After taking down the corn flakes and putting them in the cart, I stop and consider my hauclass="underline" three packages of ground beef, three packages of spaghetti, three jars of Newman’s Own spaghetti sauce, and one box of corn flakes. These make up the basis of my weekly diet, and they are my favorite foods.
In the soda aisle, I bypass the Diet Dr Pepper. I think this week that I would like a twelve-pack of Barq’s root beer, which I load into the cart.
In the dairy case, I reach for the 2 percent half gallon of milk, not the skim as usual.
In the frozen-food aisle, I bypass the Banquet meals entirely, and the pizza, too. Instead, I select a few Lean Cuisine microwavable dinners—sweet and sour chicken, enchiladas suiza, pepperoni pizza, and Swedish meatballs. I eschew (I love the word “eschew”) Dreyer’s vanilla ice cream for a pint of Häagen-Dazs chocolate sorbet. I saw myself in the mirror before I went on my date with Joy-Annette, and I think I could stand to take in fewer calories.
I then backtrack to the meat department and select what appears to be a very fine New York steak. In produce, which I never visit, I pick out a Caesar salad in a bag.
The whole exercise exhilarates me. I don’t even know how to cook a steak, but surely there is a website that can tell me.
I roll my cart toward the front of the store, to one of two open checkout stands, both jammed with customers. My shopping spree took eighteen minutes. It’s OK, I think. Today, I am happy, and I can wait a few minutes more to talk to an actual person.
I’m nervous on the drive home. The rain is coming down even harder than when I went into Albertsons, and the thump of fat raindrops against the windows reminds me of last week, when that car hit me as I was turning left onto Twenty-Fourth Street W. From Albertsons to home is all right turns, thank goodness, but you never know with other drivers.
I’m relieved when I pull into the driveway without incident. As the garage is not attached to the house, I’m facing a small fight through the rain with the groceries, regardless of whether I leave the car exposed or pull it into the garage. I opt for the former, then scramble out of the car, dash around to the back, unlock the trunk, and start wrestling with the plastic bags.
I can nearly scoop them all up, but the bulkiness of the box of Barq’s root beer is too much for me. I stand there in the rain for a minute or two, trying to find the grip that will allow me to move all of the bags toward the front door.
Finally, I get it. I’m holding on to the carrying latch on the box of root beer with just three fingers, and I begin shuffling toward the door. Halfway across the front yard, the root beer box rips apart and slips from my grasp, landing with a metallic thud. A few cans roll toward the sidewalk, propelled along by the slight crown of the yard. One can has blown apart from the fall and is spraying warm, carbonated root beer.
“Holy shit!” I say, and drop the bags of groceries.
“Edward, let me give you a hand.” It’s Donna, splashing toward me from across the street in a yellow raincoat.
“Thanks.”
I collect the groceries again, while she chases down the cans of root beer. I waddle to the door in a half-run, and she’s behind me with an armful of soda cans. I set one bag down and retrieve the keys from my pocket, then unlock the door, gather up the bag, and hustle inside. Donna is right behind me. Tracking rain and mud through the house, we herd the groceries into the dining room and set them on the table.
“Whew,” Donna says. “I think that one can’s a goner, Edward. Sorry about that.”
“It’s OK.”
I start pulling groceries from the bags and organizing them to be put away.
“Do you need help?” Donna asks.
“No, I can do this.”
She looks back into the tramped-through living room. “Oh, Edward, we made a big mess in there.”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a vacuum cleaner and some cleaning supplies?”
“Yes, in the hall closet.”
“OK,” Donna says. “You put away the groceries, and I’ll clean the floor.”
By 12:45, we’re finished—the groceries put away, the living room carpet looking as if nobody had ever walked on it, let alone tracked mud and water across it—and we’re enjoying some of what Donna has dubbed The Root Beer That Tried to Get Away. She’s having hers in a glass, with ice. I’m drinking from the can, as I prefer my soda at room temperature.
At 12:47, there is a knock on the door.
I set my can of root beer down on the coffee table. I have no coasters, which started as a rebellion against my parents but now is just one of those idiosyncrasies that Dr. Buckley occasionally counsels me about; I can imagine her now, saying, “How, exactly, does not having coasters figure into your image of yourself, Edward?”
At the door, I look through the peephole. I can see the distinctive blue outfit of the US Postal Service. He’s late today. It must be because of the rain. I open the door.
“Edward Stanton?” he asks. He has been coming to this house for as long as I have lived here.
“Yes.”
“Registered letter. I need a signature.”
I sign where he has indicated, and he hands me a white business envelope.
The sender: Lambert, Slaughter & Lamb, Attorneys at Law.
“Oh no.”
“What is it?” Donna asks.
“A letter from my father’s lawyer.”
“What about?”
“I don’t know. It can’t be good.”
I open the letter, peeling away a corner of the envelope, and then sliding my right index finger through the top of the envelope like a crude blade.
October 27, 2008
Mr. Edward Stanton:
Your benefactor and I would like to talk with you about recent events and their possible bearing on your benefactor’s continued support of you. Please extend us the courtesy of meeting at 9:00 a.m., Wednesday, October 29, at the law offices of Lambert, Slaughter & Lamb, 2600 First Avenue N., Suite 303.
We look forward to meeting with you.
“It’s not good,” I say.
“Can I see it?”
I hand the letter to Donna, who reads it quickly.
“This is so weird,” she says. “Your father uses a lawyer to talk with you?”
“Sometimes.”
“Why does the lawyer refer to him as your benefactor?”
“I guess it’s a lawyerly way of putting things.”
“Why can’t your father just call you up or come by?”
I shrug. That would be nice. That also would never happen. I shouldn’t say that, I guess. I don’t know what will ever happen, as those things haven’t happened yet, and until then, it’s all conjecture. I prefer facts. The fact is, my father has never just dropped by.
“What’s it about?”
“I don’t know. It could be anything.”
“He seemed like a nice man when…well, that day at the clinic.”
“He is when he wants to be.”
“Are you going to go?”
I shrug. “I have to.”
Donna is preparing to leave. She puts her raincoat back on—the pelting continues outside—and turns and faces me.
“Are you OK, Edward?”
“Yes.”
“I enjoyed hanging out with you.”
“Me, too.”
She smiles at me.
“Edward, can I ask you a question?”
“Yes.”
“Would it be all right if I kissed you on the cheek?”
I’ve never been asked this before.
“OK,” I say.
She puts her hands on my shoulders and tiptoes up to me, gently placing her lips against my left cheek. She smells good. I close my eyes.