Let Me Explain You (3 page)

Rhonda was sliding a binder into a bag. She was putting on her blazer. “You mean give you until five.”

Stavros helped her into the jacket with the intention of helping her get it back off. “Not me. Us.” He ran his hands up her sides. The produce crate came to him. He buried his mouth into her neck, where it smelled like Sunday. She adjusted her jacket, her message that he was not going to get any squeezy squeezy.

She stopped at the door with her keys ready and he realized that what she was actually telling him was goodbye. He had seen this many times at the diner, some woman looking across the table, telling the man that their relationship was dead; he had faced it himself, of course—twice. But with Rhonda, it felt different. She took her time, never shy with her eyes. This look was the look she might leave on his grave. Yes, she loved him. No, even now he could not return that look. He could not say, Let me give you my remainings of the day.

He said, “Take to them the chicken sandwich, at least.” He put it back in its container, happy it was cut in half, one equal part for each boy.

She would not let him walk her out, made him leave while she locked up. He watched her from his car. He smoked, she flipped down the mirror for lipstick. He watched her smooth her hair. She always looked nice for her sons. He hoped God was not too busy to see what a lovely woman she was. The one thing he had always known about her: she never needed him. In that way, she was superior to him.

He thought back to the first time they met, an expensive restaurant an hour away, in Delaware. He got there early, she got there on time. He stood when she arrived, kissed her cheek. That night she was in a skirt, too, and a shirt cut low, which made him order a bottle. Only, he did not like her name, which to him sounded like a man's. He could not make an easy, pretty nickname of it.

“You like merlot?” he asked, waving the waiter over.

“I like it all,” she said.

He felt giddy when the waiter filled their glasses. He did not look up at the man, partly to show that he was more society and partly because he did not want to see what the man thought about these two people, one white and one black, on a first date off the internet. She sipped the wine without bringing it up to her nose. He showed her how it was done. “I know about wine,” he said, “because I am from the country where all of the songs are about wine.”

She asked him where that was. “Your accent,” she said, “it's very strong. I like that.”

He told her about Greece and enjoyed how her eyes lit up at the emerald-blue water, the islands carved out of marble, the summer lovers, landscapes as early as breakfast and long as sunbathing. Introducing her to this paradise, he felt as if he had been the one to make it. “I will take you one day,” he told her. “I can show you everything.” Oh, he meant it. Wanted to. He could be one of the Richie Riches and spend money on one good time for them both.

She laughed with her mouth open, like a Greek. He was surprised by her teeth, the space between them, the way he felt he could fit his whole body inside, and how it had made him want her even as it made him nervous, cautious. His wife did not have space between her teeth for him. His wife, even when they first met, when they pressed against each other inside two beers and a crowd, did not make him feel swallowed whole the way Rhonda did. Rhonda talked a lot. She told him about her dream to be a travel agent and her night classes and her nine-year-old sons. She told him she had no time for small men.

“It's all over your eyes. I saw it the minute I came in.” She laughed. “Don't be afraid of the bigness, Steve. Sometimes, bigness brings joy.”

But a man like Stavros Stavros Mavrakis cannot have joy for very long. His entire life has been leading him toward the end of things. He has and has not written his end into being. His decision on the email letter to his family, it only points at the sun through the clouds. He sees the sun but cannot make it stay through the night, any night, no matter how he tries.

He is not planning his death—that is not the right way to explain it. He is Sweeping Away the Hay and Cockroaches from the Floor of Destiny. He is Thawing the Meat of What Is To Be. He is aware of death the way you might try to become aware of the wolf in the forest, only to understand that the wolf has long been aware of you. He is not sure that God will meet him halfway or any way. So far, it is clear that you take maybe one, two steps with someone, and then you make the rest of the journey alone; it could be that Stavros will make it to heaven to find out that he is the only one there. But would that be so different from this crowded life, where you were left to yourself?

This was it, the final nail in the crate.

Rhonda's car pulled out of the parking lot. Stavros watched until it became confused with all of the other cars. Since his arrival to this country—this state—over thirty years ago, he has never gotten over how many cars can be on one road and how, in those cars, day after day, most people are driving with no one beside them. This, plus the sun quickly moving away from him, reminded Stavros that he would spend tonight alone. Then he thought of the goat.

He parked in the back of the diner, as usual. No one came outside. The goat sat on its curled haunches, as if it were a cat.

“I am home,” he said.

The goat did not flinch. It accepted a Saratoga with its long tongue.

“Do you know the evil three, goat? θάλασσα καὶ πῦρ καὶ γυνή Sea and fire and women.”

The goat raised its head.

“Good you only have to worry about number one or two.” He squatted in the darkness some feet away. He smoked. “These women, goat, they are killing me to death.”

The goat settled down again. This one sympathy was exactly what Stavros needed.

Dusk began to mask their surroundings. It made Stavros feel as if he were in another time—first his childhood, the village, and then, staring at the goat, its head more formation than skull, he could have been a shepherd in another lifetime, isolated on a mountain with his flock and a purse of dried meat, a knife, a flute.

Stavros was quiet. He felt satisfied, for a few moments, that there was no one to talk to.

If We are who We are supposed to be on the outside, We are who

We are supposed to be on the inside.

Stavroula answered her father's email: with love.

And food, of course.

In the cramped white office, Mr. Asbury sat. Out of respect, she stood. She could hear blades, searing from the kitchen, the sous yelling about cross-contamination. He was fastidious, which she liked. Under it all, the vacant hum of the nearby ice machine. The middle of a dinner rush on a Saturday, and she had insisted that they talk now. No, it couldn't wait. Her new seasonal menu—her answer to her father—was going out tomorrow. It was printed on cream-colored paper in an embossed font that you expected to taste like crème brûlée.

Mr. Asbury mouthed consonants as he read, his thin legs hooked around a stool. He was all brow and snowy arm hair. His eyes were fin-blue, like his daughter July's, his skin pink. He was a father first, and a businessman second. Never a dictator. Nothing like her own father. Mr. Asbury would have never sent an email like the one she received, but Mr. Asbury also would not have made a good cook, having none of her or her father's bullheadedness and intuition. Mr. Asbury was a wonderful boss. He respected Stavroula, acknowledged her as a person and an artist and a partner. He trusted her to do right by Salt. He had recruited her for his restaurant two years ago. Stavroula had not yet made up her mind about how long to stay—she had a history of moving from one kitchen to the next—but there were things keeping her here. Such as, she had exclusive creative control of her kitchen. Reading the menu, Mr. Asbury knew that.

Like last Easter: the only thing Stavroula would serve was lamb—roasted on a spit in full view of the diners—with Smyrna figs and
htipiti
, a feta spread garnished with red pepper. Fixed menu, no alterations, no starchy sides. One long table that seated everyone. Strangers sharing the holiest meal, eating with their hands or they could go someplace else. And he saw how well that went, so. She got her way because she did not give up, and because she fought only for what was absolutely necessary for survival and good food, which were the same thing. She had only ever lost once, and that time it was July who had said no, and Stavroula took it. No fish heads in the
psarosoupa
, July, no problem. But Stavroula would win today. Love would.

For over a year, she had been in love with July. Had done nothing about it, the only thing in her life she didn't seize. Until now. She felt for the printed email in her pocket. It was strange that in this moment of exposure—probable judgment—the email from her father would come as a comfort. The ice machine trickled, gurgled, which she felt at the back of her own throat. Not that she'd show it.

Mr. Asbury said in his soft, courting voice, “Even this one?”

“July.”

“The spicy pork tacos?”

“July.”

“Crab cakes?”

“Late July.”

July Angel Hair served alongside Tarragon Lime Bay Scallops. Roasted July Poblanos with Cashew Chipotle Sauce. Classic Chicken Salad with Red Grapes and Smoked Almonds: For July. July galette. That one she would layer with leeks, zucchini, and green chilis, topped with a creamy, tangy
avgolemono
sauce. It's not just that she added July to all of the names of the dishes: that would have meant nothing. July was the inspiration for every flavor combination.
If everything's July
, Mr. Asbury might say,
then what's July?
But then, he did not understand the full complexity that was July. For that matter, neither did Stavroula. For that matter neither did the ex, Mike, who, until six months ago, had ordered items not listed on the menu and barged into Stavroula's kitchen and used his fingers around her plates. These days, Mike was just a customer. He ordered off the menu and didn't come into the back. That was the first indication that July was done with him. Maybe all men.

Mr. Asbury's lips puckered into an asterisk. No, a whisk. “I don't understand, Stevie.”

She did not answer. Which between them meant,
Yes, you do.

It was Marina who had taught Stavroula about naming dishes—how it was like slipping a key into a lock: most fit, but only the right one could make the door swing open and the eater enter. It was Marina who had taught Stavroula to take herself seriously—what she wanted, what she needed to be.
You can be a vessel
, koukla—she had taught her years ago—
as long as you know what you're meant to carry.

Mr. Asbury was hesitant, kind, when he chuckled. Telling Stavroula what she already knew without saying it: she was intense. So what. How did he think her food got its flavor? A few months ago when he slipped a little extra pocket money into her apron for her birthday, what had she bought? Japanese salt, one of only thirty-two batches. And did she take it home? No, she used it in his pots.

“Stevie, you're asking me to name food after my daughter?”

“I'm not asking you to name anything, John.”

She was doing the naming here. And she did not want to name food after July: she wanted to name her every creation, from now through summer, after July. Maybe into winter. What women want, more than anything, is honest and intent flattery, which means if you want to pursue a woman you have to show her you know her, see her, nothing less. No, that wasn't it. You have to prove that you will try over and over to know her. Understand this: at any time a woman's appetite can change. Maybe she's hungry for more, maybe she's had enough. A woman, like a meal, is a complex, evolving creation.

In the chaos of the kitchen, filling orders, Stavroula showed him a mousseline, a delicate savory composite of pureed shrimp and cream that enhanced the briny sweetness and plump bite of crabmeat. She removed the crabmeat from the bowl of chilled milk, the ice machine still going, but she didn't hear it anymore. She blitzed six ounces of shrimp, plus cream and Old Bay, some Dijon, hot sauce, fresh lemon. Pureeing the shrimp releases sticky proteins that delicately hold the clumpy pieces of crabmeat together, she told him. Coat in toasted panko, cook patties until golden brown.

“No egg? No filler?” He smiled. “What, we're too sophisticated for that now?”

“There's nothing filler about your daughter.”

Only the sous-chef raised his eyes at this. She didn't care, and the rest of them were intimidated by her, they wouldn't dare look. Mr. Asbury blinked several times until he settled on, “I agree.” But it was clear he was not agreeing with her. Enough: she would make him eat. Stavroula plated the crab cakes and squirted an accompanying swirl of wasabi-avocado sauce. She used her fingers to confirm what she already knew. Perfect. Maybe some lemon peel. She added a little salt for crunch and also because salt, in Greek folklore, got rid of unwanted guests. Such as her father.

If it were her father she needed to convince, it would have translated into
This door is locked and so is the window.
But with Mr. Asbury, it was more like a fence she could hop over. There were footholds, if you trusted your weight to it. She imagined herself trying to explain to her father who July was, what she deserved. He would turn around and tell her what she deserved. He would say she was doing this to spite him, and in this instance he would be right.
Let me explain you something
, she would answer back. It was time for her to be who she was on the outside so she could be who she was supposed to be on the inside. It had only taken thirty-one years.

Mr. Asbury broke into the glossy crab cake with his fork. His expression was softening, like meat defrosting. Cooking with someone, you got to learn how they think. What he thought was, the menu would sell. Still—“You want my approval on this?”