Eating Heaven (21 page)

I may have nodded, grunted in acquiescence. I don’t remember.

“But on the plus side,” Mom continued, smiling prettily, “she’s probably lost at least three pounds. She hasn’t eaten anything in days.”

T
he doorbell rings as I’m brushing my teeth the next morning, and I look at my watch. It’s seven thirty. Alice Desmay is half an hour early. Benny’s probably still asleep, and I haven’t straightened up the house yet. I feel like a rag that has been rung out.

I rinse and spit as quickly as I can, wipe my mouth on the towel, but as I’m pulling the bathroom door open, voices waft down the hall. Benny’s answered the door.

“Hi,” I say, meeting them in the entryway, trying to smile. “What time did I tell you?” I look at my watch.

“Oh, I know, I know, I’m early,” she says. “Bad habit of mine. But I saw this one here”—she nods toward Benny—“picking up the paper, so I knew someone was up. You know, you’re pretty good with that walker, Mr. Sloan.”

Her hair is blonder than it was, frizzier, but her style is the same: fluffy, floral summer dress. “Where’s dat poor li’l kitty?” she asks in a baby voice, looking around, as if she might find a half-starved and neglected Buddy at her feet, begging to be rescued.

I start to protest, to say something to remind her why she’s here, but Benny beats me to the punch. “First things first,” he says. “Whatcha got in that bag?”

“Doughnuts!” She opens it for him to see inside.

They’re going to get along fine. I just need to trust that she truly knows what to do in an emergency besides worry.

Later, Benny thwarts my attempts to give Alice the lowdown on his health care, saying, “I can show her the ropes, Ellie. And she is a nurse, you know.”

Funny that we’re acting as if last night never happened, which I suppose is the pleasant side benefit of having a stranger in the house first thing in the morning. “Fine,” I say, looking at Alice, “but make sure he takes his pills. He hates it; he’s like a little kid.” I turn to him. “If you need help remembering what you take when, the chart’s on the—”

“Fridge. I know, honey, I know.” Sugar glaze crusts his top lip. He’s having fun; he likes having someone new to regale with his old stories. Fresh meat, we’d say, if she wasn’t standing right here.

“Okay,” I say. “It just feels weird to . . . you know.”

“I know.” He cocks his head at me, pressing his lips together in a sad little smile, his eyes aqua in the bright morning sun, red rimmed from last night.

Tears come to my eyes, surprising both of us. “I don’t want to go.”

“Sure you do, honey. You just won’t know it till you’re outside the door.”

“Promise?” I turn my head, embarrassed in front of Alice, but she’s wandered to the patio door, discreetly giving us more space. “Promise you’ll be okay?”

“Cross my heart,” he says, not finishing the phrase, for my sake, I’m sure.

He’s right, of course. Just two blocks away, and I’m flooded with relief and giddy excitement to be free and out in the already warm summer sun; I can’t decide whether to cry or laugh. I’m not even going to think about the girl in the pictures. My sister, or half sister, I suppose. I feel a kinship to her that is inexplicable, an old sadness that I’ve carried all along, but could never name until now. Rosemary. The missing link in our family.

My first stop in my neighborhood is Nob Hill Grocers. Funny, but all of a sudden I want to eat. Not crap food, certainly not cheeseburgers, but real food. Good food that doesn’t come in a box or can or wrapper.

The store smells of roasted chicken and freshly ground coffee, raw meat and ripening stone fruit, the lemon detergent they use to scrub the old sheet-linoleum floors. I inhale and feel the smile form on my face. It’s been so long since I’ve been inside any market other than Fred Meyer, which smells of plastic and the thousands of people who pass through every day.

By instinct, I head for the produce section. There, the close quarters of slim Ichiban eggplant, baby bok choy, brilliant red chard, chartreuse-and-purple asparagus, sends me into paroxysms of delight. I’m glad the store is nearly empty; I’m
ooh
ing and
aah
ing with produce lust at the colors, the smooth, shiny textures set against frilly leaves.

I fondle the palm-size plums, the soft fuzz of the peaches. And the berries! It’s berry season, and seven varieties spill from green cardboard containers: the ubiquitous Oregon marionberry, red raspberry, and blackberry, of course, but next to them are blueberries, loganberries, and gorgeous golden raspberries. I pluck one from a container, fat and slightly past firm, and pop it into my mouth. The sweet explosion of flavor is so familiar, but like something too long forgotten. I load two pints into my basket.

The asparagus has me intrigued. Maybe I could roast it with olive oil and fresh herbs, like the sprigs of rosemary and oregano poking out of the salad display, and some good sea salt. And salad. Baby greens tossed with lemon-infused olive oil and a sprinkle of vinegar. Why haven’t I eaten a salad in so long? I’ll choose a soft, mild French cheese from the deli case, have it for an hors d’oeuvre with a beautiful glass of sparkling Prosecco, say, then roast a tiny chunk of spring lamb that I’m sure the nice sister will cut for me, and complement it with a crusty baguette and roasted asparagus, followed by the salad. Followed by more cheese and berries for dessert. And a fruity Willamette Valley Pinot Noir to wash it all down. My idea of eating heaven, a French-influenced feast that reminds me of the way I always thought my life would be. Why shouldn’t
I cook this way for myself? Why does it always have to be about someone else?

Maybe that’s been my whole problem. I’ve been so busy trying to figure out what Benny wants that I’ve forgotten what I want. I head for the meat section with a renewed sense of hope.

After putting away the groceries, I dig through my left-behind pots and pans in the lower cupboard. At the back, I find a roasting pan for the lamb, a portion somewhat larger than I asked for, but I can take the leftovers back to Benny’s. Funny that I’m craving lamb on a hot summer day. I haven’t had it in years.

I slice fresh garlic, rub it into the meat with olive oil, then insert the thin wafers into tiny slits I cut along the grain. After rinsing my hands, I hold them to my face, inhale the garlic perfume still on my skin. I could easily wipe it away on the faucet, a spoon, any piece of stainless steel, but I’ve never understood why people find it offensive. It’s the smell of anticipation, the promise of a wonderful meal in the offing.

Opening the spice cabinet, I breathe in the fragrance of all those jars I left behind: saffron threads, cardamom pods, star anise, Tahitian vanilla. I almost weep at the sight of my Fleur de Sel. No one ever gets my obsession with sea salt, especially expensive sea salt. They don’t understand that it brightens the flavor of food, wakes it up, like a condiment. Regular table salt just makes food salty. If only someone understood that and appreciated it with me.

And then it hits me. Henry would. Yes, Henry with the wife, with the secrets. No one else seems to care about such things. Why should I?

I pop open my bottle of Prosecco, pour a fluteful even though it’s not quite lunchtime. The sweet effervescence goes to my head, seeing as I have so little food in my system, and I quickly drain the glass, for bravery. Then I cover the pan to let the meat marinate in the refrigerator for the day, and walk to the phone on the table by the window, the window that looks out over the world and traffic streaming by, car windows down, celebratory arms and hands and fingers extending into the warm summer sun, undulating up and over and through the wind with the slow beautiful movements of exotic dancers.

No one answers at PanAsia. There’s just the recording for reservations, and a suggestion that I call back after four p.m. to speak personally with someone. I need to speak personally with someone now, so I find Henry’s home number and address in the phone book. I don’t know whether I should call him or try to bump into him in his neighborhood again. Seeing as I’d rather not run into him
and
his wife, I decide to call.

I’m not surprised to get his machine, but I am disappointed. What if I can’t convince him to call me back?

“Hi, Henry. It’s Eleanor. Listen, I feel bad about the way we parted the last time I saw you, and I was wondering if you were free for lunch or coffee or a drink anytime this weekend? My life has been in upheaval since I met you, and I never explained. If you’re not too busy, I’d love to talk to you again.”

I leave both my numbers in case he threw them away after I so righteously bounced him out of my life at Starbucks. What was I thinking? That men who like me just pop into my life every day? Since Daniel, Henry is the first man who has looked at me fully, at the whole of me, and seemed to like what he saw. My heart starts to pound, and I realize I cannot just stay in this apartment on this beautiful day waiting for a man to call me.

I go to my bedroom, throw open the closet door. The smell inside from being closed so long is stale and mildewed. When I get home for good, I’ll clean out my closet and dresser. I’ll wash all my clothes, give away those that don’t fit or that are just plain awful, which is the majority of them. I’ll restock with new clothes in brighter colors, tighter sizes. I’ll begin anew.

For now, however, I have to contend with a palette of gray, black, navy, and forest green, a somber and frumpy selection that doesn’t feel like me anymore. I scavenge toward the back where older clothes reside, from my working days, and find a short-sleeved pink blouse. My summer khakis are back there, too, and I pull both out, peel off my sweats, and head for the shower. With eyes closed, I stand and let the water flood over me, cascading over my face, down my front and back, streaming from the tips of my fingers. Then I shave three months’ growth from my
legs, exfoliate every square inch of skin, and put extra conditioner in my hair.

Benny doesn’t own a full-length mirror, so when I step out of the shower and see myself in the silver-backed mirror on the door, I gasp. First I notice only that my breasts have gone flatter and smaller, but then I see the inward curve of my waist, the slight gap between my lower thighs even when I stand with my legs together. I’m not thin by any stretch of the imagination, but I am not fat, either. The thought of a man seeing me like this sends warm blood into places it hasn’t sought in way too long. I touch my stomach, my sides, sliding my hands over damp skin.

I turn to check out my butt and moan. Not a pretty sight, still, with its trapezoidal, lumpy shape descending into dimpled thighs. I sigh and head for the bedroom, pull a pair of underwear from the back-of-the-drawer batch that didn’t make the trip to Benny’s—those I reserve for times I haven’t gotten around to doing laundry. As I step into them and pull them up, something doesn’t feel right. The silky beige fabric hangs in the back like droopy diapers. The elastic must have lost its hold. I dig through the drawer looking for a better pair, but after trying on two more, I finally get it. My butt may not be perfect, but it no longer fits in my old jumbo underpants. On one hand I’m thrilled, but they’re all I have to wear today, of all days. I find the least offensive pair, pull my baggy khakis over them, and resolve not to remove anything until well after dark.

I comb out my hair, brush on peach blusher long retired behind a sticky cough syrup bottle, then swipe at my eyelashes with mascara. Something is bubbling up inside me, whether it’s the wine, the zing of reawakened hormones, or simply the pleasure of being alone and the possibilities that holds.

And here I thought all I’d want to do this weekend was sleep.

Once outside, it feels completely normal to be slipping into my car, planning a route that will take me first by the restaurant, then around the corner to Kafé Kizmet, then across the Burnside Bridge into the northeast and Henry’s neighborhood. The air smells of roses and
honeysuckle, dry earth and lunchtime traffic. Where might Henry eat lunch? Where would I eat lunch if I were a chef who cooked Asian food every day? Italian? Mexican? Or would I make a grilled cheese at home?

I picture him, tall and robust, heavy, probably, by medical charts, but undeniably appealing. A man like Henry eats meat. As I pass PanAsia, I already know where to look for him.

I skim over the river on the Broadway Bridge instead of the Burnside, water below shiny indigo and dotted with boaters enjoying the warm Saturday. A water-skier slices through the wake of a barge pushing pulp downriver to the Columbia.

On the east side, I cruise down Weidler, the eastbound one-way twin to Broadway’s westbound. At Thirteenth Avenue, I turn and head back down Broadway toward Bridgetown Deli midblock, long famous for its imported cheeses and meats, its turquoise Naugahyde booths and refusal to install an espresso machine. A meat eater’s heaven, and it’s close to Henry’s house.