Chapter Eleven: Grace

Grace: we may request it, we may seek it, we may beg for it – but we have no right to demand it…being granted grace is strictly a karmic thing.

Lifestyle of the Rich, but Not Necessarily Famous, and Truly Blessed: You wake up on the sunny side after a solid night’s sleep in your well-appointed Italian villa, practice yoga for one graceful hour, dance wildly for twenty minutes, then steam your pores in a native marble shower. Your live-in housekeeper delivers fresh squeezed orange juice, two perfectly poached eggs, just-plucked asparagus from the garden, a triple decaf skinny latte, homemade hazelnut biscotti and today’s schedule of events to your desk by the window overlooking your perennial garden. You dress in your favorite riding breeches, the ones with a hole in the knee (you can’t part with them because they fit so well) and walk briskly through the arched breezeway to the connecting ancient stone and wood barn. Songbird, your happily retired, totally sound, dark bay Grand Prix dressage schoolmaster is perfectly groomed and tacked in only a bareback pad and halter. He accepts your offering of carrots and nuzzles your hair in appreciation. You ride for thirty minutes, hitting all the letters in perfect balance and harmony. You hug him as you swing from his tall back and hand him to your trusty working student, then hop on retired three-day-eventer Pal, your happy, totally sound, mahogany bay Thoroughbred and enjoy a cross-country gallop with flight over short log fences. You walk Pal back through the vineyards, fingers lightly on the buckle. Il Cordellino, the European Goldfinch, flies by your shoulder as your incredibly smart and loyal mountain dog Benito keeps pace. Upon returning to the barn, you groom Pal to a shine and turn him out to play with Songbird in the lush pasture by the lake. You head to the gazebo and eat a light lunch of homemade foccacia, olive oil, fresh herbs, and garden tomatoes with your wonderfully attentive and delightful multi-racial, multi-cultural staff. You hit the hammock with journal in hand, write a haiku worthy of Clark Strand’s appreciation, and take a catnap with Ciao-Ciao, your favorite cat, curled by your head. You awaken to the news that your latest Super Tuscan release has received ninety-five points from Robert Parker and the calls, oh - the calls roll in. You put on a pair of well-worn leather gloves, hit the vineyards, and work alongside Italian wine master Angelo Gaja, who imbues you with his bounteous knowledge. At dusk, you hit your office after taking off your boots and return calls to Wine Spectator – the time difference, you know. You take a long, hot shower, dress in cool silk, and entertain one hundred of your best and truest friends and business associates with a five-course dinner and live music by the lake where soft candles float on lily pads. At midnight, you retire to your inner sanctum with your significant other, the love of your life, send up sincere prayers of gratitude to God Goddess Mother Father Divine Spirit, close your eyes and soul travel for seven straight hours. You wake up, reach for your lover, make sleepy but passionate love and start a brand new day.

Lifestyle of the Struggling, but Truly Blessed, Independent Restaurateur: You wake up at nine a.m. wondering why the hell you didn’t get up earlier, then remember you went to bed at three a.m. You jump out of bed with a nervous heartbeat, grab a quick shower and curse because the drain’s still clogged and you forgot for the tenth day in a row to bring home the mercuric acid from the restaurant. You slam some weird-tasting green powder in the blender, reach for the juice, and it’s not there, so you mix it with water instead and chug it for much-needed energy. You dress in whatever doesn’t smell like bar funk, go to work, make a pot of coffee and let the answering machine catch the calls for thirty minutes until you can speak without croaking like a bullfrog with grasshopper legs stuck sideways in its throat. You accept wine shipments, beer shipments, fish shipments, linen shipments, cold-calling salesmen and solicitors. Then, you go to the bathroom. You prep, check and recheck the reservation book, post the endless stream of necessary paperwork, pay bills, and freak out because the health department just showed up and the bar is trashed. You look at the clock: 4:52p.m! You yell a threat to your staff and rush out, praying the road rage patrol is in another neighborhood. You hit the bank at 4:59p.m. for change, take the shortcut home, drive fifteen miles over the posted speed limit, quickly pull clothes from the dryer, check for wrinkles (everything’s wrinkled), change into the least wrinkled, feed the critters, clean chipmunk guts off the living room floor, call the restaurant for any last-minute dire strait needs and head back to work. You pray out loud that the wait staff has completed their set-up and managed to avoid confrontation with the kitchen staff; you get in your car, notice the reserve tank light is on, pray for fumes, coast into the parking lot as the first customer is entering the front door, breathe deeply to expel all negative vibes and plaster a smile on your torqued-out face. You work your ass off upstairs in the dining room until 10:30 p.m., then you head downstairs to bar-back. At 12:45a.m., your bartenders shout Last Call! You play the theme from Rawhide four times before the drunks stop line-dancing and fucking get the hint. You pray the toilets aren’t stopped up with vomit, and do your level best to help clean up the biggest part of the evening’s gooey mess. You say goodnight to all the musicians after a short recap of the day’s events and everyone heads home at two a.m. You haven’t eaten a hot meal since last Tuesday and scrambled eggs sound really good but you opt for cold two-day old pizza instead because there’s nothing much to clean up. You watch BET comedy on the tube until the sandman cometh. You sidestep little gutless furry presents and congratulate the talking cats on their prowess while walking the littered path from the den through the hall to the bedroom. You thank God Goddess Mother Father Divine Spirit for your many blessings, do wine inventory in your sleep, and wake up and do it again!

It’s three o’clock p.m. and The Firefly is in shambles from the front door to the wait station, from dry storage to the back bar; every foot is littered with produce boxes, dirty coffee cups and piles of paperwork – perfect time for a visit from the Health Department. “Oh my God! It’s the Health Department!” Mimi runs upstairs yelling. “It’s the Health Department, clean something!” She runs to the wait station. “It’s the Health Department! Throw out the Chinese takeout in the wine cooler!” Breathe, Mimi, breathe, that’s it, suck in air, blow hard, inhale, exhale, ohmmm. “Fuck!” Gotta buy the staff time to find the ice scoop and replace the empty hand soap container and empty the nasty gray mop water and change the burnt out light on the line and chill out, Mimi, she thinks. Brushing her hair from her forehead, she calmly walks back downstairs. With a look of surprise that fools nobody, she extends her hand. “Hi, Conrad! How are you? How’s your son? Been to the beach lately? Didn’t you tell me you were going to the beach?”
Conrad smiles, and looks up. “Did you know your ceiling is leaking right over the bar there?”
“No, Conrad. Thanks for pointing that out.” Mimi walks to the stairs and yells, “GUYS, WE HAVE A LEAK IN THE BAR!” She closes her eyes, and turns to Conrad with a contrite look. “I have to explain this mess, Conrad. See, we’re not open down here on Tuesday nights. The bar doubles as our office until tomorrow and we also accept shipments down here and Mo’s coming to clean in about an hour.”
Conrad keeps on smiling. “It’s okay, Mimi. You told me all that last time. Don’t worry about it. Is Sam upstairs?”
“I think so, but let me check. I’ll be right back.” Mimi grabs six dirty mugs by the handles and slowly walks up the stairs, Conrad right behind her. “Sam! Did you hear me yell about the leak?”
“Yes I did, Mimi, and so did the patrons at the art gallery across the street. Hi, Conrad, good to see you.” Sam had the foresight to change aprons, and is almost clean.
“Sam, how you doing?”
“Fine, Conrad. Just busy as usual. How was your beach trip? Didn’t you say you were going to the Banks? I used to fish down there some when I was a kid. Do you fish? I bet the water is still cold. How’s the undertow this time of year?”
Conrad is a true gentleman caller. He knows the ruse, gets the same shuck and jive from owners at every restaurant in town. And he knows as well as they do that a good stall tactic can’t buy enough time to replace those worn-out refrigerator gaskets or clean that nasty grease trap or empty the ice cooler or rearrange dry storage on the fly. But, he plays the game so well. Too late, Mimi thinks. Take the hit, pray for a 90.5 rating – still an A – and hope your patrons look at the letter and not the number.
Mimi is no longer Alpha-dominant bitch of her domain. If she dies today, her epitaph will read She Willingly Kissed the Health Department’s Ass. If Sam dies today, his epitaph will read Do Not Offer Them Money, You Fool! And at the wake there will be a lovely photo collage of Sam and Mimi in the chew, lick, tuck, drop, roll, and bend over positions displayed next to a signed copy of their latest health rating, a solid ninety four points – excellent considering the age of their charming, but rickety building. Sam and Mimi breathe a sigh of relief, and smile. They know it’s a good day to die.

Unfortunately, several people at Eastern General Hospital feel the same way. Jake leaves his latest loss and feels a vibration on his hip. “What the hell is this?” he mutters as he looks at the familiar number. “Julie?”
“Jake. How are you?”
He keeps it short. “Good.”
“I know you’re busy. I’ll cut to the chase. I’d like to see you as soon as possible. We need to talk. Can you come over for dinner tonight?”
“Actually, Julie, I have plans.”
“No problem. I know it’s short notice. How about tomorrow?”
Jake hesitates. “I’m not sure that would be good for me right now.”
Julie pauses before jumping in with a nosy question. “Are you involved with somebody?”
Jake looks at Nan’s purse sitting on his desk. “Not really,” he answers.
“Are you seeing her tonight?” Jake doesn’t respond. Julie thumps away in typical Julie style. “How long have you been seeing her?”
“That’s none of your business, Julie.”
“Are you in love with her?”
“I have to go now, Julie. Bad day.” Jake can’t hang up; he wants to, but Julie’s voice pulls him through the receiver like an electromagnet.
Julie presses. “Look, Jake we really need to talk. Will you call me? I don’t have your home number and I don’t want to call you at work. Just call me tomorrow, will you?”
What the hell? Jake thinks. He pauses, and takes a deep breath. “Why don’t I come by tomorrow night around seven?”
“Great! Will you stay for dinner?”
“Let’s play it by ear, okay?”
“Yep, that’s fine. Bring Molly, too. I miss her.”
Jake’s blood pressure rises; he can feel his heart beat against his ribs. He hasn’t heard from Julie in four months. He rode by the house one night by mistake, took the wrong highway to the wrong home after a troubling day at work, his short term memory taking a vacation less than a week after he moved out, and what did he see? Dr. Tucker Bush’s car parked in the driveway. No official separation papers are signed, but Jake knows the gig is up and anticipates a divorce. He’s settled about it, but wants Julie to make the first move; let Tucker pay the attorney fees, he thinks.
Jake leaves work, drives to the right house, his house, his haven – his. Nan arrives at seven sharp, kisses Jake, loves on Molly, walks in the kitchen – she loves his kitchen – puts a chicken pie in the oven, sets the table, changes Molly’s water bowl, walks to the bathroom, brushes her teeth – she keeps a toothbrush there now, has slept in Jake’s bed three times a week for the last two months – and feels comfortable as she marks her territory. Nan is young and cute and talkative; Jake, whose moods swing like monkeys from banana trees, is charmed, but mostly bored, by Nan’s youth and cuteness and conversation. Jake’s mind is otherwise engaged. Does Julie want to sell the house? Is that it? Is she moving in with Tucker? She needs me to sign papers, I bet that’s it, he thinks. He eats quietly, barely making a dent in his chicken pie.
Nan snaps her fingers from across the table. “Jake, did you hear me?”
“I’m sorry, Nan. I’m a little distracted tonight. What did you say?”
“I said let’s take Molly for a walk before the sun goes down.”
Jake shakes his head. “I can’t right now.” He stands up. “Listen, I have some stuff to take care of.”
“Let me help you.” Nan can’t help herself. She’s a service provider on and off the clock. What can I do?”
“Nothing, Nan. I have to get on the phone in a minute and find a bass player for next week’s gig.” Jake stares out the window looking for answers to a multitude of questions – one being, how do I get rid of Nan?
“I’ll clean up,” she says, “then I’ll walk Molly while you make the call. Nan starts to clear the table, but Jake intercepts her. Removing the plates from her hands, he looks at her kindly and says, “Don’t worry about it. Molly’s fine, and I’ll do the dishes later. Sweet of you to offer, though.” His politeness chills Nan; she feels a slight twinge of that old familiar ‘getting kicked to the curb’ feeling. “Well, I was planning on staying over. Is that okay, or do you want me to leave?” The curve of her mouth turns south.
“No. Yeah, yeah. That would be best.” Jake rubs his head and says, “Nan, I’m just low on energy tonight. You’re a baby doll, though. I really appreciate dinner. I’m sorry you came all this way just to turn around and go home, but thank you.” Jake’s ambivalence tips Nan’s confidence in a precarious direction. Her vulnerability is painful for Jake to witness, but he’s not good at dishing out rejection. Nan reaches down to pat Molly, avoiding Jake’s distracted face. “So, can we get together tomorrow instead?”
“Yeah, sure. No, wait, we can’t. Julie called today. I have to sign some papers at the house tomorrow night." Nan picks up the plates again and heads to the sink. Jake doesn’t stop her this time. He kindly lets her process. “What kind of papers?”
“Probably separation papers,” Jake says as he walks to the sink and refills his water glass. Nan is visibly relieved. “So, that’s what’s bothering you. Now I understand.” She wraps her arms around Jake’s waist, pulls back from him, and smiles. “We’re still going to the beach on Friday, right?”
“Right.” Jake doesn’t feel like dampening Nan’s spirits again. He smiles, and hugs her. That’s all Nan needs. She gives Jake a kiss on the cheek, and with a lilt in her step and voice, turns to the door. “Okay, lover, call me later. I’ll come back over if you want me to.” Jake walks her to the porch and takes a deep breath; the evening air is perfumed with the aroma of new mown hay. Reason number twenty why I live here, thinks Jake. “That’s sweet of you, Nan, but let’s just say goodnight. It’s been a long day. Watch for deer in the driveway. See you tomorrow.”

Jake calls Melvin first. Good news: Melvin’s hooked up a bass player. His grandkids are over and their laughter fills the phone; Melvin is merrily distracted, so it’s a short powwow. Jake cleans up the kitchen, then sits down at his keys and plays for an hour, but he doesn’t find what he’s looking for. Molly’s damp nose on his leg indicates a need for an outside visit and provides a welcome diversion – good timing because it’s a warm, clear night on the farm and the cattle are lowing. After a turn around the pasture with Molly to clear his head, Jake returns home and turns on the television; he still can’t concentrate. The ringing telephone offers no assistance, as Nan’s number shows up on caller ID. Jake doesn’t answer, but considers his options for a long minute before picking up the phone and calling Julie, who answers on the second ring. “Jake, I’m so glad you called me.”
Jake has no time for small talk. “Do you have papers for me to sign? Is that why you want me to come over?”
“Papers? No… what kind of papers?”
“Separation papers, I guess.” Jake pauses. “Are you thinking of selling the house?” Julie laughs. “Why would I want to do that? No, it’s nothing like that. It’s just – look, I want to talk about some things; some personal things.”
“Talk, then,” Jake says. “I’m right here.”
“No, I want to talk in person, Jake. Do you have company?”
“She left a couple of hours ago.” Julie’s happy to hear that. “Great! Can you come over now?”
“Where’s Tucker?” Jake asks.
“We stopped seeing each other a couple of months ago,” Julie says. “I don’t work for him anymore, either.”
Jake digs. “Did he dump you for a younger model?”
“I guess I deserve that.”
“No, I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair.”
“How about it, Jake?” Julie is relentless in her pursuit. “Come on over.”
Jake sighs. “Julie, it’s ten o’clock. I’m tired. I haven’t heard from you in over four months. What’s a few more hours? I said I’d come over tomorrow night.”
Julie pleads. “Come on, Jake, it’s only twelve miles.”
Jake shakes his head and ponders his next thought. He grins. “Will it be worth it?”
“Absolutely, at least I hope so.”
Jake hesitates, but gives in. “Alright, I’m on my way.”
“Bring Molly.”
Julie and Jake talk until two a.m., talk and cry and laugh and hug and kiss – kiss passionately. Julie tells Jake almost everything. Almost. She doesn’t tell him about her trip to St. Petersburg and her visit to Bread and Roses Women’s Clinic, about her roundtrip ticket, about flying with a companion and returning alone. Jake calls the hospital at three a.m. “I’m unavailable until early afternoon,” he says. “Please call for backup.” Julie sleeps naked with her body pressed against Jake’s muscular back, with her arm wrapped around his chest, with her blue-veined hand resting on his steady heart. Julie homes in on her husband.
Jake is happy for the first time in four months, and forgets about Nan – until he sees her crushed face in the hall just outside his office. She spends the better part of the afternoon finding reasons to spy on his door. “Where did you go after I left last night, Jake?”
Jake blankly stares at Nan. “Nowhere.” He’s a proficient liar when he feels he has to be. Nan’s innocent, but not stupid. “Why didn’t you answer the phone, then? I called you four times.”
“Nan, look.” Jake puts his hand on her heart as if protecting it from his next words. “You’re a sweetheart, but I can’t see you anymore.”
Nan is one part anguished child, two parts distraught woman. “Why?” Nan wants an explanation; her sky is falling. “It just doesn’t feel right,” Jake says.
“But, what about our beach trip?”
Jake removes his hand, and waves impatiently to a scurrying, eavesdropping nurse. “I’m sorry about that, too. Look, Nan,” he says softly, “you’re a good girl, and we had fun, but it’s over.”
“What about my stuff at your house? Can I get my stuff?”
“All you have is a toothbrush, Nan.”
Nan’s anguished child throws a temper tantrum, right there in the hall, right there in full view of the nurse’s station. “That’s it? No explanation, just a brush-off? You have a lot of nerve, Jake Reston.”
Jake puts a finger to her lips in a feeble attempt to quiet her. “Shhh, Nan. Shhh.” He quietly says, “Baby girl, you don’t know me.” Nan smacks his hand away. “I think I do, Jake. This is about Julie, isn’t it? That’s where you went last night, isn’t it?” Her voice throws itself against the wall and echoes through the ER, making the patients moan.
“Nan, let it go.”
“Tell me, dammit!” People notice; curious eyebrows rise like cafeteria yeast rolls. Jake, not daring to take her behind closed doors, grabs a rather beefy little arm and steers her down the hall seeking privacy, but this is prime time entertainment of soap operatic proportion, featuring a favorite daytime star. Not even one wanton gaze is diverted. Jake smells popcorn. “I don’t want to see you anymore, Nan. That’s it; now, please, just let it go.”
Nan shrugs Jake’s hand from her arm and plants her feet; the riveted audience emboldens her, and she plays to them, speaking with amplitude and clarity so spying eyes can get their ears full, too. “Well,” she slowly says, “you want to know something, Mr. Hot Pants? This is perfect timing. I was about to fall in love with you. What a mistake that would have been, you big fucking shit! I came so close to turning down a pie job just to stay in this miserable little town because of you.” Nan dramatically hits herself in the head, and says, “What was I thinking? Those nurses over there were right – you have way too much baggage, and you’re really high maintenance. Not my kind of guy at all.” Oooh, girl, now you’ve stepped in it. The nurse’s station is full of bug-eyed women shaking their heads to disavow ownership of the gossip, but who jockey for front row seating. Nan’s summary is less than poetic, but her delivery receives high marks from the gallery of onlookers. “Go to Hell, moron,” she declares with a three-fingered salute. “You’re making a big mistake, and you deserve what comes your way. If Julie knows what’s good for her, she’ll leave your ass hanging out to dry.” Nan takes aim and drives in the last stake. “And by the way, you old fucker, your taste in music sucks.” Chin up, she exits stage left to a short burst of quickly stifled mad applause; the thought of a repeat performance, its effect on the nurses’ critical care patients, and the possibility of an increased work load puts the quietus on.
“Has anybody seen my brain?” Jake asks of no one in particular as he walks past the nurse’s station. Grabbing the bag of popcorn, he removes a scalpel from his breast pocket with his free hand, continues walking down the hall, and, pausing midway to his office door, takes aim; he hits the bulls eye from twenty feet, turns, flashes a luminous grin, and bows to thunderous applause which almost, but not quite, smothers the moans coming from critical care.
A week later, Jake moves back home to Julie, moves from his lovely country cottage with the big front porch, moves forward so fast that back is front and air is earth and fire is ice and time is motion. Beautiful house, beautiful wife.
If you drive to the country when the summer moon is rising and you detour down the right unmarked dirt road, you might see a lonely cottage; but the cottage is not alone, for in surrounding fields, thousands of fireflies blink a signal of love or a signal of duplicity, or sincerity, or mimicry – a signal solely dependent upon the mating behavior of the signalee.