Good Enough to Eat (5 page)

I’m happy to see them walk through the door, and also sad. Because only about 10 percent of them ever come back. Usually they check out the nutritionist websites, and see that it can be an expensive proposition. So they decide that they can do it on their own, just eating the food they have bought from me, and reading the books. They feel energized and motivated.

But motivation without support lasts about three days. Then the desire to celebrate kicks in, and once you are off the wagon for one meal, you inevitably decide to bail on the day. One day of decadence and the week seems shot, and the mental decision to “start again on Monday” seems almost logical. Knowing that Monday is coming means the rest of the week is a mindless binge. And now you are back where you were. And no matter how much I share that this was and is my struggle, no matter how much I say that I gained two pounds for every four I lost, up and down, two steps forward and three steps back, these women I try to bond with, they don’t come back. As if I will judge them, or be disappointed in them. On the one hand, I’m thrilled that they come in. On average they double or even triple the spending of any other customer, but I write them off, even though I don’t want to.

We usually have a lull around two, allowing Kai and me to take stock of what we think we will need to get through the day, clean up and prep, and get ready for the shift change, when I lose Kai’s exuberant and slightly manic energy for Delia’s comforting warmth and wry observations.

I always take the time to sit down and eat something, even though I’m rarely hungry then. But if I don’t, I’ll be randomly snacking, picking at the ends and scraps of things, not even realizing what I am doing. Carey once had me set up a video camera in the corner of the store for an afternoon and then watch and write down everything I ate. Nearly four hundred mindless calories, eked out in single bites and little nibbles—a half a piece of this and a quarter piece of that. I was astounded. Nearly 20 percent of what should be my ideal daily intake, without ever really tasting or enjoying the food. So now, I make a plate, balancing some protein, some whole-grain carbs, and some healthy fats so that I have a slow, steady burn of energy in the afternoon, and don’t let hunger creep up on me.

I’m enjoying a piece of Kai’s chicken and some of the wheat berry pilaf when Delia flies through the door, buoyed on a gust of wind. She pulls the bright red knit cap off her head, and shakes her braids Medusa-like.

“Children, it is colder than a witch’s tit out there. Please tell me there is coffee in the pot.”

I look at Kai, and he looks at me, and then we both look at Delia sheepishly.

“Good lord, I don’t know what the hell I am going to do with you two!” she blusters, heading back to the kitchen, stripping off her parka and dumping it in the closet on her way past, muttering to herself. Neither Kai nor I drink coffee, both of us preferring tea. He never acquired a taste for it, and I can’t drink it without remembering that Andrew used to make the coffee every morning, that we used to sit and have breakfast together and discuss our upcoming day, and that when he would kiss me goodbye—real lingering kisses, often with tongue, not the usual married morning peck most couples offer—he would taste of deep-roasted brew. My thirst for coffee seems to have disappeared from the moment I pitched that coffee cup at his head.

Since neither of us indulge, we only remember to put a pot on for Delia about every third day. Kai and I laugh, listening to her mumbling rant, which is still going in the kitchen. “I swear!” we hear, and Kai says, “I think that is my exit cue.”

“Don’t leave me with her,” I beg in false fear. “Ashley isn’t coming, I’ll be all alone at her mercy.”

“You should have thought of that and remembered to make the diva her coffee,” he says, going to the closet and getting his coat, winding an endless blue scarf around his delicate neck. “I need to head over to Paulina Meat Market and pick up a hanger steak for dinner, Phil has been craving red meat lately.”

“Say hi to the guys for me.” I love the butchers at Paulina. They know their business, wouldn’t dream of selling you something less than perfect, and can eyeball a ten-ounce New York strip like no one else. Plus they make all their own sausages, and like to slip me a salami stick with a wink when I leave. If I weren’t so sure it would be the death of me, I’d be very tempted to marry one of them.

“Will do.” Kai pulls on his gloves, and shouts back toward the kitchen. “Bye, Delicious!”

Delia pokes her head out and smiles at him. “Stay warm, baby boy.”

He bows. “Have a good night, Mini Mel.”

“See you tomorrow, Kai. Thanks for everything.”

“You got it. And Melanie?”

“Yeah?”

“Next Sunday, come to dinner. I’ll cook light and healthy, I promise. Just you and me and Phil, okay?”

I look at his earnest face, the effort he is making. “Okay. I’ll come. Let me know what I can bring.”

His grin lights the room. “Will do. We can talk menu tomorrow, you get final approval on everything!”

I laugh at him. “You are a kook. Go buy dinner for your man.”

“Later!” he says, and bounces out the door.

“That boy gone yet?” Delia calls out.

“Yep,” I call back.

Delia comes out of the kitchen, carrying a steaming cup, and sits beside me at the table. “I cannot handle that child without some caffeine, you hear me? Can-not-han-dle-him.” She takes a deep swig, and I can’t believe it doesn’t scorch the inside of her mouth. Then again, I always assume with her history that she must have a very high tolerance for pain. She sighs delightedly. “Ahhh. So much better. How was the morning?”

“Good,” I say around a mouthful of chicken. “Slow at first, but a pretty good lunch rush. But this quiet right now doesn’t bode well.” I look out the large front windows into the street, where there is already the sense of impending darkness. Minimal foot traffic. We are likely to be dead all afternoon. Which means I have to pray for a really big after-work rush from the people who get off the El a block away.

“Doesn’t look like we need to do much back there, the case seems pretty stocked.”

“Yeah, we should be fine. We can do some prep for tomorrow morning, but it should be quiet.”

Delia takes another deep draught of her coffee. “Good. I can use a quiet afternoon. Those kids at the shelter are making me crazy. Christ, I never saw such a passel of devils in my life.”

“Are there a lot of kids over there?” I never really thought much about it, but obviously if women run away from their husbands, they are going to take their kids with them.

“Oh, child, about twenty or so. And most of them hateful little monsters.”

“Well, I have to assume, with what they have been through, what they have seen . . .” I’m at a loss to fully understand what the experience would do to anyone, let alone a child.

“Yes, well. That may be true. But that doesn’t mean they don’t get on my last nerve.”

“You never wanted kids of your own, D?”

It is a casual question, but personal nonetheless, and we are only slowly finding our way to that kind of trust. She gets very still, and looks down at her hands. I almost take back the question, not wanting to offend her or make her uncomfortable, but then she starts to answer me.

“I had a beautiful baby boy. Walter. He died. We were at the park, and he got stung by a bee. He was really allergic, that ana-whatever-shock reaction. Just rolled his little eyes back and stopped breathing. By the time the ambulance came he was gone. Just two years old. I got pregnant again, but Deon got into one of his fits, and I lost the baby. Nothing ever took again. Probably better, wouldn’t have wanted to put kids through what I been through.”

There is tightness in my chest. I reach a hand out and take hers. It is callused and rough, the hand of someone who has known many hours of hard labor. I squeeze. She squeezes back.

“What about you, missy? Why didn’t you and that no-good asshole you were married to have a munchkin or two your own selves?”

“There was no time, there was no urgency, no pressing need. And now I’m too old and there is no husband. I was never sure I really wanted them, and just let the time go by. Andrew and I were so driven to get to a certain place in our careers, and whenever we would talk about it, we would talk about how great our life was together, and not wanting to upset the balance. But I think on my end it was all a front for me not wanting to take on a pregnancy at that weight, and on his end a basic deep-rooted selfishness. By the time I got healthy enough to believe my body could handle it and produce healthy offspring, I was starting the business, and now Andrew is gone . . .” I drift off.

“And good riddance to bad rubbish, I always say! God has a purpose, honey. For both of us. If we were supposed to be mothers, we would be. And if we weren’t meant to be mothers, it is because we need to be free for some other plan.” I envy Delia’s faith. Religion was never a major part of our lives. Dad was Jewish, Mom was Lutheran, neither practiced. As kids we did Chanukah and Passover with Dad’s folks and Christmas and Easter with Mom’s folks, and never did much of anything ourselves, and by the time I got to college, all four grandparents were gone, and we hadn’t really taken much to any of their traditions, throwing our energy instead into secular holidays like Halloween and Thanksgiving. I try to put faith into the universe as a general practice, but I see the strength Delia has when she gets here Sunday afternoons straight from church. The way she really means it when she says she believes God has a purpose.

“So, what shall we do with this afternoon?” she says.

I think about my past and hers. The lives we are trying to reclaim.

“Why don’t we work on cupcakes? Chocolate cupcakes with vanilla icing.”

The directions on the blue box were so easy. Boil the water, and salt it. Put in the pasta. Cook till the noodles are done. Drain. Put the butter in the still-hot pan and add the noodles back on top. A quarter cup of milk, the bright orange powder from the package, a vigorous stir, and into a bowl. Try to wait a few excruciating minutes, because the sauce thickens if you can stand to wait. Which I never could. Mom only rarely allowed it in the house, decrying it as entirely without nutritional value, and only buying it when there was going to be a babysitter for a special treat. But at sixty-eight cents a box at any convenience store or gas station, a young girl with even a modest allowance can afford to pick up a box on her way home from school. It was our secret, the macaroni-and-cheese afternoons. At least once a week Gillian and I would sit with our warm bowls in front of
Tom and Jerry
cartoons and
Brady Bunch
reruns, then carefully wash the pot and bowls and spoons and put them away, laughing at how much fun it was.

 

 

The letter was taped to my door when I got home. One sheet, on the condo association letterhead.

Fifteen thousand dollars. Due in three weeks. My arm is shaking, and the letter drops from my hand. The store is netting less than five hundred dollars a week after expenses. I have just under twelve thousand dollars in my checking account, the last of the divorce settlement after buying the condo. This assessment will mean giving up a huge percentage of my liquid cash, and would also mean that a slow month at the store would bankrupt what little I would have to reserve for protection in the blink of an eye. It also means that I’ll have to get the difference somewhere. Even at a low interest rate, it will still be nearly a thousand unexpected dollars a month to pay back the association if I decide to take their money. I have some retirement savings, but between early withdrawal penalties and the tax burden, not to mention the very real possibility that without them in my old age I would become a ward of the state, I’d have to be close to living on the street before I’d dream of tapping into them.