In the two weeks since the bail hearing, Jerry’s partner, Martin, the criminal attorney who will take the lead in defending me, has been calling me regularly with lists of things I should do to help prepare my case. One of my primary assignments has been to round up character witnesses, people who are willing to testify that I am, in fact, a reasonable woman, kind, friendly, a good mother. I’ve asked Renata and Hope and, to my surprise and gratitude, Tony has also volunteered to testify on my behalf, a risky move given the fact that allegiance to Jake, or at least not offending him, would be a much safer bet for his future livelihood. Although touched, I tell Tony that I can’t accept his offer and that he best keep his head down in this conflict.
Yesterday’s “to do” list, which I’m just getting around to fulfilling, was to find a witness from Chloe’s day care to testify about my good parenting skills. I spent the better part of yesterday blanching at the idea, but because my legal team has managed to convince me of the seriousness of the charges I’m facing, I’ve agreed to do it. It is the thought of this loathsome task that has me awake and crying in the predawn gloom, waiting until a little bit before seven when I know that Chloe’s teacher, Lucy, will arrive at the day care. I’m steeling myself to disclose the entire sordid story and convince her that she should help me. I should be embarrassed, but at this point embarrassment seems a strange and distant emotion, a luxury I can no longer afford.
Martin has told me that we have no defense to the charges that I’m technically in contempt—I cannot deny making the statement I made, and my fingerprints are all over the letter opener. We will plead nolo contendere to the charges and focus on the fact that, while perhaps a technical violation, there was never any serious threat to Jake or Nicola. In addition, we must develop a proposal to convince the court that I’m in no position to cause them any further harm. Martin and Jerry want me to agree to exile myself—to voluntarily leave the city for at least the next six months. They assure me that given a choice between jail and Pittsburgh, I should choose the latter.
I don’t like Martin, and I’m not sure how much I should trust him. The best assurance he can give me is that even if the judge fails to suspend the sentence, it will definitely be a “short term in a minimum security facility.” No sweat. It may not seem like much to Martin, who represents clients who go to the “Big House” to spend decades of their lives wearing orange jumpsuits and rubber-soled shoes, but to me it is precious little comfort. Jerry, on the other hand, has been more optimistic, saying that he thinks it likely that the judge will give me a suspended sentence, particularly in light of our voluntary exile offer. But, after his miscalculation on Grappa, I’m not much inclined to trust his judgment either.
Perhaps I’ve already begun to anticipate the inevitable. If I’m fortunate enough to escape jail time, I’m prepared to flee, and Pittsburgh now has more to recommend it than it did a few short weeks ago. For starters, I have at least two people there who love me, two more than this city of six million can claim. And even if Jerry and Martin hadn’t convinced me to offer to exile myself, I couldn’t have stayed here, in this apartment, a mere three blocks from Grappa, and where I can no longer buy an espresso and a Times at my favorite coffee bar without danger of arrest.
Of course, there are other possibilities, other cities, other countries even. I could go back to Italy, where for years I’d been happy. While there’s something to be said for seeking anonymity, it, like embarrassment, might be a luxury I can no longer afford. There’s Chloe to think of.
A child needs family, and I doubt that, on my own, I’m strong enough or competent enough to give her all she needs. Sure, I can feed and nourish her body, because that’s what I know how to do, but what about nourishing her tiny soul? How can I do that when all reason, all capacity for self-control is seeping out of me, a slow and steady leak that began when Jake left? When will I stop leaking, and what will happen then, when there’s nothing left? Could love and betrayal really have transformed me into this rash, vengeful person?
With a sigh I fling back the coverlet in which I’ve cocooned myself, make my way to the kitchen, and put on some coffee. It’s another misty day, cold and overcast from the look of it. I sit at the table, sipping an espresso and looking out the window below me onto Perry Street. It’s only after I’ve been looking steadily, staring really, because I’ve been up for so long and am tired in a dazed kind of way, that I notice a person standing in the alleyway across the street. There’s a slight mist, and he, or she, is wearing a rain jacket with a hood, so I cannot see a face, but the drawstring chef’s pants are unmistakable.
Seconds later the phone rings, and I answer it with trembling hands. It’s Jake. Looking out the window I can see him holding the phone to his ear. He’s crossed the street and is standing on the bottom step of the brownstone, leaning against the railing. He looks up at the apartment window, and when he sees me watching him, he raises his hand in a kind of half wave. He doesn’t say anything for several seconds, and I think maybe he’s trying to spook me.
“I need to talk to you,” he finally says, his voice raspy and soft.
I don’t ask him why. In fact, I don’t say anything at all. I feel only a small shiver of apprehension as I cross the room and press the buzzer. I can hear his steps on the stairs, heavy and uneven. I open the door and watch his approach. I’m no longer afraid, not really anyway. Let him do his worst, whatever that may be.
“I didn’t mean for this—” Jake begins, standing in the doorway, dripping onto the carpet. He can’t seem to finish the sentence. I pull the door open wider and move aside. Even after everything that has happened between us, I’m unable to let Jake, the man who has cost me my beloved restaurant and everything I’ve struggled to build in the last decade of my life, stand there dripping on my front carpet. “Nicola doesn’t know I’m here,” he says, stepping into the apartment and taking off his raincoat. He runs his fingers through his damp hair, slicking it back against his head. “But this needs to be done, Mira.” He doesn’t look at me, hasn’t from the moment he entered the apartment. Instead, he looks around the sparsely furnished room, at the empty boxes stacked in the middle of the living room.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
Where am I going?
“I don’t know, Jake, but it looks like jail at the moment. I’ll be sure to send you my forwarding address.”
He flinches. “Listen, Mira, that’s why I’m here. I never meant things to go this far. I don’t want you to go to jail. It isn’t fair to you or to Chloe.”
“Well, Jake, exactly what part did you think was fair to us? Leaving me for Nicola? Abandoning your only child? Cutting me out of Grappa?” He looks stricken, as if I’ve slapped him.
“Cutting you out of Grappa? You had a fair shot, Mira! It was your prop—Wait, I’m not going to do this. I didn’t come here to argue with you,” he says, raising his hands to cover his eyes, as if he can’t trust himself to look at me.
“So, why did you come here then? What more could you possibly want from us?”
“I came here to offer you a compromise. I want Grappa. But I can’t afford to pay you what you want and continue to pay child support.”
“But you agreed to the price!”
“I know. I know. But it isn’t that simple, as I think you know.” He raises one eyebrow and flashes me a disgusted look. “Ethan’s plan to help finance the deal was to file a civil suit against you, on Nicola’s behalf, seeking damages for your assault on her. She went through a very rough time and still isn’t over it. I didn’t want to go along with that, but I didn’t know what else to do. Now Ethan is pressuring us to press these other charges partially for the leverage it will give us in the civil lawsuit.”
I let Jake’s words wash over me. A civil suit on top of everything else? The whole offer to pay me the extra money was part of a ploy? I’m so overwhelmed that, for once, my reliable temper has failed to ignite. I sink into the sofa.
“Look,” Jake says. “
Don’t worry about it. I’ve found another alternative. The money is no longer as much of an issue. I just want this to be over. Ethan tells me you’re offering to leave New York. If I can convince Nicola to drop all of the charges and claims against you, make this whole Order of Protection violation go away, will you just . . .” He lets the sentence hang there, as if I’ll somehow understand the perversity of his suggestion without his having to sully himself by uttering the words.
But I refuse to spare him. I stare up at him, our eyes locked in a grim face-off until Jake is forced to turn away. I suppose I should find it encouraging, evidence that he has some remaining scruples, that he can’t look me in the eye as he gathers the courage to sell his daughter.
“We will drop all charges and claims against you if you agree to leave New York for at least six months, grant an immediate divorce, and forego all child support.” He says this quickly, as if he has rehearsed it many times, and exhales deeply once he’s finished. “You still walk away with well over a million dollars, plenty of money to take care of you and Chloe until you decide what you want to do next. I’m not going to try to be an involved father, Mira. You’re free to walk away. Go away. I’ll relinquish my parental rights, if that’s what you want. She doesn’t need to be one of those messed up kids with two families who are constantly battling each other.”
“Jesus Christ, Jake! Don’t you pretend for one minute that what you’re doing is good for her or for me. Just tell me one thing. Is it true? Is she pregnant?” He turns away and reaches for his raincoat. “I’m sorry,” is all he has to say.
A couple of hours later I make one last call to Jake. By nine thirty I’m on the phone to Jerry, telling him I want to settle and filling him in on the substance of Jake’s offer. I’m efficient and businesslike, and if Jerry is startled by my composure, by the way I have just been able to let go of everything I had fought so long and so hard to keep, he doesn’t let on.
“Mira, I think this is the best thing for you to do under the circumstances,” Jerry says. “You’re going to be fine, you know.”
“I know, Jerry. Thanks.” When I hang up I’m numb, and I wonder if this is what it feels like to die, this feeling of letting go of almost everything you’ve ever cherished.
I spend Christmas Eve packing up the last remaining bits and pieces of my life into four large boxes, which I lug, one at a time, to the post office on Hudson Street, each time standing in a long line of procrastinating New Yorkers cheerfully waiting to mail their Christmas presents, none of which has any chance of arriving on time.
With the exception of my dining room set, which Hope has volunteered to keep for me, I’ve arranged to put most of my remaining furniture in storage. Hope has also enthusiastically agreed to sublet my apartment, and I can tell by her speculative gaze as she appraises the room that she’s anxious to move in. Her apartment is small, a one bedroom, which she, in turn, has sublet to a newly married couple she met in her romance writers group. This is good news, because I’d rather sublet my apartment to Hope, who has promised to give it back to me when I return.
Renata and Michael insist that Chloe and I stay with them over Christmas. On Christmas Eve, Renata prepares the traditional Italian Feast of the Seven Fishes. We dine on fresh lobster, crab, and shrimp, clams casino, calamari, baccalà, and mussels—none of which I have any appetite for, but, touched by her thoughtfulness, do my best to eat. Michael fills up an entire memory card with photos of Chloe opening her presents and of me reading her “The Night Before Christmas.”
The day after New Year’s, Renata and Michael arrive at my empty apartment to drive Chloe and me to the airport. As we fight to make room for the suitcases in the trunk of Michael’s Prius, Renata removes an insulated food carrier containing two freshly smoked mozzarella di buffalo and a small round of Pecorino Romano.
“A little comfort food,” she says, handing it to me. “To remind you of home.”
What is she thinking? That I’m going to the ends of the earth? Does she think I’m never coming back? When I remind her that some of the world’s best cheeses come from the United States, actually west of the Hudson, she snorts. I tell her she should give Arthur Cole a call. I feign annoyance because I don’t want Renata or Michael to see how touched I am that they will actually miss me. Michael holds Chloe while Renata and I reorganize the luggage.
“I give them six months, tops,” Renata says, referring to Jake and Nicola. I’m not sure if she means the relationship or the restaurant. “I’ve taken them off the list of preferred customers. No more advance notice on special imports.” It’s a nice gesture on Renata’s part, though I don’t really believe her.
Later, on the way to the airport, Michael tells me that Arthur Cole has finished his tome (at close to a thousand pages) on the history of culinary science and is already busy planning his next project on American regional cooking, an idea, Michael reminds me, that I inspired.
“You’re his editor, Michael. For God’s sake, don’t encourage him.” I’m imagining at least three hundred pages devoted to the evolution of the breakfast cereal.
“He must really like you. Arthur is the kind of guy who doesn’t change his mind very easily.”
“Tell him that if he’s ever in Pittsburgh, I’ll take him out for a Primanti sandwich.”
Michael laughs and shakes his head. “If only Arthur Cole had your sense of humor, Mira. A food writer needs a sense of humor. You, Mira, deserve someone with a sense of humor,” Michael says definitively, giving my arm a squeeze.
I want to cry.
Standing in front of the Jet Blue terminal at JFK, Renata and I both dab away our tears. “You’re going to be fine,” Renata says, holding me at arm’s length and giving me a searching look. “Yes,” Michael echoes, “you will.”
“Of course I will,” I tell them, my voice bright and filled with false bravado, as I pull them both close into a final embrace. “Thanks for everything,” I whisper in Renata’s ear, my voice husky with unshed tears. “Take good care of Grappa for me, please. You will, won’t you?” I know in my heart that Renata will do what she can, with what little influence she has, and this, in the end, is exactly how I want it.
Secondi
She who forgets the pasta is destined to reheat it.
—Anonymous
chapter 13
“Look,” he says, “so thin you can see through it.” The man behind the counter holds up the piece of prosciutto draped over the back of his hand, a gossamer wisp of meat for me to admire. “Melt in your mouth, this will,” he says, curling his lips into a smile.
“Yes, it’s beautiful,” I agree.
“I’ll put a paper in between each piece ’cause if I don’t they’ll all stick together. At twenty bucks a pound, I know yins don’t want that.” He speaks slowly, as if he means to teach me something, his accent pure Pittsburghese. He curls his hand into a fist and allows the wafer thin pieces of ham to drape over it.
Then, with a bravado-infused flick of his wrist, he delicately transfers the wisps of meat onto the sheet of butcher paper. With one fluid motion he wraps the package, ties it neatly with butcher’s string, and hands it to me.
“A piece for the little one? I got something she gonna like. No prosciutto di Parma. Don’t waste that when she got no teeth,” he chuckles.
“How about this,” he says, thrusting a large, fat-flecked sausage at me over the counter. “Mortadella, a good mild taste. Not spicy.” He cuts Chloe a piece and removes the casing before putting it into her outstretched hands. She begins to gnaw.
“Look,” he says, laughing. “She know what’s good, that little girl.” We both look at her admiringly.
Chloe and I have spent the first few days settling in, buying the various things I didn’t own or hadn’t packed, which, as it turned out, was a lot. In addition to things like shampoo and conditioner, which my father hasn’t needed since roughly 1979, we also had to pick up safety gates for the stairways, little plugs for the electrical outlets, and co
rner protectors for the coffee and end tables, necessities now that Chloe is becoming mobile.
We’ve been here three days already, and I’ve yet to cook a single meal. The night we arrived, my dad ordered Chinese takeout from the old Cantonese restaurant around the corner, where they still serve the best egg foo yung, light and fluffy and swimming in rich, brown gravy. Then there had been Mineo’s pizza and corned beef sandwiches from the kosher deli on Murray, all my childhood favorites. But last night I’d fallen asleep reading Arthur Schwartz’s Naples at Table and had dreamed of pizza rustica, so when I awoke early on Saturday morning with a powerful craving for Italian peasant food, I decided to go shopping. Besides, I don’t ever really feel at home anywhere until I’ve cooked a meal.
The Strip is down by the Allegheny River, a five- or six-block stretch filled with produce markets, old-fashioned butcher shops, fishmongers, cheese shops, flower stalls, and a shop that sells coffee that’s been roasted on the premises. It used to be, and perhaps still is, where chefs pick up their produce and order cheeses, meats, and fish. The side streets and alleys are littered with moldering vegetables, fruits, and discarded lettuce leaves, and the smell in places is vaguely unpleasant. There are lots of beautiful, old warehouse buildings, brick with lovely arched windows, some of which are now, to my surprise, being converted into trendy loft apartments.
If you’re a restaurateur you get here early, four or five in the morning. Around seven or eight o’clock, home cooks, tourists, and various passers-through begin to clog the Strip, aggressively vying for the precious few available parking spaces, not to mention tables at Pamela’s, a retro diner that serves the best hotcakes in Pittsburgh.
Aftertaste Page 13