Chapter Sixteen
Addie
Nestled into the thick of winter, Valentine’s Day arrives, and Welcome Home is drunk on love. Pink and red tinsel is strewn about chair backs, bowls filled with candy hearts have been placed on every table, and lacy cutout cupids are taped to the windows. We’re playing an old mix of love songs from Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra, and Louis Armstrong.
Sundays are always the busiest day of the week, and today, because of the occasion, it’s crazier than ever. We work the crowd in sync. Like intimate partners dancing a complicated tango, we know the direction to turn our heads according to the beat, never stepping on one another’s toes. My job, as always, is to greet and seat, fill glasses with water, and ensure each of our guests is wearing a smile. That’s easy today; the restaurant’s filled with my favorite customers.
Tory and Wally have just entered and are lingering inside the front door. Wally holds a Free Press in his gloved hands. I take their coats and escort the couple to the last available two-top, seating them next to Theo and a woman I don’t recognize.
Theo’s cleaned up—I’ll bet to impress this woman. His hair shines not with oil but from a fresh shampoo. His signature wife-beater and denim jacket have vanished, and his tats are now hidden beneath a beige cardigan. He looks up to smile, and the serpent head appears, hissing at me over the top of the turtleneck he wears. Surely, he regrets having that snake coiled around his throat 24-7. Today, it’s the only indicator that this man has traipsed well outside suburbia.
“Tory, Wally. This is my friend Theo. But I haven’t met you,” I say to the woman, who might be attractive if she softened her liner and combed out the spikiness in her bleached hair. I extend my hand. “I’m Addie, and we’re crazy about Theo. But I’m confused. He comes in only on Friday.”
We shake hands. “I’m Nell. Theo and I attend the same church. Today we decided to go out for lunch.” She looks like a seventies punk star, but there’s sweetness in her voice; a softness, a whimsy. She smiles, glancing at Theo, and a fretwork of lines bracket her lips. She glances at her smartphone, which rests atop an almost empty pack of Marlboros. A chain smoker, no doubt. Aside from the casinos, Detroit, thank God, has a smoking ban in all restaurants. I’ll bet she grew up Downriver, one of the more rough-cut areas of Wayne County. Although that’s changing—there’s cheap riverfront property and decent downtowns in some areas, which are ripe for picking.
Theo smiles. “She was impressed I knew the owner.”
“Your place is cute,” Nell says, looking around. She turns to Wally, who just unfolded his paper. Her brows lift and irises dart, scanning the headlines.
“Hey. No end to bad news,” she says, her words directed to him. “What happened to Hater and Bullet? Man. What a scam.” She shakes her head, and the corners of her lips turn down, indicating disgust. “How can we afford to clean up the city when our cops are the ones causing the problems?”
Wally raises his eyebrows, shrugs, and then turns to his wife. “She’s referring to the Hansberry and Watson trial—the cops who made fake arrests, stealing drugs and money from their victims. Hater and Bullet are their street names.”
Tory shakes her head, speaking to Nell. “Fortunately, it’s isolated. I’m an attorney and know firsthand that most of our police force are honest and hardworking. Every day they take their lives into their hands to protect us. A couple of bad apples don’t destroy the whole bunch.”
She turns to Wally. “It’s Valentine’s Day, and you’re not allowed to speak of anything aside from words of adoration directed towards your wife.”
Wally folds up his paper, puts it beneath his chair, and places his palm over her hand. “Sorry about that, gorgeous.”
Nell smiles. “Don’t blame him. I shouldn’t have brought it up. Still. It rankles me that our tax dollars―which are high enough, thank you very much—go towards those thugs’ salaries.”
She turns to Theo. “Oh. Happy Valentine’s Day, by the way.” She winks at him and pats his hand.
“You, too.” Theo smiles. “Those cops will get theirs. ‘If a man shall steal an ox, or a sheep, and kill it, or sell it, he shall restore five oxen for an ox, and four sheep for a sheep.’” He turns his palm over to hold her hand.
Love is in the air. Lella works the tables, taking orders. She wears red leggings and a billowy pink shirt beneath her apron, and her lips are painted into a sultry Cupid’s-bow mouth. Sam’s shaping flapjacks and any other malleable food into hearts, and she tinted the table water pink with red-and-white peppermints. With their check, guests receive a complimentary chocolate-dipped strawberry that Sylvia made.
The only thing not in sync with the spirit of the day is the smell. Valentine’s Day should carry the fragrance of chocolate and sugar. But the air carries a latent aroma of burning leaves. After Twitter extinguished Babcia’s profile, Jessie insisted we have a smudging ceremony. Smudging, a practice used in many native cultures, involves burning sacred plants to create a smoke bath. Sage, in particular, possesses special healing and cleansing powers.
Last night, Sam and I indulged our friend, meeting her when evening settled and the sky was black. The ritual involved placing bundles of the dried leaves into four fireproof containers, which we placed in each corner of the dining area. Then, we lit the clumps. After the flames died down, the sage began to smolder, and soon after, the diner was filled with smoke.
Jessie, Sam, and I faced Babcia’s picture, and Jessie demonstrated how to, with the palms of our hands, waft the smoke toward our hearts. As she chanted incantations, a breeze swirled up around us, which was creepy, but the draft, Jessie told us, was Babcia giving us her love and blessing. I remember glancing at Sam, and it could have been that her eyes were burning from the smoke, but tears were rolling down her cheeks. That girl seems off these days. She’s never acted so emotional.
Then we opened the windows and fanned the smoke into the frigid air. Jessie claimed to see a khaki aura, which she said was the spirit of the troll. It was followed by a bubbling crimson foam, which she said was Earl. Both of them, she said, tumbled out of the window and into the night. To complete the cleansing, my cousin and I shared a jigger of potlikker. After the ceremony, we returned to Jessie the healing beads that we’d been wearing each day since late November. They’ve done their job. Sam has forgiven me.
Jessie’s brand of woo-woo to chase away negative juju felt foreign to me. But something’s working. Today I feel strong, balanced, and powerful. The Middle English word for heart is cuer, from which the word courage was adapted. It follows that courage is an appropriate sentiment on this day for lovers. If David doesn’t tell me what I need to hear, I’ll summon my goddess warrior. I will tell him that we’re through.
A student of the classics, I loved the lessons taught in my Roman and Greek mythology classes. Before opening the diner this morning, I gathered the ingredients for Steak Diane—a recipe inspired by the goddess Diana to bolster my newfound courage.
Steak Diane was made in ancient times using venison and served with a truffle sauce. The goddess Diana, however, inspired more than just a recipe. She was goddess of the hunt, the moon, and nature. Shakespeare romanticized her, and her image was carved into marble, Diana of Versailles, which is displayed at the Louvre.
Today, however, it’s only the recipe that interests me. There are more recipes for a Diane sauce than Beyoncé had costume changes at Ford Field. And Diana, like Beyoncé, inspires me to envision myself a woman of strength and power, compassion and courage.
To make the dish, I’m using grass-fed beef from a local farm that supplies Welcome Home. I will serve it with my favorite pasta: Wild Mushroom Fettuccine. Monique, a friend and a regular patron of the diner, makes the pasta from scratch. My Diane sauce will be spooned over the beef and pasta. The dish will swirl with the luxurious flavors of beef juices, brandy, butter, and cream, which have been reduced to heart-throbbing essence. If only.
I lower my head, close my eyes, and whisper a prayer to whatever—whoever—may be listening.
David’s showering while I put the finishing touches on the sauce, stirring in a bit of exotica—Hawaiian black salt and truffle oil that Mom gave me for Christmas. Nina Simone’s voice, accompanied by horns and strings, is playing in the background.
I join her voice singing “I Put a Spell on You,” soft enough so that David won’t hear my off-key vocals torture the verse. Listening to favorite music is my way of summoning the past, articulating what I’m feeling but can’t express in conversation.
What I wouldn’t give to have a voice like hers, or Sarah Vaughan’s—even Sam’s. These women have such staggering depth and range. I sing only when I’m alone. I stir minced parsley into my sauce. Not essential to the flavor, but the green bits will brighten the dish. In music, a grace note is like a garnish to the melody. Not necessary to the composition, but always a pleasant addition.
Composing a meal must be like composing verse: the emotional state of the writer governing the realm of passion in the music; the sentiments of the cook influencing the flavor profile of the menu. Tonight, I’m a woman in love with the courage of Diana. Sauce finished, I roll chocolate truffles into finely crushed peppercorns. Chocolate represents the sweetness of love, and pepper, the bite of strength. I should have thought to make a salad with green goddess dressing.
David places his fingers against the small of my back, and I turn. He’s dapper tonight, more handsome than ever. His black slacks are just tight enough around his butt to buckle my knees and lower my resilience a notch. He wears a pale-pink linen shirt I don’t recognize. I’ve always told him he looks great wearing pink, a color confident men pull off with panache. Does the fact that he purchased a new shirt mean he has something special to tell me?
I myself have pulled out all the stops. I wear a vintage red dress with a neckline revealing my décolletage. I baited the hook with a black silk bra, the edging of lace visible when I bend forward. My lipstick, as always, is painted with precision. Tonight, I upped the ante, curling and then coating my lashes three times with mascara.
I notice that his briefcase is on the floor beside the door, next to the entry, leaning against the wall. Every evening, the first thing he does when he comes home is put it on my desk in the bonus room. Maybe tonight he wants its contents nearby for ready access. Perhaps he has something special in that briefcase of his. I remove my apron, kick off my heels, and giggle, brushing up against him.
“Baby,” David murmurs, after a long intoxicating kiss. His palms slide down my back, sending shivers up my spine. I grab a cloth and wipe my lipstick away from the sides of his mouth. He winks at me and turns to the counter. I watch him uncork a bottle of Bordeaux, then pour the red-black wine into a carafe. Lifting his nose, he sniffs the air, redolent of simmering beef. He turns to face me. His eyes trail up my legs and rest on my cleavage. “That thing you do.”
Here we go. That thing, again. I should have pounded a shot of 5-hour ENERGY—there’ll be no rest for the wicked this evening. My mouth twitches. But only if he earns it.
I arrange dinner on my favorite vintage porcelain—everyone’s on their best behavior when dining off fine china. Then I center the plates between the linen napkins and cutlery. I glance about the room—at the discolored wood floors, the bare bulbs in the ceiling, the peeling layers of paint. Decadence in the ruins.
He pulls away my chair and I sit, crossing my legs, showing them off to their best advantage, not missing a beat in this provocative dance. He takes a seat and then raises his glass: “To Addie, my goddess, the sexiest, the most divine creature on heaven and earth.”
I tip my glass to his and then lower my head, gazing up from under my lashes, to meet his eyes. Our movements synchronized, we bring the wine to our lips. I take a small sip, and the rich flavors swim in my mouth. As I swallow, the grace note strikes a tingle of raw, sensual delight.
David presses the fork prongs into a bite of the beef, swirling it in the sauce. I follow suit. Midway to my mouth, I admire the morsel. The steak is caramelized on the outside and a reddish pink in the center. Perfection. We bite into the meat at the same time, both of us chewing with concentration. The richness of the beef is mellowed with butter and cream and cut with the spike of brandy. The goddess would approve. Like me, David savors every cadence of an exemplary meal.
“Are you still enjoying that class?” I twirl a mound of pasta around the fork. “I forgot what it’s called. Some guy’s name.” David’s in school full-time this winter. January through March is the slowest time of year at his dad’s company.
He laughs. “You’re talking about TEM—The Entrepreneurial Manager.” Placing his fork on the plate, he catches my eye. “At this point we’re working on strategies for identifying opportunities and obtaining the resources for development. That’s an oversimplification, of course. But the course has my brain churning.”
His eyes sparkle and he speaks quickly. “All around us, all of these homes, these abandoned buildings, are being sold for peanuts. I’ve been talking to Dad. We’ve got our eyes on an investment possibility.”
My pulse quickens. I showed him the string of houses for sale by the canal a few weeks ago. I lean into him, smiling broadly.
“There’s this one warehouse in the Renaissance Zone. Because of the location, it would be tax-free for any business to move into. Dad’s company could move there, and then we’d get other . . .”
His words fall into a vacuum as my excitement deflates; there’s a hum in my ears, and I can’t hear his voice. Moistening my lips, I crank up a pleased expression, trying to return to the moment.
“Oh, David,” I say when he becomes quiet, looking at me as if expecting a reaction. I take his hand. “That sounds like a great investment. And it gives you and your dad a forum for more personal interaction.”
“It’s been great. The two of us driving around, looking at real estate. Your sharing the work you’ve been doing with your mom has been valuable to me. It helps me understand Dad. Where he’s coming from. Of course, we never dig deep. And he would never consider therapy.”
I smile at the thought of David’s father spilling his guts to Dr. Lerner.
He winks. “But for the first time ever, we’ve been talking about Mom and her control issues.” He raises his eyebrows. “We’re even joking about it. As you know, getting a laugh out of Dad’s a very big deal. We’ve decided to let her spin in her own orbit, and we’ll stay out of it.”
I tilt my head, truly happy that he and his dad are making progress. “That’s wonderful, David.”
He reaches across the table to stroke my hand. “It’s thanks to you, baby girl. But let’s get back to us.” His eyes burrow into mine, then dart to my cleavage before returning to catch my gaze. “Have I ever told you that you’ve the most beautiful eyes in the world?”
Eyes? Yeah right. Here we go. Back to clichés. Every time he tries to express his love, it sounds like a line pulled from Sleepless in Seattle. But it’s Valentine’s Day. So I let him ramble on and on about his adoration of me in platitudes, trying not to roll my eyes. I’ll work on him later. Once we’re married. I cross my fingers under the table.
After finishing the main course, he stands and kisses me again before taking our plates to the sink. I watch him, admiring the muscles that flex beneath his shirt as he rinses off the last traces of sauce. Then he walks to the entryway and reaches for his briefcase. My heart pounds. He brings it to the table. Opening the latch, he reaches in, pulling out—what? A deck of tickets? Wearing that rascal smile, he takes his seat and hands them to me: a set of black-and-red-checked cards in the shape of a billfold decorated with pink hearts.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, you stunning wench. A dozen scratch tickets to shake up our sex life.”
“Sex game scratch cards? Is this a joke?” I stare at them in horror, the wonder of the evening crashing down around my ankles.
“Funny, huh? I saw them at the liquor store and couldn’t resist. All we have to do is scratch off the designs. The pose that’s revealed will demonstrate the sex position we’ll try.” He stares at my cleavage, raises his eyebrows, and then his eyes return to my face. “They won’t last long the way we go at it. Perfect, right?”
He’s really stepped in it this time. I throw the cards on the floor, shaking my head, furious. “This is clearly for you.”
He squirms. “What about the roses?” He points at the flowers on the counter, which I’d arranged in the Deco vase. “Those were for you. What about the wine—my buying your favorite champagne? Here. Lemme grab it.” In an instant, he pushes away from the table, stands, and turns toward the fridge. I jump from my chair and grab his forearm to stop him.
His jaw tightens as he shakes away my arm. “I hate this holiday. It’s packed with so much pressure. I gave you roses. I bought wine and champagne. The money I spent for those alone would feed a family for a month.” His face slackens, and he looks at the floor. “I thought you’d think the cards were funny, Addie.” His voice now is that of a hurt little boy.
My face contorts as I fight back the tears, summoning the strength of Diana. I won’t fall off my horse. I will play this out.
I bite the bottom of my lip. My next question, and his answer, will direct the course of my life.
“Will you marry me, David? Will you marry me?” The word marry, to my ears, sounds like the bleat of a sheep. Maah, maah. My face grows hot. This is not the way this was supposed to go down.
“Addie.” He slides his palms down my hair and then clenches it into his fists. “Addie. Baby girl. I love you with a fierceness I’ve never felt for anyone, for anything, in my life. But aren’t we good the way we are? I’ve thought about marriage—don’t get me wrong. And if I ever got married, it would be to you. But I don’t know, Addie. I just don’t know. I feel like you’re pushing me into a corner.”
My voice rises. “I’ve told you, David. I’ve been telling you for over a year. I can’t stay with you unless I know you’re in it for the long haul.” As I stare at him, he sighs and his shoulders sag, a now-familiar reaction to my words. “All I want, David, is to get married, to have children, and to be loved by you forever.”
His face shifts with an array of emotions—passion, bewilderment, distress. His body is emitting an animal scent, an unfamiliar pheromone that goads me on.
“I’m not getting what I need from this relationship. I love you, David. But our bond is broken, and I’m not sure if it can be fixed. We’re not on the same page. What I need is that my partner be on the exact sentence, the exact word as myself, when it comes to our future.”
“Baby. I agree. We’re out of sync. You’re beginning to sound more controlling than my mother, and I’m crumbling under your expectations.”
His face is clouded with grief, and I don’t recognize the man I love. I’m trembling from head to toe. In the storm of our relationship, I’ve been hauling out a lifeline to this man, playing out the spool bit by bit with each passing day. I just cut bait and smell the agony. Something in this room is dying.
“We’re over, David. ‘David and Addie’ are through.” My words hit me like a punch in the gut, and I want to burst into tears. We’ve always been the envy of our friends, everyone pointing to our intimate, long-lasting relationship as an anomaly—an exhibit, say, in the Detroit Institute of Art that kept the museum afloat. But now, the Diego Riveras are leaving the building. Blinking my eyes, swallowing the lump in my throat, I pinch my lips together, as utter grief rages through my soul. I pull him into me so close I can feel his heart pounding. A hardening in his groin presses against my thighs. I want him to have me right now, on the floor. I want him to pound away the pain. I press my lips into his, deepening our passion in a kiss.
He pushes me away, shaking his head. His confusion, his torment, his lust have dissolved into anger.
“I’m not something to be checked off your to-do list, Addie. I’m flesh and blood. I’ll pack a suitcase. I’ve gotta get out of here. Leave. Right now.” He looks about the room, as an animal trapped in a cage.
“I’ll stay with Kevin until I figure out my next step,” he continues, his words breathless, rushed. “I’ll get the rest of my stuff later. I understand what you need, what you want me to say to you. But I can’t say the words if I don’t feel them in my heart.” He pounds a clenched fist into his chest. “I love you so much. But I’ve been forgetting who I am, how to breathe on my own. I’m suffocating.”
He pins me with his gaze for a moment before he turns to grab his cell phone. “It kills me to even look at you.”
Staggering into the bedroom, he closes the door behind him. Muffled words behind the door. A suitcase being dragged out of the closet. Drawers opening and shutting. The sounds of good-bye. I collapse on the sofa and expect the tears to fall, but my eyes remain dry.
He opens the door, coat on, suitcase in hand, and approaches me as if in a trance. He touches my cheek. And then . . . he leaves.
Prone on the sofa, I stare at the closed door. David’s left me. It’s simple, really. He couldn’t give me what I needed, so I asked him to leave. And then he left. Wait. No. I didn’t ask him to leave. I wanted him to make love with me. We’ve had these arguments before. They’ve never turned into this. I remind him of his mother? Oh my God. What have I done?
Feet dragging, I weave into my bedroom. There, I peel off my dress, unhook my bra, then pull off my thong—pathetic armor of the seductress. I fall into bed and curl into a fetal position. Where are my tears? I glance at the clock––it’s just after ten. It’s too late to call Mom because Max would be pissed.
Several minutes pass. I’m numb from the onslaught of grief and wine. Loneliness, like tiny spiders, crawls about my sheets. I slip into my robe, retreat to the office, and open my mythology textbook. Sitting down, I turn to the page about Diana.
Diana was one of the three maiden goddesses who swore never to marry, and she was true to her word.
I push away from my desk and stand; my stomach pitches. I wrap my arms around my waist and laugh out loud. I bend over, laughing so hard my sides begin cramping. My laughter turns into tears and then to crazed, wretched grief. Hero joins in the chorus of this tawdry Greek tragedy and wails from below. Hades has risen from the underworld.
The acoustics are terrible in this house, every noise magnified threefold. It’s eleven forty-five, close to midnight. I’m ruining Valentine’s Day for Sam and Uriah. Embarrassed, I stuff Chester’s paw into my mouth to muffle my histrionics. I stumble to my bedroom and fall facedown onto my comforter—black mascara streaks stain the fabric. The creak of the floorboards. David? Opening my eyes, I look up from my sniveling misery. It’s Sam, looking at me, sadness on her face. She sits on my bed.
“Oh, honey. You found the courage.”
“Yes. It’s done. There was no Prince Charming down-on-one-knee proposal, no little box opening to forever. He gave me scratch cards.” I look up from my pillow. “Sexual scratch cards. Can you believe it? So I executed my plan. And you’re the first to know it’s official.”
“Your breakup?”
“No. Well, yes. The breakup’s official. But it’s also official that your cousin’s a disaster. A mess. I put this suffering on myself. I keep begging for it to happen.”
“You’re not a mess. You’re upset because you spoke your truth and are processing the outcome. David didn’t give you what you needed. You had the courage to break up, and now you’ll find the strength to move forward. You’re not stuck now, Addie. Not anymore. You must go through chaos to get to a better place.”
I lurch up, clutching Chester to my chest. “Chaos is the god of creation, the origin of everything that has ever existed. Chaos made Earth out of random disorder, and you’re telling me I should go through chaos?” I look at her, choking beneath tears. “I love him, Sam. I don’t have the strength.”
She strokes my hair. Yet again, my cousin is stroking my hair. She’s never seen me such a hot mess. “Let it go, Addie. It’s time to let go. Time will do its thing. You’ll see. Don’t come into work tomorrow. Sleep it off. Everything will be fine. Just fine.”
I look into her face, and her eyes—glittering and tight—tell a different story.
I can’t fall asleep. At 3:00 a.m., I stumble to the wardrobe and dig through David’s drawer, grabbing a T-shirt. Resting my head on a pillow, I snuggle against the shirt, and sleep falls like a heavy curtain, David’s musky sweat perfuming my dreams. The morning light burns my eyelids, the T-shirt and Chester twisted between my arms. I take a moment to sift consciousness from my dream state. Memories from last night wash over me like a wave crashing down on a beach. Reality’s the nightmare.
Sitting up in bed, I regard the shirt, a faded shade of cinnamon. I purchased it on eBay and gave it to David on our first anniversary, three years back. It’s original to the era, the words spelled out across his chest:
BOB DYLAN LIVE IN CONCERT
1966 WORLD TOUR WORCESTER, MASSACHUSETTS
I drag my feet toward the coffeepot in a haze, then stumble through the morning rituals. How am I supposed to move forward without David? Shuffling one foot in front of the other, I find myself in front of the console. I select a Dylan album and remove the record from the sleeve. Placing it on top of the turntable, I position the needle on the second groove of the vinyl: “Simple Twist of Fate,” the most soulful ballad I’ve ever heard.
Falling onto the sofa, sobbing into the shirt, I play it repeatedly, over and over and over again. I sniff, rubbing my nose into the animal scent of David. Looking up, I drop the shirt into my lap, hearing something new in the lyrics. Something suggesting that my efforts to control destiny were pointless; in the end, fate always has the upper hand. And even though I’ve met my soul mate—my twin, as referenced in the song—if the timing’s not right for him, our love was in vain.
But is it really a sin, as Dylan’s words question, to feel this suffering so intensely, clawing at the grief of his absence? Is the price I’m paying—in this moment—too steep?
At last, my tears subside. There’s something about this song—bleeding and beautiful at the same time—that’s comforting. I’m reminded that heartache’s universal, and all of our plots and little schemes, in the end, are futile with love hinged to the fickle whim of fate. A fate that can strip you raw, leave you empty-handed, busted, no cards left to play.
As if it were antique lace, I fold the shirt into a perfect square and smooth it out before returning it to David’s drawer. I never want to see it again. With my composure somewhat regained, I call my mother, who answers on the first ring. I tell her what happened.
“Sweetie. I hear your heartbreak, I feel your pain. David was your Prince Charming. I had no idea you two were in trouble.”
“You were upset enough by my episode with Sam. I know how much you love David. I know how much you want grandchildren.”
“Oh, Addie,” she replies, her voice breaking. “It’s your happiness I want more than anything. You can tell me everything that’s upsetting you. It’s my greatest joy to be here for you when you need me. You heard what Dr. Lerner told me: it’s never too late.”