The Bar and Grill Pt. 02

"What did you almost say there?" I asked.

She shook her head. "Won't work."

"Tell me anyway."

"I was thinking about freshly roasted corn sprinkled on top."

"And why won't it work?"

"Because we'd have to roast it all now and keep it stored someplace for every bowl of soup. And because there's already corn in there, and it's already yellow, and the bratwurst are already grilled. So it doesn't really add anything."

I smiled. She'd come up with every reason I had why roasted corn was a bad idea, including the storage problem, which wasn't easy for an amateur to spot. She knew more than she was letting on.

"Where'd you learn all of this?" I asked.

She avoided my eyes.

"C'mon," I prompted. "This isn't your first time, that's obvious."

"I like to cook," she said. "That's all. I've been doing it for Mom and Dad and my brothers and sisters since I was a little girl."

I laughed. "But you never cooked stuff like this, did you?"

She shook her head.

"So where did you learn?"

"I've been reading. Cookbooks and stuff."

"What cookbooks? By who?"

She turned around and started picking up dirty utensils, stacking them in the dishwasher.

"I'm not going to quit asking until you answer."

"Charlie Trotter, okay?" she said, naming one of the premier chefs in the country before naming a few more. "Jacques Pepin, Thomas Keller. I went on line and read some of their stuff. Then I bought a few of their cookbooks."

"How long have you been doing this?"

"Since Aunt Clara told me I'd probably be working in the kitchen with you so I'd better brush up on how to do it so I wouldn't make a fool of myself."

I was standing behind her as she said this, and I placed my hand on her shoulder. She tensed, and I almost pulled my hand away. For some reason, though, I kept it there, and she soon relaxed when I spoke again.

"Then tell me how to garnish the soup. What would Charlie Trotter do?"

She snorted. "He'd probably use caviar or something. Maybe a fresh grilled prawn."

I chuckled. "Not very practical for this kind of place, right?"

She shook her head.

"So what would you do?"

"A small dollop of creme fraiche topped with finely diced red bell pepper and chopped chives," she said almost immediately. "The creme fraiche wouldn't overpower the corn but would add a tang. The pepper adds color and crunch, but it's still sweet enough. And the chives add more color and a fresh taste."

My hand slid off her shoulder as she turned to face me.

"Well?" she said.

"I hadn't thought of the creme fraiche," was all I could say.

A smile flickered at the corner of her lips as she turned back to the dishwasher.

"You've been thinking about this?" I asked.

She nodded. "Yep."

"How long?"

"Since Friday when Aunt Clara told me we'd be getting in a shipment of corn on Sunday night. Which, she told me, meant corn chowder would probably be the first thing I'd do here."

I nodded.

"And you spent the weekend thinking about this?"

"Yep."

"Wow."

What could I say? She at least gave a shit; that much was obvious.

So we spent the rest of the morning getting the evening special made up and prepping the vegetables for salads and sides.

With the exception of the occasional questions from her and words of instruction from me, we didn't talk much for the rest of the day. Nevertheless, I was amazed how quickly time had passed when Uncle Jack showed up at quarter to five for the dinner shift. And I was more amazed as I sat at the bar an hour later, beer in front of me, that I hadn't thought of Nina all day.

Being around people and keeping busy seemed to be the answer.

So knowing Nicole had a ride home with Clara, I cut out of there halfway through that first beer and went home to enjoy Ernie's company while I cleaned the house top to bottom.

This kept my mind busy until I went into the two bedrooms formerly occupied by Emily and Nadine. Bedrooms that had once been typical, bright, little girl rooms, but were now stark shells with no pictures, empty dressers, and bare beds.

That's when the sadness came back.

And the anger.

TWELVE

My routine was jarred on Thursday afternoon at about two.

"Tim," Clara said, peeking her head in the door of the kitchen. "There's someone out here asking for you."

I wiped off my hands and went into the dining room. There was a short, stocky man, mid-fifties, leaning against the wall.

"May I help you?" I said when I approached.

"Mr. Timothy Franklin?" he said, standing.

I nodded, extending my hand.

Instead of shaking my proffered hand, he thrust a manila envelope in it.

"I'm told you've been expecting these," he said. "You've been served."

With that, he turned and left.

I watched him go, stunned. Nina had promised she'd mail this to me, not have me served with the papers.

"You okay?" Clara asked, seeing the anger cloud my face.

I ignored her and sat at one of the tables in the now-empty dining room. I tore open the envelope and pulled out the papers. One of them was entitled "Summons." Another was "Petition for Dissolution of Marriage." There was also a "Marital Settlement Agreement" and a cover letter from some attorney in Lima, the Lincoln County seat.

The letter told me the documents were simple. The Petition was to get the divorce started, and the Marital Settlement Agreement would split the marital assets and conclude the divorce once the assigned judge signed off on the agreement. Her attorney directed me to review these with my own attorney before signing.

At least Nina's attorney seemed to have my best interests in mind, which was more than I could say for Nina. Serving me at work? What a fucking bitch.

A half hour later, I was seated in Jammer's office, the door closed, while he flipped through the documents.

Jammer was James McNally, Attorney at Law. We'd gone to school together, and he'd been practicing law now for four years. I knew he did divorces, and this one didn't seem particularly difficult. So what the hell, give a good friend and loyal patron of the Bar and Grill some of his beer money back, right?

"You can smoke in here," he said, putting the Petition aside and picking up the Marital Settlement Agreement.

I lit up a cigarette, my second of the day, while he flipped through it. He didn't seem to be reading every word, which concerned me. He was done with the five-page Agreement before I was half done with my smoke.

He looked at me and shrugged. "All pretty simple and straightforward," he said.

"But you didn't even read it all," I countered.

"This shit's all boilerplate, Timmy," he said. "Seen one, seen 'em all. Divorce like this? No kids involved? The only real important parts are the property settlement and alimony provisions. And those are pretty clear cut. She keeps the personal property she's already taken and you waive all claims to her 401(k) plan and retirement. You get all of your stuff, your checking and savings accounts, and she makes no claims against any of your retirement plans. Both of you waive alimony. It's a pretty simple deal."

"What would I get from her 401(k)?"

He shrugged. "Maybe 40% of the amounts she's contributed since you were married. What's that? Couple of grand?"

"Still," I said.

He shook his head. "Then she can go after any earnings you've put into your own accounts during the marriage, too. And that's probably more than her contributions to her retirement over the past three years, right?"

I nodded.

"So go with it. You'll never get such a good deal if it goes to court. And you'll pay a couple of grand--minimum--to be worse off than she's offering."

"What about that irreconcilable differences she claims? The part where it says we've lived separate and apart for the past six months and waive the two-year separation period? Jammer, we lived together up until last Friday, for Chrissake."

A brief smile played over his lips. "Well," he started, lighting a cigarette of his own. Exhaling the first drag, he continued. "That's a little legal fiction we play in these situations. 'Living separate and apart' doesn't mean you've been living in separate households. It means you haven't been . . . uh . . . having . . . ."

"Screwing?" I offered.

He grinned. "Exactly."

"And if we have?"

"Then don't tell the judge and he'll sign off on this and you'll be divorced."

"And if I do tell the judge?"

He took another drag from the cigarette and blew it out, staring at me the whole time, before answering with a question.

"What're you looking to do here, Tim? You looking to prolong this shit? Maybe try to get her back?"

I sighed, crushing out my cigarette and looking out the window.

"I don't know, Jammer," I said. "This is all just going so fucking fast. Know what I mean? Shit, last week we were happily married. Now I'm looking at being divorced in a few weeks. It's just all so fast is all I'm saying."

He nodded. "So we slow it down," he offered. "That what you want? Maybe see if she'll come back?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. Haven't really thought about it much."

"Okay," he continued, "we slow it down. Things don't work out between her and the ex. She comes back to you. After she's been living with him for what, three, maybe four months? You gonna take her back like nothing ever happened?"

He leaned forward over his desk and spoke with more urgency. "And you're gonna wait for her? You're gonna live like some kind of fuckin' hermit hoping she gets over this little fling with her ex-husband?"

He sat back, shaking his head. "No way, Timmy. No way you're gonna forget this, and there's no way she's coming back. And if she does, you're gonna already be moved on, got it? Swear to God, I'll make it my sole mission in life to get you laid as many times as it takes to make sure you get over this bitch."

I was stunned by his anger. Jammer was usually a happy-go-lucky guy, at least as merry as an attorney could be. He was almost never this upset.

"What the fuck, Jammer?" I finally said. "I mean, you don't need to-- "

"Bullshit," he shot back. "I've been doing this for four years and I've never seen anything this fucking cold. You forget, Tim, I've known you for years, and I've been there to see how you treated her. First chance she gets to dump you and go back to him, she takes it. You do anything to deserve this shit? I don't think so. You treated her like a fuckin' queen."

He lit another cigarette and took a deep drag, settling down as the smoke whisped back out of his mouth and nostrils.

"No sir," he continued. "I haven't been doing this that long. I'll give you that, okay? Still, I've done dozens of these by now. I've seen where they leave for abuse or affairs or money." He laughed, choking on the smoke he'd just inhaled. "Seen one where he left her for another man. Try that shit sometime you wanna question whether you're still pretty or not. Poor chick."

He stared off at the wall to our side. "She ain't coming home, Tim. Get that through your thick skull right now. She ain't coming home. But if I'm wrong--if she does try to come home--you stay the fuck away from her. She's bad karma, man."

"It's the kids," I tried to explain. "She's always felt guilty about the kids and all."

"Then she needed to get over it," he said. "But she didn't. And now she's screwing you over to try to fix her last mistake."

He slid the papers in front of me and tossed a pen on top of the Marital Settlement Agreement.

"So what's it gonna be?" he said. "You wanna move on with your life before it's too late? Or you wanna wait around, prolong the misery, and hope she comes back to try fixin' this mistake with you once she sees she can't fix the last mistake with that poor bastard?"

I looked at him. Jammer was the second person in a week who'd referred to Steve as the poor bastard. He was the one getting her, I was the one losing her, and he was the poor bastard.

"She's fuckin' boogered, Timmer. So sign the goddamned Agreement already, willya?"

I signed.

Six weeks later, we were divorced.

I didn't even have to go to court. Jammer covered it all for me. He told me she cried while she gave the brief testimony.

"Like she was already having second thoughts," Jammer described her.

Yeah, well fuck her. Jammer was right: We were done, and there's no use in crying over spilt milk.

She made her bed, now she could sleep in it.

With Steve.

While I slept with Ernie.

I can't help but feel I may have gotten the short end of the stick on this one.

And Ernie, too. Maybe he was the poor bastard.

THIRTEEN

The good thing about living in a small town is that everyone is there to help you when things go wrong. The bad thing about living in a small town is also that everyone is there to help you when things go wrong.

You see, it's nice having friends and family to rely on. And not just work friends, either. I'm talking about friends who you've known your whole life; friends who remember your first girlfriend and breaking your arm in football, friends who remember your folks and remember when Uncle Jack was a hellraiser in high school before he quit drinking the hard stuff and joined the Marines.

The problem with such tightly knit groups, though, is that there reaches a time when you need to quit being reminded that your life has gone to shit. There comes a time when you just want to be anonymous so you can forget and move on. Unfortunately, that becomes difficult when everyone looks at you with a mixture of sympathy and embarrassment, maybe a touch of sadness thrown in, and tells you that things will get better. Or tells you that you're a great guy and you'll soon find that special someone. Or tells you that you're better off without Nina or that Nina will live to regret leaving.

All told, it didn't take me long to tire of the endless sympathies and withdraw from people. Two months after the divorce, I was still squirreled away in the kitchen all day and home alone all night. I spurned Jammer's pleas to go out chasing skirts and turned down endless offers for a drink at the bar or a party at someone's home.

Instead, I stayed with people who left me the hell alone. In the kitchen, there was Nicole all day, Uncle Jack at night, and Clara flitting back and forth to pick up orders. Nicole had never mentioned my divorce, which made sense where she barely knew me and had never met Nina. Uncle Jack had already said his piece, as had Clara, and neither seemed inclined to raise the issue further. And of course, there was Ernie. Though he couldn't talk, I will admit that Ernie's eyes looked at me with sadness and sympathy: He was sad about the longer times between his morning and evening meals and sympathized that I probably hadn't eaten lately, either.

So there was my routine. Get up at six, feed Ernie, get ready for work, and get there by seven-thirty, an hour and a half earlier than before. Get a ton of paperwork done until Nicole showed up, silently work with her prepping the meals, cook lunches, clean up the kitchen, then do the afternoon prep. Soon, I was staying later and later with Uncle Jack, which visibly alarmed a hungry Ernie, then go home about seven-thirty or eight. Once home, time to feed Ernie, enjoy the comfort that only a spoiled rotten ball of wrinkled fur can provide, and go to bed by eleven. Get up the next day, repeat cycle.

Weekends were the worst, so I started working them as well. All of them. I'd get all of my housework done, splitting up what needed to be done between Saturday and Sunday mornings, and be back in the kitchen by nine.

There wasn't much to do on weekends; the high schoolers we had managed the grill, and all that needed to be done was roasting some prime ribs and baking potatoes on Saturdays. Sundays we had no special, so I spent that time getting my shit together for the upcoming week.

Before the divorce, Uncle Jack and I alternated working weekends. Steve had alternating weekend visitation, so Nina and I both scheduled ourselves to work on those weekends and spend our evenings together. With no kids--or Nina--to keep me busy on the open weekends, though, I decided to take over for awhile and give Uncle Jack a chance at getting in some late autumn golf before the snows arrived.

Then I had an epiphany that started with a refrigerator full of rotten food. It was early on a Saturday morning in mid-November, just shy of three months after the divorce, and I realized I was hungry. This was the first time in a long time I could even remember being hungry. I had been eating nibbles here and there at the restaurant, cruising along on autopilot so far as food was concerned. But this particular Sunday morning, I was hungrier than hell, and I got out of bed and shuffled to the frig to find something to make.

When I opened the refrigerator door, the smell of spoiled food damned near knocked me unconscious. I was stunned, staring at the packages of meat molding under the cellophane wrappers and the milk spoiled so bad it was clotted. And that's when I realized I hadn't eaten at home--hadn't even opened the refrigerator door--in months. Shit you not, I was embarrassed at how pathetic I had become.

After wheeling in the garbage can from outside and emptying everything in the refrigerator, I jumped in the shower, got ready, and went into town for some grocery shopping.

I was standing in the produce section, sorting through the baby red potatoes, when I heard him behind me.

"I'm getting the feeling you don't like me anymore," Jammer bellowed.

I turned, as did nearly every other head within twenty feet, and smiled. "Hey."

"Hey yourself, my man," he said, wheeling his cart straight for mine. There had to be fifteen bottles of booze in the cart along with a couple of cases of pop, drink mixes, and some bags of lemons and limes.

"Party?"

He grinned. "What gave it away?"

I shrugged and smiled. "Just a sixth sense."

He narrowed his eyes. "Is that the same sixth sense that tells you when I'm dropping by and helps you clear out before I get there?"

"You sayin' I'm avoiding you?"

"Precisely."

"Okay," I said, "guilty as charged."

"But you're doing better now?"

His voice dropped, all serious now, and he put his hand on my shoulder.

I nodded. "Yeah, I'm getting better."

He slapped my arm. "Good. Then you'll be at my house about seven, right?"

I started to say something, but the look on his face stopped me. The look got more intense, and he put his hand back on my shoulder and squeezed until it hurt.

"Right?" he repeated.

"Of course," I said before my arm went numb. He released the pressure.

"Good," he said. "Then bring the beer. Maybe five cases."

"You're not getting beer?"

He laughed. "Not now I'm not," he said. "You're in charge of it now. That way, you don't show up there'll be no beer. I'll tell everyone you blew them off and they'll get all pissy with you instead of me. Capisce?"

"Capisce," I responded.

"Then we'll see you tonight," he said, turning his cart back toward the checkout lanes.

I finished my shopping, wondering the whole time who would be at Jammer's party.

He was known for having some real blowouts, which was to be anticipated given his predatory single male status. Young, handsome, successful, unmarried lawyers seem to have few problems attracting female attention.

If only I was more handsome.

And unmarried instead of divorced.

Why did the divorce feel like a stigma, like a stamp that I was a failure in relationships and with women in general?

FOURTEEN

I lugged three cases of beer through Jammer's front door at ten to seven that night. Looking around, I was amazed to find out the party was already in full swing. Nirvana was belting out "Come As You Are," twenty or more people were standing around chatting and drinking beers, and Jammer was in the corner surrounded by three ladies.