quickly. I don’t mean to hurt Gary’s feelings. “It’s more that I wish Rick Finzimer cared in the first place. And it’s not like I’m constantly moping about him; I mean, the fact that I miss him at all kind of surprises me.”
“I hear you,” Gary says. He turns his attention to the bread, cutting a small slice for himself and a huge chunk for me. “Some days when I’m at work, and I’ll be having a good day, kind of involved in it, kind of distracted, that’s when Elliot hits me. Just like—gotcha.” He snaps his fingers. “It’s this split moment of ‘Hang on—why isn’t this day as good as I think?’ And at the same time, I’m swamped by my remembering, by a, I don’t know, maybe a drowning feeling, like a realization of ‘Oh, yeah, that’s right, Elliot’s dead, remember? Remember how the person you loved more than anyone in the world is gone for good?’”
I don’t know if Gary means to say this last sentence out loud and for a moment we have to sit back from it. Then he laughs and shakes his head a little as if to shake off his thoughts.
“I doubt if I can finish this monster slab of walnut bread,” I say, to lighten the mood.
“It’s revolting,” Gary agrees, rolling his eyes. “Don’t bother.”
“Well, if it’s revolting, why do you keep buying it?” I ask.
“I have friends at the health food store,” he says. “They were friends of Elliot’s actually. They sucker me into buying all the food that’s not selling.”
“So this bread actually is Elliot’s fault,” I say with a smile.
“Hey, I guess it is.” Gary nods. “Blame dessert on him.”
“Thanks a lot, Elliot.” I make a face. “This bread tastes like Styrofoam.”
“Yep, thanks, Elliot,” Gary says. “You and your legacy of tofu-chomping, tree-hugging friends.” Gary waves his sliver of bread at the ceiling. We laugh together, which feels good after an evening of so many sad words.
Later that night I wake up to the sound of Mom’s keys jingling softly in the lock. My clock says 3:12 A.M.; Mom must have gone to the cast party at Louis’s house after. When I was little and Mom came home from shows, she’d always tap on my door and whisper, “Still awake?” and if I was (and I always was because my sleep-ears were trained to hear her voice thanking and paying the baby-sitter), I would jump out of my bed, into her room, and jump in her bed. Then she’d tell me about her night and I’d tell her about mine.
I wish I could ask her how opening night went, if Duke Senior missed his final cue, and if Laura cut Mom off in their “I pray thee, Rosalind, be merry” scene in act 1.
And I wish I could tell her about jerkhead Ty.
But tonight there’s no tap.
The next morning I wake up early, ready for some kind of a truce. I run out to the 7-Eleven and buy honey-glazed doughnuts and two coffees and the paper and even a bunch of daisies, arranging everything on the coffee table in the living room, like it’s a fancy hotel continental breakfast.
“You’re great,” Mom says, smiling and rubbing her eyes when she sees the table. Faint traces of eyeliner smudge down her cheeks. “But why aren’t you at Portia’s?”
“Ty canceled last minute. He turned out to be sort of creepy.”
Mom’s face holds no expression of pity or sadness or any of those things that make me feel more stupid than I do already. She just shakes her head and bites into her doughnut, then she says, “There was this show I did once where someone, I think it was the gruff grandfather character, said, ‘Some people don’t split right when you cut them open.’ I can’t remember the play but I never forgot that line.”
“Yeah, that’s kind of how he was.”
“But you must be depressed,” Mom says carefully.
“I am,” I answer. “I just don’t feel like talking about it right now.” I’m glad I already poured everything out on Gary instead of Mom. Sometimes Gary makes a good fallback person.
We drink
“I hear you,” Gary says. He turns his attention to the bread, cutting a small slice for himself and a huge chunk for me. “Some days when I’m at work, and I’ll be having a good day, kind of involved in it, kind of distracted, that’s when Elliot hits me. Just like—gotcha.” He snaps his fingers. “It’s this split moment of ‘Hang on—why isn’t this day as good as I think?’ And at the same time, I’m swamped by my remembering, by a, I don’t know, maybe a drowning feeling, like a realization of ‘Oh, yeah, that’s right, Elliot’s dead, remember? Remember how the person you loved more than anyone in the world is gone for good?’”
I don’t know if Gary means to say this last sentence out loud and for a moment we have to sit back from it. Then he laughs and shakes his head a little as if to shake off his thoughts.
“I doubt if I can finish this monster slab of walnut bread,” I say, to lighten the mood.
“It’s revolting,” Gary agrees, rolling his eyes. “Don’t bother.”
“Well, if it’s revolting, why do you keep buying it?” I ask.
“I have friends at the health food store,” he says. “They were friends of Elliot’s actually. They sucker me into buying all the food that’s not selling.”
“So this bread actually is Elliot’s fault,” I say with a smile.
“Hey, I guess it is.” Gary nods. “Blame dessert on him.”
“Thanks a lot, Elliot.” I make a face. “This bread tastes like Styrofoam.”
“Yep, thanks, Elliot,” Gary says. “You and your legacy of tofu-chomping, tree-hugging friends.” Gary waves his sliver of bread at the ceiling. We laugh together, which feels good after an evening of so many sad words.
Later that night I wake up to the sound of Mom’s keys jingling softly in the lock. My clock says 3:12 A.M.; Mom must have gone to the cast party at Louis’s house after. When I was little and Mom came home from shows, she’d always tap on my door and whisper, “Still awake?” and if I was (and I always was because my sleep-ears were trained to hear her voice thanking and paying the baby-sitter), I would jump out of my bed, into her room, and jump in her bed. Then she’d tell me about her night and I’d tell her about mine.
I wish I could ask her how opening night went, if Duke Senior missed his final cue, and if Laura cut Mom off in their “I pray thee, Rosalind, be merry” scene in act 1.
And I wish I could tell her about jerkhead Ty.
But tonight there’s no tap.
The next morning I wake up early, ready for some kind of a truce. I run out to the 7-Eleven and buy honey-glazed doughnuts and two coffees and the paper and even a bunch of daisies, arranging everything on the coffee table in the living room, like it’s a fancy hotel continental breakfast.
“You’re great,” Mom says, smiling and rubbing her eyes when she sees the table. Faint traces of eyeliner smudge down her cheeks. “But why aren’t you at Portia’s?”
“Ty canceled last minute. He turned out to be sort of creepy.”
Mom’s face holds no expression of pity or sadness or any of those things that make me feel more stupid than I do already. She just shakes her head and bites into her doughnut, then she says, “There was this show I did once where someone, I think it was the gruff grandfather character, said, ‘Some people don’t split right when you cut them open.’ I can’t remember the play but I never forgot that line.”
“Yeah, that’s kind of how he was.”
“But you must be depressed,” Mom says carefully.
“I am,” I answer. “I just don’t feel like talking about it right now.” I’m glad I already poured everything out on Gary instead of Mom. Sometimes Gary makes a good fallback person.
We drink
Similar Books
