The Hole in the Middle

Chapter 19: FRIDAY, DECEMBER 9, 2011

I rush out of the meeting room as the committee breaks up, pausing only to whisper congratulations in Lil’s ear and to promise to see her at her party on Saturday night. She shoots me a sympathetic look, but doesn’t try to stop me.

In my office, I scoop up a file of all of the things that I’m not going to read tonight, and I inform Joy that I’ll be working at home this afternoon to prepare for tomorrow’s shoot. Joy doesn’t believe me, but she won’t undermine me this time; I’ve just given her license to surf the internet all afternoon with no threat of discovery. And after Barry’s poisonous send-off, I feel blessedly free of guilt despite the fact that I plan to spend the entire afternoon preparing for a dinner party.

There was a time in grad school when, suffering from a mild form of writer’s block which may have resulted from a fundamental lack of interest in my topic, I spent what any objective observer would have said was too much time playing Tetris. Tetris is a simple video game that involves putting falling puzzle pieces in exactly the right spot in a limited window of time. Eventually, I had to go cold turkey on Tetris, but the closest equivalent I have found in recent years is in the design of a perfect menu for a dinner party of friends. The initial request for dietary restrictions always unearths the usual religious and cultural prohibitions, but then there are the vegetarians, or God-forbid, the vegans, and the lactose-intolerant, and those afflicted with various and sundry allergies to ingredients like barley or blueberries. The trick is to have a constellation of dishes in which any one person can eat at least three of them.

I’m thrilled that Richard isn’t coming, not just because he is a notorious conversation hog, but also because he is a vegan. Without him, I have a group I can work with. Those who can eat everything will feast on warm goat cheese salad, beef tenderloin, mushroom risotto, wilted rapini, and pear tart with whipped cream. The vegetarians can eat everything except the beef; the lactose-intolerant can eat everything except the risotto and the whipped cream; and Anya, who is apparently “sensitive” to dairy and garlic can just suck it up.

I make it home with the groceries just before three o’clock. First up is the pear tart, and by four-thirty, I have a perfect little round of homemade pastry browning in the oven. So many people just buy dessert these days, but they are really missing out on the tactile satisfaction of baking. I love the measuring, the rolling, the patting; it takes me back to the best parts of childhood.

Next I assemble the little patties of goat cheese for the salads. I mince herbs and coat the cheese with them, and then throw some slightly stale bread in the food processor to make fresh crumbs. I bread the goat cheese patties and put them in the fridge so that I can bake them just before serving. Then I whip up a delicate citrus vinaigrette, which also goes into the fridge. I’m making excellent time, congratulating myself when I hear the door open.

“Hello?” I call, but hear only a strange thumping sound from the front porch. I wipe my hands on my apron and head to the front door to investigate, where I am nearly taken out by the business end of a Christmas tree being pushed, battering-ram style, through the front door.

“Yikes!” I shout, leaping out of the way, and Jesse’s head appears at the other end of the tree.

“Oops. Sorry about that,” he says.

“I wasn’t expecting you for another hour,” I say. “You escaped from the office?”

“I thought you could probably use some help with the party prep.”

“Fantastic,” I say, concealing my surprise. Jesse isn’t usually this adept at anticipating my needs when it comes to entertaining, and it’s a development to be encouraged. “But why don’t you just stick the tree in the garage for now, and we’ll put it up on the weekend?”

“No, no,” says Jesse. “I want to put it up for the party. Don’t you think that would be great? I’m just going to run down to the basement and find the stand. Do you know where it is?”

“In the storage room,” I say. “But Jess, are you sure we have time for this?”

“Of course,” says Jesse. “People are coming at seven, right? It’s only five-thirty now. Lots of time.” And he disappears down the basement stairs.

I exhale forcefully and adjust my shoulders down. Jesse is right. There’s lots of time, and the Christmas tree is always beautiful. I put the dried morels for the risotto into some hot water to soak, and am washing the rapini when I hear a crash and a shout from the basement.

“Are you alright?” I call down the stairs.

Jesse appears, limping. “The f*cking stand fell on my foot,” he says. “Jesus, Sophie! Why did you leave it up against the wall like that? I moved the toboggans and it tipped over. I nearly lost a toe down there!”

“As I said,” I say stiffly, “Are you sure that this is a good time to put up the tree?”

“It’ll take ten minutes,” he says. “I just need you to give me a hand.”

I follow Jesse into the living room. He points to the corner by the window. “That’s where we usually put it, right?”

“No. We usually put it over there.” I point to the opposite corner. “But we can put it here. It doesn’t really matter.”

“OK, then. Help me move the armchair?”

We clear a spot for the tree and Jesse puts the stand in place. “Good,” he says. “Now, I just need you to hold the tree while I screw the supports in. Can you get me a screwdriver?”

I run down to the basement, find a screwdriver and run back up to find Jesse holding the tree up with an expression of pure exasperation. “Did you have to go to the hardware store? How hard is it to find a screwdriver in the basement?”

I bite back the very unpleasant comment that I’m tempted to make and say instead, “It’s just about six, Jesse. I need to get back to the cooking.”

“Hold the tree and we’ll be done before you know it.” Jesse gets down on his belly under the tree and starts twisting the first support. His soft grunts emanate up through the pine needles. “Is it straight?”

“It’s hard to tell standing right next to it, but I think so.”

Jesse moves to the next screw and then the next one. He slithers out to examine his handiwork. “Goddamn it! It’s leaning to the left. Push it right!”

I try to fix the angle, but the tree is locked in place. Jesse mutters and gets back under the tree, which vibrates as he wrenches the right support loose. He climbs out and looks again. He’s sweating and there are pine needles in his hair. “Hold it exactly like that. Don’t let it move!” He dives under the tree again, and I hold on for dear life as the tree sways with the violence of whatever Jesse is doing to its trunk. I am reminded, as I am every year, that nothing says “why did I marry this man?” like putting up a tree together.

“Perfect,” he pronounces, surveying the tree with obvious pride. “Now for the decorations.” He looks at me expectantly.

“You’re on your own, pal,” I say. “Dinner party in forty-five minutes. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

“OK, fair enough. Just tell me where the ornaments are.”

“Upstairs closet, top shelf,” I say.

I’m browning shallots for the risotto when Jesse reappears. “Didn’t you hear me calling you?” he asks.

“Nope,” I say, pointing to the fan about the stove. “What’s the problem?”

“I found a box of ornaments but no lights.”

“Same shelf, in a garbage bag.”

He sighs heavily. “Why didn’t you say so?”

I add morels and porcini mushrooms and stir them while they soften.

“Do we have an extension cord?” Jesse calls from the living room.

“Hanging on the back of the furnace room door,” I call back, and add the arborio rice and some vegetable stock. Jesse darts into the kitchen to grab the stepladder.

“Smells awesome,” he says. “Can I borrow you for a second?”

“No can do,” I say. “The rice is in the pan. The cardinal rule of risotto is that you can’t turn your back once the rice is in.” I pour a couple of ladles of stock into the pan.

“OK. I’ll manage,” he says, but ten minutes later, I hear a shout of alarm and I sprint into the living room. “It’s tilting!” he says, eyes wide.

“Hold it,” I say, “I’ll be right back.” I race to the risotto, pour the remaining stock in and give it a good stir.

We adjust the tree again and I stand while Jesse looks for a diagnosis. “Aha! The shim slipped.” He rummages around for a few minutes and emerges with a glow of victory. “It won’t be going anywhere now!” He hands me the star for the top of the tree. “I know you’re picky about the placement of the star. Go to it. I’ll spot you.”

I reach up and feel Jesse’s hands resting on my waist. It’s lovely, and for the first time in ages, I wish that we could forget the whole dinner party and race upstairs to bed. But then an acrid smell wafts in from the kitchen, and I leap off the stepladder, leaving the star askew, and bolt to the stove. Smoke is rising from the pan, curling around the edges of the dense risotto. “Oh no, no, no,” I say, as I pull it from the heat and reach in with a spoon to assess the damage. About two thirds of the risotto comes out easily; the rest is caked to the bottom of the pan. I taste the rescued portion, which is a bit dry but still tasty.

Jesse appears by my side. “Oh, shit. Sorry about that,” he says. “How bad is it?” And as I open my mouth to answer, the smoke alarm goes off. I cover my ears as Jesse grabs a broom from the closet. He knocks the smoke alarm off the ceiling with one swing and beats it with the broom handle until it stops shrieking, suggesting that he is expelling some residual frustration from the Christmas tree project.

“Feel better?” I ask, looking at the mangled plastic on the floor.

“Much,” he says. “What’s the risotto situation?”

“It’s not enough to feed everyone,” I say. “I’m going to have to make risotto cakes to make it stretch. Do you think that will be OK?”

“Of course,” he says. “It will be terrific. By the way, where are the kids?”

“Oh, right, the kids,” I say. “I forgot about them.”

“You forgot about them?”

I roll my eyes, and then catch myself. I heard about a study on the radio that predicted marital success by watching couples interact. Eye rolling was singled out as fatal evidence of underlying contempt, which caused marriages to fail in statistically significant numbers. “I’m kidding, honey,” I say. “They’re sleeping over at my mom’s.”

“Oh,” he says. “Anyway, the tree’s done and it looks great, so I’m going to jump in the shower before the guests arrive.”

I fill the dishwasher and put the ruined pan in the sink to soak while I regroup. I put the risotto in a bowl and set it aside, and take the beef out of the fridge to bring it to room temperature. I’m assembling a cheese tray when I glance at the clock and realize that I’m out of time. I sprint upstairs, strip off my sweats and throw on a dress and some tights. I run a comb through my hair and am digging through my makeup kit for some inspiration when the doorbell rings. “Can you get that?” I call to Jesse.

“I’m wearing a towel,” he calls back. “Sorry.”

I loop a few strands of beads around my neck as I dash downstairs and throw open the door to our neighbors, Mike and Claire, who live across the street. “Come on in,” I say. “It’s so great to see you!”

Claire gives me a big hug. “It’s been way too long!” she says. She steps back. “I know I’m not supposed to say this, but you look tired.”

“That’s just because you don’t usually see me without concealer under my eyes. I’m fine. What can I get you to drink?”

I get them settled in the living room, admiring the tree, when the bell rings again.

“Oh, thank god,” I say, finding Zoe standing in the doorway. “I need to put you to work.”

“I’m all yours,” she says. “Is he here yet?”

“Will? No. How are you doing, by the way?”

“Mostly enraged, with moments of sadness, which is probably better than the reverse. But I don’t want to talk about it tonight. Much like the way you don’t want to talk about what’s going on with Will.” She lifts one eyebrow and gives me a penetrating look.

“Not now, Zoe. We’ll find some time this weekend, I promise. I have to go into the office tomorrow for the holiday ad shoot; maybe we could meet after that. Let’s connect in the morning once I have a better sense of how long the shoot will take.”

“Fine,” she says. “Just as long as you don’t think you’re off the hook.” The doorbell rings again and she saves me from answering. This time it’s Paul, Jesse’s closest friend from University, and his wife Lila. I introduce them to Mike and Claire, put Zoe in charge of drinks, deposit the cheese tray on the coffee table, and head back to the kitchen to assess the dinner situation.

Conservatively, I seem to be behind schedule by at least an hour. Why, why did I bake dessert? When will I learn that the first impression is what counts? It is a truth universally acknowledged that by the time you get to dessert, your guests will always be too drunk or too tired to notice your efforts. I pour a large glass of Chianti to calm my nerves and address myself to the beef tenderloin. As I slide it into the oven, I hear the doorbell ring again, and I dash out in my apron.

Jesse beats me to it. “Will,” he says. “It’s been a long time.” He holds out a hand and they shake.

“Great house,” says Will, stepping past Jesse and into the foyer. “Hi Sophie,” he says, leaning down and brushing my cheek with a kiss.

“Have you never been here before?” I say, knowing full well that he hasn’t. “That’s terrible! It’s long overdue, then.” The foyer is small, but it seems smaller than usual with the three of us packed in together. I hope Jesse doesn’t notice how flustered I am. But his attention is on the last arrival.

“Anya, you look incredible,” Jesse says. She does, too, in a fitted black jersey dress and high black boots. She waves at me and brushes her cheek. “You have something on your face,” she says, and when I reach up to investigate, my hand comes away with a greasy smear of beef fat.

“Thanks,” I manage, mesmerized with loathing at the way her hipbones jut out like ridges framing the flatlands of her abs. “Sit down and relax, everyone! Dinner in half an hour!”

Back in the kitchen, I realize that I haven’t baked the goat cheese yet. The tenderloin will be in for twenty-two minutes at five hundred degrees; the goat cheese needs ten minutes at three hundred and seventy-five degrees. It can’t be helped: I’ll put them in with the beef for a shorter time and hope for the best. Which reminds me – I haven’t set the timer for the beef. I put my head in my hands for a second and guesstimate the remaining cooking time, set the clock for fourteen minutes and send a small prayer upwards to the cooking gods. Then I pull out all of the exotic lettuces from the organic market and begin chopping. I cast my mind back to moment in the market when I decided that I was too good for the prewashed box of mixed greens, and I curse aloud.

Zoe appears at my elbow. “He’s aging well,” she murmurs.

“Working here,” I say, and hand her a salad spinner. “Can you wash the lettuce?”

“Can I do anything to help?” asks Will, coming into the kitchen.

“Why don’t you see if anyone needs a fresh drink?” I suggest, filling a pot to boil water for blanching the rapini. I can’t have him in the room right now; I need to focus all of my concentration on getting the meal on the table.

I hear the soothing sound of goat cheese bubbling away in the oven, and then remember that it’s not actually supposed to be bubbling. Pulling open the oven door, I discover that yet another cooking gamble has failed; the patties have lost structural integrity and are now little pools of simmering goat cheese dotted with herbs and crumbs. But the show must go on, so Zoe and I toss the salad in the vinaigrette, divide it between nine plates, and spoon a shiny glob of cheese onto each of them. Zoe calls everyone to the table, and I parade out with the first course.

Claire looks stricken as I put the salad in front of her. “Sophie, I’m so sorry,” she says. “I thought you knew I was lactose-intolerant.”

“I did,” I say. “But I thought it was only cows’ milk. This is goat.”

She shakes her head sorrowfully. “All cheese, I’m afraid.”

“Not a problem,” I say. “It just needs a small adjustment.” And I rush back into the kitchen, where I realize that we have used up all of the salad, so I set about removing the offending cheese with surgical precision and returning a much-reduced portion to Claire, hoping all the while that I’ve eradicated every trace of lactose and that she won’t have a bilious attack at the table.

Jesse fills the wine glasses, and everyone digs into their salads and makes appreciative noises. The oven timer goes off, and I dash back into the kitchen to pull out the beef and cover it, then throw the rapini into the boiling water, and heat some oil. I grab handfuls of the ill-fated risotto, shape them into little sliders and toss them in. I manage to get ten little cakes out of the risotto, which is one per person, minus Claire the non-cheese-eater, plus one extra for Zoe the vegetarian. And now the beef is ready for serving, so I drain the rapini, call to Jesse to bring the dinner plates in, serve everyone exactly the right combination of foods to satisfy their physical and mental health requirements, and sit down to dinner with the satisfaction of one who has finished a marathon. It’s true that Zoe’s plate looks a bit sad, with two lonely risotto cakes and some stalks of rapini, but presumably this is a situation that you have to get used to if you eschew meat, and anyway, Zoe is giving me a big smile and saying that the risotto cakes are beautiful. The beef is perfectly done, thanks to the cooking gods, and the rapini is not overdone, if a little flavorless, and it complements the beef nicely. I’m so pleased, in fact, that I’m prepared to overlook the fact that Anya refers to my risotto cakes as “cute.”

I clear the main course and am loading the dishwasher when I turn around to find Zoe standing right behind me with an intense expression on her face.

“Zoe, I can’t talk about Will right now,” I say.

“This isn’t about Will. What’s going on with Jesse and Anya?”

“What do you mean? Why are you whispering?”

“Maybe I’m being overly sensitive, but they seem … close. Take a look.”

I sidle up to the dining room door and position myself so that I have an angle on the two of them. And I can see immediately what Zoe is talking about. Anya is leaning in toward Jesse, with her back to the rest of the table. She is speaking in a low voice, and as I watch, she reaches out and strokes his arm. The gesture is undeniably intimate, and Jesse responds in kind by touching her hand. The rest of the guests are all immersed in their own chatter, unaware that my world has just tilted on its axis. I step back from the door and take a breath to steady myself.

“Are you OK?” asks Zoe.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and reach under the counter for my mixer. I love making whipped cream, even in the most trying of circumstances; unlike most other activities in life, it is invariably easy, predictable and satisfying, not to mention incredibly loud and distracting. And this is necessary, because I feel a sense of loss so powerful I think I am going to be physically ill.

I am just starting to feel calmer when Jesse appears, and I realize that whatever comes out of his mouth is going to have more importance than it should. Which is unfortunate, because what comes out of his mouth is: “Sophie, how long is that going to take? It’s so loud that no one can hear themselves speak.”

Another great thing about whipped cream is its use in the comic tradition as a weapon, and now that it’s ready, I wonder how many more times I can appeal to my better self today. I turn off the mixer, remove the paddles and take them over to the sink in order to put a little distance between myself and the whipped cream. It’s startling how much I want to throw it in Jesse’s face.

Instead, I say: “Would you mind getting out the dessert plates and helping me serve?” I carve up the pear tart, placing a healthy dollop of cream on the pieces destined for guests who embrace dairy, and hand them to Jesse just as the phone rings.

“Sophie? Are you alright?”

I struggle to place the voice for a fraction of a second and then give up. It’s too much. “Who is this?” I ask.

“It’s Geoff,” he says, sounding hurt.

“What happened?” I ask. I have a horrible premonition that we’ve had another fatal outbreak at the hospital, and the press has somehow gotten hold of the story.

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” he says. “I didn’t hear from you. I thought we were going to get together tonight.”

“Oh,” I say, stupidly. “You’re not calling about work.”

“No,” he says, exasperated. “I’m calling about us.”

Us? “Just a minute,” I say, covering the receiver with my hand and racing up the stairs to the bedroom. I close the door firmly behind me. “This isn’t a good time,” I say. “I’ve got people here for dinner.”

“Sophie,” says Geoff, “What’s going on? I tell you how I feel about you and then you ignore me? That’s not like you.”

“I don’t know, Geoff,” I say. “Maybe this is exactly like me. I’ve never been put in this situation before.”

“And what situation is that?” he asks.

It’s his tone that finally does it. “You’re angry with me?” I ask. “If anyone is going to be angry here, I think it should be me.” I hear him suck in his breath but I keep going. “You work for me. You come into my office and drop a bomb on me and then harass me over email all day because I don’t respond quickly enough. And then you call me at home, where I am having dinner with my husband and our friends, and want to talk about ‘us’. There is no ‘us’, Geoff. There is never going to be an ‘us’.”

There is a long silence. “That’s your answer?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Well, I should thank you,” he says formally. “You could not have been clearer. I appreciate your candor and apologize for any discomfort I may have caused you.”

“Geoff, I’m sorry,” I say. “I like you. I like working with you. I…”

“It’s fine,” he says. “I have to go now.”

I walk back to the kitchen, still holding the phone in my hand. I fill a wine glass to the brim with Chianti and drink it down in long gulps. I’m refilling when I hear the dining room door slide open and then close behind me. “Are you coming back to the party?” asks Will.

I turn, and attempt a sunny smile. “In a minute,” I say. “I’m just taking care of a couple of things in here.”

He studies me, and then says, “I was going to sneak out for a cigarette. Want to come?”

“I don’t smoke,” I say.

“Neither do I,” he says.

“OK,” I say, and we put on our coats and go out to the back patio. I brush the snow off the deck chairs and we sit. “I’m not sure I remember how to do this,” I say.

“It’s like riding a bike,” says Will, shaking a cigarette from the package with a practiced tap. His lighter flashes in the dark. He takes a second cigarette out of the package, lights it with the tip of his own, and hands it to me. “So,” he says.

“So,” I say.

“Have you thought about my offer?”

“I’ve thought about it,” I say slowly. “I’m still thinking.”

He looks quizzical. “Is it that hard a decision? Lillian didn’t think it would be. She said that you’re underpaid, underappreciated and ready for a new challenge. The Foundation would seem to be a perfect solution. What am I missing?”

I sit back in my chair and look up at the sky. It’s cold but clear and the stars are out. I trace the shape of the Big Dipper with the glowing end of the cigarette. It’s been years since I smoked, but I remember now what I always loved about it: the sense that time stands still from the moment the match is struck until the tobacco burns down to its last ember. And so I drink my wine and blow plumes of smoke up at the stars, while Will waits patiently for my answer.

“Tell me this,” I say, the unfamiliar dizziness making me reckless, “We’ve never talked about what happened between us that year we lived together. What did you think we were doing?”

He stiffens, but his tone is gentle. “What do you mean?”

I groan. I can’t believe he’s going to make me say it. But I’ve wanted the answer to this question for most of my adult life, sifting through tiny shards of evidence in search of a theory that will explain one of the most critical episodes in my personal history. Now, with the one living witness captive in my backyard, I’m on the verge of a major breakthrough in my research. I take a deep breath. “We slept together, Will, more than once. And it was a big deal for me. What was it for you?”

Now it’s his turn to be silent. “It was a long time ago,” he says finally. “Is it important to talk about it now?”

“It is if you want me to come and work at the Foundation,” I say.

“Closure is totally overrated,” Will says.

“Be that as it may,” I say, “I’d still like some.”

“I don’t know if this will satisfy you,” he says carefully. “I knew how you felt back then. But it was confusing for me. I wanted you, obviously. But something more serious? I wasn’t looking for that, and I knew that any relationship with you couldn’t be casual. I know I behaved badly, that I was unfair to you. I was a young guy, an idiot. It’s not really an excuse, but maybe it’s an explanation.”

“Do you have another cigarette?” I ask.

“It’s the least I can do,” he says, lighting it and leaning across to hand it to me. Our fingers touch and he meets my eye. “I’m sorry, Sophie. And if it’s any consolation, I’ve often regretted the decisions I made back then.”

“Which ones?” I ask, but I’m interrupted by the sound of the sliding door behind me.

“What’s going on out here?” asks Jesse. “Are you smoking?”

“We were just catching up,” I say, crushing the remnants of the cigarette under my toe.

“Our guests are leaving,” says Jesse tightly. “They would like to say goodbye to the hostess.”

Will stands up. “I should get going,” he says.

“Good idea,” says Jesse icily, stepping aside to let Will pass. A few seconds later, I hear the front door close behind him.

Jesse is very still, his jaw tight. “We should go in,” I say. “It’s cold.”

“That didn’t seem to bother you when Will was here.”

“I lost track of time,” I say.

“Apparently,” he says.

“Let’s go in, Jesse,” I say. “Come on. There’s no reason to be like that.” I give him what I assume is a reassuring smile, but he’s having none of it.

“The sad thing is, Sophie,” he says, “I bet you actually believe that.”

We go into the house and bid our guests a good night. Zoe gives me a sympathetic look, and mouths the words ‘call me’ as she heads out the door. Jesse starts heading up the stairs.

“Are you going to help clean up?” I ask. The tension between us is palpable, but I’m sure relations will normalize once we start tidying and domestic order is restored. It’s always worked in the past.

“I don’t think so,” says Jesse. “I’m going to bed.” It’s clear he’s not inviting me to join him. Remembering Anya, I feel panic begin to rise.

“Jesse,” I begin, but he doesn’t let me finish.

“How about this, Sophie,” he says. “How about you tell me when I get to stop looking over my shoulder, OK? Because I would really like to know.”