James Hynes - Next

“Oh, hi! ” And still clutching Kevin with one hand, she squeezed Beth on the sleeve with her leather glove. Naomi twisted in her mother’s arm, swiveling her porthole toward Stella.

“Oh my God!” cried Stella, a whole octave higher. “Who’s this little cutie?” Her gloved hand floated in the air, and Beth swung the kid a little closer to Stella, who tugged on one of her blunt appendages.

“That’s Naomi,” Kevin said, before Beth could. My archenemy. My judge. My replacement.

“She’s so adorable.” For some reason Stella was clutching Kevin even tighter. “How old is she?”

“Eighteen months.” Beth let her eyes slide toward the counter, where the girl was holding her turkey loaf.

“Oh, let me!” Stella lunged for the container and slid it into Beth’s basket, all without letting go of Kevin.

“Thanks,” said Beth.

“Kev,” Stella said, tugging on Kevin, “don’t you think Naomi looks just like Kenny?”

Beth looked at him, and he could tell she was thinking, Kev?

But Stella just beamed at Beth. “I was just telling Kevin how much he looked like Kenny from South Park in his hood.” She tugged again at Naomi’s foot or whatever it was. “But you look just like him, don’t you, munchkin?”

Beth looked skeptically at Stella. “Isn’t Kenny the one who dies every episode?”

God help me, thought Kevin, but her crow’s feet are sexy.

Stella gasped and pressed her leather fingers to her mouth. She blushed. “Oh my God!” She gasped again and reached across Kevin and squeezed Beth’s arm. “I didn’t mean… oh, I’m so sorry!”

Even through her gloves and the stuffing of his parka, Kevin could feel Stella’s nails digging into his flesh.

“I didn’t mean that! ” she was saying.

“I know,” Beth smiled. “It’s okay.”

Still, Kevin thought, she’s enjoying this. Point, Beth.

“I feel just awful!” Stella looked up at Kevin, as if to say, do something. She was squeezing his arm so hard he was losing the feeling in his fingers.

“Well,” he said, “Kenny always comes back in the next episode.”

“That’s right!” said Stella. In a minute she was going to drag him to his knees.

“The eternal return,” said Kevin, almost a philosophy major. “The phoenix rising from the ashes.”

Beth pursed her lips at him. Point, Kev.

“The ouroboros, ” he said.

“The Euro-what?” said Stella.

“You asshole,” says Joy Luck.

She’s stopped short, and Kevin nearly blunders into her, swiveling away on the ball of his foot at the last moment. Without realizing it, he’s followed her out of the forest of shelves and into the archipelago of specialty islands, where shoppers carrying baskets are grazing at buffet tables and edging up to rounded counters with signs over them that say SPECIALTY ARTISAN CHEESES and CHARCUTERIE. Jesus Christ, thinks Kevin, insinuating himself between two young women at a buffet table, Charcuterie? Can’t they just say “deli meats” like a normal grocery store? Even the buffet he’s stepped up to can’t just be a buffet — GOURMET FLAVORS says the sign. He swipes his hand over his hair — damp with sweat — and blows out a sigh, as if he’s trying to decide between the heirloom tomato gazpacho or the ancho honey glazed pineapple. Under his elbow he glances back at Joy Luck, to make sure she’s not talking to him.

“You asshole, ” she says again, even louder.

She’s radiating anger like a tuning fork, but her back, thank God, is to Kevin. Her fists are balled and her shoulders are hunched, like she’s ready to start swinging. The muscles in her long neck are pulled tight. She’s attracting the glances of other shoppers, who are oh-so-subtly veering around her. Her rage is being beamed — though Kevin can’t see her eyes — at a tall boy in a white, double-breasted smock and chef’s cap standing behind yet another curved counter, under a sign that says, in silver letters, TRATTORIA. It’s a little Italian café right in the middle of the store, with a blond wood counter and high, blond wood chairs. The tall guy is tending to some pots on a small stove behind the counter; he has a long nose and a narrow jaw and a frozen smile, and his eyes are dodging from side to side under Joy Luck’s murderous gaze. The muffin top of his cap is only a foot below the lower edge of the sign, which hangs over him at the moment like the blade of a guillotine. He’s holding a large wooden spoon stained with red, but even so he looks utterly defenseless against the focused rage of Joy Luck, who seems, even from behind, all sinew, claws, and teeth. Even the sexy little apple at the small of her back looks poisonous.

“Kelly!” says the boy, his eyes bouncing side to side like a doll’s. Kelly?

“Ian, what are you doing here?” says the girl, with a disbelieving shake of her head.

What kind of name is Kelly for an Asian girl? She’s the least Irish-looking young woman he’s ever seen in his life. But then, of course, there’s the late Kevin MacDonald, the world’s only freckled, ginger-headed Islamic terrorist.

“You’re back,” says Ian.

“You took a new job while I was gone?” She’s edging forward, but she’s not lowering her voice. Poor Ian glances to either side, but he can’t back up, and there’s only a dripping wooden spoon between him and the wrath of Kelly. Kevin ducks his head and moves slowly around the end of the buffet to the other side. He still can’t get over this Kelly business, though he supposes it could be worse. They could have named her Colleen. Or Bridget. Or Sinead.

“They called me on Tuesday,” says Ian, “and said they needed me to start right away.”

“Oh really,” says the girl formerly known as Joy Luck. “So… what? They picked your name out of the phone book?”

Ian sighs. Another trattorian has appeared behind the counter, a short, dark young woman in a stained smock, her black hair coiled tightly under a hairnet except for a sweaty strand pasted to her forehead. With obvious effort she’s holding a large, heavy, steaming stockpot by both handles, and she’s glancing anxiously from Ian to Kelly and back again.

“Kelly,” says Ian, gesturing with the wooden spoon.

“Ian,” gasps the short, dark girl. Her wrists are trembling as she holds the pot.

“Maria!” says Ian, startled, and he casts about for someplace to put the spoon, thrusts it under his arm, and takes the pot from her, hefting it onto a burner behind him.

“Golly,” says Kelly, “did I come at a bad time?”

The short girl glances at Kelly, then more meaningfully at Ian, and she scoots away. Ian lights the burner, raising an even rim of blue flame under the pot.

“We’re setting up for lunch, Kell.” Ian’s looking for his spoon, can’t find it anywhere. “Can we talk later?”

Aha! The spoon’s under his arm, and he plunges it into the pot.

“Ian!” She stamps her foot. “What the fuck? ”

On the safe side of the buffet a couple of guys stand to either side of Kevin, another man in a business suit and a young guy in cargo shorts and T-shirt. The suit is loading up a takeout box with marinated teriyaki tofu with ponzu sauce, while Cargo Shorts is heaping his with smokey cavatappi pasta salad. All three men exchange glances with each other: Glad it’s not me!

Without looking at Kelly, Ian stirs his pot and gestures at her with his other hand. “It’s a great job, Kell. I couldn’t turn it down.”

“Then what the fuck was I doing in Ann Arbor, looking for an apartment?”

Ann Arbor! Kevin stands a little straighter. Huh!