Chapter 18
— Chapter 18 —
I drive to The Aster Lodge, a little family restaurant one town over, on the shore of the Middle Branch Reservoir. I waited tables here when I was in high school, and it’s where I learned how to bartend after I dropped out of college. Ten years ago, I left without saying goodbye or covering my shift, so it’s awkward to think about asking for a job, but my boss and his wife were always kind to me, and I need money too badly to get stuck in my feelings. I’m out in the world wearing decent clothes and Aubrey’s rich girl lipstick that doesn’t seem to smear. I need to do this while I look good and feel okay. In case I don’t tomorrow.
It’s three o’clock, so lunch will be over, and dinner hasn’t started. There’s only one other car in the lot. Hopefully it’s not a big baking or resupply day and Enzo is just looking over the books or heating up some stew for himself.
The place looks mostly the same. It’s a little brick cottage, so there’s not much to change. But someone gave the wood trim around the windows a fresh coat of green paint, and there are large concrete planters in front of the porch, which seems like a smart move. I always worried one of our regulars would accidentally throw their car in drive instead of reverse and plow straight through to the bar.
The same old bell on the door rings the same old way, but inside, the dark wood paneling has been whitewashed, and the old bar is refinished from its shiny brown lacquer to a flat charcoal stain that makes it look more rustic and also like it’s a pain in the ass to keep clean. The wood beams in the ceiling are stained to match, and the old tube TVs that used to be over the bar have been replaced with flat screens. A guy in a well-faded denim shirt and black jeans is sitting at the end of the bar, thumbing through a stack of restaurant supply magazines. He’s got a blue bandana tied over his shoulder-length brown hair. It would look cheesy on someone else, but he wears it naturally. He’s forty, maybe forty-five. Skinny in a way that makes me think he’s probably a little hyperactive. Most people who run restaurants are. I loved working for Enzo because everything about him was calm, but over the years I’ve learned what a rarity it is to find a calm soul in a kitchen.
The guy smiles at me, sparkly-eyed and charming. “Kitchen’s closed until five, but I’m happy to pour you a drink.”
I can’t tell if he’s flirting or he’d be this warm to anyone who walked in the door.
“Thanks,” I say. “That’s okay. Uh, is Enzo Fassiotti here? Or Mary?”
“Oh, no. I’m sorry,” he says, and my nose smarts instantly.
Enzo and Mary must have been in their late sixties when I worked for them. I hadn’t figured in how old they’d be now, the same way I didn’t think about Aubrey growing up, as if time was supposed to freeze here without me. As if I have no understanding of object permanence.
“I bought this place from them. Maybe a year ago?” He asks as if I would know his timeline for sure.
I nod dumbly.
“They retired to Wilmington,” he says, pointing to the door as if he’s picturing them leaving for the last time.
“That’s great!” I say, a little too loud. I can breathe again, imagining Enzo in his chef’s coat, bathed in amber sunlight, rowing a boat through a salt marsh like a character on Dawson’s Creek .
“Yeah. They’re good people. Came back to visit last summer. Enzo complained I ruined the finish on his bar.”
I laugh because it sounds exactly right. “Did he say it in English?”
“Maybe half?” the guy says. “Enough to figure out the rest in gesture.”
Even though Enzo moved to the United States when he was twenty, he never quite got the hang of English. But he was so expressive that eventually I understood him. He’d speak to me in Italian, and I’d answer in English. I didn’t even realize I was doing it until the first time I brought Aubrey in for dinner. Enzo sat at our table, gushing about how cute and smart she was. He promised to make us zeppole for dessert.
After he got up, Aubrey looked at me, eyebrows crinkled like a cartoon chipmunk, and said, “What the heck was he talking about?”
Mary was walking by with a tray of drinks for another table and laughed so hard I thought she might drop them. “She’s adorable, Frey,” she said, and I felt pride swell in my chest as if Aubrey were actually mine.
The new owner stands and offers his hand. “I’m Sam. Is there something I can help you with?”
“Freya,” I say, and hope he doesn’t notice my sweaty palm. “Nice to meet you, Sam.”
“Sorry?”
“Freya,” I say again, slowly. I’m used to having to explain my name. “F-r-e-y-a.”
“Free-yah,” he says.
“Sure.” I grin. “I was stopping by to see if Enzo had any bar shifts open. I used to work for him and Mary and—”
“I said your name wrong, didn’t I?”
“Oh, it’s fine, I get that all the—”
“One more time for me.”
“Fray-uh,” I say. I still can’t tell if he’s flirting, but after all these years bartending, I’m good at matching whatever energy comes my way.
“Nice to meet you, Fray-uh,” he says. He nods to the liquor shelf. “Can you make us a couple martinis?”
“Sure.” I step behind the bar.
It’s not an unusual request in an interview. And I know it’s not just about how I’ll make the drink. Sam wants to see how I can handle the weirdness of this moment, adapt to the bar tools I’m given, keep a good conversation going. Or, maybe, Sam just wants a martini.
“What’s your gin of choice?” I ask, looking up at the top shelf. Sam’s bar is pretty familiar, but not completely the same. His top shelf is a level above what Enzo carried, which I think is a sign of the times more than anything telling. Drinks have gotten so fussy.
“Can I be honest with you?” Sam asks. His eyes are a funny shade of green, with a little golden brown shining around his pupils like a sunset.
“Of course,” I say. It’s hard not to stare, but he seems comfortable holding eye contact. I wonder if your experience of life is substantially altered when other people are inclined to zoom in on you.
“I know there are fancier gins,” Sam says, “but I just like Tanqueray.” I can’t tell if he’s being sincere or role-playing for the interview.
“I’m with you,” I say. “It’s classic.”
“Yeah.” He nods, like I’ve given him confidence. “You’re right. It is.”
There’s a bottle of Noilly Prat on the middle shelf of the back bar, but I look in the mini fridge and find the faithful flask of Martini & Rossi vermouth. Most bars don’t bother to put it in the fridge, but that’s where it belongs. Enzo taught me that.
I hold the flat green bottle up for Sam’s approval. “Perfect,” he says.
I fill a shaker with ice and grab two martini glasses from the overhead rack. Most people don’t like more than the scent of vermouth, so instead of adding it to the shaker, I swirl a few drops around each glass. Sam raises an eyebrow, impressed. A martini is basically cold gin in a glass, but the secret is to have a style and stick with it confidently, so the customer believes their drink was expertly crafted.
I tumble the shaker, then pour. I am clumsy about most things, but when it comes to making drinks, I’m flawless. Once you get the hang of it, the nozzles on bar bottles allow you to measure by count. My counts are precise, even when I’m pouring different measures two-handed and taking orders at the same time. Not only do I know what I’m doing, but I believe I know what I’m doing, and if you let yourself find it, there’s joy in feeling competent.
I empty the shaker evenly between the two glasses, holding it upside down so Sam can see that I’ve left the correct amount of room to accommodate two Spanish olives without wasting a drop of gin. I lay out two cocktail napkins and place our glasses on the bar.
Sam gestures for me to take a seat and I walk around to join him.
“Cheers,” he says, holding up his glass.
I clink mine to his. “Cheers!”
Sam takes a sip. “This is a perfect martini.”
“Thank you,” I say, taking a sip too. As a kid, I spent an afternoon at my grandparents’ house pretending their juniper hedge was a treehouse for Strawberry Shortcake dolls, and by bedtime, my arms were covered in angry welts. Since gin is made from juniper berries, I imagine it does the same to my insides. I don’t even know if Sam has a job for me, but I need one badly enough to drink up anyway.
“Where’ve you been that you didn’t know this place sold?” Sam asks, with a directness that almost sounds accusatory, although I think the accusation is in my mind.
“I was living in Maine. Working at a bar near Acadia.”
“That’s gotta suck in the winter.”
“Kinda sucks in summer too,” I say, because a lot of New Yorkers, even the ones who live all the way up at the end of the train line, need to believe New York City is the center of the only universe that matters, and it’s polite to play along. “Way too much traffic June to September. Plus, they have the wrong kind of chowder.”
Sam laughs. “So, you grew up here?”
“Yeah.”
“You planning to stay?”
“Not going anywhere,” I say, and hope he doesn’t catch the lie.
“I got my dad working lunch right now, but he’s all, ‘I’m supposed to be retired, Sammy!’ So, if you’re here and you’re serious, I’ll give you lunch, but you gotta stick around, okay? If I let him go, he’s not coming back.”
“Yeah. I can do that,” I say, trying to sound excited. A week of lunches might make me the same as a Saturday night. But it’s something, and I can keep looking—jump to a better bar or piece shifts together from a couple places.
“Hey,” Sam says. “You probably know some of the regulars I inherited.”
“Still?”
Sam rolls his eyes. “I gotta keep making meatloaf once a week.”
I laugh because I know exactly who he’s talking about. “With hard-boiled eggs and a ketchup glaze.”
“Right-o.”
“It’ll be nice to see Gus and Shorty,” I say, picturing my favorite regulars in their mechanic’s overalls, hands dirty as ever, ruining the upscale scene Sam is trying to create.
He laughs. “Is nice the right word?”
I think about all the times Shorty drove back to the bar to jump-start my car for me at the end of a shift. “Absolutely.”
“Well, then you’re definitely hired,” Sam says.
If someday they discover that the actual purpose of the human appendix is to help metabolize alcohol, I will believe it, because after two martinis with Sam, it is all I can do to say goodbye politely and walk myself to my car without swaying.
I wait until there are absolutely no cars in view, turn right on the main road, then take the immediate right into the bank parking lot and park in an empty row. I cannot drive home. I’ve never been this drunk this quickly before, and I have no idea how long it will last. I search my car for food and find a packet of oyster crackers in the glove compartment. It feels like a nudge from the universe.
“I’m not dead,” I say when Buck picks up the phone at The Clam.
“Mom?”
“Oh god, Buck! No! It’s Freya.”
“Freya!” He laughs. “Yeah, I thought you were dead too!”
“I had to leave Maine for a while,” I say. “It’s a family thing and…” My voice catches and I worry I’m going to cry at Buck, which would make this conversation even more confusing for him. I put one of the oyster crackers in my mouth, sucking on it instead of chewing so it won’t make noise.
“Yeah, yeah. I get it,” Buck says.
“I’m sorry I didn’t let you know.”
“It’s fine.”
“No, I owed you that.”
“Sure thing. I’ll get on it,” he says, and I worry he’s discombobulated again, but then he says, “Sorry, Frey, Markus was saying something about scrod—I don’t know what he’s talking about. I just agree with him.”
“Oh, Buck,” I say, laughing.
“I’m gonna miss you, Freya.”
“You too.” My saliva turns sweet against the dissolving cracker.
“I was like, really honored when you called me to pick you up at the hospital. People don’t trust me that way. I never get to help.”
I stare at the cartoon clam on the cracker wrapper. My vision is blurred by tears.
“And you always took real good care of me,” Buck says. “Remember that time I got stuck in the lock-in? You called the fire department and found some blankets and made me tea when they got me out.”
Those seem like the most basic things a person could do for another person, but I would remember someone doing the same for me. I will remember that Buck came to get me at the hospital. He may not have been the most perfect chauffeur, but I called him, and he showed up.
“Oh, man, am I ever gonna see you again?” Buck’s voice is a little shaky. It’s making me feel shaky too.
“I’ll try to get back up there someday.” I wonder if he can hear my tears.
“Drinks are on the house,” Buck tells me.
I envision myself walking into The Clam. Maybe with Aubrey. Maybe we’re on vacation and we grab a table with a view of Union River Bay like tourists, and Buck will sit down with us and eat all our french fries. He’ll tell stories about Jerry Garcia and won’t let us pay the bill.
“Thanks, Buck,” I say.
“Thank you , my dear.”
Just as I’m about to hang up the phone, Buck says, “Hey, Freya?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you cover for me tomorrow?”
“I—oh, Buck…”
“Nah, nah. Just messing with ya.”
I laugh.
“Take care of yourself, sweetheart,” Buck says before he hangs up.
If you don’t slam it, the phone at The Clam doesn’t catch the hang-up switch right away, and I can hear Buck shouting, “Hey, guess what? Freya’s not dead, guys!” And then, “Steve, dude, you gotta keep your shirt on, ain’t nobody wants to—” then the line goes dead.