Eating Heaven (22 page)

Sandwiched between an expensive shoe store and a Vietnamese hair salon, the deli is packed to overflowing with people seated at outdoor café tables and waiting in bunches by the door. I slow to look for Henry, then his car, then a place to park, but at this time of day I’ll never find anything.

I decide on a new tack. I’ll drive by his house and see if his Jeep is there or not. If not, I will have a beacon, something to search for. Not many people drive rusty Jeeps. As I’m rounding the corner onto his block, though, panic overtakes me. What if he sees me—
again
—looking for him?

I almost change my mind and pull over, but then I realize: This mission is all about letting Henry know I’m looking for him. I don’t think it’s only for sex, but so what if it is? It’s a new and freeing thought, and I breathe deeply and motor slowly toward his house, past bungalows and English cottages, until finally at the far end of the block I see it—not my dream Portland foursquare, but a hefty Colonial with a wide front porch and eyebrow windows on its second story. It looks like Henry: friendly, big of body and soul, open to the world.

And a rusty Jeep in the driveway, right next to a small white car,
blue-and-yellow F
REE
T
IBET
bumper sticker prominently displayed on its rear end.

Like a bad puppy with its tail between its legs, I slink toward home, down Broadway, over the bridge, back into my own neighborhood, wondering how on earth I thought I was going to seduce anyone, let alone this very married man.

I pace the length of my apartment, trying to shake it off. It’s okay, I tell myself. There’s nothing new in this situation. You just got your hopes up a little is all, but the point is, you’re still alive. You’ve still got a spark, a fire that can be rekindled.

The phone rings and I consider ignoring it, but it could be Benny. “Hello?” I answer, hating how tentative my voice sounds.

“Well, well, Eleanor Samuels.”

“I can expla—”

“Was I ever surprised to hear your voice on my machine. I hope I haven’t missed out on lunch. I got caught up with Namhla’s attorney, working through some details. Paperwork and stuff about my, ah, situation. Funny that you should call. I mean, now.”

“Now?”

“Now that I’m practically a divorced man.”

“You’re—”

“And a damn hungry one at that. How about that lunch?”

I take a deep breath. “Why don’t you come over to my place. I’ll cook for you.”

“No one cooks for me. They’re too intimidated.”

“Oh, I’m intimidated,” I say. “But I have all this food. Lamb, salad, wine—”

“Lamb? Why didn’t you say so? I’m on my way.”

After giving him directions and hanging up, I scurry around the kitchen, throwing the roasting pan into the oven without preheating, drizzling supple asparagus with oil, scattering herbs. Laying out the cheese and a few crackers, finding another champagne flute.

If Henry gets here quickly, we’ll have three hours before he has to leave for work. The meal will take thirty or so minutes to prepare,
during which we’ll chitchat and grow less awkward around each other. We’ll linger over the food for an hour or so. That leaves plenty of time for anything else that might occur. I run to the bathroom to freshen up my blush.

At Henry’s arrival seventeen minutes later, I am struck first by how large he is, then by how young he looks, just as I was the first time I saw him. Eager, loud, happy, and so male. He is all ruddy skin and blond-red hair, freckles, and soft T-shirt fabric. I want to place my hand where it pulls across his chest. I want to laugh at his stories, I want to sit with him at the table, and I want his eyes to follow me as I rise every so often to check the lamb and vegetables or toss the salad.

Instead, I say, “Hi,” and give an awkward little wave of my hand. Where is the steaming seductress?

“Look at you,” he says, eyes softening. His head tilts, and a look I cannot read traverses his face. “You okay?”

“Great!” I say too enthusiastically, then, “Don’t I look okay?”

“Yeah, oh, God. Yeah.” He looks embarrassed. “I’m an idiot. Let me start again. Hello, Eleanor. You look lovely today.”

I laugh, and he shakes his head, then grins again, looks around. “I am inside Eleanor Samuels’s apartment.”

“This is it,” I say, backing up, gesturing like a flight attendant. What is it with the goofy hand motions? I quickly pull my arms together and fold them in front of my chest, then realize that’s bad body language and drop them to my sides, fingers humming with the want of touching him. “I hope you’re not too hungry. It’ll be another thirty minutes or so before everything’s ready. Oh! I have some Chaource and crackers, and Prosecco.”

“If you’re trying to seduce me, you had me at hi,” he says, winking. A line from a movie I can’t remember.

“Right.” I force a laugh, which turns into a snort.

He doesn’t seem to notice, just walks into the living room and looks at the books on my shelves, and the empty spaces where an inordinate amount of dust has gathered. A red rhinestone from Stefan’s picture frame winks in the sunlight from the window.

“I guess this place is kind of barren. That day you saw me, with all my stuff?” I walk toward the kitchen to get the drinks. “I was moving in with my uncle, down in Lake Grove. We’d just found out about his cancer. I’m taking care of him.” Settling the bottle and glasses on the table, I turn to go back for the cheese plate, but Henry has moved across the room quickly, deftly for his size. He takes my wrist in his hand, broad thumb on my pulse, and looks at me with such intensity I can’t look away.

“Wha . . . ? Is that, is that what you’ve . . . oh, Eleanor.” He shakes his head, tucks his bottom lip so that his chin juts forward. “Why didn’t you tell me? I had no idea what you were going through.”

“Yeah, well. You know. Life.” I shrug, swallowing back the emotional swell that churns up whenever someone is kind about my situation.

“It has to be so tough. Is there anything I could do? I mean, for you?”

My nostrils flare, and I swallow again. Has anyone ever asked me this question before? If so, I cannot remember. I breathe in two three, out two three, and he waits. Finally, I say, “You know what I really want?”

“What?” He reaches for my other hand so he is holding both. My jaw relaxes, my shoulders slump.

“It’s embarrassing. I just . . .” I stop, unsure how—or if—to proceed. “It’s stupid, but I’d just like someone to lie down with me. Just . . . you know. Just the company of that.”

He flinches, not against me or my request, but with a look that tells me he understands. He nods, then says, “Would you like to do that now?”

“How about until the timer goes off?” I say, and he smiles. I lead him to my bedroom, slide off my shoes, and Henry unsticks the Velcro of his sandals. Without looking at him, I climb fully clothed on top of the sheets and blankets. He lies beside me. I roll so that my back is to him, and he pulls himself toward me, spooning me, arm loosely draped around my middle. His body is warm, solid, and substantial. A long, slow sigh escapes from me, and that is the last thing I remember until later, when he is whispering to me, “Don’t wake up, don’t wake up. I’m just going to go to work for a while. I’ll be back.” And then I return to the deep, dark cocoon where nothing matters and nobody needs me and I am safe.

W
hen I finally wake at nine thirty-seven, according to my bedside clock—p.m., I’m guessing from the darkness in the room—I am dazed, thick with sleep, and half of my face is covered with dry saliva. I call, just to hear the sound of it, “Henry?”

I know he isn’t here, but I don’t remember him moving, climbing out of bed, or the sound of the door opening and closing. Nothing smells burned.

I pull myself from the bed, blouse twisted sideways on my torso, and stagger into the kitchen. The food has all been put away and there’s a note from Henry on the table by the phone:

I smile and put my hand on my cheek and feel the crusty remains of drool. God, I have to get cleaned up. Maybe I can find something a little slinkier to wear. I’m about to head for the bathroom when I notice the phone lying faceup on the table, clicked to
ON
and silent. Henry thought he was doing me a favor by taking it off the hook. I quickly replace it in its cradle, resisting the impulse to check on Benny. He or Alice would have called my cell if they really needed me.

In the mirror, my face is mascara smudged, drool encrusted, and grinning. Henry. Oh, Henry. Isn’t that a candy bar? How fitting, considering I want to taste his mouth and fingers and things I can’t even let myself think about yet.

I pull my hair into a loose ponytail and wash my face. Then I wander to the closet, unbuttoning the blouse, sliding off my pants, unhinging my bra. Down to the baggy underwear, I wrap myself in the pretty but wholly impractical silk robe my mother bought me two Christmases ago. It’s not my color, and the way it clings to my body has always been uncomfortable, but tonight the silk feels daring against my skin. On a whim, I reach under the robe and push my underwear down my thighs, letting them drop around my feet before I step out of them and kick them into the laundry pile.

I feel indecent as I walk into the kitchen, and I like it. I pull open the fridge door, take out the lamb. It is perfectly done. I have no recollection of the timer going off, let alone Henry getting up to deal with it and the rest of the food.

It’s really too warm to have hot food. We’ll eat it all cold, I decide, pouring myself a fresh glass of Prosecco, opening the Pinot to breathe. We’ll have a picnic on the floor, or on the bed. We will be impetuous and wild, the way I used to be. I think I still know how to do it.

At quarter to eleven, the doorbell rings. I smooth my hands over my hips, down my hair, which, without winter’s humidity, is soft and compliant. I’ve finished the Prosecco, and the blood in my veins is thrumming with anticipation.

I glide to the door, feeling hips sway, silk on skin, the glow of heat gathering, and unlock and swing the door open. The bright hall light
makes me squint, but even so, I can see clearly that my visitor is not the one I expected, even though she’s nearly as tall as Henry.

“Do you ever answer your phone?” my sister Anne asks in a tone I’ve heard most of my life. She has a double-wide briefcase in one hand and a wheeled suitcase in the other. “Did I wake you? Were you in bed already?”

All I can think to say is, “Anne.”

“This wouldn’t be such a surprise if you ever answered the phone,” she says, one leg twitching with annoyance. “Are you going to let me in?”

I stand aside, and she rolls her bag past me into the living room, setting her briefcase beside the couch. Her casual gray suit is formal by Portland standards, and her short hair spiked more with salt these days than pepper.

“God, what a day!” she says. “I’ve been stuck in one airport after another, and then I let the taxi go at Benny’s. Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t living there anymore? I had to wait outside in the dark half an hour for another one. You’d think a place that calls itself a city would have better taxi service and some damn streetlights.”

“Are you staying here?” I ask, not wanting to let go of my fantasy night. Not just yet.

“Great. I can’t get ahold of anyone, and when I finally do, my own sister doesn’t want me to . . . wait a minute.” She looks around, seeing the wine on the counter, the two glasses beside it, the candlelight flickering from the bedroom. “Is there a
man
here?” Saying the word man like she means “elephant,” or “Martian.”

“Not yet,” I say, glancing at the clock.

“Oh, that’s too perfect.” She flops dramatically onto the couch. “No one gets my message I’m coming, no one picks me up at the airport, no one’s home at Benny’s—”

“What?” I interrupt. “Yes, there is. He was probably just asleep. And there’s a nurse there with him.”

“No, Eleanor. No one. The house was dark, and I rang the bell, called his number, and banged on the door for a good ten minutes. I’m pretty sure the neighbors were about to call the police.”

She’s wrong. She doesn’t know how hard he sleeps. Maybe he told Alice to go home. That would be just like him. I grab the phone. As I pick it up, my heart sinks. When I put it back in its cradle earlier, it didn’t hang up properly; it’s been off the hook this whole time. I dig through my purse, pull out my cell phone. The screen is dark; it’s out of juice.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” I say. “Goddamn it.” I dial Benny’s number and listen to the repetitive electronic trill. Trying not to count rings, I look at Anne. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Nice, Eleanor.”

I give her a look.

“I got a call yesterday that Dynoco settled, then another one that said I was being allowed to resign. They may as well have slit my throat over an altar. I’m their fucking sacrifice, even though I didn’t do a damn thing but what they told me to do. I mean, talk about your good news–bad news bullshit. I tried to call you on your cell, but you never
ever
answer.”

“I hate to break it to you,” I say, deciding to hang up after eleven rings and dial Alice’s number. “You’ve been calling my home number for weeks.”

“Well, at least I’ve been trying to stay in touch,” Anne says, stretching her arms overhead. “Anyway, I decided to take your advice, so here I am.”

“Indeed,” I say, hearing Henry’s vocabulary in my voice, and as if summoned, there is another knock at the door.

I answer with the phone still ringing endlessly in my ear. Henry’s sexy smile evaporates as I gesture toward Anne on the couch. She gives the same little wave I did hours ago.

“Hi,” she says. “Unfortunately for you, I’m one of those pesky relations, come to stay.”

He looks at me, and I roll my eyes and nod. “Henry, this is my sister Anne. Anne, Henry.” He’s walking over to shake her hand when I get Alice Desmay’s machine.

“Hellooo,” the recording says, “you’ve reached Caring Home Care and this is Alice, your personal home-care provider. I must be out caring for another client. If you’d care to leave a message . . .”

“Jesus,” I mutter, then, at the beep, “Alice? Are you there?” I wait in case she’s screening. “If you’re not there, then where are you? Where’s Benny? Call me.” I start to hang up, then remember: “Call me on the home number. The cell’s dead.”

“So, Henry,” Anne’s saying, “I didn’t know my sister was seeing anyone. You see, she hasn’t called me in something like four weeks, even though I’ve called her many, many times.”

“Can it, Anne,” I say, and dial Ruthann’s number. “Something’s really wrong.”

This shuts her up, and Henry asks, “What’s the matter? Is it your uncle?”

“Do you have a phone with you?”

He nods and digs his cell phone out of his shorts pocket, drawing Anne’s gaze to his muscular, pink-skinned thigh. “What do you need?”

“Start calling hospitals, Meridian Park first. See if Benny Sloan’s been admitted. You, too, Anne. I know you have your cell on you, Miss Queen of Communication.”

Then Ruthann says hello in my ear, and I want to drop to my knees in gratitude. “Ruthann, it’s me. Do you know where Benny is?”

“Ellie, no. What’s wrong?”

“He’s not at home, and no one’s answering the phone there. I left him with a respite nurse. He hasn’t called you?”

“No,” she says. “Has anyone checked inside the house? Does a neighbor have a key?”

“I don’t know,” I say. God, why didn’t I think he might still be in there? “I’ll run down there now.”

“I’ll make some calls,” she says. “Where can I reach you?”

“Somebody give me their cell number,” I say to Anne and Henry, both looking dazed from my last set of instructions. Then Anne quickly rattles hers off, and I repeat it to Ruthann.

After we hang up, I look at Henry. “I have to go to Benny’s.”

He nods. “Get dressed. I’ll drive.”

“I’m coming, too,” Anne says. To which Henry replies, “Of course you are.”

Warm air blows loudly through the open Jeep as we speed south on I-5. The night is moonless and dark, the stars pinpricks in the purple-black sky. My hair is blowing around my head like seaweed in a strong current, and I try to hold it back with one hand as I search for a hair tie in my purse. I look back at Anne in the rear seat, certain she’s hating this rustic ride, but she looks absolutely serene, head back, eyes closed, letting the wind wash over her. She’s taken off her suit jacket and wears a white sleeveless top. Her arms are sinewy and long, like Dad’s.

I look at Henry, and his profile is serious, determined. “Thank you,” I call over the wind, snapping ponytail into place, and he turns and nods, smiles a grim smile.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and I nod and shrug. Then we turn our attention to the road ahead.

At Benny’s house, dark and empty-looking, just as Anne said, I dig out my house key and open the door, and before I can stop her, Buddy shoots through my legs, across the yard, and out into the night where I can no longer see her. In a matter of seconds, I know why. A foul odor rolls from inside, one I can’t place but that smells worse than the worst smells imaginable, like rotting meat, vomit, feces, and a chemical spill all rolled together. “Benny?” I call, stepping in and holding my hand over my face.

Anne walks through the door behind me and turns on the light. “Jesus,” she says, pinching her nose. “What is that?”

I walk quickly through the living room into the dining room and kitchen, down the dark hall toward Benny’s bedroom, the smell growing worse. Nausea grips my gut, twists my intestines, my esophagus, and I choke out another “Benny?” I don’t want to find what I’m afraid I will.

At the doorway to his bedroom I stop, steel myself, and turn on the light switch. “Oh, oh, God . . .” I hear myself wail, and then the sound of Anne and Henry behind me.

“Ellie, what—”

“Ah, geez, what happened?” Henry says, stepping around me into the room. “Benny!” he calls, but Benny is not here, Benny is not dead on the floor as I thought he would be. Something horrible has happened,
though. The foul substance emitting the odor is everywhere: on his sheets, on the floor, and we have all walked through it.

“I’m going to barf,” Anne says, and runs to the bathroom. “Oh, shit, it’s worse in here,” she cries, and hurries outside.

“Come on,” Henry says. “This is going to make us all sick.”

“I should clean it up,” I say, feeling dazed and sweaty, and then Henry is guiding me down the hall and through the living room and out into the open air.

“Give me your shoes, and go sit on the curb,” he says gently, and then he is talking quietly to Anne, who is retching near the lilac bushes, and then he has found the garden hose and is cleaning all of our shoes.

When Anne stops throwing up, she comes to sit with me. In the dark she looks pale and ethereal. “Ellie, what’s happening? Is this how sick he’s been? Have you . . .” I shake my head and she swallows, lying back on the grass. “God. I wish the phone would ring. Should we call someone?”