I’m so busy pondering the fundamental truths of my life that I don’t immediately realize that the cab driver is trying to get my attention. He’s babbling in some language that I don’t immediately recognize as English.
“What?” I snap.
“Ees that you fun?”
“What, what are you saying? My fun?”
“Reenging, your fun?” He holds up his cell phone so I can see it. Even then, it takes me a few seconds to realize that my cell phone is ringing in my purse. I fumble to find it. “Hello, Mira, Jerry Fox here.” My heart, which is already racing, seems suddenly to skip several beats, and I wonder, fleetingly, if this could be the beginning of cardiac arrest.
“What? Jerry, is that you?”
“Yep, listen Mira, I forgot to mention this to you, but Avi seemed to think we should start the ball rolling with financing the purchase of Grappa. It’s a little premature, but the pre-approval is easy, and there’s no downside to putting those wheels in motion. I just wanted to get your permission because I wouldn’t be surprised if things start to move quickly. I’ve got a hunch they are in a hurry to get this done.”
“You keep saying that, Jerry. What exactly makes you think they’re in a hurry? What has Ethan told you?”
“Mira, Ethan didn’t tell me anything, except that, well,”—he hesitates—“Jake and Nicola want to get married. Apparently they’ve already set a date.”
“What? She’s pregnant, isn’t she?”
Jerry hesitates.
“Jerry? What do you know?” I demand.
“Nothing, I don’t know if she’s pregnant, but now that you mention it, I wouldn’t be surprised. It would explain some things.”
“Explain some things? Like what? I can’t for the life of me imagine what it would explain!” Suddenly I’m yelling at Jerry, who is, once again, the blameless recipient of my uncontrollable ire. What exactly is Jerry talking about? What hasn’t he told me? But I’m too wrapped up in venting to even give him a chance to answer.
“Jake has no interest in his daughter. I was the one who browbeat him into having a baby, which, it is clear from recent events, he didn’t want. And now she is pregnant, and there he is stroking her stomach in the middle of fucking Park Avenue like some proud father.” I let go of whatever control I’d been struggling to maintain, but when I open my mouth to speak, a choking sound, half sob, half growl, escapes me. It feels primal and guttural. The driver, who doesn’t speak much English, has turned around and is looking at me with alarm as he slides the Plexiglas divider between the front and back seats closed, no doubt to protect himself from the transforming alien she-beast now occupying the backseat of his cab.
Jerry doesn’t say anything. What can he say? The man is my lawyer, not my therapist. But when, after a moment, he speaks, his voice is gentle. “Mira, hold on here. You’re reacting emotionally. You don’t know that Nicola is preg—”
“What do you mean I’m reacting emotionally? How the hell else am I supposed to react? How can Jake do these things? How can he destroy everything, our marriage, Chloe’s chance for a father, Grappa? How can he sleep at night? The deal is off. I won’t settle. I won’t give him a divorce. Let them wait!” I’m crying in earnest now, and I can tell from the sound of his voice that Jerry has picked up the receiver, lest the sound of a sobbing, hysterical woman on his speakerphone intrude on the sanctity of his well-appointed law firm.
“Mira,” Jerry says quietly. “I know this is hard for you, but breaking off all negotiations is only going to make it harder in the long run. If you really want Grappa, let’s take advantage of the situation. Why don’t you take some time to calm down, and we can talk later when you’re feeling better.”
I nod mutely and mumble something about how we could all grow old waiting for that to happen and hang up without even saying good-bye. I sit there crying in the cab, which, it takes a minute for me to realize, is already stopped in front of the restaurant. The driver is looking at me expectantly from behind the Plexiglas screen.
“Ees this it, lady?”
As I pay the cabbie, I ask if he has any children and if he could ever imagine turning his back on them. What would make a man do such a thing, I ask? He considers my question, perhaps only pretending to have understood me. Then, after a moment, he says, “I dunnot know, lady. Maybe he is scared, or maybe he just don’t love the mother enay more.” Another sob escapes me, and he turns away to reset the meter. “But what do I know? I’m no Dr. Phil.” And with a shrug of his shoulders he is gone.
At Grappa the final preparations are under way for lunch; the kitchen is tidy and well prepped. A vat of chicken stock is simmering, the fresh pasta is already drying on the racks, and Tony, bless him, has the prep cooks washing and chopping mountains of escarole. Ellen gestures to the bulletin board where she has pinned a couple of phone messages for me. There’s just enough time before lunch orders start coming through to slip into the office and change. I studiously avoid looking at or sitting on the black leather couch, hideous talisman, the scene of the crime, as it were, the beginning of the end of life as I’d known it. As I lean against the desk, struggling to maintain my balance, trying to get both feet out of my pantyhose and into my pants, I feel the ire beginning to build. It is, by now, an uncomfortably familiar feeling, the seeds of which were planted here in this room, nurtured and sown on that very couch.
Suddenly, I’m straddling the couch cushion, a letter opener I’ve picked up off the desk poised dagger style in my hand. I plunge the opener in again and again, until the stuffing begins to fly and my chest is heaving. Finally, weakened and dizzy from the effort, I flip the cushion over and restuff and replace the pillows I’ve disturbed in my frenzy. I pull on my drawstring pants and tunic and wrap my apron, meticulously folding down the edge. I run my hand over it, appreciating its cool crispness against my flushed skin. Attacking the defenseless seat cushion was a childish, vindictive move, but it has given me a rush of satisfaction that only an act of pure and naked aggression can engender. Even Dr. Phil might understand.
Paolo, the guy who runs the security scanner at the Manhattan County Courthouse, and I have become sort of friends. Our friendship has evolved over the several weeks I’ve been attending anger-management classes, helped along by my chronic lateness and natural absentmindedness. The class meets at two thirty, which means that I have to leave Grappa before lunch is really over, often when things are most chaotic. In my haste, I invariably forget to remove from my knapsack or pockets items considered dangerous by the powers that be in Manhattan County. Things like a pepper mill, a whisk, assorted spoons, and once, an antique French fish-boning knife that I’d thrust into my belt during lunch and forgotten to remove. Okay, even I can see that the French boning knife, wonderful for filleting, represents a justifiable threat, but the pepper mill, at best, is questionable, and the only things at risk for being beaten senseless with the wire whisk are some unruly egg whites.
Usually confiscated items are not returned. Paolo, however, has been intrigued by my interesting and exotic contraband. It has been the subject of several conversations between us, usually as he summons the female matron to direct the hand search of my person. He knows and understands the attachment chefs have to the tools of our trade, having a brother who’s a line cook at the Mesa Grill, who (you never know) might need a job someday. I’m sure Paolo sees our friendship as a potentially reciprocal one, which is fine with me. He’s been gracious enough to hold my tools until class is over, sans the paperwork. Today, I’ve forgotten to remove my meat thermometer from my tunic pocket, a long, needle-like skewer with a sharp, pointed tip. He stows it in the top front pocket of his uniform and gives it a surreptitious little pat.
Class has already begun. The other five members are seated in a circle on the floor, eyes closed, practicing their breathing exercises. Mary Ann gives me a disapproving look as she gestures to a spot near her on the floor. I’ve learned from Mary Ann that my chronic lateness is a “passive-aggressive act,�
� and that, for my optimal growth and development, I should at least attempt to “master” this unhealthy impulse. She’s probably right about my lateness being passive-aggressive, but I personally prefer to think of this move from active to passive aggression as progress in the right direction, something to be lauded, not criticized.
Today I’m so mentally and physically depleted that I’m actually glad to be sitting on the filthy linoleum, breathing quietly in and out in the close company of the other unfortunate victims of their own impulses, with whom I have lately begun to feel a deeper kinship. I take my seat on the floor, positioning myself so I can stare into the laces of Mary Ann’s brown Easy Spirit shoes and try to think quieting thoughts.
The only bright spot has been the catharsis afforded by the mutilated cushion, although even that has left me feeling exhausted. I know I’m being morose. Jerry’s confidence ought to be infectious and probably would be, if it hadn’t been for my suspicions, now rampant and unbridled, that Nicola is pregnant. And why should this matter so? I tell myself that I’m upset on Chloe’s behalf. She has done nothing to warrant her father’s rejection. I forced Jake into fatherhood when I should have known better. In truth, I viewed Jake’s rejection of her as temporary, maybe because I still held out hope that our separation was temporary. I nursed a secret fantasy that perhaps it was her baby-ness that troubled Jake and once she began to walk and talk, as soon as she became a real person, Jake would come around. Only now, with the specter of Nicola’s pregnancy, can I see how foolish I’ve been.
We’re in the midst of our deep, cleansing breaths when my cell phone begins ringing. This is very bad. Not only was I late to class, but I’ve violated one of Mary Ann’s other cardinal rules: Thou Shalt Not Forget to Turn Off Thy Cell Phone. I’m sure this particular instruction was repeated to everyone, as usual, at the beginning of class. Mary Ann is bristling, clearly prepared to excoriate the offender, so I follow my instincts and lie.
“It’s me. I’m so sorry. My daughter has been quite ill, and I just didn’t feel comfortable not being accessible. I’ll just be a minute, I hope.” I grab my purse and head for the door.
“Jerry?” I whisper, as soon as I’m safely in the hall outside the room.
“Mira, is that you? It’s Jerry Fox.”
At the sound of his voice I have a premonition that I should hang up instantly, let him think he got my voice mail. “I’m in anger-management class,” I whisper into the phone.
“Oh.” No apology. “Listen, I just got off the phone with Ethan Bowman. We need to talk.”
There’s something in Jerry’s voice that I can hear quite clearly now.
“What, what is it?” I can feel panic rising, a fluttering that begins tremor-like at the base of my spine. I slide down the wall so that I’m sitting on the floor.
“Don’t panic, Mira. Just an unexpected development that could turn out to be to your advantage,” Jerry says, his voice intended to be soothing, but not in the least believable.
I hear him take a deep breath. “Jake’s taken the option of buying Grappa. I know this isn’t something we expected, but remember that we set the price for Grappa way above its fair market value. This can be a real windfall for you. . . .”
“Jerry,” I say, my voice rising, “I thought you said this wouldn’t happen!”
“Look, we did our best to minimize the likelihood that something like this would happen, but apparently they found some other way to finance the deal—not something we counted on. Listen, Mira, you can stay in the restaurant business if you want. In fact, with the money you receive from this deal, you could even buy into a bigger restaurant. . . .”
“Jerry,” I interrupt, my voice steely, “I don’t want another restaurant. I want this one. I want Grappa! Your job is to get me out of this deal. I don’t care how you do it, but get me out of it. I will kill that fucking bastard and his whore before I see them take over MY restaurant!”
So absorbed and devastated am I by this news, I don’t notice the door has opened. In fact, it’s not until I find myself once again staring into a pair of brown lace-up shoes that I realize Mary Ann is standing right above me. I don’t know how long she’s been listening, but one look at her horrified face and I know that there’s no way she has missed my last statement.
“Oh, Mira,” she says, her eyes tired, her shoulders slumped. And then, turning noiselessly on her rubber-soled shoes, she returns to the classroom, shutting the door quietly and carefully behind her.
chapter 12
Of course, I try my best to salvage the situation. Once I realize Mary Ann has overheard my conversation with Jerry, I hang up immediately, thinking that if I can pull myself together, maybe I can turn this around. I dutifully turn off my cell phone and reclaim my place in the circle, doing my best to make helpful and encouraging comments to my fellow classmates. When, in response to one of Mary Ann’s bland inquiries, an uncomfortable silence hangs in the room, I even jump to her aid, offering up a rare nugget from my own childhood, which necessitates an uncharacteristic foray into the uncharted land of self-disclosure.
Apart from her pitying gaze and the soft and defeated way in which she’d uttered my name, Mary Ann gives me no indication that she is inclined to view my unfortunate outburst as anything other than what it really is—emotional, careless in the extreme, but perhaps forgivable for having been uttered in the heat of anger and born of overwhelming disappointment. When the class is dismissed, Mary Ann doesn’t meet my eye or make any attempt to detain me, a response, at the time, that I choose to interpret as empathic and merciful.
Perhaps I should have stayed behind, offering some explanation, but I didn’t want to risk changing her mind. I am worried that in my frazzled emotional state I might say something to make things worse. I am so bent on escape that I don’t even stop to retrieve my thermometer from Paolo on the way out, the loss of which, at the time, seems a small thing.
In addition to the disastrous Grappa negotiations, the incident in class gives me one more thing to worry about. I decide to give myself twenty-four hours to properly digest the news before calling Jerry back. So, the next day, when Ellen comes back into the kitchen to tell me that Jerry is in the restaurant and asking for me, I’m only a little surprised. I assume he’s annoyed that I haven’t returned his phone call, although I tell myself he might just as easily be meeting a client for lunch and wanting to make sure he got a good table. But, one look at his face, exhausted and lined, and the way his body seems to deflate once he catches sight of me, and I know the news isn’t good.
“You should have at least told me,” Jerry says, sneaking a glance toward the front door of the restaurant. He then slides a legal-sized manila folder onto the empty plate in front of me.
It seems that Ethan Bowman has filed a contempt petition against me and a warrant has been issued for my arrest. I’m charged with violating the Order of Protection—the evidence of which, Jerry tells me with a small and very tired smile, is two death threats made on the lives of Jake and Nicola, one verbal and the other involving the “willful destruction and mutilation of a black leather couch in the victims’ private office, constituting an obvious threat to the health and well-being of said victims.”
Jerry hands me the papers. The State of New York v. Mirabella Rinaldi. Attached as Exhibit A to the Emergency Contempt Petition is a typed letter from Mary Ann Chambers, MSW, describing, complete with an unfortunately accurate quote, my overheard statement in the hallway. In addition, she notes that in her considered professional opinion I have not demonstrated sufficient effort in the class, as evidenced by my chronic lateness and my previous lack of control.
And that was even before Ethan Bowman had gotten to her.
Ethan received a copy of the letter by messenger early this morning, conveniently timed to coincide with a phone call from Jake and Nicola reporting their discovery of the couch cushion late last night. The substance of Ethan’s follow-up phone conversation with Mary Ann is attached in Ethan’s affir
mation (Exhibit B of the petition), wherein she allegedly responds to Ethan’s allegation that I had been stalking Nicola as “consistent with my prior behavior.” She also claims that my behavior and psychological state creates “a significant risk of further injury to said victims.” I wonder whether these are really Mary Ann’s statements or, like Ethan’s tactics in our negotiation session, rococo-style elaborations of the truth.
The letter opener, the alleged weapon, has been removed from the premises as evidence, along with my confiscated meat thermometer, relinquished by Paolo when it had gone unclaimed. The petition seeks my immediate arrest for violation of my parole.
And so, Jerry has arrived at Grappa one step ahead of the sheriff, in an attempt to spare me the ignominy of another public arrest. “In situations like this, where potential for imminent harm is alleged, they arrest first and hold the hearing after. When I received service of the petition this morning, I called a friend at the sheriff’s office and asked them to let you turn yourself in voluntarily. We have until two this afternoon to get you down there. If you do this voluntarily, it will also help us get lower bail.”
“Jerry, how could this be happening? What am I supposed to do about Chloe?”
“My partner Martin is meeting us at the courthouse. He’s already working on an answer to the petition. If you come voluntarily, and things go as I expect, we can post bail and get you back home by dinnertime.”
Once we are both safely seated in the back of the Lincoln Town Car Jerry’s firm sent, Jerry pours two scotches.
“Drink this. It’ll take the edge off,” he tells me, handing me one of the cut crystal tumblers, then taking a hefty swig himself.
Nothing short of a lobotomy, however, could have taken the edge off arriving at the courthouse, where, for the second time in three months, I’m fingerprinted, photographed, and asked to post bail, which I’m granted, but only on the condition that I not come within two hundred yards of Jake, Nicola, their residence, or their place of work. I’m banished from my own restaurant, at least until the parole revocation hearing, scheduled for December the twenty-third.
Aftertaste Page 12