THE PRESIDENT IS COMING TO LUNCH

by Nan

  “You’re kidding.” Birnbaum stopped eating. “He cried? My God! What if the Russians found out?”

  “It was all right. He wasn’t President yet.”

  “I can’t imagine him crying. I just can’t.”

  “Why not? I’ll bet you cried when your wife left.”

  Birnbaum poured soy sauce on his rice. “Well, I’m a real sucker. I’ll cry at anything.” He looked up at her. “Then what?”

  “He started dialing again. I didn’t know who he was calling but I had heard enough.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I told him I’d fallen asleep in the chair.”

  “Did he believe you?”

  “I couldn’t tell. He was wearing his glasses.”

  Birnbaum smiled. “The tinted aviators? My God! He wore them even then? What did he say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? What did you say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “He walked to the door and locked it. Then he turned off the lights.”

  Birnbaum put down his fork. “And that was it?”

  Libby shrugged. “Sorry.”

  He sat back, staring at her. “Well. That doesn’t give me very much to go on.”

  “Good. Then we’re even.”

  “Even?”

  Libby stared at him. “I’m trying to figure out how dangerous you are.”

  “Me? The biggest pushover since Humpty Dumpty?”

  “I don’t understand you, Birnbaum. I’ve met a lot of cops in my business . . .”

  “Cops? What the hell makes you think I’m a cop? I don’t go on drug busts or break into whorehouses. I never even wanted to be a fireman. I was going to be a doctor.”

  “What happened?”

  “One day I turned on the television set and saw someone kill the President of the United States.” He paused and stared at Libby. “It was the worst thing I had ever seen. I couldn’t understand why anyone would want to kill the President of the United States.” He took a sip of soda. “I sat in front of the television set for days, crying my first grown-up tears. I was sixteen, and still a virgin, but I lost my innocence in front of that set. It was a Zenith. Black and white.”

  “And that’s when you decided?”

  “No. It was the day of the funeral. I sat inches away from the screen, watching a team of horses pull his coffin through the streets. No V-8 engines. Just horses. It was so simple. It was so quiet. I had to check that the sound was on. But what really got me was the horse that followed right behind the coffin. In the stirrups, there were a pair of empty boots. Upside down. The symbol of a fallen leader. Now I was pretty sure he had never ridden that horse. But it didn’t matter. It didn’t even matter that those probably weren’t his boots. It was the symbol, not the truth, that connected me to him. And by being connected to him, I felt connected to the whole human race, to thousands of years of mankind, to everyone who had ever cried for a fallen hero. I was sixteen years old and I didn’t even know what the hell a President did, but I knew I couldn’t live without him.”

  Libby suddenly realized just how dangerous Birnbaum was. “Listen to me,” she said softly. “I want you to ask for the check.” She pushed her plate away. “I’m not eating any more chow mein. I’m not answering any more questions.” She stood up. “I want you to get me out of here, Birnbaum. I want to get away from you!”

  * * *

  Lunch was over. Everyone had left except Cal. He sat nursing a brandy and soda, trying to convince himself that he was feeling normal post-deal depression. But there was nothing normal about the deal he had just made. It was as insane as his sitting there wondering what would happen if he couldn’t get it up.

  Cal waved his copy of the screenplay at Steven. “What have you heard about this?”

  Steven looked at the title page. “The Last Cowboy? Ugh! You’re kidding!” He saw the expression on Cal’s face. “You’re not kidding. Why aren’t you kidding?”

  Cal was impatient, suddenly upset by Steven’s reaction. “What’s it about?”

  “It’s about three years old. Barlow’s pitched it at every table in the joint. Even the waiters know it by heart.”

  That was the last thing Cal wanted to hear. He grew increasingly angry as Steven continued.

  “It’s The Electric Horseman without batteries. Spoiled heiress is kidnaped, escapes and finds a home where the buffalo roam.”

  “What else have you heard?”

  “I’ve heard that the only person who can save it is you and that even you can’t save it.”

  “Who’s read it?”

  “All the people who’ve dropped their options. Barlow has collected more money than if they actually shot the picture. Everybody options it. Then they read it. Then they drop it. You know. The usual.”

  “I think I’m going to do it,” Cal said defiantly.

  “Did you read it?”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Why not?”

  Cal smiled. “It might influence my decision.” Not reading it was the only way to maintain a shred of self-respect.

  Steven tossed the screenplay onto the table. “If there’s that much money in it, who can blame you? Everybody knew why Brando did Superman.”

  “Except Brando.”

  “Pop, when the hell are you going to grow up? You really think you’re Cal Dennis.”

  “I know I’m Cal Dennis. You have any problem with that?”

  Steven shrugged. “I’m not the one with problems. I’m not the one doing The Last Cowboy.”

  Cal was furious. There wasn’t a producer in Hollywood he’d let speak to him that way. But then again, there wasn’t a producer for whom he had ever wanted to be a hero. Cal saw himself tarnishing rapidly. Steven was right. The real Cal Dennis wouldn’t look twice at that script. He had no right to be angry with Steven. It wasn’t his fault that Cal was scared. “I’m doing this picture for one reason only. I need to fill the coffers before I pop the question to Libby. Steven, I want us to be a family.”

  “Great idea! Let’s be the Bates family. I’ll be Norman and you . . .”

  Cal punched him gently. “A real family with a poppa bear and a momma bear.”

  Steven stared at Cal. He nodded. “All right. But this is my final offer. If you don’t want to be the Bates family, you can be Mildred Pierce and I’ll be Veda.”

  “Goddamn you, Steven! Be a fag on your own time!” The moment Cal heard what he had said, he put a hand to his forehead and muttered, “Oh, shit.”

  Cal and Steven did not reach out to comfort each other. Neither did they walk away from each other. They simply sat there. Watching each other fade out.

  During the break between lunch and dinner, Tessa prepared a tally of how many of each dish was sold. Her figures gave Sonny something to check against his inventory. It also gave her a chance to tease Bud as she sat on the other side of the chef’s table. She looked up and saw him crack an egg, cupping the yolk in his palm. The white separated between his fingers. “Yuck!” she groaned. “That is disgusting!”

  “You don’t like eggs?”

  “I don’t like fingers. At least, not in my food.”

  Bud smiled. “Where do you like fingers?”

  “On triggers. Pulling pins from hand grenades. Clenched tight at the end of a dagger.”

  “But not in your food,” he said, squeezing the egg yolk into a mixture of flaked crab, cream, and puréed ginger. Bud licked his finger.

  “Is it good?” she asked.

  Bud dipped his finger back into the mix and held out a taste. Tessa sucked off the crab meat.

  “Is it good?” he asked.

  “Fair enough as fingers go.”

  Bud added bread crumbs and shaped the crab into a patty. He dipped it in buttermilk and then pressed on an even coating of corn meal. Two pans with clarified butter were already on the stove. He put the crabcake in one, and some crushed green peppercorns with cream into the other.
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  “But not as good as Eli’s fingers,” she said, jealous of the attention he lavished on the two pans.

  “Eli?”

  “My darky Spartacus. The nigger of my narcissism.”

  Bud stuck a finger into the peppercorn cream. He licked it loudly, sliding the pan off the stovetop. He flipped the crabcake over and then tasted the sauce again. He shook his head. “I’m missing something.”

  “You need purpose. Meaning. A cause to célèbre.”

  “I need something for color,” he said.

  “What color?” she asked.

  “What color?” Bud was too absorbed to realize she had just asked the same question a moment before.

  Tessa caught the spark of his intensity. It didn’t matter what problem he wanted to solve. The only important thing was the passion with which he sought a solution. For Eli, it was black and white. For Bud, it was a different color. For Tessa, passion was passion. “Well, darling, we don’t want to be mundane and shred radicchio or sprinkle chives.”

  Bud slid the golden brown patty onto a plate. Very precisely, he spooned the peppercorn cream over half the cake. “To show the crust,” he explained glancing up at her. He smiled. “Something red!”

  Tessa opened her mouth. Bud pinched off a piece of the crabcake and fed it to her. “Mmm. It definitely needs something red.” She took a fingerful of the moist white crab mixture and smeared it on Bud’s lips. She leaned close and licked it off. “Red. And hot.”

  “How hot?”

  Tessa shrugged. “I don’t know. I can’t figure out yet how hot you are.”

  Bud wasn’t sure what to make of Tessa. She was working him like a piece of puff pastry. Before he realized it, her lips were on his. And then, just as suddenly, she pulled away.

  “Raspberries!” she shouted.

  “What?”

  “Raspberries! Something red?”

  “Raspberries!” Never taking his eyes from her, Bud rushed over to the refrigerator and reached in for a bowl. He smiled as Tessa opened her mouth. He fed her one perfect raspberry. And then one for himself. He leaned toward her. Their lips met, tongues exchanging berries, lips crushing them, the juice running from his mouth into hers.

  Tessa licked the juice from Bud’s lips as she lifted her skirt. “And now for the cream.”

  Steven pushed open the kitchen door, shouting angrily, “Where the hell is Chickie?” He stopped as he saw Bud let go of Tessa. “Jesus! What do you think we’re running here? This isn’t a singles bar.”

  “I was just leaving,” Tessa said nervously. “Did you say you wanted Chickie?”

  “Where is he?” Steven asked.

  “The españols are in the back,” she said, winking at Bud. “Shall I get him for you?”

  “Yes.”

  Bud waited until Tessa left. “Cut the singles bar crap.”

  “I don’t want you fucking around with the staff.”

  Bud shrugged. “I thought we were partners. I left you all the boys.”

  “We’re not going to be partners if you spill your guts and tell her the whole deal.”

  “What deal?” Bud shouted. “I don’t see a deal. Do you see a deal? Did you get money yet? Do we have a lease? When do we open?”

  “I’m working on it,” Steven said.

  “You better work harder or I’ll get the money from Phyllis and do it on my own. I told you, I’m tired of cooking in someone else’s kitchen.”

  Steven narrowed his eyes, tight with anger. “What the hell do you think I’ve been doing all my life?”

  Chickie rushed in from the back. “You want me?”

  “Yes,” Steven said. “Let’s go.” He walked toward the men’s room. He held the door open for Chickie and then leaned back against it.

  The boy smiled nervously and came close. He slid his hand between Steven’s legs, pressing gently. “You want me to do it now?”

  Steven closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the door. He felt Chickie’s fingers reach for his zipper. Steven took a deep breath. He grabbed Chickie by the collar. His anger unleashed, Steven became uncontrollable. He hit Chickie as hard as he could.

  The boy slid to the floor, curled up, hands over his head. “What did I do?” he cried.

  Steven stood over him, breathless as he stared at his own image in the mirror. “Be a fag on your own time.”

  Alfero walked into the dining room, brushing his hair back and pushing his shirt into his trousers. Not that it would do him any good. Steven hated Latinos. That was why he had fired Chickie.

  Steven was behind the bar, pouring juice. “You want some?”

  “Sí. Thank you. Yes.”

  “What did Chickie tell you?”

  “He say you fire him because you hate Latinos.”

  “He was wrong.” Steven reached for Alfero’s shoulder, running his hand along the dishwasher’s firmly muscled bicep. Steven knew he was manly enough for Alfero because he had power over him. “I understand we’ve got a new busboy.”

  “¡Dios!” Alfero began speaking rapidly in Spanish, unable to stop the tears from welling up in his eyes. He was not being fired. Alfero blew his nose. “It is a great country, America.”

  Steven watched closely. Now there was a man who knew how to cry. “It depends.”

  “You can be whatever you want. I want to be a busboy. I am a busboy.”

  “You’ll get scale plus fifteen percent of the waiter’s tips. You might not earn as much as working two shifts in the kitchen.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You understand what I’m saying? You might get less money.”

  “But I will be a busboy! I will be in the front of the house. It is better to be a busboy than a dishwasher.”

  “Except for the money.”

  “Mr. Steven, you think I do this for just money?” Alfero was grinning from ear to ear. “No one in my family was ever a busboy. My father, before I leave home, say the best business is the tips business. Anybody gets a job, my father ask ‘You get tips?’ You say no, he shrugs. You say yes, he smiles.”

  Steven turned away. He had had enough of Alfero. “Good. Now your father can be proud of you.”

  * * *

  It was four o’clock in the afternoon and Libby and Cal had been lying naked in one another’s arms for nearly an hour. Libby held tight to Cal, seeking warmth rather than heat. She had always loved lying in his arms until that afternoon when, like an optical illusion, the phrase “lying in his arms” reversed its meaning from location to deception.

  “I’m scared,” she whispered.

  “Me, too. What are you scared about?”

  “Us,” she said.

  “You don’t think it’s love, do you?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Cal smiled. “Just my luck. I’ve never been any good at love.”

  “I know.”

  He groaned. “Not fair.”

  “Listen, you want fair or you want truth?”

  “What else you got?”

  Libby shrugged. “Only thing left is love.”

  “Bite your tongue,” Cal said. “Love got us into a lot of trouble.” He brought his lips close and pushed gently. “On second thought, let me bite your tongue.”

  She smiled. “I have déjà vu.”

  “I was cured of that years ago. If I think something’s happened to me, it’s because it has. Although just when I’m convinced that everything has happened before, something happens for the first time.”

  “I know just what you mean.”

  “I thought this déjà vu telethon was for me.”

  Libby pushed him away. “Why the hell do men think they’ve cornered the market on anxiety?”

  Cal sat up on his knees. He reached between his legs. He was erect. “This is why. This, kiddo, is why fortunes are made and empires fall. The market is up. The market is down. Euphemisms. It all starts here! It all ends here!” He pressed against her thighs, pushing her legs apart. “I am the Ganges,” he whispered. �
��You are the Nile. As long as we’re together, there is no beginning. There is no end.”

  Libby stared at Cal. “So what is there?”

  He began to laugh. “How about sex and money?”

  She put her arms around him. “Thank God for the eighties.”

  “Babe, what do you think our mistake was? Getting married or getting divorced?” But just as Libby was about to speak, Cal put his fingers to her lips. “No, you don’t! I’m tired of hearing about what a wonderful divorce we have. For Christ’s sake, happiness isn’t everything.” He kissed her very gently. “Libby, will you marry me?”

  It was the question she most wanted him to ask. “Ask me again.”

  “Will you marry me?”

  “Again.”

  “Will you marry me?”

  “One more time!”

  “Libby!”

  She kissed him. It was the question she was most afraid he would ask. “Seems to me I did marry you. Didn’t I?”

  Cal shook his head. “No. I don’t think so. I’d have remembered. You married some nerd named Roger.”

  “I loved Roger.”

  “As much as you love me?”

  “That’s not fair. Did you love Manuela as much as you loved me? Or Jane? Or Nicole?”

  “At least I married them. Not like you and that anchorman. And that editor. And that waiter . . .”

  “He wasn’t a waiter! He owned the restaurant!”

  Cal put his arms around her. “Hey, babe. I hear tell Roger needs you real bad.”

  Libby’s eyes filled with tears. She could divorce Cal with a lie but she couldn’t marry him with one. “Send him my regrets. I’m having a smashing affair with a very famous movie star.” She bit his lobe and whispered confidentially, “He’s absolutely crazy about me.” She kissed his ear. “He even bought me a sable coat.” She bit his chin. “You know what sable costs?”

  Cal kissed her. “A lot less than a marriage license.”

  “I know why I can’t marry you,” she said. “I haven’t a thing to wear.”

  “Wear your sable.”

  She fell back onto the bed. “You don’t understand. I have nothing to wear under my sable.”

  Cal scooped her up in his arms. He kissed her breasts. “You don’t have to wear anything but your nipples.”