Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [30]
As soon as I get to Grappa I call my father. I haven’t heard back from him about Thanksgiving, which is unusual. When Richard called me back to let me know that he was still planning on coming, even though I hadn’t been able to scare up a ticket to the Steelers-Jets game, he mentioned that my dad hadn’t returned his call either—stranger still. Although it would be impossible to get a flight out now, the drive isn’t too bad. Even though it’s only a little after seven in the morning, I get my father’s machine. Since when does my father leave for work before seven? I also try him at the university, but he isn’t there either. I leave messages at his home and office, all the while trying to fight the rising panic at the idea that something terrible has happened. He could be lying dead in the bathroom, felled by a dropped bar of soap. He is getting older. Maybe he shouldn’t be living alone. Around nine, I finally reach his secretary, who tells me that he just got in and has gone straight to a meeting. Well, at least he isn’t dead. I tell her to have him call me when he breaks free.
I offer to sell my soul to Tony in exchange for an hour during lunch service on Wednesday so that I can deliver the muffins and attend the day care party. While kneading the pasta dough I make a mental list of all the things I still need for Thanksgiving dinner. Richard has promised to make the stuffing, which he insists has to be made with Pepperidge Farm stuffing mix, because that is how his mother made it and if he doesn’t eat it on Thanksgiving he will die. Hope is making “ambrosia,” a concoction involving Cool Whip, sweetened coconut, and canned fruit. It’s her mother’s recipe, and apparently another holiday essential. I try not to cringe, particularly since she has volunteered to watch Chloe tomorrow afternoon so that I can finish up at work and do some last-minute grocery shopping. In addition to the free-range bird that I have reserved at the Union Square Farmers Market, I add a few other necessities to the list: fresh Brussels sprouts, red and white pearl onions that I will serve creamed, and chestnuts for roasting, as that is what my mother used to serve on Thanksgiving.
Several hours and thirty-six muffins later, when I’m giving Chloe her bath, my dad calls back. Since we are both in the bathtub, I let the machine pick up, but as soon as I hear his voice, I wrap Chloe in a towel and we sprint, dripping, into the living room to pick up the phone.
“Dad—I’m here,” I say, picking up the receiver, causing the answering machine to emit a high-pitched squeal. “Chloe was just in the bath,” I tell him, reaching over to turn off the machine.
“Oh, okay. I’ll call you ba—”
“No, no, it’s okay. Hey, listen, I’ve been trying to reach you. Where were you this morning?”
My father doesn’t say anything for a moment, and when he speaks his voice sounds unusually clear and crisp, as if he is taking special pains to enunciate each syllable. “I had a breakfast appointment, and I left the house early this morning,” he replies.
“Well, I talked to Richard earlier, and he’s arriving