“Actresses are like that.”
“She performed a monologue at the deli counter. I think it was from The Crucible. She kept talking about dancing naked in the woods with the Devil. The poor guy at the meat slicer… while she’s going on and on about Tituba and howling frogs, he kept asking what kind of turkey breast we wanted. I doubt that’s how Meryl Streep got started.”
In the kitchen we unpacked the groceries, but after Clyde’s visit it was tough to stay focused. The bastard had accomplished his mission. All I could think was: what had happened in Art Therapy?
. . . . .
That night we stopped at the Jaybird, the four of us squeezing into a booth by the window while Uncle Dan started us with some garlic knots and Diet Cokes loaded with ice. Amy had brought a bottle of wine from home, a cheap Chianti with a kangaroo on the label, and after Uncle Dan popped the cork, she half-filled our paper cups, even her daughter’s, pouring slowly, her hand still weak from the meds and the not-quite-drowning earlier that morning.
“I know what you’re thinking, Mr. Straight Edge,” Amy said, re-corking the bottle. “But it’s only one glass—a half-glass. It’s good for the circulatory system. I’m teaching my daughter to drink responsibly.”
“I don’t really like wine,” Jill said. “But that buzzed feeling can be kind of cool.”
“It’s only cool in moderation,” Amy said. She raised her cup and said, “Salud, chindon!” before downing her Chianti in one long, steady sip. Jill hesitated, glancing at Kelly and me before raising her cup.
“Cheers!” Kelly said, joining them. Only my wine sat untouched, my old reflex to remain sober whenever Amy drank.
Behind the counter some guy named Cliff worked with Uncle Dan while another guy, Jorge, holed up in back; a college girl, Tina, watched the register and made the salads. It was odd watching strangers working at the Jaybird, and for the first time in days I thought about my own pizzeria back in California. We had a few good workers who backed me up, and things could run smoothly without me, but the sad truth was that I didn’t give a damn either way. If I never stepped through the door of Nguyen Brothers Pizza again, I wouldn’t miss it one beat. Other than my weekly cut of the receipts, I had no real connection to the place, unlike the Jaybird, which, despite the long absence, I still considered mine.
Make that ours—it was impossible to think of the place without thinking of Uncle Dan. As I watched him and his team hustling behind the counter in that synchronized, almost psychic way one moves around a kitchen, I felt something akin to jealousy, and if Kelly hadn’t been blocking me, I might have slipped out of the booth, grabbed my old apron, and joined the dance.
“Why is this place called The Jaybird, anyway?” Kelly asked. “It’s an odd name for a pizzeria.”
“It’s a secret,” Amy said. “We’ve been asking him forever. He won’t even tell Donnie.”
“I’ve bugged him about it for years,” I said. “It’s got something to do with Vietnam, but other than that …”
“No, it’s a woman, I’ll bet anything,” Amy said. “Jay-Bird, as in J, the letter, and bird, the British term for a chick. Jennifer, Jane, Jessica, maybe Joanne…could be anything, but it’s definitely a reference to a woman, the Pizza Man’s grand, unrequited love.”
“No, it’s Vietnam …”
“Come on, why else would he never date, or show any interest …he’s pining for a lost love. Your uncle is one of the great romantics of our time.”
“We should set him up,” Jill said. “He’s cute for an old guy. We’ll get his picture and put him on Silver Singles.”
“Uncle Dan doesn’t do apps,” I said. “He still has the same flip phone he got free with his AARP renewal. And I think he’s happy as is.”
“That’s because you’re one of the great romantics, too,” Amy said. She poured more wine and looked at Kelly. “Despite the numerous and obvious flaws, he’s a keeper. You’d be wise to hang on to him.”
“You never did,” Jill said.
“And if you ever have kids, prepare for smart-ass comments during those oh-so lovely teen years.”
Beneath the table, Kelly took my hand. “My Dad is a colonel in the Marines, and let’s just say you don’t mouth off to a colonel. He never touched us, but he had a way of making you feel you should give him fifty push-ups just for thinking something fresh.”
“He would have court-martialed my ass before I hit thirteen,” Amy said.
“He’s a good Dad. My older brothers had it harder than me.”
“A colonel’s daughter. Good luck, Donnie,” Amy said. “Let’s hope she’s looking for the opposite of dear old dad.”
“She’s trying to say I’m the draft dodger type,” I said.
“I was thinking more of a 4-F. That’s the term for physical rejects, right? If Donnie had been at D-Day, he would have fallen asleep on the beach.”
“I like him just the way he is,” Kelly said, draping her arm across my shoulder and kissing my cheek. I kissed her back, which felt weird in front of Amy, who drank her wine and looked toward the exit, her fingers tapping the table.
“Maybe you should sketch my uncle sometime,” I said, and turned to Jill. “Your mom would sit here for hours doing these funny sketches of the different customers. It was a big part of who she was.” I gave them a brief run-down, tried to capture how Amy, in a more private way, had been just as crazy about her art as I’d been about my plays. Though her eyes shot me the occasional look, she seemed pleased. “I hope you’re still drawing.”
“You know that I’m not. I’m an exhausted single mom who works at Victoria’s Secret—bras, panties, and seductively silky sleepwear.” The last
