Great. So he thought we were fools for being here too.
“It is not your job to serve them what they want!” he proclaimed. “It is your job to teach the customer to want what you serve!”
Everyone was totally still. This was good. This seemed profound, even, despite the fact that he was basically promoting himself and his own success story. A man like him never needed anyone else to tell him he was good. He just knew it. Was he born with that confidence? Or was it instilled by his parents? I’d read he’d been very close with his mother, who took him traveling to Europe a lot when he was a kid. God, it would be so incredible to have an affair with a man like him. Not that he was my type. Too old. Too put together. He would never go for someone like me. Not that he could know anything about me, since I was dressed like everyone else. But he most certainly knew everything there was to know about making love to a woman. In a vineyard. With the smell of grapes and wood and smoke and the hot sun beating down . . .
“So, if you could open whatever restaurant you wanted, what would it be like?” He paused and looked around the room. I shifted in my seat. Didn’t really want to put my fantasies out there in front of my classmates. Evidently, no one else did either.
“How many of you plan to own your own business?”
Tara’s hand shot up. Sure. She would have no problem. Her father would set her up. Me? How would I ever get the money? The idea of going to my father again was depressing.
Evidently, I wasn’t the only financially challenged one there. Tara and a couple of the second-career people were the only ones to raise their hands.
“Really,” he said. “I’m surprised. Well,” he continued, “you still need to understand how a restaurant is run. And that’s what we’ll be talking about in here. How to plan a menu. How to make a wine list. How to hire a staff. How to make a profit. Because even if you’re drawn to this business because you have a love for food, and for cooking, and you love, as we all do, the theater that is part of creating your own restaurant . . . if you don’t know how to make money, you’re going to fail.”
With that, he dismissed us. I walked out to the elevator with Ralph, and we went to get lunch. As soon as we hit the street, Ralph started to swoon. “I’m in love.”
“He’s not gay.”
“He can evolve.”
“He’s out of our league.”
“A guy can always dream.”
We went into a deli. And got ourselves a couple gourmet sandwiches.
chapter eight
m y father let me in. His apartment was a floor-through in a nineteenth-century townhouse on East Sixty-sixth Street. Not the biggest space in the world, but it was beautiful.
“Thanks for coming,” he said. He was still in his suit, but his tie was undone.
“I’m happy to. Can I put this here?” I set my knife roll down on a small table by the door.
“Sure. Can I get you something to drink? A soda?”
“Maybe just some water. Thanks.”
“No problem.”
Why did we have to be so stiff with each other? Every time we saw each other it was as if we’d just met.
He went to the kitchen, and I noticed Emma. She was sitting on the couch watching TV. Catatonic. “Hi,” I said.
“Hi.”
Her voice was cold and her gaze didn’t leave the screen. Still, my heart went out to her. She looked so all alone and innocent swallowed up in that couch wearing a T-shirt that said BLONDES HAVE MORE FUN. She had brown hair. Her face was splotchy. Her twelve-year-old body was just starting to grow curves. She needed her mom. Her mom wasn’t here. It was too sad! Yet there was so much of Leah’s essence in the room. She’d loved going to auctions and dealers and antique stores, and she’d managed to create a home that was luxurious but also laid-back. Earth tones. Thick wool rug. Huge, soft golden brown sofa. New York could be such a harsh place to live. It had to be a comfort to come home to a place like this. At least, it must’ve been a comfort. But now?
My father returned with the water. “Emma, did you say hi to Ginger?”
She didn’t respond, just seemed to sink deeper into herself.
“She said hi before,” I said.
He led me to his bedroom. “Sorry. When she gets in front of that thing . . .”
I’d rarely been in his bedroom, except for passing through quickly on the way to use the bathroom when the one near the kitchen was occupied. Now I stood next to the queen-sized bed with its thick, eggplant-colored goose down quilt and looked around. Faced with the reality of this task, I was wondering exactly why I had agreed to do this.
“I really appreciate this,” my father said. “I know it’s asking a lot. But everything’s been sitting here, and I put it off, and put it off, and realized I just couldn’t bring myself to touch anything. Maybe I just should’ve hired someone.”
“No, I’m glad to do it, really.”
“And I admit, I had an ulterior motive.”
I raised my eyebrows at him. Maybe this was his clumsy yet well-meaning way of getting closer! Maybe his plan was to do this along with me. We could work side by side, and as we put Leah’s things into boxes, we could talk about her, and then us, and finally really get to know each other.
“My work schedule is crazy,” he said. “And Emma is alone so much. I wish she had more friends. I’m worried about her. I thought maybe you two could get to know each other better.”
I shrugged. “I’m sure it hasn’t been easy for her.”
“Yeah, at her age especially, it’s hard to open up to me.”
I wanted to say it would be hard to open up to him at any age, or had he not noticed I’d never opened up to him, or maybe he had—just didn’t think that was a problem. But I kept my mouth shut. I wasn’t a child. (Though I sure felt like one around him!) Emma was the one who’d just lost her mother. My hurt was nothing compared to hers. “I’ll try,” I said. “Though I don’t think she really likes me very much.”
“I’m sure she’ll open up to you.”
I wanted to ask why he thought that. Because I was such a warm, engaging person? Then why hadn’t he ever opened up to me? Okay, I was regressing again, and my father was on to showing me around, giving me instructions. He had a meeting to get to.
“There are Hefty bags in the kitchen, under the sink. And please feel free to keep anything you want. Maybe you should check with Emma first, in case it’s something she might want. But obviously there’s a lot here, and most of it’s way too old for her anyway.”
“I don’t think the clothes are really my style.”
“Well, you never know.” He looked in the mirror and retied his tie. “So. You have the key. Feel free to come by whenever you want to.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank you.”
As soon as he left, I sat down on the edge of the bed. There was so much to do! Where to begin? Why had I said yes to this? I decided to take inventory. The top of her bureau was crowded with stuff: hairbrush, jewelry box, books, papers. It was true, he had not touched a thing. Her walk-in closet was double-hung and packed with lawyerish skirt suits, summer dresses, dinner dresses, winter coats. Two shelves along the top were crammed with storage boxes and shopping bags. Treasures? Junk? The floor was covered with shoes. She had obviously not been a neat person. I liked her for that.
Emma. She was out there. I was supposed to bond with her. I made myself go to the living room.
“So,” I said, “I’m just gonna start. If you want to come in and help . . . I mean, you don’t have to, but if you want to . . .”
“I’m watching TRL.” Her jaw required a concerted effort to be moved. Her eyes did not leave the TV. Some curly-haired guy was interviewing J-Lo.
“They say she has a big butt,” I said, “but it doesn’t look that big to me.” It looked to be about the same size as my own butt. Or how I imagined my butt to be. It’s hard to have perspective on your own butt. In any case, Emma was not weighing in on J-Lo�
��s butt size, so I went to get a garbage bag.
I started with the underwear drawer. It was a jumbled wad of cotton Jockey underwear, black and white cotton socks, and nylon bras with no padding. Death meant I knew Leah wore no thongs. I shook my head and fought back a sudden attack of tears. Dumped it all into the Hefty bag. Told myself I was not going to get all emotional about this, was just going to do the job, do the job, do the job. Then, on the bottom of the now empty drawer, I found a folded piece of paper.
I smoothed it out on top of the bed. It was a child’s crayon drawing of two stick figures wearing triangle skirts, one taller than the other, holding hands. In a child’s crooked printing, it said, “I miss you at lunch today my Mommy, luv Emma.”
My eyes stung. Should I show it to Emma? I certainly couldn’t throw it out. She had to know her mother was saving this in her underwear drawer. It would make her feel good. Miserable, but good.
I went to the living room. Looked at the screen. The camera was panning out the studio window at screaming fans in Times Square. “I found something.” I sat next to her. “In your mom’s drawer.”
Everyone was clapping and cheering for J-Lo.
“Would you like to see it?” I held it out. “It’s very sweet.” Her frown just turned into a deeper frown. Maybe I’d done the wrong thing.
But maybe not.
“I’m going to put it on your desk, okay? You should have it.”
“Would you please leave?”
“What?”
“You shouldn’t be going through my mother’s things.” It took her such effort to say the words, I thought her face was going to crack. I appreciated that she’d managed to say anything. I remembered when Coco once confessed that she’d read my journal. I remembered her sitting on the edge of my bed apologizing and all I would do was stare straight ahead, silent, with such anger tensing up my face I thought my eyeballs were going to explode.
“Your dad asked me to do this,” I said. I hated how it came out like that. As if he wasn’t my dad too.
“She’s not your mother.”
I suppressed an urge to walk out of the apartment without saying another word. Or remind her that even if Leah wasn’t my mother, I certainly did miss her. But there was no point telling her that. My loss didn’t begin to measure up to hers, and I was still lucky enough to have my mother. I couldn’t imagine losing Coco. For that matter, I couldn’t imagine Coco dying. She was too much a life force. It was bad enough when Grandma died my senior year of high school. Man. It wasn’t fair. Mothers shouldn’t be allowed to die. I went back into the bedroom, put the drawing in Leah’s jewelry box, and started in on the next drawer down.
chapter nine
i t was a Sunday night, and I’d prepared a leg of lamb for Coco, Ian, and well, Jack was there too so I suppose I had to allow him to have some. It was such a good dish, and so simple. Just rub the lamb with garlic, salt, pepper. Coat with mustard and bake. Ian was raving about the Strokes’ most recent CD when I set the platter on the middle of the table. Jack was watching me. When I returned with the salad he said, “Did Coco tell you?”
Coco was spearing a piece of lamb, unusually quiet, with a guilty smile.
I took my seat. “Tell me what?”
“I am treating her to have some work done. As a birthday present.”
“On the apartment?” I said, knowing full well what he meant. “That’s a great idea, because the bathroom, as you well know, is disgusting. The old tiles are so grotty.”
“I’m not talking about the bathroom.”
“I didn’t think so!” Ian said, stabbing a piece of meat on the platter and bringing it to his dish.
“You mean the kitchen? I can’t tell you how much I would love a new refrigerator . . . can I pick out some new wallpaper?”
“Work on her face!”
“What?”
“I know you disapprove,” Coco jumped in, “but I’m psyched, so please don’t make a big deal—”
“Mom, don’t do it, please?”
Ian drizzled oil on his lettuce. “Ginger, come on. Everyone does it these days.”
“I don’t care if everyone is doing it. Mom looks great, she doesn’t need to hack up her face to make it look better.” God, she wasn’t even that old. I’d always figured this would become an issue one day, but so soon?
“She’s not hacking it up,” Ian said, drizzling vinegar. “There’s nothing sacred about nature. Nature doesn’t mind being altered. Look at it this way. It’s like turning yourself into a work of art. The same way you carve a sculpture out of a piece of wood.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Savages do this stuff all the time. It’s part of their culture. And at this point, it’s part of our culture.”
“Then the culture is stupid. People die from going under the knife. Anesthesia is dangerous.”
“It’s less dangerous,” Jack said, “than crossing Broadway, let me tell you.”
“Okay, we aren’t going to argue about this,” Coco said. “I want to do it and that’s that. The lamb is great, by the way, honey. You’ve done it again.”
“Why can’t you love her as she is?” I glared at Jack. “She’s not a commodity, she’s a human being.”
“This is my idea, not Jack’s. He is generously offering to pay, so would you please shut up?”
I stared at my meat. When Coco had her boobs done way back when, I was too little to really understand, other than thinking that for some reason she’d blown her breasts up like balloons. I remembered telling her, “Don’t float away!” By the time I hit my teens, though, I was infuriated and let her know it. How could you? So disgusting. Pandering. Where’s your self-respect?
My mother’s response had driven me crazy. “Don’t you get it?” she’d said. “I’m more valuable this way.”
She’d never even used them to breast-feed me, only to seduce men. “Forget the aesthetic crime against nature aspect,” I said. “People go into comas during these operations. They die! I saw something on TV about this woman who had them do her eyelids and then she couldn’t close her eyes! Can you imagine? No one should do surgery unless they have to.”
Jack cut up his lamb in this annoying way that made his knife scratch against the plate. “No one is forcing her to have surgery. This is something she wants to do.”
“Because you pressured her.”
“He did not! I want this. Okay? I hate these wrinkles here.” She pointed to her eyes.
“I love laugh lines,” I said. “I can’t wait till I get laugh lines.”
“And these jowls.”
“You don’t have jowls.” Maybe she was starting to get jowls, but who cared?
“If she feels like she’s getting jowls,” Ian said. “it’s her right to get rid of them.”
Coco started pulling the skin back on her face with the palms of her hands. “I’m just thinking cheek lift, forehead lift, and some laser work around the eyes. We’re not talking major overhaul here, just a little tinkering.”
“Everyone knows, once you start doing it you get addicted. And then you have to do it here, and there, and keep it up because it all starts to sag. . . .”
“Don’t you think you should stay out of this?” Ian again. “She’s a grown woman. She can make her own decision.”
“Me? Why don’t you stay out of this?”
“Because I don’t see anything wrong with it. And you, as usual, are taking it personally, as if she’s somehow doing it to you.”
“Are you suggesting that you and Jack have more say about this than I do? She’s my mother.”
“It’s her decision.”
“So why should you be voicing an opinion?”
“I am merely trying to be supportive of your mother.”
“So you admit she’s my mother!”
“What the hell?”
“You think you can just hang around here, like my mom is your mom, but she’s not!”
“Oh, Jesus, do we h
ave to do this now?” Coco took a large gulp of wine.
“I have a mom,” Ian said. “I don’t need your mom to be my mom.”
“That’s right. You need her to be your girlfriend. That’s what you really want, isn’t it?”
Now Jack was interested. “What the hell is she talking about?”
“Nothing. Ginger, would you calm down?”
“I am calm!” I screeched. “I am perfectly calm!” I stood up. My appetite was gone. “I’m not hungry.”
“Fine,” Ian said. And he sat there, and I realized that I was about to leave, and he was going to stay, and then they would all enjoy dinner together. The dinner I had made. I turned to Ian. “Go.”
“What?”
It tore my heart out to say it. “I want you to leave.”
“I’m hungry. I’d like to have my dinner.”
“I am asking you to leave my kitchen. My kitchen in my home where I live.”
Ian looked at Coco. “If she wants you to go”—she shrugged—“I think you should go.”
It took Ian a moment to digest that. “Fine,” he said. “But this is ridiculous.”
He tossed his fork on the table, stood up with his eyes on his food, as if he was considering asking for a doggie bag, then left. There was silence except for the sound of Jack’s chewing. It was horrible. I could feel Ian’s humiliation. I didn’t want him to suffer, even though he’d made me suffer. I hated to see him leave like that, in defeat.
I went after him, almost tripping down the stairwell trying to catch up. I heard his feet hitting the stairs. “Ian?”
No response. I heard him cross the lobby and open the front door to the street. I sped up, pushing open the front door a moment after it slammed shut. Why did I need to apologize? It was just one more dumb fight. We would get back together in a few days and pretend nothing had happened. “Ian!” He was at the bottom of the stoop stairs. “Can you wait up?” He paused, and I caught up with him on the sidewalk. Fresh air, traffic, people rushing past, a whiff of bagel.
“I’m sorry.” Why was I apologizing? “But this . . .” Our eyes met. “We both know it’s not working.” I hadn’t meant to say that. Had I? Why did he suddenly look so young? So vulnerable? His skin so soft. Little boy lost. No. Don’t think that. We were blocking people trying to get past, but we didn’t move. Let them circle around us. “It seems like we just . . . don’t . . . make . . . a very good couple.”
The Art of Undressing Page 6