Keep Dancing Page 6

  “Some Bo would be great. Okay, let me get going on this.” I shooed him out of the kitchen. “Meredith told me exactly what to do. I’m just going to get something in the oven.”

  I turned the dial to 325, unwrapped the Cornish hens and dropped them into the foil pan. They make a loud thunk as they landed. After cutting some chunks of butter on the birds, I stuck the pan in the oven and placed the box of rice and can of beans on the counter. I put the ice cream into the freezer, which was totally bare except for a bottle of vodka. Then I took the rubber-banded bundle of carrots and started washing them in the sink.

  “Now which one reminds you of me?” Jack asked, coming back into the room. He looked over my shoulder as I scrubbed.

  I pretended to think about it and poked through the bunch. “This one,” I said, holding up the puniest carrot I could find.

  “Hey, that’s the runt of the litter. Surely I’m better than that. What about this?” He pointed to a thick, nubby stub.

  “Nah. Maybe this.” I held up a gnarled tuber.

  “Ooh, that’s ugly.”

  “Actually, here you are.” I pulled out the longest one. “Except you’re much bigger around.”

  “Well thank you, I guess.” He gave a wry grin, creating those handsome creases around his mouth. “I try to please.”

  “You do please.”

  “I could tell. Baby, last night you were squeezin’ me johnson so—”

  “I get the picture,” I said.

  “We could do that again, as soon as we eat.” He examined the carrot. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to have two,” he said, stuffing it into his jeans. “How does that look?”

  I laughed at the twin bulges in his crotch. “Very strange. But kind of intriguing.”

  He grabbed me and walked me backward. “Imagine what I could do with two of these,” he said, lifting me onto the countertop. “Just think of the possibilities.”

  An hour and forty minutes later, I remembered the hens. “I’ve got to check on dinner,” I said, sitting up in bed.

  Jack smiled at me lazily. “Hurry back.”

  “No, I need to get going on things. It should be ready in about half an hour.” Meredith had told me to let the poultry sit while I prepared the side dishes.

  “All right, after dinner then.” Jack got up to put on his jeans, sans underwear as usual. “Let me know if you need any help.”

  I pulled his “Better Living Through Chemistry” tee-shirt over my head and went into the kitchen. I would have thought there would be a nice roasting smell by now. I opened the oven and checked the hens, but they didn’t look the slightest bit brown. I felt inside the oven; Yep, the heat’s on. Using two kitchen towels, I lifted the foil pan and put it on the stovetop. The chickens felt cold to the touch. What am I doing wrong? I opened the oven door and put my hand in again. Definitely there was heat. Maybe Meredith forgot how long they take to cook.

  I put the pan back in the oven, turned the temperature up to 400, and put water on to boil for the rice. The chickens would probably be another twenty minutes, which was exactly how long the rice needed to simmer, apparently. So that would actually work out fine. I figured the green beans would only need about ten minutes to heat up. Really, this whole cooking thing seemed to be about timing.

  I boiled the rice on high as the box instructed, and turned the burner down low. Only then did I notice that I was supposed to use two cups of water for every cup of rice. My mother never measured anything, so I didn’t realize you were supposed to. Oh well, it looks about right. I’ll just boil off any extra water at the end.

  Jack came into the kitchen for another beer. “I was going to ask you to open some wine,” I said. “To go with dinner.”

  “Sure. What are you making?” He pulled a bottle of white out of the fridge.

  “Take a look.” I opened the oven a crack.

  “Is that squab?” he asked, peering in, his thick hair falling into his eyes. “I love squab. I haven’t had that in ages.”

  “I guess it’s squab. Meredith called it something else.” If he wants to call a Cornish hen a squab, that’s fine with me. I wonder if a squab is a pheasant.

  “When will it be done? I worked up an appetite back there,” he said, jerking his chin toward the bedroom.

  “In about ten minutes.” I checked on the rice; there was still a lot of water in the pot, so no rush on that. I decided to go ahead and heat up the green beans. “Can you find me your can opener?”

  Jack started yanking drawers open. “I must have one in here somewhere,” he said. After an exhaustive search, he concluded that he did not. “I’ll get those beans out. Hand me the towels.”

  I gave him two dishtowels and he stacked them on the counter, then put the can on top. He went to get a big knife and jabbed it into the lid. Bean juice squirted all over the place.

  “Don’t hurt yourself,” I warned. “It’s not worth it. We don’t have to have a vegetable.”

  “You went to all this trouble; I’m gonna get it open.” Jack pulled out the knife and punched it in again. Finally he got half the lid cut through. He pried it up and poured the contents into a small pot.

  “There’s your beans,” he said, presenting it to me with a flourish. I clicked a back burner and put them on the flame, then opened the oven door again and slid the pan toward me. The hens, or squabs, were getting brown on the outside, but beneath the dark patches they were still pink.

  “Good, they’re finally cooking.” I turned it down to 350. “That should be ready in a few minutes.”

  But over the next quarter-hour, as I moved the pan back and forth on the rack to check, they just didn’t seem to be getting done, as far as I could tell. I could still see patches of pink below the skin, which was now very dark; almost black.

  “Is the oven working?” I asked. “It feels like it’s on, but I think it might be a hundred degrees off. This is taking forever.” The water for my rice had long boiled away, and I was keeping it warm in its pot. I had turned off the beans too, as they had started to percolate in their juices.

  “It worked fine the last time Sammy used it for those slice cookies,” Jack said. “He put it on whatever temperature they cook at, and they were done in ten minutes flat.”

  “Maybe something’s happened to the wiring since then. Something’s definitely wrong.” I slid the pan across the rack yet again, astounded to see that the meat still did not look white beneath the blackened crust.

  Jack tossed his beer bottle and poured us both a glass of wine. “If they’re not done soon, let’s order something. I’m starving.”

  It was a logical idea, but it sort of pissed me off. “It’ll be ready soon. You really should get the oven looked at.”

  Jack shrugged and took a gulp of wine. I downed mine and opened the oven door again. This time when I dragged the pan across the rack, something dripped and smoke began belching out. Quickly I slammed the door as the alarm began to shriek.

  “Can you shut that off?” I shouted over the din.

  Jack pulled a chair over to the wall and banged at the alarm with a spatula. It fell and hung dangling from a wire, mercifully silenced. “I’ll get the super up here to fix that, and also check the oven,” he muttered.

  “Maybe I should call Vicky. She cooks once in a while.” I went to dial her number, glad to escape from the kitchen for a minute. To my relief, she picked up the phone.

  “Hi, it’s me. Listen, I’m at Jack’s. I’m trying to roast some Cornish hens…No, it was Meredith’s idea,” I replied. “But they don’t seem to be cooking. The rice and green beans have been ready for ages.”

  “Maybe you didn’t defrost them enough. How long did you leave them out?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “I brought them right home and put them in the oven.”

  “Julia, were they frozen?”

  I thought for a moment. “They did seem kind of hard.”

  Vicky made a strangling sound.

  “Don�
�t you dare laugh! I’ve spent three hours trying to make this damned meal. And now smoke’s pouring out of the oven because I rubbed a hole in the foil pan, I checked it so many times.” Over in the kitchen, Jack was waving a towel around.

  “Here’s my advice: Eat vegetarian tonight.”

  “I think I’ll go ahead and serve them, and we’ll see.”

  I hung up and went back to the kitchen. When I opened the oven, it emitted an odiferous puff. Jack stifled a cough behind his hand.

  “I’m going to take this out and check if it’s cooked enough. At least we can have the other stuff if it isn’t.”

  I put a towel under the pan so it wouldn’t leak black drippings on the floor, and put it into the sink to drain. I got out two plates, speared a charred hen onto each, and scooped a good portion of the rice and green beans on the side.

  “Why don’t we eat on the couch?” Jack said.

  “Yes, it’s way too smoky in here.” We carried our plates out front, Jack pouring us each another glass of wine. I watched as he cut into his chicken and put a piece in his mouth. He chewed slowly and swallowed.

  “Not bad,” he said, taking a big sip of his drink. “Not much different from the last squab I had.”

  Heartened by his reaction, I took a bite of mine—and immediately spat it out. “Oh, that’s horrible!” I seized my glass and took a huge gulp to wash out the execrable taste. Burnt to a crisp on the outside, the meat was raw and, amazingly, still cold beneath its blackened surface. “Don’t eat it! You might get sick.” I snatched up both our plates, took them to the kitchen and threw the meat into the trashcan. I scraped the rice and beans onto clean dishes and brought them back to where Jack was sitting.

  “At least we can have the rest of our meal.” I took a forkful of the rice. A gummier mess I’d never had in my mouth; gummy and, I realized, somehow still uncooked, as I crunched down on several tough grains.

  “Don’t bother trying to eat this.” Tears came to my eyes.

  “The beans are delicious,” Jack said, chewing a mouthful.

  “Oh, it’s all awful.” I jumped up and took our plates to the kitchen.

  Jack followed me in. “Maybe something is wrong with the oven. I’ll get somebody to look at it. All right with you if I order Chinese?”

  “I’ll have some too. It’s probably not the oven; Vicky said I should have defrosted the hens first.”

  Jack shrugged. “That never would have occurred to me, either.”

  The next morning, Meredith stopped by. Quickly I slid the Post, my secret vice, inside a copy of the New York Times.

  “How’d it go with the Cornish hens?” she asked.

  I hesitated for a moment. “They caught on like a house on fire.”

  Chapter Six

  Kid

  “Crikey, look at all the bugs!” Oliver shouted. We’d just gotten back from picking him up at the airport with Jack’s driver, Rick. Although it was only late afternoon, I already felt tired. Ollie had peppered us with questions about what we were going to do (“Anything your heart desires,” Jack said with a fond smile); whether he could see the Statue of Liberty (“I’m sure that can be arranged”); and if he and Jack could shoot a fish off the Empire State Building (“Err, probably not”). Once we got through the tunnel, Ollie began exclaiming about the sights on Manhattan’s slushy streets.

  “What’s that guy doing?” He pointed to a man carrying a dripping stick with a dirty sponge taped to it.

  “That’s a squeegee. He wants to wipe the windshield with it,” Jack said as Rick edged the car forward at the stoplight. The man followed, gesticulating angrily.

  “Why doesn’t Rick let him?” Ollie wanted to know.

  Rick turned around in the front seat. “Because he’ll only make it dirtier.”

  “What’s he doing now?” The guy had grabbed the radio antenna and was bending it down toward the hood.

  “He’s upset that he didn’t get a tip,” Jack said as the car roared through the red light. “Next time, give ’im a fiver,” he added to Rick.

  Now that we were in the apartment, Ollie was gesturing wildly at the praying mantises, making the tiny green creatures scrabble to the opposite side of the mesh cage.

  “That was my Christmas present from Julia.” Jack went to stand beside him. “Isn’t it great?”

  “Can I play with them?” Ollie looked up at Jack, his brown eyes sparkling, one eyebrow lifted. If I didn’t know better, I, too, would have thought he was Jack’s love child.

  Jack put his hand on Ollie’s shoulder. “They’re too young to play with, but maybe we can let one out of the cage for a while next week, when they’re bigger. They’re fun to watch.”

  “I love bugs!” Ollie shouted.

  The mantises scuttled frantically into a corner, piling up on each other.

  “Indoor voice, please, Ollie,” I said, recalling what Sharon had repeatedly told him.

  “I don’t have an indoor voice!”

  After a bowl of spaghetti with butter, two ice cream cones, and a giant lollipop, Oliver chased Jack around the apartment playing tag as I tried to get some editing done in the bedroom. Jack came in, panting. “I think I’ve finally worn him out,” he said. “Time to get him to bed.” He went into the walk-in closet and came out with sheets and a pillow. Although Jack’s loft was huge, it had only one bedroom, so we planned to put Ollie on the fold-out couch.

  “I’ll come say goodnight.” I put my pages aside.

  “Want to read him some Henry and Beezus?” Jack had been working with a dyslexia tutor for several months, ever since his reading problem was identified. Now he was making his way through the Beverly Cleary novels, which I had loved as a kid. I hadn’t met the tutor yet; she came in the early afternoons when I was at work. She must be really good though, because Jack had made incredible progress.

  “You don’t want to read it yourself?” I asked.

  “Why don’t you? Me eyes are a bit fagged.” He switched to his native Cockney.

  I got the book and went out to the couch, which Jack had already unfolded. We spread the sheets and Ollie clambered in between us. After a few pages, he climbed onto my lap to better see the pictures. I could feel his heart beating against my chest like a little wild animal’s. I wasn’t sure if he’d want me to, but I cuddled him close until his head began to nod. It felt nice to hold his small, warm body. Jack’s arm was around my shoulder, his long lithe frame stretched out beside me.

  “Let’s get him tucked in,” Jack whispered.

  As I eased Ollie onto the sheets, his eyes popped open. “I always sleep with Budgie. Did Mum remember to pack her?”

  “I’m sure she did. It’s his favorite stuffed animal,” Jack said to me. He knelt to poke through Ollie’s bag and then straightened up. “I don’t see it in here. You’ll be all right without it.”

  “I can’t sleep without Budgie!” Ollie sat up, wide-eyed. “She’s my lovey!”

  “Hang on.” Jack hurried back to the bedroom. I was starting to feel bleary, having gotten up at five a.m. to finish reading a manuscript. Jack came back with something yellow and frizzy bundled under his arm. “This is my lovey,” he said. I saw what it was; the scuzzy blonde wig that was usually crammed onto a shelf in his closet. “I’ll let you borrow it while you’re here. It’s nice and soft, isn’t it?” He rolled it into a ball and tucked it in next to Ollie. “I call her…” He looked at me for help.

  “Frowsy?” I suggested.

  “Blondie,” he said firmly. “Her name is Blondie.”

  “She’s nice and soft,” Ollie murmured, snuggling into the wig. His eyes began to close. Jack put his finger to his lips, dimmed the lamp, and gestured for me to follow.

  “God, all day I’ve been dying for it,” Jack said as he picked up speed. I felt the sinews shifting in his back, his shoulders flexing with tension. “I can’t hold off much longer.”

  “Try not to make any noise,” I said, grabbing him tightly.

  “He won’t wa
ke up. Ahh…” Jack’s voice became a moan. It rose in pitch as he moved faster, building toward his climax. “I’m gonna—”

  The doorknob rattled. “Uncle Jack!”

  I snatched at the sheets as Jack quickly pushed up off me. I managed to cover my chest before Jack opened the door, holding a tee-shirt over his groin. Ollie burst into the room. “What happened? I heard someone crying!”

  Jack plopped down on the edge of the bed. “I was just—having a dream.” He rubbed his face tiredly.

  “Can I stay here? Blondie’s itchy.”

  Jack looked at me. “I don’t think we’ll get any rest otherwise.”

  “All right. But can he sleep on your side?” I whispered.

  “Sure.” Jack moved to the middle of the bed. “C’mon, Ollie. It’ll be like that time we went camping.”

  Ollie scrambled onto the pillow next to Jack. “I knew this trip was going to be great!”

  I awoke at my usual early hour, feeling Jack’s warm hand cupping my breast. Mmmm, he probably wants a quick toss before I go to work. Instead of being tired, I was really in the mood for it. I stretched, arms over my head in the darkness, feeling my nipple harden as his fingers squeezed me gently. I rolled to my side to reach under the covers—and jerked away as a small body snuggled against my hip. Oh my god, I forgot Ollie was in bed with us! He must have switched places with Jack in the night. I removed the sleeping kid’s hand from my boob and slid out from under the covers. Good god, I almost… I shook my head at the thought. He’ll have to stay on his side of the bed tonight. Maybe I can barricade myself with pillows, I thought as I got dressed in the bathroom.

  They were both still asleep when I tiptoed out of the apartment for my early-morning jog. Before I left, I tucked a twenty-dollar bill into my sneaker tongue; a New York City runner’s trick so I’d have something to hand over if I got mugged. I came back an hour later, my face numb from the cold. Quickly I showered and left for work, leaving Jack and Ollie snoring lightly on the pillows.