Rachel Cantor - Good on Paper

She considered this.

You make the cranberry sauce, she said, and started her shopping list.

I smiled. I didn’t eat the stuff, and both Jeanette and Andi liked theirs from a can.

You can also do coffee, she said, looking up. Georges likes hazelnut. You bringing anyone?

Jen! No!

Aren’t you seeing that guy?

What guy?

That rabbi guy?

I told you no!

Something about the way you said no made me think yes.

Well, kinda. I’m kinda seeing him. It’s complicated, and I tried to explain.

He’s crazy about you, she said. That’s a good thing.

I don’t trust him.

Trust? Who’s trustable? Everyone’s always hiding something, anyone can disappear, or disappoint. Not just men — everyone!

There is no absolute fidelity, I murmured. The translated one is always betrayed.

I beg your pardon?

Nothing. I’m quoting myself.

Shira, you have a choice: stay in and never get hurt, or get out there. Out there is much more fun, I promise you. So when are you and Ahmad making up?

Never, I said, and I don’t want to talk about it.

I have three things to say to you, Shira, and you will listen. One: you look like shit, which means you’re more upset than you say. Two: Ahmad’s not perfect, he did a stupid thing. But it was one stupid thing, and he’s your oldest friend.

One stupid thing? He didn’t just take Andi for the night — he wanted to take her forever!

What does he have to do to make things right?

What’s number three?

Andi needs him.

No, she doesn’t.

Yes, she does. And she has a right to see him.

Whatever, I said. You said Georges likes what kind of coffee?

Do you have a plan for what to do if you don’t make up with Ahmad?

I’m working on it, I said.

Jeanette gave me a look that said, You’re not working on it and Y2K is a month away.

Hazelnut, she said, finally. Georges likes hazelnut.

When I woke up Thanksgiving morning, she’d used her spare key and was already in the kitchen. The apartment was redolent of turkey, and the table was set: yellow and brown crepe-paper turkey centerpiece, dried orange flowers, Thanksgiving horn o’ plenty. If Ahmad saw this, he’d have a cow.

But wait! Six place settings? Andi, Jeanette, Georges, me … Dotty might stop by on her way to see her father in the hospital, but unless Ovidio got his own spot, I couldn’t figure six.

Jeanette?? I shouted. Jeanette! Because already I knew. Her explanation, whispered so Andi wouldn’t hear, was simple: if I had told you, you might have gone elsewhere.

What was I to do? Deprive Andi of her Thanksgiving, take her to some lonely restaurant with the rest of New York’s sorry singles? Andi had family, people who loved her. She had a right to be with them, I too. Was I ready for this? No. But I could always leave if I had to, say I’d promised to help Benny ladle lentils at the Vegan Ecumenical Soup Kitchen.

Benny. I needed Benny. Even if it upset Andi.

You’re kidding, he said. You don’t want me at Thanksgiving, you don’t want me in your house at all because you don’t want to upset your daughter, then suddenly Ahmad’s coming over and you want me at your side?

That’s about it, I said.

Hmm, he said. You mean what you said last night?

I did, I said, and blushed.

How about you come over and convince me? I want convincing.

I giggled despite myself. Benny laughed and hung up.

Jeanette didn’t need me. Her instant mashed potatoes were reconstituting, she’d only pretended to need my cranberry sauce, which in any case was done. She was in the kitchen now, teaching Andi to top and tail beans. Snap, snap.

This is fun! Andi said, delighted.

I didn’t know if Andi knew Ahmad was coming for dinner, I didn’t think so. She’d be so happy! I could see her leaping off the couch when Ahmad arrived, the soft expression on his face when he gathered her in his arms, and there it was again, that crazy lump in my throat.

Thanksgiving this year would be a regular Hallmark card.

Almost. I snuck out the door in a long coat, stockings, a garter belt, and not much else.

Benny was in bed, half asleep. I let my coat drop to the floor.

Hallelujah, he said. Come to Poppa!

•

Benny and I arrived at the Den in time for me into slip into a dress, for Jeanette (holding a yam-and-marshmallow casserole) to say, Aren’t we looking rosy, for me to wink and smile, for Andi to say, Oh, he’s back, for me to say, Andi! I won’t have you being rude to my friends! for her to stick out her lip and cross her arms, for me to walk her to her room, and leave her there till she learned some manners, in time for Ahmad, who arrived carrying bottles of wine and wrapped presents in a Bloomingdale bag.

Where’s my girl? he asked softly, looking at me, putting down his bags.

I’ll get her, I said, and then, as if in afterthought, leaned over to kiss his cheek.

You ready to come out? I said, knocking on Andi’s door, then opening it. She was involved in a game, six dolls being instructed by a seventh; she wouldn’t look at me.

I have a surprise for you, if you’re ready to come out.

She heard Jeanette’s voice in the living room, jumped up.

Dotty! she cried. You said she wasn’t coming!

No, another surprise. Also a good one.

I’m ready, she said, trying to nudge past me through the door.

Not yet, I said, blocking her way. First you have to promise you’ll be polite to our guests.

Yes, she said, still trying to squeeze by.

I’m serious. Look at me, I said, kneeling down, aware that I’d never asked this of her before. You will only ever be polite to Benny or any of my friends, do you understand?

Yes, Mom, she said, rolling her eyes.

That’s not good enough, I said, unsure what I wanted from her. You’re going to be seeing a lot of Benny …

It was too late: from the living room, she heard Ahmad laughing.

Ahmad! Andi whispered. Ahmad’s come to see me!

Yes, sweetie. Go say hello.

Off she ran.

When I reentered the living room, Ahmad was swinging my daughter around, her legs flying. She wrapped her legs around his torso and held his cheeks with her small brown hands, their foreheads touching, her brown eyes watching his.

Then Ahmad distributed gifts: a Spirograph for Andi, a crystal vase for Jeanette, a box of cigars for the absent Georges. He shrugged at Benny: Sorry, mate, didn’t know you’d be here.

For me, a drawing, framed, of young Shira in ecstasy — Botticelli hair flying, arms raised, dancing, as if for a lover, gold-flecked eyes open, looking at the viewer — the very picture I’d imagined him drawing in “Domino,” that story he’d hated, the story about Jonah at fourteen.

It was beautiful. Not just because it was beautiful, but because it was from that story. He was trying to tell me something: he was accepting my work, he was accepting me.

Conversation was subdued: all-time best stuffings, did people really eat tofu turkeys. Then Jeanette got a call from Georges; she shrugged and kissed our cheeks goodbye.

I told Andi it was time for bed. She asked if Ahmad would be there in the morning.

No, lovebug, he won’t.

I’m not going to bed, then! she said, clamping her hands to her chair, and you can’t make me!

Andi! I said. That’s enough! It’s past your bedtime!

Ahmad! she insisted. Tell her!

Shira, Ahmad began, then stopped himself. He’d been about to tell me to let her be, but didn’t. Our eyes met. He was telling me he wouldn’t second-guess me, he wouldn’t undermine my authority. He was giving me back my child. Under the table, Benny squeezed my hand.