11
2049
Savannah, Georgia
DONALD WASN’T ONE for napkins, but he obeyed decorum by shaking the folded cloth loose and draping it in his lap. Each of the napkins at the other settings around the table had been bent into a decorative pyramid that stood upright amid the silverware. He didn’t remember the Corner Diner having cloth napkins when he was in high school. Didn’t they used to have those paper napkin dispensers that were all dented up from years of abuse? And those little salt and pepper shakers with the silver caps, even those had gotten fancier. A dish of what he assumed was sea salt sat near the flower arrangement, and if you wanted pepper, you had to wait for someone to come around and crack it on your food for you.
He started to mention this to his wife, and saw that she was gazing past him at the booth behind. Donald turned in his seat, the original vinyl squeaking beneath him. He glanced back at the older couple sitting in the booth where he and Helen had sat on their first date.
‘I swear I asked them to reserve it for us,’ Donald said.
His wife’s gaze drifted back to him.
‘I think they might’ve gotten confused when I described which one it was.’ He stirred the air with his finger. ‘Or maybe I got turned around when I was on the phone.’
She waved her hand. ‘Sweetie, forget about it. We could be eating grilled cheese at home and I’d be thrilled. I was just staring off into space.’
Helen unfolded her own napkin with delicate care, almost as if she were studying the folds, seeing how to piece it back together, how to return a disassembled thing to its original state. The waiter came over in a bustle and filled their glasses with water, careless drips spotting the white tablecloth. He apologised for the wait, and then left them to wait some more.
‘This place sure has changed,’ he said.
‘Yeah. It’s more grown-up.’
They both reached for their waters at the same time. Donald smiled and held his glass up. ‘Fifteen years to the day that your father made the mistake of extending your curfew.’
Helen smiled and tapped her glass against his. ‘To fifteen more,’ she said.
They took sips.
‘If this place keeps up, we won’t be able to afford to eat here in fifteen years,’ Donald said.
Helen laughed. She had barely changed since that first date. Or maybe it was because the changes were so subtle. It wasn’t like coming to a restaurant every five years and seeing the leaps all at once. It was how siblings aged rather than distant cousins.
‘You fly back in the morning?’ Helen asked.
‘Yeah, but to Boston. I have a meeting with the Senator.’
‘Why Boston?’
He waved his hand. ‘He’s having one of those nano treatments of his. I think he stays locked up in there for a week or so at a time. He still somehow gets his work done—’
‘Yeah, by having his minions go out of their way—’
‘We’re not his minions,’ Donald said, laughing.
‘—to come kiss his ring and leave gifts of myrrh.’
‘C’mon, it’s not like that.’
‘I just worry that you’re pushing yourself too hard. How much of your free time are you spending on this project of his?’
A lot, he wanted to say. He wanted to tell his wife how gruelling the hours were, but he knew how she would react. ‘It’s not as time-consuming as you’d think.’
‘Really? Because it seems like it’s the only thing I hear you talking about. I don’t even know what else it is you do.’
Their waiter came past with a tray full of drinks and said it would be just a moment longer. Helen studied the menu.
‘I’ll be done with my portion of the plans in another few months,’ he told her. ‘And then I won’t bore you with it any more.’
‘Honey, you don’t bore me. I just don’t want him taking advantage of you. This isn’t what you signed up for. You decided not to become an architect, remember? Otherwise, you could’ve stayed home.’
‘Baby, I want you to know . . .’ He dropped his voice. ‘This project we’re working on is—’
‘It’s really important, I know. You’ve told me, and I believe you. And then in your moments of self-doubt, you admit that your part in the entire scheme of things is superfluous anyway and will never be used.’
Donald had forgotten they’d had that conversation.
‘I’ll just be glad when it’s done,’ she said. ‘They can truck the fuel rods through our neighbourhood for all I care. Just bury the whole thing and smooth the dirt over and stop talking about it.’
This was something else. Donald thought about the phone calls and emails he’d been getting from the district, all the headlines and fear-mongering over the route the spent rods would take from the port as the trucks skirted Atlanta. Every time Helen heard a peep about the project, all she could likely think of was him wasting his time on it rather than doing his real job. Or the fact that he could’ve stayed in Savannah and done the same work.
Helen cleared her throat. ‘So . . .’ She hesitated. ‘Was Anna at the job site today?’
She peered over the lip of her glass, and Donald realised, in that moment, what his wife was really thinking when the CAD-FAC project and the fuel rods came up. It was the insecurity of him working with her, of being so far from home.
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘No, we don’t really see each other. We send plans back and forth. Mick and I went, just the two of us. He’s coordinating a lot of the materials and crews—’
The waiter arrived, pulled his black folio from his apron and clicked his pen. ‘Can I start you off with drinks?’
Donald ordered two glasses of the house Merlot. Helen declined the offer of an appetiser.
‘Every time I bring her up,’ she said, once their waiter had angled off towards the bar, ‘you mention Mick. Stop changing the subject.’
‘Please, Helen, can we not talk about her?’ Donald folded his hands together on the table. ‘I’ve seen her once since we started working on this. I set it up so that we didn’t have to meet, because I knew you wouldn’t like it. I have no feelings for her, honey. Absolutely none. Please. This is our night.’
‘Is working with her giving you second thoughts?’
‘Second thoughts about what? About taking on this job? Or about being an architect?’
‘About . . . anything.’ She glanced at the other booth, the booth he should’ve reserved.
‘No. God, no. Honey, why would you even say something like that?’
The waiter came back with their wine. He flipped open his black notebook and eyed the two of them. ‘Have we decided?’
Helen opened her menu and looked from the waiter to Donald. ‘I’m going to get my usual,’ she said. She pointed to what had once been a simple grilled cheese sandwich with fries that now involved fried green heirloom tomatoes, Gruyère cheese, a honey-maple glaze and matchstick frites with tartar.
‘And for you, sir?’
Donald looked over the menu. The conversation had him flustered, but he felt the pressure to choose and to choose swiftly.
‘I think I’m going to try something different,’ he said, picking his words poorly.