Eating Heaven (14 page)

He looks at me. “What?”

“I don’t know anything about you.”

“ ’Course you do. You’ve known me your whole life.”

“Exactly. And I know nothing about before . . . you know. Before we met you.”

“What? You want my life story?”

“Sure.”

Benny lays down his cards, his gnarled hands suddenly empty and searching for something to do. In the old days, this is when he would have lit a Winston. “Like what?”

“Something juicy. Who was your first love?”

He chuckles. “Well, that’d be a tie between our old hound King and my first car, a 1938 Century Sport Coupe I rebuilt from junk parts.”

“Tell me the rest. Start at the beginning.”

He nods, folds his hands together, index fingers pointing skyward:

This is the church. . . .

Benny was born and raised in Joplin. Farm country at the time. Springfield was the closest city, and he remembers occasional excursions there with his parents. “There were still trolleys then, and Hal and me would get all excited about riding them. Dad would say, ‘It’s too damn expensive,’ but Mother would sneak us nickels to ride while Dad was looking the other way.”

“Think he knew?” I smile.

“I don’t know. Bastard.”

“What were their names?” I ask, trying to picture Benny and his family in the 1930s and ’40s, farm folk in the big city. I can only envision them in black-and-white.

“Dad’s name was Herman. Mother’s was Elsa,” he says. “Everyone called her Ellie.”

I look at him in surprise. “Like me?”

He winks and takes a sip of coffee. “See those old photo albums on the shelf in the living room? Grab the big one.”

Later, after I’ve served dinner, watched Benny eat his few bites, and pushed my own food around until he’s finished, after I’ve washed the dishes and put the substantial leftovers away, Benny falls asleep on the couch in front of the television. It is seven forty-five. I wait until eight o’clock to gently shake his shoulder. “Benny? Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in bed?”

He opens his eyes and closes them, and I shake again. “Ben?”

His eyes flutter open—rheumy, unfocused—and search the room for a reason for waking.

“Benny.”

He looks at me, and recognition dawns.

“Want me to help you to bed?”

He nods, then shakes his head no, slowly pulls himself into a sitting position. “I got it.” He places his hands on his bony knees, tries to push himself up from the couch.

“Here,” I say, standing, leaning in to place my arm and shoulder under his the way Ruthann did.

“I don’t need—”

“I know, I know. You don’t need me, but humor me, okay?”

He twists away from me. “I don’t want you to do this.”

Like I do. “Fine,” I say, backing off.

He struggles again, hands pushing on knees, face straining, body not cooperating. He goes limp, silent, and we engage in this standoff for a few moments more, then he looks at me and sighs.

My teeth find the sore spot on my lip, my nose and eyes water. I look away, then back at him. “I know, Uncle Benny. It sucks. The whole thing sucks.”

He nods, looking at the floor.

“But this is what we’re doing, okay? So, let’s just see if we can figure out how to get you up.”

He nods, lets me tuck my arm under his. He holds on to me, and something in my back twinges as I pull him upright. Ruthann told me to use my knees, and I will remember next time. Slowly, we walk arm in arm across the living room, close, companionable, as if we were strolling through the public market in Seattle, say, or along San Francisco’s North Beach strip.

It’s only nine o’clock. Benny’s snoring sounds like a chain saw. He managed to get himself ready for bed, thank God, but I know there will be a time when he can’t. I’ll have to dress and undress him, help him in the bathroom. Will he be able to stand it? Will I?

I wander back to the musty, long-unused sewing room, the sofa bed pulled out and my overnight bag on top of it. This room was meant for the child Benny and Yolanda never had. When did they finally give up trying?

I shake my head and turn away, surveying with new eyes the small bathroom Benny and I will share; the darkened hallway, walls filled with framed photos, white squares where Yolanda’s family used to be. This is where I will live for the next few . . . months. Year, maybe. It’s no comfort that it won’t be more than that. Do I sell my apartment? Not yet. If
I can keep up with work I’ll be okay, but I’m not so sure I can count
Cooking for Life
as one of my clients anymore, and they’ve always been my bread and butter.

I’m not in the mood to read, and Benny doesn’t get the Food Network. I want to talk with someone, tell them what’s happening to Benny, to me. I’ve left messages with my sisters that I’m here for the duration. It strikes me that Benny would have been on my old call list; he’s one of the few people I could talk to about something like this. He’d tell me I’m doing the right thing.

In the living room, Benny’s battered old family album leans heavily against a few other photo albums on his bookshelves. These never used to be here; I know because I’ve worshipped at this wall of books from the time I could read. Each album cover depicts a distinct era. I wander over and pick up two that are obviously from the seventies—our time with Benny: one avocado green and one with orange geometric designs.

Settled back on the couch, I flip open the green book to somewhere in the middle, and there I am in our old backyard, seven or eight years old, tanned and pixie haired, in shorts and a sleeveless top. Barefoot. Grinning as I brace myself on the side bar of the swing set, ready, I can tell, to perform my prized skin-the-cat maneuver.

And not chubby. My arms are muscular in that jungle-gym fanatic way, and my torso is straight. Yet my mother already nagged me about my predilection for sweets.

There are other pictures of my family and me on our back patio. Clearly, it’s one of our early barbecues with Benny, but I don’t remember it. I’ve never seen these pictures before, but they are familiar, comforting. Yes, we did have this life; we did just hang out for hours in the backyard as the summer evening turned dusky, not doing anything, really, but being a family. My sisters and I smiled and laughed and played, and my parents toasted the camera with their cans of Blitz beer. My father smiled, and it doesn’t look all that forced.

Some of the photos make me
tsk
or say, “Oh, my God.” Dad kneeling behind Christine, arms around her as he helps replace a Barbie head on a naked doll. Anne giving me a piggyback ride across the yard, and I know it’s to the cherry tree in the corner so that I can pick the ones
higher than we can reach. Mom bending over the cooler to get herself another Blitz, her backside rounder than I ever realized, her arms thicker in her summer dress. She wasn’t always so fashionably slim.

There’s just one photo of Benny, and it could only have been taken by my mother. In it, he is sitting at the picnic table, chin in palm and cigarette smoldering between his fingers. He looks my age, hairline just starting to recede, handsome the way Anthony Hopkins was in his thirties, but not as pretty. A small twist of a smile plays at his mouth, and his bright eyes look so directly into mine that it seems impossible there was a camera between him and my mother.

P
anAsia,” a young woman’s voice says, almost muted by the clamor of the busy restaurant. Why did I think ten p.m. would be a good time to call? A breeze raises bumps on my arms, and the concrete of Benny’s back porch step is cold beneath my jeans.

“Is Henry Bouche there? I mean, I know he’s there. Is he busy?”
Is he busy? Jesus, Eleanor.
“I mean, I know he’s—”

“Pardon? Can you speak up?”

Why don’t I just hang up? I press the cell phone tighter against my face. “May I speak with Henry, please?” I say in the loudest voice possible without waking the neighbors.

“One moment,” she says, and then I am listening to Chinese opera. I could still hang up. The guy is obviously swamped.

“Eleanor Samuels!” Henry’s voice booms in my ear, and I smile.

“How did you know it was me?”

“Well, I’d like to say I have the divine power of intuition, but it’s just technology. Caller ID.”

“Ah,” I say. “The divine power of AT&T.”

“Indeed.” He is waiting for me to tell him why I’m calling him at ten o’clock.

“Sorry to bother you when you’re working. I just had a few more questions. Can we set up a phone appointment sometime in the next few days?”

“I’m almost finished for the night,” he says. “Just helping the pastry
chef get out a few more desserts, and then it’s Miller time. Why don’t you come down for a drink?”

Un-fucking-believable, as Anne would say. I am being asked out for a drink—granted, it’s business, but still—by a man I find extremely attractive, for the first time in four years, four long years during which I had complete freedom to go anywhere, do anything I wanted, yet sat at home eating and moping. And now I can’t go.

“As much as I would love to,” I say, emphasis on “love” so he might ask me again someday, “I’m afraid I can’t.”

“Lunch tomorrow? Coffee?”

Doctor’s appointment at eleven, and another visit from Ruthann in the afternoon to make sure we’re doing okay. “Sorry. I guess it’ll have to be a phoner.” I’d explain, but I barely know the guy, and sympathy is not the first emotion I’d like to evoke in him. Besides, look what happened with Stefan.

“Hey, I understand,” he says, spooling away from me faster than a fish on an untended line.

“Well, maybe I could sneak away for a just a little bit,” I say before I let myself think about it. Benny’s warm and safe and asleep in his bed, as he has been every night of his life when I wasn’t here. Benny’s fine. “I could be there in about half an hour.”

“Excellent,” he says, then: “Ah, Jesus, the busboy just dumped a tray of glasses out in the dining room. I’d better get out there.”

“See you soon,” I say, mind racing through the few pieces of clothing I brought with me, and discarding them just as quickly. A little lipstick, a little deodorant, and I’ll be as good as I get.

Inside, I leave a note for Benny reminding him of my cell number, saying I just stepped out for some groceries. That’s a reasonable thing to do, even at ten p.m.

At night, PanAsia has a dark sparkle, low light emanating from the wide front windows, reflecting off shiny surfaces. Candle flames daub the interior, where happy, beautiful people wear designer clothes and laugh around their tables, then stroll outside and wait for the valets to bring them their BMWs and Audis.

It’s the Pearl District. What did I expect?

I sit inside my car, checking my watch. I thought the place would be empty by now. The restaurant’s small bar sits off to the left, windows opened to the night air, spilling voices, laughter, and the pinging of ice cubes against glass.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” I mumble, tugging my T-shirt sleeves lower on my arms. I grab my purse and notepad, double-check that my cell phone’s on, then walk toward the door.

As I get closer, I see Henry standing over a table of patrons, a mixed group of casually hip, thin people. His arms are crossed over his chest. He’s laughing and handsome in his chef’s jacket.

It’s too late to turn back, so I continue through the open door toward the bar. The young bartender looks up at me, pink cocktail umbrellas tucked into her pigtails. “Good evening,” she says, and I can’t help but notice the deep plunge of her neckline, her young, unsupported breasts pointing straight at me through tight, flimsy fabric. “Can I get you something?” She offers a cocktail menu.

“No, um, no. I’m just here to see . . .” I nod toward Henry, who has yet to notice me.

“Oh,” she says, withdrawing the menu, losing interest. She turns toward a pile of beverage tickets to tally. I stand there, hoping he’ll notice me. She looks back up, pity filling her black-lined eyes, and calls, “Henry! This lady’s here to see you.”

I gulp as every eye turns toward me. Lady, for God’s sake. My ass expands, my hair grows wilder, and my clothes glow neon where every drop of food, coffee, water has spilled on them today.

“You made it!” Henry says, dodging through the crowd toward me. “This place is a zoo.” Then, in a low voice: “I wish everybody would just go home.” He smiles and pulls out a chair at the bar for me to sit in. “Except you, of course.”

“Right,” I say, barely suppressing a snort. “You’re very popular, Chef Boosh.”

“Suck-ups,” he whispers, squeezing the back of my neck. Under my hair. And suddenly I know I have a new imaginary partner.

“This time, I’m taking notes,” I say, placing my pad of paper squarely in front of me and next to my sake-tini, a drink Henry ordered for me that contains nothing but vodka and sake. Well, and a slice of cucumber. It tastes fabulous.

Henry’s having a local boutique stout, made, he says, with cocoa and espresso beans. “Want a taste?” he offers, and I nod, then flush when he watches me take a sip.

I set the glass down too quickly, tipsy already on the few swallows of my drink. I watch the beer glass wobble on its edge, then tip, and I can already feel the dark liquid in my lap, see it splashing Henry’s white jacket. Henry, however, is quick and nimble, catching the glass and righting it before it spills.

“Oops-a-daisy,” he says.

“Guess I should have eaten,” I mumble, face flushing, and Henry jumps up from his seat.

“I’ll go get you something. What sounds good? Here, let me get you a menu.”

I grab his sleeve as he starts to run off.

“No, really. I’m fine.”

“You sure?” He gives me a worried look.

“Yes. Look, I’ll eat the cucumber.” I pop it into my mouth, chew, swallow. Nutrition. “See? All better.” I smile, and Henry takes his seat.

“Sorry. It’s a reflex. I hear ‘hungry,’ I feed.”

I laugh. “You, too? Wow. I thought only girls got that one.”

“If you’re questioning my manhood—”

“No!” I realize too late I’ve practically yelled it. The bar quiets for a beat, then resumes its noisy hum. “No,” I say again, at normal volume. “I would never, you know. Question. That.”

Henry smiles. “Good.” He takes a long pull of beer, and we sit quietly for a moment. Companionably.

The loud group of hipsters stands and makes a slow, laughing exit single file past us, smelling of alcohol and cologne and personal-care products I’m sure I’m not even aware of. The men pat Henry on the back or shake his hand. The women kiss his cheek or the air next to it. The last to leave is a fawn of a girl, gangly limbed but gorgeous in that way of
females just growing into their womanhood. Her smooth, straight hair is tucked behind a diamond-studded ear. Her glossy lips are the color of burnt sugar.

“I’m serious, Henry,” she says, play pouting. “Think about it, and call me.” She plants a dewy kiss on his cheek, leaving behind two fat crescents of lip gloss.

We’re silent again when they’ve left, but not quite so comfortably.

Finally, I say, “You have, uh, some lipstick . . .”

“Where?” He reaches to wipe the wrong side, so I dab my cocktail napkin in my drink and wipe away the mark.

“Apparently,” I say, “she’s serious.”

“About cooking lessons.” He sighs, smiles at me apologetically. “If only being a chef meant just cooking. I’m beginning to remember why I left it behind the first time.”

“Ah,” I say, sounding much like him. “So, have you always been a cook? Or do you have some secret, exciting past?”

“Like what?” He laughs, picks up his beer.

I study him for a moment, chin in my hand. “I don’t know. Gunrunner in Bogotá? Corporate executive on Wall Street?”

“Why, Eleanor Samuels! Why would you pick such evil occupations?”

“Because they seem the opposite of you.” I turn back to my drink, take a small sip so that I don’t get drunk and lose whatever control I still have. Henry clears his throat, and I look at him.

He looks back at me, studying my face the same way I’ve been poring over his—memorizing each mole, line, curve, and scar.

“I’ve always been a cook,” he finally says.

“And so the interview begins.” I sigh and pick up my pen.

Fifteen minutes later, this is what I’ve written on my paper:

He tilts his head. “You mean for the article, right?”

“Of course,” I say, nodding too hard, downing the rest of my drink. “For the article.”

At this point, he becomes the best interviewee ever and talks at length about his food experiences in Tibet: the local markets, the small family restaurants, cooking beside his landlady Sangmu in her outdoor kitchen with a woodstove, but what I really want is for him to tell me about his past, who he is, who he’s loved. Or if I had the nerve to ask, if he loves anyone now.

Finally, he notices I’ve stopped writing. “God, I’m sorry. I’m rambling.”

“No, no—you’re great,” I say, then flush. “I mean, it’s all great stuff. I’ve just had a long day.”

“Why didn’t you stop me?” He smiles. “You look beat. It’s nearly”—he looks at his watch—“Jesus, it’s almost midnight.”

“I’m fine,” I say, but I could easily curl up in one of the booths by the window and pass out cold.

He stands. “Go home, Eleanor Samuels. It’s time for bed.”

God, why’d he have to go and say that? “Yeah, okay, you’re right.” I gather my things and move toward the door. The restaurant is empty. “I’ll call you if I need anything,” I say, and he smiles.

“Even if you don’t,” he says, watching me walk to my car.

It feels odd to drive south on the highway this late at night. PanAsia was five minutes from home, from my real home. I’d give anything to be able to go there and crawl into my bed.

I park in front of Benny’s house, searching for signs that anything might have gone wrong. What if I’ve failed as primary caretaker on the first night? What if he needed me and couldn’t find me? What if he’s awake when I walk in, and I’m carrying no groceries? I’m clammy and nauseated from drinking vodka and sake on an empty stomach, and lonely in a way I haven’t been in a long time.

Inside, everything is as I left it. There are no sounds, not even snoring. Tiptoeing to Benny’s room, I stand outside the door, then push it open wider. Benny is lying with his back to the door, on his side, blankets tossed off. In the dim light, I focus on his pajama-clad torso, trying to determine if he’s breathing. After a minute or two, I still can’t be sure, so I move to his bedside, heart thudding so loudly I’m sure he’ll hear, but he doesn’t move. Not at all.