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“You have a serious look on your face,” he said. “Are you regretting that you let Junior move in?”
“I don’t know. He’s a character, that’s for sure.”
“You wouldn’t tell me if you did regret it, would you?”
“Probably not. Just focus on the fact that he’s paying part of the mortgage for you.”
“A small part.”
“He’s making this house possible.”
I turned on the TV and convinced Ronnie to watch part ofSomersby. That was probably a mistake, since it was the story of a man pretending to be someone he’s not. That struck a little close to home. I shuffled around in my chair a few times.
Of course, in the movie the man is returning to his “wife.” How it was that she didn’t notice the man she was having sex with wasnother husband was something Ronnie and I debated for about an hour. His position was that during the Civil War era no one cared if women enjoyed sex and it was always done in the dark. My position was that even if both men were selfish pricks, they’d be selfish pricks in different ways.
Starving, I snuck into the kitchen during a commercial break and asked Junior, “Did you plan any appetizers?”
“Oh God no. I should have, shouldn’t I?”
“I’ll get some cheese and crackers.”
I found a small piece of brie and a chunk of cheddar. I put them on a plate and then added water biscuits. As I did, I peeked at what Junior was doing. The beef Wellington had come out of the oven a mucky mess, the crust pink and soggy from the blood oozing out of the steaks. On the stove was something brown and sunken which I guessed was the lemon soufflé.
“There’s no shame in ordering a pizza.”
“Oh my God, would you?”
I’d meanthecould order a pizza but decided not to belabor the point. I called The Pizza Place for a pesto pizza and three tiramisus. Then Junior and I went out into the living room and broke the news to Ronnie.
“Fabulous,” Ronnie said. “Let’s watchCrimes of Passion.”
So much forSomersby.Crimes of Passionwas probably Ronnie’s favorite movie. We’d nearly worn out the VHS tape and I wouldn’t have been surprised if it broke when he put it into the VCR. The movie starred Kathleen Turner as a fashion designer-slash-prostitute, but as interesting as that was, Ronnie was much more interested in the lead actor and Anthony Perkins’ over-the-top performance as a crazy priest. It was directed by Ken Russell, which somehow made the 87 minutes of titillation art.
After the pizza arrived and was eaten, Junior said. “I can’t watch anymore of this movie. It’s the kind of film you have to be stoned on something to watch.”
“You’ve had quite a bit of alcohol,” I pointed out.
“Stoned as in something illegal,” he said before toddling off to bed.
Ronnie and I watched the rest of the movie, and yes, it would have been better if we’d been just a little bit stoned. But it wasn’t terrible. Afterward, we brought the pizza box and soda cups into the kitchen. Of course, Junior had not cleaned up.
Ronnie promised he’d clean it up in the morning, but I felt like we should get it out of the way. I began scraping the attempted dinner into the trash. I couldn’t help saying, “It seems like such a waste.”
“Hmmm,” Ronnie said. “We should get a dog.”
“Why would you say something like that?”
“Because then we’d have someone to feed this mess to.”
“We’re not getting a dog,” I said. “No way.”
“Well, that’s definitive.”
I might have been a bit strident, but I didn’t want one more thing in my life I’d have to let go of.
9
April 8, 1996
