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The day of the picnic arrived, irritatingly perfect. It would be in the low eighties with partly cloudy skies and low humidity. I was sure that Theo could barely contain his excitement. I wondered what delicacies he was preparing. Once again, that inner voice kicked in with a vengeance: What is wrong with me? Here is a perfectly pleasant man, with kind eyes and a totally coordinated wardrobe! A banker. Or sort of—whatever people at title companies do. Good prospect. Probably exceeded Claire Throckmorton’s code of standards. I gave myself a mental kick in the ass and decided to shower and do some extensive personal shaving. Just in case.
Bob just happened to stop by as I was contemplating whether the denim cutoffs or the gray linen drawstring pants were “lovely” enough. I held them out to her with raised eyebrows.
“Well?”
She bit her index fingernail, looking concerned. “Is that all you have? Don’t you have a sundress or something? They have them at Target. Gran says that she might get me one before school starts.”
“These aren’t good?” I noticed a little rip in the seam of the gray pants. They were kind of old. I got them the summer before I met Bryan, when I needed something “suitable,” in Mom’s words, for a luncheon she was having for her garden club. I was bartending. So these were actually bartender’s clothes. I got Bob’s point.
“It’s too late to go shopping.” Bob disappeared into the back of my closet and rummaged. She reappeared holding a bright yellow cotton sundress that I had forgotten I had. I wore it when Bryan and I were together. I thought I had gotten rid of all of the clothes from that segment of my life. But somehow, this had survived. It had apparently been crumpled into a ball on the floor—it was covered with wrinkles, cat hair, and a small, desiccated patch of Simpy barf.
“This is pretty. There’s time to wash it. It’s wrinkly, but Gran says all you have to do is put it in the dryer and take it out the minute it’s dry, and the wrinkles will be gone. She does that with all my tee shirts. I think you should put this in the washer right now. Do you have any yellow flip flops?”
“No. But I have brown ones. Those will do. But a dress? For a picnic? Isn’t that a little over-the-top?”
Bob looked at me and sighed. Believe me, when a child who just turned eight sighs at you with disappointment in her eyes, you pay attention. “Okay, okay. I will wash this. And we can sit and wait for it to dry so we can snatch it out of the dryer. Maybe we can play a game in the meantime.”
Bob followed me to the hall closet that contained my stackable washer/dryer. We put the dress in along with a couple of towels to make it a balanced load. As I was closing the lid, Bob suggested we add some fabric softener. Okay, then.
“What game do you want to play? I have Uno, I think. ” We sat down on the sofa, Bob tightly hugging one of the flowered throw pillows.
Bob shook her head. She heaved a loud sigh. “I am not really in a very good mood today.” I thought she looked worried. Her nails were bitten down to the quick, despite the bright pink nail polish. Her freckles bunched on her forehead. “Today I am missing my dad a whole lot. He doesn’t send as many emails or letters now. Gran says he is probably fighting hard.” She crumpled the hem of her tee shirt with both hands.
“Gran says to say extra prayers and have faith . . .” Bob faltered. “I don’t know how. He might die.”
Tears formed in her dear, brown eyes. My heart. “Oh, Bob, honey!”
I gathered her into my arms and held on as she cried, smashing the pillow between us. Her breathing was jagged, and with every shudder, I held her tighter. I rested my head on the top of her dark curly one, and we both swayed until I felt Bob wind down. I stroked her wiry hair.
Finally, she snuffled, sat up, and wiped her nose with the back of her right wrist, still clutching the pillow with her left arm. “Gran says when you get worried or scared, the best thing to do is to keep busy.”
“I agree.” I let go of Bob, and she straightened her spine and ran the back of her hand across her nose again. She nodded with great dignity. With a juddering breath, she said, “Remember how you said you couldn’t cook, so I should teach you how Gran makes grilled cheese sandwiches?”
“Great idea. I am totally in the mood for grilled cheese. And guess what? I bought Velveeta just the other day, with Bob Bowers in mind!”
Her little face brightened, and I wiped the tears off her cheeks with both hands, resisting the impulse to kiss her. Bob stood with dignity, smoothed down the creases in her tee shirt, and smiled. “Do you have real butter? ’Cause Gran says margarine is absolutely awful. And since you’re with me, we can use a frying pan. When I make them at Gran’s, I have to use the Foreman Grill. Gran thinks the stove is too dangerous for me. I’ve been using the stove for years, but it doesn’t matter—Gran doesn’t want me to get hurt.”
I wondered about Bob cooking for herself. Once again, it felt like a shadow had briefly passed over us. “She’s right. It’s better to be safe than sorry.” I opened the fridge. Butter, coming up! I read on Facebook that nowadays, it is healthy to have stuff like butter and whole milk again. So I switched from margarine back to butter. And I have tomato soup, too! Have you ever dunked grilled cheese soldiers into tomato soup? Divine.”
Bob stopped in front of me, turning with a confused scowl. “Soldiers? Like my dad?”
I smiled. “You’ve never made toast soldiers? Well, then—you can teach me how to make the sandwiches, and I will show you how to cut them into soldiers!”
Bob opened the refrigerator and found the box of Velveeta. She held it out. “This is so good. But it is hard as anything to slice. Gran has a special tool for it. It has a wire thing. I bet you don’t.” She tapped the box with her index finger.
“No, I don’t. Can we just use a knife?” I rummaged around in the pantry cupboard, shoving cans of chicken noodle and beef barley aside, noting that the box of baking soda was probably way out of date. I found the tomato behind a can of cream of mushroom.
Bob pulled out the drawer with all my knives in it. “We will just have to use one, but it won’t be easy.”
Bob opened the box of Velveeta. “You haven’t even had any of this! Me and Gran eat about a ton of Velveeta every week! We eat it on crackers and things, and sometimes Gran puts it on corn chips and melts it in the microwave and it makes nachos. How come you haven’t eaten some of yours already?”
Bob struggled to open the foil wrap. I stopped her before she used her teeth. “Let me use the scissors—your gran would not like it if she saw you biting the wrapper!”
Bob giggled. I was relived that she seemed to have forgotten her father for the moment. I chipped off a corner of the brick of cheese and put it on her nose. “Okay, kiddo! What next?”
She picked the morsel off her nose and placed it carefully on her tongue. “You have to savor it.” She rolled her lips around as if tasting wine.
“I know. This stuff is gourmet, right? The cheese the world awaited?”
“Yes!” Bob was too young to remember the wiener reference. “It is SUBLINE!”
“Yes, SUBLINE. How thin do we need the slices?” The knife kept getting stuck in the brick—I was producing wads, not slices. “This cheese is not cooperating! Bob, can we make the sandwiches with chunks of Velveeta, since I don’t have that special tool? Ugh!” The cheese was sticking to the knife, my fingers, and the cutting board. “This stuff is sort of gluey. Are you sure that it is actually subline?”
Bob chortled. “Let’s chop up the chunks small. It will work. We need a frying pan and bread. Do you have the good kind of bread, not whole wheat?” She looked around.
“Bob. Do I look like a person who would eat whole wheat bread? Of course I have the good kind.” I opened the fridge and showed her the Pepperidge Farm family white. I took my large cast iron skillet out of the oven where I keep it. “But before we start the sandwiches, we need to start the
soup. Do you like tomato made with water or milk?”
Bob was incredulous. She gasped. Her curls seemed to stand on end. “Does anybody make tomato soup with WATER?” She put a hand against her chest to steady herself. “Making it with water would just be like having hot tomato juice.”
With that, I died. We both nearly prostrated ourselves with laughter, and I grabbed Bob’s bony shoulders and pretended to shake her. “I will have you know that I grew up having it the hot tomato juice way! It was just fine. However, I learned about making it with milk from a food blog, and it is a lot better that way.” I put my finger on her nose. “But just so you know. The tomato juice version is totally acceptable.”
“I will tell Gran that some people have it with water. She won’t believe it!”
I opened the soup, dropped the glop of red stuff in a saucepan, added one can of milk, and turned it on to warm up.
Back to the task. I took out four slices of bread. I laid them on the counter next to the cheese and began piling the sorry chunks on two of the slices. That done, I opened the fridge and got out the butter dish. I cut a generous slice of it and plopped it into the frying pan and turned the burner on the stove to medium.
Bob was apoplectic. She grabbed my arm. “What are you DOING? NO, NO!”
“What?” I nearly dropped the pan on my foot.
“You have to butter the bread! You don’t do it that way! If you put the butter in the pan, the sandwiches are greasy!!’
How a sandwich using Velveeta could be anything but greasy entered my mind, but I was the student, here. “Oh, sorry, Bob.” I set the pan on the counter, turned off the heat, and plopped the hunk of butter back on the butter dish. “So how do you spread the butter on the bread without tearing it to pieces?”
Bob, aghast, said patiently, “Beck, this is what microwaves are for. You soften the butter in there.” She padded over to my microwave and pointed to one of the buttons. “Didn’t you ever notice this one? It says ‘soften butter.’ You use that button. Put the butter on a little plate and do it on ‘soften’ for about twenty seconds.”
Oh. I have to admit that buttering the bread that way was easier. We stacked up the sandwiches and put them in the pan. They browned up beautifully, and the Velveeta melted like a dream.
When they were done, I showed Bob how to cut the sandwiches into strips. “I don’t know exactly why these are called soldiers, but they are especially good for dipping. I put our soup in mugs, steaming. Each of us had four soldiers. I used green-and-blue paper plates.
As we sat down to eat our gourmet lunch, garnished with garlic dill pickles and potato chips, Bob pronounced that dipping grilled cheese in tomato soup was “scrumptious.” Bob noted that the sandwiches were far superior to the ones she made in the Foreman grill. We chatted about the news of the neighborhood: Hallie’s new electric blue sparkly scooter, and how Bob was sort of envious; school coming up and how relieved Bob was to have a friend who would also be new there; and Hallie’s dad, who once played football with Andy Dalton, but he didn’t have red hair, so it must not have been Andy Dalton.
The time flew. We had Popsicles for dessert.
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I was exhausted. The picnic loomed. I hoped Gail would bring numerous bottles of wine. The washer dinged, and I pulled out the sodden yellow dress. I remembered when I wore it to a wine tasting at the Bridge Hotel downtown. What a great party. We all got drunk, and Bryan took flowers from a bouquet in the lobby and put them in my hair. I felt like a princess, until Bryan said I looked like a bride. That was the night I started feeling claustrophobic about our relationship.
I rolled up the dress and stuffed it into my kitchen trashcan. I decided to wear the cutoffs to the picnic. To hell with it.
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We trudged through Framington Public Gardens, looking for the right spot. Gail fell off her platform espadrilles twice, managing to squelch her usual impulse to say “Fuck!” out loud. Rick slapped at mosquitoes, waving away the insect repellent I offered. I was quite comfortable, actually, in my cut-offs. Much more practical than the billowy hot pink flowered mini dress that Gail kept having to push down whenever the breeze blew under her skirt. Theo carried the huge picnic basket, his biceps bulging with the effort. His polo sleeves were just short enough to reveal the fact that he had a glorious farmer tan.
I was relieved when Rick pointed out a good spot under a maple tree. Flat and shady. I shook out the canvas drop cloth, which was the most acceptable thing I could find to sit on—it had lived in the trunk of my car for at least five years, but I felt it was serviceable—after all, this wasn’t a scene from one of my books.
Sitting down for Gail was awkward. She had to manage her legs, her skirt, and her dignity. After tossing and turning on the canvas for about twenty seconds, she settled for a very uncomfortable looking sideways leg arrangement that I knew would cause her lumbar region to scream after about a half hour. Rick sprawled beside her with his glorious legs splayed in front of him, leg hair gleaming in the sun. Just like a scene from one of my books.
Theo carefully set the basket down, and began to pull out the delicacies. Ugh. Just like in one of my books, I have to admit it. Cold fried chicken. Potato salad. Cherry tomatoes “Much easier to eat outdoors,” Theo informed us. Carrot sticks (I hate carrot sticks), mini blueberry muffins, and WAIT FOR IT—wet wipes.
Finally, Theo pulled out a gallon jug of lemonade. Smiling, he held out his hand and said, “No worries. I also packed an insulated bag of ice we can use in the cups” (which he had also thoughtfully included); “I think staying well hydrated is critical. I drink as much fluid as I can every day.”
Okay. Fluid. Not on my list of favorite words, perhaps because the characters in my books exchange bodily fluids at every opportunity. I never use the word in real life, and here was Theo declaring his belief in their importance. I stifled a shudder as I took the cup of fluid that he offered me.
Gail looked around optimistically. “This all looks delish, Theo. Where did you buy the food? At Beth’s Bistro? She does terrific picnics!”
Theo shook his head, frowning. “Oh, no. I made this myself.”
Fried chicken? The man made fried chicken? I happen to know that frying chicken is an elaborate procedure that only people like Ina Garten actually ever do, because it involves making batter, soaking the chicken pieces in buttermilk or some such, an electric frying pan or deep fryer, a lot of time, and the willingness to clean grease splatters off your kitchen walls for days. I know this because this is what Claire always told us when we asked for it—right before she put us all in the car to go to KFC.
“Wait. Theo, you made this chicken? From SCRATCH?” I couldn’t stop the disbelief; I had to ask.
Looking slightly smug, Theo picked up a drumstick and ran it under his nose, appreciating its fragrance. Yeah. Thyme, probably. “My grandmother’s recipe. She taught me the summer I had the Cocksackie virus, then pneumonia. I was sick for three weeks, then weak for another two. I spent a lot of time with her. We cooked. She also taught me how to make pecan pie.”
I looked over at Gail, certain that the Cocksackie virus would have sent her over the edge. But she was focused on Rick’s legs, and I don’t think she even heard Theo’s comments about his invalid summer. Oh, boy.
There was nothing to do but take a plate of food and eat. The chicken was crunchy on the outside and very tender and moist. Despite my misgivings about Theo and his grandmother, I ate two pieces. Gail picked at a drumstick and sipped her lemonade, all the while eating up Rick with her eyes. Rick, on the other hand, inhaled his chicken and potato salad with zeal, not even noticing the mayonnaise on his chin. Theo cut the meat off his drumstick with a plastic knife and ate it with his fork. Of course.
The rest of the afternoon was uneventful. Theo proved to be excellent at throwing a Frisbee, and Gail proved to be unable to participate, due to her shoes. She sat, rapt
, as Rick, Theo, and I tossed it around. I am sure she was paying full attention to Rick’s flowing brown hair and his bulging calves. Hell, I certainly was.
We called it a day at around six. We waved to Rick and Gail as they climbed into his Jeep and drove off, Gail waving as they disappeared from the parking lot. Theo put his arm around my shoulders and we ambled towards his sea green Prius. He opened the truck, deposited the almost empty basket, and as I went to open the passenger door, screamed, “NO, NO! I will get that!” and sprinted around the side of the car to open the door for me.
We drove to my house, Theo humming what I swear was the theme from The Golden Girls. I said nothing.
“It’s still early. Do you want to see what movies are playing? Or we could just hang out and have some wine or something . . .”
“Oh, Theo, thank you so much. But I have a deadline to meet. This has been a . . .” (I groped for a gracious adjective) “really nice” (I failed) “afternoon. But I have to get to work on my manuscript.”
Theo leaned in for a kiss, and our lips met. Mine were closed tightly.
I patted him on the arm, smiled insincerely but I hope not noticeably, and got out of the car before Theo could run around and get the door for me.
As soon as I got inside, I grabbed Simpy and hugged him. “Oh, Simpson, why can’t I meet a guy with your animal magnetism, hmm?” Simpson gently kneaded my boobs and began to purr.
“Oh, Simpy. What a day. Theo is absolutely the perfect man. He can cook. He looks good in shorts. He is extremely nice. Why am I not head-over-heels for him?”
Crossing the Street Page 7