Day Twenty-Four #2
The kitchen island was long and narrow, the countertops an ivory marble with pencil-thin veining that ended at the refrigerator, a commercial-grade model that cost as much as a certified pre-owned car; Jesse had spent hours alone over the past weeks listening to the ice maker drop its two different-sized cubes, an event that was always both startling and comforting.
In front of the island in place of barstools was a long planter dug right into the floor, filled with unwelcoming barrel cactuses planted in a sea of pea gravel.
That impulse cooks had of wanting their kitchen to feel warm and for guests to pull up a stool while they cooked?
This was the opposite feeling of that. It screamed Don’t look at me, if not Go away, and perhaps for that reason Norman and Jesse had yet to host a dinner party.
There was nowhere to enjoy a glass of wine and the pleasure of one’s company while preparing a meal, inhaling the intoxicating scents of the evening’s menu while trading in juicy secrets.
At least the items Jesse was scrambling to tidy—a box of crackers in the entryway instead of the pantry; a basket of laundry, unfolded, Jesse uncertain anymore if it was on its way to or from the machine; pens, so many pens, scattered across the counter—were evidence that someone lived here.
Any resident of this space seemed schizophrenic, something he felt Norman’s designs were as much to blame for as his housekeeping.
Still, at the last moment, Jesse hid the can of frosting in their dishwasher, which had the same facing as the cabinets and thus disappeared when he slammed it closed.
When Lally returned, the house was looking more or less presentable, save for his papers on the dining room table, and Jesse was putting away his groceries.
She had changed into yoga pants and a top that fell off one shoulder, and she headed straight for the dual-zone wine fridge and selected herself a Sancerre.
“Do you mind?” she asked after she had already found the corkscrew.
“Help yourself,” Jesse said as he stashed the last few items from his bag in the cabinet. “A glass might calm your nerves before your audition for Flashdance.”
Lally shook her head. “You’re mean.”
I’m mean? Jesse thought. I’M SPIRALING! He quickly gathered himself. “It’s this new book I’m working on,” he lied, hoping she would understand he was under a lot of pressure.
“No it’s not.” It was the first thing she said that he actually heard, and he felt it deep in his chest. He had been this way for a while.
Is he the one that drove Norman away? Was he to blame for all of this?
He didn’t mean to be. He remembered emailing Norman a study that said partners who playfully insult one another are three hundred percent more honest and loyal.
The subject line of his email? You Odious Crone.
Norman never replied. What if he deleted the email without opening it?
What if he never read the study or got the joke and thought Jesse was just being unkind?
Lally paused, narrowing her eyes. It was clear now she could see he was spiraling, and she hesitated, the corkscrew halfway deployed.
“Maybe we should wait for Norman.” She abandoned the wine and wandered over to the dining table, which was covered with legal notepads filled with Jesse’s scribbles and piles of paper that only in the most generous interpretation could be described as stacks.
Lally flipped through a few pages without asking permission.
Jesse had scribbled his memories of that night as he often did with important events, perhaps to write about one day, perhaps to prove to himself that they actually happened.
“Is this it? Is this the new book?” It wasn’t exactly like she was Shelley Duvall discovering Jack Nicholson’s gibberish, but there was nothing on the table he wanted her to see.
“Let’s open that wine,” he said, steering her back to the kitchen. He grabbed two long-stemmed glasses from the cabinet, admiring the varietal-specific bowls he and Norman had picked out to highlight the crisp whites they enjoyed on warm California evenings. Another lifetime, it seemed.
“Should we wait for Norman?” Lally repeated, this time phrasing it as a question.
Jesse struggled with the corkscrew, tearing a bit of cork. “I think we would be waiting a very long time.”
Once he’d served them two generous pours, Jesse told Lally that Norman was in Minneapolis on one of his usual work trips. It was a story he had tried out on himself, and one that seemed most believable.
“Minneapolis.”
“Or Cincinnati.”
Lally nodded slowly, taking this information in. “What is it this time? An office building? Department store? They don’t still build malls anymore, do they? Although I haven’t been through Cincinnati in a while.”
“Medical building,” Jesse lied. It was the last thing he could remember Norman drafting, a project too industrial to satisfy his creative soul but one that always paid well. “People need medical buildings,” Jesse had assured him one night when Norman seemed downhearted. “We have an aging society.”
“People need books,” Norman volleyed. Jesse assured him only to crush spiders.
Lally sipped her wine, then ran her hand down her neck like she was a dog being encouraged to swallow a pill.
She approached the counter to set her glass down, stopping just in time to avoid stubbing her toe on one of the barrel cactuses.
“That’s welcoming,” she muttered, bending down to see if they were real.
“You know, it’s just as well Norman’s gone.
You guys could benefit from some time apart. ”
Jesse rubbed his eyes until they hurt. “We could?”
“You could. What has it been, a decade since your last book? And he’s designing buildings left and right? You let him take the lead when you should be spreading your wings.”
Jesse looked puzzled. Could Norman be doing him a favor?
“Besides, I’m really here to see you.”
“Me?” Jesse hid his face behind his wineglass like he was looking for something, sulfates or tannins, so that she wouldn’t read the surprise on his face. It had been a long time since the two of them had been in the same room without Norman.
“Is that so hard to believe?”
It was, in certain regards. In the early days of his relationship, when he and Norman had that apartment in Venice Beach only a few hundred feet from the sand, Lally, a dozen years younger than Norman but only a handful of years younger than Jesse, used to be a regular fixture in their lives.
She would drop in unannounced, behavior not as strange as it is today given that it was a time before cell phones and people were generally more difficult to reach.
They would go for tacos at a hole-in-the-wall place on the water, one of the last few stands holding on as the bars and restaurants that made the beach unique fell one by one to chain places that made Venice feel like Santa Monica, or any other part of L.A.
Jesse and Lally would grab extra tacos for Domingo, a homeless man with an easy gap-toothed smile who was the unofficial mayor of the surrounding blocks, which they referred to as “the village,” then listen intently to his stories about how much better things had been in the seventies and his predictions for the future, like he was some sort of prophet.
Jesse suddenly had an overwhelming desire for tacos, not just any, but those soft tacos, made with tortillas warmed on a gas flame and with the perfect amount of diced raw onions and cilantro.
And Norman’s company then, when they were young, when they couldn’t stand to be apart for even a day.
He inhaled deeply, like if he tried hard enough he could transport himself back there.
“I have an idea,” he said, placing his wineglass down on the counter before he drank any more.
And after she mounted only a mild protest, and Jesse agreed to change his shirt, he took her to the Tiny Pony, as they had the only kitchen open late for miles.
The Tiny Pony tavern was surprisingly busy, but Jesse was able to snag their usual table and they were quickly served drinks.
It felt strange to dine in their spot with someone who was not his husband, but also better than sitting alone.
At least it was homey; the warm light came from pendants that hung over the long wooden bar, and the tavern was filled with laughter.
Ordinary people living their ordinary lives, none of them aware that they could be snatched at any time by light that was even warmer.
While they were studying their menus, the floor shook, causing Jesse to grip the table, bracing for the worst. Thankfully, it was merely three enthusiastic women trying to demonstrate line dancing to their dates. Slowly, he eased into himself.
“It’s been a long time since we’ve sat at a table like this.”
Lally looked around and seemed equally enmeshed in the nostalgia.
Without so much as a cell phone in sight, they could have easily been back in the 1990s.
But instead of responding, Lally sat silently, head bowed, looking in the wine she had ordered.
After a moment, she opened her mouth, then closed it, and did that again two or three times.
“What?” Jesse asked, suddenly concerned she had some news about Norman and was struggling to find a way to break it. The silence grew even more uncomfortable, an onion blooming before them, Jesse assigning horrific new meaning to each layer.
“You seem a bit…adrift,” Lally confessed. The restaurant was loud, and they pulled their chairs in tighter to the table as a new party was seated behind them.
“Do I?” Jesse had thought the past few weeks were strange, but the way this visit was unfolding, it might be even stranger.