“Oh, I’m so sorry. I gave someone the house number.”
“I don’t care. Well, I do, but, you know, I figured it was one of those antique people or somethin’ like that. Her name, it’s funny, it’s...”
“Nyle,” she says.
“Yeah, that’s it. What, like the river?”
“No, well, I don’t know, I don’t think so. Did she leave a number?”
“Yeah. A coupla times, too. On the machine. What’s so important, more dead people’s stuff?”
“No. It’s personal,” she says.
Now what the hell does that mean and why don’t I like the sound of it, and why the HELL do I care? Why do I care? Of course she’s gonna have people callin’ her. And I don’t really mind if she gives out the house number, she spends more time up here than down at the pool house anyway. And the house phone rings down there, if you set it up to do that. Personal? Personal?
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Yes, fine. Are you hungry? Would you like to have an early supper?”
“Yeah, sure, great. I’m kinda hungry. I just got up.
“Some night then, hmm?”
Some night. I was about shitting myself I was so nervous. I made up my mind before I went into LA that I would go by myself and meet up with Mickie there, instead of the two of us goin’ together and my bein’ stuck if I wanted to make a quick exit. I got lost findin’ the place. Some dinky door on a side street off a side street. I thought I was ending up in someone’s garage or somethin’, it looked that small and weird.
But it wasn’t. It was just a converted house and Mick was waitin’ for me out front. Inside it had that church like atmosphere that studios seem to have, all hushed and chilled. Dark. There’s a hum in studios, a hum from all the equipment. A hum from the people.
The people were cool. They’re a band, for real. Four guys. And they were layin’ down some tracks for an independent CD. Mick was doin’ ‘em a favor; she’d done a gig at another studio where the bass player works days, and they’d got to talkin’ and she was happy to sit in with them, help add some polish to their tracks.
I didn’t do anything but listen last night, but it was enough. It was cool seein’ people who are workin’ hard and startin’ out. Later, we all went for some coffee at a grungy Denny’s around the corner, and Mick and I ended up leavin’ at dawn, well after the other guys. She said she had to get Kim off to school. She said she was glad that I came, and that I should maybe think about layin’ down some tracks one of these days.
But the freakiest part of the night was when she told me that the guys in the band were all about my age. My age. And startin’ out. Not winding up. Startin’.
“Yeah, it was a blast. Mickie says ‘hi’,” I tell her.
“Did you keep her out all night?” Shi teases.
“Umhmm,” I say. And I grin.
“Good for you,” she says. She opens the fridge. “Do you want a supper type meal, or would you like a breakfast type meal?”
“I dunno, I had, like, a breakfast last night after the session. Do you min...”
“Alex, I don’t mind anything,” she says with a smile. She turns her head to look at me. “I’ll make you whatever you want.”
“Swedish meatballs?”
“Tomorrow. I don’t have everything here to make that. How about, hmm, well, it’s not your favorite, but I have some very nice fish I was going to make, now, don’t make that face. You liked it when I made it for you before. How about I make you some fettuccini on the side? Nice and cheesy?”
“You’re gonna like, insist on this, aren’t you?”
“Oh, yes, probably. And a salad, or some green beans. You pick.”
“Pizza.”
“No.” She means it. She’s bein’ kinda playful about it, but she means to give me some kinda balanced meal.
“Salad, then, and not a lot of it, either.”
“Alex, have I ever forced salad on you?”
“Yes.”
“Let me rephrase that. Have I ever forced a LOT of salad on you?”
“No.”
“Have a seat, then.” She motions to the stools near the stove. “Tell me about last night.”
So I tell her and I watch as she cooks. She puts a pot of water on the stove to start boiling, then takes out all the things she needs to clean and puts it all in one side of the double sink. I talk; she works.
The fish is somethin’ I don’t recognize. It still has its head on, and that’s grossin’ me out. I don’t think I can eat somethin’ that’s lookin’ at me. Then Shi takes a huge knife and whacks it’s head and tail off.
“Oh, man, you really don’t expect me to eat that, do you?”
“What, you want the head?” she asks, hookin’ a finger in it’s gills and wavin’ it at me.
“No. I don’t want any of it, I want pizza.”
“Order up,” she says, dangling the phone at me, and I’m about to take it from her, but the fish head is still in her hand and I don’t wanna touch that damn thing. Shi is laughin’ her ass off at me. “Alex, sit down and let me cook. You’re going to like this. And I’m throwing the heads and tails out. Geez, don’t you know what a fish looks like?”
“Yeah, I know what one looks like, I used to fish when I was a kid.”
“Alex, you still are a kid,” she says with a little laugh.
“A LITTLE kid, okay?”
“Did you bait your own hook? Did you ever touch a fish?” she asks. She runs the decapitated body under water, rinsing it, then pats it dry with some paper towel. I’m still grossed out.
“No,” I admit. I was never one for fishing, but my uncle would take me and I could never say ‘no’. My mother wouldn’t let me say ‘no’, and my father, well, he wasn’t there to say ‘no’, so when Uncle Mike would come for me, off I went. But I never could touch a worm, or a live fish.
“Well, this is what they look like when you catch them, and this is what they look like when you cook them,” she said, holding up a whole one and the one she’s butchered. She shakes her head, laughs a low, small laugh, and cleans the second, then third fish.
I have to admit, once the heads and tails are gone, they don’t look like much of anything. She pulls them open, pressing them flat, pressing the backbones down to the counter top. Then she flips them and starts to put stuff on them. Salt, pepper, some other spices, I don’t know what. When she’s happy with them, she puts them on a plate beside the stove top. Then she hauls a big fryin’ pan up, the biggest one, and puts some butter and oil in it.
“It sounds as if you had a good time last night,” Shi says, breakin’ me outta my fascination with what she’s doin.
“Yeah, it was good.”
“Are you going to go back and do it again?”
“I dunno. Mick didn’t ask me. I think she was just workin’ with them for one night.” Shi’s hands dig into a head of lettuce and pull the center out. It’s the hardest, crunchiest part of the lettuce. Sometimes it’s almost sweet. The salad is simple tonight; just the lettuce middle and some very ripe tomatoes.
“Well, if she did?”
“Yeah, sure.” I would. In fact, now that Shi is bringin’ it up, I wouldn’t mind hangin’ out with Mick a little more, or just hangin’ around a coupla studios. It was good to hear somethin’ fresh, and to hear it live. Music has changed, I think. I sorta knew that just from listening to the radio. Not so much pop. A lot more rock, more hip hop, more hard edged shit. Nothin’ like what Backstreet used to do. I guess it’s not the time for ballads and love songs.
“Good.” Shi is doin’ three things at once now. The pan is hot, and she’s layin’ the fish in it. The water is bubbling, and she’s just thrown the noodles into it. There’s a bowl with somethin’ in it I think she’s gonna toss the salad with. In less than a minute she’s got the fish cookin’, the pasta boiling, and the dressing stirred. In five minutes, the fish is in the oven, the noodles are almost ready to drain, and she’s got a pile of grated cheese on a plate that looks like a small mountain.
It’s like watchin’ someone paint. It’s art.
Tish comes in through the back door, and she hesitates.
“Hi, girly. Just get home?” Shi asks her.
“Yeah. What’s for supper?”
“Fish.”
“Umm. What kind?”
“Trout.”
“Yummy.” Tish stands next to the empty stool beside mine, and I pull it out for her.
“Have a seat,” I tell her.
“Thanks.”
She always waits to be asked when I’m around. That kinda bothers me. Not a lot, it’s real polite and everything, but I want her to just come in and sit down if she wants. When she does sit, somethin’ happens that bothers me more. It’s like I’m watchin’ the both of them from a distance. Shi is finishing up the meal, Tish is yappin’ away about school and shit, and I’m sittin’ here, not a part of it, just a, a watcher.
“Get the plates for me, Tish. Please,” Shi says, and Tish moves to get them.
“Sit. I got it,” I say. I got it. I can get three plates. I can get three bowls for the salad. I know where the napkins are, the forks and knives. Even if it takes me four separate trips back and forth from the island in the middle of the kitchen.
“Pour yourself some milk,” Shi tells Tish.
“I’m on it,” I say, ‘cause I’m gettin’ a soda from the fridge. And Tish is right there with a glass. I pour her some milk and she smiles at me. Then I sit back down again and Shi has dished up the fish for me and Tish. She’s puttin’ the last fillet on a plate, and I watch her pull this neat trick: she grabs the backbone of the fish and pulls, and all the little bones come up outta the meat. Cool.
Shi gives the pasta one last toss, portions out some salad for each of us, and dinner is, like, served.
And I see that Shi needs a drink, and before she can move, I’m there, gettin’ her a bottle of water, ‘cause she usually drinks water, and a big glass of ice.
“Thank you,” she tells me when I set it in front of her.
And all of a sudden I’m not outside lookin’ in anymore.
I’m inside.
I’m right here.
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© 2003 Chandrah, Inc.
© 2003 (*> Baby Bird Productions, Inc.
