The Love Children (39 page)

“Debbie didn't care for it. She liked Vermont, the trees, the greenness. But I was occupied with building the sheds and planting and worrying about soil and nourishment and water and humidity, and she hated all that and refused to participate. And once winter came—well, it's tough up here, you know that—she began to hate it.

“She'd met some people in Paris, Americans involved in a national theater based in D.C., a couple of gay men she liked very much. She called them and asked if they knew of any job she could fill. They'd liked her—she's smart and witty—and told her to come down and they'd find something for her. She went. She said she'd come back every other weekend, but I sort of sensed . . .

“Anyway, by then . . . It's funny, I don't know if you've found . . . if you have enough differences with someone, even if you still love them, you don't mind parting from them, like you've had enough despite the love . . . Or maybe I'm just a cold bastard.” He eyed me hard. “What do you think?”

“Yes,” I said tentatively, thinking of Stepan. “Differences can stretch love too thin. That happened to me too. I used to think I was fickle . . .”

“Yes!” he exclaimed, as if I'd solved a problem for him. “That's how it feels! She left most of her stuff here and flew down with just an overnight bag. They found her a job at the National Endowment for the Arts as somebody's assistant. Within six months she was running a department. She came back a couple of times, but then she packed her stuff and said good-bye. We're still friends but nothing more: we talk on the phone once in a while. She's been successful and she loves what she does. She works for Lincoln Center now.”

Finally I could breathe out.

He offered me a cigarette and lit one for himself, and the two of us sat there smoking in silence. I don't smoke anymore but I
miss it because of the way you could sit with someone and smoke and not have to talk yet feel you were doing something.

“How long have you been alone?” he ventured.

“Four years.”

“And how old is Isabelle?”

“Three.”

His eyebrows went up. I laughed at the way it sounded.

“No, she wasn't an immaculate conception. I left her father before I knew I was pregnant. I was living in a commune.”

“Really!” His eyebrows went up again. “I always wanted to do that! How did you like it?”

“I loved it until . . . These things work until somebody decides to dominate.”

“Yeah,” he said as if he knew all about it. But did he?

I wondered how old he was. Could I ask? “I'm twenty-five,” I said. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-three.”

Born in 1946, started college in 1964. “College got you out of Vietnam,” I suggested.

“College. And then a high number.”

“Did you march?”

“Of course. You?”

“Yes.”

Then, as if continuing something, he asked, “So you live with your father . . . ?”

“Yes. Since I left the commune. It was in Becket, in the Berkshires. Isabelle's father still lives there.”

“What's his name?”

“Stepan. Stepan Andropovich. He's from the Ukraine.”

“And he has no interest in being a father?”

“Actually, he'd like to see more of Isabelle.” Her head turned when I mentioned her name. However engrossed she was in the baby leopards she was watching, she was keeping watch over me.
“He loves her. But we don't want to be together anymore, and he doesn't want to leave the commune, and I don't want to be there anymore, so . . .”

He nodded with what seemed like real understanding. And I knew that everything was as I thought: things did not need to be spoken.

 

But we did have to talk business. Philo and I came to an arrangement for him to deliver a half dozen boxes of mushrooms every weekend. His prices were fair and I began to get excited, thinking about the dishes I could invent. When I mentioned this, he rifled through a drawer and handed me a stack of photocopies. “I'm sure you don't need these, but I offer them to all my customers—some of my grandmother's recipes for mushrooms. I know you're an inventive chef. Just throw them out if they're useless to you,” he added apologetically.

“Oh, I'm fascinated by recipes!” I exclaimed. “They're what I read for pleasure. And they're your grandmother's! How great!” I gazed at him fondly, about to ask a crucial question. “Do you have a delivery person?”

“No, I do it myself. I spend Thursday and Friday on the road, making deliveries.”

I sat back, satisfied. It was time to go. It was starting to get late and I'd have to drive home in the dark if I didn't leave soon. But I sat there, unable to move.

“How did you happen to become a chef?” he asked, as if he really wanted to know. “I mean, you don't look like a chef.”

“What does a chef look like?”

“Oh, I don't know. But not like you. You look like a model, or an actress. In the first place, you're too thin to be a chef!” He laughed. “Chefs look more like me.” He patted his stomach.

“I started out to be a poet. But I always liked to cook. And when I joined the commune . . . The food was so bad there, they
were vegetarians and couldn't afford butter or cream or even fish, and their food was so bland and boring, I just had to do something about it!” I laughed. “I'll tell you when you come to Brattleboro,” I said. “I have to get this tired child home.” Isabelle glared at me. I forced myself into a standing position.

He rose and came over to me. He stretched out both his arms as if to embrace me. My heart stopped for an instant, but I took his hands, sidestepping the embrace.

“I'm so happy we met,” he said.

Isabelle stood up too. She put her glass and napkin on a table like the good little girl she was, and ran to repossess me. I had to let go of Philo's hand to take hers.

“See you in two weeks then,” he said.

“Right. Call and tell me what day you're coming.”

I went through all the usual motions as I installed Isabelle in her car seat, speaking sweetly to my baby, but all the while, my mind was whirring. I was thinking, If he comes on a Thursday or Friday, I'll plan something special, crispy duck, maybe, with my delicious mushroom soup, or a
blanquette de veau
with mushrooms. I'll insist he stay for dinner, maybe I can even eat with him if I can steal the time, set up a table on the back porch. Or maybe I can get him to hang around until nine thirty or so, when most of the customers are gone, and then we can eat together. Or maybe I can persuade him to come on a Monday, when we're closed. I could go in and cook a meal just for him. I could leave Isabelle at home with Dad.

I still took Isabelle to work with me. She didn't get tired until seven or so, and I left around three. I didn't want to leave her with Dad, who worked until around nine. She was really good; she didn't run around the restaurant, but stayed in the back rooms or in the yard, with the staff keeping an eye on her. She had plenty of toys and her own cup and bowl and high chair, and I'd bought a crib to keep in the restaurant. I put her to bed about seven,
and she slept soundly there, being so used to it. I would pick her up to go home around ten thirty or eleven, and she would wake momentarily but go right back to sleep.

I didn't want to entertain Philo at home. I didn't want Philo to meet Dad just yet.

Isabelle spent the drive home asking questions about “the man,” about whom she harbored terrible suspicions, all of which were right on target: he was about to wreck her world. He would, if things went as I hoped, compete for my attention. She would fight to the death to avoid this, I knew, but she was doomed. She could have no idea that “the man” would also enrich her life, although why I thought that, given my experience of daddies, I don't know. Unless “enrich” simply means “make more complicated.”

It was Monday. I didn't have to work that night, and I pulled into the driveway of Dad's house full of secret happiness.

Philo called a week later
to say he was changing his delivery schedule; some of his customers were experiencing bigger Friday crowds and wanted their mushrooms earlier in the week, so they could plan their Friday specials. He would now be delivering on Wednesday and Thursday, so could he drop my mushrooms off Wednesday evening? Would I mind if he made it his last delivery of the day? Because given the direction he traveled, east, then south, then north, it would be on his way home. Was that all right?

It was perfect. Tuesday and Wednesday were our slowest days; I might be able to spend a little time with him. And the last delivery of the day would be at what time? Oh, maybe seven thirty or eight. Maybe a little later?

Great. Why didn't he stay for dinner?

He'd love to.

He didn't sound surprised.

I had already planned a popular special for that night, linguine with scungile, shrimp, scallops, calamari, and mushrooms in a sauce of olive oil, fish broth, and saffron. I would serve it to him with a salad of buttery lettuce, red onion, and avocado, with lemon and olive oil. For dessert, we would have crêpes with orange segments, orange jam, and vanilla ice cream. I had a wonderful pastry chef now who specialized in things like that.

It was amazing how much attention was required for this one simple special, on this particular day. I absolutely needed a haircut; I hadn't had a professional cut in three years and my hair looked it. I also suddenly perceived it needed a little brightening. Just a few blonde streaks. And I desperately needed a facial. How had I let myself become such a mess! And I had to have something decent to wear. I had no clothes! I needed new shoes! And I had no time!

Isabelle chose that week to be cranky and whiny, which she almost never was. Oh, she knew, she knew, the little pest.

Saturday morning was always the busiest time of my week. I went in early to examine the deliveries and make sure the meat and fish and produce were all top quality. Then I ran into town and shopped. I found a really cute black top, with long sleeves that were not too tight, so my arms would be able to wrestle with heavy pots. The top was moderately low cut in front. I also bought a tight pair of black trousers, and some neat black shoes with buckles and a pair of silver hoop earrings. Altogether I was quite happy and got through Saturday and Sunday somehow. We had easy specials, baked salmon and rack of lamb, so I didn't get too tired, and on Monday I was able to run into town again and get my hair cut and have a facial and buy some makeup. I needed everything. My entire makeup kit contained only the Kmart lipstick I'd worn for the past three years. I bought mascara, blush, eyeliner, and a shiny metallic lip gloss, and when I put it all on, I have to say, I thought I looked . . . Well, I didn't know who that was in the mirror. An actress or a model, he'd said. Yes!

When I got all dressed up on Wednesday and was ready to leave for the restaurant, I asked Dad how I looked. He looked up from his newspaper—he came in from the studio for lunch these days—and said, “You look fine. Why?”

But Isabelle noticed the difference and she didn't like it. “You have stuff on your face, Mommy!” she protested and tried to
climb up on me. Then she started to cry, and Mrs. Thacker said, “Why Isabelle! Why are you being such a baby!” because of course she didn't understand. This only made Isabelle howl louder, and inside I was laughing, but I hugged her and as I carried her out to the car, I told her I would never ever stop loving her, whatever happened. It was a grand drama.

Isabelle and I went to Artur's, and once we reached the restaurant and everything was just as it always was, she calmed down and ran into Artur's arms.

I worked and waited.

And worked and waited.

As it approached six, customers started to drift in. By seven, we had four orders of rack of lamb, six linguine-and-seafood specials, a crabmeat salad and an osso buco, a roast chicken, and a strip steak, and then it was eight and he still wasn't there. The restaurant filled up and I forgot about him—the bastard.

It was nine o'clock before I could breathe calmly enough to look at the clock. My makeup was gone and my blouse spotted and my feet hurt in my fancy shoes with the buckles that I'd worn instead of my usual sneakers, and my hair was damp and trying to escape from my cap, and most of the seafood was gone, the rack of lamb was finished, and then the back door opened and this big guy pushed his way in carrying huge flat boxes.

Of mushrooms.

I turned, barely able to muster a smile. He didn't seem to expect anything, just stood there chatting with Eberly, one of the assistants, who took the mushrooms, put them in the cold storage room, and checked them against our list and then asked Artur to pay him. Artur went over to Philo and talked to him—of course, I'd told him all about Philo and the mushrooms—and finally I could take a breath. I went over and chatted with them and offered Philo dinner. Was I sure? he asked. He didn't want to
bother me. I insisted, and we set up the staff table in the alcove and I had Eberly pour him a drink. He took bourbon, a Jack Daniels on the rocks.

Isabelle was sound asleep in her crib, and things were beginning to close down outside; there were only about a dozen people left in the dining room. I had told Manuel early in the evening to be sure to reserve two orders of the pasta with seafood for Philo and me. Artur sat with Philo, drinking a vodka and water, continually hopping up to go out and say good night to patrons. Philo looked exhausted. He admitted that deliveries tired him; he was happy to relax with a couple of bourbons. By nine forty-five, no new customers were arriving and the staff was cleaning up.