The Dinner Party: A Novel

by Brenda Janowitz

  There were a lot of papers. Papers to fill out, papers that told him what books to buy, papers that told him where to live. It was all so deliciously overwhelming. He’d asked Becca to help him with the forms and she had told him that if she’d wanted to fill out forms, she wouldn’t have blown off her internship.

  So, there he was, papers fanned out in front of him, sitting in a downtown Starbucks just blocks away from NYC Community College.

  “You can do all of those online.” Henry looked up at the guy who had made the comment. “In fact, they encourage it.”

  “Thanks, man,” Henry replied.

  And then, as if he were reading Henry’s thoughts, the young man said: “The sticker on your laptop. I go to NYC Comm, too.” Henry had covered the Florida bumper sticker with one from his new school.

  “I haven’t actually started yet,” Henry said. “I’m starting this summer.”

  “I started this past January,” the guy said and sat down at Henry’s table. “So far, so good. It was either that or another round of juvie. Didn’t even finish high school before I started. Got my GED and my first semester of college done all in one shot. Not bad, right?”

  Henry had heard that NYC Comm was like the Island of Misfit Toys—the place you could go when everywhere else had said no. Is that what he had to look forward to? The guy introduced himself—his name was Trevor—and rolled up his sleeves. Henry had no idea why anyone would wear long sleeves in New York in late May. The humidity was already up to 90 percent. Trevor slicked his hair back with one hand and revealed a sleeve of tattoos.

  You’re not going to fit in here, Henry said to himself. He was wearing a baby-blue collared shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. The uncool child on his first day of school.

  “Nice ink,” Henry said. He’d heard people say that on one of the reality television shows Becca insisted he watch.

  “Thanks, man,” Trevor said. “I actually want to get it all removed. Change my image, you know?”

  “Yeah,” Henry said.

  “Who am I kidding?” Trevor said. “A guy like you probably doesn’t have a clue what I’m talking about. You look like you’ve got it all together.”

  “Not exactly,” Henry said. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he was on his way to making his first new friend at school. When he’d been down in Florida, he hadn’t really tried to befriend any of the kids. He had felt completely above everyone else. He’d had no idea why he hadn’t gotten into an Ivy, like all of his friends had. He’d had no interest in hanging out with people whose parents weren’t able to get them into a better school. The irony was lost on him at the time.

  But this was Henry’s fresh start. And he intended to make something of it. Of himself. Partly for Becca, as his parents had suggested, but also for himself. He’d never done something for himself like that before.

  “I doubt that I have it any more together than you do,” Henry told Trevor.

  “Yeah,” Trevor said, and laughed. “You are going to NYC Comm, after all.”

  And then Henry did something he’d never done before. Something he’d never thought of doing. He laughed at himself.

  Forty-Six

  Gideon could not get the video chat to work. He struggled to recall how he’d done it in the past—he must have chatted with Sarah dozens of times before. Hundreds? But he couldn’t seem to figure it out.

  Could it be that Sarah had always initiated the talk? No, that couldn’t be. He’d always made time for his family.

  Hadn’t he?

  After what seemed like hours, but was probably only about fifteen minutes, they were connected.

  “Malika left.”

  “I thought you were both leaving the program?” Sarah asked. “Wasn’t that the plan?”

  “No, I mean she left,” Gideon said, careful to keep his voice down. The workers at the camp may have been doing God’s work, but they still enjoyed gossip.

  “Without you?”

  “Yes, without me,” Gideon said, losing patience. “She left the program. She left Sri Lanka. She left me.”

  “You’re not engaged anymore?”

  “Keep it down,” Gideon chastised.

  “You called me,” Sarah said.

  “Malika broke off our engagement, and she didn’t re-up with the program.”

  “So, when do you come home?” Sarah asked.

  “I’m not coming home,” Gideon said. “I committed for another year.”

  Sarah couldn’t fathom why Gideon wouldn’t want to get back to real life now that his “time was up.” (Her words.) But really, how could she be expected to understand that her brother’s time in Sri Lanka wasn’t just a commitment to a program? Not anymore, anyway.

  Gideon had learned a lot about medicine in his time with Doctors Without Borders. He’d learned less about other cultures. Still less about himself. During his time in Sri Lanka, all he had really learned about was Malika. He had earned an advanced degree in Malika Bellamy. From the moment she stepped into his tent, she had consumed his thoughts. The curve of her lips when she smiled, the way she rubbed her index finger and thumb together when she was concentrating, those adorable glasses she would don to look at medical charts.

  How many nights had they spent together at the campfire, staying up until the sun rose, talking about their lives? Their hopes for the future. He’d told her everything about himself, and she him. He’d let her see the real Gideon, the one behind the bravado, the person he really was.

  And then she left.

  Gideon had thought that he and Malika had shared something. He believed that when he had revealed himself to her, that she had done the same. Apparently not. When she left him, she revealed another side. Things Gideon hadn’t known before. About who she was, about who her family was. About who she wanted to be. Why hadn’t he known any of this before? How could there have been so much that Malika hadn’t told him?

  Or perhaps she had told him, but he hadn’t been listening.

  It was Amanda all over again.

  It was freshman year of high school, and Gideon immediately felt the shift. Things were different for him. He was no longer the coolest kid at school, the one the girls all cooed over. He was the lowest of the low. He was a high school freshman. He was a boy.

  It didn’t matter that he stood over six feet tall; there was something different about the seniors. Those guys were no longer little boys, they were men. And the girls, even the freshman girls who, just a year earlier, had been desperate for some of Gideon’s time, wanted nothing to do with him.

  But not Amanda. Gideon was paired with her in chemistry—lab partners for the year. She was a sophomore, but that wasn’t why he wanted her. She was beautiful and smart and kind. When she looked at you, it was like staring at the sun for too long. Her smile made him feel like it was only for him. When she spoke, he could barely believe his luck. That this glorious creature deigned to speak to him.

  He first kissed her after a pop quiz they’d both aced. He found her at her locker, filing her papers away in a folder, and he grabbed her. If he’d given it even a second’s thought, he would have chickened out. He had to do it fast. When she kissed him back, Gideon felt as though his feet had left the ground. Once he opened his eyes, he was stunned to find that he was still in the corridor, still at her locker. Surely they’d been transported somewhere else?

  They became inseparable.

  Gideon wanted to do something special for their three-month anniversary. He knew it was coming up because Amanda had circled the date in glitter pen on the calendar she kept taped to her locker door.

  But what to get her? Perfect, perfect Amanda, with her long brown hair and cool blue eyes. No regular gift would do. Not perfume—she smelled like heaven. Not jewelry—no adornment could make her more beautiful. Not chocolate—he wanted something that would last.

  He recalled a mention of The Great Gatsby. Amanda had spoken of the book before, that much he knew. He took the train into the city for a signed first edition of
the book. He walked down to the Village to the antique gallery, a store that specialized in rare books. He found the book. Then the dealer told him the price.

  “Is this for you?”

  “No,” Gideon said. “My girlfriend. She loves The Great Gatsby.”

  The bookseller wrote down the name and the address of the Strand Bookstore. “Go here and pick up a hardcover copy of the book. Then, pretend you’re Gatsby and write your girl the most romantic note you can muster. Now, that’s a good gift.”

  Gideon did as he was told and walked over to the Strand. He bought the oldest-looking copy of Gatsby he could find, and inscribed it:

  Dear Amanda, Happy anniversary. You are the love of my life. I hope this book will show you how much you mean to me. I love you more than Gatsby loves Daisy.

  On the day of their anniversary, Gideon could hardly contain himself. He didn’t meet Amanda at her locker before homeroom like he usually did. He came to school early and waited for her bus to arrive.

  Amanda looked at the book, then at Gideon. “Why did you buy this for me?”

  “I remember you talked about it,” he said, smiling. Proud. “I wanted to get you something special.”

  “I told you that I hated this book,” she said. “Gatsby doesn’t know the real Daisy at all. She’s just a dream. What’s romantic about that?”

  But Gideon hadn’t remembered that part.

  Sri Lanka was supposed to be his chance to learn about life. About who he really was.

  And it seemed to him that in the year since he’d been there, he’d learned nothing. Nothing at all.

  Forty-Seven

  Sarah put the conference call on mute.

  “It’s like these people have never heard of the concept of advertising running the magazine,” she said to her assistant.

  Her assistant laughed out loud. “I know, right?”

  “If we didn’t have advertisers, we’d have no magazine.”

  “No magazine,” the girl echoed.

  Sarah’s assistant was straight out of fashion school. She had been hired in equal parts for her style (impeccable) and her grades (As across the board). Sarah was pleased with the hire. She knew her assistant would be promoted quickly, but she still enjoyed working with someone who was smart and motivated, even if it wouldn’t last long. It seemed so many of the people who worked at the magazine enjoyed the perks, but didn’t want to do the work.

  “Why are we even on this conference call?” Sarah asked.

  “You’re supposed to be talking sense into them.”

  “Oh yeah,” Sarah said, and then fiddled with the phone to take it off mute.

  “I have to agree with John on this,” Sarah said. “The advertisers need more involvement in the big spread. I saw a few pieces in their fall collection that would work well.”

  The art department and the executive editor continued talking as if Sarah hadn’t said a word.

  Sarah’s assistant looked back at her indignantly. How dare they? Sarah shook her head in response. How dare they, indeed!

  When Sarah was young, her father would bring her along to the hospital on days he wasn’t seeing patients. They’d stop in town to pick up bagels and coffee for the floor, and then Sarah would camp out at his conference room table while he did his administrative work at his desk. She’d sit and draw with her crayons for hours, while her father dictated charts, returned patient phone calls, and met with the staff in his department. Throughout it all—the patients, the hospital staff, the heavy workload—Sarah’s father maintained his composure. He never yelled. Never even raised his voice. He didn’t have to. Everyone, it seemed, hung on his every word. When Dr. Gold spoke, you listened.

  “No, I don’t think that’s right,” Sarah said, as the art department executive explained that the magazine’s biggest advertiser wouldn’t mind being put all the way in the back of the book, in one of the smaller spreads. “They need to be front and center.”

  Again, Sarah’s comment went unnoticed.

  “Excuse me,” Sarah said in her most assertive voice. “I was speaking.”

  She looked to her assistant, who shrugged her shoulders in response.

  “I feel like I’m not being heard here,” Sarah said, as the rest of the conference call proceeded as if she weren’t even there. She took a deep breath—what was it they said about counting to ten before getting angry?

  She looked out her window. She had earned this office. And the title. And the assistant. Sarah had started out on summer breaks from college as an intern at the magazine. She’d worked hard, and her hard work was noticed. Immediately after college, she landed a job as an assistant and quickly worked her way up. She was a senior fashion editor. Her opinion mattered.

  “If I could add something,” Sarah said, before being interrupted again. Apparently she could not.

  “Text John’s assistant and find out what on earth is going on here,” Sarah said to her assistant.

  “Hey!” Sarah yelled into the telephone. “Hey! Why the hell isn’t anyone listening to me?” She involuntarily stomped her foot on the ground. “Why did you put me on this conference call if you weren’t going to listen to a damn word I said? Why aren’t you listening to me?”

  Sarah’s assistant gasped.

  Had Sarah gone too far? Had she lost her temper with the wrong people? She knew John was her executive editor, but he’d always had her back. Surely he wasn’t angry with her? And she was fighting to be heard so that she could agree with everything he was saying, so what was the harm in that?

  Sarah’s assistant stood up and looked at the telephone. She pointed to the red light, which was blinking furiously. The phone had been on mute the entire time.

  Forty-Eight

  Valentina started the day at the gourmet market, her favorite one over on Front Street. She’d had the butcher carefully select the meats she’d be cooking that night, and help her get started on her antipasto platter. She’d made the pasta by hand, and the gravy, of course, but she wanted to leave the meat until the last second. She wanted the freshest meats she could get—she wanted the very best for this dinner.

  Joe was picking up the wine and Sarah was getting the dessert, but Valentina didn’t want to take any chances, so she picked up a bottle of Chianti and a Napoleon cake. She wasn’t leaving anything to chance.

  From a young age, Valentina had been taught that a woman can show her love through her cooking. She could recall meals from important moments of her life: her aunt’s braciola on the day of her First Communion; the gnocchi in pesto with fresh sage her mother made on her wedding day; even the risotto Dominic attempted to cook when they arrived home from their honeymoon. A gummy, tasteless mess that refused to spread, Dominic’s attempt at his mother’s signature recipe (her mother-in-law’s risotto, God rest her soul, was a gift from the heavens); Valentina refused to eat it, but she loved that he had made the effort on her behalf.

  She was grating fresh Parmesan when Dominic came through the door.

  “C’mere, you!” Dominic bellowed. Valentina rushed toward him. It was only, moments later, when they were already kissing, that Valentina realized she still had her apron on.

  “I think something’s burning, Ma,” Joe said, diverting his eyes from his parents, who were acting like teenagers.

  “Let it burn,” Dominic said, and kissed Valentina again.

  Joe camped out in the living room until Sarah arrived. She made straight for the kitchen to drop off the dessert.

  “I wouldn’t, if I were you. They’re having a conjugal visit in there,” Joe said.

  Sarah peeked into the kitchen. “It’s cute,” she said.

  “I wouldn’t mind a conjugal visit myself,” Joe said, taking Sarah in his arms.

  “Nice try, tiger.” Sarah laughed. “Maybe they didn’t hear me come in.” She walked to the door, opened it, and then slammed it shut.

  “My daughter!” Dominic cried out from the kitchen.

  The dinner party was back on track.
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  “Has your husband told you about what’s going on at my shop?” Dominic asked Sarah.

  “It’s very exciting,” Sarah said.

  “My shop, Pop,” Joe clarified.

  “Ah, yes,” Dominic said. “Joe’s shop. You like how he’s getting us certified in everything?”

  “I think it’s a great idea,” Sarah said.

  “Of course it’s a great idea,” Valentina said. “Now all those fancy people with their Mercedes-Benzes and Beemers will take their cars to my Joey.”

  Sarah smiled as Valentina bragged about Joe. What was that expression? Preaching to the choir?

  The conversation went like that for a while, everyone going around the table to praise Joe and how his business was already taking off, without any promotions or advertising, simply through word of mouth.

  But, of course, that’s all to subsidize the real work he’ll be doing—the restoration of old cars.

  He’s the only one in the tri-state area doing work like this.

  Already a huge success!

  “I’d like to make a toast,” Dominic announced, and then stood. “Time away from home makes a man think. I don’t care if it’s a night out with the guys, or a vacation, or even a stint in a minimum-security joint. Being away from your family makes you realize just how important your family is.

  “I’m a lucky, lucky man. I have the most important thing in the world. And I’m never going to do anything ever again that takes me away. You hear that, Val?”

  “I hear you, Nicky,” Valentina said.

  “To family,” Dominic said.

  Everybody raised their glasses and clinked them all together. Then, there was hugging, lots of hugging.

  “Enough of this!” Valentina said, laughing. “We’ve got three courses to eat—I hope everyone’s hungry!”

  “Starving,” Dominic said.

  “Yeah, starving,” Joe said.