The New Yorker Stories - Ann Beattie [238]
“It can be a problem, when you’re really good at something, no one will even try to do that thing for you,” Brenda said. “There’s a girl at work who gives the best massage in the world, and nobody will touch her because she’s the best. The other day, I rubbed just her shoulders, and she almost swooned.”
“Taking up massage also?” Jerome said.
“What do you mean, also?” Brenda said. “This is about the fact that you don’t like me working late on Thursdays, isn’t it? I might remind you that if a client calls, whatever time it is, it’s nothing for you to be on the phone for an hour.”
“No fighting!” Nelson said.
“We’re not fighting,” Jerome said.
“Well, you’ve been trying to provoke a fight with me,” Brenda said.
“Then it was unconscious. I apologize,” Jerome said.
“Oh, honey,” Brenda said, getting up, putting her napkin on the table. She went around the table and hugged Jerome.
“She likes me again,” Jerome said.
“We all like you,” Nelson said. “I, personally, think you saved my life.”
“That goes too far,” Jerome said. “I just wasn’t one of those stereotypically disinterested stepfathers. I considered it a real bonus that I could help raise you.”
“If only you’d taught me more about electrical problems,” Nelson said.
“It’s toggled together, but it should hold until I get my hands on a soldering gun,” Jerome said. “But seriously—Dale—what do they think the prognosis is about this thing you have?”
Roasted vegetables cascaded into the bowl. Dale put the Pyrex dish carefully in the sink and opened the drawer, looking for a serving spoon. “I’m fine,” she said.
“It’s complicated,” Nelson said. “She eats nothing but walnuts and cheese sticks for breakfast. You think she looks good? Will she still, if she loses another fifteen pounds?”
“Cheese is full of calories,” Dale said. It was going to be impossible not to talk about it until everyone else’s anxiety was alleviated. She lowered her voice. “Come on, Nelson,” she said. “It’s boring to talk about.”
“Cheese? What’s with the cheese?” Jerome said.
“Honey, you are cross-examining her,” Brenda said.
“So—here is some fresh applesauce, and here are the vegetables—I’ll put them by you, Jerome—and Nelson’s got the roast,” Dale said, going back to her chair. The chairs were Danish Modern, with a geometric quilted pattern on the seats. Apparently, the professor and his wife had also had a sabbatical in Denmark.
“Oh, you already had apples. I knew you would,” Brenda said.
“She won’t touch the applesauce. Pure sugar,” Nelson said.
“Nelson,” Dale said, “please stop talking about it.” She asked, “Does anyone want water?”
“I think, if you don’t mind, I’ll have that Mâcon-Lugny Les Charmes Nelson told me you laid in,” Jerome said.
“Absolutely,” Dale said, getting up. Nelson walked around her with the platter.
“She has some wine called Opus One for the doctor, who’s coming to dinner—when is it, Thursday?” Nelson said. “We were supposed to go there for drinks, but Dale countered with dinner. Talk about being grateful.”
“What year?” Jerome said.
“It was a present,” Dale said. “From a student who’s married to a wine importer, so I suspect it’s good.”
Nelson held the platter for Brenda to serve herself.
“Has it been properly stored?” Jerome said. “That could be an excellent wine. We can only hope nothing happened to it.”
Dale looked at him. As interested as he’d ostensibly been in her health, the concern about the wine was far greater. She had thought, to begin with, that being so solicitous had actually been Jerome’s way of pointing out her vulnerability. Poor Dale, who might have to be stretched out on the floor any second. It fit with his concept of women.
Nelson moved to Jerome’s side. He was holding the bottle. “Nineteen eighty-five,” he said.
“You know, that is a very elegant wine indeed. Let me see that,” Jerome said. Jerome cradled the bottle against his chest. He looked down at it, smiling. “May I, as the person who once saved your husband’s life, ask what would you think about my opening this to go with dinner?” he said.
“Jerome!” Brenda said.