Catch of the Day

CHAPTER TWO

ON FRIDAY AFTERNOON, I leave the diner, all the goodies ready for baking tomorrow, and head for home. There’s a bounce in my step. Will, best brother-in-law in the world, has come through. I have a date.

It’s been a long time. Quite a while. I wrack my brain, trying to remember the last actual date I had, and come up empty. Before Father Tim came to town, that’s for sure.

Oh, well, it doesn’t matter. I pat Colonel for reassurance and pull my coat a little closer. Tonight I have a date, and I’m going to enjoy it. A nice dinner and some company, the buzz of potential. I turn at my street and make my way to the small house I bought a few years ago. On the first floor lives Mrs. Kandinsky, my tenant. She is ninety-one years old, a lovely, tiny bird of a woman who knits me sweaters and hats with amazing speed, given that her hands curl in on themselves with arthritis.

I knock on Mrs. K.’s door and wait. It takes her a while to get up sometimes. Finally, the door opens a suspicious crack. Then she sees that it’s just me. “Hello, dear!” she chirps.

“Hello, Mrs. K.!” I chirp back, leaning down a foot or so to kiss her silky, wrinkled cheek. “I brought you some meat loaf. All the fixings, too.”

“Oh, Maggie, how nice! I didn’t know what I was going to cook for dinner! And now I don’t have to! You’re an angel, you are. Come in, come in.” Her emphatic way of talking makes it sound a bit like she’s singing, and I find myself unconsciously imitating her after a few minutes in her company.

Although I don’t have to leave for a couple of hours, I want to go upstairs and enjoy the rare feeling of date anticipation. But Mrs. K. is so sweet, and many days, I’m the only person she sees. Her aging children live out of state, and most of her friends are long gone. I usually bring her a meal from the diner for both unselfish and selfish reasons—I don’t want her burning my house down, trying to cook. So she gets plenty of blueberry scones and muffins and pot roast, or cheddar mac and cheese or whatever else I’ve made that day.

We go into her living room, which is crowded with overstuffed furniture, magazines and a small television. She’s tapped into my satellite dish and is currently watching a soccer match between Italy and Russia. The smell of old person, close and medicinal and oddly comforting, tickles my throat.

“I can’t stay, Mrs. K.,” I tell her. “I actually have a date tonight.” There I go again, blurting out my news. At least this time I know the guy isn’t a priest.

“How lovely, dear! I remember when Mr. Kandinsky courted me. My father didn’t approve, you know,” she said.

I do know. I’ve heard this story dozens of times. To remind her of this fact, I say, “Right. He used to show Mr. K. his gun collection, didn’t he?”

“My father used to show Walter his gun collection while he waited for me! Can you imagine!” Her wizened face wrinkles even more as she laughs, a lovely, tinkling sound.

“Well, Mr. K. must have loved you very much, if he stood for that,” I tell her, smiling.

“Oh, yes. He did. Would you like me to warm up some meat loaf for you, too, Maggie dear?”

I lean down again and kiss her cheek. “No, I have a date, remember? But I’ll warm it up for you.” I tuck the dish into the microwave and press the buttons. Mrs. K. often forgets how to use the microwave, though I sometimes smell popcorn late at night. I guess she figures it out for important things. On the counter is a bottle of Eucerin Dry Skin Therapy Plus Intensive Repair Hand Crème. “Mrs. K., is it all right if I try your hand cream?” I ask.

“Of course! My mother always said, you can judge a lady by her hands.”

“I hope not,” I mutter, attacking a cracked spot near my thumb.

Ten minutes later, I go upstairs to my apartment. Colonel seems stiffer than usual, and I have to boost him up the last few steps. “Here you go, big guy,” I tell him, fixing his supper. I press a glucosamine pill and some doggy anti-inflammatories into a spoonful of peanut butter and turn to him. “Peanut butter blob!” I announce. He wags happily as he laps his medicine off the spoon. “Good boy. And here’s your supper, Mr. Handsome.” Given the state of his hips, I don’t make him sit first.

Responsibilities finished, I take a minute to flop into my chair and relax. My apartment is small—a minute kitchen, living room, tiny bedroom and fairy-sized bathroom that barely has enough room for me to stand. But I love it. A seaman’s chest, filled with afghans from Mrs. Kandinsky, serves as a coffee table. Pictures of Violet decorate the fridge, and some African violets, in honor of my niece, blossom on the windowsill. Little collections of matchstick boxes and animal-shaped salt and pepper shakers line a shelf that my father and I put up a few years ago. Some old tin pie plates hang on the wall, and instead of hooks, I use old porcelain or glass doorknobs to hang my coats. Six or seven decorative birdhouses hang on the wall, gifts from my dad, who makes them almost as fast as Mrs. K. crochets afghans.

Well. Time to get ready for my date! I’ve already planned what to wear—black pants, red sweater and a nice pair of suede shoes to slip on at the restaurant. The ice, salt and mud between my apartment and my car would ruin anything other than my faithful L. L. Bean boots in a matter of one step. I shower, dry my hair and take care of my face, then take a look in the mirror, pleased. I don’t often wear my hair down, but it looks pretty and soft, thanks to the new cut and color. My gray eyes look bigger with makeup, and the blush I applied does wonders for my pale skin. I put on a necklace, give my dog a rawhide chew stick and leave.

Roger Martin, the nurse with whom I am having dinner, called me three days ago at Will’s urging. He sounded pleasant, though we didn’t talk too much. We agreed to meet at The Loon, a nice restaurant in Machias that Christy and Will frequent. Why he needs to be fixed up is a bit of a mystery—but then again, I need to be fixed up, so I try to reserve judgment.

It takes a while to get to the restaurant from Gideon’s Cove, as the roads are narrow and twisting out of our little peninsula. I don’t mind; I hum along with the one radio station I pick up as I drive. I don’t leave town too often, to tell the truth, and I usually walk around town or ride my bike. My car, a Subaru station wagon, is good for loading up at the Wal-Mart in Calais when I need stuff for the diner—gallons of Windex and bleach, trash bags, flour—but for day-to-day, I prefer human-powered transportation.

I pass the University of Maine campus and continue through town. The restaurant is a cheerful, timber-beam place with fairy lights strewn on the bushes outside. It’s lovely inside as well, wide-planked floors, candles twinkling, white tablecloths, a piano in one corner. I ask the maître d’ if Roger is here and am led to a table. Sure enough, there he is, studying the menu. The unfamiliar, nervous thrill of meeting someone new washes over me.

“Hi, Maggie, I’m Roger,” he says, standing to shake my hand. He is somewhat average-looking; neither handsome nor homely, medium height, just a little chubby. His eyes are blue, his hair brown and receding.

“Hi. Hi there. I’m Maggie. How are you? This is a nice place, isn’t it? It’s very cute. My sister says they have great food.” I cringe inwardly, blushing. Really should get that babbling tendency looked at.

Roger smiles. “Have a seat.”

I sit and settle my bag at my feet, then fiddle with the silverware. “So,” I say. “This is nice. Thank you for coming, too. I mean, for, well…oh, shit, I’m sorry.” I laugh nervously. “I don’t go out much.” Stop talking. Stop. Talking. “On blind dates, I mean. I’m a little nervous, I guess. But you seem nice. And you have a good job, nothing scary, just nursing. So, you know. So far, so good.”

Jesus, listen to me. I sound like a chimpanzee on speed. Roger looks on. “Uh, would you like a drink?” he asks.

Alcohol exacerbates my tendency to blather, so I should definitely refuse. “I’ll have a glass of chardonnay,” I tell the waiter. Clamping my lips shut, I force myself to wait for Roger to speak.

“Will is married to your sister, right?” he asks.

“Yes.” Good job, Maggie!

“And am I correct in thinking that you guys are twins?”

“Yes.”

“Identical, right?”

“Yes.”

His eyebrows rise slightly. Perhaps now is not the time to shut up, after all. “Yes, uh-huh. We’re twins. Identical twins, you’re right. She’s older by two minutes, but I like to say that Mom loves me best because I weighed less. Christy was nine pounds. Came out of Mom like a bullet. Caused some pretty nasty tearing.”

No wonder I’m still single.

“I see,” says Roger. His smile has faded.

I turn my burning face to the menu. Relax, I tell myself. This is not a game show. You have nothing to lose. He likes you or he doesn’t. You like him or you don’t. Calm yourself.

The waiter comes and we order dinner. I’m careful to choose a dish that’s neither the cheapest nor the most expensive. I take another sip of wine. “So, Roger, do you like being a nurse?” I ask. That’s more like it, Mags.

“Yeah, I sure do.” He tells me a little about his work, the hospital. And here’s the thing. He’s not right for me. He’s a little dull…instead of talking about the patients and doctors and that sort of human interest thing, he’s off on a tangent about overtime and benefits and his 401K. Give him a chance, I can hear my sister saying. I try.

Our dinners come. Unlike me, Roger has had no compunction about ordering the most expensive item on the menu. The waiter puts down an enormous lobster, red and steaming, and proceeds to tie a bib around Roger’s neck, making him look like a giant toddler. The lobster must weigh four or five pounds, making it a sumo wrestler among its peers. Roger rips off a claw with gladiator-esque machismo and vanquishes it with the provided nutcracker.

“So you’re a chef, Maggie?” he asks. He twists his fork into the claw and wrestles out a huge piece of meat, dunks it in butter and shoves it in his mouth. Butter and lobster juice run down his chin, but he takes his time wiping. The odds that I will love this man for the rest of my life are rapidly waning.

“Oh, no, no. Not a chef. I own Joe’s Diner in Gideon’s Cove. I cook, but I’m not a chef. Big difference.” I can’t take my eyes off his greasy, glistening mouth.

“What’s the difference?” he asks. Crack. Peel. Another crack. It’s like watching Vlad the Impaler conduct an autopsy.

“Um…well, a chef is…has more…uh, training, I guess…” Rip. Dunk. Chew. Slobber. “Um, here, you have some butter on your chin.” I smile weakly and gesture with my own napkin.

“There’ll be more before dinner is through.” He smiles, and I can see the creamy pink lobster meat bulging in his cheek. My own baked scrod sits cooling before me. Unable to look away from my dinner companion, I watch as he rips off a smaller leg and chews it in horrifyingly delicate nibbles, working the lobster meat up with his teeth, sucking, slurping. A sudden vision of sex with Roger deals my appetite the death blow.

“Don’t you like your dinner?” he asks, drowning another lobster chunk. “Hey, can I have some more butter, please?” he asks a passing busboy.

“Oh, it’s good. No, no. Good. Yummy. I like it.” I take a forkful and chew listlessly. Perhaps I’ll become a vegetarian.

I am at a loss for words—a rarity, I assure you—but Roger, drunk with the hedonistic devouring of the poor crustacean, doesn’t notice. And it’s not just the lobster that is laid waste by this locust horde of a man. He smacks and groans his way through mashed potatoes, stuffing overly long green beans into his mouth, then turns his attention to my plate. “You gonna eat that?” he asks, and I shake my head, fascinated and horrified, as he devours my rice pilaf and vegetable medley. Finally, he spears up my barely touched fish, which he dips in the last of his drawn butter, and swallows it joyfully, an orca whale finishing off the hapless seal pup.

Finally, he pushes away the pillaged lobster shell and wipes his mouth, then takes the little wet nap and cleans his hands. “Well, that was fantastic,” he pronounces, leaning back. His girth is noticeably bigger. “Do you want dessert? I could go for some cheesecake.”

“Wow! Are you kidding?” I ask. He frowns. “Oh, I’m…I’m sorry. It’s just…wow! That was a big lobster! Boy! You can eat!” Okay, enough, Maggie. “So, Roger, do you have any interesting hobbies?” I ask. It would be really nice to think of something other than food at this point, and it’s a good date question. Not that there’s any chance of us getting together. The thought of kissing that rampaging mouth…I shudder visibly.

“You cold?” he asks.

“No, no. Tell me about your hobbies,” I order.

“Well,” he says, “actually, I’m glad you asked. I love being a nurse, of course, but what I find really fascinating, what I think might be my true calling, is animal communication.” He looks at me expectantly.

“Oh! That sounds neat,” I say. I’m not really sure what it is, but anything is better than watching him eat. “So is that like, um, animal training?” Our waiter is glancing our way, and I try to wave him off discreetly. Any more food, and Roger’s belt will slice him in half.

“No. It’s not training at all, Maggie. I’d think a smart girl like yourself would know that.”

I yearn for Colonel. Was I complaining about being single? Foolish me.

“An animal communicator reads the thoughts of animals,” he lectures.

“Oh.” I pause. “Do they speak English?”

“Who?”

“The animals. I mean, if you can read their thoughts, wouldn’t it be in cat language or dog or goat or whatever?”

Roger frowns, clearly displeased. “No, Maggie. It’s no joke, either. Don’t you watch Pet Psychic on Animal Planet?”

“You know, I’ve missed that one. But, hmm. Well. Interesting. So you, what, try to read their thoughts and, I don’t know, tell if they’re hurt or if they’ve been abused or something?”

He smiles condescendingly, and my desire to be home, fasting and watching TV, grows. “Some people do that, yes. But I have a more specialized talent, Maggie. I communicate with animals who have passed.”

“Wow. That’s so…gee.”

He must see the disbelief on my face, because he sits forward suddenly, staring at me intently. “Did you ever have a pet when you were a kid, Maggie?” he asks.

“Yes, we did,” I answer. “A nice—”

“Don’t tell me!” I jump, startled. “Sorry,” he amends. “Just think of this pet. Picture him…or her…remember him…or her…and all the good times you had with him.”

“Or her,” I add.

“Whatever. Just picture.”

A tickle of laughter wriggles in my stomach. I picture him…or her…actually, it’s a him. Dicky, our childhood dog, a lovely chocolate Lab as solid and wide as a barrel. Christy and I used to hold little Jonah on his back and Dicky would walk proudly and slowly around the house, flanked on either side by us girls. Our parents’ photo albums hold many images of this happy pastime.

“Okay, okay,” Roger says. “I’m getting something. Was this pet…a mammal?”

Amazing. “Bingo,” I answer.

“Good, Maggie, and please just answer with yes or no.” He closes his eyes and I take the opportunity to drain my wineglass.

“Maggie, was this animal…a cat?”

“No.”

Roger frowns slightly but doesn’t open his eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Not a cat? You’re sure.”

“Yes.” My voice is tight with the effort of not laughing.

“A dog?”

“Yes.”

“Great!” Roger exclaims. He opens his eyes and frowns at me. “Are you sure you’re picturing the animal?”

Dicky, Dicky, come to me, Dicky… I press my napkin against my mouth to suppress a laugh. “Yes, I’m really picturing him,” I manage to say.

“You weren’t supposed to tell me it was a him! Come on, Maggie, do you want this reading or not?”

“I really don’t—”

Roger clamps his eyes shut again. “Okay, okay, he’s back. Right…this is a black and white dog. A Dalmatian. Yes.”

“No.” A little snort escapes through my nose. Roger’s trance is not disturbed.

“Okay, right, right…is this dog black?”

“Nope.”

“An Irish setter?”

“No,” I squeak.

“Are you sure it’s not a cat?”

My laughter can’t be contained any longer. “Okay, Roger, thank you. Listen, I really should get going. It was nice meeting you, but I just don’t think we’re right for each other,” I say as kindly as I can.

“No kidding. I could tell that the minute you walked in.” He whips out his wallet, throws some bills on the table and stalks off. Can’t say I’m sorry to see him go. I wonder if the hospital knows about his special gift.

“Is everything all right, miss?” the waiter asks.

“Oh, sure. It was fine. Thank you. Can I have the check, please?”

I’m not surprised to see that Roger has left only enough to cover his lobster. He didn’t even leave enough for his wine. Oh, well. I make up the difference and leave a huge tip for the waiter.

When I get home, there’s a message waiting on my machine—Father Tim asking a question about the spaghetti dinner next week. Perfect. It’s too late to call my sister and tell her about the date, and Father Tim has just given me a great excuse to call him. He keeps late hours, something he’s mentioned in the past and which I stored in the Father Tim encyclopedia I keep in my brain. Besides, I just drove past the rectory and couldn’t miss the fact that the lights were still on.

“Maggie, how are you?” he says warmly.

“Oh, I just had the funniest date,” I say. By the time I’m finished filling him in on Roger Martin, enemy of lobsters and animal communicator, he’s laughing so hard he’s just wheezing.

“Maggie, you’re a special one,” he says when he’s regained control. “I must say, I was in need of a good laugh, and you came along and answered my prayers.”

I smile and scratch Colonel’s tummy. “Glad to be of service, Father Tim,” I say. “I have to tell you, though, I’m a little…I don’t know. Disappointed. I don’t meet a lot of new people.”

“I know, I do, Maggie,” he says. “But you’ll meet that special someone one day soon, mark my words. You’re a jewel, Maggie Beaumont.” As to how the special someone and I will meet is something Father Tim doesn’t address.

“Well. Thanks. You’re sweet to say so.” I pause.

He goes on to tell me about the date change for the spaghetti dinner. As usual, my schedule is free.

“Wonderful!” he exclaims. “I don’t know what St. Mary’s would do without you. One of these days, you’ll join us properly, not just as a volunteer, mind you, and won’t that be a happy day! God bless you, Maggie.”

I never know what to say to that. Amen? Thank you? “God bless you, too,” I say, wincing as he chuckles. “I mean, good night, Father Tim.”

“Good night, Maggie.”

I hang up the phone very gently, then lie back against my pillows and indulge in just one quick fantasy. That it was Father Tim with me at dinner tonight, only he wasn’t a Father. That we were just two people in love, on a date, eager to talk and laugh and share the details of our day. That he played with my hands, which are smooth and lovely in this fantasy, and that his eyes crinkled when he laughed. That he insisted that I order dessert, because he knows how I love dessert.

Colonel groans.

“I know, I know,” I say. “Waste of time.” It’s wrong, dreaming about dating the priest. Unfair to the good father and all that. I’m sick of reminding myself that it’s pointless and stupid…and yet…and yet somehow it’s so easy to see. Tim and Maggie. Maggie and Tim. With a sigh, I glance at my copy of The Thornbirds, given to me by my brother the day after I learned what the hot guy I’d met did for a living.

Colonel’s eyes are full of reproach. “Sorry, pooch,” I tell him. “You’re right. I’ll stop now.”

I pat his head, hug my pillow and try to go to sleep.