The Pursuit of Other Interests: A Novel (8 page)

“Six-two. That’s tall. You get that from your mom’s side. From your uncles.”

Kyle shrugged again and pushed the orange juice carton to one side.

“Hungry?” Charlie asked.

“Yeah. But there’s nothing to eat.”

“What are you talking about? There’s tomatoes in there.”

Kyle didn’t say anything.

“Do you know when your mother is coming home?”

“What? No.”

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is she gone a lot?”

“Sometimes.” Kyle closed the refrigerator. He looked tired and disheveled. Despite his size, he still had traces of little boy in him: oversized and innocent eyes, smooth soft skin. His thick black hair hung low over his eyes.

“You need a haircut,” Charlie said.

Kyle didn’t respond. Instead, he turned toward the dining room.

“Where are you going?”

“Nowhere. Upstairs.”

“What are you going to do up there?”

“Nothing.”

“I thought you said you were hungry.”

“There’s nothing to eat.”

“Well, maybe I’ll go shopping, then.”

Kyle stopped and turned back to face his father. “What?”

“I’m going to the store.”

“Mom always shops.”

“Yeah, well, this time I am. What do we need?”

“I don’t know, everything.”

“Everything,” Charlie said. “Can you be more specific? What do you want to eat?”

“I don’t know. Chips and stuff.”

“Anything else?”

“I don’t know.”

“What about for dinner?”

“Dinner?”

“Yes, you know, dinner. When we all sit down together and eat food at the end of the day. At night.”

Kyle considered this concept. “When do we do that?”

“Never mind,” Charlie said. He reached for his keys on the island. “I’ll be back.”

“Don’t forget chips,” Kyle said.

It was a mild Indian summer afternoon, and the wide, tree-lined streets of Wilton were, as usual, peaceful. No people, no cars. Driving through the town, on his way to DeVries, a local grocery store, he was reminded of why he had insisted on moving. It was a beautiful community, full of impressive, well-maintained older homes set on deep, well-appointed lawns. Imposing trees arched overhead, their leaves a canopy of colors. Fall was always Charlie’s favorite time of year, and in Wilton it was on majestic display.

The grocery store was located near the town’s historic district, a two-block “square” featuring cobblestone streets, gas lamps, and original storefronts from the early twentieth century. They had moved into their house on the Fourth of July weekend. Charlie remembered sitting with Donna at a picnic table and watching a flag-raising ceremony in the square and thinking that, for a while at least, they had nowhere higher to climb.

He parked and walked quickly into the store, his head down. Even though it was after five
P.M.
and he had every right to be home from work and entering a grocery store, he nonetheless felt self-conscious and wanted to be discreet.

It had been years since Charlie had done any shopping, so he initially found the grocery store overwhelming. For starters, there were a number of aisles and an infinity of products and he had no idea where anything was located. Fearing he might draw attention to himself, he made a reconnaissance trip to get the lay of the land. Finally, after making a mental map, he doubled back to the front door, grabbed a cart, and began to shop.

He worked deliberately, checking prices, calculating costs, and evaluating needs. As he suspected, their usual brand of orange juice was pricey, so he bought two cans of frozen concentrate. He resisted the fresh strawberries ($4.95 a container) and instead loaded up on canned fruit cocktail. Then he bought a bag of baking potatoes, some iceberg lettuce, slightly bruised tomatoes which were half price, a can of lima beans, and some other cheap, but, he hoped, filling items. In the frozen food aisle, he stopped to get Donna a pint of Häagen-Dazs Rocky Road, her favorite, but upon seeing its price opted instead for a tub of Mr. Goody’s Chocolate Ice Cream Experience. He worked in advertising and knew that consumers spent millions on brand names, convinced they were getting something they were not. At the end of the day, there was little difference between Häagen-Dazs and Mr. Goody’s, other than maybe a thirty-second spot during
The Simpsons.

There was also very little difference between Starbucks and Aunt Bula’s French Roast Blend, Cheerios and Tasty O’s, Nabisco Fig Newtons and a white box simply stamped
FIG COOKIES
.

On his way to the checkout, he stopped at the meat counter. There had been a line of customers there when he first entered the store, but no one was waiting now. A kindly-looking butcher with a ruddy complexion and carefully combed white hair eyed him as he approached.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

Charlie looked around, smiled. “I have a rather unusual question for you,” he said.

The butcher took a small step back. “Okay.”

Charlie chuckled nervously. “Well, it’s not
that
unusual.” He moved closer and tried to keep his voice down. “What is the cheapest kind of meat you have? The absolute cheapest, now.”

“Cheapest?”

“Rock-bottom. The cheapest.”

“Well…” the man looked a tad embarrassed. “I’d have to say the chicken necks.” He pointed vaguely toward the glass meat case that separated them.

“Chicken necks. Really? What are they? I mean, are they actual, you know, chicken necks?”

“Yes. I think that’s why they’re called that.”

“Boy, I didn’t know chickens even had necks. I mean, I never thought about it.”

“I don’t know why you would,” the butcher said.

Charlie paused. “Chicken necks. Absolute cheapest, now?”

“Yes.”

“Absolute cheapest.” Charlie considered this. “How do you prepare them? Do you eat them like chicken legs? I mean, I never see them at Kentucky Fried Chicken.”

“People make soup out of them.”

This intrigued Charlie. Soup was nutritious and they could make a lot of it, maybe enough to last for several years. “Oh, chicken neck soup. Is that what they call it?”

“I don’t think they call it that.”

“What do they call it, then?”

“I’m not sure.” The butcher glanced over Charlie’s shoulder and wet his lips. He kept smiling, though. “Would you like some necks?”

Charlie fell silent. He didn’t think he was quite at that point yet. Buying chicken necks was a statement, an admission, that he wasn’t ready to make. “No, not this time.”

“Are you sure?” The man scanned Charlie’s cart and saw all the cheap and barely FDA-approved items. “I can give them to you if you like.”

“Give them to me? What do you mean? You mean for free? Free chicken necks?” This offer and the sincere, hopeful way it was presented greatly saddened him. Like Rafael, this man was a truly decent human. Charlie had had no idea there were so many decent human beings out there, just walking around, giving away free chicken necks. He had spent too much time in advertising, a soulless profession. “No, no. I couldn’t do that. No, no. But thank you. You’re a very kind, very decent person.”

The butcher was embarrassed. He puffed his cheeks out and nodded.

“I don’t want the chicken necks,” Charlie said.

“Are you sure? Won’t take me a minute.”

Charlie waved at him. “No, no. I don’t know how to make soup anyway. I’ll take some pork chops instead.”

“Pork chops?”

“Yeah. Some cheap ones. Thin ones. Doesn’t matter. Just as long as they’re safe to eat.”

The butcher looked relieved. He snapped his fingers. “We have some on sale,” he said, eagerly reaching for them.

Charlie paid for the groceries in cash, then quickly made his way back to the Navigator. Despite the depressing exchange over the chicken necks, he felt good about his shopping experience. It was a step in the right direction. A start. Even after he got a new job, he vowed to adhere to the spirit, if not the bottom line, of the New Frugality. There was no excuse for the way they had been living; no excuse for Cheerios when Tasty O’s would do.

Since he was in no hurry to get back, he decided to take the long way home. He made his way down one side street and then another, drinking in the evening and enjoying the homes with their winding brick driveways and sweeping lawns. While driving, he experienced an unexpected sense of well-being. He had lived in Wilton for more than four years and had never simply driven around, enjoying the neighborhood, his neighborhood, the one he had worked so hard to join. He pledged to do this more often, promised himself that he would take time, make time, to enjoy simple things like sunsets, warm evenings, driving in his Lincoln Navigator and looking at two-million-dollar homes.

He drove for a few minutes in one direction, and then another, until he found himself in the parking lot of the Wilton train station. He occasionally took the train to work and was always impressed by this particular station, a quaint stone building with an arched entryway and inviting red wooden door. He cut the engine and watched the brightness of the door dull and fade into the darkness, listening to the singsong of crickets. Gradually, other cars pulled up alongside and soon he heard the rumble of an approaching train. When it came to a stop, Charlie slunk low in his seat and watched as its doors slid open and commuters jumped out. Some were in suits, but most were dressed casually, their raincoats and jackets open to the warm evening. They walked past Charlie holding their briefcases and newspapers, their eyes faraway, their thoughts transitioning from work to home. No one looked his way and, as they disappeared into waiting cars and humming SUVs, no one seemed to see him; Charlie was no longer of their world.

After the train pulled out and the people and cars had dispersed, he drove home. His sense of well-being was gone, replaced by a thin but deepening melancholy. Who was he without a job? What was he? He felt useless. Dead. A ghost haunting old spots. He drove slowly with the windows down, the sound of the crickets rising and falling.

When he reached the house, he found Donna playing basketball in the driveway. His depression vanished, replaced now by a sense of panic. He would have to explain his early arrival home, the groceries, everything. He turned off the Navigator and sat there, breathing and thinking.

She was wearing shorts and a white sleeveless T-shirt and was dribbling with her back to him. It had been a long time since he had seen her do this. Years ago, when Kyle was a boy, they all used to shoot around in the driveway. Donna had played in high school and was very good and Kyle, he remembered, was something of a prodigy, dribbling behind his back and running circles around Charlie.

He sat in silence for a moment longer, then slowly stepped out of the Navigator and stood in the driveway, his eyes on his wife.

Her form was smooth and fluid, and despite the darkness, she seldom missed as she worked her way around the basket, swishing the ball through, first from five feet, then from ten. He waited for her to acknowledge him, but she never did, so intent was she on her shooting. He was beginning to wonder if she was deliberately ignoring him when he saw her earpiece and then the iPod tucked into her side. He reached in and grabbed the two bags of groceries.

“Hello,” he said loudly, walking past her.

Despite her new commitment to look as expressionless as possible anytime he was near, she was clearly confused when she saw Charlie with the bags. Her eyes grew wide.

“What’s going on? What are you doing?” She pulled out the earpiece and followed him inside.

He opened the side door and walked into the kitchen, trying to act as normal as possible, trying to pretend that it hadn’t been years since he had gone to the grocery store or even carried groceries. “I went shopping,” he said.

“I shop on Saturdays,” she said.

Charlie put the bags on a counter. “Yeah, well, we didn’t have anything to eat tonight and you weren’t home, so I went.”

“I didn’t know you were going to be home. What are you doing home?”

“I came home a little early, that’s all.”

She studied Charlie for a moment, then sat on a stool at the island.

“What were Kyle and you going to do for dinner?” he asked.

“We usually get a pizza on Fridays.”

“We might want to cut back on ordering out so much.” Charlie quickly began putting things away, turning his back in an effort to shield the groceries from her.

“What did you buy?” she asked.

“A few things.”

“What’s that?” She pointed at an immense jar of peanut butter: “Doc Nutty.”

“Nothing. Just peanut butter.” Charlie grabbed the jar and shoved it into a cabinet. It barely fit, it was so huge.

“What is all this stuff?” She was now standing and pulling things out of the bags. “Why did you get so many canned foods? What are these?”

“I don’t know. Lima beans.”

“
Lima
beans?”

“Yeah, lima beans.” Charlie took the can away from her. “I’m just trying to economize.” He was beginning to perspire, his forehead growing damp. Thank God he hadn’t bought the chicken necks.

He proceeded to unpack the second bag. “I saw some of our bills. The one from the plumber. What’s this ongoing water flow problem?”

“They’re almost done with it.”

“Almost done with it? It’s costing us a fortune.”

“Since when do you care about our bills?”

“I always care about our bills.” He pretended to study the label on the can of lima beans. “What’s that two-thousand-dollar landscaping bill?”

“We had to replace all those evergreens in the back. They were dead. It was your idea. I didn’t even want the damn trees.” She suddenly slammed down a can of stewed tomatoes on a countertop. “You know, you have a lot of nerve.”

Charlie jumped. The ferocity of her attack surprised him. Up until now he would have categorized their relationship as a Cold War with quick border skirmishes. This full frontal assault indicated a worrisome escalation of tensions. “What’s wrong now?” he asked.

“You have a lot of nerve to start asking about our bills. You’re the one spending all the money! You’re the one who wanted the piano, the…the big TV. That tank you drive, that car. The BMW wasn’t good enough. You’re the one who wanted to move here to the world’s most expensive house in the world’s most expensive suburb, so don’t start counting pennies now!”