Cook the Books

EIGHT

DURING the next week, I divided my time equally between school and Kyle’s notes-or an effort to make sense of them, anyway. My classes this semester were slightly better than they’d been the previous year, mostly because I had more electives this term than ever before. I’d chosen my classes with an eye for ones that would irritate me as little as possible. It amazed me that no one from my graduate school had shown up at my place to demand that I immediately remove myself from the program. Since I was far from the model social-work student, I did my best not to call attention to myself, lest the dean expel me for failure to show even the slightest hint of enthusiasm for my impending profession.

I blamed my lack of militant devotion on my dead uncle Alan, who had inserted an infuriating clause into his will that made my inheritance contingent on the completion of a graduate program. Any graduate program. I could hear his desperation from the grave. I found it mildly insulting that my uncle had thought so little of my professional drive that he’d had to manipulate me into pursuing higher education. Having chosen social work on a whim, I’d regretted the choice almost every day since. My few bursts of interest had been short lived. I’d made few friends at school, undoubtedly because my fellow students smelled my loathing for social work. Also, I consistently failed to show up at the state house for various protests, and I avoided letter-writing “parties” where I was expected to devote hours to composing thoughtful or irate letters to senators and representatives. I refused to study in the library, which I entered only when necessary and which I fled as soon as possible. I could practically hear my classmates groan when I was assigned to one of their study groups, since I was unable to speak passionately about topics such as narrative therapy and ethics in medical settings.

My dissatisfaction increased when an Internet search revealed that instead of enduring the classes that I hated, I could have enrolled at what were probably nonexistent universities that offered interestingly titled online courses that would have required no interaction with anyone: “You Can’t Make Me! Highly Effective Treatments for Resistant Clients” and “Can We Meet at Starbucks? Clients and Ethical Issues.” I loved the idea of courses with dialogue in the titles, but my school offered no such inspiring classes. As I hated to admit, there were, however, elements of school that I enjoyed. Granted, most of my courses this semester had generic, meaningless names like “Working Across Boundaries” and “Using Theories in Social Work.” Consisting as it did of vague concepts, the content of the courses made it easy to write essays. But I did enjoy some of my studies. My class on attachment had been quite interesting, and the class on working with individuals was coming in handy at my internship at the mental health center, so there were moments when I didn’t cuss out my program. Not many moments! But a few. Still, my strategy was to keep my head down and barrel ahead as I awaited the arrival of my May graduation. As much as I disliked school, I also couldn’t accept doing poorly, so I busted my hump to get good grades.

As for my job, I stayed up late every night that week working on Kyle’s box of chicken-scratch writing. Touched by his desperate desire to present the evidence of capable work to his famous father, I dutifully transcribed all of his notes and recipes, and I spent an excessive amount of time converting scrawled bits of chef interviews into coherent paragraphs. The file on my computer was growing, but it was nowhere near close to being book length. At the end of every day, I e-mailed Kyle the number of hours I had worked. On Friday afternoon, when I received an overnighted envelope with a check made out to me from Hank Boucher’s office, I blinked and read the amount again. I hadn’t added up my hours in my head, but the number was much bigger than I’d expected.

At seven o’clock on that same Friday night, I took the T and went to meet Kyle at the Italian restaurant he’d chosen, Contadino’s. It was so cold out that I was glad I’d worn my puffy down parka, but why I’d bought a white parka was beyond me. I should’ve known that it would have a one- in-six-million chance of staying white for long. But the cute fake-fur collar had suckered me in. Standing outside the restaurant, I crossed my arms to stay warm and stared in the window at a neon sign that beckoned me to come in and try the AL YOU CAN EAT P ST. So the sign was missing a few letters. That was okay. And the dirty windows could be cleaned. Despite the frumpy exterior, the place deserved a shot; it was exactly the kind of hole- in-the-wall that might serve up fantastic fare. The door squeaked loudly as I entered what honesty forces me to call the ratty restaurant. I cringed at the worn carpet and red pleather booths. Plastic leather would’ve been bad enough. But pleather with rips? I joined Kyle, who was already seated at one of the booths. Except for Kyle and one table of rowdy, drunk college kids, the place was empty.

Kyle stood to greet me. I had dressed casually tonight, but Kyle was wearing one of his requisite suits, this one dark brown with a red patterned tie.

“Hi, Kyle,” I said as I slid into the booth. “Have you been waiting long?”

“Nope, I just got here myself,” he said.

A waitress walked by and tossed menus onto the table without pausing to see whether we wanted drinks. I eyed her suspiciously and picked up one of the laminated menus. It took only a quick skim to see that the dishes were typical of many old- school Italian restaurants: lots of pasta with a few sauce and meat options, piccata this, Parmesan that. Still, I resolved not to judge the food until it was served. After all, this unpromising dump could be the source of the most flavorful red sauce in Boston. I did, however, decide not to risk ordering seafood. The odds felt good that the kitchen was hideously unsanitary, and I didn’t happen to have a craving for rotten mussels. Our disgruntled waitress eventually stooped to taking our order, but she managed to act positively put out by our presence and annoyed at us for wanting something to eat-in a restaurant, of all places.

“So how is your friend Adrianna doing?” Kyle asked as he moved to take a drink from his water glass. “Have you two been friends for a long time?”

“Don’t drink that,” I said, touching his wrist. “The glass is dirty.”

Kyle peered at his water and frowned. “Indeed it is.” A large glob of some dark substance clung to the inside of the glass. He set it down and pushed it to the center of the table.

“Adrianna is doing well. I’ve hardly seen her this week, though, since I’ve been so busy with school and the cookbook work. But we’ve known each other since high school, so we each understand when the other gets bogged down with life. The poor girl has been so tired, of course, because of Patrick. I don’t think she was prepared for how stressful being a parent is.”

Kyle nodded. “Well, she doesn’t show it. Does her husband, Owen, help out much?”

“Sure. It’s a rough time for him with work, though. He gets up at about four thirty in the morning to get the seafood orders for his restaurants, and then he isn’t home again until five or so. Sometimes later if people call because they ran out of tuna or forgot to order scallops or something. And his income is dependent on the market, of course. He determines the price for what he sells, and there’s only so much he can raise the cost of fish. Sometimes he makes only pennies per pound on some items. Oh, and he pays for his gas, too. It’s a rough business, but some weeks are better than others. And his schedule is really good. He’s at home with Ade and Patrick every night.”

“He must be exhausted, though, when he comes home.”

“True, but at least he has a regular job now. This is much better than the puppeteer phase.”

Kyle laughed. I admired the small dimples that appeared on his cheeks. “Well,” he said, “Patrick is adorable. He must be good company for Adrianna, huh?”

“That bundle of baby yumminess is more amazing than I could have imagined. I knew that I’d be loopy about my best friend’s baby, but I had no idea how deeply attached I’d become. And so quickly. He’s only three months old, but I can’t imagine not having him in the world.” I thought about my class on attachment and about how important and meaningful our familial, romantic, and friendship attachments were. I knew how strong my attachment to Patrick was, how innate it felt and how uncomplicated it was. Since Patrick was Adrianna’s son, she must have magnified versions of those same feelings. “I know he’s only a baby, and I’m not his mother, but I can’t help feeling that he and I have a truly special bond. There’s just something magical that takes over when I’m with him.”

Kyle nodded and looked at me with kindness in his eyes. “I could see that when I came to your house the other day. He’s very lucky to have you in his life, Chloe.”

When the waitress brought our food, I managed to refrain from wrinkling my nose at the glob of thick spaghetti slathered with lumpy Alfredo sauce. Kyle looked equally horrified by his chicken Marsala. A few small bites of our food confirmed that some of the time, looks are not deceiving.