The Color of Home: A Novel

by Rich Marcello

  “I love your hair wet,” Nick said.

  “Strange man.”

  “It reminds me of morning.” He ordered the same thing as her, a Mesa Burger with double cheddar cheese, grilled Vidalia onion, horseradish mustard, and Southwestern fries. “How’s work going?”

  “Bad week. I made a celery sorbet, which the other chefs made fun of behind my back.”

  “Jerks.”

  “The customers seemed to like it. I even had one woman ask to speak with me about it. She said it was her favorite dessert of all time.”

  “I don’t know why you put up with work politics.” He flicked the salt and pepper shakers over with his index finger. Rubbing the back of his neck, his gaze bounced from table to table, then out on the street. The steam had dissipated.

  “Part of the deal, I guess.”

  “Why don’t you talk to your boss?” he asked.

  “No need. It’ll pass.”

  “Why don’t you tell your coworkers off?”

  “It will pass, Nick. No big deal.”

  “Why are you so unassertive? You need to nip these things in the bud before they get out of hand.”

  “I’m not unassertive.” She stood up the salt and pepper shakers.

  Under the table, he dug his thumb into his thigh. As he pushed harder, a wave of sadness came. He focused on his breath. In, calm. Out, sadness. In, calm. Out, sadness. In, calm. Out, sadness. Something gave way. He clenched his fist, opened it. Punch someone. Or crawl into bed and sleep for twenty hours. “Yes, you are. Don’t let them run all over you. You don’t want to come across as weak.” He sprang up before she could respond and then headed to the restroom.

  In the bathroom, he studied his face in the mirror as he washed his hands. What was he doing? Why was he so angry at her? Where was the sadness coming from? He had to do better.

  A few minutes later, he sat back down at the table and folded his hands across his lap. Their hamburgers had arrived while he was away. Mostly they ate in silence, shifting the focus of what little conversation they had to the food. Freshly made ketchup. Horseradish made the burger. Medium rare was the only way to go.

  After she finished her burger, she reached across the table and placed her hand on his. “I don’t need you to solve things for me, Nick. I can handle myself at work.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve calmed down.”

  “I need you to listen and acknowledge what I’m feeling. That’s enough.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m not sure why I got so angry.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  The waitress stepped lightly over to the table and left the bill. Without looking at Sassa, he grabbed the bill, left more than enough money on the table, and headed for the exit. When he reached the door, he whirled around to say something to Sassa only to find that she was still at the table staring at him, eyebrows raised. A moment later, back at the table and on the edge of his seat, he tapped his heel on the floor.

  “Why do you keep leaving without me?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’ve done it a lot lately.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Relaxing a little, he pushed back in his chair. Over the past month, he’d often paid the bill, leapt up abruptly, and abandoned her before she’d finished her meal. Each time he left all caught up in something, only for a moment, as if he had no control over the initial leaving. Even after she called him on his behavior, he had a hard time catching himself before it was too late. He’d regretted his behavior. He’d apologized. But fear continued to snake in unexpectedly. He’d caught an emotional cold and couldn’t shake it.

  “Let me finish my tea. Then we can go.”

  “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Doubt inched in to stay as Sassa made her way to Allen’s deli. Nick was holding something back. But what? An affair. With a musician at work? Had he tired of her? Or an old deep secret that would end things if she found out? It had to be something big; otherwise, he would tell her.

  Maybe lunch with Sarah would help sort through things. She’d become close friends with her over the years; they’d been hired around the same time at DiPosto and had put in many long hours together, slaving at the mercy of the executive chef. A couple of years earlier, they had discovered they both loved deli food and had agreed to regular, almost religious lunch dates every other week at Allen’s.

  Sassa arrived in front of the deli first. A moment later, Sarah waved to her from a couple of blocks down Houston Street. Much smaller than Sassa and with short black hair, dark skin, and the most comfortable-in-her-own-skin smile Sassa had ever seen, Sarah had known from a young age that she would become a chef. From her love of food, she carried her few extra pounds with grace. From early expertise, commonsense wisdom had grown. Sassa had grown to trust her. After a warm greeting, they navigated their way through the long, narrow restaurant—past the hundreds of pictures of famous patrons, past the chef’s carving pastrami, corned beef, and brisket like they were gold—and settled at a table in the back of Allen’s.

  Without looking at the menu Sarah said, “I feel like pastrami and scrambled eggs on a bagel.”

  “You know, I’m going traditional today. Corned beef on rye with lots of mustard and extra bread.”

  “So how are you?”

  “Fine, sort of, but I could use your advice on something.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Sassa studied the menu even though she had already decided what she wanted. The matzo ball soup. The Reuben. The knishes. The potato latke. The blueberry cheesecake. There were so many items, and they were all served quickly with high quality. What a difference from her Diposto routine. Life was short. Speed and variety were keys.

  “Things have been solid with Nick these past eleven months. In so many ways, it’s the best relationship I’ve ever had.”

  “And the sex?”

  “Why do you always start there?”

  “Easier to fix things when that part is okay.”

  Sassa twirled a strand of hair with her fingers. Unlike many of her female friends, she’d never been comfortable talking about sex. It was much better to be publicly modest and privately wild. She didn’t want anyone other than Nick to know that one of her favorite things was to spend all day in bed exploring, repeating, losing herself. And while all-dayers were part of their story, their relationship was much more than physical. He made her comfortable. He made her laugh. Until recently, he understood her better than anyone. “He’s more giving than any other man I’ve been with.”

  “And?”

  “And I feel like he’s holding something back. I’m not sure what he’s hiding, but I’m sure I’m right. He’s been on edge lately.”

  “Best to trust your intuition then. Can you ask him?”

  She couldn’t. Why not? They’d talked about so many things and they’d always tackled them head on. Truth warriors. But not with this one. Why? Because they’d lost some of their bliss. What if gradually losing bliss was inevitable, part of the slow decline that happens to everyone? Better to end quickly and move on. “I’m afraid.”

  “How does that make you feel?”

  “Thank you, Ms. Therapist.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Like I want to run away.”

  “I get that one.”

  Sarah passed Sassa a bowl of sweet and sour pickles. She picked out a plump one and took a bite. The best pickles in the world. A waiter came over to their table, took their order, scurried off.

  “I’m kind of scared Nick possesses some dark secret that he’s going to spring on me one day. I’m afraid he’s been on his best behavior all these months and the real Nick is starting to surface. I’m afraid he’s going to start treating me like his old girlfriends. He’s been distant. And angry. I kind of want to strike first and take off.” She moved her fork back and forth between her fingers like a divining rod seeking water. For years after the accident, she’d followed almost any mystical
avenue that might tell her what to do. Astrology. Tarot cards. Angel cards. Psychics. But she’d given all of that up when she gave up Vicodin. Too bad. She placed the fork back down.

  “And you’re about to come face to face with the one-year rule.”

  “He doesn’t know about that.”

  “He doesn’t know?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I sort of didn’t get around to telling him.”

  “He’s not the only one hiding something.”

  In college, Sassa had planted the only rule she’d stuck to ever since: never let a romantic relationship go beyond the one-year anniversary. Sassa pushed back in her chair and shifted her weight. She picked out a piece of corned beef from her sandwich, loaded it on an extra slice of bread, and doused it with mustard. Two bites later it was gone. She dipped her finger into spilt mustard on her plate, then licked her finger. Nothing like deli mustard. “I guess that’s a good point.”

  “I mean you could tell him, along with everything else you just told me.”

  Sassa tilted her head to the side for a second. Why hadn’t she told Nick about the one-year rule? Better to keep her options open, especially since he was holding something back. Better to hurt him first than the other way around. That’s the way she’d always done it, and it had served her well. “How do couples last fifty years in a relationship? There’s so much stuff that can go wrong.”

  “If you figure that one out and bottle the answer, we can retire.”

  “We’ll start a restaurant together and drizzle a few drops on our desserts.”

  “Speaking of which, want to split a piece of blueberry cheesecake?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Sassa signaled the waiter over. A short time later, he served them an oversized piece of cheesecake smothered with a fresh blueberry sauce and a dollop of fresh whipped cream. Two forks hung off the cake like oars. For a few moments, the cake had their undivided attention.

  “That was fanstastic.”

  “For sure.”

  “Back to fifty years. Maybe longevity has something to do with longing. When the longing in your heart subsides, when you know who you are, when you’re whole, fifty years may seem more doable,” Sarah said.

  “How do you get rid of the longing?”

  “I have no idea.”

  That was the problem. Sassa had no idea either, yet for as long as she could remember there had been an undertow pulling her away, as if she had no choice, as if she’d been sabotaged but couldn’t name the saboteur. Was that longing or something else? “Sometimes I feel like deep, dark things are dragging me away.”

  “Me too.”

  “I want to get rid of them.”

  “You sort of need to trick them into surfacing first.”

  “Seems like whack-a-mole,” Sassa said.

  “Stop hitting and try embracing.”

  How could she embrace deep, dark things? It was like they had been exiled long ago and someone was protecting them. She was willing to give it a try, but only if she knew the outcome ahead of time. Otherwise, she would lose control. “Maybe I’ll ride things out.”

  “Has that ever worked for you in the past?”

  “I didn’t care so much in the past.”

  “What would happen if you didn’t ride things out?”

  “I’d have to leave him.”

  “You know that for sure? Why?”

  Why did she need to leave? She had never said that out loud before. Did she really mean it? An incredible rush of sadness, unlike anything she’d ever experienced before, washed over her. Were the deep, dark things dragging her away from him? Or was that the path to whole? Maybe they were the same. “To find whole.”

  “Oh . . . It’s not with him? I thought you loved him,” Sarah said.

  “I do. That’s kind of the problem.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. Never mind.”

  “You need to figure this out.”

  “He’s sort of the one who started me down this path. How can I leave when this is all his doing?”

  “How can you not?”

  “Maybe I’ll wait a little longer.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s a good man.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Nick and Sassa sat transfixed on their sofa, Nick with his arm around her, Sassa with her leg over his, a bowl of butterless, heavily salted popcorn on his lap. They were watching Cinema Paradiso, a movie about Salvatore, a closed-off man incapable of a committed relationship. When Nick was much younger, he had gone to the first showing of the movie at the Film Forum. About halfway through, he had started to sob and didn’t stop until the credits ended.

  As a young boy, Salvatore lost his father to World War II. He worked with and became close with the fatherly projectionist, Alfredo, at the cinema in his small home town. As was common at that time, all of the romantic clips were censored, literally cut out of the film reel and thrown on the floor of the projector room. For many years Salvatore worked with Alfredo, eventually replacing him as the cinema’s projectionist. During this time, they grew as close as any father and son. Finally, at Alfredo’s urging, Salvatore moved on and left his home town to pursue his destiny as a director in the big city. He never looked back. Years later, Alfredo died. Salvatore returned for the funeral and discovered that Alfredo, who had followed Salvatore’s career and life with pride, had left him a special gift: a reel of all of the censored romantic movie clips spliced together.

  “What did you think?”

  “Good. Right up your alley.”

  “I was a wreck after I saw it the first time. Not so much tonight.”

  “Good.”

  With Sassa, he’d added clips to their reel every day, and the supply seemed endless. A wave of strength passed through. Was he finally ready to tell her about “Hold You”? To ask her about home? He took a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “What’s going on with you?” he asked.

  “Nothing. Why?”

  “You’ve been a little distant these past couple of months.”

  She lifted her head off his shoulder, took her feet down off the coffee table, and reached for the remote control to turn off the television. Settling back into the sofa a couple of feet away from him, she placed her feet back on the coffee table. “I have? You’re the one walking out of restaurants, yelling at me, trying to fix problems I can solve on my own. I should be the one asking what’s going on.”

  “I don’t feel like you’re trying anymore.”

  “What? So I should know what you need? I’m sorry, I’m not a mind reader.” She pushed the DVD case for Cinema Paradiso off the coffee table with her foot.

  “Hey, that’s important.”

  “Why are you judging me? I’ve done nothing wrong and, lately, I feel exactly the opposite when I’m around you. And, to be clear . . .” Her voice broke. “I feel like you’re the one holding something back. What are you hiding?”

  “Can we start over again?”

  “We can if you tell me.”

  Closing his eyes, he found her scent. Nothing like her smell. Honeysuckle and amaranth wood. Or at least that was what the salesperson told him when he bought her a replacement bottle of perfume. An itch from a bead of sweat on his forehead. He scratched it. She was right; he had been hiding a big one. It was time. He had to tell her.

  “Do you remember that night when I stayed late because of a reggae client?”

  “Yes.”

  “I lied.”

  “You what?”

  “There was no client.”

  “Fuck you.” Her entire body tensed up. Her face swelled. She stood up, marched over to the window, and stared out. “Who is she?”

  “No. No. I lied because of this.” With both hands, he pushed off the sofa, and hurried over to his guitar. He lifted it off of the stand, and strapped it on. Without tuning it, he started playing “Hold You.” An empty feelin
g in the pit of his stomach convinced him he was going to pass out before he finished.

  After the first verse was over, Sassa turned around, leaned against the windowsill, and crossed her arms. She forced a smile, as if her feelings had not caught up with her thoughts. Every now and then she tapped her foot in rhythm.

  Staring down, he hit the last chord and let it ring out. After a long pause, he said, “I was afraid to play the song for you.”

  “Why?”

  “Do you like it?”

  “It’s beautiful, but not enough to justify—”

  “I was afraid it wasn’t true for you.”

  “Oh.” She glanced down at her arms, still crossed. Dropping them down to her sides, she tapped her finger on the windowsill.

  “I was afraid you didn’t feel like you were home with me.”

  “Oh. Do you feel home?”

  “Without a doubt, though I’m still learning. That’s part of why I was afraid. I feel like I’m way out in front of you.”

  “And the tension these past couple of months?”

  “Fear about home.”

  “I do love you, Nick.” She turned and looked back out the window. “Quiet tonight.”

  “Late.”

  “Not even a taxi.”

  He unstrapped his guitar, placed it back on the stand, and returned to the sofa.

  A moment later, she joined him there, picking up an almost empty glass of water from the end table on the way. She took a sip. “I’m not sure if this is home. It may be. It may not be. Sometimes I’m afraid you’re going to swallow me up. I still have a lot to learn on my own.”

  His arms and legs prickled. A numbing. He couldn’t lose her. The song wasn’t good. He couldn’t go through such a loss again. He would do anything. They should never have watched Cinema Paradiso. Dad? His hands trembled. Trying to steady his hands, he tapped his foot quickly on the floor. “What do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know. This is hard. Let’s go to bed.”