“So, did you finish your degree while I was, uh, gone?” Simon asked, picking up one of my notebooks off the shelf and flipping through the pages, completely unaware his knuckles grazed our divorce papers.
“As much as I would love to stay here and discuss what I’ve been able to accomplish while raising our girls alone, I have to go to work,” I quick-fired back.
“Come on, Toni, you can give me two minutes.”
“I can’t give you two minutes. I don’t want to give you any minutes. You don’t even deserve a couple of seconds.” The truth is, I was afraid to give Simon my time because there is no denying I still see the boyish twenty-nine-year-old I served coffee to all those years ago. Even through my shock and brewing rage I noticed that Simon, too, kept the wheels on the bus on his road to forty-five.
“You can, however, give me the key you used to open my front door.” I put out my palm, face up, waving gimmie fingers. “I have to go.” Walking out, weighted down by my canvas tote filled with jars of lotion, I used the extra heft I’ve been carrying to slam that same front door in Simon’s face.
“What’s all the schmutz under your fingernails?” Mrs. Eisenberg clucks, turning my hand every which way like she’s my mother checking my nails before church. Just as Gloria’s accent thickens when she returns from visiting Tía Fernanda in San Juan, Mrs. Eisenberg’s Yiddish more liberally flavors her sentences whenever she returns from Scottsdale after spending too much time with Elaine. “You’re such a shaina maidel, but those hands are a mess.”
With Simon waltzing back into my life, I didn’t get to scrub up after handling cacao bean powder all morning. Agitated, I dig under my ring fingernail with my thumb. My emotions are riding on the surface of my skin courtesy of this afternoon’s shock and awe, and I am feeling Mrs. Eisenberg’s observation harshly.
“Relax, Antonia. I just said you’re a pretty girl, not some pickle peddler.” Mrs. Eisenberg pats my cheek. “Don’t think I didn’t notice your hair is done nicely today and those cheekbones are a little pink.”
I blush, making them pinker. It wasn’t Dieting Donna’s fault Simon appeared out of nowhere, and it’s not Mrs. Eisenberg’s either. I need to set the personal aside and settle into being a professional for the rest of my shift.
“My plane landed early, so we have lots of time to catch up.” Mrs. Eisenberg squeezes my upper arm as we walk toward my cart. If it were any other passenger, I would remind them I’m at work, I’m not doing this for fun. But it’s Mrs. Eisenberg, and we always have a little fun.
“I want to hear about everything that’s been going on while I’ve been away. I’ve been thinking about your cream the past trip to Arizona. Youknow we had a bit of rain last week, and the rainbow over Camelback Mountain was exquisite. I really think you’re on to something with that lotion, so let’s review the progress you’ve made since I’ve been gone.” I notice Mrs. Eisenberg is moving more slowly than usual, and I can feel her hands trembling, which is new. She smiles as brightly as always, but her face looks a tad more sunken and papery thin. I wonder if anyone in Scottsdale is checking to make sure Mrs. Eisenberg is eating properly, not just picking at a chicken breast or hitting up Krispy Kreme.
“Mrs. Eisenberg, have you been feeling all right?” I ask, trying to be as upbeat as possible. “You making sure to use your monthly food credit at the club?”
“Do you know who’s been using my dining dollars?”
“Elaine,” we both say at the same time and snicker. But as Mrs. Eisenberg shakes with laughter, I’m forced to hold on to her firmly to ensure she doesn’t stumble over her steps. It occurs to me that Mrs. Eisenberg may not have eaten for a few hours as she finds snacking on a plane distasteful. She’s shared more than once that she doesn’t understand why people pack enough food for a transatlantic voyage. According to Mrs. Eisenberg, no one needs a meatball sub for a two-hour flight.
Even though she comes from a generation of three square meals a day and no snacking, I have a protein bar in the cart to offer her. Hopefully the frailty I feel is only a dip in Mrs. Eisenberg’s blood sugar.
“So, where are you on the lotion? I expect you have news to share.” On more than one occasion Mrs. Eisenberg has not-so-subtly informed me that in her own life she does not tolerate inaction. Or avoidance of her line of questioning. “What you are working on may be a masterpiece, or it may be a disaster piece, but at least you are moving forward,” Mrs. Eisenberg says, reminding me of one of her favorite mottos with a finger wag in my face that makes it difficult to see while I drive.
“There is a little bit of progress, in fact,” I respond, kindly placing her hand back in her lap.
“Oh, goody. You know I believe incremental progress is the best way to go. Intentional ...”
“... steps are best,” I repeat with Mrs. Eisenberg. “And yes”—I nod before continuing—“I also remember the best way to eat an elephant. One bite at a time.” All Mrs. Eisenberg’s favored quips are being lined up like self-help recruits for today’s ride.
“Crass, but it makes my point crystal clear.” Mrs. Eisenberg purses her lips, admonishing me for stealing one of her favorite sayings. “Don’t question Desmond Tutu, the man gives good advice.”
“I won’t,” I promise, not wanting to insult the woman whose company I enjoy and whose random tipping pays for movies and snacks with my family. That said, I can’t help but be curious when exactly Mrs. Eisenberg has ever had to dine on an elephant. Desmond Tutu, maybe, but Mrs. Eisenberg? Eddie was clearly successful in some sort of endeavor, though Mrs. Eisenberg has never been specific, and I’ve not pried. He took care of Mrs. Eisenberg for sixty years and left her with two nice houses, a host of friends, and hobbies that occupy her sunset years. All evidence points to a woman who has skipped more than intentionally stepped through life.
“We have plenty of time before my grandson is here to meet me.” There it is. Ash is slated for today’s pickup. Zwena’s been waiting on this intel. “Unless you have other passengers to take to their gates. Do you? If you do, I want to come with you! Can I drive?” Seated, impatient for my answers, Mrs. Eisenberg seems more her sturdy self.
“No one to pick up right this minute, and no, Ms. Formula One, you cannot drive. Nice try, though.”
“You know I drive a golf cart all over my community in Arizona.” Mrs. Eisenberg tries to sway me with this logic every couple of trips.
“I do. And it’s still not happening. Sit back and relax, Mrs. Eisenberg, I got you.”
“What you can get me is a doughnut, then.”
“How about this KIND bar instead?” I tap the nut cluster on Mrs. Eisenberg’s thigh, hoping to entice her.
“Did Livy put you up to this?” Mrs. Eisenberg accuses, swatting away the plastic wrap.
“No,” I lie. Livy did mention at the Saint Anne rummage sale that Mrs. Eisenberg’s glucose levels are all over the place and as much as she may beg, could I please deter her grandmother from stopping for a sugar bomb.
“Then you can get me a doughnut. And since Ash is picking me up, what Livy doesn’t know won’t kill her. Just like a cruller won’t kill me.”
