“I’ll bet,” said Kevin. He had no idea what he meant by that.
“Sir?” The girl behind the counter was speaking to him.
He and Beth nodded at each other, a couple of sparring partners separated for a moment by the ref, catching their breath, gauging each other’s stamina.
“Sir? What can I get you?”
“I think she’s next,” he said, gesturing to Beth, who stepped right up to the counter. “I’d like a couple of slices of the turkey loaf,” she said, lifting her chin at the girl. The bundle on her arm shifted, and through the deep-sea diver porthole of her hood, Kevin could see that young Naomi, daughter of Noah and not-as-young-as-she-used-to-be Beth, younger sister of whathisname, was awake and watching Kevin with cool, blue, unblinking eyes.
Kevin looked quickly away, then back into the kid’s gaze. You don’t know me, Kevin thought, but for a while there, I was supposed to be your father. The child just stared at him, and Kevin thought, Jesus, even the kid’s judging me. He started inching away, without saying goodbye, but then something rattled into his cart — a box of couscous — and he felt a squeeze in the crook of his elbow.
“What looks good to you, sweetie?” Stella twined her arm through his and looked up at him calmly, then let her gaze drift slowly across the platters of chicken, salmon, and tofu. Nothing, he wanted to say, not a goddamn thing. Waiting for you, I’m a stationary target, a sitting duck, a great big bull’s-eye for any ex-girlfriend and her second kid who happens by. But before he could edit this for actual conversation, Beth turned away from the case, where the girl was lifting slices of turkey loaf with a pair of tongs, and Kevin’s ex narrowed her eyes at the young woman who had appeared beside him. She shot Kevin a look that made him blanch, a look that said (and Kevin ought to know) I want you dead, and not just dead, but crusted with pecans, stuffed with feta and spinach, and mounted on a platter with an organic apple in his mouth, sliced crosswise for easy service. Then she smiled and caught Stella’s eye.
“Hi,” she said.
Stella blinked, and said, “Hi” in her professional voice.
Beth looked at Kevin. By now Kevin had recovered enough to give Beth a look that said, You dumped me, remember? When Stella noticed the two of them looking at each other, she looked at Kevin, too.
“Um,” said Kevin.
“He’s too embarrassed to speak,” Beth said, hefting her child to show that she couldn’t shake hands, “but I’m Beth.”
There should have been a little rising inflection at the end of that, thought Kevin, at least the implication of a question mark. What made Beth think Stella should recognize the name? What made her think he’d ever uttered her name to his new lover? But he had, of course, and instantly Stella opened her eyes as wide as they would go.
“Oh, hi!” And still clutching Kevin with one hand, she squeezed Beth on the sleeve with her leather glove. Naomi twisted in her mother’s arm, swiveling her porthole toward Stella.
“Oh my God!” cried Stella, a whole octave higher. “Who’s this little cutie?” Her gloved hand floated in the air, and Beth swung the kid a little closer to Stella, who tugged on one of her blunt appendages.
“That’s Naomi,” Kevin said, before Beth could. My archenemy. My judge. My replacement.
“She’s so adorable.” For some reason Stella was clutching Kevin even tighter. “How old is she?”
“Eighteen months.” Beth let her eyes slide toward the counter, where the girl was holding her turkey loaf.
“Oh, let me!” Stella lunged for the container and slid it into Beth’s basket, all without letting go of Kevin.
“Thanks,” said Beth.
“Kev,” Stella said, tugging on Kevin, “don’t you think Naomi looks just like Kenny?”
Beth looked at him, and he could tell she was thinking, Kev?
But Stella just beamed at Beth. “I was just telling Kevin how much he looked like Kenny from South Park in his hood.” She tugged again at Naomi’s foot or whatever it was. “But you look just like him, don’t you, munchkin?”
Beth looked skeptically at Stella. “Isn’t Kenny the one who dies every episode?”
God help me, thought Kevin, but her crow’s feet are sexy.
Stella gasped and pressed her leather fingers to her mouth. She blushed. “Oh my God!” She gasped again and reached across Kevin and squeezed Beth’s arm. “I didn’t mean… oh, I’m so sorry!”
Even through her gloves and the stuffing of his parka, Kevin could feel Stella’s nails digging into his flesh.
“I didn’t mean that!” she was saying.
“I know,” Beth smiled. “It’s okay.”
Still, Kevin thought, she’s enjoying this. Point, Beth.
“I feel just awful!” Stella looked up at Kevin, as if to say, do something. She was squeezing his arm so hard he was losing the feeling in his fingers.
“Well,” he said, “Kenny always comes back in the next episode.”
“That’s right!” said Stella. In a minute she was going to drag him to his knees.
“The eternal return,” said Kevin, almost a philosophy major. “The phoenix rising from the ashes.”
Beth pursed her lips at him. Point, Kev.
“The ouroboros,” he said.
“The Euro-what?” said Stella.
“You asshole,” says Joy Luck.
She’s stopped short, and Kevin nearly blunders into her, swiveling away on the ball of his foot at the last moment. Without realizing it, he’s followed her out of the forest of shelves and into the archipelago of specialty islands, where shoppers carrying baskets are grazing at buffet tables and edging up to rounded counters with signs over them that say SPECIALTY ARTISAN CHEESES and CHARCUTERIE. Jesus Christ, thinks Kevin, insinuating himself between two young women at a buffet table, Charcuterie? Can’t they just say “deli meats” like a normal grocery store? Even the buffet he’s stepped up to can’t just be a buffet — GOURMET FLAVORS says the sign. He swipes his hand over his hair — damp with sweat — and blows out a sigh, as if he’s trying to decide between the heirloom tomato gazpacho or the ancho honey glazed pineapple. Under his elbow he glances back at Joy Luck, to make sure she’s not talking to him.
“You asshole,” she says again, even louder.
She’s radiating anger like a tuning fork, but her back, thank God, is to Kevin. Her fists are balled and her shoulders are hunched, like she’s ready to start swinging. The muscles in her long neck are pulled tight. She’s attracting the glances of other shoppers, who are oh-so-subtly veering around her. Her rage is being beamed — though Kevin can’t see her eyes — at a tall boy in a white, double-breasted smock and chef’s cap standing behind yet another curved counter, under a sign that says, in silver letters, TRATTORIA. It’s a little Italian café right in the middle of the store, with a blond wood counter and high, blond wood chairs. The tall guy is tending to some pots on a small stove behind the counter; he has a long nose and a narrow jaw and a frozen smile, and his eyes are dodging from side to side under Joy Luck’s murderous gaze. The muffin top of his cap is only a foot below the lower edge of the sign, which hangs over him at the moment like the blade of a guillotine. He’s holding a large wooden spoon stained with red, but even so he looks utterly defenseless against the focused rage of Joy Luck, who seems, even from behind, all sinew, claws, and teeth. Even the sexy little apple at the small of her back looks poisonous.