Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant (39 page)

“Wel , and then I told him he could stop by the house first, if he got here early.”

“But you didn’t ask, “How are you?”’ or “Where’ve you been?”’ or “Why’d you go?”’”

“I just said, “This is Ezra. Mother has died and —” his Cody laughed.

“At any rate,” Jenny said, “it doesn’t seem he’s coming.”

“No,” said Cody, “but think about it. I mean, don’t you get it? First he leaves and Mother pretends he hasn’t. Out of pride, or spite, or something, she never says a word about it, makes believe to al of us that he’s only on a business trip. A thirty-five-year business trip. Then Ezra cal s him on the phone and does the very same thing. “This is Ezra,” he says, as if he’d seen Dad just yesterday—his Jenny said,

“Can we get started now? My children wil be freezing to death.”

“Oh, surely,” Ruth told her. “Cody, honey, her children are waiting on us.”

“Mother would have done that, just exactly,” Cody said.

“If Dad had walked in she would have said, “Ah, yes, there you are. Can you tel me if my slip is showing?”’” Joe gave a little bark of laughter. Ezra smiled, but his eyes filmed over with tears. “That’s true,” he said. “She would have. You know? She real y would have.”

“Fine, then, she would have,” Jenny said. “Shal we go?” She had been so young when their father left, anyhow.

She claimed to have forgotten al about him.

At the funeral, the minister, who had never met their mother, delivered a eulogy so vague, so general, so universal y applicable that Cody thought of that parlor game where people fil in words at random and then giggle hysterical y at the story that results.

Pearl Tul , the minister said, was a devoted wife and a loving mother and a pil ar of the community. She had lived a long, ful life and died in the bosom of her family, who grieved for her but took comfort in knowing that she’d gone to a far finer place.

It slipped the minister’s mind, or perhaps he hadn’t heard, that she hadn’t been anyone’s wife for over a third of a century; that she’d been a frantic, angry, sometimes terrifying mother; and that she’d never shown the faintest interest in her community but dwelt in it like a visitor from a superior neighborhood, always wearing her hat when out walking, keeping her doors tightly shut when at home. That her life had been very long indeed but never ful ; stunted was more like it. Or crabbed. Or… what was the word Cody wanted? Espaliered. Twisted and flattened to the wal —al the more so as she’d aged and wizened, lost her sight, and grown to lean too heavily on Ezra. That she was not at al religious, hadn’t set foot in this church for decades; and though in certain wistful moods she might have mentioned the possibility of paradise, Cody didn’t take much comfort in the notion of her residing there, fidgeting and finding fault and stirring up dissatisfactions.

Cody sat in the right front pew, the picture of a bereaved and dutiful son. But skeptical thoughts flowed through his head so loudly that he almost believed they might be heard by the congregation. He was back to his boyhood, it seemed, fearing that his mother could read his mind as unhesitatingly as she read the inner temperature of a roasting hen by giving its thigh a single, contemptuous pinch. He glanced sideways at Ruth, but she was listening to the minister.

The minister announced the closing hymn, which Pearl had requested in her funeral instructions: “We’l Understand It Al By and By.” Raising his long, boneless face to lead the singing, Reverend Thurman did appear bewildered—

perhaps less by the Lord’s mysterious ways than by the unresponsive nature of this group of mourners. Most were just staring into open hymn-books, fol owing each stanza silently. And there were so few of them: a couple of Ezra’s co-workers, some surly teen-aged grandchildren sulking in scattered pews, and five or six anonymous old people, who were probably there as church members but gave the impression of having wandered in off the streets for shelter, dragging their string-handled shopping bags.

When the service was finished, the minister descended from the pulpit and stopped to offer Cody, as firstborn, a handshake and condolences. “Al my sympathy… know what a loss…”

“Thank you,” said Cody, and he and Ruth and the minister proceeded down the aisle. Jenny and Joe fol owed, and last came Ezra, blowing his nose.

By rights the grandchildren should have risen too, but if they had there would have been hardly any guests remaining.

Outside, the cold was a relief, and Cody was grateful for the lumbering noise of the traffic in the street. He stood between Jenny and Ruth and accepted the murmurs of strangers. “Beautiful service,” they told him.

“Thank you,” he said.

He heard a woman say to Ezra, over by the church doorway, “I’m so sorry for your trouble,” and Ezra said, kindly, “Oh, that’s al right”— although for Ezra alone, of the three of them, this death was clearly not al right. What would he fil his life with now? He had been his mother’s eyes. Lately, he had been her hands and feet as wel . Now that she was gone he would come home every night and…

do what?

What would he do? Just sit on the couch by himself, Cody pictured; or lie on his bed, ful y dressed, staring into the swarming, brownish air above his bed.

Jenny said, “Did Ezra tel you we’re meeting at his restaurant afterward?”

Cody groaned. He shook an old man’s hand and said to Jenny, “I knew it. I just knew it.”

Hadn’t he told Ruth, in fact? In the car coming down, he’d said, “Oh, God, I suppose there’l be one of those dinners.

We’l have to have one of those eternal family dinners at Ezra’s restaurant.”

“He’s probably too upset,” Ruth said.

“I doubt he’d give a dinner now.”

This showed she didn’t know Ezra as wel as she’d always imagined. Certainly he would give a dinner. Any excuse would do—wedding or engagement or nephew’s name on the honor rol .

“Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant! Everyone in the family! Just a cozy family gathering”—and he’d rub his hands together in that annoying way he had.

He no doubt had his staff at work even at this moment, preparing the… what were they cal ed? The funeral baked meats. Cody sighed. But he suspected they would have to attend.

The old man must have spoken; he was waiting for Cody to answer. He tilted his flushed, tight-skinned face beneath an elaborate plume of silver hair that let the light shine through. “Thank you,” Cody said. Evidently, this was the wrong response. The old man made some disappointed adjustment to his mouth. “Urn…” said Cody.

“I said,” the old man told him, “I said, “Cody? Do you know me?”’”

Cody knew him.

It shouldn’t have taken him so long. There were clues he should have picked up at once: that fan-shaped pompadour, stil thick and sharply crimped; the bril iant blue of his eyes; the gangsterish air of his pinstriped, il -fitting navy blue suit.

“Yes,” the old man said, with a triumphant nod. “It’s your father speaking, Cody.”

Cody said to Jenny, “I’m not sure if Ezra remembered to set a place for Dad.”

“What?” Jenny said. She looked at Beck Tul . “Oh,” she said.

“At the restaurant. Did he remember?”

“Oh, wel , probably,” she said.

“Nothing fancy,” Cody told Beck.

Beck gaped at him.

“Just a light repast at the Homesick.”

“What are you talking about?” Beck asked.

“Dinner afterward, of course, at the Homesick Restaurant.”

Beck passed a hand across his forehead. He said, “Is this here Jenny?”

“Yes,” Jenny told him.

“Jenny, last time I set eyes on you you were just about eight years old,” said Beck. “Was it eight? Or nine. Your favorite song was “Mairzy Doats.” You babbled that thing night and day.”

“Oh, yes,” Jenny said distantly. “And little lambs eat ivy.” Beck, who had drawn a breath to go on speaking, paused and shut his mouth.

“You remember Ruth,” said Cody.

“Ruth?”

“My wife.”

“Why should I remember her? I’ve been away!

I haven’t been here!”

Ruth stepped forward to offer her hand. “So Cody’s married,” said Beck. “Fancy that.

Any children?”

“Wel , Luke, of course,” Cody said.

“I’m a grandfather!” He turned to Jenny. “How about you?

Are you married?”

“Yes, but he’s left to pick up the little ones,” Jenny said. She waved goodbye to somebody.

“And Ezra?” Beck asked. “Where’s Ezra?”

“Over there by the steps,” Cody said.

“Ah.”

Beck set off jauntily, running a hand through his crest of hair. Jenny and Cody gazed after him.

“If I just saw him on the street,” Jenny said, “I would have passed him by.”

“We are just seeing him on the street,” Cody told her.

“Wel . Yes.”

They watched Beck arrive before Ezra with a bounce, like a child presenting some accomplishment.

Ezra bent his head courteously to hear Beck’s words, then gave him a mild smile and shook his hand.

“Imagine!” they heard Beck say. “Look at you! Both my sons are bigger than I am.”

“Dinner is at my restaurant,” Ezra told him calmly.

Beck’s expression faltered once again, but recovered itself. “Wonderful!” he said. He moved toward the teen-agers, who had got wind of what was going on and stood in a clump nearby—silent, staring, hostile as usual. Beck seemed not to notice. “I’m your grandpa,” he told them.

“Your Grandpa Tul . Ever heard of me?” Probably they hadn’t, unless they’d thought to inquire. He Probably they hadn’t, unless they’d thought to inquire. He moved down the line, beaming. “I’m your long-lost grandpa.

And you are—his What a handsome young fel ow!” He pumped the hand of the tal est teen-ager, who unfortunately was not a grandson at al but one of Ezra’s salad boys.

Cody and Ruth and Jenny led the way to the restaurant on foot. The others lagged behind untidily. The first group turned onto St.

Paul Street and passed various bustling little buildings—a dry cleaner’s and a drugstore and a florist. Al the other pedestrians were black; most held jangling radios to their ears, so that scraps of songs about love and jealousy and hardhearted women kept approaching and fading away.

Then Ezra’s wooden sign swung overhead, and the three of them climbed the steps and walked in.

In the chil y light from the windows, the restaurant seemed glaringly empty. One long table was covered with white linen, set with crystal and china. Thirteen places, Cody counted; for Jenny’s Joe would be bringing more children, those too smal to have sat through the service. A sweet-faced, plump waitress in a calico smock was drawing up a high chair for the baby. When she saw them come in, she stopped to give Jenny a hug. “I’m so sorry for your trouble,” she said. “You and al your family, hear?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Potter,” Jenny said. “Do you know my brother Cody? And this is Ruth, his wife.” Mrs. Potter clicked her tongue. “It’s a terrible day for you,” she said.

Cody turned toward the door in time to see Beck and Ezra enter, trailed by teen-agers.

Ezra had obviously relaxed and grown talkative; he never could be cool to anyone for long. “So I tore out that wal there…” he was saying.

“Very nice. Very classy,” said Beck.

“Stripped down these floors…”

“I hope you don’t serve that kind of food a fel ow can’t identify.”

“Oh, no.”

“A mishmash of food, one thing not separate from another.”

“No, never,” Ezra said.

Cody watched with interest. (ezra very often served such food.) Ezra led Beck through the room, waving an arm here and there. “See, these tables can be moved together if anyone should… and this is the kitchen… and these are two of my cooks, Sam and Myron.

They’ve come in especial y for our dinner. At night I have three more: Josiah, Chenil e, and Mohammad.”

“Quite an operation,” said Beck.

The others, meanwhile, hung around their table. No one took a seat. Cody’s son, Luke, and Jenny’s son Peter—

both unnatural y formal in white shirts and ties—wrestled together in an aimless, selfconscious way, tossing hidden glances at Beck. Probably these children saw him as a brand-new chance—a fresh start, someone to appreciate them at last. Yet when they final y sat down, no one chose a place near Beck.

It was shyness, maybe. Even Ezra settled some distance away. Since Joe and the younger ones had stil not arrived, this meant that Beck found himself flanked by several empty chairs. He didn’t seem to notice. Kinglike, he sat alone, folding his hands before his plate and beaming around at the others. A tracery of red veins, distinct as mapped rivers and tributaries, showed in his cheeks. “So,” he said.

“My son owns a fancy restaurant.”

Ezra looked pleased and embarrassed.

“And my daughter’s a doctor,” said Beck.

“But Cody? What about you?”

Cody said, “Why, you know: I’m an efficiency consultant.”

“A, how’s that?”

Cody didn’t answer. Ezra said, “He checks out factories.

He tel s them how to do things more efficiently.”

“Ah! A time-study man.”

“He’s one of the very best,” said Ezra. “He’s always getting written up in articles.”

“Is that so. Wel , I sure am proud of you, son.” Cody had a sudden intimation that tomorrow, it would be more than he could manage to drag himself off to work. His success had final y fil ed its purpose. Was this al he had been striving for—this one brief moment of respect flitting across his father’s face?

“I often wondered about you, Cody,” Beck said, leaning toward him. “I often thought about you after I went away.”

“Oh?” said Cody, politely. “Have you been away?” His father sat back.

“Anyhow” Ezra said. He cleared his throat.

“Wel . Dad. Are you stil working for the Tanner Corporation?”

“No, no, I’m retired. Retired in sixty-five. They gave me a wonderful banquet and a sterling silver pen-and-pencil set.

Forty-two years of service I put in.” Ruth murmured—an admiring, womanly sound. He turned to her and said, “To tel you the truth, I kind of miss it. Miss the contacts, miss the life… A salesman’s life has a lot of action, know what I mean? Lot of activity. Oftentimes now it doesn’t seem there’s quite enough to keep me busy. But I do a bit of socializing, card playing. Got a few buddies at my hotel. Got a lady friend I see.” He peeked around at the others from under his tufted eyebrows. “I bet you think I’m too old for such things,” he said. “I know what you’re thinking! But this is a real y fine lady; she puts a lot of stock in me. And you understand I mean no disrespect to your mother, but now that she’s gone and I’m free to remarry…” Somehow, it had never occurred to Cody that his parents were stil married. Jenny and Ezra, too, blinked and drew back slightly.