Forks, Knives, and Spoons

by Leah DeCesare

  “Well, I told him I wanted to, and that my dad’s getting older and I would love to give him his wish of seeing me married. I guess I figured that telling him those things was enough. He didn’t say he didn’t want to get married.”

  Veronica started to point out that Amy had fretted over this very detail, that after their talk, he hadn’t said that he did want to get married, either. He had used the word “someday,” and Amy had flipped it around and around trying to figure out: When was someday?

  “You know, we’re only twenty-three, you’ve still got a lot of time for getting married.”

  “Yeah, but my dad’s sixty-eight, and I know he would like to see his grandkids. And if Andrew’s my steak knife, what difference does age make? When you know, you know. Right?”

  “Do you know?”

  Veronica noticed a whiff of a pause before Amy answered, “Yes.”

  AMY LEFT THE BAGS of clothes for donation in the lobby and, buoyed by the April air, returned to the apartment humming off-key. As she passed 202, the door swung open.

  “Joey, you scared me.” She laughed and greeted him with a hug as her heart raced.

  “Sorry. Veronica’s not home, right? Do you need a hand packing?”

  “Thanks, come on in, it’s just me.”

  “You’ve been a great friend to me and you’re Veronica’s best friend,” he began when the door closed behind them.

  “Yeah?” Amy encouraged, tipping her head to the side and pulling out a chair for each of them.

  “Well, we’ve been together for over eight months and she’s never brought me home to meet her family. I sometimes wonder if she’s even told them about me.” Joey’s voice was filled with sincerity and tinted with pain.

  “Have you asked Veronica about it?”

  “Yeah, I’ve brought it up. There are always reasons that she goes back to Newport alone, like work schedules, her parents’ traveling, or something, but”—he shook his head and swept both hands over the sides of his gelled black hair—“I just get this sense that she’s hiding something from me.”

  “I don’t know, Joey, Veronica can be a bit private about family stuff, but we both know she really cares about you,” Amy reassured him, but diverted her eyes. She didn’t want to go any further into the topic for fear of sharing something that Veronica hadn’t already told him herself.

  She passed Joey an open box. “The bottom three shelves are my books. Fill ’er up.”

  He clutched groups of paperbacks, moving slowly, pensively. His eyes, brimming with questions, tugged at Amy to say more.

  “Listen, Joey, talk to her. Okay?”

  “THERE YOU ARE, JOEY. I just knocked on your door.” Veronica dotted his cheek with kisses. “What are you doing here?”

  Joey and Amy were draped on the furniture, Rolling Rock bottles dripping with condensation in their fingertips even in the cool early-spring temperatures.

  “Grab a beer with us. We got a ton done. All of my books and CDs are packed, the front coat closet is finished, and Joey helped me take that rickety old cabinet I had in my room down to the street for the garbage.”

  Veronica opened a Coors Light with the familiar sound of the aluminum tab unsealing and sat next to Joey. She kissed him and he smiled at her.

  “I’m glad you’re home. I love you.”

  “Me, too,” Veronica said, and then she exaggerated a frown at Amy. “I still can’t believe you’re moving out.”

  “It’s been a long run as roomies. I’m going to miss you.”

  “What if this new Chelsea girl is like Single White Female, or takes forever in the bathroom?” Veronica moaned.

  “Don’t complain in front of me,” Joey said. “I told you to move in with me.”

  “You did?” Amy sat erect. “He did?” She turned accusingly to Veronica.

  Veronica shifted in her seat and glanced to the floor. “Only the other night. I just haven’t had the chance to tell you yet.”

  “She said, ‘No.’”

  Joey caught Amy’s eye, and she felt a pang knowing he was right. Her friend wasn’t fully letting him in.

  ANDREW STOOD AT THE counter sorting mail as Amy unpacked her CDs, mixing them into his collection. “Are you putting those together with the same genres of music?” he called through the large rectangular opening between the kitchen and living room.

  “Kind of.”

  “Here’s a postcard already from your buddy. What’s the computer geek up to, anyway? It’s gotta be lame still being in Syracuse.”

  Andrew tossed the card across the counter. The postcard slid as if on ice, gliding off the counter and skimming across the wood floor, where it stopped under the corner of the area rug—the rug that scratched at Amy’s sense of taste like a knife scraping across a ceramic plate.

  “He’s doing great, working on some big information system for the U.S. government,” she started to explain, but Andrew had lost interest.

  Amy got up from her spot on the floor and crawled the few feet to retrieve the card. The front was a picture of the Syracuse quad in full spring foliage, crisscrossed with its paths. She smiled, thinking of playing Frisbee there with Andrew and crossing those sidewalks with snow shoveled waist-high on either side. Seeing the picture of the quad brought back memories of the Phi Psi golf tournament freshman year, the stumping visit of presidential primary candidate Bill Clinton, and the ordinary lingering through the years. She flipped the postcard to read Matt’s note.

  Dear Amy,

  Thanks for your call on my mom’s birthday. You’re the best to remember—it was a hard day for me. I got the promotion! Thanks for the encouraging letter. I’m working on some really cool stuff. There’s talk of a merger with Martin Marietta, busier than ever. Congrats on another great byline! Proud of you!

  Love, Matt

  No mention of Patty, Amy noticed, but then, he never did mention her.

  “Andrew, did you read my article yet? I’m dying to know what you think.”

  “Not yet, I’ve just been so swamped.” Andrew tossed an envelope into a pile and a catalog into the garbage. “Want to go away somewhere this summer?” he asked her, holding up a travel agency brochure filled with fancy, happy beach photos.

  In all their years together, they had never taken a full week’s get-on-a-plane-and-go-away vacation, just the two of them. She was holding a Smiths disc, deciding where to file it. Amy dropped the orange case and sat on the stool across from him at the counter.

  “A real vacation together? Yeah!” she said, beaming. “Where to?”

  “I don’t know, you pick someplace, but I’d rather go to a beach or island than some kind of touristy adventure trip.”

  Amy kneeled on the stool, leaned across the Corian counter, and kissed his lips with a playful smack.

  “This will be so much fun. I’ll stop in at that travel agency near my office tomorrow at lunch and get some ideas,” Amy said, opening the trifold pamphlet and staring at the images of romantic destinations.

  “I’M A HUMAN RESOURCES manager, Joey, I can’t just take a day off and not follow the protocol. I need to set an example,” Veronica spoke quietly into the phone. “You know I’d love to head out a day early, but the rules are the rules. Let’s leave tomorrow after work like we planned.”

  “All right, I was hoping to beat the traffic down to the shore, but I’ll fit in another job.”

  “We’ll still have all weekend, and I’m approved for Monday off like we decided. It’s better having the day after Easter off anyway—then we won’t need to rush home on Sunday.” Veronica tidied a binder and hole-punched papers as she spoke to him.

  “Your parents are okay with you not going home for Easter?” Joey asked softly, wondering more than his words exposed.

  Veronica punched a group of pages then said, “They’ll be fine. I’m calling now. See you tonight.”

  “Bye, I love you.”

  “Me, too.”

  Veronica replaced the receiver with precision and snappe
d together the rings of the binder with a clank. I love you, Joey, she thought with a knot in her stomach. I do love him and he treats me better than any other guy ever has. So why can’t I say the words? When she was alone, Veronica practiced in front of her mirror, saying, “I love you, Joey,” over and over, believing the repetition would help the words come out when she was with him. But they never did.

  “HONEY, I’M SO GLAD you called, I have the Curtises coming for Easter dinner. Do you remember their son, Ian?” Susan Warren rattled on the moment she heard her daughter’s voice.

  “Yes, Mom.” Veronica tried to keep the impatience from her voice. “Don’t you remember all the times we’ve hung out since you introduced us freshman year? But that’s why I’m calling.”

  “You’ll be up on Friday night, right? I hope you’re not planning to come on Saturday morning because I’ve already set up a day for the two of us. We’re getting manicures—I got appointments with my favorite two girls—then we’re going to—”

  “Mom,” Veronica interrupted.

  “What is it? You don’t want a manicure?” Her mother’s voice dropped.

  “No, Mom, it’s not that. I’m calling to tell you that I’m not coming home for Easter this year.” Veronica spoke the words quickly, then held the phone away from her ear and closed her eyes, waiting.

  There was silence, and Veronica worried that she was missing her mother’s words so she pushed the phone to her ear in time for one more beat of silence and then the guilt.

  “Well, if that’s what you want, your father will be so disappointed to hear it. And that nice Curtis boy, he’ll be alone with us old folks,” she started.

  Veronica just sighed and listened.

  “Wait, what are you going to do for Easter? You’ll go to a service, won’t you? Who will you be with? I feel like we never see you anymore. Is there something you’re keeping from us?”

  Veronica couldn’t lie and couldn’t answer, either. She inhaled, deciding what to say, but her mother continued: “We won’t be around next weekend, you know, if you wanted to come up then instead, I mean. That’s the week your father and I head to Washington for that fundraiser. I do wish you could meet us there. I hear the senator’s son is available and I’m sure your father could make an introduction.”

  “Mom, I’m sorry, I’ve got to go now, I’m at work,” Veronica said. “I just wanted to let you know.”

  “Well, okay then. Good-bye, honey, we’ll miss you,” her mother said. “Happy Easter.”

  Veronica heard the dial tone and whispered, “Happy Easter, Mom.”

  “CAN WE DYE EASTER eggs tomorrow?” Amy asked. “I love coloring eggs.”

  “I’m sure my sisters, or at least Heather, would do that with you,” Andrew answered, pulling out of the rental car parking lot and onto the West Side Highway toward the George Washington Bridge.

  As they headed into New Jersey, Amy pulled out a few tapes and fed the Footloose sound track into the cassette player. “Okay, flashback time.” She danced in her seat to “Footloose,” “Let’s Hear It for the Boy,” and “Dancing in the Sheets,” until she was out of breath and her face muscles were sore from her constant smile.

  “You’re hilarious. I think you may rock the car right off the road,” Andrew teased as they eased onto Interstate 80 westbound toward Sparta.

  “I love this next song.” Amy clapped.

  “More than the last ones? I’m in trouble.”

  She was already moving to the beat under her seat belt when Bonnie Tyler started wailing and Amy joined in on the first words.

  Where have all the good men gone, and where are all the gods? Amy belted out the lyrics, singing freely off-key and letting go of New York City and her workweek. She pumped her fists and flipped her head forward, letting her brown hair shake around her. I need a hero! I’m holding out for a hero till the morning light!

  “You’ve got your hero right here,” Andrew said, smirking as the song ended. “I’m a hero just for letting you sing the whole drive.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I haven’t heard that song in ages. Okay, my turn to choose?” He turned on the radio, adjusted the dial and tweaked it to Stone Temple Pilots.

  Andrew pounded the steering wheel to the beat through Pearl Jam and Nirvana as Amy’s head lilted to the side and she dozed off despite the high-volume rock. He pushed in the Soul Asylum cassette and lowered it to let her sleep a little longer as he exited onto Route 15 north. Pulling onto Farmbrook Road, Andrew stopped the car and gently stroked Amy’s cheek.

  “Aim, we’re here. Wake up, we’re here.”

  Her eyes eased open and she rubbed a kink from her neck as Andrew entered the garage door code. Hearing the rumble of the door, Heather and Stephanie ran out to meet them.

  “Andrew! Amy!” Heather, a high school junior, took Amy’s arm and led her into the kitchen. “I’m so happy you guys are out for the weekend. You’re staying in my room like usual, Amy, I have it all set up for you, come on.”

  Wendy Gabel laughed as her daughter tugged Amy through the kitchen.

  “Hi, Mrs. Gabel,” Amy called over her shoulder.

  “I’ll say hello when Heather sets you free.”

  Stephanie, a freshman in college, liked Amy, but she missed her brother and was stingy about sharing him. She stuck to him as she would all weekend. Andrew always wanted to be around family and friends, and people always wanted to be around him. Amy understood Stephanie’s desire to have him all to herself, even just for a little while.

  ON SATURDAY MORNING, Amy woke and shot out of bed when she saw the time, 9:38. Crap! she thought. I don’t want to look like a complete slug. I hope I’m not the last one up. She tugged on a sweatshirt over her pajamas, brushed her teeth, pinched her cheeks for some color, and headed downstairs. From the foyer, she heard whispered voices in the kitchen. Good, she thought, maybe they’re being quiet because others are still sleeping. Just in case, she tiptoed toward them.

  “Well, sweetie, I don’t know what you two are waiting for. Your dad and I were already married at your age. She’s a wonderful girl and if you love her, I don’t know why you don’t propose,” Mrs. Gabel said.

  Amy froze. She looked back toward the steps and debated going quietly back up and then thumping down a little to make herself known. She was hidden by the dining room wall, and she hunched behind it, wondering what Andrew’s response would be.

  “Amy,” Heather yelled behind her. “What are you doing there?”

  The question forced her to emerge from the entry into the breakfast room, fully lit with eastern sun. Mrs. Gabel’s eyes darted up and Andrew turned in his chair.

  “Morning, Aim.” He put down his coffee and stood to hug her. “Sleep good?” he asked, rubbing the back of her head. She nodded, gently leaning her head into his hand, and then she bent to give Mrs. Gabel a hug as Heather disappeared into the family room and flipped on the TV, filling the room with the voices from a Fresh Prince of Bel-Air rerun.

  “Good morning. Yes, I slept great. Heather’s bed is comfy. But I’m sorry, I had no idea it was so late.”

  Waving a hand that it didn’t matter, Mrs. Gabel made her own apology with a lowered voice. “I’m sorry you two can’t share a room here. We know you live together, but we’re trying to set an example for Steph and Heather,” Mrs. Gabel explained again, as she did every time they spent the night in Sparta.

  “Really, it’s okay, Mrs. Gabel, I don’t mind at all. We still sleep in separate rooms at my dad’s house, too.” She noticed Mrs. Gabel’s shoulders slacken with the reassurance.

  Amy poured herself some coffee, adding sugar and light cream.

  “Go easy, that has caffeine,” Andrew teased, knowing Amy’s accelerated, jittery response to coffee. She cradled the mug in her palms and inhaled the aromatic steam, enjoying the experience of the coffee more than the substance of it.

  “I hear you’re going to Saint John this summer,” Mrs. Gabel said.

  “Mom, just let
it go,” Andrew snapped.

  “What a fun trip that’ll be. Do you want some eggs?” She ignored Andrew’s admonition and started preparing to cook without Amy’s answer, which was always affirmative when it came to food.

  “I’ll do the toast,” Amy offered, hoping to intercept another remark from Andrew; his tone had surprised her.

  “Do you two have anything special planned for your trip?”

  “Mom! Knock it off!” Andrew barked, shocking Amy frozen.

  Mrs. Gabel gave her son a mother’s look that held meaning at any age, but Amy saw hurt in her face.

  “Wendy, can you come in here a second, please?” Roger Gabel called to his wife, popping his head into the kitchen. “Oh, good morning, Amy.”

  Alone, Andrew stood behind Amy, holding her hips as she put slices of bread into the toaster. “I missed you last night.” He kissed behind her ear. “So, how much exactly did you hear this morning?”

  “Oh, not much.” She felt his sigh on her neck. “But I am wondering why you don’t propose.”

  Andrew exhaled with deliberation. He let go of her hips, patted her bottom playfully, and said, “Someday.”

  Amy bit her lip as she slammed down the toaster lever. She was tired of that word.

  SHOWERED AND DRESSED, AMY sat in the kitchen with her notebook, working on a story, when Mrs. Gabel sat beside her.

  “Amy, can I talk with you for a moment while Andrew’s upstairs?”

  Amy put down her pen, grateful for the mother-daughter-like moments with Mrs. Gabel.

  “I love my son. He’s like the sun, bright and big, a huge shining star. He’s a wonderful son and brother and has always made us proud. But everything has always come easily to him. I sometimes wonder if I’ve failed him because he’s too accustomed to things orbiting around him and going his way. He hasn’t often really had to commit himself to anything”—she took a breath and leaned toward Amy—“or anyone.”

  Amy crumpled her brow, confused by what she was saying. “Do you think he doesn’t love me?”