Damn. How does she do that?
“I am not,” I told her. “I’ve got call waiting.”
“Waste of money,” said my mother. “Look, Cannie. He’s obviously angry with you. He’s not going to come running back just yet”
“I’m aware of that,” I said frostily.
“So what’s the problem?”
“I miss him,” I said.
“Why? What do you miss so much?”
I didn’t say anything for a minute.
“Let me ask you something,” my mother had said gently. “Have you talked to him?”
“Yeah. We talk.” In truth, I’d broken down and called him twice. Both calls had lasted less than five minutes, both had ended when he told me, politely, that there were things he needed to do.
My mother persisted. “Is he calling you?”
“Not so much. Not exactly.”
“And who’s ending the calls? You or him?”
This was getting touchy. “I see you’ve returned to the heterosexual advice-giving arena.”
“I’m allowed,” my mother said cheerfully. “Now: Who’s hanging up?”
“Depends,” I lied. In truth, it was Bruce. Always Bruce. It was like Sam had said. I was pathetic, and I knew it, and I couldn’t stop myself, which was even worse.
“Cannie,” she said. “Why don’t you give him a break? Give yourself a break, too. Come home.”
“I’m busy,” I demurred, but I could feel myself weakening.
“We’ll bake cookies,” she wheedled. “We’ll go for long walks. We’ll go for a bike ride. Maybe we’ll go to New York for the day…”
“With Tanya, of course.”
My mother sighed. “Cannie,” she said, “I know you don’t like her, but she is my partner… Can’t you at least try to be nice?”
I thought about it. “No. Sorry.”
“We can have some mother/daughter time, if you really want it.”
“Maybe,” I said. “It’s busy here. And I’ve got to go to New York next weekend. Did I tell you? I’m interviewing Maxi Ryder.”
“Really? Ooh, she was great in that Scottish movie.”
“I’ll tell her you said so.”
“And listen, Cannie. Don’t call him anymore. Just give him some time.”
I knew she was right, of course. A), I wasn’t stupid, and b), I’d been hearing it from Samantha, and from every single one of my friends and acquaintances who had an even passing familiarity with the situation, and I’d probably be hearing it from Nifkin, too, if only he could talk. But somehow I couldn’t stop. I had turned into someone that I would have pitied in another life; someone who searched for signs, who analyzed patterns, who went over every word in a conversation looking for hidden meanings, secret signals, the subtext that said, Yes, I still love you, of course I still love you.
“I’d like to see you,” I’d told him shyly, during Five Minute Phone Conversation #2. Bruce had sighed.
“I think we should wait,” he said. “I don’t just want to jump right back in again.”
“But we’ll see each other sometime?” I said, in a tiny little voice that was utterly unlike anything I’d normally use for conversation, and he’d sighed again.
“I don’t know, Cannie,” he said, “I just don’t know.”
But “I don’t know” wasn’t a “no,” I’d reasoned, and once I had a chance to be with him, to tell him how sorry I was, to show him how much I had to give, how much I wanted to be back with him… well, then he’d take me back. Of course he would. Wasn’t he the one who’d said “I love you” first, three years ago, as we’d held each other in my bed? And hadn’t he been the one who was always bringing up marriage, always stopping on our walks to admire babies, always steering me toward jewelry shop windows when we walked on Sansom Street, and kissing my ring finger and telling me how we’d always be together?
It was inevitable, I tried to tell myself. Just a matter of time.
“Let me ask you something,” I began.
Andy the food critic shoved his glasses up his nose and murmured into his sleeve. “The walls are painted pale green, with gilt on the moldings,” he said softly. “It’s very French.”
“It’s like being inside a Faberge egg,” I volunteered, looking around.
“Like being inside a Faberge egg,” Andy repeated. I heard a muted click as he turned off the tape recorder he had concealed in his pocket.
“Explain men,” I said.
“Can we do the menu first?” Andy cajoled. This was our standard deal: first, the food, then, my questions about men and married life. Today we were casing the latest creperie for a possible review.
Andy perused the menu. “I’m interested in the pate, the escargot, the greens with pear and warm Gorgonzola, and the mushroom in puff pastry to start with,” he instructed. “You can get any kind of crepe you want for a main course, except not the plain cheese.”
“Ellen?” I guessed. Andy nodded. In one of life’s supreme ironies, Andy’s wife, Ellen, was possessed of the least adventurous palate of all time. She eschewed sauces, spices, most ethnic cuisines, and was constantly frowning over the menus, desperately scanning them for things like plain baked chicken breasts and mashed potatoes that weren’t truffled, garlicked, or otherwise gussied up. Her ideal evening, she’d once told me, consisted of rented movies and frozen waffles “with the kind of syrup that has absolutely nothing maple about it.” Andy adored her… even when she was screwing up his review meals by ordering yet another Caesar salad or plain piece of fish.
Our waiter ambled over to refill our water glasses. “Any questions?” he drawled. From his offhand manner, plus the blue paint caked under his fingernails, I had him pegged as a waiter by day, artiste by night. He seemed hugely, supremely, unassailably indifferent. Pay attention, I tried to tell him telepathically. It didn’t seem to work.
I ordered the escargot and a crepe with shrimp, tomatoes, and creamed spinach. Andy took the pate and the salad, and a crepe with wild mushrooms, goat cheese, and toasted almonds. We each had a glass of white wine.
“Now,” he said, as the waiter loped back to the kitchen. “How can I help you?”
“How can they…” I began. Andy raised his hand.
“Are we speaking in the abstract or the specific here?”
“It’s Bruce,” I acknowledged. Andy rolled his eyes. Andy was not a fan of Bruce… not since the first and last review dinner he’d come out for. Bruce was even worse than Ellen. “A picky vegetarian,” Andy had messaged me at work the next day, “is basically a food critic’s worst nightmare.” In addition to not finding a single thing he wanted to eat, Bruce also managed to tip his menu far enough toward the candle that lit our table to actually set the menu on fire, bringing three waiters plus the sommelier running and sending Andy, a stickler for anonymity, dashing into the men’s room lest he risk discovery. “It’s hard to keep a low profile,” he carefully pointed out the next day, “when you’re being sprayed with a fire extinguisher.”
“I just want to know,” I said. “I mean, the thing that I don’t
