Tender at the Bone (24 page)

“My psychiatrist thinks you should come back to New York,” my mother said. “He thinks it would be good for me.”

I gritted my teeth. “What about ME?” echoed through my head but all that came out of my mouth was “Sorry. I’m going to graduate school.”

I hadn’t known, until I said it, that I even had a plan.

“We won’t pay for it,” my mother threatened.

“Fine,” I said, “I’ll pay for it myself.”

I got a job as a lunch waitress at the Sheraton Hotel and a cheap apartment on the wrong side of Ann Arbor. I had a fantasy that living there would be romantic, but the man next door was a monster who spent all night hitting the woman he lived with. I had never seen her, but I had seen him once, walking up the sidewalk, a grizzled
old guy with gray hair and skin the color of sheets that have stayed too long on a bed. He didn’t look strong enough to be so mean.

It always began around seven. A thud against the wall and then I’d hear him say, “Get up, I said get up.” Another thud. And on and on and on. She never said a word, or at least not loud enough for me to hear. I’d huddle miserably on my side, cooking as a distraction, berating myself for eating too much. The low point was the night I made a batch of rice pudding for twelve and ate the entire thing right from the pot, standing by the stove.

I had no dates and I felt as if I would be there forever, living in that awful apartment by myself, listening to the misery next door. I went to bars to escape the sound, drinking too much and developing crushes on men that I met. I’d stay, hopefully, until last call and then come home alone to listen to the sounds next door.

Serafina had moved to Detroit. She was writing poetry, going to political meetings, and was involved with a radical theater group. She invited me to dinner one night and I thought she might introduce me to her new friends.

But when I got there it was just the two of us, and we were awkward together. The phone kept ringing and each time she answered it her voice changed, becoming more strident, more assertive. “Ooh, child,” she said once, “you know I do!” I tried to imagine the people on the other end of the phone, but the only thing I knew for sure was their color.

I had been looking forward to curried chicken and roti and I longed for her mother’s coconut bread. I got barbecued ribs, sweet potatoes, and greens. “I’m surprised you didn’t make chitlins,” I heard myself saying as I left. As I drove back, I thought it would be a long time until I saw her again.

I got home to the usual thud, followed by the usual command to get up so he could knock her down again. But now he was a
broken record, repeating “I said get up!” so many times I thought he might have killed her. I called the police. And ran for my life; I didn’t even wait for them to come.

“Sure you can stay here,” said Pat when I turned up at the apartment I had shared with her during the summer. “In fact you can have the apartment. I’m moving out in a few days.”

Anyplace would have done, but 711 Packard was a bargain. The building was so decrepit that the building department did not consider it habitable and the rent was only a hundred dollars. The owner, Mr. Blue, did not even require a deposit.

But after she had gone Pat’s apartment seemed very big. There was no monster next door, but now I manufactured one, waking up with my heart pounding to imaginary noises. I locked myself in the bedroom at night. It didn’t help much.

In the daytime it all seemed absurd. But each night I sat alone in the living room of that abandoned building, watching as darkness crept into the apartment and made everything scary and unfamiliar. I was twenty years old and it felt childish to be so afraid. I was ashamed of myself, but that didn’t help.

One night I was examining the windows, wondering what I could do to make myself feel more secure, wondering if I should see a psychiatrist, when the doorbell rang. I would have been happy to see any friend, even one I didn’t like very much. Unfortunately the tall, lean guy in plaster-spattered jeans was a stranger.

“Is Pat here?” he stammered, looking flustered. He had fine, straight brown hair, glasses, and smooth rosy cheeks. Despite the paint and plaster on his clothes he looked extremely clean. When I told him Pat had moved he stood there silently, looking like the farmer in
American Gothic
. I asked if he wanted her address. And then I asked if he wanted dinner.

I don’t remember what we ate. But the next night, when Doug came back, I made sauerbraten. It was mid-July in the steamy heat of the Midwest, but that did not deter me from serving it with
potato pancakes and homemade applesauce. Doug had thirds. Then he stood with me in the small old-fashioned kitchen as I baked brownies in the ancient Magic Chef stove. It took us all night to polish off the pan.

The next evening I made a batch of Toll House cookies and packed them into a shoe box. I was planning to say my mother had sent them, liking the sheer incongruity of the lie. But when I knocked on his door Doug looked so happy to see me I didn’t say anything at all: I just held out the box.

“I was hoping you would come,” he said. “I even bought some wine in case I got lucky.” His total lack of guile won my heart. We finished the bottle and then went back to my place for dinner. I made Wiener schnitzel. He never left.

Doug could fix anything and build anything, but the only books he had ever read were by J.R.R. Tolkien. Most people bored him. At the age of two he had startled his conventional parents by announcing that he planned to be an artist. He had never swerved from this decision; art was all he thought about and for most of his life it was the only companion he really wanted. We had nothing in common, but he felt instantly familiar, as if I had spent my whole life waiting for him to come knocking on my door. From the first we completed each other’s sentences. Pat called us Duth and Rug.

I assumed that we loved each other because we were so different. I should have known it was not so simple. All I had to do was look at what I was cooking.

It was Dad-food from the first. Even when it was a humid 100° I was cooking stuffed pork chops and sauerkraut for Doug. I made Aunt Birdie’s potato salad and served it with ham. I baked linzertortes for dessert. I must have known, somewhere inside of me, that I had found Dad’s kindred spirit. And that if I took him home he would finally introduce me to the German gentleman who was my father.

SAUERBRATEN
FOR DOUG AND DAD

4-pound chuck or rump roast

1½ tablespoons salt

2 onions, chopped

10 black peppercorns, crushed

2 whole allspice

2 bay leaves

5 whole cloves

1½ cups red wine vinegar

1 cup red wine

¼ cup plus 2 tablespoons flour

¼ cup oil

2 tablespoons brown sugar

½ cup crushed gingersnaps

Place meat in glass bowl
.

Mix salt, onions, pepper, allspice, bay leaves, cloves, vinegar, and red wine. Pour over meat. Let stand in refrigerator 3 to 4 days, turning meat twice a day
.

Remove from marinade, reserving liquid. Dry meat and roll in ¼ cup flour. Heat oil in heavy frying pan and brown on all sides. Remove meat, put into heavy casserole, add marinade, bring to a boil, cover, reduce heat, and simmer 2½ hours
.

Remove meat from cooking liquid and set aside. Skim off the fat and strain the drippings. Add water to make 3½ cups
.

Mix brown sugar with 2 tablespoons flour. Whisk in ¼ cup water and blend well. Add little by little to cooking liquid, stirring constantly until smooth. Add gingersnaps, stir again, and put roast into gravy to simmer 15 more minutes
.

Slice meat and serve with sauce
.

Serves 6 to 8
.

“What are we going to talk about?” I asked as we passed the A&W Root Beer stand, where the red-haired carhop wore too much makeup and always remembered that Doug liked onions and mustard on his chilidogs. His mother had invited us for dinner at five.

“No big deal,” said Doug. “We’ll talk about what we always do. You’ll see.”

He pulled up in the middle of a street lined up one side and down the other with houses that looked exactly alike. Each had a cement walkway dissecting a minuscule lawn, and each had three steps leading to a tiny white house. What set this house apart from its neighbor was the shiny gray Ford parked in the driveway; the car in the adjoining driveway was maroon.

Doug’s relationship to his family mystified me. He seemed to like his mother and stepfather well enough, in a distant sort of way, and he thought his brother, Dick, was swell. But they were not really in his life. It was not that he was in rebellion, he just wasn’t there.

The door of the house opened and Doug’s mother came out. She was plump and comfortable, with neatly set gray hair and sensible glasses. She wore an apron over a light blue print dress and she waved, as if we had traveled a great distance instead of the five miles that separated our apartment from their house.

We navigated the steps and stood there, awkwardly. Doug and his mother did not kiss. “This is Ruth, Mom,” said Doug, and she smiled. “Why, hello,” she said, pointing into the house.

We went into the living room, which was almost filled by a pair of BarcaLoungers, a large television set, and a coffee table. The corner of the coffee table ripped my stocking as I swerved around
it; looking down I saw a
TV Guide
in a needlepoint cover. “My Aunt Winnie is the artist in the family,” Doug whispered.

The kitchen was spotless and smelled like pine-scented room deodorizer. It was hard to believe that dinner would appear any time soon. But the table in the dinette was set for four and at each place was a cottage cheese-filled canned peach set on a leaf of iceberg lettuce.

Doug’s stepfather came in, asked, “Dinner ready?” and sat down. He shook my hand, said, “Hello,” and was not heard from during the rest of the meal.

“Lordy,” said his mother, “I’ve been as a busy as a cat on a hot tin roof today!” She looked at me and confided, “Doug tells me you’re quite the cook. I can’t compete, but I’ve made his favorite dish.”

That turned out to be her famous chow mein, featuring canned bean sprouts, canned mushrooms, bouillon cubes, and molasses. With dinner we drank hot coffee.

“I like the way you wear you hair,” said his mother. “It’s so unusual.” She gave Doug’s stepfather a quick glance and added, “Did Doug tell you that we have a cousin who is Jewish?”

“No,” I replied. “He hasn’t mentioned that.” She looked away and then asked, “Do you understand Doug’s art?” I nodded, trying to picture Big Gray, the flocked form he had just finished, in the living room. It would tower over the TV.

“I do admire it!” she said, dishing out seconds. “Looks like we’re going to have rain next week.” We managed to discuss the weather until it was time for Doug’s favorite dessert, apricot-upside-down cake. It was very familiar; my kitchen shelves were lined with canned apricots.

We were out the door by seven. “That went well,” Doug said as we left. “My mother likes you.”

“How could you tell?” I asked.

“Right now she’s saying to my stepfather, ‘She seems like a nice
girl.’ And he’s saying, ‘Look who’s going to be on Johnny Carson tonight! Art Carney!’”

“What would she have done if she didn’t like me?” I persisted.

“Nothing different,” he admitted. “But I’d know.”

Walking up the creaky stairs to our apartment I breathed in the familiar odor of dust, old newspapers, and pickles from the store downstairs. I took a deep breath, grateful to be home, grateful to feel safe there. We unlocked the door, which still smelled vaguely of the patchouli oil Pat wore, and the cat came to meet us, complaining bitterly at having been left alone. He followed us into the bedroom and leaped gracefully onto the ornately carved antique bed I had bought at the Treasure Mart thrift shop. I turned on the fan in the window, took off all my clothes, and flopped down beside the cat. “You probably couldn’t tell,” said Doug, handing me a glass filled with Ripple and ice cubes, “but that was a really fancy dinner.” He kicked off his shoes, took off his shirt, and lay down beside me. “When I was little we mostly ate on fold-up tables in front of the television.”