The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake Page 20

  I just have this hunch, he said. You know, I saw what it did, over years—that strap! Would you walk around town with a strap on your face all day?

  He picked at his sleeve. Dad on Grandpa’s shoulders, trying to pluck a plum from the branches of a tree. Smiley little Dad, on a swing.

  What’s the hunch? I asked.

  Just, I imagine, he said, crossing his arms. That I might be able to do something in a hospital. I don’t know what. It’s too much, right? That if I went into a hospital something might come up, some skill. That’s all. Better not to find out, that’s what I say. Keep it simple! Keep things easy!

  I didn’t move. Held myself very still.

  What do you mean, something would come up? I said, slowing down my words.

  Just, I could do something special, he said. In a hospital.

  He pushed his lips together. The moon slipped down into the frame of the window and reached an arm of pure light through the glass.

  You have no idea what it is? I said.

  Not a clue, he said, evenly.

  And it’s just a hunch?

  Just a pull feeling I get, he said, shifting his seat on the chair. When I see a hospital. A feeling like I should go in. In, in, in.

  I dug my hands into the hem of the armrest. My father, out of nowhere, taking shape.

  And have you ever? Gone in? I said.

  Nah, he said.

  Never?

  Not interested, he said. I spent time with a sick neighbor once and that was enough for me.

  Did he get better?

  She was going to get better anyway, Dad said, tapping a hand against his arm.

  But did you help her?

  I highly doubt it, he said. She was taking a lot of medicine.

  I grabbed his hand. Well, let’s go! I said. Let’s test it—it’s late, so it won’t be crowded, and I’ll be with you every second, okay? What do you think? This could be great news! I mean, it might help, right? It might be useful information, for the world.

  His body grew heavier, gained inertia, the more I pulled.

  No, he said. I’m sorry, Rose. I saw what it did to my father. I’m not going in.

  But I’ll stay right with you, I said, pleading. We’ll go in side by side, every second. It’s only a test. I won’t ever leave your side.

  I tugged on his arm, harder.

  What if it’s amazing? I said.

  No, he said. Thank you, but no. His eyes drifted up to mine, stones. He patted my hand and gently extricated his arm from my fingers. His height, still heavying into the seat.

  But maybe it could help me, I said.

  He frowned. I don’t see how, he said. Food and hospitals are not the same.

  He looked back down at the open book, to steady himself. In a long emphatic staredown with his baby self. I had to hold myself back from shoving him out of his chair. I wanted to push him in, somehow. To dump him in there, with a crane. To force. It seemed so unbelievably luxurious to me, that he had the option, that he could drive different routes, sit in his seat, thinking, pondering, never know, never have to find out.

  Yours is all in the same place, I said, a little helplessly.

  And?

  I ruffled the weave of the chair arm.

  Lucky, I said.

  He tightened his lips, and the word lucky bounced around us, the wrong word, meaning nothing.

  Rose, he said, flatly. I couldn’t even go in to see your brother, he said.

  And with that, his face locked back into itself.

  It was true; when Joseph had been checked into the hospital, Dad had stood outside the electric doors for over an hour, trying to take a step forward. Trying, and trying. I had walked by, on my way to go in. He’d kept a book in his hand to read, so that people passing by would think he had something to do.

  You didn’t know that was the last time, I said, in a low voice.

  But even if I had, Dad said.

  For a while, we sat together with the nighttime, undernoted by the distant sound of cars slowing and accelerating, driving the lanes of Santa Monica Boulevard, Saturday night. Moonlight pierced the window. I thought about that trip to the ER, so many years ago, and the doctors standing above, telling me I could not remove my mouth.

  I sank my head down on the armrest. I guess if mine were all in one place, I said, I might do the same thing.

  He put a hand on my arm. His palm, cool.

  Gotta eat, right? he said.

  Right, I said.

  And just as he said it, like a bird across the sky, my brother flickered through my mind, and although the thought was half formed, it occurred to me that meals were still meals, food still contained with a set beginning and end, and I could pick and choose what I could eat and what I couldn’t. And that my father’s was a hospital he could drive around entirely, and Grandpa seemed to smell mostly in stores, but what if whatever Joseph had felt every day had no shape like that? Had no way to be avoided or modified? Was constant?

  I reached over to touch my father’s hand. His eyes found mine.

  I’m sorry, he said, his eyes a little stricken.

  He gripped my hand back, hard, and the scared light intensified for a second, blazed, then faded from his eyes. He rubbed his free hand over his face. Whew, he said.

  Late, he said, in a new voice. He released our grip and clapped a steady hand down on my shoulder.

  Time for bed, I said, sitting up on my knees.

  He closed the album but he kept his hand on my shoulder and didn’t release it, and there were more words in that hand, keeping me there, a little more he wanted to say. It was like once he’d revealed one big thing he thought he might as well tell everything he possibly could. I could see the athlete’s urge in it, the sprinter’s impulse to throw all things terrifying into one moment and then go to bed and sleep it gone.

  Just one more thing, he said.

  You saw something that day, didn’t you, he said.

  The ray of moonlight illuminated his face.

  When? I asked, even though I knew.

  He didn’t answer. I kept my head resting on the arm of the chair.

  Yes, I said.

  I don’t want to know what you saw, he said, placing the album on a side table. I just want to know one thing. Okay?

  Okay, I said, in a small voice.

  Is he coming back? he asked.

  No.

  He nodded vigorously, as if he’d prepared himself. He kept nodding, for a while.

  That’s what I thought, he said. It’s been too long.

  He pressed down on his forehead, as if to press the thought in there.

  Did he say anything? That day in his apartment? Did he ask you for anything? At the hospital?

  No, I said.

  He wiggled his feet on the carpet. The silver stripes on his running shoes made glinty sparks in the moonlight.

  Is he okay? he asked.

  I don’t know, I said. I don’t know how to answer that.

  He has some kind of skill? Dad said.

  I closed my eyes. Yes, I said. Him too.

  For a half-hour or so, my father pressed and wiggled. Shook and tilted. Pushed the news around his body like a pinball had fallen in there and was dodging around his bones and tendons. It was too much for me to watch or think about, so I kept my eyes closed and slept a little.

  Finally, I woke up when the moon had lowered enough to send a fresh ray onto the chair and side table, lighting up the gilded print on the front of the photo album, which said Photo Album. My father sat alert, still and calm again.

  I unwound myself from the floor. Thanked him for the talk. Kissed him good night. I think I’ll just take a walk, he said, standing, and he slipped out the front door and into the trail of white that lit his track down the sidewalk.

  43 Sunday morning, I walked over to the café for work.

  It was a fair May morning, air cleaner than usual, the rugged San Fernando Mountains detailed in the distance as if cars had never been invented. I
was early; the doors of La Lyonnaise were still closed.

  I walked around the brick wall storefront, watching birds hop on the telephone lines, and knocked at the back until Monsieur turned the knob and let me in.

  By ten, about seven or so hungry people had gathered outside the café, and when the door opened, they all headed inside to take their spots for brunch. Outside, a light wind from the ocean blew the air clean, and this was the air that followed them in, washing through the restaurant. I washed dishes for three hours, my head full of my father and George and hospitals and straps, and as the line of silverware eased I asked the main waiter if I could take a half-hour break for lunch. When he said yes, I left the kitchen for a change and headed over to the wine-tasting counter, where I sat myself on one of the stools between a big man with heavy jowls and a petite dark-haired woman wrapped in a red scarf. Monsieur came over from the back room, wiping his cheeks down with the sheet of his hand.

  Mimosa? he said, pulling down a champagne glass.

  Sure, said the jowly man.

  I’d like to try a food tasting, I said.

  Monsieur cocked his head. Late-morning wake-up lines still radiated from his eye corners.

  A food tasting? he said.

  A glass of Chardonnay, please, said the petite woman in the red scarf. Monsieur lifted another glass off the wall, set it upright.

  Could I eat my food here, and tell you what I taste in it? I asked, my voice wavering a little.

  Monsieur shrugged. I suppose so, he said. Aren’t you our dishwasher?

  I am, I said.

  Good work, said Monsieur.

  Sounds fun, said the man. Can I too?

  Monsieur popped the cork out of a bottle of white wine, and poured a shimmering glass for the woman.

  A quiche, please, I said.

  Quiche, echoed the man. Delicious.

  The woman with the red scarf spent a few focused minutes with her nose buried in the rim of the wineglass. Madame wandered out from the back, where the smell of caramelizing onions drifted out to us at the counter, like a greeting of midday and sweetness and industry, and she and Monsieur spent a few minutes talking closely, his hand resting easily on the nape of her neck. A waiter ducked into the kitchen and returned with two small plates, holding pie slices of golden-crusted yellow quiche. Monsieur filled another glass of wine for a table, and then brought out the New York Times Sunday crossword and a bitten-up pencil. He perched on his stool, behind the counter, and began reading through the clues.

  Next to me, the jowly man grabbed his plate. Outside, cars drove up and down Vermont, ducking into parking spots. I looked down at the quiche, with its crisped brown golden edges.

  Picked up my fork.

  The man next to me ate his mouthful in a rush.

  So—we say what we taste in here? he said.

  Sure, I said.

  Eggs, he said. I taste eggs.

  I laughed. Monsieur kept his eyes on his crossword, which was blank.

  Yup, Monsieur said, to the page. True, true. There are definitely eggs in quiche.

  And this wine has a hint of roses? said the woman next to me.

  I took a bite of my quiche, made with such warmth and balance, and swallowed.

  I just want to add that the eggs are from Michigan, I said.

  The jowly man pursed his lips. We’re not talking about location, he said. He took another bite. Cream, he said.

  I pulled my stool in closer, to the counter. Madame came over from the kitchen and stood in the door frame.

  Yes, she said. There is cream in quiche.

  Actually, I think it’s half-and-half, I said.

  No, she said, but she blushed a little. Ah, she said. It’s you. Monsieur glanced up, from his crossword.

  I’m on a break, I said.

  She nodded, distracted. Her eyes skated up the side wall.

  See, there are two different milks, I said, leaning in, on my stool. One is cream, from Nevada, I think, due to the slightly minty flavor, but then there’s regular milk too, from Fresno.

  Well, she said. She stepped into the kitchen and I heard her open up the refrigerator, take out a carton.

  Monsieur carefully placed four letters into boxes. Quiche Lorraine, he said, to the paper. Named for the Lorraine region of northeastern France, eaten as early as the sixteenth century. German influence.

  Ham, said the lady in the red scarf.

  I took a sip of water.

  Organic pigs, I added. Northern California, I said.

  She’s making this up, said the jowly man.

  Am I right? I said.

  Monsieur twirled his pencil, chuckling.

  How do you know they’re organic? he said.

  It’s in the aftertaste, I said. Grainier. I’m thinking east of Modesto, I said.

  Fresno, said Monsieur, pffing. Same as the milk, he said. There’s a farmer we really like. Ben.

  The butter is French butter, I said. Not pasteurized. The parsley is from San Diego. The parsley farmer is a jerk.

  Ah! said Monsieur, hitting the counter. I don’t know why we keep going to him, he said. He is such a jerk.

  You can taste that? said the red-scarf woman.

  In the way it was picked, I said. He picks it rudely.

  Madame stepped back, into the bar area. Nice job with the milk, she said. Did you look in the fridge?

  How about nutmeg? said the woman with the red scarf. Madame nodded, and the woman flushed. It’s a tricky one, said Madame, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with her apron strap. People never expect it.

  Monsieur looked at me directly, waiting.

  Far, I said. Indonesia? Standard fare.

  Dough, said the big man.

  Local, I said. I think you made it yourself.

  I made it, said Monsieur. Myself. Last night.

  Delicious, I said.

  Why are they eating at the wine counter? asked Madame.

  Sea salt, said the woman with the red scarf.

  You’re not even eating, said the jowly man.

  It’s a food tasting, I said. Instead of a wine tasting.

  The crust, mused the man. The crust is—

  I took another bite. Let the information rise up, slow. Monsieur had stopped working on the crossword, and I could sense him watching me now. Alert. The sharpened feeling of being paid close attention to.

  The cook is a little disillusioned, I said.

  Mmm, said Madame, leaning against bottles of wine.

  The big man next to me wiped his brow with a napkin. Disillusionment is not an ingredient, he said.

  But I had her eyes in mine, and I was keeping them.

  But the cook loves to mix, I said. Loves the harmony of putting the right ingredients together. Loves to combine.

  That’s true, said Monsieur, nodding.

  The woman in the red scarf stopped sniffing her glass to listen.

  There was also a little hurry during the mixing, I said. It’s about eight minutes fast? I said.

  The man next to me raised his hand. Or chives? he said.

  Eight minutes, I said. Were you rushed?

  Maybe four, dismissed Madame.

  Monsieur looked up at the ceiling, thinking.

  While she was making the quiche, she was planning on calling Édith, he said. Our daughter, he said, looking at me. Remember, Marie?

  Behind the counter, Madame was rearranging wine bottles. It looked like she was taking one bottle out, and then trading it with another bottle of the same brand.

  It tastes about eight minutes too fast, I said.

  Édith was in crisis, Monsieur said. She cannot pass Japanese.

  Madame put down a bottle. Not eight minutes, she said, to me.

  Eight, I said.

  She is bad at writing kanji, said Monsieur.

  Five minutes, said Madame.

  Monsieur shrugged. A very small smile settled on his lower lip.

  There is also a tinge of sadness in the cook, I said.

  Now
he put down his pencil for good, and folded up the crossword.

  In us all, he nodded.

  I shifted in my seat. Re-rolled my napkin. It was the first time in a long time that I’d gone full out with my impressions. I had wanted to introduce myself, to people I wanted to meet. That was the whole of it.

  On my other side, the woman in the red scarf stared at my plate again.

  The pastry crust is made of flour, butter, and sugar, she said.

  Done! said Madame, stepping forward.

  The focus broke, and Madame poured the woman a free half-glass of wine, and the man finished his quiche, and talked to Monsieur with great animation about various kinds of bacon. I stayed in my seat. While Monsieur and the man laughed, Madame stepped a little closer to me.

  How did you do that? she said, in a low voice.

  I don’t know, I said. I just can do it.

  She reached her arms over the counter. Someone called to both of them from the kitchen, and they spun off to tend to other customers, but I knew I wasn’t done. While I waited, the woman with the red scarf tapped me on the shoulder.

  She smiled at me.

  Hi, she said.

  I told her good job, on guessing the dough without even tasting it.

  Now, did you know all the food information in advance? she said. She was fumbling in her purse for something. She had an awake face, eyes shining like a small bird’s.

  No, I said.

  You’re quite knowledgeable, said the woman, pushing aside gum wrappers and pens. She blinked up at me. The red scarf brought out something in her cheeks, some good kind of redness.

  Thanks, I said. I pushed my napkin around the table. It’s just this thing, I said.

  The woman said aha! and brought out a business card, sliding it over to me across the counter. On it was her name, and a job description for something to do with the schools.

  So you can tell things, in the food? she said. Fixing her eyes on me.

  I didn’t blink. Yes, I said.

  Many things?

  Yes, I said. Many.

  Why don’t you give me a call, then, she said, and her giddy guessing self dropped away, and her eyes settled firmly on mine, and she seemed nice, nicer, suddenly. I might be able to use you, she said.

  I picked up her card, held it at all four corners.

  I work with teenagers, she said.

  She turned, and left the room. She didn’t look back, but the card was a little rectangular piece of her. I put it in my pocket.