Appetite

by Sheila Grinell

  “I’m here now, at your service.”

  “Jenn’s home.”

  “Great. We can make friends.” “That’s presumptuous.”

  “No it’s not. I’m a nice guy. Where can I find an extension?”

  “I’ll bring one.”

  She rummaged in the junk bin in the pantry, collecting her thoughts. Brian liked to provoke her, push her closer to lines she didn’t want to cross. In sex, it made for tension that excited her. But at dinner with Jenn? Finding a coil of brown, plasticized cord, she told herself the ship had launched. She had to trust Jenn to make the best of the situation. She returned to the dining room, extension in her outstretched hand, tension mounting in her veins. What would Jenn think of her, supposedly better than Paul, if she knew?

  Brian said, “I’ll have this open in a minute. Show me what you want to do.”

  She fetched her computer from the kitchen counter and showed him the list of files to merge. “I can’t get them all in the same piece.”

  “No problem. You can check the product when I’m done.”

  Leaving him to fiddle with the computers, she focused on the meal. There was plenty of salmon; she’d double the rice and open a jar of olives and a container of hummus to stretch the veggies. She’d serve in forty-five minutes.

  They ate in the dining room. Brian had finished the editing job shortly before dinner, and Maggie had forwarded the report to her study group, barely glancing at it, straining to hear the conversation between Brian and Jenn as they set the dining room table. Over dinner, Brian, bless him, didn’t ask questions and willingly answered Jenn’s. He talked about the pleasure of working with his hands. The conversation segued to making music with one’s hands, and then to Brian’s opinions about music. Safe enough. Jenn talked about working as a legal clerk and the clients’ shenanigans. She appeared to enjoy herself, bless her.

  They moved to the living room for coffee. As Maggie went to get the lemon pound cake she kept in the freezer for surprise visitors, a moan reverberated through the house. When she returned, Jenn was showing Brian the CD she had brought home from India, pointing out the harmonium in the cover photo as the music jangled.

  Brian said, “I wouldn’t want to hear that at my wedding.”

  Jenn raised her eyebrows. “Are you getting married?”

  Brian laughed. “You are. Your mom told me.”

  Jenn’s tone lowered. “What did Mom say?”

  “Something about a Hindu shindig.”

  “Not exactly. My fiancé and I are writing our own ceremony.” Jenn looked quizzically at her mother.

  “That’s cool. Do you need a band? I know a good one.”

  Not safe. “Isn’t it time for you to go, Brian?” Maggie stod, retrieved his laptop, and walked to the front door. She could hear him behind her saying “nice-to-meet-you” things and Jenn mumbling in reply. Why on earth had she let him into the house with Jenn home? Shame flooded through her.

  He caught up in a moment. “You’re off base, Maggie.”

  “You made friends.”

  “I was hoping to stay a while, maybe have some fun.”

  “Go home before you get me in trouble.” She pushed the laptop into his hands and shoved him back out the doorway. “Thanks for the help.” She shut the door; she’d deal with him later.

  Jenn stood at the sink, scraping plates into the disposal. Maggie gathered the glassware and brought it to her.

  “That was pretty abrupt, Mom.”

  “Brian likes to tease. I wanted to respect your privacy.”

  “What have you been telling your friends?”

  “Hardly anything. That you’re thinking of marrying an Indian.”

  “I’m not thinking of marrying an Indian. I’m marrying Arun next month! We’ve been planning the wedding for weeks!” Jenn placed the last plate into the dishwasher. “I thought I had your blessing.”

  “You always have my blessing.” This was not the opening Maggie had hoped for, but she felt compelled to proceed. “You seem to have settled into life here so well. Do you really want to give it up?”

  “A nothing job clerking for a lawyer? That’s not a life. Life is commitment to the best in humanity. Life is sharing with a partner who you admire and trust.”

  “Are you sure you’ve found that partner?”

  “I have no doubts.”

  In for an inch, in for a mile. “I have to tell you that I do. Arun’s values are so strange. They come from a different culture, and I don’t think you appreciate how hard it would be to live with him year after year in the world he understands but you don’t. You could save yourself all that pain.”

  “You don’t get it. I’m not you. And Arun is his own man. He’s not a stereotype. He’s not like Dad. How can you judge him, you hardly know him?” Jenn wiped her hands on the dish towel. “Excuse me. I have a telephone date. It’s morning in Bangalore.” She turned on her heel.

  Cheeks burning, Maggie finished loading the dishwasher. She’d blown it. Months of careful conversation down the drain. The dishwasher drain glinted at her, mocking. She closed the machine.

  Jenn was right. She didn’t really know Arun, hadn’t gotten close to him when he had visited in the fall. When he arrived next week, she’d better embrace him. Open her mind, if not her heart. The point was to regain Jenn’s confidence.

  Should she apologize? Wait for the phone call to end and catch Jenn in the hall? Apologize for what . . . being clumsy? Maggie mounted the stairs slowly, hoping to hear Jenn’s step behind her, hoping for a chance to say a loving good-night.

  At eleven she heard the front door open, then noise in the hallway. Climbing out of bed, she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and went looking for Paul. The lights were off downstairs, but in the faint LED glow from the entertainment console, she saw him sitting in the living room, drink in hand. She sat opposite him.

  “Why are you in the dark?”

  “Long day. The last round of figures came in. Alicia didn’t come through.”

  “Surely you can help her?”

  Paul took a sip. “I’ll fix it.” He put down the drink. “Why are you in the dark?”

  “It’s Jenn. I challenged her about Arun and now she’s pissed.”

  “Great.” He raised both hands and rubbed his eyes. “What do you want from me?”

  “Be careful. Don’t make it worse. He arrives next week. I have a plan.”

  “So far you’re striking out.”

  “Paul, support me in this.”

  “Okay, okay.” He rose. “We’ll talk tomorrow. I’m going to bed.”

  She sat in the dark while he climbed the stairs to the bedroom. He’d be asleep in a matter of minutes. Unlike hers, his conscience didn’t seem to demand nighttime attention. She replayed the evening, cringing at Jenn’s rebuke, seeing Brian’s pissed-off face as she pushed him out the door. Then she realized it could have been worse; Brian could have trumpeted their affair. The realization calmed her. She stood and walked to the stairs. Now to conjure a plan.

  NINETEEN

  Paul sat at the bar nursing a bourbon. He hadn’t wanted a drink but felt conspicuous without one because, dammit, Hope was making him wait. Again. Although dinner had been her idea. She had picked this restaurant, far from the hospital as he preferred, but raucous, voices and clatter reflecting from the tin ceiling, the way she liked it. Sometimes he wished Hope weren’t so obstinate.

  The bartender—is there such a word as bartenderess?—reached for something on the top shelf, and Paul saw her face in the mirror behind the chorus of bottles. She didn’t look old enough to serve booze. Some of her customers, who were leaning into each other to shout over the noise, skinny and casual in black, didn’t look old enough to drink. Paul felt the weight of his gut canted over the barstool. He could use a new pair of jeans.

  A hand pressed his shoulder. Hope stood behind him, towering over him in those fuck-me heels. She chirped, “Shall we eat? I’m hungry,” and turned to lead him away from
the bar. He followed, watching her calves bunch up and relax in sequence, her tight ass swivel inside the skirt that looked black and soft in the mood lighting.

  They settled down at a four-top, and Hope studied the menu. She waved the waiter over to ask about the specials. Paul watched her face as she listened, asking questions like a lawyer before making her choice. As usual, he was impressed by the amount of food she ordered. He knew he should avoid cholesterol, but he matched her order, rich dish for rich dish, to show her he could keep up with anyone half his age. He selected an expensive wine; he wanted Hope in an expansive frame of mind.

  “I’m glad you called,” he said, twirling the water in his glass after the black-clad waiter departed. She buttered a chunk of bread, didn’t look at him. “I wanted to tell you that we’ve dodged a bullet.”

  She raised eyebrows, munching the bread.

  “Alicia finally finished the series. She’s writing it up, and the figures look good. The data are giving us a green light.” He expected her to share his pleasure. She nodded, continued eating.

  “You know how important this is.”

  “Yes. Can we not talk about the lab?”

  He was surprised. She usually demanded to hear lab news. “Okay. Then let’s talk about Jenn.”

  “That’s a switch.”

  He reached for her left hand, uncurled on the tablecloth. “Hey. Always full of surprises.” When he cupped her fingers, they didn’t respond. “Something wrong?”

  She withdrew her hand. “I’m hungry. So what’s the deal?”

  “Her boyfriend’s coming back from India, and she says she’s really going to marry him next month. I can’t get her to see what a liability he is.”

  “Maybe he makes her happy.”

  The waiter returned to pour the wine.

  “Don’t you always say happiness is not enough?”

  “Not enough for me. But I’m odd.” She sniffed her wine, tasted it slowly. “This is good.”

  “Glad you like it.” He pictured Jenn’s face framed by a sari, a bindi between her brows. If she married the guru, her sweetness and smarts would be wasted, submerged in chores and cares. He wanted to see her married to a stand-up guy with prospects, making the trinkets she loved to make, producing adorable kids whom he could spoil. A boy he could teach to hit.

  The runner brought salad, and Hope dug in.

  “I’m serious, Hope. He’s older and hasn’t held a steady job since college. And he fancies himself a guru.” He paused. “Maybe you could talk to her.”

  Hope’s eyes opened wide. “I don’t know her. And I don’t think she likes me.”

  “You two should give each other a chance. You could be friends.”

  With a nub of bread, Hope loaded lettuce and blue cheese and nuts on her fork. “Uh-uh. She’s not my type. I like jocks.” She swallowed. “The one time we met at your New Year’s party we had nothing to say to each other. You’re dreaming.”

  He winced. She had been doing this lately, stabbing him verbally, almost offhandedly. She used to hang on his words and laugh loudly at his jokes. He pressed onward. “Maybe Jenn’s a little jealous.”

  “Of what? I have nothing to do with her.” Hope pushed the few remaining lettuce leaves onto her fork.

  The waiter came to clear the salad plates and set steak knives; the runner brought their entrées. Paul carved a chunk from his steak and chewed slowly, temporizing. Hope took a dainty slice of hers and then another, holding the fork European style. Perfect etiquette from boarding school. Mouth from the gutter.

  They ate without speaking. The sound of indistinct voices and silverware on china filled the space between them. Hope ate with eyes lowered. He watched her strong, almost masculine jaw. Everything about her was so familiar, yet she seemed remote. And obtuse, Lord knows why. Last week—wasn’t it last week?—after their lovemaking, she had lingered in bed, chatting about their work, questioning his statements and reflecting them back in her cool, precise way. She used to be so easy to talk to, far easier than Maggie. Or Irene.

  The busboy came to clear their plates. He decided to try again. “I’d like you to talk to Jenn. I suspect she’s angry at me.”

  Hope didn’t look at him.

  “Because of us.” He hadn’t planned to point the finger, but she needed prodding.

  “If she’s angry, why should I get involved?” Hope laid down her utensils. “Excuse me a sec.” She took her phone out of her purse to send a text. Replacing the phone, she folded her hands in her lap.

  “Is it my turn?” she asked.

  Puzzled, he lowered his fork. “It’s always your turn.” She blushed. He had never seen her blush before. Out of character but oddly appealing.

  “I’m leaving.”

  “We haven’t had dessert.”

  “I mean I’m leaving the lab. I put in my six months for the credits. I only have one exam left, which I can do online.”

  “But you have a job . . .” and, he thought, you have me. This is crazy.

  “I’m going to work for another lab starting in May. Doing epigenetics research. Thanks for everything you taught me. I’ll put it to good use.” She leaned back from the table.

  His chest tightened. “I don’t get it.”

  She looked into his eyes, voice straining. “I mean it, Paul. Thanks for everything. I learned a lot from you, and not just biology. I am grateful.”

  “What are you talking about? You can’t just leave. We’re a team.” He glared at her.

  “No we’re not. You’re a married man.”

  “You never mentioned my marriage before.” Blood pulsed in his ears; his jaw clenched of its own accord. “Don’t talk nonsense.”

  The waiter appeared with the dessert menu. Hope brushed it aside with a wave of the wrist. He clutched it with both hands, didn’t look at it.

  “You made a commitment to me. To the hospital. To your buddy Stamford.”

  “Robert knows about it. He helped me get the job. Please don’t be difficult.”

  Hope pushed her chair away, scraping it on the hardwood floor, and stood. As she turned away, she said something he didn’t make out. He wanted to grab her snake of an arm and twist hard, force her back to the table, make her explain. He couldn’t understand why she wanted to leave. Stamford must be behind it. He would find out, ASAP.

  He waited in Stamford’s office, supine on the leather couch. Aimlessly he scanned the framed photos, the diplomas hung on the mauve wall where everyone could see them. He had walked past the secretary without a word, and the skinny little Brit hadn’t lifted a finger. Must have been in the know. At first he had paced, tasting bile. As the minutes passed, he calmed. His object, after all, was not to knock Stamford out cold but to get Hope back. He wanted her to finish her experiments, to say the least.

  Stamford opened the office door with a smile. He removed his tweed cap, hanging it in the closet. Silly, pretentious cap—no need to protect your balding head from the April sun. Paul swung his legs to the floor, and Stamford sat in the leather chair opposite him.

  “I suppose you wish to discuss staffing.” Stamford crossed his legs.

  “I want to keep my current staff.”

  “If you mean Ms. Caldwell, she’s no longer on staff. I can recommend another candidate.”

  His arms and legs grew tense. He forced himself to stay seated. “Cut the crap, Robert. Hope said you found her a job. What are you up to?”

  Stamford brushed some lint from his slacks, taking his time. “It’s a very good situation, and it’s advantageous to the hospital as well as to Ms. Caldwell.”

  “That’s absurd. Hope needs to finish her work with me. She needs my credibility with the cancer community.” Anger edged out his cool.

  “Isn’t it evident that she doesn’t? She qualified for a place in Martin Miller’s lab. He’s doing excellent work in epigenetics.”

  “Ridiculous. Hope knows nothing about epigenetics. My work is more important.”

  “I beg to differ. Ep
igenetics research may be the wave of the future. If we can learn how the embryo’s genome interacts with its environment, we’ll be closer to understanding how nature produces a unique individual.”

  Paul rose and stepped to the window, looking without seeing. “How did you do it?” He turned to face Stamford.

  “The tumor microenvironment assay Ms. Caldwell has been using will work in other contexts. Martin’s lab is a good fit.”

  He wanted to smash his fist in Robert’s face. He didn’t dare move. “You know that’s my technique. You know I’ve spent the last five years perfecting it. You know it’s my ticket out of here.”

  Stamford uncrossed his legs, placing his hands on the arms of his chair. “Well, you’ve published several articles, so the information is in circulation. Anyone can use it for his or her own purposes. Isn’t that how science progresses?” His eyebrows arched as he smiled.

  Paul fought to keep his voice down. “I will find a way to stop you from stealing my stuff. You condescending shit.”

  Stamford eased himself up from his chair and walked around behind his desk, as if to use it as a barricade. “Paul, no one is stealing. Hope came to see me saying she wanted to leave, and I knew Martin was staffing up. It’s in the hospital’s interest to cooperate with another important scientist.” He sat and opened a file drawer, keeping his eyes on Paul.

  “This isn’t the end of it.”

  Paul strode through the door, startling the skinny little Brit, and down the hushed hallway and the jangling corridor to his lab. Alone in his office, he punched Martin Miller’s number into the phone. As the connection processed, he calculated. He didn’t particularly like Miller, but they had always respected each other’s work. That would probably be enough. Miller’s assistant put him through.

  “Let me get right to business,” Paul said after they exchanged greetings. “You’re interested in my microenvironment analysis. All you have to do is ask, and I’ll drill your team in my techniques.”

  There was a pause. Miller was silent.

  “I want Hope Caldwell to finish running my experiments. You don’t have to hire her to use my stuff.”