One Last Lunch

by Erica Heller

  Is there a poem in any of that?

  Let us dine together once more,

  gorging on berries you canned,

  downing them out of season for no

  reason at all but pleasure.

  Max, you lived free and died,

  and I am still on the eighteenth floor

  of life, wanting to continue

  my conversation with you.

  Could you make a poem out of that?

  I guess you could. You made a poem

  from the winking of a mare’s vulva, and

  from the deaths of a woodchuck family,

  garden pests you killed yourself.

  The table is laid but you will not come.

  Dreamy pragmatist, you knew there is only

  this earthly heaven. Never mind. I’ll sit here

  with your book for company.

  There will surely be poetry in that.

  Hilma Wolitzer’s novels include An Available Man and The Doctor’s Daughter. Her poems have appeared in Ploughshares, New Letters, the Southampton Review, and Prairie Schooner. She has taught in several university writing programs. Among her honors are grants from the Guggenheim Foundation and the National Endowment for the Arts and an Award in Literature from the American Academy of Arts and Letters.

  — 28 —

  “He finally says, ‘I have to get going soon.’

  ‘Why?’ I ask.

  “That’s the deal.’ ”

  CATHY LADMAN (DAUGHTER) AND LEO LADMAN

  I’m really nervous. It feels like I’m going on a date—which is especially creepy because I’m having lunch with my father.

  I haven’t seen him since his death eleven years ago, and I want to look nice. What should I wear? Well, my bell-bottoms better not drag on the floor!

  Let me explain: In the sixties, it was the style to wear your giant bell-bottoms, “bells,” dragging on the ground. You didn’t actually hem them if you wanted cool bells. Eventually, a ripped and tattered ring of fabric would fall off, and a natural hem would form. And then you had yourself a fucking cool pair of jeans.

  Now, my dad had not liked teenagers. He owned a bowling alley, and he hated when they hung out there, “up to no good,” spending no money. He found them “arrogant.” That’s what he always said. “They’re arrogant!” And to him, long bell-bottoms were “arrogant.”

  So, whenever he was home before I left for school, he would make me stand on the top step of the six steps to the bedroom level of our house and he would inspect my bells. I would try to hold them up by squeezing my thighs together. Sometimes that worked. And sometimes it didn’t. If he saw that my pants touched the floor, I had to change into others. Ugh.

  Constant scrutiny. Not fond memories.

  But he and I gradually, slowly, painfully, came to a pretty good place in our relationship. So, why am I so nervous?

  Well, I’ve never had lunch with a dead person. There’s that.

  This is My Dad. That’s why I’m so nervous. He’d always been strikingly critical. When I see him, I know he’ll appraise me immediately. He’ll look me up and down and give me a grade. Nothing gets by him. He’ll find the one thing that’s out of place. And that’s how I feel right now. Out of place.

  Oh, Jesus, this is silly. We’re past that. Am I past it?

  I’m sixty-one years old, I’ve had a successful career doing what I love—even though . . .

  But, at this point, our relationship is certainly at a place where we’re on equal footing. At least, we could be if I would only assume that. Don’t go in there looking for validation, Cathy. Validate yourself. Know who you are. Remember that. Things have changed, and work has slowed down quite a bit. Still, I am what is known, to some, as a legend in stand-up comedy. It’s so silly to hear that. When someone says that to me, I think, “Really? Have you seen my calendar? There’s lots of blanks in there.” I try to prove to people that I’m not all that. Why do I always do that?

  See, that’s what’s making me nervous—what Dad is going to say about the fact that I’m not working enough and not earning enough. Money has always been very important to him. And, I guess, to me, too. I’ve inherited the legacy.

  Now, what to wear. It’s a nice place, the old-world Italian setting he chose, but anything goes, really. I’d love to wear jeans, but maybe I’ll wear something nicer. Lightweight wool pants, maybe. Am I doing that for me or for him? If I’m being honest, for him. However, I am probably going to have some pasta, and I don’t need constricting jeans reminding me of what I ate and lighting a fuse under my anorexia. Sure, I’m in recovery, but it’s always a slender thread I hang by.

  We’re going to Café Continental, of course. That’s where we always went for occasions. My dad used to go there with his stock club. They spent some money they’d made, or money they hadn’t. And then our family started going there for celebrations. The waiters were all Italian; the food was great. They called Dad “Mr. Leo.” He loved the personal attention. I guess he and I are alike in that way.

  I’m on time. I walk in. It’s not busy yet. It’s dark and cozy. It feels good to be here. Nostalgic. I spot Dad with his back is to me. I figure it’s okay to sneak up on him because, if I startle him, what can possibly happen to him now? I put my hands on his shoulders.

  “Hi, Dad!”

  “Ah! Cathy! Look at you!”

  He stands up, with no effort, and we share a really long hug. Extra long. When we pull apart, I see that his eyes are welling up just like mine. We laugh to cover the tsunami of emotion, hug again, briefly, and take each other in.

  “You look so good, Cathy! You know, you really turned out great,” he says to me, gently clocking me on the chin. We’re seated in a booth.

  I smile. “You, too, Dad. You look good. You look the same. No, you look better.”

  “You smell the same, too,” he says. “Same perfume?”

  “Yeah. I never thought you noticed that.”

  “I notice everything,” he says, wagging a finger at me.

  I laugh. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, you do.”

  “You want to order something to drink?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do,” I say, smiling.

  My dad waves the waiter over.

  “Yes, Mr. Leo.” There it is. Leo Ladman is in his zone.

  “Antonio, you remember my daughter, my youngest? Cathy, Antonio.”

  “Hi, Antonio! It’s nice to see you!”

  “Hello, Miss Cathy!”

  I order a glass of Cabernet, Leo asks for a Scotch, and he speaks first.

  “So, how is everyone at home? Catch me up.”

  I’m surprised at this question. Family was never something that my dad wanted to talk about. He was more interested in money, business. And animals. He loved animals.

  So, we talk about my family, some work highlights. We finally have to stop to decide what we’re going to have to eat when Antonio comes over for the second time to take our order. We get some of the old favorites: Baked Clams Oreganata. Dad has Veal Française; I order Eggplant Rollatini.

  There’s a small bit of silence, and I break it.

  “I was nervous coming here today.”

  “Me, too!” my dad says.

  “I wasn’t sure—What? You were nervous? What about?” I say.

  “Hey, I haven’t seen anyone in eleven years. I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t know if you’d be happy to see me.”

  “Really? Wow, Dad, I am so happy to see you.”

  “I thought maybe you’d have . . . some residual problems with me.”

  “Well . . . yeah. But I’m still happy to see you.”

  “So, you do have issues.”

  Another surprise. My dad is talking about feelings?

  A few moments of silence before I speak.

  “Dad, everyone’s got issues.” A beat of silence, while I form my thoughts and words. “I think the hardest thing for me was how critical you always were, how strict. You were scary.”

  “I didn’t
mean to be,” he says. Somewhat sheepishly, I detect.

  “There was a reason I went away to college when I was sixteen. I had no freedom at home. I couldn’t socialize. I couldn’t dress the way I wanted to. That’s a big part of self-expression, especially at that age: personal style. I was constantly scrutinized. It was hard for me. And you were terrifying.”

  “How so?”

  “You yelled, you hit, you controlled. Both you and Mommy were very controlling, in different ways.” I stop. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to dump on you as soon as you rise from the dead.”

  We both laugh. Then we both begin stuffing our mouths with the delicious bread that’s been put before us.

  “I mean, there were great things about you, too. Your sense of humor, your intelligence, your good taste, your love of animals. Those have all informed who I am, to a great degree. But the tough and judgmental guy that you were made me choose a guy who’s similar, and that’s been a challenge.”

  “I love Tom,” my dad says.

  “I love him, too, but he’s negative and critical, and I don’t love that about him. And I wonder if I was drawn to that in some weird, pathological way. It’s also possible that I didn’t realize that about him until later. Who knows?”

  Then I ask him, “What about you? What do you want to say to me?”

  My dad thinks. “That I’d like more bread?”

  “Ha-ha! You never had a problem saying that! Seriously. What?”

  “I guess I wish that you knew how terrific you are. How talented and kind and polite. What a good person you are. You never seemed secure. You were always second-guessing yourself. I see that I contributed to that.”

  I’m touched.

  “I never felt good enough for you, Dad. I never felt successful enough. And now I’m struggling to make a living, and I feel so ashamed.”

  I start to tear up again. Dad hands me his clean handkerchief.

  “Oh, I don’t want to ruin it.”

  “Don’t worry. They do laundry where I live.”

  I laugh.

  “Let me tell you something,” my dad says as Antonio sets our drinks before us. “I put a lot of stake in money when I was alive. I wonder if I’d lived past eighty-seven if I would have had the chance to learn that it wasn’t as important as I made it out to be. But in the past eleven years—and I can’t tell you how, it’s strange—I don’t really know how, but I’ve learned that it was a mistake. And I’m so sorry that I caused you to be anxious or to not feel good about yourself, based on whether or not you were earning. You have proven yourself many times over, Cathy. You’re an exceptional person. Don’t let the money and the career run you. You can run it.”

  Well, now I’m bawling. I use the handkerchief, my napkin, the tablecloth, and my sleeve. Dad’s hand is on my shoulder.

  “Have a sip of that wine. A gulp.” He takes a swig of his Scotch.

  I do. I feel better.

  I take a deep breath. My nervousness had all been for nothing. Nowhere in sight was the stern, judgmental disciplinarian I’d been skittish about breaking bread with. Instead, it seems as though my dad has finally grown up. It’s so hard to raise parents.

  “I miss you,” I tell him. “Even more so now.”

  “I miss you, too,” he says.

  We hold hands. We understand.

  “Be careful! Very hot plates!” Antonio says, placing our food in front of us.

  “Oh, this looks great!”

  “Buon appetito!”

  “Oh, Antonio,” my dad says.

  “Yes, Mr. Leo?”

  I answer. “More bread, please.”

  My dad and I smile at each other.

  Draining his glass, he says, “I might have a second drink.”

  We eat with real enthusiasm, Dad tastes mine and loves it; I tell him I don’t eat veal, when he offers me a taste. That’s something he never did before: share his meal.

  Who is this person?

  All in all, we sit for more than three hours. He finally says, “I have to get going soon.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “That’s the deal.”

  We order dessert, which is not normal for me, but today I won’t do my ridiculous calorie counting. Well, I am counting, but I don’t give a fuck.

  We finally have to pay the check. My dad grabs it.

  He looks at the check. It reads, “For Mr. Leo and his daughter Cathy. The pleasure of Café Continental.” Wow.

  We thank everyone and say goodbye, that we hope to see them again soon.

  “I want to see you go,” I say to my dad.

  “No. I need to walk out alone.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugs. “Also part of the deal.”

  We hug, a very long hug, even longer than the first one.

  “I’m so glad we had this time, Dad. I hope we can do it again.”

  “Me, too. And even if we can’t, it was so good, wasn’t it?”

  I nod.

  “Give my love to everyone in your family. And don’t tell JoAnn or Leslie or Mommy that we met. It will only make them feel bad.”

  “Okay, Dad. I understand. I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  I watch him walk out the door and out of view. He has the same jaunty walk he’d always had. It seems like he’s very comfortable in his own skin.

  I turn around. I’m happy and so sad. Antonio comes over to me and puts his arm around my shoulder. He hands me a box of cannoli.

  “For your family,” he says.

  I walk outside. It’s very sunny out. I look up at the sky, shielding my eyes, as if I’m going to see my dad. I laugh to myself. Silly.

  I decide to walk into the bookstore next to the restaurant. I find myself in the DVD stacks. Dad and I loved movies, loved watching them together. I stop, and my mouth drops open.

  There is a poster of Fernando Rey in The French Connection. Everyone always said he looked so much like my dad. He did. He does.

  Hi, Dad. Bye, Dad.

  One of the country’s top comedians, Cathy Ladman has appeared on The Tonight Show nine times and a myriad of other late-night shows. She’s had her own HBO and Showtime specials. She was awarded the American Comedy Award for Best Female Stand-Up Comic. Her film credits include Charlie Wilson’s War, The Aristocrats, and White Oleander. Many people remember her from her role in Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead. Her TV credits include I’m Dying Up Here, Modern Family, How to Get Away with Murder, Scandal, Mad Men, Curb Your Enthusiasm, and Everybody Loves Raymond.

  — 29 —

  “It’s answers I’m after, not him.”

  CAROLINE LEAVITT (DAUGHTER) AND HENRY LEAVITT

  I arrive at the restaurant first. I don’t know if my father’s going to show because he’s dead and because he hasn’t ever come to see me when he said he would when he was alive. The lunch was his idea, the details on a cream-colored invitation sent through snail mail requesting a meeting. It’s a nice place, one I am surprised my father chose or even knew about, because my father is tight and he would have been happy going to Joe & Nemo’s, the hot dog place he took my mom to on their first date. This place has four shiny stars and a menu full of fish, steaks, pastas, and fine wines. The tables are far enough away from one another so no one can hear us. There’s even a maître d’ in a penguin suit who seats me at the table, a good one, by the window, far from the bathroom and kitchen.

  I hope he’s not going to be wearing those awful ice-cream-colored pants he favors, those big shirts. I don’t know how the dead change, but I wonder if he’ll be fat the way he used to be so that he has to cram himself into the seats and even then, he might be so larger than life, (ha, that sounds funny), he spills out over the armrests.

  I don’t know how I feel about seeing him. I rustle in my seat and play with the linen napkin. I know I won’t cry because I really cried enough when he was alive. I won’t hug him or even touch him, but I remember he smells like tobacco because he’s always poking Q-tips
into his pipe and his skin is clammy. If he’s the same as he was alive, he’ll probably yell at me but, as always, not tell me for what. Maybe he will punish me with silence or kick a chair over and leave it to me to apologize to the staff in this fancy place.

  It’s answers I’m after, not him.

  He walks in, and I’m stunned by how young he looks, or maybe it’s just because I’ve grown old. He’s actually wearing a suit, and it’s a little baggy on him, and I wonder how he lost so much weight. Maybe death does that to you. Maybe the food’s not so good there. He’s wearing a black tie on a white shirt, which seems appropriate. I can see the comb marks raked across his gray hair. He smiles and squints, his hazel eyes blink, just like mine, but he doesn’t hug me or kiss me or say anything sweet. Instead, he sits down opposite me and puts his napkin in his lap and reaches for the menu, not looking at me.

  “I found them after you died,” I tell him, and he looks up at me. “Found what?” he says. He turns the pages of his menu, frowning.

  “The potato chips in your coat pocket. The candy bar wrappers in your jacket.” Before he died, my father was on a restricted diet, dangerously obese with blood pressure so dramatically high it could win an Oscar, while I was always swizzle-stick skinny. He was supposed to take pills for it. My mother put him on a diet. He ignored both of them.

  “I liked them,” he said. “I wasn’t going to deny myself.”

  “I found them,” I say again, louder now, and this time, as if the staff knows exactly what we want, a steak and potato appears for him, a vegan pasta made of zucchini and cashew ricotta for me. “You like that?” he says, shaking his head. He starts salting his steak so heavily it has a coating. “Hey, don’t you give me that look. I’m dead,” he says. “I can eat whatever I want. You and your mother. All this about food, for Christ’s sake.”

  I remember my mother cooking him lean meats, plain chicken, giving him fake butter or no butter. Instead she chose olive oil because it was supposed to be good for you. She didn’t love him, never had, but had married him on the rebound, carrying a torch for the man she had really loved for most of her life. But every night, she cooked for him and we all had dinner together. The day he died, she took out a meat loaf, a new recipe that was leaner, cleaner, and she cried, “This was his dinner.”