“God, stop, stop,” Robin squeaked, “that’s our new lettuce.”
Then Brian was home and they started taking stupid chances. Robin explained to Erin that Denise hadn’t felt well and had needed to lie down in the bedroom. There was a feverish episode in the pantry at Panama Street while Brian read Ε. Β. White aloud not twenty feet away. Finally, a week before Labor Day, there came a morning in the director’s office at the Garden Project when the weight of two bodies on Robin’s antique wooden desk chair snapped its back off. They were laughing when they heard Brian’s voice.
Robin jumped up and unlocked the door and opened it in one motion, to conceal that it had been locked. Brian was holding a basket of speckled green erections. He was surprised — but delighted, as always — to see Denise. “What’s going on in there?”
Denise knelt by Robin’s desk, her shirt untucked. “Robin’s chair broke,” she said. “I’m licking a take at Robin’s chair.”
“I asked Denise if she could fix it!” Robin squeaked.
“What are you doing here?” Brian asked Denise, very curious.
“I had the same thought you had,” she said. “Zucchini.”
“Sara said nobody was here.”
Robin was edging away. “I’ll go talk to her. She should know when I’m here.”
“How did Robin break that?” Brian asked Denise.
“I don’t know,” she said. She had the bad child’s impulse to cry when caught red-handed.
Brian picked up the top half of the chair. He had never specifically reminded Denise of her father, but she was pierced now by the resemblance to Alfred in his intelligent sympathy for the broken object. “This is good oak,” he said. “Weird it should just suddenly break.”
She rose from her knees and wandered into the hall, stuffing shirt into pants as she went. She kept wandering until she was outside and got into her car. She drove up Bainbridge Street to the river. Pulled up to a galvanized guardrail and killed the engine by letting out the clutch, let the car lurch into the guardrail and bounce back dead, and now, finally, she broke down and cried about the broken chair.
Her head was clearer when she returned to the Generator. She saw that she was in the weeds on every front. There were unanswered phone messages from a food writer at the Times, from an editor at Gourmet, and from the latest restaurateur hoping to steal Brian’s chef. A thousand dollars’ worth of unrotated duck breasts and veal chops had gone bad in the walk-in. Everybody in the kitchen knew and nobody had told her that a needle had turned up in the employee bathroom. The pastry chef claimed to have left Denise a pair of handwritten notes, presumably salary-related, that Denise had no memory of seeing.
“Why is nobody ordering country ribs?” Denise asked Rob Zito. “Why are the waiters not pushing my phenomenally delicious and unusual country ribs?”
“Americans don’t like sauerkraut,” Zito said.
“The hell they don’t. I’ve seen my reflection in the plates coming back when people order it. I’ve counted my eyelashes.”
“It’s possible we get some German nationals in here,” Zito said. “German passport-holders may be responsible for those clean plates.”
“Is it possible you don’t like sauerkraut yourself?”
“It’s an interesting food,” Zito said.
She didn’t hear from Robin and she didn’t call her. She gave the Times an interview and let herself be photographed, she stroked the pastry chef’s ego, she stayed late and bagged up the spoiled meats in privacy, she fired the dishwasher who’d tied off in the John, and every lunch and every dinner she dogged the line and troubleshot.
On Labor Day: deadness. She made herself leave her office and went walking in the empty hot city, bending her steps, in her loneliness, toward Panama Street. She had a liquid Pavlovian response when she saw the house. The brownstone facade was still a face, the door still a tongue. Robin’s car was in the street but Brian’s wasn’t; they’d gone to Cape May. Denise rang the bell, although she could already tell, from a dustiness around the door, that nobody was home. She let herself in with the dead-bolt key on which she’d written “R/B.” She walked up two flights to the parental bedroom. The house’s expensive retrofitted central air conditioner was doing its job, the cool canned-smelling air contending with Labor Day sunbeams. As she lay down on the unmade parental bed, she remembered the smell and the quiet of the St. Judean summer afternoons when she would be left alone in the house and could be, for a couple of hours, as weird as she wanted. She brought herself off. She lay on the snarled sheets, a slice of sunlight falling on her chest. She took a second helping of herself and stretched her arms luxuriantly. Beneath a parental pillow, she scratched her hand on the foil corner of something like a condom wrapper.
It was a condom wrapper. Torn and empty. She actually whimpered as she pictured the penetrative act it attested to. She actually clutched her head.
She scrambled out of the bed and smoothed her dress across her hips. She scanned the sheets for other sickening surprises. Well, of course a married couple had sex. Of course. But Robin had told her that she wasn’t on the Pill, she’d said that she and Brian no longer fooled around enough to bother; and all summer long Denise had seen and tasted and smelled no trace of a husband on her lover’s body, and so she’d let herself forget the obvious.
She knelt at the wastebasket by Brian’s dresser. She stirred Kleenexes, ticket stubs, and segments of floss and found another condom wrapper. Hatred of Robin, hatred and jealousy, were coming on like a migraine. She went into the master-bedroom bathroom and found two more wrappers and a knotted rubber in the can beneath the sink.
She actually hit her temples with her fists. She heard the breath in her teeth as she ran down the stairs and let herself out into the late afternoon. The temperature was ninety and she was shivering. Weirdness, weirdness. She hiked back to the Generator and let herself in at the loading dock. She inventoried oils and cheeses and flours and spices, drew up meticulous order sheets, left twenty voice-mail messages in a wry and articulate and civilized voice, did her e-mail chores, fried herself a kidney on the Garland, chased it with a single shot of grappa, and called a cab at midnight.
Robin showed up in the kitchen unannounced the next morning. She was wearing a big white shirt that appeared to have been Brian’s. Denise’s stomach flipped at the sight of her. She led her back to the executive chef’s office and shut the door.
“I can’t do this anymore,” Robin said.
“Good, neither can I, so.”
Robin’s face was all blotch. She scratched her head and scrunched up her nose with tic-like incessancy and pushed on the bridge of her glasses. “I haven’t been to church since June,” she said. “Sinéad’s caught me in about ten different lies. She wants to know why you’re never around. I don’t even know half the kids turning up at the Project lately. Everything’s a mess, and I just can’t do it anymore.”
Denise choked out a question: “How’s Brian?”
Robin blushed. “He doesn’t know anything. He’s the same as always. You know — he likes you, he likes me.”
“I bet.”
“Things have gotten weird.”
“Well, and I’ve got a lot of work here, so.”
“Brian never did anything bad to me. He didn’t deserve this.”