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As we drove home in MJ’s hideous burnt-orange Volvo, she confided, “Claude adores you guys.”
“Oh, good,” I mumbled. Jackson was asleep in the backseat, and I was drifting off in the passenger seat, no doubt from the unaccustomed effects of the cognac. I sat up. Rubbing my eyes, I said, “Wait, who’s Claude?”
“My mother.”
“Your mother’s name is Claude?”
“Yes. My grandmother had several miscarriages—all girls—before my mother was born. Apparently, there is an old wives’ tale that dictates if you have ‘trouble keeping a girl,’ you should give your first surviving daughter a boy’s name.”
“Oh.”
MJ glanced over at me. “Go back to sleep,” she said. “I’ll wake you when we get to your place.”
As we were brushing our teeth, I asked Jackson, “Did you have a good time tonight?”
He spat in the sink and said, “I did. But it was kind of strange. Up until tonight, I didn’t realize a world like that existed.”
I understood; until tonight, I hadn’t either. Hearing the wonder in his voice, I vowed to myself that we would come to know that world more intimately,that we would be a part of that world.
Thursday, April 26, 1979, University City—I had lunch with MJ today at the cafeteria for students who lived on campus and signed up for a meal plan. The first time I’d accompanied MJ here for lunch, I’d been overwhelmed by the sheer amount and variety of food on display. I got dizzy waiting in line, watching the ladies in hairnets eager to serve, spoons ready, behind heat lamps that glowed red-orange-red like billboards advertising vacation packages to hell, offering culinary temptations for every taste bud, the desserts and ice creams lying provocatively on their beds of ice…
“Dude, are you OK?” MJ asked, nudging me as I stared dumbfounded at the lavish display.
I nodded. “I’m fine. Why?”
“You look like you’ve never seen food before.”
Of course, I had seen food before—but never in such abundance. Back in Locust Hollow, folks would share what they had for meals, but the truth was no one had much. Our planned dinner party is this weekend.
As we exited through a turnstile, I turned to shush MJ while stifling my larcenous giggles as the flatware and crockery MJ had nicked banged together in her purse. My own pilfered goods were quieter and better behaved in my knapsack.
I felt guilty and wondered how I could return the stolen goods after our dinner party. MJ did not share my sense of guilt. She saw herself as a kind of Robin Hood, redistributing the assets ofthe wealthy into the hands of the poor, in this case taking from the university and giving to poor college students. But I was less sure. Surely, our theft would result in higher tuition, which is what universities call their system of taxation. Thus, I think she was more like a member of Congress, cutting taxes on the rich and making the poor and middle-classes pay for it. But I kept my thoughts to myself and loved her no less.
As we were making our getaway, we ran into Perils, whose actual name is Pauline. Perils works behind the chocolate counter and as a bartender at her family’s after-dinner lounge, which specializes in handmade chocolate, unique desserts, and “craft” cocktails. Because she is always relating some drama that occurred over chocolate martinis and candy sales, I’d nicknamed her The Perils of Praline—so many customers with nut allergies had gone into anaphylactic shock after eating her family’s classic pralines despite multiple posted warnings about them containing nuts, and the paramedics called so often they had finally stopped offering them, substituting a pure chocolate version. The name stuck but was shortened to Perils. She is good-natured about her nickname, though, and serves as our resident bartender at our tender soirees, since she is the only one old enough to procure alcohol. She introduced our little group into the world of adult cocktails—Black Russians, Universes, Moscow Mules—and moderation at a time when our peers were getting drunk, and throwing up Olde English 800, Rolling Rock, and grain alcohol.
MJ shifted her handbag on her shoulder, which was starting to droop from the weight of her ill-gotten gains. Flatware giggled and crockery clapped.
“Whatisthat sound?” Perils asked, cocking her head.
“What sound?” we asked in unison, the very embodiment of innocence.
“So, listen,” Perils went on, ignoring us and popping her gum. “Saturday, we hosted a wedding breakfast at the restaurant. Fifty people. The bride and groom had their own table in the middle of the room raised up on a little dais they had us build. It was very strange. Something was clearly amiss, but I wasn’t getting disaster vibes—until the bride and groom were served their brunch order. I brought out their order…”
I wasn’t surprised by Perils’ leading role; Perils always plays a leading role in the perilous situations at the restaurant.
“…Chocolate Belgian waffles with ricotta, orange marmalade topped with shaved chocolate and orange zest. The best man takes one look at it on the table and screams at the groom, ‘How could you share our special breakfast withher?’ He bursts into tears, and the groom says, “I didn’t know she was ordering it!’ By now, everyone knows what is amiss. I hear there’s going to be an annulment coming. I heard this morning that the groom and best man are in Aruba on what was supposed to be the groom’s honeymoon. I guess boyfriend figures if she tried to steal his man, he can steal her honeymoon.”
Perils, cheerfully ignoring our stunned silence, chirped, “Anyway, loves, I must dash. I’ll see you at the dinner party on Saturday. I’m bringing the booze.”
MJ shifted her handbag on her shoulder and waved, causing a renewed clatter. Perils cocked her head, and mumbled again, “Whatisthat sound?”
Saturday, April 28, 1979, University City—“Wow your apartment is so orderly and clean,” Sue P commented when they arrived this afternoon. “Is it always like this?”
“Always,” MJ put in.
“My dad,” I said, “taught me to keep things clean.”
“I still find it odd that your father essentially taught you how to keep house,” MJ said.
