All's Well(57)

“Most people are idiots.”

She smiles at me gratefully.

I hop off my desk to signal the end of the meeting. Ellie takes her cue and rises from her chair. “Oh, I have something for you.”

She reaches into her canvas bag. Pulls out a plastic baggie and hands it to me.

I look at the bag of salt, punctuated hither and thither with dried pink and purple petals. Tiny green needles. Broken bits of twig. It exudes an overwhelmingly botanical scent, like I’m being punched in the face by a thousand flowers.

“What’s this?”

“Another bath. Since the others worked so well. It seems to be working wonders for you.”

I forgot I even had them. They’re funking up a drawer somewhere. A few others are stuffed with the first, in the glove compartment of my car, making it smell like a rank forest.

“It really is working wonders, Ellie. You’re a magician. You’re healing me.”



* * *



At the grocery store that evening, I weave the cart dancingly, lightly, between the aisles. Standing on my tiptoes. Standing on my heels. Sometimes jumping up on the cart, letting it sail with the forward momentum of my body. Letting one foot dangle off the edge. So fun. I say hello to all the shoppers I pass.

“Hello, hello.… How are you?… Oh, excuse me, ha ha.… Pardon. Pardon me.” Beautiful, everything so beautiful. Raspberries so red. Blueberries so blue, like the dark part of the ocean. Apples, so many varieties. I take my time thinking what’ll I buy, what’ll I have tonight? Because I’m going to cook again tonight. Something complicated and lovely, something that requires stirring, what do I feel like tasting? Last night, I made risotto. Mushroom. I stood there at the counter on legs that did not buckle, chopping the celery, the onion, the carrot. Finely, patiently, into little dice-size bites. The knife had grown dull sitting in the drawer for so long, so I sharpened it. Poured myself a glass of wine, sipped it slowly. Poured the last of my prescriptions—the benzos, the painkillers—down the sink. I hadn’t taken one for weeks, but I’d held on to them all the same, still kept them in my pockets, then in the car, then in the bathroom cabinet, just in case. Until, finally, I felt safe enough to drop them down the drain. Didn’t need them to kill anything, to numb anything anymore. Instead I could savor a single glass of wine. I could take my time. Admire the amber color, how it caught the light from the kitchen window. I soaked the dried porcini in hot water for ten minutes, witnessed the miracle of those little shriveled husks resuming their true shape. Stood at the stove stirring for twenty-five minutes, pouring the hot stock in, ladle by ladle. Watched it bubble away. Watched the pearls of rice fatten and swell. Everything transforming, coming into itself. It was beautiful. When it was all ready, I ate sitting down at the table. Sat down, stood up, sat down. Sat down. I lit a black candle. I raised my amber glass to the man in the window who was sitting at his own meal. He hesitated. But he smiled and raised his drink to me too.

Tonight, I’ll have pasta primavera. Italian for “first spring.” I picture myself at the sink, washing the spring peas, the asparagus. Humming as I snap the asparagus stalks between my hands like twigs. If you break them by hand like that, they always break at the right place, I find. I’ll make my own pasta too, that sounds fun. I weave my way through the aisles, gathering the ingredients—eggs, flour, salt. Where’s the salt? There. Still there on that bottom shelf in the baking aisle. On the bottom shelf, I used to think, to spite me. I remember how long I used to stand there crookedly, staring down at the salt canisters. So beyond my reach they might as well have been stars. Tears gathered behind my eyes.

Everything okay, ma’am? said a stock boy to me once.

How the ma’am stung. How the ma’am was a slap.

I’m sorry, but could you get me that kosher salt on the bottom shelf? I asked him.

I can’t bend, I said. I’m sorry.

Sure, ma’am, he said. And then he reached down so easily and grabbed a smoked Celtic sea salt. And he presented it to me, the wrong salt, so pleased with himself, his good deed.

Here you go, ma’am, he said.

Couldn’t tell him it was the wrong salt. Couldn’t bring myself to say, Can you bend down again and get the kosher salt? So I bought the wrong salt.

For two months I shook the fat dark gray crystals over my plate, cursing him quietly, cursing myself. Everything tasted smoky, brined, unnecessarily witchy.

Now? Now I crouch down low before the canisters on the bottom shelf. I feel the wondrous stretch in the backs of my legs. I bounce a little on my heels, observing all the salt that is mine to plunder. They have far more salts than the last time I was able to bend down.

From there, I go to the butcher counter.

The butcher says, “What can I get you, miss?” Miss. It’s always miss now.

“Guanciale, please,” I tell him. Pig’s cheek. That memory of pork crackling in the office with Ellie gave me a craving.

“Guanciale. Nice. What are you making?” They always want to know what I’m making these days. They’re always so curious about me.

“Pasta primavera.”

The butcher smiles. “Pig’s cheek for pasta primavera? Never heard of that before.”

“I’m mixing it up,” I tell him.

And he looks delighted by this, by me, by my unconventional approach.