A Soft Place to Land (36 page)

“Did you not read about it on the Inman Park Yahoo! group?” Ruthie asked.

“I stopped reading that thing,” said Gabe. “You should, too.”

“Yeah, ’cause that will make the crime stop.”

Gabe shrugged. “There’s crime everywhere. Though I swear, there were no armed muggings when I was growing up here. Plenty of people asking for handouts, but no muggings.”

They drove the Volvo because it had more gas in it than the Camry. Not that it mattered. They were only driving half a mile. It made Ruthie crazy how much they had to drive now that they lived in Atlanta. In San Francisco they had only owned one car—the Camry—and they only used it once or twice a week, to go grocery shopping, or to drive to Ocean Beach.

Sometimes Ruthie missed San Francisco so much it made her chest ache. As if San Francisco were a person, one in a series of people that she had lost.

Once at Mofongo they sat at the bar and ordered
mojitos
. As soon as the bartender plunked her drink down before her, Ruthie found herself wishing that she could just hide away in this welcoming place forever, just suck down sweet rum drinks stuffed with mint and avoid ever facing another Post-it note from her boss or an unexpected mailing from her sister.

Her drink safely in hand, she turned to Gabe, eager to further discuss their days.

“How was school?”

“My students are fucking geniuses. Every single one of them is smarter than me.”

“You don’t really believe that.”

Gabe grinned. “You’re right. But they
are
really, really smart.”

Gabe taught high school English at White Oaks, his alma mater, so to compliment his students was, in a way, to compliment himself.

Ruthie sucked down more of her
mojito
and, knowing that they took a few minutes to prepare, signaled to the bartender that she would like another.

“And why don’t we get some of those bacon-wrapped dates, and those little Cuban sandwiches, and maybe a salad, the frisée with the poached egg and the
jamón
. . . .” She looked at Gabe. “Do you want to try the pineapple chicken wings?”

“Sure, whatever you want.”

“And the pineapple chicken wings.”

“Can I get you another drink?” the bartender asked Gabe, but
Gabe shook his head. He didn’t drink nearly as much as Ruthie did.

“Do you ever feel as if you’ve regressed by going back to White Oaks?” she asked, knowing that the question was a little mean but not being able to help herself. The day had left her in a punchy mood.

Gabe looked down at his T-shirt, which he got at an REM concert Schwartzy took him to in 1992. “I’m a regressive sort of a guy,” he said. “When I find something good, I stick with it.”

He looked at her and smiled.

She kissed him on the cheek, to acknowledge that he was referring to her as well as to White Oaks and REM.

“So Ruthie, anything interesting happen at the restaurant today besides A.J.’s usual passive-aggressive Post-it?” she asked.

“So, Ruthie, anything interesting happen at the restaurant today?” he asked.

“The big news is, last night Big Steve kicked out a couple who were a no-show two weeks before. He recognized their name from the reservation list, and he told them they weren’t welcome.”

Gabe grinned. “You’re kidding me. First of all, couldn’t they have had the same name as the no-show but been different people?”

The bartender placed Ruthie’s new drink before her. She took a generous sip. God, if it weren’t for the hangover, she’d drink
mojitos
every night.

“The guy’s name was Luther Giovinazo, which is pretty unusual, so it probably was the same person as the no-show, but that’s not really the point. The point is: why in God’s name is Steve turning away people when our reservations are down thirty percent? And you can bet A.J. didn’t say a damn thing about it, either. He’s convinced that Big Steve is this major asset to Pasture, even though he’s totally abusive to customers. He keeps giving him more and more power while I keep getting these maddening Post-it notes blaming me for slow nights.”

Ruthie sucked down more of her drink. A server arrived with the bacon-wrapped dates and Cuban sandwiches. Ruthie grabbed
one of the dates, popped it in her mouth. There was a salty little bite of manchego cheese stuffed in its center.

“He’s an ass,” said Gabe, biting into a sandwich. “Do you remember how I had to stuff my leftover pork terrine into my cloth napkin because Big Steve wouldn’t stop bullying me into eating all of it?”

“He does that to everyone. It’s his little song and dance. He says that the pork terrine is a labor of love and to not eat it all is an act of aggression equaling war. And A.J. has such a fat fucking ego he lets him get away with it! Honestly, it’s Big Steve who is driving the customers away more than the shitty economy.”

Ruthie realized she was getting too worked up. Her heart was beating fast and she was tearing her cocktail napkin into little bits.

“Why don’t you just quit?” said Gabe.

“And do what?”

Gabe pretended to rock a baby in his arms.

“Nice,” said Ruthie, genuinely annoyed. “So glad you brought that up. Just the discussion I need to have at the end of a shitty day.”

She ate another date, trying to remain calm. She smiled at the server who dropped off their frisée salad and chicken wings. She took another sip of her drink. She didn’t want to get in a fight with Gabe, didn’t want to risk that this would be one of their big ones, after which they would be prickly and short with each other for days. But why would Gabe bring up their unresolved baby dilemma in the middle of her venting work frustrations? And on the same day that Julia made contact for the first time in nearly a year, since she had e-mailed to share news of her move to Red Hook and the fact that her novel was being remaindered?

“I just think we should go for it. You’re about to turn twenty-nine. You’ve been to culinary school, you’ve worked at Chez Panisse and Quince, and now you can add Pasture to your résumé. You’re established, babe. After you have the kid and go on maternity leave, you can write your own ticket. Start your own café, be a caterer, write cookbooks, whatever.”

“And how would we pay for this kid during the time I quit my job?”

“You’ve got your trust fund.”

“Yeah, and that’s great, but twenty thousand dollars a year doesn’t exactly make me Paris Hilton,” she said.

Gabe ran his hands through his hair, excited by his plans. If he sensed her irritation, it didn’t show.

“The point is there’s a cushion. We’d figure it out. And since you’re dissatisfied with your job and Big Steve isn’t going anywhere, why not take this opportunity to, you know, start a family? Besides which, I heard Paris Hilton isn’t worth all that much.”

He smiled, teasing, but Ruthie was in no mood to riff on his joke.

“Really? This is the pep talk you want to be giving me? On this day of all days?”

She picked up a chicken wing, tore into the meat.

Gabe put his hand on her thigh, and when she looked down at it, looked down at his raggedy nails and the silver wedding band that matched her own, she realized that she was still wearing her chocolate-stained pants from work.

“Ruthie, I really, really want to have a baby.”

Dara had a child last year, and when Ruthie went to San Francisco to visit Mimi and Robert a few months ago Dara drove over from Berkeley with little Theo. She brought so much baby paraphernalia with her that it took up the entire trunk of her car. As Dara unfolded the stroller so they could walk Theo to La Med on Noe, Ruthie found herself thinking,
Thank God I don’t have to lug one of those around all of the time.
After Ruthie returned to Atlanta she tried to express her feelings about Dara’s transition into being a mommy to Gabe. She told him of the heaviness she felt in her own heart watching Dara unfold that baby stroller.

He pooh-poohed her. “We’ll get a BabyBjörn then,” he said. “Hands free.”

Gabe was rubbing her leg with his hand, using too much pressure.

“Ruthie, I really need for us to take this step.”

It was at that moment that Chef Armando, rotund, bald, and effusive, came bounding out of the kitchen to say hello. He and Ruthie kissed on both cheeks and he asked how she liked the wings, which were new on the menu.

“They’re amazing,” she said. “So sweet and meaty. I could eat another dozen of them, easily.”

She had turned as far as possible away from Gabe and was directing all of her energy onto Armando.

“How’s business at Pasture?” Armando asked.

Ruthie shrugged. “It could be better, but I don’t think we’re in danger of closing or anything. Why? You need a new pastry chef?”

“You’d be the first I’d call,” he said.

Gabe stared at the floor while they talked, not even pretending to be interested in their conversation. Armando told Ruthie about his upcoming trip to Nicaragua, to suss out new Latin American recipes. Ruthie finished her second drink while listening, envious of his adventures.

“You want another?” asked Armando, motioning toward her empty glass.

Ruthie shook her head. She had to work tomorrow, and she was already feeling tipsy.

“Well, listen, it’s so great to see you. Congrats on the
Atlanta
best-of mention.”

“You, too!” said Ruthie, remembering that Mofongo had won for best brunch.

“Good to see you, man,” said Gabe to Armando, holding out his fist for a bump. The fist bump had become de rigueur for him ever since Barack and Michelle did it after securing the Democratic nomination. At first Gabe did it ironically, implicitly acknowledging his dorky whiteness whenever he held out his fist. But now it was just what he did when signing off.

After Armando returned to the kitchen, Ruthie was left with a dread feeling. Now she had to resume her fight with Gabe, and she was not even sure she could articulate her feelings clearly, because she was feeling woozy from the booze.

Gabe jumped right back in.

“You know, you accuse me of being regressive, but you’re the one who is terrified to take the next step, to move forward in our marriage. We always said we’d have a kid—we talked about it from early on. And now we’re at the end of our twenties. If we want to have more than one—which, believe me, we should; it sucks to be an only child—I just think we need to get on it.”

Maybe it was the alcohol, or frustration over A.J.’s Post-its, or the rumbling of nerves set off by Julia’s having sent photos, or simply the fact that her husband was using her age to guilt her into having a child, but whatever the cause, Ruthie erupted.

“Are you kidding me? I gave up everything—everything!—to move with you to Atlanta. I am now thousands of miles away from Mimi and Robert, and Dara, and all of our friends from college, and I am living in your childhood home in a city I
never
meant to return to, and you are telling me that I can’t move forward? That
I
am regressive? We are living in
your
childhood home, Gabe. You are teaching at the same school you went to. And I’m the one that’s regressive. And my problems at work—problems I would not be having had I stayed in San Francisco, by the way—my problems would be solved if I just popped out a kid. Jesus, Gabe, you’re such an asswipe!’”

In moments of marital strife Ruthie’s vocabulary reverted to that of a foulmouthed middle schooler. Once in a fight she had called Gabe a “fucking fuck-head.”

She glared at him, sitting across from her so calmly, so imperiously. Well, she could be imperious, too. Rising from her bar stool, she walked outside, stood beneath the restaurant’s awning, trying to breathe deep. She would calm down. She would return to Gabe and tell him she was sorry. It had been a long day. She was rattled by Julia. She watched as a homeless man, someone she recognized from the neighborhood, a broad-shouldered transvestite wearing a sequined top and an ill-fitting black skirt, approached her.

“Diva,” said the transvestite, “love the earrings!”

Ruthie’s earrings were round and delicate, made of intricately carved white bone, and though she loved them, too, Gabe once told her they looked like two round tortilla chips hanging from her ears.

“Thanks,” said Ruthie, giving just a flicker of a smile before staring straight ahead, hoping this person would just mosey on down the street and not try to talk to her anymore.

“Look, I have HIV—don’t worry; it’s not catching—but I really need fifteen dollars for my medication, so if you could just help me out . . .”

He tried to hand Ruthie a crumpled sheet of paper, a document that would “prove” his HIV status. It was bullshit. He might be positive, but the document he was holding was the exact same thing another man had shown her earlier that week. Right down to the name at the top and the dried coffee stain along its perforated edge.

Ruthie looked at the man, at his dripping black eyeliner, the slight stubble on his pale cheeks, his long nails, painted black, that looked as if they could scratch. Had she been living in San Francisco, she probably would have given him some money, figuring that she shouldn’t punish him for his dishonesty, that he was obviously in need of help, regardless of his recycled documentation. But here in Atlanta, where the fence behind her bungalow had twice been burned by vagrant men starting fires, where she was scared to walk half a mile at night because of armed muggings, where she often witnessed drug deals taking place when she walked through Little Five Points, her compassion had shriveled, just shriveled right up.

“Sorry,” said Ruthie. “I don’t have any cash.”

“Hug then,” said the man, and held his tracked arms open for her.

“No,” she said, and then again, more emphatically, because he was still leaning toward her, “No!”

“Then at least a handshake,” he said, holding out a hand with his long, pointy nails.

She was yelling at him now, yelling, “I don’t know you! I don’t know you! I don’t know who you are!”

The man popped his eyes, murmured, “Diva,” one more time, and sashayed away.

Ruthie began crying in earnest. Crying because of her outburst. Crying because she used to have a tender heart toward the down-and-out, she used to, in fact, wonder if the homeless might all be Jesus in disguise. Crying because of Chef A.J’s hostility and Big Steve’s aggression, because of the failing economy and the dwindling customers at Pasture. Crying for her old life in San Francisco, for streets populated by pedestrians—day and night—and breathtaking views at the top of every hill, for Mimi and Robert, who still lived in their old flat on Mars, for trannies who were happy and well adjusted and did not try to hug you for spite.