Choke on Your Lies Read online

  This Octavia, the one seated before me enjoying her lunch, wasn’t one I recognized. It could be that she was finally letting go some, learning life was too short to be that bitter, that selfish, and that condescending. I hoped.

  “Thanks, I will. That’s really a load off my mind.” I tried the gnocchi, and the coconut milk awfulness was overpowering. I eased my napkin to my mouth, emptied the mess into it. “I thought you said I wouldn’t taste it.”

  She was picking at her own plate, eyes down. “It’s that bad?”

  Before I could answer, she shouted for the waiter, raised her hand high and looked all around. That must mean she either a) hated the food, or b) had discovered where they had (almost certainly) monkeyed with it. Several other diners took notice, turned icy faces towards us. I wanted to slide out of my chair and under the table rather than deal with this again.

  When the waiter finally arrived, almost wincing before she even started, Octavia said, “The Chef isn’t here today, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Is that fucker ever here anymore?” The kid tried to answer but Octavia steamrolled over him. “Who’s back there? Who made this?”

  “Is there a problem? Maybe I can—”

  “Answer the question, please. Who cooked my meal?”

  “That’s Harriet. She’s handling almost everything today.”

  “Send her out here.”

  The waiter started to protest, sort of. He was waiting for Octavia to add “…if that’s okay” so he could find an excuse not to. But Octavia sat quietly, staring at her plate. When she realized the waiter hadn’t moved, she said, “Do you want a tip today? Are you flush without one?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  He got the hell away from Octavia, probably having already written off the tip in his mind.

  I whispered, “What’s wrong with it?”

  Octavia just grinned. “Watch.”

  I took a sip of tea. Whatever was in store might be horrifying, but I’d give this to her: it was always interesting.

  After a few minutes, I turned to see the waiter pointing us out to a frazzled young woman, short blonde hair, stylish up top, shaved really tight at the base of her neck. The top of a tattoo peeked out of her collar. Very pierced, with at least four on each ear, a ring in her eyebrow, and a chin emerald. Skinny but muscled, her hands scarred. She started over, a very relaxed walk. Her chef’s uniform was stained brown and yellow, some fresh, some old, like a collage of sauces. Once at the table, she gave me the once over, dismissed me, then locked on to Octavia.

  “Listen, I’m very busy. You wanted to see me?”

  “How long have you been here?”

  Harriet blinked. “Since four-thirty.”

  “No, how long have you worked here? Simple question.”

  Shrugs, shifting on her feet, looking around at other tables. “Few months. Probably not much longer if I don’t get my ass back in the kitchen.”

  Octavia pointed her fork at her plate. “This fish is not as fresh as I was led to believe. It’s also not seasoned very well. ”

  Harriet crossed her arms, obviously not used to taking this shit. A tough chick line cook in a mostly guy’s world, not going to puss out in front of the staff. “You want another, I’ll fix you another, but I don’t need the lesson, lady.”

  “I don’t think you do. I can tell you’re competent. But are you aware that the serving staff ruins your meals by adding their own special ingredients?” Octavia’s moved a forkful of lettuce out of the way to reveal what I guessed was snot. I gagged and was suddenly glad Octavia had ordered for me. I might’ve eaten half the plate before realizing.

  Harriet fought back a laugh, lost. I could hear stifled giggling coming from behind me, the wait staff watching from the kitchen.

  “Sorry I didn’t get that the right consistency for you.”

  Octavia grinned. It was a baddie. “Cute. You can have that one. I know how it is, on your period, spotting your underwear, and only able to suck cock this week because no man’s going to slip his tongue down there right now—”

  “Give him a choice between me bloody and you not, I bet he takes me.”

  “Until his mouth starts itching, you little crank whore.”

  Harriet took a swipe at the table and sent Octavia’s glass of tea flying. Leaned over and planted her palms on the table. “Look, cow, you were being a bitch, that’s all. You treat us better, maybe you get treated a little better yourself.”

  “You don’t get respect by just being born. Don’t you get it? You can put snot in my food all you want, but you’ll always be back there, cooking food for people like me, and all it would take to get you fired is a few words with your manager—”

  “Yeah? Do it. Go ahead. I’ll stand right here and watch you do it. I’ll have another job in ten minutes at a place just as nice as this one. I’m that good.”

  Octavia took a sip of water. Blinked. Then looked up, lips in what maybe only I knew was a smile. A dangerous smile.

  “And if I made one phone call, you’d never work in any worthy Twin Cities restaurant again.”

  Harriet started with something sharp, but Octavia bulldozed her. “Nor Duluth. Nor Rochester. Nor St. Cloud. I can keep going.”

  The bluster faded, the tattooed cook crossing her arms, fighting to keep her face blank.

  “That’s right. I’m not just rich. I’m rich, and I’m powerful, and people are scared to fuck with me.”

  What was she doing? I was growing uncomfortable. I pushed my chair back and said, “Maybe we should—”

  But Harriet, like I wasn’t even there, said, “It’s not fair. I don’t care what you can do. It’s not fair, and I’m not going to stand for it. I know a lot of cooks, and I’ll spread the word.”

  “No you won’t.”

  Harriet burst out with a laugh. “Yeah? Why not?”

  “Because I would like to hire you as my private chef.”

  Oh no. Not again. I stood. “Octavia, can we—”

  The cook said, “Never.” But it wasn’t a very strong “Never.”

  Octavia said, “Weekdays, lunch and dinner. Plus any dinner parties, gatherings, snacks for guests, but there aren’t very many of those anyway. On Saturday, breakfast and lunch. On Sunday, brunch and dinner. You’ll have the best equipment, the freshest ingredients, and a chance to try new things. You’ll meet the top critics and food writers in town. You’ll become the envy of the best chefs at the best restaurants.”

  “Hey, didn’t you hear me? I’d rather chew my foot off.”

  “Really? You think it’s easy for a woman to rise from line cook to executive chef? Isn’t it an old boys club?”

  The waiters had shrunk back. Harriet pulled out our unused chair, soaked in tea, and sat down. She propped her chin on her hand, leaned towards Octavia. “I like my life. I like my hours, and the money is good enough.”

  “But you want more.”

  A shrug. “Maybe my own breakfast place one day. Out in the suburbs. Something small.”

  Octavia nodded, still with the subtle smile. “But sometimes you dream about more. Right?”

  “We all do.”

  “I know. Work for me.”

  “How much?”

  Octavia reached into her bag and pulled out one of her cards and a pen. She flipped it to the back and wrote down a number. I didn’t have to see it to know that it would rival whatever the top guns in the kitchens were pulling in. Harriet took the card, and her eyes got big. I wanted to say, No! Run! Please! Save yourself. Stay on the line. Have fun with your life. Don’t fall for this.

  But that wasn’t going to happen.

  Harriet sat back in her chair, staring at the card.

  “Plus health insurance and three weeks vacation, as long as they’re not in a row.”

  “Thank…thank you.”

  Octavia stood. “Come see me tomorrow, let‘s say noon. You can cook me a real lunch instead of this shit. Please tell the manager tha
t I certainly won’t be paying the bill today. He can take it out of your check.”

  “Okay. Yeah, that’s…that’s okay.”

  As she walked away, expecting me to follow, I said softly to Harriet, “I’m very sorry.”

  Still staring at the card. “No, it’s fine.”

  “Look.”

  She did.

  “It’s not worth the money.”

  Then she screwed up her lips and eyebrows and said, “Says someone who has plenty of it.”

  Did I come across like that? Me, in my worst clothes, unshaved, smelly, and I still came across as some sort of elitist? We didn’t have Octavia’s money, no, but I suppose we were doing very nicely. Frances and I sought out the finer things. One of the pitfalls of being around academia, all those elitists you roll your eyes at until you’re actually up there with them, talking about the same cheeses, the same hip literary magazines, the latest global fads. We lived in an older cottage-style home in a historic district. We shopped at Whole Foods. We had a favorite wine shop. We avoided chain bookstores to instead support the independents, higher-prices and all.

  I sighed and shook my head at the girl. “I’m very sorry.”

  When I caught up with Octavia at the front door, as the host opened it for her, I said, “Go back in there and tell that girl you didn’t mean it.”

  “But I did.”

  “Now, why would you do that?”

  She turned to me, obviously pleased with herself. “To win. It’s what you do when a whore starts by telling you what she will or won’t do. But wave enough money in front of her, you get whatever you want, and she goes home feeling like shit. A pocket full of money, but still feeling like shit, or more to the point, like her shit was just fucked by a john not wearing a condom because he waved a lot of money under her nose, pocket change to the john, understand, and that’s what talks.”

  I was appalled. “How’s that anything like what just happened?”

  “She’ll take the job. She’ll have the best ingredients on the market. She’ll be the envy of the foodie set in the Twin Cities, and she’ll take home money that will change her life. All the while knowing she just got her ass fucked, no safety net, and has to keep coming back for more because she’ll soon be spoiled rotten.”

  We had arrived at her SUV, Jennings standing ready at the door. She’d installed hydraulics to lower the body when she wanted in, to save her the embarrassment of having to scramble and scratch to get into her vehicle. I’m sure Jennings heard every word, and was biting his tongue for the same reason Harriet would in the weeks and years to come.

  Once settled into the backseat, Octavia finished her thought. “After a while, the pain will fade away, and it‘ll just be her job. It’s the long-term strategy of winning. Before long, she’ll knife anyone who tries to hurt me. Especially when she’s matured and is ready to open her own place. She have plenty saved up and a wealthy investor who knows all the power players. I’ve always wanted to get into the restaurant game, you know.”

  I cut my eyes towards Jennings. A blank slate. He was too young for this sort of job—late twenties, bleached blonde, flaming gay. He should have been out there making the most of all the opportunities ahead of him, except that he, as Harriet would soon be, was trapped.

  I told Octavia, “That’s…cold.”

  “I don’t know. Better than hiring someone eager and hopeful. Where’s the fun in listening to that every day?”

  She nodded at Jennings, who shut the door. His expression cracked a little and he whispered to me in that overdramatic drama queen way of his, “She did what?”

  Then her window started down, and Jennings clasped his hands behind his back, pursed his lips, and started around for the driver’s seat.

  Octavia said, “I’m sorry about lunch. But are we agreed about Pamela? You’ll let her help you get out of this ridiculous marriage nice and easy?”

  This was the hard part. It shouldn’t have been. It should have been simply a caring friend and a thoughtful gift. Not for her, though.

  “Look, thanks and all, but, I’m not…I don’t think I’ll need…um—”

  “You’re wasting my time.”

  Jesus. “No. I don’t need Pamela. We’ll get through this on our own. Like adults. No hard feelings.”

  Octavia lifted her chin, this old-fashioned movie starlet thing she does, aiming a knowing eye at me. “Not yet.”

  She told Jennings to drive. I watched them pull away, thinking that after a couple of attempts to make me cave, I wouldn’t hear from Octavia again for a while. She would go on being spiteful and snobbish until such a time that she wanted to amuse herself with my company again. My selflessness, conscience, kindness, whatever it was that made me human, were all toys for her. She marveled at me like I was from some sort of ancient rain forest culture.

  Thinking of that versus my problems with Frances, divorce somehow seemed the more relaxing choice.

  TWO

  When I found Frances back at the house, sitting in the breakfast nook drinking a glass of Pinot Grigio, the weight lifted from my shoulders. A lucky break, perhaps. She must miss me, I thought, and has come back to see if I can forgive her, then we can reconnect through slow, soft, passionate lovemaking.

  That shattered when she looked at me standing there looking at her, and said, “Where have you been? I was about to leave.”

  “A friend asked me to lunch.”

  “A woman?”

  Jealousy? Ammunition? Sigh. “Just Octavia.”

  She nodded. A small grin. “How have you been?”

  “Awful.”

  A sigh. “Oh, Mick. Please.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s the truth.”

  “Come on. Let’s talk.”

  I motioned at the bench opposite her. “May I sit?”

  She somehow kept from rolling her eyes, but, god, how she wanted to. “That’ll make talking easier, now, won’t it?” Then she shook her head and smiled wide. “I’m sorry. Really, it’s not you. I should’ve…let’s just talk.”

  I sat across from her. She poured a second glass of wine and slid it across the table, two fingers pressing the base. I didn’t really care for white wine, but after my lunch with Octavia any alcohol would do.

  Had Frances not been here I probably would’ve opened the Laphroaig 15 Year Old and stared at the painting we’d bought together in the French Quarter, hanging between the two long windows in the front room that gave us an impressive view down the hill, through the aspens, to the street. Minneapolis was a gorgeous city, designed to incorporate the woods it was carved from with an eye towards harmony and aesthetic beauty. Soon enough the majesty surrounding me here at home, such an amazing little cottage in the Bryn Mawr neighborhood where I imagined I could live many more years in peace and calm, would carry away the memories of these weeks on the wind, leaving me with the soul of Frances in verse as my mind worked through the pain. I would remember her fondly, a hint of bittersweet regret, but I would survive, move on, flourish again.

  I told Frances, “Look, I hate this. I do, but I will never stand in your way. If this is what your life requires, I’ll support that and let you go. I just want to be sure first, both of us, that this is the correct choice. If you could just give us another month—”

  “It’s been eight years. Another month won’t matter. I know it won’t.”

  She wore her serious expression that always pricked my soul—lips slightly parted, downturned, and her head tilted just off-center, hair falling across her face. I thought of Yeats’ “O Do Not Love Too Long”:

  But O, in a minute she changed -

  O do not love too long,

  Or you will grow out of fashion

  Like an old song.

  I weighed my response. So much to say, but it was a delicate balance. She was in bloom, vivid and fresh, her scent sending out a call for all admirers to come, see, taste. Her skin looked as if our slightest contact would raise the hair on my own. A thin, low-cut, loose sweater, leani
ng forward on her forearms, as if she felt more comfortable with herself, her sexuality, than at any other time in her life. I didn’t want to watch that wither. It killed me that I wasn’t the one to have woken her up, but now that she was awake, I would not be responsible for putting her back to sleep.

  I said, “Okay. Yes. I see.”

  “Please…I’m not trying to hurt you.” She reached across, took two of my fingers gently. “The last thing I wanted was to see you suffer like this. But I thought you realized. We’re not the same people as we were before. My God, Mick, we’ve shared so much. I’ll never forget any of it. But I can’t help this feeling that there is so much more I have to do, and I can’t do it with you. Haven’t you felt the same? Don’t you think I’m holding back your writing?”

  Of course. Abso-fucking-lutely she was. She had made me happy, but I had made some sacrifices. All for her. And I would’ve done it again over and over, no matter how many times we ended up in exactly the same spot—at the breakfast nook, ending our marriage.

  But I said, “No, sweetie. Never. But don’t let me stand in your way. If this is what you need, I’ll do what it takes for you to have it.”

  Her eyes squinched. Tight, rosy cheeks as she smiled, nodded. “Thank you. I’ll always feel love for you, you know.”

  “I…” Had to leave her on a good one. One that would bounce around in her head, make her doubt her choice late into each night for months and years to come. “I’ve loved you more than I’ve ever been able to put into words. As soon as I think I’m close, I find my love has grown beyond even that.”

  “Oh, Mick.”

  She squeezed my fingers. I squeezed hers. I rubbed the top of her hand. It was the closest we’d been in weeks. The most honest moment I’d ever felt. A shame to end, but to end like this was encouraging. There was more to us than bones and blood and muscle. We truly had souls, and for all the damage we could cause to each other on this earth, the ability to heal, rise above, and forgive was worth our mortality.