“How can you make the bed if I’m in the bed?”
“Good question – get out!”
“I sit in my cube all day and dream of sleeping in, and of course lying next to you my darling.”
“I bet.”
“And then I dream of my Donna making me French toast…MMM. That’s good”
“You have this pretty well planned out. I’ll just let Mrs. Garrett know that her services will no longer be needed.”
“But who’s going to do the housework while we’re making out in this warm bed on a Saturday morning?”
“Well, it’s your dream. It’ll probably just magically get done.”
Donna’s tone lashed Chris to a sitting position. He felt his belly and knew the softness was a symptom of his own laziness.
Chris spent the day doing errands with the last stop being the liquor store. He and Donna were doing Easter dinner at Donna’s parents’ house. She had spent the late afternoon prepping some German potato salad while Chris ambled around town in the rain. He walked into Stadium Liquors trying to think of the name of the takaji digestif that Mrs. Catcher liked so much last Thanksgiving. Her family was Hungarian and Chris was a bit nervous about the choice. Of course Lisa and her mystery train had made a stop in Hungary at one point. Who knew she could be a resource on Hungarian dessert wine, but she was dead on. Chris scored big points. Why not go to the well again?
As he was pacing the shelf with his eyes, he saw he was getting close to somebody’s personal space. Chris glanced over slightly with a quick recoil – it was Jack Dawes, Big Man on Campus. He wasn’t even sure Big Man on Campus was still even a real term or if he had just been living in an alternate universe somewhere between “Charles in Charge” and the “Brady Bunch”. By the late 1990s the Big Man was the first one shot down by the anti-Big Man so perhaps it lost a little cachet. This Big Man looked like he had lost a little cachet and gained a little belly.
“Hey, uh, Chris. How’s it going man?”
“Um Jack, good. Good.”
Chris was a bit of a geek in high school. He got along with everyone, but not enough to be feeling up any cheerleaders like Mr. Dawes.
“So, uh, wha-um, what’s going on?”
“Just picking up some wine for my fiancée.”
“You’re getting married? That’s great!” Jack had the kind of dark eyes that even smiling they’re like a leashed dog you struggle to walk around.
“Yeah, haven’t really set a date, but…What’s up with you?”
“Aw, nothing much. I was picking up some booze for tonight. You know my roommate…you remember, ugh, Scott Brinks? Yeah, we’re living down near Dutton Street.”
Chris couldn’t remember any actual housing over there.
“We’re having a little get together. Some of the guys I used to work with at Amex. If you want to stop by…”
“I’m stacked up tonight. Do you know Flo Li? I think she used to work there.”
“Where? Oh Amex. I don’t know uh, any Foley. I’ve been out for eight months. You know, unemployed.”
“Yeah, there’s so many people out of work. I’m really lucky,” Chris said modestly.
“I hear ya. Well, um, it was good to see you. Say hello to Donna for me.”
“OK.” Chris was extremely curious how Jack knew who his girlfriend was, but it was kind of a downer to see how Mr. Popularity was struggling, so he sped out of the conversation.
As Chris walked out of the store he got a good view of the sun set marching over the soaked trees, dragging pinks and oranges around the clouds.
Chapter 5
-Let’s talk about this offline-
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Easter Sunday was a chilly mess of rain and cars zig-zagging across the Commonwealth. Some front doors were lit up by wreaths and other decorations, but others clung to the dark- evacuated for ham and hopefulness. The Catcher’s home was one of the welcoming ones, though Chris still missed their street most times. Groton was one of those towns that could only be attacked via back-roads. Street signs were tiny or non-existent shoveling travelers deeper into the web of colonial town planning.
Donna’s father, Ron, had retired from an insurance company a couple years prior. Now he had all day to watch their retirement savings tip precariously in the wrong direction. Even the money they had earned by recently downsizing into this split-entry in Groton was shrinking. Mrs. Catcher, Eva, was still working in a doctor’s office all the way down in Wellesley. Ron, like many, didn’t really want to talk about their situation, leaving it with a bow at the White House doorstep to fix. They were pleased to leave the concern to the younger generation conveniently sitting before them.
Peter, as the oldest, was the first to face the questions. Plus Donna’s other brother, Steve, was working the Easter shift for the electric company.
“You know, I don’t know what to say about it. It’s unprecedented, right? Well, in our lifetime.” He was speaking and watching his son, Corey, swish the remaining green beans around his plate. Peter was an engineer who couldn’t be distressed about much. In that way he was outwardly similar to Chris, but the economy was just the beginning of what gnawed at Chris. Maybe if Massachusetts suddenly had chronic earthquake problems Peter would take out stock in Pepto-Bismol, able to reach beyond the layman to understand how dire building collapse could be. Here he was tiptoeing around the financial crisis, but knowing marginally more about finances than his parents, Peter was as steady as ever; and his wife, Jan, waited it all out hoping she wouldn’t be called on. The previous year she had placed Bucharest in Hungary and was told by Eva that, as a teacher, she should probably have known better. Chris agreed, but it made him think about himself. As an accountant, what should he have known about yet continued to fuck up? Well, he knew not to talk about Bucharest.
Chris looked beyond the dinner table, with its eroded mountains of food, to the living room. There were the red painted eggs sitting in a bowl on the coffee table. Their story wasn’t quite reported yet, but dinner also wasn’t over. Chris was sure he had heard it at least twice. Eva was a strong woman who could mind-wrestle you to the floor should her story need retelling. Similar to her mother Donna was mentally tough, but more affable and open-minded like her dad. Chris didn’t grow up with any tradition so seeing colorful decorations and hearing tales of distress was oddly warming in that it all made him feel like a member of this family.
Peter pressed his finger down on his dessert spoon propping up the handle as he continued his thoughts, “Things aren’t easier for us, especially with the activities we’re involved in, but work…” He hesitated for a second, “…seems OK. I don’t foresee any major changes. Chris is the business guy. He probably knows more.” Peter raised his eyebrows in Chris’ direction. Chris kept his face steady. Dirty looks don’t solve problems. Well, maybe for Dirty Harry they did, but instead of a .44 magnum Chris was armed only with his own dessert spoon.
Eva interrupted any senseless violence, “Let’s not talk business before we have some cake.” Things began to shuffle around the table and suddenly the story was reborn. Eva’s accent was light, like powdered sugar sprinkled on top of something already sweet. “Look at what Chris and Donna have brought. Bott, this is good wine. This is from close to where I grew up. My brother, he picked these grapes.” Her eyes were in Hungary in that moment as the cork no longer held the wine back from the story. She was silent as it was poured around in crystal glasses. Eva lifted hers and offered “Egeszsegedre” slowly so they could all repeat. Ron followed with a “Cheers” to satiate the less ecclesiastical Hungarian wine drinkers.
“This tastes like caramel