I shift my focus to the parking lot. Where’s Erika? Clint texted me that the late cancellation fee had done the trick, and they were on their way. I open my mouth to ask when I see a shuffling body inan oversized hoodie take shape behind him. She must be sweltering in this unseasonable heat but gives no indication.
I stand, and we walk into the office as if we’re a normal family, not one on the brink.
After Erika’s no-cavity appointment, we decide to walk a quarter of a mile to a food truck park. Erika says she’s not hungry and besides her teeth feel weird after the fluoride. Clint says she can eat after thirty minutes and that the feeling will fade. Erika shrugs but slumps along behind us. Clint and I talk only of inconsequential things, like the Japanese maple in our side yard at home that needs to come down. Clint worked hard to save it after a strange beetle infestation, but the damage was too great. The tree is not huge, but it’s close to the house. I offer to call someone, knowing full well Clint will take care of it.
“By the way, I got a call from Rob this morning. He, uh, wanted to give me an update on a grant he found.”
“He’s looking into grants?” I ask. Rob has ideas that usually require others to work. I immediately rebuke my skepticism. Rob did build and sell a successful outdoor business, but, in my opinion, on the backs of his employees.
“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to tell you about Wilson. They’ve taken an interest—”
“Can I have money?” Erika has wrapped her hoodie around her waist and is wearing an oversized T-shirt with the picture of some rapper I’ve never heard of. Although being in the dark about the man with a mouth full of shiny metal and a dragon scalp tattoo is not surprising, I didn’t think Erika liked rap music. I’ve never seen her wear a shirt like this, and it’s huge on her. One shoulder threatens to spill through the stretched neckhole. I decide not to go for the obvious and instead be relieved she won’t be passing out from heatstroke. The temperature has to be reaching into the high eighties.
“Sure.” Clint raises his eyebrows as he hands her a twenty.
I haven’t seen Erika ask for cash in forever. She always uses that online payment app, Hippa, with a request to Clint or me after the fact. It’s how she gets paid for all her tutoring. Maybe the trucks only take cash?
“Meet us at the picnic benches over there.” Clint points toward a grove of elms with a smattering of tables.
Clint and I scan the trucks. There’s an Indian Flame truck to our right that makes my mouth water. Maybe they have a spicy mango chicken or lamb korma. Even a plate of fried pakora with tamarind and mint chutneys.
I love food, but I don’t always have time to enjoy it. While my mother has always been a small eater and a small woman, my dad ate with gusto. Whether it be a prime rib on Thursday nights at Oakey’s or a panko-crusted fish sandwich at The Shore, he was the man everyone wanted to eat with and cook for. He’d comment on the cinnamon added to a great rib rub or the fresh mint in a Greek salad. I inherited his discerning palate. Never as good as him when I was young, my sophistication grew as I started taking clients to new and different restaurants. When I came home and we’d play our culinary version of Name That Tune, I began to stack the deck with strains of coriander and charnushka. He’d howl with delight when I’d stump him.
Clint loved my dad. Clint grew up Maine conservative. The most exotic dish from his mom’s kitchen was “chop suey,” a mixed pot of macaroni, hamburger, and tomato sauce. But always up for an adventure, Clint encouraged Dad to school him on marinades, fermented stocks, and dishes from far and wide. In his last year, Dad was overjoyed when Clint cooked him a pad Thai that rivaled any we’d had before.
“I’m thinking Tomato Tomatoh. A nice cup of soup with grilledcheese sounds delicious.” Clint points toward the bright-red truck beside us with only a couple people in line. The logo and images on the side panel are as bland and uninspired as it gets.
It likely makes no difference where I get my food, but I have a craving far beyond lunch. I want to stay close to my husband, feel his warm, solid body next to me as we order and wait for our food—my arm stroking his back and his fingers tucking my loose hair behind my ear.
“Sounds yummy. Let’s do it.” I squint toward the menu on the side of the truck.
“Seriously?”
“Sure.” I shrug.
He slides his warm hand into mine and tugs me forward. My feet forget to move, and I stumble. He tucks my arm against him, and I lay my head briefly against his shoulder as we get in line behind the one person ordering. Who are we?
“What do you want?” he asks as he scours the menu written in white chalk on the side of the truck.
“Whatever you’re having,” I say, content to watch a big guy in a grubby white apron liberally buttering a stack of thick white bread.
“No, really. What do you want? I’m getting the pesto tomato cheese with a side of gazpacho.”
I whip my head up at the menu. That does not sound like greasy grilled cheese and overpriced Campbell’s soup. “Perfect. I’ll do that too.”
“You’re acting strange. Don’t you want to get something different so we can sample each other’s?” He pushes slightly away from me to peer down into my face.
I go up on tiptoe in my flats and peck him on his juicy lips.
He hesitates a moment and then tugs me into him. “I like it.”
We carry our bounty along to a picnic table where our daughteralready sits, tearing donut holes and dunking them into one of three gooey sauces. If I glance over at Clint, I know his eyes will tell me not to comment. She’s doing it to deflect. If we argue about her lunch, we won’t have energy left to address the bigger issues.
“That looks healthy,” Clint deadpans as he climbs over the bench and settles his lunch in front of him.
Erika shrugs.
“You have my change?” Clint asks as he breaks off a corner of his grilled pesto strip and pops it in his mouth.
