Kitchens of the Great Midwest

by J. Ryan Stradal

  • • •

  She’d rented a small house in Petosky, outside the town of Charlevoix, made her own meals at home, spent mornings reading on the porch, and biked to work when the weather was nice. Every day after waking up, she’d check the Eva Thorvald blogs to see if a dinner had been held, and if so, which slot numbers were invited. Days in which numbers were called were good days, even if they were never hers; the other days she just had to get through.

  • • •

  One afternoon before the dinner shift, as Cindy was behind the bar putting aerators on the wines they sold by the glass, her boss, Molly, came up behind her and put her hand on Cindy’s shoulder.

  Cindy shuddered; it was the first time she’d been touched since she’d had her hair done the week before, and the proximity of Molly’s Chanel No. 5 and the feel of her cold, bony hands freaked her out. Molly was one of those women who were both tiny and about twenty pounds too skinny; Cindy wasn’t the tallest woman she knew, and kept herself in decent shape, but next to Molly she felt like a hockey player.

  “Whoa, sorry to startle you,” Molly said. “Just wanted to see if you’re feeling OK.”

  “Yeah,” Cindy said. “I’m fine.”

  “You just looked a little preoccupied, is all. Do you have a long-distance boyfriend?”

  Cindy laughed. “Nope, way too old for that.”

  Molly leaned in to Cindy’s shoulder and got quiet. “Having an affair?”

  “God, no,” Cindy said.

  “You just seemed like you were thinking about somebody.”

  “Nope, just zoning out.”

  “Whatever’s going on in your life, it won’t stay secret in this town—just to warn you,” Molly said, and returned to her office.

  • • •

  A few days later, Cindy was washing her one plate in the sink when she heard a knock on the door. Drying her hands, she gazed through the peephole and saw Molly standing there.

  “Hey!” Molly said when Cindy opened the door. “I was in the neighborhood and I thought I’d drop by. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “Not really,” Cindy said, and the two women stared at each other for a moment before Cindy apologized and asked her boss to come on in.

  Molly was the first person to enter Cindy’s rented house; Cindy watched as Molly took in the one chair in the living room, the one chair by the little Formica dining table, and the dish rack with one plate, one glass, and one set of silverware drying.

  “Wow, you sure packed light,” Molly said. “Can I sit? I don’t want to take your only chair.”

  “Uh, sure,” Cindy said, coming to terms with the weird fact that her boss had just invited herself over. “It’s a nice night, why don’t we sit out on the porch?”

  “OK. Got anything to drink?”

  “Well, got some Grenache Rosé in the fridge.”

  “Sounds divine,” Molly said. Cindy saw her stand up and walk around the living room, looking at who knows what. There was no TV to turn on, no framed photos, no art on the walls, just a couple of books and a dozen or so magazines on a small coffee table.

  Why was this woman here? They would have a glass of wine and then Cindy would say that she had a 7:00 a.m. yoga class (which was true) and boy, was she tired.

  • • •

  Cindy came out to the porch with a bottle of Santa Ynez Valley–area Grenache Rosé and two Syrah glasses. Molly was already on the swing, so Cindy set the wine down and dragged the living room chair out.

  Across the street, a little girl in a pink dress wailed as she was being pulled from the backseat of an old Dodge minivan.

  “I hate you!” the little girl screamed between sobs.

  “Come on, time for bed,” the exhausted mother said, dragging her child up the driveway toward the front door. She shoved her daughter inside and closed the door behind them.

  Molly shook her head. “You ever have any of those?”

  “Nope,” Cindy said.

  “Me neither. Let’s fuckin’ drink to that.”

  • • •

  After only a year in Michigan, Cindy started seeing reports of priority VIP numbers in the high 100s receiving invitations; they were getting close. It had been just over three years since she put down the $120 reservation; maybe there were more dinners, or more dropouts, or both. You weren’t able to choose the date—if Eva Thorvald invited you to the dinner next Thursday and you weren’t able to make it, well, that was it, you lost your space, no refunds. She’d also read about folks who’d lost their jobs in the interim and now couldn’t afford the ten grand cost for two people. All of these circumstances helped her chances.

  It was strange to think about her daughter every day in this way, after so many years of hardly thinking of her at all. Without an intense job, social calendar, or relationship to distract her, as they had all of her life, Cindy started to feel that her time in Michigan was a kind of exile or retreat, and this retrenchment, whether intentional or not, lent her a potent focus. The thought of seeing her daughter again pruned every competing impulse, and the priorities of what now felt like a former life, once so bright and heavy, had fallen away. This commingling of obsession and simplicity was a surprisingly satisfying way to get by.

  • • •

  “You need a man!” Molly said to her one night when they were staying late, finishing a bottle of 2007 Château La Fleur-Pétrus that some idiot couple only drank one glass out of.

  “No, not unless he can . . .” Cindy was going to say, Move me up the list at The Dinner, but stopped herself. No one in Michigan knew anything about that yet.

  “Not unless he can what?” said Molly. “Refrain from drinking vodka while mowing the lawn? Or refrain from falling asleep in the kitchen?” Molly, conversely, was an oversharer; these were well-known traits of her husband’s.

  “I’m sure it’s exciting to stumble over the love of your life during his kitchen nap, but I’d rather just masturbate and go to bed early.”

  “Fred and I know a guy who’d be terrific for you, just terrific. Fred met him the last time he was in AA.”

  “Not now, Molly,” Cindy said.

  “He’s cute, and not just Michigan cute either. How about I have ya both over for eggplant parmigiana sometime?”

  Kerensa Dille, the assistant manager whom Cindy liked the most, walked up to the bar holding out her phone. “Oh my God, my friend is giving away the cutest Welsh corgi puppies—look.”

  There were four little puppies, eyes closed, curled up in a wicker basket. They were, as Kerensa said, the cutest.

  Molly put her hands on her hips. “You’re leaving this room with either a dog or a date. Decide now, or you’re fired.”

  • • •

  Thanks to Molly and Kerensa, Cindy had a lot of dogproofing to do the following morning. A few months back, after Molly’s first visit, she and Kerensa had told the entire staff that Cindy had lost all of her furniture in a brutal divorce with an abusive man. Since then, she’d become a one-woman Goodwill for every manager, waiter, and busboy with an end table, rug, love seat, art print, lamp, or houseplant to give away. Cindy didn’t even go to Kerensa’s church, but two members of the congregation brought her an old tube television and a DVD player, free of charge. One time, a table of three brothers who spent summers in Charlevoix gave her a Panasonic stereo that was still in the box. She felt so guilty about it all, she told everybody who donated that she’d give them all a free wine class later that summer.

  • • •

  The first day she had the puppy, which she named Brix, was also a ridiculous day at work. Philandering Lions wide receiver Lanchester Cunningham, slutty Grand Rapids meteorologist Diana Vecchio, and lecherous frozen fish magnate Luc Provencher all had made reservations for that evening with large groups, and a representative from a Traverse City winery known for its Riesling was coming at four to do
a tasting. She left Brix on a pee pad in his crate with a bowl of water, a chew toy, and some chow—she had only been a dog owner for a few hours, and it was already heartbreaking to leave the little guy alone.

  • • •

  The young man from the Traverse City winery arrived right on time, with branded ballcaps, T-shirts, and a few bottles of Riesling, Chardonnay, Pinot Gris, and Pinot Noir. Kerensa didn’t have to be there, but she showed up anyway.

  “How’s it going with the puppy?” Kerensa asked.

  The wine guy looked up from opening his Pinot Gris. “You just got a dog?” he asked, and off Cindy’s assent, he continued. “Dogs are the best. I have nine of ’em.”

  “You have nine dogs?” Kerensa asked.

  “I know, it’s not enough, right?”

  Kerensa and Cindy looked at each other again. This was his time-tested line, obviously.

  “Well, I live on a farm,” he said, pouring two glasses of the Pinot Gris. “Or it used to be a farm, before my dad killed himself. Now it’s just a house on four acres.”

  Kerensa gave Cindy another look. The guy kept talking.

  “Last week, my dog Eddie dug up some human bones. They were totally weird. He comes running into the house with like this femur in his mouth. I was like, oh, wow, those are human bones, Eddie. And he’s smilin’. Anyway, here’s our Pinot Gris. It’s got a perfect balance of grapefruit, pear, and minerality, with just a touch of acidity on the finish.”

  “So did you call the cops?” Kerensa asked. “When your dog found those bones?”

  “What?” the guy seemed genuinely surprised by the follow-up question.

  “Did you call the cops?”

  “Huh. How do I answer that?”

  “Uh, yes or no?”

  “Well . . . you know, I thought about it, and then I thought, these bones are pretty old. Whoever killed this guy probably got away with it. Whoever the survivors are got over it and moved on with their lives a long time ago. If the killer is still alive, he’s probably out there, thinking about it every day, about how he killed a man. The guilt hanging over him. And isn’t that enough? Why go shake up everyone’s life over some bones?”

  The phone rang behind the bar. It was the extension for reservations. “I’ll get it,” Kerensa said, and took her wineglass with her.

  “Well anyway, the Riesling. Sixteen months neutral oak. No malo. Eddie’s a good dog, though. If he knew that beef came from cows, he’d get depressed. Now Hecky, that one I can see killing a man and burying the body. If a murderer does walk my crooked patch of earth, ten will get you one that’s it’s Heckerdoodle the killer poodle. But that’s the kind of dog you want guarding your weed.”

  “It’s for you,” Kerensa called out.

  “Excuse me,” Cindy said, and sipped the Riesling as she walked behind the bar. “You’re right about the acidity. Bodes well for its aging potential.” She took the receiver from Kerensa. “Hello?”

  “Hey,” Reynaldo said. “How’s it going?”

  “Reynaldo?” The blood rushed to Cindy’s head. She turned her back to Kerensa and the wine guy, who were only about ten feet away and could hear everything. “How’d you get this number?”

  “You’re a hard woman to find these days.”

  “Yeah, well, I changed my cell number. So what’s this about?”

  “Wow,” Reynaldo said. He seemed startled by her tone. “Well, I’m sorry to bother you, I know things didn’t end super well between us.”

  “No, they did not.”

  “But, I got remarried, and have a baby daughter, and everything.”

  “Oh, nice. I appreciate hearing that you actually followed through with that. Is that all, then?”

  “Well, as it turns out, I owe you a hundred and twenty dollars and I wanted to make sure you get it. That’s the main thing I’m calling about.”

  “What do you owe me a hundred and twenty dollars for?”

  “You know that restaurant reservation you made, like, three years ago? They called me and said I’m invited, and I’m going with my wife. So I figured I’d better pay you back the deposit just to make sure we’re square.”

  That stupid bastard. She could feel both Kerensa and the wine guy looking at her, but now she didn’t give a shit—this situation called for some volume.

  “No, no, that’s my reservation,” Cindy said, raising her voice.

  “Well, they called me. On my house phone.”

  “Look. We were still married then. That used to be my home number too. I was trying to save two spots so we had a better chance.” At the time, she thought she was being clever by putting their shared house phone down as his number.

  “Yeah, and they called my spot. And I didn’t know it, but it’s like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Cassandra’s just over the moon about it. You know, it was her that suggested we pay you back your deposit? That’s how grateful she is.”

  “No, I’m going. I made the reservation.”

  “It’s not in your name. Why can’t you just wait until your name comes up?”

  “Because she’s my daughter and I need to see her.”

  “Because who’s your daughter?”

  “Eva Thorvald.”

  “Now you’re just making things up.”

  “I’m not.”

  “I thought you never had a kid, and never wanted one. That’s what you always told me. For five years. For six years, actually, six years, counting the year before we were married.”

  “Well, I had one.”

  “And you what, gave her up for adoption?”

  “No, I left her and her dad.”

  “Oh,” Reynaldo said. “Oh. Oh! So her dad was your ex-husband from Minnesota. The one you never talk to. Right. OK.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why don’t you just go up to where she lives and knock on her door?”

  “I can’t do that, I can’t do that. I’m too scared to do that. I just want to see her at a distance.”

  “And she’s never looked for you, never searched you out.”

  “If she did, I never knew it. So when’s the next dinner?”

  “Tomorrow. Right in the middle of South Dakota. We’re flying into Pierre.”

  “Tomorrow? And you’re just calling me now?”

  “It was hard to find you.”

  “Well, I’ll be there.”

  “Let me talk to my wife.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  She hung up, and copied his number from the phone’s caller ID display onto her hand. She turned to see Kerensa and the wine guy staring at her.

  “What,” Kerensa said, “was all that about?”

  • • •

  Cindy found it hard to look Kerensa in the face when she told her whole story and chose instead to stare out the dining room window at the boats on the lake.

  “I am so sorry,” Cindy said to her friend.

  “What for?” Kerensa said. “I can understand why you wouldn’t want to talk about it. You wanted us to get to know you as you, not as the mom of some famous person.”

  Cindy exhaled. After decades away from the Midwest, she’d forgotten that bewildering generosity was a common regional tic. First the free home furnishings, now this. It was all lovely and weird. “Thank you,” she said. “That’s way more kindness than I deserve.”

  “Hey, we all got secrets,” the wine guy said.

  “I can’t imagine,” Kerensa said to him, and then looked at Cindy. “Let us know what she’s like.”

  Cindy couldn’t believe these people.

  • • •

  Later that night, when she was attempting to answer a question at Diana Vecchio’s table about which Moscato on their wine list was the one that some rapper named Qwazey sang about, Molly came up behind Cindy and hugged her. It felt like it did wh
en her mother used to do that to her as a child, come up behind her and hug her for no reason. It always puzzled Cindy when her mom did this.

  “Call for you on the reservations line. Your ex-husband.”

  Cindy left the table immediately, without even saying “Excuse me,” and ran to the phone in the office.

  • • •

  “Can’t do it,” Reynaldo said. “I’m sorry. We already bought our plane tickets and everything.”

  “What? I’ll pay you back for the ticket!”

  “I gotta prioritize my current wife over my ex-wife, that’s all there is to it,” he said. In the background, Cindy heard a woman say, “Tell her she has a slot, and she’ll just have to wait,” and Reynaldo repeated, “You have a slot, you’ll just have to wait.”

  “Fuck you, Reynaldo,” she said, “I’ll see you there,” and hung up.

  • • •

  The last-second flight from Traverse City, Michigan, to Pierre, South Dakota, was going to cost her close to two months’ rent, and the 6:00 a.m. departure meant she’d have to be up by four in the morning after working until midnight. Also, she checked flights from SFO, and both her flight and Reynaldo’s flight had the same connection in Denver; they’d be on the same plane to Pierre.

  • • •

  Cindy spotted Reynaldo from a hundred feet away at the Denver airport, standing in line at the gate. It was weird to see him in person after three years of trying to forget about him, but it also felt a bit like only a month had passed. He was wearing a gray suit that she didn’t recognize, had more gray in his beard, and looked as if he’d lost weight. He’d heard her coming up behind him and turned around. She was wearing an outfit she thought might make an impression on him, culled from her past life of means and expensive tastes: slate gray Donna Karan pencil skirt, white poplin shirt, closed-toe ivory pumps, fitted peplum blazer, and big black Prada sunglasses, looking damn good for someone on three hours of sleep, and she could tell from his expression that he thought she looked good too. Not that she wanted anything to happen; she just wanted him to realize what he’d been missing out on, and to keep realizing it every time he looked at her.