The night of the recital, Sam loads the catering van and drives the ten minutes to Jake’s studio. It’s an unassuming building next to the Cuyahoga River, which feeds up into the lake; the area was heavily industrial for generations, and Sam double-checks his GPS to make sure he has the right address. But as he pulls closer, he sees a variety of children in outfits that remind him of Jake back in the day, trailed by resigned-looking parents. He grins, and parks.
It would be silly for it to be one of the greatest nights of Sam’s life. It is anyway; he’ll just have to live with that.
Jake, first of all, is astonishing. Sam didn’t know what to expect. He’s never been to a dance recital before, and Jake’s always talked about this job as though he was barely hired and is seconds away from being canned at every moment, holding on by the skin of his teeth. Sam thought there was a real chancehe wouldn’t see Jake at all, at least until after the show was over. But instead, as Sam leans against the back wall of the large classroom space that’s serving as tonight’s auditorium, he’s delighted to see Jake take the stage with a microphone and serve as the evening’s MC. He announces each group of students and what they’ll be performing with gusto, and with enough detail that everyone—or, at least, Sam—can tell he’s built a personal connection even with the classes he isn’t teaching. And Madame Louisa, looking on from the sidelines, is positivelybeamingat Jake. She looks so proud of him she might burst.
Sam can understand the feeling. His chest aches watching Jake sparkle with a more grounded version of his old panache. To see him make eye contact with a nervous eight-year-old and mouth, “You got this, Jared!”—Sam can’t bear it, has to duck out of the room and start preparing the food for the post-show reception. He probably should have started doing that a while ago anyway, so it’s a win overall.
And the way the food goes over with the crowd…that, in Sam’s opinion, is more than just a win. It’sproof: that Jake was right, that the food Sam likes cooking is good enough to deserve a place on Silverman’s menu. His savory green onion blintzes, which were inspired by one of his favorite snacks from the bakeries in AsiaTown, make one parent so happy she insists on taking his number to start placing wholesale orders. When Sam tells her Silverman’s doesn’t really do that, she just shrugs and says, “Well, you’re going to have to!” Sam’s not sure if that bodes well or ill for his own happiness, but he’s positive he’ll find out soon enough.
Some of the exchanges genuinelydobode well, however. He gets three future catering orders off the chicken schnitzel sliders alone, and two more on the strength of his miniaturized Pastrami Arnolds, which is gratifying. Eileen’s dessert trays netthem three more requests, and at least a dozen people promise to stop by in the near future, impressed by the food.
There is one strange moment. Sam could swear, just for a second, that he sees Marty in the crowd. A former regular, Sam hasn’t laid eyes on the man in months, and he’s been a little concerned. At first he assumed the Kiss of Death review got to him, but as customers have trickled back in without an appearance from such a consistent visitor, Sam’s started to fear the worst. It couldn’t be good for a man’s heart to eat as much corned beef as Marty did before that damn review came out; what if something had happened to him?
But the guy who makes startled, guilty-looking eye contact with Sam for half a second before disappearing into the crowd… ithasto be Marty, doesn’t it? Sure, he’s across the room, and wearing a hat, and Sam’s eyes could be playing tricks on him. But wouldn’t that be a weird trick for them to play? He’s been concerned about Marty, sure, but not so concerned as to hallucinate him.
But then Jake is next to him, vibrating with the energy of the night, the release of all those built-up nerves. Sam crushes him into a hug and congratulates him, makes him eat a slider, feels himself flush with pleasure when Jake doesn’t move away from him, loops his arm around Sam’s back instead. He must talk to fifteen of the parents like that, unbothered by the image they present, the fact that those people will assume they met Jake’s partner?—
—which, Sam realizes with a huge grin, is what they will have done, so. No harm there at all.
They go back to Sam’s place that night without having to talk about it, and Jake gives Sam such a profound and thorough thank-you that Sam sees stars, nearly blacks out. He falls asleep with Jake curled against him, Pastrami snoring happily at thefoot of the bed, and thinks that maybe somehow he’s done it, and found everything he wanted.
SIXTEEN
NOW: JUNE
The next morning Sam unlocks the door for Alphonse and then, for the first time in years, goes back to bed. He doesn’t sleep, of course—his body is too used to being awake and cooking at this hour—and after about twenty minutes of fruitlessly listening to Jake breathe, he gives up and makes them both breakfast in bed.
It’s worth it, though, for the way Jake looks at him when he brings it in, sleep-mussed and barely awake. Sam thinks almost anything would be.
Thereisa slightly strange moment just before they go downstairs together; Sam comes out of the bedroom and finds Jake standing rigid, staring down at the table by the front door. Sam glances at it, bewildered—all that’s on it is a couple pieces of junk mail and his house keys—but he says, “Table haunted, then? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
It’s a joke, but for a second, when Jake turns to look at him, Sam almost thinks it’s true. Jake’s face looks ashen, drawn thick with misery. But then he smiles and brightens and says, “Sorry, all good, just having a flashback to going downstairs in your underwear. I’m wearing pants, right? You see them, too?” So Sam laughs, and assures Jake the pants are indeed there, and forgets about it. It’s easy to let go of, especially whenJake catches him against the doorframe, kisses him thoroughly, and insists they follow through on their postponed dinner at Johnny’s tonight after close.
He sails through the morning, in the best mood he has been in in years. He sings along with the songs on the radio. He laughs with customers who normally drive him up the wall. When Pastrami jumps up and puts her paws on his chest, he dances with her like she’s a person, to her obvious delight. He feels a singing new gratitude for every chime of the bell when the front door opens, having learned not to take it for granted; he feels a singing new gratitude for Jake, smiling at him from what’s become his usual table when he stops in for lunch.
So when Marty steps into the deli, Sam’s first thought is to be grateful. Proof at last that he hasn’t commuted nitrate-related manslaughter; everything’s going his way. And he’s smiling when Marty, holding his briefcase in front of his chest like a shield, cries, “I’m sorry Iwas weird last night! Have mercy on an awkward soul! Don’t cast me back out into the grim, corned-beefless wilds!”
“Nobody cast you out in the first place, Marty. You cast yourself out—it’s notmyfault if you believed that stupid review.”
Sam glances into the dining room again as Marty makes a series of hesitant hedging noises, obviously struggling for the right words. To his surprise, he notices that Jake has taken on a pallor and looks like he’s been replaced with a version of himself who died a few centuries ago. When Sam manages to catch his eye, Jake stares back at him with an expression of such utter, panicked despair that Sam decides he’s going to have to cut the conversation with Marty short. He becomes even more convinced of this when Jake immediately glances away, like he can’t bear to look at Sam a moment more.
“Listen, it’s fine,” Sam says, even though he’d like to be obnoxious about the gap in patronage for a few more minutes.If nothing else, he thinks it’s what Deb would do. But he’s still watching Jake over Marty’s shoulder, and increasingly certain something is badly wrong; it’s all he can do to continue the conversation at all. “Honestly, I’m kind of touched to hear you couldn’t find better corned beef… Actually, sorry, one second. Jake? Are you leaving?”
It’s a rhetorical question; Jake obviouslyisleaving, because he’s throwing his stuff into his bag so quickly Sam’s a little afraid he’ll chuck his laptop to the ground by mistake. But he looks up at the sound of his name, eyes wide and frantic, gaze flicking from Sam to Marty, who has half turned to see who Sam’s talking to?—
“Oh, hey,” Marty says, sounding confused. “I thought you were working this morning.” His face creases as Jake’s falls; after a second, he turns back to Sam. “Rich of you to be giving me crap for keeping my distance, since the whole thing is his fault, and you don’t seem to have any issue withhim. But Iamglad you two have connected and buried the hatchet; that’s nice to see.”
“What?” Sam says, baffled. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh, God, don’t saythat,” Marty says, his eyes darting from Sam to Jake and back again, the color draining from his face. “Months I haven’t come in here! Months! In order to avoid doing this exact—but, wait. You’re pulling my leg or something, right? You have to be. He must have told you. You already know hewrotethat review, and this is all…a joke…”
Marty keeps talking. Sam sees his lips move, but doesn’t hear a word. His ears have filled with static; his mouth has been stuffed with ash. As he watches Jake collapse back into his chair like his strings have been cut and drop his head into his hands, Sam knows with chilling certainty that itmustbe true, that it has to be. If it wasn’t, Jake would be putting up some sort of protest,not looking as though someone just told him he only has twenty-four hours to live.
“Sorry,” Sam says, interrupting whatever Marty was talking about. His voice sounds strange in his own ears. “Jake…did…what?”
There is a long pause, in which Marty looks from Sam to Jake and back again, and then, into the sudden, ringing silence, says, “Oh, God.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Sam sees several heads pop up on the other side of the service window to watch the show.
