Forks, Knives, and Spoons

by Leah DeCesare

  “Well, I went in for medicine—it was my dad’s dream for me, not something I was interested in, but I did it for him. I stuck it out for three years, but finally, I told him I really didn’t want to be a doctor. So I switched into electrical engineering. He was mad at me for a long time, in that good ol’ stubborn Italian way, but then he saw my business grow and he saw that I was happy. It wasn’t long before he was back to being my biggest fan.”

  “Your business?” Veronica nudged him for more information, no longer able to sit quietly.

  “Yeah, I’m an electrician. Didn’t really finish all the requirements for an engineering degree. I started training and did apprenticeships while I was still in school. I took the licensing exam and became an electrician—that’s why I never graduated. Now, I run a small business and have four other guys working for me. We keep pretty busy.” Joey stood and started toward the kitchen. “Excuse me.”

  The CD player paused, rotated to the next disc, and then Ray Charles joined the gathering of neighbors. Glancing to where Joey had disappeared, Amy leaned toward Veronica, whose foot was back to bouncing.

  “He’s really nice,” Amy said in her softest voice.

  Veronica nodded, then put her glass to her lips, the foot that dangled over her knee wiggling rhythmically. Amy swayed in her seat and mouthed the words as Ray sang “I’ve Got a Woman” before stuffing a marinated artichoke wedge in her mouth.

  “Dinner will be ready in just a few minutes,” Joey announced, coming back and refilling their glasses.

  His living room was large enough to fit a substantial dining table; it was black with sleek lines and was set with candles and three place settings. Unadorned, contemporary-styled forks, knives, and spoons framed each plate.

  “What year did you finish school?” Amy asked.

  “’Eighty-six.” He smirked and ran a hand over the side of his head, smoothing his immovable hair.

  Veronica was quicker in calculations, and she lifted her eyebrows toward Amy, who was still tabulating his approximate age, invisibly using her fingers, Veronica knew.

  “When’s your birthday?” Veronica asked, still circling around the edge of the real question.

  “March seventh.” He grinned, visibly amused. “Do you want the year?”

  “That would make it easier,” Amy joked.

  “I just turned twenty-eight.”

  Veronica let her gaze rest on Joey, acknowledging her attraction and disregarding the six-year age gap. They were officially adults and age didn’t matter anymore. She could ignore his age, she told herself, but what about him not having a college degree?

  A DAY AFTER THEIR moving-in-day dinner at Joey’s, they found a note tucked under their door. The envelope was addressed to Veronica in a boyish scribble. The words were few but revealed his interest.

  Veronica—

  I would love to get to know you better. Dinner again sometime? I’ll be out of town for a few days for the 4th weekend. I’d like to call you when I get back, but I need your phone number.

  Joey

  He jotted his number beneath his name, though it was hard to tell the 4’s from the 9’s after the 212 area code. In the days after they discovered the note, Veronica analyzed every word and debated a reply, but she left for the holiday weekend without responding.

  “He seems really nice and he’s cute,” Veronica confessed, “but he’s not like the other guys I’ve dated. What would my parents think? I’m not even sure what I think.”

  “Just go out with him and see,” Amy encouraged.

  Veronica chatted about him on their train ride to Newtown, where they spent the Fourth of July. She talked about him in the dark as the girls lay in Amy’s childhood bedroom, and at the cookout, at the fireworks, and on the train home.

  “He’s just not really the kind of guy I thought I’d be with—he didn’t even finish college. He is so different from Eric and Scott and Doug and, well, everyone I’ve ever gone out with.”

  “How did those guys work out for you?” Amy joked. “Maybe Joey is your steak knife.”

  Veronica ignored her and continued undeterred in her list of protests, then boomeranged back to all the reasons she wanted to see Joey.

  “He really is sweet and an amazing cook—that alone blows away a bunch of the things on my ‘ideal guy’ list. Seriously, a guy who can cook.”

  “He was a great host and obviously does his own laundry and ironing, too,” Amy said, adding to the plus column.

  “His clothes. Some of his clothes are so, I don’t know, so tight and dark, but they do show he’s got a fine body. And his business must be successful to own that apartment. He seems like a great family guy, which I love, but do you think that could be a problem, too? What if he’s a real mama’s boy?” Veronica debated herself out loud.

  When they returned to their building, they heard music as they passed apartment 202. Veronica moved quickly past and into their apartment. She pulled the worn note from her pocket and reread it. Still conflicted, she drafted a response, then edited it twice. Finally, she slipped the piece of paper under Joey’s door with only her phone numbers written on it, labeled work and home. Then she waited. They waited.

  “He’s back in town, right? We did hear music from his apartment—that means he’s back, doesn’t it? Why hasn’t he called?” Veronica said an hour after she left the numbers.

  “What do you think he is, V? He kind of looks like he could be a little forky, but he doesn’t seem like a fork at all, does he? Can he look like a fork but be a steak knife? What would that be?” Amy giggled, knowing she was asking these questions to a nonparticipatory Veronica. “Are there any Italian utensils? Maybe he’s a garlic press! Or a wine corkscrew?”

  “Smelly or crooked, terrific,” Veronica objected.

  “A wooden spoon? Nah, he’s definitely not a spoon. What about those Italian knife thingies, you know, the curved knives with handles on the sides? I think they’re called mezzalinas or mezzalunas or something. Maybe he’s an Italian knife,” Amy decided, adding a new entry to the UCS, and Veronica smiled despite herself.

  The next day, the girls returned home after work having met up to walk across town together. The light on the answering machine was blinking when they let themselves into the dim apartment. Veronica dropped her bag, stepped hastily out of only one of her heels, and limped across the room to press the play button.

  “Hi, honey, it’s Dad. I’m calling to—” Beep—Veronica hit the skip button. “Sorry, Amy, you can listen to it after, okay?”

  “Hi, Veronica and Amy, it’s Joey. Veronica, I’m calling to see if you want to go out this week. Maybe dinner on Wednesday? Give me a call, or just come by.”

  Veronica pattered her feet in a fast Flashdance move, making her curls swirl crazily. She squeezed her fisted hands near her face and couldn’t extinguish her smile. She smiled through changing into spandex workout clothes and the Denise Austin exercise video she and Amy did together in the living room, she smiled through heating up dinner, and she smiled through eating.

  WHEN THE DATE NIGHT arrived, Amy was in their kitchen chopping zucchini and onions for her favorite summer soup when Veronica’s key turned in the lock.

  “A postcard from Syracuse.”

  “Oh, let me see it.” Amy brushed the onions off her fingertips and wiped her hands on her shorts before taking the card from Veronica. Despite her frequent letters, Matt’s postcards had dwindled over the past month, from one a week after graduation to only every few weeks.

  “I swear that boy has a thing for you!”

  “No, he doesn’t, we’re friends.”

  “You share more with him than with anyone, except me and Andrew, of course. Are you sure he thinks you’re just friends?”

  “You sound like my dad, but yes, he’s a best friend, nothing else. Would you like to hear what our favorite spoon has to say?” Amy asked affectionately. With the way Matt knew computers—better than most of the U.S. population—he had to be labeled a spoon
.

  Veronica smiled and let out an exasperated sigh. “I thought this fork, knife, and spoon stuff would subside once we were out of school.”

  “Why would you think that? The UCS is very useful,” Amy said, and reread the postcard aloud for Veronica:

  Dear Amy,

  Went to the Finger Lakes with some friends for the 4th. Fireworks always remind me of you and the summers I visited in Newtown. Loved the story you sent, it’s exciting to see your name in the paper. Keep it up! Miss you.

  Love, Matt

  Amy warmed in the air-conditioned apartment, thinking of the short but fun-packed days when Matt came to see her the summers after sophomore and junior years. Reading the card through again, she walked to her room behind Veronica, who went to change for her date with Joey.

  From the bottom bookshelf, Amy pulled out the box her dad had built for her. Undoing the latch, she tucked in Matt’s postcard, adding it to the others, and took a moment to peek at the tokens of memories in her Treasure Box: ticket stubs, a cork from the bottle of wine she and Andrew shared on their third anniversary feeling very mature, and a crown he made her out of twist ties from the grocery store during junior year’s Christmas break.

  Leaning into Amy’s doorway, Veronica asked, “How do I look?” She spun around, modeling a fluttery red top and a four-inch-wide belt over slim jeans and flat sandals. “I still can’t believe I said yes to this date. He’s really not my type.”

  “You look great.”

  Waiting for Joey, Veronica paced, grinned, and sighed. The knock at the door came as she finished her sixth loop in front of their Third Avenue windows. She opened the door and turned her face nervously as he greeted her with a cheek kiss, her hair veiling half of his face.

  “Are you trying to hide me behind that terrific hair of yours?” he teased.

  Veronica blushed lavishly and, over her shoulder, she threw Amy a giddy smile, then followed Joey for their first date.

  “YOU WAITED UP FOR me?” Veronica flopped beside Amy where she was reading in bed.

  “Of course.” Amy marked her page in Danielle Steel’s newest bestseller, Jewels, and tossed the book aside. “So, how was it?”

  “Oh my gosh, he is completely amazing. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt like this about someone before. He’s so smart, and we talked about music and books, not that romance trash that you read.” She smiled at Amy’s shrug. “He’s funny, too—we laughed all night. It was easy talking with him, and he’s really good-looking. I couldn’t stop staring at him through the whole dinner.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  “You’d never believe this place, it’s called Puglia’s in Little Italy, and there’s this guy who plays the accordion and sings old Italian songs. Joey knows him—Jorge is his name—and it seemed like he knew everyone else there, too. We had awful-tasting Chianti out of carafes and sat at long tables with tons of other people. It was the best!”

  “Sounds like an intimate first date.”

  “He even bought me a rose from the guy who came around selling flowers.” Veronica paused to take a breath. “Seriously, I think I really like him. What am I going to do?”

  AFTER MONTHS OF GOOD intentions and busy schedules, a double date was finally arranged. As the foursome entered the Mulholland Drive Cafe, Patrick Swayze’s restaurant on Third Avenue at Sixty-Third Street, Andrew said, “You look pretty, Aim.”

  She wore a new one-piece romper in a deep blue and modeled it for Veronica loving the way the wide legs flowed as she walked. He let Amy enter, then held the door for Veronica and Joey.

  “This looks like a good pick, Amy,” Veronica said. “You know the theme song from Dirty Dancing was my prom theme.”

  “Mine, too,” Andrew said, and laughed.

  “Mine was Phil Collins, ‘Against All Odds.’ I wore the best white strapless dress.”

  “My senior prom theme was ‘Wonderful Tonight,’” Joey chimed in, “classic Clapton slow dance. I went with Gina Broncatelli. Her hair was so high that she looks taller than me in all the pre-prom pictures, but by the time they played ‘Stairway to Heaven,’ her hair looked like she’d jumped in a swimming pool.”

  They all laughed.

  “I danced with Scott Moore to that one,” Veronica said.

  “Chrissy Conover,” said Andrew.

  “Mike Testani,” Amy said.

  “Ah, finally, a good Italian name.” Joey gave Amy’s shoulder a friendly squeeze.

  “Right this way,” the hostess announced as she gathered menus and led them between the tables.

  They shared laughter, college tales, and appetizers; work sagas, long-winded jokes, and bottles of wine. Veronica radiated beneath Joey’s attention and his touch on her leg. The way he listened to her made her know she mattered. Feeling heard gave her a comfort she hadn’t known before, and it gave her a perspective she hadn’t expected. Basking in Joey’s attentiveness underscored how Andrew seemed to be distracted sometimes when Amy told him stories or spoke about her job. At dinner, she noticed him glance over Amy’s shoulder, watching people at another table while she was talking to him.

  “Great article in the Observer last week,” Joey said.

  “Thanks. I’m not sure if I’m happy or sad that I didn’t write that piece on Kiki Kosinski; it’s sure getting a lot of buzz.”

  “Your piece on Williamsburg was a spot-on profile of the neighborhood.”

  Andrew joined the conversation. “You wrote about Jerzy Kosinski’s widow, Aim?”

  The three of them stared at him. When no one spoke, Joey said, “No, that was another reporter, man. Don’t you follow what your girlfriend’s working on?”

  “Sure I do. Yeah, of course. I just forgot.” He hailed the passing waitress, giving her a grand smile.

  After ordering desserts, Amy and Veronica excused themselves to the ladies’ room.

  “Joey is so into you. I see how much he likes you when he’s hanging out at our place, but the way he is with you in public is incredible. He’s definitely a solid steak knife, or did we decide on him being a mezzaluna?” Amy said, pushing open the bathroom door.

  “He is amazing, so why have I not told my parents about him? They still think I’m single and my mom tries to set me up constantly.”

  In the stall, Amy wrestled and twisted to unzip her romper. Wiggling, she pulled it to her mid-back, and then she stretched her arms trying to grasp the zipper again.

  “What’s going on in there? You’re making funny noises.”

  Amy laughed then grunted. “I can’t unzip this dang romper and I really have to pee. Oh, got it!”

  Noise from the restaurant swept in with the open door, then muted with its closing.

  “This guy is a total fake. I can’t believe you and Jake thought I’d like him. Can’t you see that he’s such a phony?”

  “It’s just a date—you don’t have to marry the guy.”

  “I can barely stand to eat with him. Every word out of his mouth is putting a price tag on something. ‘My new stereo with the five-disc CD player cost me six hundred dollars,’ ‘You wouldn’t believe how much I spent on this jacket,’ ‘I paid thirty grand for my car.’ Which, by the way, is a ridiculous amount to spend on a car. That’s like a whole year’s salary. I can’t stand it. Is he so insecure that he has to announce how much he spends on everything? I’m serious, Tiffany, I’m not going to make it through this dinner.”

  Amy and Veronica slipped to the sinks, passing the girls in matching skintight black miniskirts and feathered bangs. One had on the thick-heeled black shoes that everyone was wearing and the other had on classic black pumps. From the stalls they heard the girl in the metallic silver top go on: “How can you even be friends with this jerk? He’s not even good-looking enough to act as cocky as he does. God, he’s acting like some bigwig, some know-it-all. Who is he kidding?”

  Metallic Girl was still complaining when Amy and Veronica left the bathroom. Far enough from the closed door, they burst into laughter.

/>   “That was hilarious! What kind of utensil is that guy?” Amy challenged, not waiting for an answer. “I’ve got it! He’s a plastic fork. Fake, superficial, plasticky, and he definitely sounds forky. Yes, that’s perfect. Our very first plastic fork. Although, wait, do you remember that guy we met, spring break junior year in Cancun? What was his name? That guy who wouldn’t leave us alone and kept talking about how much he spent on everything?”

  “Oh my gosh, I remember him. Clinton or Clifford or something? He wouldn’t stop throwing numbers around. He was so shallow and completely in love with himself.”

  “He must’ve been our first plastic fork.”

  Walking slower to their table of knives, Veronica asked, “Which one do you think they were talking about?”

  They scanned the restaurant for another table with two guys sitting beside two empty seats.

  “Over there,” Amy said, pointing with her chin. “I bet the plastic fork is the one with the pink collar turned up,” she added as they put their napkins back on their laps.

  “And the ‘very expensive jacket’ on the back of his chair.”

  “What poor man are you two labeling now?” Andrew shook his head sympathetically.

  “Just be glad it’s not you this time, superstar,” Veronica jabbed, not without a little honesty behind her words.

  HAPPY TO BE HOME AFTER a long workday, Amy heard the phone ringing in their apartment from down the hall. Searching for the right key, she moved quickly. By the time she stepped into the stuffy apartment, the answering machine had picked up: “Hi, Amy.” The familiar voice filled her heart and she picked up the cordless phone from its cradle, stopping the recording.

  “Matt, hi. I’m here.” She hugged her friend with the cheer in her words.

  “I’m so glad I caught you. I’m home and—”

  “What’s wrong? Your voice sounds hoarse. Wait, you’re in Tuckahoe?”

  The phone line was quiet except for the sound of him breathing.

  “Matt? What?”

  “My mom died last night,” Matt whispered. The words crushed her; she fell onto the couch and cried with Matt. She felt the loss fiercely for him and his family, but also for herself. Mrs. Saxon had welcomed her like one of her own daughters and had filled a maternal longing for Amy. Now she was gone.