Chapter Fourteen
Sam
There’s several inches of white stuff on the ground, the first of the season. Lunch rush is over, the diner’s closed, and the remaining staff is acting pathetic about the snow: ebullient, as if they’d never seen it before. Quiche told me the choir at the church is practicing for Gospel Fest, but it’s impossible to hear their voices behind doors tightly secured to keep the cold air at bay. A headache surrounds my eyes in a web of pain, and I massage the temples with my fingertips.
Some kids made a snowman in front of the church and asked me for a carrot and beans to give Frosty a nose, mouth, and eyes. He’s leering at me from across the street. Wipe that silly grin off your face before I knock it off.
It’s the Friday before Christmas, and I’m at my usual perch, finalizing the menu for next week. Man oh man, am I wound tight. Since Thanksgiving, this place makes me feel like a hamster on a wheel: it’s a continuous loop of stress. If we’re not filling special orders for holiday parties, we’re working crowd control on the floor. Maybe it’s good we’ve been so busy. Addie and I are too exhausted to discuss the tensions in our relationship. Since our fight, I’ve yet to see her smile. When we’re forced to speak, our conversation is strained.
In contradiction to my ill humor, Lella twirls around the tables in pirouettes, as graceful as Ginger Rogers. She balances a bus tub above her head, on the palm of her outstretched hand. I swallow a couple of aspirins from a bottle that I have of late kept stashed in my apron pocket.
“‘I’m dreaming of a white Christmas,’” she sings, picking at the scab of my irritation. She was always the lead in her high-school musicals and is a terrific ballroom dancer. She stops to remove the dirty cups, saucers, and glasses remaining on the table next to mine and places them in the tub. A dreamlike look crosses her face. She raises a tweezed and darkened brow at me.
“Guess what?”
“What?” I say, in no mood for jokes.
“Come on. Guess. Something good came my way.”
“You’ve been invited to compete in Dancing with the Stars?”
She puts down the dishes. “No. But maybe I’ll audition someday. Guess again.”
My voice rises. “Lella, I’ve got a mountain of paperwork to do before I can leave. Just tell me.”
My tone deflates her balloon, and she frowns. “I thought you’d be excited for me.”
She’s worked her butt off in the past few weeks and still found time to make holiday gifts for everyone who works here, even Sun Beam. Each pottery bowl she crafted was customized with our unique sign of the Chinese zodiac.
I stand and give her a hug. “Sorry, Lella. You know I want to hear your news.”
She smiles, all forgiveness. “Brett, at long last, asked me out on a date.”
“How great,” I say, forcing enthusiasm into my voice. I can’t imagine a worse match. “It’s what you’ve been wishing for the past few months.”
“Seriously, it has been months. A long time to wait, right?” She pauses a moment to stare out the window. “So I gave up the ship, told myself he was too much of a suit anyway, and started trolling the dating sites.”
I clap my hands, delighted with the memory.
“Remember the one from OkCupid? You met him here after your shift. He wore that Winnie-the-Pooh T-shirt.”
“How could I forget? With his fuzzy facial hair, balloon gut, and brown button eyes, he even looked like a Pooh Bear.” She pretends to shiver. “But not one I’d want to cuddle.
“And let’s not forget the guy who took me to Sage,” she adds. “Ordered the fifty-dollar Cab and a fillet stuffed with morels, and when the bill came made a great show of forgetting his wallet.”
“What an ass. It’s bad enough when they ask you out and request the waiter to split the tab. What ever happened to chivalry?”
“I know, I know, it’s dead, right?” She removes a stick of gum from her apron pocket, unwraps it, and pops it into her mouth. It bugs me that she plays into the cliché of a gum-chewing waitress. She offers me a piece, and I decline. “So when I was ready to give up men and hang loose at my pottery wheel, Brett asked me out. And it was in such an adorable way.”
“What did he do?” I can’t imagine Mr. Buzz Cut Button-Up, with that uptight demeanor and a complexion like softened goat cheese, doing anything adorable.
“He wrote a note on the bill asking if he could take me out to dinner. I read it when I was at the register cashing him out. I caught his eye and gave him a thumbs-up. When I returned with his receipt, I handed him my number.” She shrugs. “He called last night.”
“Did you guys get to know each other better over the phone?”
“A little. He’s four years older than me and lives in Livonia. An actual suburbanite. He’s an accountant.”
“So where does he work?”
“I’m not sure. Some company in Detroit. He says it’s a family business.” She tilts her head thoughtfully. “Family.” She chews her gum slowly, with deliberation. “I like that.”
When Lella waits tables, she chews gum aggressively, as if her life depended on it. You can always read her mood by the movement of her jaws. She blows and then pops a bubble between her front teeth, not noticing me flinch.
“He’s a Red Wings fan and really close to his brother. They’re thinking about buying a boat and keeping it on Lake St. Clair.”
“You told me you hate hockey and boats. Hockey gives license to violence, and boats make you seasick. You shouldn’t pretend to have interests you don’t have. That will only end badly.”
She sticks out her lower lip, and her eyes become flat and detached. “I didn’t pretend anything. You know I’m not like that.”
She returns to the task of cleaning tables, her jaws working a mile a minute. I regret shutting her down. I’ve always been a truth machine, and sometimes I’m hurtful. In fact, I’m beginning to sound like Addie. Who crowned me yenta, anyway?
“Sorry.” I place my hand on her shoulder. “I’m off-kilter today. Acting like a weird, overprotective parent, I guess.”
Lella steps away from the reach of my hand, placing dishes in the tub. She stacks them into towering, haphazard piles, and I worry that our treasured estate-sale finds may chip. Her words are directed to the dirty dishes. “I’m open to anything.”
“Of course you are,” I say, speaking quickly. “Even if you don’t share similar interests now, you can let him know you’re interested in learning new things.”
She turns and nods at me, all smiles. The creases between her brows have ironed out, and her eyes are dancing, delighted in her belief that I’m coming around to her point of view.
“And I can always keep busy in the kitchen when games are on, right? I love to cook, and guys love to eat, especially when they’re watching sports. Also, he and his brother are getting a motorboat. I only get sick on sailboats.” The words spill from her mouth as bubbles from an uncorked bottle of champagne.
“Does he like to dance?” I ask, caught up in her enthusiasm. “I’ve always pictured you with someone who could spirit you across a ballroom floor.”
“I didn’t ask, but you know as well as I that the only men who can swing dance are over sixty.” She sticks her index finger down her throat. “Gag. Or my gay pals,” she adds. “Every time I’ve tried busting a move with a lover, I end up pissed off at him.”
Girl’s got a point. Halloween evening Uriah tried dancing with me around the fire, and the heel of his boot crushed my big toe.
She looks at me as if begging my blessing. “I’m so sick of going out with married men, hipsters, and guys who live in their van. A suit is just what the doctor ordered.”
Hugging herself, she executes a tight spin. Her tattoo and hair—a twirling splash of orangy red—are testimony to her vigorous allure, an exclamation point following her chaotic reasoning.
It’s sweet she’s enraptured, but Lella doesn’t strike me as the type of woman who’d appeal to a guy like Brett—a guy who orders the exact same thing every time he eats here. Her charm is her offbeat originality. On the other hand, the guy’s single and has a stable job. The last one she dated was married, and the one prior to that tried moving in with her after the first date. This could be the best man that’s come into her life for a long time.
She mimes dancing with a partner and trips over a chair. Maybe they’ll balance each other. I’ll give this the benefit of the doubt.
“Trust the universe, Lella. All of your past experience with men prepared you for something better. Maybe it’s Brett.”
“Thanks, Sam. I wanted your blessing.”
My blessing? So I’m a yenta after all. In that case, a yenta gives direction. I hold her shoulders to keep her still and look into her eyes.
“Words of advice: Stay open. Don’t make him a priority if he treats you as an option.”
She nods vigorously.
“And something else, Lella. You’ve heard it before, but it never loses its punch: never sell your soul.”
She winks at me and cracks her gum. Sometime soon I’ll request the staff to give their gum chewing a rest when the diner’s open. If your breath’s bad, pop an Altoid.
She throws her arms around me, pulling me into her chest. I feel her heart pounding fast, as the flutter of wings. Then, her eyes return to the tub. She removes half of the dishes and, with care, places them into a second bus tub.
Glancing out the window, my dark mood lifts. Tonight we’re hosting a holiday party at the house—a festive environment to blow off steam. I’ve been so frantically busy at work, it will also be the first time since Thanksgiving I can relax with Uriah. Thinking about him, I catch my breath.
I look toward the church, and the snow glistens under Frosty’s adorable pose. I’ve got an old corncob pipe I’ll bring to work tomorrow to stick in his cheeky, black-bean grin.
Addie
“I’m always embroiled in some battle. I’ve been pissed off for so long now the feeling’s a reflex. I don’t waste a moment going straight for the jugular.” My therapist nods. I reach for a Kleenex on the table beside my chair and dab the corners of my eyes.
“How could I have told Sam I hated her? I love her. She’s like a sister. I was using Kevin as an excuse to lash out at her and had no right to do so. She’s never led him on.” As Dr. Lerner studies my face, I shift in my chair, trying to ease the knot in my stomach. I toss the tissue into the wastebasket half-filled with clouds of my spent grief.
“Perhaps we should examine some dynamics you might be feeling with your cousin. When we’re envious of someone, we often demonize them. From what you’ve told me, Sam is carefree and optimistic. People are drawn to her charisma.”
“You’ve got that right,” I say. “She’s everything I’m not.”
“You tell me she had a happy childhood. The sort of childhood you were denied.”
“It’s true,” I sigh, leaning back into the sleek leather. “During those summers I spent on their farm when I was a kid, I’d observe how happy her parents were.”
“How did you feel about that?”
“Sad, I guess. Really sad. It was obvious how much they loved one another. Meanwhile, my parents—as you well know—were at each other’s throats.”
“Jealousy wears a stinky perfume.” She pauses to regard me, her eyes peering over the top rim of her tortoiseshell frames. “Perhaps your words betrayed your true feelings. Your emotions, particularly after having had such a dreadful day, got in the way. If you dig beneath those words, Addie, maybe what you were really asking Sam to do was love you. It’s something for you to think about before our next meeting. How are things going with your mother?”
“Honestly, Dr. Lerner.” I clasp my hands together. “Since the three of us have been meeting, Mom and I’ve been making great strides in our relationship. I’ve never felt so close to her. In fact, we’re having a quick lunch before I meet David.”
She raises her brow, a question in her eyes. I sigh. “Yes. David. It’s a struggle. Same ol’, same ol’. Actually, I’m taking your advice. We’re spending the afternoon taking a break from everything. The house, the diner, and all of our relationship issues. We’re trying to connect on neutral ground, in a place that’s special to us. I’ll tell you how it works out the next time we meet.” I take a sharp breath. “I mean the next time we speak alone. I don’t want to upset my mother.”
“Hmmm,” says the doctor. “Give some more thought to that assumption. Your mother may be stronger than you realize.”
She glances at the clock on her wall. “Time’s up. It’s eleven o’clock. Great progress, Addie.” She fiddles with her phone. “I have both you and your mother in my calendar for the week after the new year.”
“I look forward to our next visit.” I stand to grab my coat and bag.
She nods and smiles, then removes her glasses. She rips open a wipe and begins to polish the lenses. She holds the frames into the light and, noticing a stubborn smudge, wipes the glasses again before adjusting them over the bridge of her nose. As always, she wears a dress. And, as always, it’s black, as are her stockings and heels. With her thin frame and coiffed, shoulder-length red hair, she reminds me of a Bond girl. A good look, I think, for a therapist.
David and I have entered the Polar Passage. In the interactive glass dome at the Detroit Zoo, our pals, two goliath polar bears, paddle the blue waters around us. Talina, the female, was born here ten years ago and is easy to distinguish because of a scar on her nose. Four years back, Nuka was introduced into her lair as a potential mate.
Having checked our troubles at the entry gate, we’ve entered a secret world of arctic waters, glacial ice, and creatures with slicked-back fur. This has always been our favorite place in winters past, when the kids are in school and we have the tunnel to ourselves.
A trout floats in the bottom of the currents, and Talina nose-dives to capture it in her mouth. Meanwhile, Nuka patrols the surface above. He is hemmed in between the atmosphere and sea, and his head and tiny ears are distorted in the prism of sunlight shining down through the water. His head turns slowly from side to side.
Talina is finished with her snack. Her hind legs push away from the bottom surface, and her curved black nails, affixed to massive, webbed paws, paddle toward us. Then, the calloused pads of her feet press against the pane as she climbs the wall to play with a bobbing soccer ball. Nuka joins the sport until they tire of the game, jettisoning back into the water’s depths.
Witnessing the graceful performance of their underwater bulk, David and I are mesmerized by the couple’s antics. The bears swim to us and press their front paws and black snouts into the glass. Their dark marble eyes stare into our own, as if we were the spectacle and they, the audience. For a few seconds, our heartbeats flow into theirs, and we become one with the creatures.
We giggle as the pair turns their gazes to each other, charcoal-lipped lovers seeming to say, Check out the two across the glass, the ones in the black parkas and silly knit hats. How bored they must be just standing there, not playing.
David kisses me. Not a peck, but serious mouth-to-mouth reconnaissance. It’s been so long since he’s kissed me like this . . . You see, we’re not bored. This is how we humans play, how we dance our dance.
Today’s the first day I’ve had off since Thanksgiving, and David played hooky from work so we could revisit this neutral ground. Our relationship is gasping, we’ve had no time to regroup since the quarrels on my birthday, and this is a place where we’ve always connected.
Since our argument on Thanksgiving, I’ve avoided the M—as in marriage—word. It’s a word that must be spoken, but after the holidays. I’m prepared to part ways, but that frightens me. David’s the love of my life. It would be so easy not to go there.
Sam and I, as well, have an unspoken truce. Although it’s awkward, we’re trying to get through the holidays without revisiting our fight. Tonight, we’re hosting our first get-together in our home for staff and friends. David and I are making a cocktail punch before the guests arrive, and there are platters of food to be arranged.
I check my phone. “I guess we’d better get back.”
David, reluctant to leave the sanctity of the bears, pulls me back into his arms. He speaks in a throaty whisper. “This was nice. I’ve missed us.”
“I’ve missed us, too, David.” I put his bristly cheeks between my mittened hands. “Let’s get through the holidays and take it from there.”
He gives a quick nod, and we exit the tunnel, the frigid air cutting into our faces, tearing our eyes.
David removes the Supremes Merry Christmas vinyl from the record sleeve. It’s an original Motown recording from 1965, and holding it by the edges, he places it on top of the turntable. After lifting the stylus, he lowers the needle onto the outer groove of the record, and the first song, “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” ignites the party.
Whatever your faith, or lack thereof, everyone knows the lyrics to “Rudolph,” and our party sings along. Lella prances around my living room—reindeer style—hands in front of her chest, curled under as paws. Sam joins her, placing her palms on Lella’s hips, and waves the others to her side, shouting, “Let’s make a reindeer train.”
“What the heck,” Braydon says, putting down his sugar cookie, a half-eaten sprinkle star. He joins the line. Sylvia adds herself behind Braydon, and Kevin follows Sylvia. She swivels her head to look over her shoulder and winks at him. We’ve had our suspicions about those two; a romance would be wonderful for both of them.
Sam makes a pouty face at Uriah, who sits in a nearby chair. “You sure you want me in your train?” he asks. “I’ve got two left feet, and your toe just healed from the last time we were dancing.”
Sam laughs. “You’ve got a point, but we need a caboose.” He joins the end of the line, grabs Kevin’s hips, and the train begins hopping around the room to the old familiar tune.
Paul, Tim, Jévon, and his girlfriend are oblivious to their antics. Heads tightly knit, they’re embroiled in conversation on the sofa and in chairs. David and I are at the kitchen counter, the watering hole for our guests, replenishing the punch bowl.
We’ve made a much-improved Singapore Sling, which is typically composed of gin, sweet-and-sour mix, and grenadine. We christened ours the Holiday Fling and used gin from a Detroit distillery; Cherry Heering, which is a Danish liquor; ginger syrup; and Prosecco. The chemistry of a proper punch is a craft, and it serves the purpose of lubricating a party just enough to swing, but without the worry someone will be wearing a lampshade.
The song’s concluded, and the next track, “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town,” does not kindle the same frivolity. Hands fall from hips as the reindeer train disbands. Its participants are now clustering around the punch bowl, refilling glasses, elbows knocking, smearing chutneys, cheese, and patés over breads, and forking smoked fish atop cucumber rounds.
Sylvia and Kevin take a seat next to me at the counter. Knees touching, they lose themselves in conversation as the festivity swirls around them. In the past few weeks, Kevin seems relaxed around Sam, his previous misery replaced with smiles. He told David that Sylvia is the strongest woman he’s ever met. Kev’s always been attracted to the tough and bold, like Sam.
And why not Sylvia? A lush, fiery personality has been emerging of late. And Kevin’s so kind. The sort of guy who’d feed, nurture, and love a beaten stray. I turn my back to the pair, but I can hear their conversation as she speaks.
“Bits and pieces of the past, like snapshots in my mind, bubble up at the strangest times,” she muses, her voice softening into a murmur.
It’s difficult to hear their conversation now. I’m tempted to turn, to see if their knees are still touching; perhaps they’re holding hands. Their voices rise, returning to a level where I can better eavesdrop.
“Kevin. You’re the first man I’ve ever . . . I don’t know.”
“I’m the first guy you’ve ever dated.”
She laughs, a tingle of silvery notes. “That word date. It sounds foreign to me.” She sighs. “If we’re dating, you must tell me a secret.”
“A secret?” he asks.
“About your past.”
I smile to myself. Kevin’s so reserved. I’ve never heard him speak about himself.
“I’ve told you everything about me,” he says, surprise in his voice. “As I recall, it only took a couple of minutes. I told you about my parents. My crazy sister.”
Again, her lovely laughter. Like miniature tolling bells, it warms my heart to hear it.
“Here’s a secret,” Kevin says. “But you can’t tell a soul.”
“What?” The word sounds breathless.
“I’m a nerd.”
“If you’re a nerd, Kev, then I want to be one, too. You’ll have to give me nerd lessons.”
“No way.” He laughs. “I’m not messing with perfection. I don’t want anything about you to change. You’re smart, fun to be with, and, I must say, the most beautiful woman in the world.”
“You need to have your head examined.”
I smile. They’re definitely holding hands.
“Thank you, Kevin. But seriously. I want to change my past.”
“You can’t change the past, Sylvia. The past is always there and is a part of who you are. You may fight to try to push it away, but fighting it is the problem.”
Sylvia doesn’t reply. Now it’s their eyes I’d like to observe. Kevin breaks the silence, his words deliberate yet ringing with passion.
“Your challenge is not to make it go away. Your challenge is acceptance, and it won’t be easy.” Kevin’s such a serious, sensitive dude. He’s gotta be loving this conversation. This is the sort of conversation I need to have with Mom. She lost her mother at a very young age. Money was tight when she was growing up, and she funded Michigan with scholarships and loans. That’s all I know. It’s like she erased the first eighteen years of her life.
Uncomfortable in the role of voyeur, I stand and note that several platters need replenishing. I carry them down the stairs; we’re keeping the backup party food in Sam’s fridge. She’s at her kitchen counter, slotted spoon in hand, removing a cabbage roll—gołąbki. They’ve finished baking, and now she arranges them in a serving dish. I thought she was upstairs with Uriah. This is the first time we’ve been alone since our fight. My palms dampen, and, afraid to approach her, I stand in the doorway, unsure of what to do.
The cabbage smells like summer grass after a rain, and it melts into the unctuous aromas of tomato, garlic, beef, and fat. I’m transported to our grandmother’s kitchen, this classic Polish recipe being one of the first we learned to make with her. The Bolesławiec terrine Sam used to bake the rolls is cobalt blue, decorated with a pattern of ferns. It’s the same dish Babcia reserved for this recipe. What has it been—four, five years since the three of us were cooking together?
Sam looks up and her face tightens. She appears alarmed, taken aback. How could I have told her I hated her? Whatever feeling I’d had at that moment was tainted and a betrayal to us both. I feel the hot flush of shame staining my cheeks, and my eyes search my cousin’s, begging for forgiveness.
She places a cabbage roll on a plate and spoons tomato sauce over the plump, pale-green pillow. With a knife, she divides it into three pieces. She stabs one of the fragments with the prongs of her fork and raises it to me, offering. I put the platters on the table beside her, then lift my lips toward the fork. I open my mouth, and then she feeds me, as if I were a child. And there is something sacred in her quiet movements. After I’ve taken the last bite, she bats the sauce that lingers on my mouth with a napkin.
“That taste, Sam.” My words, spoken in a whisper, are clotted with nostalgia. “That taste. That’s the taste of our memories.”
“That’s the taste of our love,” she replies.
I pull out the beads from beneath my shirt and raise them to my lips, the tears tumbling from my eyes. I then drop them, lay my head against her shoulder, and cry into her arms, my nails digging into the wool of her sweater as she strokes my hair.