Part 27 (1/2)
”I don't know,” said Jennifer. ”Don't people just know how to cook?”
”No,” I told her. ”They don't.”
We looked. For forty minutes. We went through all the cabinets and in all the boxes under the bed in Bill and Olivia's bedroom. We looked under the couch. We looked in closets that had nothing in them; we checked the shelves over the washer and the dryer; we looked under the sinks in the bathrooms, and then we went through the boxes of books one more time. There were no cookbooks; Olivia seemingly never bought one.
”Or she threw it away after he died,” Jennifer speculated.
Which is finally what made me cry. It wasn't like I was bawling or anything, but tears just started running down my face and I couldn't seem to stop them.
”Oh,” Jennifer said, sort of embarra.s.sed and surprised in a sad, sardonic way. ”I don't know. I mean, what do I know?”
”I'm sorry,” I said. ”I don't know what's the matter with me.”
”No, it's okay, you had a long day.”
”You have homework,” I observed.
”Yeah,” she said. ”Okay, I'll see you tomorrow.” And with that she turned, grabbed her geometry book off the floor, and fled.
After an hour of sitting in my mother's little living room in front of the blank television screen, alongside her empty kitchen, I went out and bought myself a roast chicken. I couldn't eat it, unfortunately; once it was on the kitchen counter it just looked stupid to me. So I put it in the refrigerator and channel-flipped for half the night.
No matter what you do, it's never enough, I thought. No matter what you do, it's never enough. Mom said that all the time, that was one of my big memories, along with the perfume she never wore, no matter what you do it's never enough. And that's what I did with the entire next day. I sat around in my empty apartment, counting and recounting the last of my money, trying to think what I could to make more, having a c.o.c.ktail, looking through someone else's photographs, channel-flipping, counting my money again, thinking, no matter what you do it's never enough. This went on for an entire day before I changed the mantra to to h.e.l.l with it, got myself up off the couch, and walked to the store.
They have a grocery store on the Upper West Side called Fairway, of all things, and it's famous as grocery stores go, so that is where I went. I fought my way through enormous crowds of shoppers while trying to figure out what ingredients to buy to make a real meal for myself. As it turned out, they had little recipe cards perched everywhere, and they were free. It was like a service that the store offered for people like me who didn't have a clue: you take one of these cards, buy all the ingredients on the card, take it all home and follow the recipe, and then, presto, you've cooked a meal. Buying all the ingredients totally cleaned me out cashwise, but I managed to get everything I needed for pasta with scallops and pears in a lemon cream sauce. It sounds fancy, but the instructions made it seem not so hard to cook. I thought of inviting Jennifer to stay for dinner.
Frank was the first to warn me that the evening might not go as planned. ”Your sisters are here,” he said as he reached out to help me carry my groceries to the elevator. Not only was he back to being nice Frank, he was particularly nice to me. We had never spoken about what happened the day he confessed his love for Julianna Gideon, but it was there between us. I think just that much is sometimes enough to give people hope.
”Thanks for the warning,” I said, holding the elevator door open so he could put my bags on the floor for me. ”Did they say anything?”
”You know what, they did,” said Frank. ”They wanted to know what apartment Vince lived in.”
”Vince? What did they want with Vince?”
Frank gave me a friendly little ”who knows” gesture. ”I told them I couldn't give out that information, but the pushy one didn't believe me.”
”She never takes no for an answer,” I said.
”No, she don't. Anyway she just went through the junk mail I leave by the radiator until she found it.”
”Yes, she's clever too.”
”Boy, she is,” he said, tapping the elevator b.u.t.ton and sending me off.
As I opened the door to the apartment, I actually felt my heart thump a little in antic.i.p.ation. I hadn't seen much of Alison or Lucy lately, and I was getting lonely. It was hard to sit in that apartment night after night and wonder who I was. Plus things had gotten so complicated, with press conferences and clouds and screaming co-op boards, I was frankly hoping that Lucy might explain to me what was going on.
There was Alison, as soon as I stepped in, in the front of the apartment, scrubbing down the kitchen.
”I see you got rid of the moss!” she exclaimed, really happy and excited. She had never let go of her first impression, that the stuff was dangerous and would cost millions to get removed, and we might be on the hook for it even if we didn't win this case. And now the stuff was miraculously gone. After Charlie had poisoned it beyond repair, I had tossed all the trays into garbage bags and taken them straight out to the Dumpster so the stuff that had killed the moss wouldn't get everyone else in the building. Alison didn't know that, of course; all she knew was that the scary green stuff was gone. It made her cheerful.
”How'd your deposition go?” I asked.
”Terrific,” she said. ”Just great. I like that Jackson, don't you? He really thinks we're going to win this. He was very rea.s.suring.”
”Was he?”
”And so cute! I mean, not my type, I'm happily married! But that doesn't mean I can't look!”
”What can I do for you today, Alison?”
”Oh, Lucy and I just thought maybe we should come over and help you keep this place clean,” she explained with that cheerful smile. ”It just didn't seem fair that you should have to do all the work of keeping this big place presentable while the lawyers and the real estate people and the people who run the building try and work out their problems. I mean, who knows how long that is going to take! And you're not a slave!”
”There's not that much to do, actually,” I told her, trying to figure this out. ”Most of the rooms don't get used. The moss thing, as you've noticed, has been taken care of.”
”So that man who owned it-Len, is that his name?”
”Yes?” I said, wondering where this was going.
”Len Colbert?”
”Did I mention his name to you?”
”I just, I saw a Len on the names for the co-op board, and I wondered if that was him.”
”Yes, that is him. He was the one ranting at that press conference they threw in the lobby, where they told the entire city of New York that we're white-trash interlopers. That was his phrase, I think. He got mentioned in all the articles. Lucy's friend over at the Times especially gave him a lot of ink.”
”Well, I didn't read any of it, because I knew it would upset me, but Daniel did, and he did mention that this Len person seemed particularly upset. And if he's angry already, we don't want to make him any angrier. I was going to suggest we should leave the moss where it is.”
”No, it's gone.”
”Well, maybe you should let him know that if he wants to keep it here, he is welcome,” she said, smiling at me brightly, like a Girl Scout leader.
”Listen, Alison, is something going on?” I asked. She was being so cheerfully weird I had to comment on it.
”What makes you ask?”
”Oh-nothing.” I could tell that she didn't want to be the one to deliver whatever bizarre news she and Lucy had come to unload on me, so I decided to spare her for now. ”Is Lucy in the back?”
”No, she had to run out for a moment,” Alison reported, nervous.
”Really? Frank said she was up here.”
”She was. She'll be right back. Would you like some tea? I think I saw some in the closet in the back kitchen. I would love a cup of tea,” she enthused, clearly working to get her act back on the rails.
”Terrific,” I said. ”Let's go do that, then.”
We hiked through the great room and down the endless hallway to the other kitchen. ”Hey, Alison, do you remember if Mom ever cooked?” I asked.
”Mom? Cook?” Alison said, startled. The idea seemed as nonsensical to her as it had to me. ”Well, she boiled water for spaghetti, I remember her doing that. But that was pretty much the extent of the cooking.”
”Do you cook?” I asked.