by Michael Kun
Carl’s house is beautiful. It’s located in a nice section of the city known as Morningside. The area is filled with trees. The trees are what you notice first about the neighborhood, big, oaks with thick trunks. In the summer, they smell wonderful; in the winter, their brown limbs reach toward the sky like the arms of a gospel choir. Although there are several apartment complexes in the area, all with fancy names meant to suggest that they have some history to them—“The George Washington Estates,” “The Gables” and other, nonsense—most of the homes are one-story affairs with front porches and short, asphalt driveways and, of course, the trees. Carl’s house is different. It’s enormous. Two stories, with five bedrooms, most of which are unused.
When I arrive at their house, Judy answers the door. She’s wearing a green-and-blue dress and her hair is pulled back in a ponytail. She smiles when she sees me, but it’s the kind of smile that let’s you know you’re interrupting dinner. I can smell the chicken from where I’m standing. I can smell cornbread.
“Ham,” she says. “We haven’t seen you in a long time. Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine,” I say. “I was just dropping by.”
And she says, “Well, come on in.” She leans forward, and we kiss each other on the cheek like we always do. Even though she’s had two children, she’s still very thin; you’d think the children were adopted. Every time I see her, she’s so gentle and sweet and pleasant, and I have to tell Carl how lucky he is, as if he’d forget.
“Carl,” she calls into the dining room, “your brother’s here.” Then she calls, “Kids, your Uncle Ham’s here.”
They have two boys, Jon and Emmett. They’re nice boys who look more like Judy than Carl, which is good for them. Carl looks like he has a broken nose.
The boys come running out of the dining room, and I crouch down to hug them. Then Carl walks out. He’s wiping his lips with a napkin and fingering his tie.
“Hey, buddy,” he says, “we never see you around here.”
He shakes my hand.
I say, “I just wanted to drop by. I’m interrupting dinner, aren’t I?”
“Technically, yes, but don’t worry about it. In fact, do you want to join us?”
Carl and Judy look at each other. I can tell what they’re thinking: Do we have enough chicken?
“No, thanks,” I say. “I have dinner plans.”
And he says, “Is everything okay?”
And I say, “Fine, fine. There just was a matter I wanted to get your advice on. It’s a complicated legal matter.”
Judy takes the boys by the hands and says, “Boys, say goodbye to Uncle Ham. He and your dad need to talk in private.”
The boys say goodbye, and Judy curls her fingers into her palm to say goodbye, too. Carl and I step outside onto the front lawn. The grass is green and thick like carpeting in a nice hotel, the type you’d stay in on your vacation. Like the time Renée and I went to Sea World a hundred years ago.
“Do you mow your yard yourself?” I say for no reason.
“Are you kidding? I pay one of the neighborhood kids to do it.”
“How much do they get these days?”
“Twenty-five dollars.”
I almost say, “I’ll take the job.” Instead I say, “Listen, Carl, there’s no use beating around the bush. I don’t have a complicated legal issue to discuss.”
And he says, “Good. Last time you had a complicated legal issue, it ended up being about a cat missing its tail.”
And I say, “It was a dog.”
And he says, “Oh.”
And I say, “And it was missing its ear, not its tail. A song about a cat missing its tail, now THAT would probably be a good song.”
And he says, “Sorry.”
And I say, “Anyway, the reason I’m here is I have to take Renée to dinner tonight, only I don’t have enough money.”
And he says, “You have to take her to dinner?”
“Yes.”
“You have to?”
“If I ever want her to talk to me again I have to.”
Carl winks and reaches for his wallet and takes out all of the bills. He counts it to himself, then he says, “How’s eighty dollars?”
I say, “Eighty dollars is great,” and he hands it to me. “I’ll get it back to you. Unless you want me to cut your yard for the next month instead.”
He laughs and says, “Don’t worry about it. Just make sure Renée has a nice time tonight.”
I say, “I’ll try. Thanks.” I put the money in my pocket, then I say, “What are you going to tell Judy I stopped by for?”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s going to ask you why I stopped by, right?”
“Yes.”
“What are you going to tell her? I’d rather you didn’t tell her I stopped by just to borrow money.”
“I’ll tell her whatever you want me to tell her, buddy.”
I think for a second, except I can’t come up with anything that sounds logical. Finally, I say, “Would you tell her I came by to talk with you because my job is killing me?”
Carl smiles and says, “I think she’ll buy that one.”
And I say, “Good,” then before I leave I say, “By the way, do you have any idea who Mario Lanza is?”
And Carl says, “Never heard of him.”
“He didn’t kidnap the Lindbergh baby, did he?”
“Not to the best of my knowledge.”
I turn to leave, then I say, “You’re very lucky, what with Judy and the boys and everything.”
And he says, “Tell me something I don’t know.”
And I say, “Okay. Did you know the Japanese kidnapped the Lindbergh baby?”
And he says, “I have to admit I didn’t know that.”
And I say, “There, I guess I told you something you didn’t know.”
x
When I get home, Renée’s already sitting on the steps of the apartment building. She’s wearing a blue dress with black pantyhose. She looks pretty, like a photograph you keep in your wallet and show your friends at work. If you have friends at work, which I don’t. All I have are the Reminiscing Twins.
When Renée climbs into the car, she leans over, and she kisses me full on the lips. She runs her tongue over my teeth, which I like.
“So,” I say, “where are we going?”
And she tells me she wants to go to an Italian restaurant called Alfredo’s, so I take her there. It’s only a short drive from our apartment, but it’s on a strange little street called Cheshire Bridge Road. There are nice little restaurants, but there are also strip clubs with names like the Palomino Club and Bare Bottoms. Who would put an Italian restaurant near a strip club? Who?
When we get to Alfredo’s, we don’t even have to wait for a table. The maitre d’ seats us at a table along the wall and hands us each a menu. I look at the prices first. The entrees aren’t too expensive. Eighty dollars will be more than enough.
“Renée,” I say, “you order whatever you want. It’s your day. Whatever you want, you order.”
“Okay,” she says, “but I’m on a diet, remember.”
“That’s okay. You order whatever you want, because it’s your day. I even wrote it on my calendar: `Today is Renée’s day.’”
She smiles and says, “You don’t have a calendar.”
“No, that’s true. That’s very true. But what if I did? What if I ran out right now and bought a calendar. Do you know what the first thing is I’d write on it?”
“Your name?”
“No. The first thing I’d write on it would be, `Today is Renée’s day.’”
The waitress arrives at our table. She says her name is Tammy. She doesn’t look Italian at all. She has blonde hair and blue eyes. She has bright red lipstick, only it’s outlined with black pencil that makes it look like she just ate a candy bar.
Tammy tells us what the specials are, but I don’t listen because I already know what I’m going to order. I always or
der chicken parmigiana when Renée and I eat at Italian restaurants. Tammy asks us if she can get us anything to drink, and we both order a beer.
“Listen,” I say to Tammy, “would you mind putting a little umbrella in Renée’s beer—it’s her day.”
Tammy says, “Oh, is it your birthday?”
Renée blushes, which makes her look even prettier, and she says, “No,” and I say, “It’s just her day. Anything she wants, she gets.”
Tammy says, “Anything?”
“Anything,” I say.
“You should ask him for a trip to Bermuda,” Tammy says.
And I say, “If she wants a trip to Bermuda, it’s hers. How about it, Sweet Potato. Do you want a trip to Bermuda?”
And Renée says, “No.”
And I say, “How about a swimming pool?”
And she says, “Where would I put it?”
And I say, “We have a little room between the couch and the TV set.”
And she says, “That wouldn’t be a pool. That’d be a puddle.”
So I say, “Okay, then. How about a mink coat?”
And she says, “In Atlanta. I’d wear it once a year.”
“Well, anything you want today, it’s yours.”
Suddenly, Renée smiles and looks at the menu. “You know what I want,” she says, which really isn’t true at all. Either she wants to get married or she wants a divorce. They’re two extremes with one thing in common: I don’t want to talk about either one.
And I say, “Oh, no. Let’s not talk about that, Renée. Please. I just want to have some fun tonight.”
The waitress leaves, and Renée says, “I thought it was my day.”
And I say, “It is your day, Sweet Potato.”
And she says, “Can’t I talk about what I want to talk about then? You’d think I’d be able to talk about what I want to talk about on my day. I can have 1) a swimming pool or 2) a mink coat, but I can’t talk about what I really want to talk about? That doesn’t seem right.”
And I say, “I’ll have to consult the rulebook on that.” I open up an imaginary book and pretend to read from it. “The official rules for your day, section 19, paragraph A read as follows: `On your day, you are entitled to eat at whatever restaurant you want. You are entitled to eat and drink whatever you want. You are entitled to pick whatever movie you want to see. You are entitled to talk about whatever you want to talk about —’”
“—A-ha!” Renée says, and she points a finger at me.
And I say, “I’m not finished. `You are entitled to talk about whatever you want to talk about provided the subject doesn’t give me a headache.’”
And Renée says, “I’m giving you a headache?”
“You’re starting to,” I say.
And she says, “Well, that’s a nice thing to say to your wife.”
“Renée,” I say.
And she says, “What?”
And I say, “Nothing.”
We don’t talk for a couple minutes. There are about a dozen other couples in the restaurant. All of them appear to be speaking to each other. I get up from my seat and extend my hand toward Renée.
“May I have this dance?” I say.
A puzzled expression appears on her face, and she looks around the restaurant, turning her head left, then right. “Ham,” she says, “there’s no music.”
And I say, “I know, Sweet Potato. But on your day, we don’t need music. We have the music of our hearts. The music of our internal organs.” I tug at Renée’s fingers.
And she says, “Hay-yum.”
And I say, “Can’t you hear your heart singing, Renée? Your kidneys? Your liver? Your spleen?”
I pull her from the table, but she wriggles free and sits.
“Sit down,” she whispers loudly. “People are looking at us.”
It’s true. People are looking at us. They’re looking at us the same way you look at people who are standing on the side of the highway next to a broken-down car.
And I say, “Who cares who’s looking, Sweet Potato? “
And she says, “I care. They probably think you’re on drugs. They probably think I’m here with some kind of drug addict.”
And I say, “It’s your day. It’s a day to celebrate.”
Again, I take her hand, squeezing her fingers in mine, and I try to pull her from her seat. Renée clamps her free hand on the edge of the table. The table shakes. The water glasses rattle. Some water splashes onto the table. I’m trying to be funny and spontaneous, but it isn’t working out very well. The harder I try, the worse it gets.
Renée says, “People are watching us, Ham. Stop it. Please stop it.”
Finally, I stop and release her hand. Everyone’s looking at us, and all I can do is smile weakly.
“God,” Renée says, “I feel so embarrassed.”
Renée’s eyes are red, and tears begin to run down her cheeks. I hand her my napkin.
“Oh, Sweet Potato,” I say, “I’m sorry. I’m honestly, truly sorry. I was just trying to do something special. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry.”
And she says, “Don’t tell me not to cry. That just makes me cry more.” And she does. Her head bobs slightly, almost but not quite imperceptibly. She folds and unfolds her red napkin.
I say, “I’m sorry.”
And she says, “Please don’t say that.” She keeps trying to catch her breath, but she can’t.
That’s when Tammy arrives with our drinks. There’s an umbrella in Renée’s beer. Renée had almost stopped crying, but when she sees the umbrella she starts again.
“Is everything okay?” Tammy says. Her mouth looks enormous, with those puffy red lips with the chocolate drawn around them. She looks at me like I’m some kind of animal, which I don’t think I AM.
“We just need a moment,” I say to Tammy. “We were talking about a sad movie we saw.”
And she says, “Okay.”
She leaves, and Renée wipes her nose on the napkin and says, “A sad movie?” She’s smiling a little at my lie. She wipes her eyes with her fingertips. It smudges her makeup.
And I say, “That’s the best I could come up with on short notice. I didn’t feel like telling her your boyfriend’s a jerk.”
And Renée says, “I think she figured that out on her own.”
And I say, “She probably did. But you have to admit that I came up with a pretty good explanation for why you were crying.”
And Renée says, “But what if she asked you the name of the movie we were talking about?”
And I shrug and say, “Well, I guess that’s why I’m no criminal mastermind.”
And Renée says, “I would’ve said something then. If she asked you what movie we were talking about, I would’ve said The Lion King.”
And I say, “The Lion King?”
And she says, “Mm-hmm. Remember when Simba’s father gets killed?”
“Oh, yeah,” I say. We saw that movie together in a movie theater that was filled with children. Renée was crying louder than anyone. She held my hand and pulled it to her chest when the lion cub’s father was killed.
“Remember that his own brother planned it so he’d get killed?”
And I say, “Yes.”
And she says, “That was sad.” Then she says, “Or maybe I would’ve said Sleepless in Seattle.”
And I say, “That would’ve been a good choice, too.”
And she says, “Remember when Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan almost missed meeting each other at the top of the Empire State Building, and you think that maybe they won’t fall in love after all?”
And I say, “Yes.”
She says, “That was sad, too.”
I reach out and grab Renée’s hand. She braids my fingers in hers. We just look at each other for a while, half-smiling, half-frowning.
“You know,” I say, “I think we made a mistake. I don’t think today’s your day after all. I think tomorrow’s your day. I think I just got the days mixed up because I don’t have a c
alendar.”
And Renée says, “It’s tomorrow?”
And I say, “Yes.”
And she says, “Then what’s today?”
And I say, “Today’s just a dress rehearsal for your day.”
And Renée smiles and says, “You know, in our drama club in high school, whenever we had a really bad dress rehearsal, that meant the show the next day would be great.”
And I say, “Then tomorrow should be the best day of your life,” and she laughs. Then I say, “You pick the restaurant, the movie, everything. I’m just sorry I got the days mixed up. Tomorrow’s your day, not today. It’s all my fault.”
And she says, “You should get a calendar.”
And I say, “Yes, yes.” Then Renée orders pasta and I order chicken parmigiana.
“Renée,” I say, “do you remember when they used to call pasta `macaroni’?”
And she says, “Yes. Why did they change the name?”
And I say, “I have no idea.”
And she says, “It’s like drapes. When I was little, we used to have drapes in our living room. Now everyone has `window treatments.’”
We smile at each other.
Then she says, “Do you remember The New Kids on the Block?
And I say, “The singers?”
And she says, “Yes. I used to have all their albums.”
And I say, “Do you remember when Ronald Reagan was President? Ronald Reagan with that funny haircut?”
And she says, “Yes, yes,” and pats my hand.
And I say, “Do you remember Mario Lanza?”
And she says, “No.”
And I say, “Me neither. I was hoping you would.”
x
The meal is very good, although I suppose it’s pretty difficult to ruin pasta and chicken parmigiana. It’s one of the easiest meals to cook. I can even cook it myself. When we’re finished eating, Renée excuses herself and walks to the ladies’ room. I can’t help smiling. It started out terrible, what with Renée crying and all, but it ends up being the best time Renée and I have had in months.
I see the maitre’d standing in the corner. I wave for him to come over to our table. He’s a large man with tan skin and black hair that curls on the top.