because—and her mother had mountains of evidence on this that seemed to span back to nearly the turn of the damn century—nobody was actually allergic to dog hair anyway.
“What was that all about?” Tammy Lynn had asked when Bren passed her station on the way back to the riser.
“I honestly have no idea.” Bren had noticed she was shaking. Her legs felt weak, like she really just needed to go home.
“Well, it was incredibly rude, whatever it was,” Tammy Lynn said. “But don’t you worry. We’ll get right back on track. Forget about her.”
“Right. Yes. Pie.”
But Bren couldn’t help doubting when she got to the risers. Teresa and Lulu were back to squabbling, Tammy Lynn was looking at her expectantly through long fake lashes, and what on earth was that Aaronson woman writing in that notebook?
Her brain had filtered through every moment in her life that she’d ever felt unloved and unwanted. Ridiculous. Why couldn’t her brain work that quickly when she was trying to remember how to get downtown or recall the name of her prescription? She had been back in those moments with lightning speed, knock-kneed and sweating as she realized she was the only one in fourth grade still wearing overalls. Nauseated while standing in front of her American Literature class, about to present a report that was so unlike everyone else’s it might as well have been written in a foreign language. Sobbing as Gary, newlywed and fiery, sped off in an angry huff, with promises to never return. Flushing as Kelsey and Kevin giggled over something out-of-touch and stupid she’d said . . . and then worse, when they stopped laughing at her indiscretions because she was just that old now, so old that laughing at her would be mean.
She’d considered backing out—just leaving Paula in the lurch. That wasn’t usually her style, but so much of her life had been not her style these days, it was impossible to tell what her style was anymore.
“Well, who cares what that old bag of bones thinks?” Aunt Cathy had called from the back of the room.
“Catherine!” Joan chided.
“What? I didn’t cuss. And I want pie. Brenny? Are we here to learn or aren’t we?”
In a way, this was one of the reasons Bren would be nothing but glad to have Aunt Cathy in the class, warts, bad manners, and all, because it was that last sentence that had sparked her into movement. Her hands went on autopilot; her mouth made words that her own ears didn’t hear. And somehow, when the class ended and the ladies filed out, each was holding a glistening pie. The kitchen smelled like heaven—Christmassy heaven—and Bren had even leaned against the hood of her car for a few moments and enjoyed the glow of the lights from within, the warmth of the pine garland that lined the front window, the sweet spice in the air, the buttery scent of warm pastry. She watched as Paula moved slowly around the empty kitchen, wiping down counters and double-checking stove dials, inspecting the timer on the dishwasher. Her flannel wrapped her up like a blanket, and Bren had cinched her scarf higher up on her neck as a chill swept down the back of her shirt.
This was a magical time of year. Beautiful, to quote a certain daughter of hers. She would like to say she hadn’t given another thought to the older woman who clearly didn’t appreciate Christmassy heaven, but that
would have been a lie. She’d driven away, peering up toward the dimly lit apartment windows above the Kitchen Classroom, and wondered what the heck she was going to do if the woman showed up again.
But that was a problem for tomorrow. In the meantime, she had a certain musician to seduce. Or at least to try to entice into recalling that she still lived there with him.
“Let It Be” got a lot more difficult to decipher the closer she got to the basement. Apparently, John’s sweet musical stylings were not so much styling as they were plodding, and he seemed to be at least two beats behind everyone else. But from the expression on Gary’s face, he knew no difference. He looked so proud, so happy. Bren almost felt guilty about the song breaking up completely when she slipped into the room.
“Hey, there, Bren,” Gil said, attempting to twirl a drumstick around his fingers. It flung sideways and clattered to the floor. Gil, God love him, didn’t even have the sense to look embarrassed by the mistake. He simply palmed a new drumstick and pounded out what Bren suspected was supposed to be a riff, but succeeded only in sounding like someone falling down a staircase.
“Bren,” John said, dipping his head down shyly. John had always been bashful around her. She could never figure out why—they’d raised their kids together, played poker together, eaten watermelon on July fourth together, gotten drunk during Gary’s ridiculous moonshine phase together. He was brother close in Bren’s book. No shyness necessary.
“Don’t stop on my account,” Bren said, her voice dripping with lightness and enthusiasm. “I was enjoying it!”
All three men grinned like they’d just won a prize. “You were?” Gary asked.
Bren nodded. “Just like the fab four themselves. You need a singer!”
On the inside, she cringed at the idea of a singer joining the band, but kept her smile plastered on, chalking it up to one of those white lies that are told in all marriages, just like the time Gary swore she was a knockout during her god-awful Hawaiian dress phase.
Gary’s face lit up. “We were just talking about that, actually. John’s got a friend who sings. And we were thinking of putting together some Christmas rock songs and trying to get some gigs.”
Bren’s stomach shrank. “Gigs?”
“Sure, you know, office parties, bars, that kind of thing.” He twanged a couple of guitar strings, and Gil thumped the bass drum in agreement.
“Are you sure you’re ready for that kind of thing?” Bren asked. “I mean, you sound great, but don’t bands usually have to practice for a long time before . . . ?” She trailed off, not liking how this was sounding. Doubtful, unsupportive, embarrassed. She was all of those things, but she didn’t want them to know that. She’d been operating under the premise that if she supported Gary’s various hobbies and interests, eventually he would land on one that was less obnoxious. And he would remember her on his deathbed as a golden angel for having always been by his side. Although she supposed it was slightly morbid to do things just so someone would say nice things about you just before they blinked out of existence. But still. Motivation was motivation.
Instead of answering her question, Gary furiously scrubbed at his guitar strings, the other fellows joining in with their instruments, making Bren’s eardrums vibrate, her chest buzz. After a few moments, she recognized what might have been a version of “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree,” if perhaps played by musicians not actually in the same room with one another. Or state. Or country.
But since she recognized it, she smiled and nodded and even bounced her knees a little in what might have been a dance. She was enjoying this, her face said. This was rousing entertainment! This was fun! A garage—er, basement—band was the best idea ever! She even poked her two pointer fingers in the air, getting some hip action in as she bopped the air with them.
The band didn’t so much finish the song as peter out into a trickle of clangs and screeches and bangs, but the guys looked around at one another triumphantly.
“Take five!” Gary crowed, and they all disentangled themselves from their instruments. “Whatcha got to eat, Brenny?”
Bren jumped, flustered. “Well, I was working on some appetizers,” she said. “But those are for my class.”
“Perfect!”
The men rushed up the stairs, Bren hurrying after them, barking instructions. “Now, the crab cups are still warm, and the tomatoes haven’t been stuffed just yet. There’s a pistachio cream in the refrigerator—let me just finish those up before you—now, Gary, don’t get into it just yet.”
But she was too late. By the time she pushed her way into the kitchen, Gary already had three spoons and had uncovered the bowl of pistachio cream that she’d spent hours perfecting—crumbling bacon, adding just the right amount of scallions to give the cream a good green color to contrast with the red tomatoes—and John was tossing a handful of roasted pecans into his mouth. A handful. The nuts whose coating recipe she’d labored over all morning. The nuts that made the kitchen smell like the inside of love. The nuts that she’d carefully poured into her grandmother’s wedding bowl. Tossed in like a pack of airplane peanuts. One missed his mouth and stuck to his lapel. Bren sighed.
“I see you’ve found everything,” she said. “The cream is supposed to go into the tomatoes.”
“I can do ya one better, Brenny,” Gil said, and tipped the plate of carefully cored tomatoes—the ones she’d made hamburger out of her fingers to cut just right—into the bowl of pistachio. “Voilà! Cooking made easy.”
“Rosa’s got herself a handyman in the kitchen, eh?” Gary joked, elbowing Gil. The two of them dipped their spoons into the bowl and came back out with tomatoes and cream piled high.
“Real good stuff here,” Gil said. He reached over to one of the three cooling racks that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in Bren’s small kitchen now, picked up a crab cup, tossed the whole thing in his mouth, and nodded approvingly while he chewed. “Real good,” he repeated, sounding like he was talking through a mouthful of cotton.
“Well, I guess I’m glad it was at least edible,” Bren said, hoping she’d remember the recipes so she could make another batch before her next class.
“More than,” John said before quickly tipping his head back and stuffing his mouth full of nuts again.
“Oh, here, John,” Bren said, resigned. She stepped forward, plucked the pecan from his shirt, and held it up to his mouth. He opened like a baby bird and she popped it inside, then patted his shoulder a few times as his face turned a shade of deep red that brought to mind Santa Claus.
The pathetic bunch. Who couldn’t love them?
“Go ahead, take it downstairs,” she said. “Enjoy, enjoy.”
“You’re the best, Brenny,” Gil said, pocketing two more crab cups on his way toward the basement. “You should hang on to that one, Gare.”
“Yeah, yeah, she’s a real peach,” Gary said, and Bren couldn’t help feeling a little stung at the lackluster way he said it, as if he was only going on autopilot, or as if he maybe didn’t mean it at all. Hardly the demeanor of deathbed adoration.
“And don’t you forget it,” she said, turning on Charming Bren, even poking John in the gut playfully as he followed Gil. “Practically an angel. Now you get down there and learn that Beatles Christmas song. What was it called?”
“Oh, the one with Yoko whatserface in it,” Gil said, his voice getting muffled by his and John’s footsteps.
“That’s the one,” she said. She grabbed Gary’s arm as he passed her. “Wait a minute.”
He turned back, looking irritated, the way Kevin used to look when she’d make him come inside for a bath when all of his friends were still outside playing. “What is it?”
“Nothing, I was just . . . I was thinking. Maybe we should go out on a date or something.”
Another impatient glance toward the basement door. The footsteps had faded, and now there
was only the rumble of deep voices coming up from the basement. A soft clang of a cymbal getting nudged. The sound of the basement fridge opening, a beer hissing to life.
“A date? What for?”
Bren put her hands on her hips. “What do you mean, what for? For us. For . . . for closeness.”
A quick bass warm-up thrummed from the basement. “But aren’t we going out on Christmas? To Lucky’s Café? That’s a date.”
“That’s not a date. And it’s not a café. It’s a cafeteria. It’s a surrender. And it’s also a month away.”
Gary gestured toward the basement door. “I’ve got the band now, and we have a lot of work to do. You said so yourself.”
“Oh, do you ever,” Bren said, but managed to keep it under her breath enough that he was too busy inching toward the door to notice. “Gare, come on. I miss you.”
“How can you miss me? I’m right here every day. With the kids gone, we see more of each other than we ever did before.” His eyes widened. “Oh. That’s what this is, isn’t it?” Bren breathed a sigh of relief. “You’re just missing the kids. You should give them a call. Or Kelsey, anyway. You always feel better after you’ve talked to her. It’s okay. I won’t mind the long-distance charges.” He kissed her on the forehead.
She couldn’t believe her ears. Over their decades together, she’d heard Gary sic the kids on her more times than she could count. Where’s your mother? Go find Mom. I don’t know, you should talk to Mom about that. Ask your mother. All these years she’d assumed he was getting them out of his hair.
But maybe he was getting her out of his hair instead. Occupying her with the children.
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