by Ruth Reichl
“Don’t go anywhere.” He had turned so I could see the lovely line of his back as he wrapped a towel around his waist and his neat, tight butt. “I’ll be back.”
While he was gone, I luxuriated in the warm water, my body still thrumming with happiness. The sun was up now, and tiny birds were hopping in and out of the fountain, fighting for position, occasionally looking in at me.
Mitch returned with a copper skillet heaped with pancakes. “I am”—he cut off a wedge, dipped it into a dark pool of maple syrup, and leaned in to feed it to me—“the world’s greatest pancake maker.”
“My dad thinks he’s the pancake king,” I said.
“Nope,” corrected Mitch. The thin little cake was feather-light, crisp on the edges, delicate beneath its glossy maple coat. He stuffed half a pancake into his own mouth. “Great, aren’t they?” He wolfed down another. “Falling in love always makes me hungry.” Mitch was sitting on the floor, working his way through the pancakes as I sat in the tub, inhaling the scent of oranges, clove, butter, and maple syrup.
“Do you fall in love a lot?”
“Oh, yeah, all the time.” His voice was light, but when he spoke again, it had lost that quality. “Actually, just twice. The first was a high school romance that lasted halfway through college. God, we were into each other! I really thought I couldn’t live without Heidi. When she found someone else, I was devastated, and it was a long time until I let myself feel that way again.”
“What happened that time?”
“Emma and I lived together for four years, and it was very pleasant. She’s wonderful, and we were great friends. Still are, in fact. She’s an art historian, and everybody thought we were perfect for each other. But I wanted …” He met my eyes. “More.”
I didn’t exactly respond. “I guess love makes me lose my appetite,” I said, before I ducked beneath the water, embarrassed. Afraid. It was going so fast.
When I came up, he was still watching me. “You guess?” He ran the last of the pancakes through the syrup on the plate. “Don’t you know?”
“No.” I wasn’t sure I should say this. “It’s just that I’ve never lost my appetite before.”
Mitch kept his eyes on me, waiting for something. When I remained silent, he shrugged, went out, and came back carrying another pancake-filled skillet. Setting it on the floor, he removed the towel and climbed into the tub, lowering himself until the water swelled almost to the rim. He gave a contented sight and reached down for the flapjacks. He ate slowly, straight from the skillet, savoring each bite while the water sloshed gently around us. When he was finished, he reached out of the bathtub and, with infinite care, set the skillet on the floor.
“How long is ‘quite a while’?” I asked.
“You mean when did Emma leave? Almost two years ago.” He gave me a lopsided grin. “But don’t feel sorry for me. I haven’t been completely alone.”
“Thanks for sharing.” I splashed water at him.
“I’m guessing that you’ve been alone for a long time?” With his hair plastered to his head and his wet beard, he seemed somehow smaller, more vulnerable, and when he smiled, his mouth took up more of his face. “Tell me what was it like, growing up in Santa Barbara.”
I looked down into the water and saw myself, such a shy kid, tagging behind my smart, beautiful, popular sister. An image floated up, some clueless grown-up telling Dad how lucky he was that Genie was such a beauty. I could see Dad’s worried eyes on me, feel his hand as he smoothed the hair out of my eyes. I glanced up; Mitch was watching me.
“I think something terrible happened that you have a hard time talking about.” He leaned into the porcelain embrace of the tub. “You can tell me.”
I closed my eyes and began. I told him first about Mom dying when I was a baby, about growing up with my big sister, my sweet father, and the aunt next door. I told him about Genie, how gorgeous she was, how perfect. “She was so beautiful that people stopped her on the street, just so they could look at her violet eyes. And she was good at everything: She had a 4.0 average, she was a great athlete, and there was nothing she couldn’t draw. She was on her way to Yale Law. Everybody loved her.”
“Must have been hard to be her little sister.”
“Sammy said that too, but to be honest I don’t know how I would have managed without her. I was shy, but she made everything easy. She always told me exactly what to do.”
He gave a little grunt. He was a good listener, watching with silent intensity as I talked. When I got to the part about Cake Sisters, he reached across the tub and turned me, wrapping his arms around my chest so we were spooned together in the water. I could feel him breathing against my back, but it was easier to talk when he couldn’t see my face. He listened silently, stroking my arms gently as I told him about Genie insisting we do the thirty-thousand-dollar cake. How she stayed up all night working on it, never sleeping. I got to the part about Beverly’s wedding and the speeding Jag coming around the corner. “Then I dropped out of school and came to New York”—the water had grown cold by now—“and you know the rest.”
Mitch reached across me to pull the plug and turn on the tap. “That’s really hard, Billie,” he said. The hot water splashed into the tub, a burst of steam warming the liquid around us.
He turned me then, so he could see my face. “But you’re beautiful too. And talented.”
“Talented? At what?”
He stared at me, as if I was missing something so obvious he didn’t think it needed to be put into words. “Last I heard, you were the girl with the perfect palate, the only stranger Sal Fontanari has ever allowed to work in his precious shop.” He turned off the tap, and in the silence his voice was louder. “You’re a talented writer too. And, if I’m not mistaken, you’re about to put a book together. You sound pretty good to me.” He leaned back in the tub and closed his eyes. “I’m so comfortable, but we should get going. Let’s meet at The Pig for dinner tonight, okay? I’ve got a lot to do before we go to Akron.”
“You’re coming with me?” When did that happen? Was it even a good idea? We were so new, and I had no idea what I’d find there. “Aren’t you busy with …” I stumbled before I got the words out. “Pickwick House?”
“I am busy.” He picked up my left foot and massaged the sole. “But I’d like to help.”
“I could take Sammy.”
“That”—he dropped my foot—“would be a terrible mistake. Consider how much more useful I’ll be.”
“Why is that?”
“Because”—he picked up my right foot and began to massage it, sending ripples through my body—“Sammy has no idea how to do this kind of research.”
“And you do?”
Now he dropped my right foot. “That’s what historians do: research. Do you even know where you’ll begin?”
“What would you suggest, oh, great historian?”
He was unperturbed. “Go to the library. Ask for the old phone books. Begin with the forties and work your way forward. Look up the address of everyone she mentions in the letters.”
“That’s a lot of people. Swans, Strohs, Cappuzzellis …”
“Don’t forget mean Miss Dickson. She might prove very useful. Or not. Research like this is time-consuming. And you’ll hit mostly dead ends. But that’s how you do it.”
“Then what? Knock on doors? Ask if anyone remembers a family that used to live there seventy years ago?”
“No.” His voice was matter-of-fact, as if anyone with a brain would know this. “First you call.”
“Old phone numbers? That’s insane!”
“You’d be surprised.” He’d gone back to my left foot. “I’ve called seventy-five-year-old phone numbers and hit the jackpot first try. Akron being a small town is a bonus; a house will often stay in the family for many generations. You could get lucky and save a lot of time. C’mon, take me with you. Besides …”
I looked at him, expecting a little romance. What Mitch said was, “Didn’t you say Mr
s. Cloverly lives in Cleveland? Close to Akron? I want to meet her.”
A Trick of the Mind
I WALKED UP ESSEX, NOTICING HOW THE NEIGHBORHOOD CHANGED once I crossed Delancey. As I moved north, the old establishments become more hip, hardware stores and bodegas morphing into bakeries, boutiques, and gourmet ice-cream emporiums. The pedestrians I passed kept getting younger. It was warm but still April, and the people who’d left home without their coats were hugging their elbows, pretending they weren’t cold.
My phone was buzzing in my pocket, and when I pulled it out I found six messages. Three were from Aunt Melba. One was from Dad. One was from Jake, who had somehow heard that I’d quit. And the most recent was from Sammy: “Come at once! Breakfast awaits. Plans must be made.”
I decided not to bother changing and kept walking uptown. By the time I got to Sammy’s, it was almost ten, and I couldn’t tell if he and Anne were just starting breakfast or if they’d been there for hours, eating toast and jam. Anne sat at the foot of the table, holding Sammy’s grandmother’s sterling teapot as if she’d been born with it in her hands.
“Did you get the job?” I asked, taking a seat.
“Of course.” She handed a cup across the table; it clattered musically against its translucent saucer. “Mr. Pickwick was extremely pleased when I offered to catalog the letters. His lawyers apparently think it will prove a tax advantage, and normally he’d have to pay a handsome fee for a job like this.”
“So the letters will be saved?”
“Indeed.” She smiled serenely.
Sammy sat at the other end of the table, wearing his Chinese gown. Fresh cinnamon buns steamed before him. He held out the plate.
“I had breakfast with Mitch.”
Sammy smiled benignly at this, nudging the plate in my direction. “Pazzesca! These are irresistible.”
“No, really, I’m not hungry.”
His hand hovered over the plate, and then he took another for himself. “What are your immediate plans?”
“I’m going to Ohio tomorrow. Come with me?”
Sammy shuddered and put down the bun. “I have no desire to fly in one of the minuscule planes that will undoubtedly convey you there. I have no desire to spend my time poking around a dismal provincial metropolis. And as I assume that Mitchell will be accompanying you, I have no desire to be a third wheel. In any case, I very much doubt that you will unearth Lulu.”
“You’re probably right.” There was no reason to believe she would have stayed there. “But we still might find out where she is.”
“Precisely!” He aimed the half-eaten cinnamon bun in my direction. “Should Lulu still be whinnying with us, I will pounce on a plane the moment you discover her whereabouts. You have my solemn promise.”
“I wish I could come along.” Anne frowned slightly across the table. “Unfortunately, I have a great deal of work to do here. I intend to start immediately; I’m not about to give young Mr. Pickwick a chance to change his mind.”
“What do you expect to find?”
“No mystery there: ordinary people writing about their ordinary lives. But those are precisely the documents that tend to be discarded. It’s what I find so thrilling about this project; quotidian letters can tell you far more about real life than the work of any scholar.”
“You’re doing this for Bertie, aren’t you?”
She lifted her chin. “Why would you think that?” The suggestion obviously annoyed her. “History is the story we tell the future about the past, and we have an obligation to get it right. A chance like this comes along once in a blue moon.” She gazed at her distorted reflection in the silver teapot. “On a professional level, I’m thrilled to have an opportunity to comb through these documents. But on a personal level … well, working is the only thing that keeps you young.”
I glanced over at Sammy; I hadn’t given any thought to what the end of my job might mean for him. What would he do now? He must have been thinking something similar, because he cleared his throat and looked at Anne. “Might I perhaps be of some assistance?”
“I’ve been counting on it.” Anne said this so easily you would have thought they’d known each other all their lives. “You’ll find that historical research is extremely soothing. When you spend all day among old papers, the people come alive for you, and you begin to see the present through different eyes. You’ll see. You view young people knowing that this is only one moment in time and it’s passing very quickly. It’s comforting. You begin to understand that time is no more than a trick of the mind; some days I’m convinced that my young self is still here, somewhere, just walking down a different street.”
That thought stayed with me the whole way home. The sun was directly overhead now, so there were no shadows. I liked thinking of Genie walking down some other street in a parallel universe, tossing her hair in the wind. As I waited for a light to change, I tried to fast-forward to the future, tried to imagine myself as an old lady. What would this corner look like? Would there still be cars? What would people wear? The elasticity of time made me dizzy, and I was glad to reach Rivington, where Ming was pleating dumplings in the window of his shop. He looked up and waved, solidly in the present, and it brought me back.
I had a lot to do when I got home. But first I had to call Aunt Melba.
“I was so involved with telling you that I’d quit that I forgot to tell you that I got a haircut. And contact lenses. Wait, I’m taking a picture.” I turned the phone around, smiled, and took a short video, scanning from top to bottom. I pressed “Send” and listened to the sound of the picture flying through space.
There was a waiting silence, and then something that sounded almost like a sob. “Oh, Billie!” Aunt Melba’s voice cracked. “Look at you! You look fantastic! And where’d you get those clothes?”
“Do you like them?”
“Like them? No, I don’t like them. I love them. It’s how I’d dress if I were a little younger. Who put that outfit together for you?”
“Hey.” I found that I was annoyed. “I’m not that pathetic. I put my outfit together.”
“Of course you did!” The triumph in Aunt Melba’s voice erased my irritation. “I always knew you’d have your own style if you’d only learn to trust it.” There was pride too. “Wait until your father sees this video. Let’s surprise him! We could come this weekend—”
“I’m not sure I’ll be back from Akron. I don’t know how long I’ll be there. It all depends what I find.”
She sighed, disappointed. But then she said, “Probably just as well. I think Bob’s traveling tomorrow too. But let us know the minute you get back. Seeing you like this is going to make him so happy. And email me your itinerary, okay? Just so we know where you are. You know we’re here if you need us.”
Aunt Melba’s reaction was what I’d expected. Counted on. But until last night, when Mitch had talked about his family, I hadn’t realized my luck. He hadn’t said much, but it was enough to let me know he’d never taken love for granted. I always had. Genie had left me, but she had not left me alone. How could I not have known how important that was?
I Googled flights to Cleveland, excited about the trip. Still, in the back of my mind I kept wondering if it was a good idea to take Mitch with me. We were so new.
The question stayed with me all afternoon as I planned. Akron felt familiar. I could picture Lulu’s house on Lookout Avenue as I printed out the map of Elizabeth Park Valley. I put it into a folder, along with maps of North Hill. I plotted a route to St. Anthony of Padua Church, circled North High, and Google-mapped the way to the old Goodyear Airdock and the main library downtown. I even mapped the route to Mrs. Cloverly’s place on the east side of Cleveland. It was called Wade Manor, which made me smile. Such a grandiose name for a trailer park! I tucked the folder under my arm, changed into the chiffon dress, loving the way the fabric whispered around me, and left the apartment to go meet Mitch.
I detoured to Fontanari’s. It was almost closing time when I
got there, and I pushed through the jostling crowd, making my way forward. Gennaro was waiting patiently near the front, and his eyes grew wide when he saw me. Without a word he took my hand, tucked it into his bent arm, and walked me formally up to the counter.
He cleared his throat loudly. Sal didn’t look up. “I know you’re there, Gennaro. I’ll get to you next, my friend. That’s a promise.” Gennaro cleared his throat again. Sal looked up. “What?” His voice was irritable now. He looked directly at Gennaro, who simply pointed at me.
For the first instant Sal didn’t recognize me. Then he made a theatrical gesture, hand to his heart, and pretended to fall down in astonishment. “Willie! You got your hair cut!”
Rosalie emerged from the back kitchen, looked me over, pulled me behind the counter, and spun me around so she could see the back. “And she got new clothes!” she chided her husband.
“I noticed,” he said. He was clearly not impressed.
But Rosalie was taking it all in. “They make her look so …” I waited while she searched for the right word. Crazy, maybe? Hip? Nah, not a Rosalie word. New York? Possible. California? Also possible. The word she chose rocked me back on my heels. “Feminine.” She gave Sal an arch look.
“If you say so.” Sal’s voice was skeptical. “I thought she looked fine before.” He turned back to the customers, who were growing restless. “Coming, coming.”
I stayed to help with the last-minute rush, and when the final customers had reluctantly departed, I told Sal and Rosalie that I was no longer employed by Pickwick Publications. “I’m going to Akron,” I said. “And—”
“—and you have a new boyfriend.” The words came rushing out of Rosalie’s mouth before I had a chance to say them.
“Do we know him?” Sal demanded.
“Of course we do.” Rosalie gave him another one of those looks. “Didn’t Mr. Complainer reappear the other day? And haven’t I been telling you he was perfect for Wilhelmina?”