Page 39 of The Last Book Party

She grabbed the bowl of dip and marched into the kitchen, where she scraped it down the garbage disposal.

“Can I have a glass for water?” Jeremy asked. He walked to the sink and splashed water on his face. I handed him a glass and watched him down the pills. “Benadryl,” he said.

I turned to my mother and with my back to Jeremy gestured for her to put away the swordfish filets that were on a platter on the counter, ready for the grill. She looked confused and then put the plate in the refrigerator and closed the door. She waved her hands in the air, like she could disperse the fishiness. I opened the windows and sliding doors and turned on the ceiling fans.

Jeremy stepped out on the deck, closing the door behind him.

“Now what?” my mother said. “Corn for dinner? How could he not have mentioned this? Who goes to Cape Cod and doesn’t think to inform his hosts that he can’t share space with fish?”

I felt bad for Jeremy, who seemed genuinely flustered.

“Maybe it’s a rare occurrence,” I said. “It’s not the end of the world. Can’t we just make some pasta with meat sauce?”

“We can,” she said, looking in the refrigerator for the leftover sauce, “providing he’s not a vegetarian.”

I brought Jeremy his beer and sat on the deck with him. He took a long swig.

“I am so sorry. I should have told you. Sometimes I have a reaction like that and sometimes I don’t. It’s a little like Russian roulette, but it’s been a while since it’s happened at all. I thought maybe I had outgrown it.”

“You might consider restricting your vacations to the desert,” I said, trying to make him feel better.

He looked up at me, his cheeks still splotchy.

“Honestly, I try to forget about it,” he said. “My father has the same allergy and he lets it rule his life. Doesn’t go to restaurants or shop in stores that sell fish. He can’t even relax at thebeach. I refuse to live like that. To be like him.” He rubbed his eyes. “Do I look awful?”

The red circles around Jeremy’s watery eyes made him look like a raccoon who’d recently been crying.

“Not at all,” I said, thinking how much I liked this Jeremy, with his defenses down. “Your allergy is quite becoming.”

38

The dinner debacle took the edge off my nervousness about hosting Jeremy and the pressure off my mother from performing perfectly for the young writer. We lit a mosquito coil and ate our bowls of pasta outside. Jeremy had a second beer, and then a third. My mother gave herself a second generous pour of wine. By the time we finished our pasta, Jeremy’s face was back to normal, but he and my mother were slouching in their chairs. My mother’s questions got more personal. Jeremy didn’t seem to mind.

“When did you know you were a writer? Did you always know?”

“I wrote like a madman from the age of ten.”

I wasn’t sure if I believed him.

“Eve dabbles in writing, you know,” she whispered, as if she was sharing some shameful secret. She refused to take my writing seriously, although I couldn’t completely blame her as I hadn’t published anything since college and didn’t share my drafts with her.

My mother went on: “But there has to be a fire, not just anember, and a true gift to make it a worthy vocation. Eve’s older brother, Danny, you know, has a gift. Math is like music for him, and he has perfect pitch. It’s extraordinary.”

“Mom, Jeremy doesn’t want to hear about Danny.”

She continued as if she hadn’t heard me. “The way I see it, there is a fire or there is not. Danny has that fire. That’s all there is to it. And if there is not…” She rested her head on her hand, then launched into a story I had heard many times before.

“I was a talented pianist. As a child, I was like a little sponge. I was dutiful and practiced every morning before school and after—for hours every day. I sat straight, held my fingers correctly, played way beyond my years. As a teenager, I poured all the emotions of adolescence into my playing. Or so I thought. When I was sixteen, I auditioned for Juilliard. And was rejected. I overheard the Russian adjudicator say I didn’t have ‘the touch.’ The touch of genius. I was good, I was very, very, very good, but I would never be great.”

“Very few are great,” Jeremy said, reaching out and patting her hand.

“And if you are not among the very few, what is the point?” my mother continued. “If you are not among the few, then you must be a fan. A clapper. The first to jump up and yell ‘Encore.’”

“Do you still play?” Jeremy asked.

“Never,” she said.

“Do you miss it?” Jeremy asked.

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