Page 59 of Torn
I also would be leaving behind everything I held dear in Chicago. I loved the city. But more, I loved the people in it. Boutros. And yes, even Tom, despite his drinking and driving. There was still possibility there—he was hugely sexy, even if he was daily proving himself to be about as bright as a ten-watt bulb. But he also had a good heart, and that went a long way with me.
I couldn’t really entertain the idea of up and leaving the city I felt was my home.
Besides, quitting would mean more than the loss of a paycheck. It also meant losing my benefits—health insurance was important, so was the little bit I’d built up in my company IRA. Cavalierly quitting a job, I thought, was something someone with a trust fund could afford to do.
I hurried upstairs.
WHEN Icame back down, freshly showered and shaved, dressed in a pair of comfortable old cutoff jean shorts and my favorite T-shirt, which depicted a caricature of Grace Jones, I could smell something cooking in the kitchen.
I briefly thought about stepping out onto the front porch for a smoke but denied my addiction. I’d promised myself as I scrubbed that I was going to try and make the best of this weekend.
I padded barefoot into the kitchen.
“Hey, good-lookin’, what you got cookin’?”
Walt turned from the stove, a wooden spoon in his hand. “Lentil soup. It’s from theMoosewood Cookbook. You’ll love it.”
I had to admit that it didn’t smell bad. It looked kind of like a bumpy brown slurry, but hey, don’t judge, right?
“I’d let you taste it, but it needs another hour to let the flavors marry.”
“What’s in it? Beef stock?”
“No, silly. It gets its flavor from garlic, herbs, and lots of veggies. Scrumptious! Pull up a stool and grab a glass of wine. It’s a nice Syrah.”
“Whatever that is.” I filled a glass almost to the top.
Walt reached over me to grab the glass before I had a chance to put it to my lips. “That’s a glass for white wine.” He reached up in the cupboard and brought down a glass that looked more balloon shaped and transferred the wine into it. “There you go. Better bouquet.”
I sipped, feeling chastened.
DINNER? HOWdo I describe our dinner? Two people alone in the middle of the New England wilderness, in a gorgeous, architecturally-significant house could be the perfect setup for romance and intimacy, right? Sure it could.
It could also go the other way. And it did on this night.
It was too silent. The fact that we seemed to suddenly have very little to say to one another made the quiet even more oppressive, as though it were a third presence—a huge third entity that I thought of as a boa constrictor, tightening and tightening around us until neither of us could breathe anymore.
I drank too much wine. I belched midway through the meal and had the nerve to laugh about it while Walt glared at me.
I recalled lamenting to Boutros once that all I wanted was a man I could fart in front of. He got my meaning.
Walt and I did try to make conversation. We really did. But once the soup had been discussed—which was, by the way, delicious—we found we had little more to talk about. Lots and lots needed to be said, I knew, but I don’t know if either of us was ready for that conversation.
When we’d finished eating, I said, “You did all the cooking. Why don’t you go relax, maybe put on some music, and I’ll take care of cleaning up?”
“You don’t have to,” Walt said. “You’re my guest. I’d be happy for the company, though.” He lifted my soup bowl and started toward the kitchen.
I jumped up and grabbed the bowl from him. “I insist. I’m not going to let you.” I really needed to be alone, so my offer wasn’t entirely unselfish. I simply needed some relief from the crushing silence between us.
“You sure?” Walt stood, staring at me. My heart lurched. I could see the sadness in his eyes, sadness I was pretty sure I had inflicted. In the passage of a moment, a mind-movie played, dramatizing Walt’s hope and anticipation for this reunion, ending on a discordant note as his disappointment made its first appearance as a dark shadow that grew and grew.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s the least I can do.”
I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had countered with, “that’s for sure,” but he had the decency not to.
“I didn’t get to meditate today. You’re giving me the chance. Go ahead. I’ll be out in the pool house if you need to find me.” He started out of the room, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll put some music on. Any particular stuff you like?”
“Rock, dance,” I said, knowing he was probably thinking of something more along the lines of Franz Liszt or Camille Saint-Saens. At least, I was pretty sure that’s what he would have chosen.
