Slim to None (26 page)

"Oh my god! I’m so sorry! William! What—"

He runs to the counter and grabs a dishtowel to press to his nostril, which is beginning to stream blood. He’s wearing a chef’s toque.

"Oh, honey, I’m so glad I didn’t have my knife in my hand—just think what I’d have done! You can’t scare a girl like that! What are you doing here?"

He talks muffled through the towel. "I heard your message. You sounded so low when you called. I thought you could use the help. Never thought you’d get me with a left hook though."

"Let me take a look at that." I throw some ice in a zipper-bag and remove the towel and oh, wow, noses sure do bleed, don’t they. We squeeze the towel back over his nose and I tip his head back and eventually the bleeding stops.

"I feel like such a jerk," I say.

"For the nose?"

I look down at the floor before looking up at him. "Amongst other things."

I put my hands in my pockets only to realize I have no pockets, so I sort of fumble around with nowhere to fumble around, just making nervous. Instead I twiddle the strings of my apron.

"Why’d you come?"

William looks at me and holds my gaze firm. "Because you needed me, Abbie. You’re my wife, I’ll always be there when you need me, honey."

Well if the onions evoked tears and the garlic yielded even more, you can imagine how much that simple sentence could force out of me, even though by now my tear ducts should be depleted of all supplies.

"Really?"

William reaches out and pulls me into his comforting domain. "Would I lie to you?"

I shake my head no.

"I know things have been tense with us and I know we haven’t seen eye-to-eye on our needs and wants. I haven’t been sensitive enough to what your job loss has meant to you—"

"And I haven’t been sensitive enough to how much you yearn to get away and start a new phase in our lives," I chime in. I steer the two of us closer to the cooktop to give the caramelizing mixture a stir before it burns. "Sorry, can’t risk having to do a do-over after chopping ten pounds of onions."

William smiles. "So like you, Abbie. Always mixing business with pleasure."

I move the towel away and it looks like the coast is clear as far as bleeding goes, even though he’s going to have a nice bruise on the side of his nose.

"That’s the other thing, William. I’m going to stop doing that."

"Doing what?"

"Mixing business with pleasure. I’ve gotten so confused over the years about what is business and what is pleasure. And somewhere along the line I lost you in the equation. It wasn’t fair to you, and I’m so sorry I’ve been so ignorant of your needs."

"Maybe we both have. Let’s say we just back off of all our worries and go with the flow. Things have a way of working out, and I think things will with all of this too." He spreads his arms out to indicate the workload ahead of us.

"You’re really gonna help me?"

"I brought my hat, didn’t I?"

"Where’d you get that thing, anyhow?"

"I stopped at a hotel on my way over here, went to the catering department and asked if they could scrounge one up for me. I even offered to pay but they gave it to me for free when I told them who it was for."

"You
told
them it was for me?"

"Of course I did. And you know what they said? They missed your reviews in the paper and wish you’d come back."

How nice to know I’m not totally forgotten, I guess.

"Where were you all this time?" I finally muster up the courage to ask.

"I camped out at Matt’s loft in Soho."

"Matt? You mean you weren’t with some blond bombshell?"

William laughs. "Well, Matt
is
somewhat blond—with a touch of gray around the temples. But I don’t think his partner would appreciate me hitting up on him."

"Matt’s gay?"

"You feel better now, knowing that?"

It’s my turn to laugh. And here I was worried that my husband was in the throes of a torrid affair with some fantasy woman. Instead he was sleeping on a spare mattress and clearly not the object of anyone’s deep desires.

"Much better," I say, taking a taste of the caramelized onions and licking the spoon clean.

* * *

For the rest of the day William and I work as a team in the kitchen, prepping, chopping, sautéing, steaming. It seems to re-define our relationship of late, the happy but silent give and take that comes with a couple so in tune with one another. Again, finally.

The last thing I make before calling it a night is my grandma Gigi’s rice croquettes, a recipe that was handed down to her grandmother and then to her and then to me. Maybe some day I’ll have a little girl I can pass this recipe on to, to keep up the tradition. There’s something reassuring about something so lasting that can transcend generations and changes in tastes and still have appeal. I’ve never shared this with anyone; maybe it’s a sign that I’m becoming less covetous where food is concerned.

Grandma Gigi’s
Rice Croquettes

1 quart (4 cups) milk

3 tbl. sugar

1 tsp. vanilla extract (not vanilla flavoring)

1 tsp. kosher salt

4 sticks cinnamon

3/4 c. raw rice (long-grain)

2-3 eggs, beaten

Kellogg’s Corn Flake Crumbs (about 3-4 cups)

Peanut oil (2-3 bottle of Planter’s brand)

Red currant jelly

In double boiler on high, with water in bottom pan just shy of touching the bottom of insert pan, bring to scald one quart (four cups) whole milk. You will know it is scalded when a thin skin forms on surface of the milk. Then add 3 tbl. Sugar, 1 tsp. vanilla, 1 tsp. salt, 4 sticks cinnamon, and 3/4 c. raw rice. Stir well.

Cook on low to medium temperature for several hours, stirring occasionally, and checking to be sure water doesn’t boil away from bottom pan (add more when necessary), until mixture is so thick you can barely stir it with a wooden spoon. Let cool (can refrigerate overnight if need be).

Shape into 1" balls, roll in egg and then in corn flake crumbs to coat.

Deep-fry in peanut oil at 375 degrees or in wok on medium high. Can be refrigerated and re-heated in 350 degrees oven for about 12-15 minutes.

Serve warm with currant jelly.

Two Parts Good Cheer Served Over Easy

By the time I make it to bed, William is sound asleep. So much for that long-awaited reunion. Guess that’ll have to wait. For now it’s enough to settle into bed and wrap my arms around him, drifting off to sleep knowing he’s home for good.

The delivery truck arrives early in the morning to collect all of the food that’s going to Sally’s. It seems half the dishes in my kitchen are headed that way. George arrives as the truck pulls away.

"You’re early! I thought we said nine!"

"You did, but I’m an early riser. Street-sweeping machines start going in the city, you know."

The things you don’t consider about roughing it in a city, I guess.

I hand George a towel and all the accoutrements one needs to clean up and direct him to the guest bedroom, while William and I shower and get ready ourselves. Within the hour we’re all dressed and ready to go.

When George appears in the foyer, I gasp slightly.

"Oh, George, you look just perfect," I say, giving a tug on his suit jacket to straighten it out. "Are you ready for this?"

"I guess I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. And I can’t wait to eat whatever it is you’re fixing."

We all laugh, considering dinner is all about food. Though in truth this one’s about far more than merely that.

"Sally’s got everyone lined up, it’s going to be quite the gathering."

I look over at George who still looks quite anxious.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, though I’m not sure about this whole shindig."

"Shindig? Are you from this century?"

"Matter of fact, no, I’m from the last century, and proud of it."

"You want to hear my sage advice to you?" I ask him.

"So far you haven’t steered me wrong. Fire away."

"Life is all about changes, all about moving forward, keeping things from getting too stale. Nothing static can last, nor would you want it to. So maybe there was a time when it was right for you to spread your wings, get out of your rut, even if it meant committing something pretty off-the-beaten-path as far as mid-life crises go. But now you’re ready to take those experiences, apply them to your life, your marriage and your family, and go off in a new direction. It’s time, George. And everyone’s waiting for you."

"You trying to reduce me to tears? Bad enough you had me going to some metrosexual spa."

William laughs. "And you listened to her?"

"Abbie didn’t give me a choice, really."

William looks at me. "She rarely does." Then he smiles. "So what time is our ride getting here?"

"Our ride! Jess! The driver!" Oh, crap. Yeah. Transportation. One little detail I neglected. "That was Jess’ thing. I forgot all about it. She was going to send her husband’s driver. I guess she forgot. And I forgot. And we need to get there. I’ve got loads to do and not enough time as it is. We don’t have time to fetch a car service at this point."

William looks at me, that light bulb illuminating in his eyes. "But we do have a way to get us there." He crooks his finger for us to follow him, down the narrow steps to the basement, and points at his motorcycle and sidecar.

"That’s fine for two of us. But what about the third?" I ask him. And then I look in the corner and see it, in all its hot pink glory. The Vespa, which has been waiting all this time for the perfect moment, which, like it or not, has finally arrived.

William nods first at me, then at it.

"Maybe I do have time to call for a driver," I say. "I bet I can find a cabbie who wants the fare."

But William shakes his head. "It’s now or never Abbie. Use it or lose it. It’s why I bought it for you. Don’t be afraid, babe. I’ll be riding right behind you, making sure nothing goes wrong."

If only I was afraid about something going wrong. Oy, that’s the least of my worries. I’m more worried about nothing going. As in it not going. Due to overload. And I can only imagine the hind view of me on this thing: like a family of five sitting on one of those bikes with a banana seat.

I look at William, my eyebrows furrowed. I glance at George, who appears giddy at the notion of riding in a sidecar—even if it does currently have a bit of dog hair strewn about it.

"We need to get the mini-vac and clean that up for our guest," I say, pointing at the mess.

William retrieves it and does a serviceable job of de-furring it. I want to collect up of Cognac’s fur and pocket it as a good-luck talisman. Then he takes my hand and walks me over to my scooter.

"Your carriage awaits you, my dear." He holds his hand at my fingertips and kisses the top of it, as if I’m royalty.

Ever so carefully, even more delicately than when I’ve stepped onto the scale lately, I approach the beast, lifting my leg over the seat, straddling it, on my tiptoes, fearful of the big ka-boom I know must be about to come. I inch my behind down, an elephant stepping on a mouse, and finally settle onto the thing. I squint my eyes, awaiting the noise. After a few minutes of only hearing my heart beating in my ears I open my eyes and to my surprise, I’m sitting on top of my Vespa, looking as sporty as I can in my Johnny Cash-wear (all black—you know me). Of course black and pink go great together, so there you have it. Maybe if I keep losing weight I can try this in the black and pink Victoria’s Secret boy shorts some day. Just joking.

"I’ll run upstairs and grab the keys—you need anything else?" William asks, his smile splitting his face, obviously pleased with himself at performing a small miracle and managing to get me onto this thing.

"My purse." Though I haven’t the slightest idea where that’s going to go for the ride. "Don’t forget my coat—the black one! Oh, and grab the directions in a folder on the kitchen counter!"

He’s back in a minute, opening up the extra-wide basement door that leads out to the alley behind our place so we can waddle the bikes out the door. William reads over the directions, and George assures him he can help him find the place.

We talk over our plan of attack to get out of the city then William bends down and gives me a long, heartfelt kiss. "You’ve got a good heart, Abbie Jennings, doing all this for George. Now let’s go enjoy this ride." He lets out a whoop and puts my helmet on, helping to secure it in place. So much for my hairdo. Poor George is stuck with our spare (and extra-lame) helmet and only needs a horn jutting out of the top and he’d be taken for a modern-day Kaiser Wilhelm. Except that he’s got my purse in his lap, bless his heart. As we weave between the lighter Saturday morning traffic, I glance in my mirror to see him just laughing and laughing, clearly enjoying the ride. And it’s actually not such a bad ride; it’s all coming back to me. Just like riding a bike.

Once we’re on the West Side Highway I’ve got the hang of the thing and start to remember how much I loved riding our scooter, back in my salad days—as if I had salad days. And by the time we get to the Saw Mill, well, I’m hooked. What kind of idiot was I refusing to ride this thing for vanity’s sake? I love it. And I love that William thought so much about me to ever buy it in the first place.

The leaves are changing and the diversity of colors is spectacular—it’s a feast for the eyes. Now that’s my kind of feast, these days, one that isn’t at all fattening, but is delightful nonetheless. Being on the Vespa makes me feel so much more a part of the experience than I would in a car with a roof overhead. Instead it’s me, surrounded by stunning foliage. I really ought to get out more often.

By the time we arrive in Pound Ridge I am exhilarated and ready to take on my task at hand. I find the hidden driveway that leads up to George’s house and clear my name at the gate, sort of bummed I won’t miss the reunion between George and Junior. Ahead of me, rows of Italian cypress-like trees hug the mile-long drive (although I’m sure those trees can’t withstand the bitter Westchester winters, though I suspect Sally would pay to heat the ground just to keep the things alive if it meant that much to her). I finally arrive in a clearing to see a palatial estate before me. I knew George had money, but damn, George has money. The home looks more like a grand Italianate palazzo or some last vestige of the Holy Roman Empire than someone’s humble home. I dismount the Vespa near one of several apparent parking areas, after seeing where George has directed William to park. We stand in awe for a few minutes, until Sally comes squealing out, several dogs in tow, and stops abruptly in front of her husband.

She whistles low and long. "Well, well, well. Would ya look at that." Her eyes trail him from top to bottom, looking somewhat dumbstruck.

George sticks his arms out and does a slow twirl, just to emphasize the transition. "You like?"

I think Sally’s speechless. She just keeps staring at him.

"Well? What do you think?" I ask her. I can’t wait to hear what she thinks.

"Abbie, you’re a miracle-worker. I mean look at him—" she reaches out and grabs him by the shoulder and gives him a little shake like he’s on display. "In a million years—"

"Uh, I am an actual living, breathing, creature," he says to her. "You don’t have to talk about me as if I’m an inanimate object!"

At that Sally reaches out for him and gives him an enormous hug, one so hard it’s lucky she’s a size zero or she’d squeeze the life out of him.

"I didn’t think you’d ever come home," she whispers in his ear.

"I didn’t think you ever really wanted me home," he whispers back.

After a few minutes of them talking quietly and William and I staring in awe at our surroundings, Sally ushers us inside. Of course the inside is even more stunning than the outside, with one-of-a-kind paintings gracing the walls of the enormous open foyer, with a split staircase spiraling up either side to the next level, complete with a domed, frescoed ceiling.

William leans over and whispers in my ear, "You mean to tell me your buddy gave up all this to live on a park bench?"

"I know, it seems crazy, doesn’t it?" I say, rubbing my hand along his chin. "But look what I was blindly giving up. Sometimes you need someone to shine a light on whatever’s under that rock, eh?"

We hold hands as Sally tours us around, first to the receiving room, where appetizers will be served. Then the dining room, which is almost clichéd with one long gleaming mahogany table, polished so much it’s like looking at glass. Three chandeliers suspend at intervals from the towering ceiling, their Swarovski crystal prisms scattering sunlight like confetti throughout the room. Even the light is celebrating today. The staff has obviously already been in here, as the table is brimming with crystal and china and silver and only the finest of everything. Tall floral arrangements are interspersed with candelabra, all elevated so as to not obscure the view of others
a table.

Nothing prepares me for the splendor of Sally’s kitchen. It is the Cinderella’s castle of all kitchens, it’s that fabulous. I might just become a squatter here. They’d never know. Though I’d have to bring along William and Cognac, and I can’t forget Tartare. It might get crowded in this ballroom of a kitchen with so many of us taking up residence here.

Sally excuses her and George and asks a butler to show us where all of our supplies are. And then all of the lifestyles of the uber rich and famous fantasies evaporate and William and I have to hunker down to serious work. Sorting the tenderloins, all of which are marinating in Ziploc bags (who could figure out where to find enough roasting pans in which to marinate them all?), finding pans for the sauces, serving dishes and untensils for the various courses, chafing dishes for the appetizers. By late afternoon the meat is coming to room temperature on the countertop, in preparation for roasting. Ovens are pre-heated, soup and sauces are simmering, appetizers have been laid out on silver trays and guests begin to arrive. As much as I’d love to witness each of the guests greeting George, I can’t leave the kitchen for even a moment until the main course is served. But in the distance I can hear the din of laughter and squeals of joy as one after another, family and friends welcome their wayward member back into the fold.

At last, once meals have been plated and are ready to go out, William and I prepare to join the dinner party, already in progress, having left strict instructions to the Gretl-less kitchen help on everything left to be done. Between the helmet and the heat of the kitchen my hair has fallen limp like the fine coat on an Irish setter, nearly obscuring my view of things. William pulls me aside for a moment before we leave the butler’s pantry.

"Hey, Mrs. Jennings," he says, cupping my face in his hands, wiping a few beads of sweat from my forehead and straggling hair from my eyes.

"Hey back, Mr. Jennings," I say, smiling at him.

"You did good here, you know."

"Thank you. Though let’s hold out final judgment until we get a sense of what’s happening out there on the Western Front. You never know with this lot—things could be going to hell in a handbasket for all we know."

"Well, I want you to know how proud I am of you, babe. You’ve done something really special here, reuniting George with his family."

He takes my hand and we step out into the dining room and join the group, who are clearly enjoying themselves, if I can judge that from the number of empty bottles of wine, beer and liquor I saw piling up in the recycling bin.

Sally has saved seats for us close to the immediate family and we are introduced to George’s kids and grandchildren. As luck would have it, I’m nearest five-year old Katie, who is as poised and sophisticated as a sixteen-year old and decides to help me navigate the array of utensils at my place. Clearly she never got the memo on my food critic past. She and I talk about her school and about boys and she tells me that she has no patience for dolls and would rather play with her dog more than anything in the world.