“Love you,” she’d whisper, and then, “Oh! Capers! I love capers!”
That night, though, the bitter cold had chilled her effervescence somewhat, and she left her gloves on in the store. She moved a little more quickly than usual, and Kevin found himself hustling to keep up with her. Finally, at the prepared foods counter, she squeezed his wrist and said, “Wait here, okay? Don’t move,” and then marched away. Luckily the young woman behind the counter was busy with other customers, so Kevin propped himself on his cart, sweating in his parka, and surveyed the astonishing heaps of glossy foods under the glass: Grilled chicken breasts marinated in lemon. Mushrooms stuffed with spinach and feta. Smoked salmon crostini. Squares of pecan-encrusted tofu like Rice Krispie treats. Turkey meatloaf with hatch chilies, sliced crosswise for easy service. And none of it for under twelve bucks a pound. In his head he writhed with mixed emotions like a gaffed fish: Who can afford to eat like this? and I could make my own salmon crostini for half that — assuming I knew what salmon crostini was and Don’t they know there’s a war on? and And a recession? and I’d kill for a Blimpy burger right now and Okay, the salmon really does look yummy. He thought of McNulty, laughing his ass off at the sight of Kevin, middle-aged, middle-class, docile as a neutered spaniel, waiting to pay $15.99 a pound for salmon on behalf of his much younger girlfriend. He saw his mother, dipping her pinky into her highball glass and licking it, then looking at him over her half-glasses. Pecan-encrusted tofu?
“So, what looks good to you?” a woman said to him.
Kevin looked up, but the girl behind the counter was scooping curried chicken salad into a plastic takeout shell. He turned to see a mother in a parka, holding a bundle in a snowsuit in the crook of one arm and a small wire basket full of groceries hanging from the other. She was watching him wryly, like she knew him, but out of context he couldn’t place her at first — her hair was longer than she’d ever worn it for him, and she’d put on a little weight. The smile she was suppressing crinkled the corners of her eyes. God help me, thought Kevin, my younger ex-girlfriend is middle-aged.
“Beth,” he said.
The crow’s feet crinkled deeper. “You had to think about it, didn’t you?” Still she didn’t smile.
“Sorry.” He pushed himself erect behind his cart.
Now she did smile — mostly friendly, with a hint of I’ve-got-your-number. “How are you?”
“Good!” A little high-pitched, a little too loud. “Great! How are you?”
She mimed a shudder. “Cold.”
“Me too.” His heart was hammering, which surprised him. It wasn’t like he hadn’t already run into her several times the last couple of years, in Shaman Drum or Zingerman’s Roadhouse, or on line at the Michigan Theater. There had even been some stilted e-mails back and forth. When her son was born he had sent her flowers. “You look good,” he said.
“Really?” He could tell she didn’t believe him, but she wanted to. And he was being mostly honest. She was all bundled up in her parka and sweater and scarf, so he couldn’t really check her out, but the way her face had filled out suited her. He even felt a stab of guilt, remembering how gaunt she’d looked in those last months they lived together. Was that my fault, he wondered — her hollow cheeks, the dark skin under her eyes? After all this time he still went back and forth: was he a selfish bastard, or was there no making that woman happy? After all, Kevin thought, Beth couldn’t blame him for her own scary combination of intensity and indecision. But now, flushed in the heat of her winter clothes, she did look good, really, truly. She used to crop her hair boyishly short, but now it fell to her shoulders. Her cheekbones weren’t as sharp as they used to be, but neither were her nerves right on the surface anymore, radiating every tremor of emotion. Her eyes were brighter, warmer.
“Really,” he said. “You look… calmer.”
This he regretted immediately, but she only smiled and hefted the snowsuit bundle. Kevin glimpsed a little spheric section of pink forehead; Beth’s son appeared to be fast asleep inside the cinched hood of his suit.
“You hear that?” she said. “Mommy’s perfectly calm.”
He nearly repeated Stella’s joke about Kenny from South Park, but in the nick of time he remembered that Kenny dies at the end of each episode.
“How’s he doing?” he said instead. What do you say about the four-year-old kid of your ex, who left you to have him after thirteen years together? Especially if you can’t remember the kid’s name?
“It’s a she,” Beth said.
“A she?” Kevin’s brain ground to a halt. He was certain Beth had had a son. Dear God, he thought, how could I misremember that? Okay, so I spaced on his name, but I’m too young to have forgotten the kid’s sex.
“Naomi,” she said, enjoying Kevin’s confusion way too much. “My second child.”
“Whoa.” He couldn’t disguise his surprise. “I didn’t know.”
She shrugged. “No reason you should.”
“How old…?”
“Eighteen months.”
“Huh.” Kevin’s geriatric brain sparked and sizzled uselessly. “Well, she looks very relaxed.”
“She’s like her father that way.” She was looking at the child when she said this, but then she glanced at Kevin.
“Huh.” That name he did know: Noah. A junior professor in… something. A much younger guy than Kevin, younger even by a couple years than Beth. And already the father of two children. Huh.
“Not to bring the conversation to a screeching halt or anything,” Beth said, smiling.
I mean, who’s the injured party here? Kevin wondered. As miserable as I may have made her, in the end she left me. I’m the one who got the push.
“How is he?” he said, slipping about on the high ground. “Noah,” he added. She wasn’t going to do that to him again.
“Busy,” said Beth, still watching him closely. He knew that look, and even now, when it shouldn’t matter anymore what she thought of him, he hated it and feared it. It was the look she gave him when she was measuring him against some private standard in her head. It was a look that already held the expectation that he would disappoint her. The problem was that he never knew what the standard was, and she wouldn’t tell him. It was a look that still made him angry — not the implied judgment itself, but the fact that he still let it get to him.