“It’ll blow itself out,” he assures me. He’s standing in the window, looking out at the trees swaying.
“It better, or this is going to be an indoor party tomorrow.”
“Well, at least I gotta coffee table, so everyone can sit around that,” he says with a laugh.
After much persuading and cajoling, yes, he decided on an appropriate coffee table. And a headboard for his bed. And a dresser, too, and some chairs that, when some cushions are added, are going to be very comfortable.
“Yes, you did,” I tell him, and I laugh a little, too.
“It’ll blow out,” he repeats.
Supper is the most casual it’s ever been. I’m serving him at the ‘bar’ counter that runs along one side of the island in the middle of the kitchen. I’ve made a pretense out of setting myself a place, but I’m spending more time standing. There’s food spread out all over, and I’m heavily into pre-prepping for tomorrows ‘feast’. I have potatoes boiling and vegetables blanching. I’m rinsing and chopping and thoroughly enjoying myself to the point that I don’t care if I eat my dinner, or if Alex is watching me.
“It’s gonna get cold,” he says after a while.
I reach over and spear a piece of steak with my fork, popping it into my mouth. My hands are dripping with juice from the grapefruits, the tangerines, and the oranges I’m peeling for the citrus salad. Eating is the last thing on my mind.
“You like to cook don’t you,” he says.
“Yeah, I do. I never got the chance to try things like this, though. Or to use these kinds of ingredients.”
“Why, no fruit in Ohio?” he asks, laughter in his voice.
“No money in Ohio. Or anywhere else.”
“Were you, like, poor?”
“I AM, ‘like’ poor,” I tell him, and I look up from what I’m doing. He either doesn’t believe me, or he doesn’t understand.
“You’re not poor.”
“Of course I am.” I smile at him. “Look at me. I’m over thirty, I’m a housekeeper. I’m a working, single mother. I own nothing, and barely have a savings account. No investments, no retirement. Heck, I’m not just poor, I’m a statistic.”
“Well, you won’t be poor forever.”
“It’s not my plan to be, no. But you never know.” I go back to my fruit, peeling away the sections and taking all the tough skin from them, all the pith and veins.
“You work hard.”
Now where did that come from. I lift my eyes yet again, and see that he’s staring at his plate, trying to avoid the portion of string beans I’ve put there. He’s just like a kid in so many ways. I don’t care if he eats them or not. I do care about his comment.
“I try and do my job.”
“No, I mean, you work extra hard. You’re into, you know, details and shit.” He takes a bite of food and is quiet for a minute. “No one has ever gotten into this place like you have.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Cleaned it out. No one’s ever, like, really stuck to it for very long, or got INTO it. Moved things.”
“I was a little afraid that I might have overstepped my boundaries a few times,” I admit. I was, but I didn’t let it stop me. At the worst I imagined he might have a bit of a fit at me, and I would simply have returned the objects to their original locations.
“Maybe, but that’s cool, that’s what I mean. You’re not afraid to, like, do somethin’ and then see what happens.”
“I don’t know about that.” I don’t. I can’t say that it’s true, because I’m beginning to think that I’ve been very afraid for the better part of my life. Small things, like rearranging a room, that’s nothing. I’ve been afraid about the big things, like rearranging my life.
“Well, I think you are, that’s all that I’m sayin’.” He grins and takes a big bite of meat. “And when you work hard, you don’t, like, stay poor.”
“Well, then, thank you, I’ll take that as a compliment.” I find it hard to believe that his logic is that simplistic, then again, I can. People who have never been poor don’t know how hard you work just to maintain poverty. They don’t know that you might spread yourself out over two, three, and four jobs at a time, exhausting yourself beyond belief, just to make ends ALMOST meet. But I’m not about to get into the philosophy of keeping one’s head above water with someone who owns a car that costs more than twice my annual salary.
“Are you gonna eat, or are you just gonna cook all night?”
“I’m eating, see?” And I take a forkful of beans. They’re good, he doesn’t know what he’s missing.
“ARE you gonna cook all night?”
“No, I’m just getting a few things ready for tomorrow. It’s just such a treat to be able to make things I’ve always wanted to try.”
“Well, get crazy, then.”
“Would you like to help?” I ask. The look of horror that flits across his face was worth asking the question.
“I’m no good at any of this shit,” he says. “I can, like, cook in the microwave.”
“That’s not cooking, Alex, that’s re-heating.” I chuckle. “Didn’t you ever have to cook for yourself?”
“No.” No explanation, no emotions in that answer at all, just ‘no’.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, well, I was livin’ at home, and my mom and grandma cooked, and then I was living with, with someone and by then I had some money so we ate out a lot, or she cooked. And when I wasn’t home, I was on the road, and there’s always food on the road.”
“Amazing.”
“I mean, I can do some real simple, basic crap, like boil spaghetti and fry an egg, but that’s about it.”
“I think I was born cooking,” I say. “I used to be in the kitchen all the time with my mother. She cooked, too. A lot. Better than me, too.”
“Does she still cook?”
“No, she’s dead.” For a long time. Not long after I got married. Heart attack. It was quick. She never knew Tish, and sometimes that makes me sad.
“Shit, I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago,” is all I say.
“What about your dad?”
“He’s dead, too. About six years ago. Stroke. He always had a temper, I think it finally ate away at him. And he didn’t like retirement, he retired early from the Army, settled for a while in South Texas and just died.”
“Brothers? Sisters?”
“Nope, just me. An only child from a long line of only children.” Why go into explanations. I had a sister, once, for about two years, or so I was told. She died, too, from complications from pneumonia when I was too young to even know what was going on. I was three when she died. I don’t remember her, I only remember being told about her. “You?” I ask.
~~**~~**~~***~~**~~**~~
~~**~~**~~***~~**~~**~~
“I’m an only child, too. Mom and Dad live in Florida. They’re divorced.” I don’t mention the twins my mother lost. I wasn’t even born then. Two girls. I don’t like to talk about them, and I really don’t. The coupla times I had too, ‘cause of interviews or whatever, I kinda made out like I didn’t know much about it. What I do know is that it hurts my mother to hear about them, or talk about them. So I don’t.
“Do your mom and dad visit often?” Shi asks.
“No, not too much.” Not at all right now. I haven’t seen my mother since last spring. Talked to her, but haven’t seen her. My father came out at the end of November and stayed with me and Sarah for a few weeks. I’m tryin’ with him, I really am, but that’s still a real sticky relationship. I just don’t know about him at all. He’s not like a real father to me, he was never around enough. Took off when I was four, and I never saw the guy again until I was in my late teens. It didn’t work out well the first time, tryin’ to be with him and everything. I dunno. He tried too hard, his wife tried too hard, they jumped into my business too fast, my mother was never real happy about me seein’ him. It was a mess, and he was, it was like he was really gettin’ off more on my fame than on me.
And I didn’t like how happy he was about Sarah. ‘Cause at the time, I wasn’t happy about her at all, I was havin’ an affair with someone else, for chrissake. He did the same thing with Amanda, tried to get to me through her, and Amanda fell for it, so I could see Sarah fallin’ for it, too.
No, I don’t see him too much, or talk to him too often.
“Do you visit them?” Shi asks me.
“No, not lately.” I just sort of smile at her and shake my head and she nods and stops askin’ me about it. Not tonight. Maybe another time, but I just don’t wanna talk about mom and dad tonight. I wanna eat my steak, and I guess I’ll eat some of these bean things, and have a piece of bread and then, I don’t know, sit here and watch Shi cook.
She really does look like she’s all intense about it. The tip of her tongue is peeking out of her mouth. Cracks me up. She’s so into makin’ every piece of this fruit she’s playin’ with look perfect. But I get it. I know how that is. It’s like when I record a song, you want every note to be perfect. You do it over and over until it sounds just the way you want it.
I know how I want a song to sound. Shi knows how she wants her food to look and taste. Same difference. I wish I had her patience, though. I don’t. Not right now. I got no patience to sit in my studio and do anything. So I guess I’ll just watch her. Who knows, maybe something’ll rub off.
~~**~~**~~***~~**~~**~~
~~**~~**~~***~~**~~**~~
© 2003 Chandrah, Inc.
© 2003 (*> Baby Bird Productions, Inc.
