space?” asked Lyle, calling me back to the present. Lyle Donnegan is the man I love and wish I could live with. I called Lyle after I finished my story on Burt. He liked Burt, so I knew he’d feel bad. He did, too.
“The poor bastard,” Lyle said. “That’s awful, baby. He was a real gentleman. Are you okay? Come on over.”
I could see him there in his wing chair, sipping single-malt Scotch. Women take one look at him and get this dreamy look in their eyes. Guys don’t get it. They can’t figure out what we see in Lyle. Part of it is the way he moves, as if he knows what he’s doing. Part of it is his beautiful clothes. I especially like his navy blazer, made for him by Kilgore, French and Stanbury, the London tailor that sounds like an American law firm. The rest is that Lyle is genuinely interested when he’s talking to you, and few women can resist that kind of attention.
He was waiting for me at the door of his house in the Central West End. He had warmed up some tenderloin in the oven. He has this special recipe. It includes fresh ground pepper, but no salt, because he believes salting meat before you cook it makes it tough. He slow-cooks the meat in the oven and it’s incredibly tender. I hate kitchens, so I’m a sucker for a man who can cook. Lyle sat me down at his dining room table, and made sure I ate one of his tenderloin sandwicheson rye with hot English mustard before we talked about Burt.
“You and my grandmother have one thing in common,” I told him. “You both feed me when I’m upset.”
“We try to, but you’re not eating. You keep taking that sandwich apart and putting it back together. Are you thinking about Burt?”
“No, I was thinking about my parents’ deaths, and how much better my life was after they were gone.”
A lesser man would have looked shocked, but Lyle let me talk. I picked up the sandwich, and took a bite to please him. Then I said, “My grandparents had that confectionery, I told you that. I had to help out in the store, but I liked that. After school, a lot of neighborhood kids would come in to buy penny candy. I was a big shot because I got to hand them the paper bag filled with ten cents’ worth of Mary Janes, or red licorice whips or candy buttons on paper strips. I also read the comic books first when they came into the shop, before anyone else saw them. I met a lot of interesting people, too.”
I could see the customers coming into my grandparents’ store. I could hear the bell on the door that announced their entrance:
Mrs. Pennington, who talked about her eight children, except for the one boy who was in juvenile detention for car theft. Everyone
else
talked about him. Mrs. Pennington was always out of bread and milk, no matter how much she bought at the supermarket.
Mrs. Maloney, whose husband drank, and who came in with a black eye every couple of months. She was a tiny, pale woman with feathery hair, like a newly hatched bird. “She always looked scared,” I told Lyle. I was warming to the subject. I was warming to the tenderloin, too. Between bites I said, “And poor Mrs. Ritter, who got thinner and thinner, and then one day we read her funeral notice.
“Then there was Old Mr. Brackenseck, who was always looking for something soft to eat because his false teeth hurt. He married the Widow Montini, and lived on her homemade spaghetti—we didn’t call it pasta back then—happily ever after. He had this money clip. I’d never seen one before. It was gold, with a dollar sign. He’d slowly peel out each dollar with great ceremony. He kept his change in a coin purse, all wrapped with rubber bands.”
“You didn’t realize it, but those were your early columns,” said Lyle. “You really noticed those people.”
“I finally had time to notice. Life was so much calmer. Grandma and Grandpa didn’t have screaming fights, although they did argue sometimes. She would call him a stubborn old fool and slam the bathroom door, and then later
“The poor bastard,” Lyle said. “That’s awful, baby. He was a real gentleman. Are you okay? Come on over.”
I could see him there in his wing chair, sipping single-malt Scotch. Women take one look at him and get this dreamy look in their eyes. Guys don’t get it. They can’t figure out what we see in Lyle. Part of it is the way he moves, as if he knows what he’s doing. Part of it is his beautiful clothes. I especially like his navy blazer, made for him by Kilgore, French and Stanbury, the London tailor that sounds like an American law firm. The rest is that Lyle is genuinely interested when he’s talking to you, and few women can resist that kind of attention.
He was waiting for me at the door of his house in the Central West End. He had warmed up some tenderloin in the oven. He has this special recipe. It includes fresh ground pepper, but no salt, because he believes salting meat before you cook it makes it tough. He slow-cooks the meat in the oven and it’s incredibly tender. I hate kitchens, so I’m a sucker for a man who can cook. Lyle sat me down at his dining room table, and made sure I ate one of his tenderloin sandwicheson rye with hot English mustard before we talked about Burt.
“You and my grandmother have one thing in common,” I told him. “You both feed me when I’m upset.”
“We try to, but you’re not eating. You keep taking that sandwich apart and putting it back together. Are you thinking about Burt?”
“No, I was thinking about my parents’ deaths, and how much better my life was after they were gone.”
A lesser man would have looked shocked, but Lyle let me talk. I picked up the sandwich, and took a bite to please him. Then I said, “My grandparents had that confectionery, I told you that. I had to help out in the store, but I liked that. After school, a lot of neighborhood kids would come in to buy penny candy. I was a big shot because I got to hand them the paper bag filled with ten cents’ worth of Mary Janes, or red licorice whips or candy buttons on paper strips. I also read the comic books first when they came into the shop, before anyone else saw them. I met a lot of interesting people, too.”
I could see the customers coming into my grandparents’ store. I could hear the bell on the door that announced their entrance:
Mrs. Pennington, who talked about her eight children, except for the one boy who was in juvenile detention for car theft. Everyone
else
talked about him. Mrs. Pennington was always out of bread and milk, no matter how much she bought at the supermarket.
Mrs. Maloney, whose husband drank, and who came in with a black eye every couple of months. She was a tiny, pale woman with feathery hair, like a newly hatched bird. “She always looked scared,” I told Lyle. I was warming to the subject. I was warming to the tenderloin, too. Between bites I said, “And poor Mrs. Ritter, who got thinner and thinner, and then one day we read her funeral notice.
“Then there was Old Mr. Brackenseck, who was always looking for something soft to eat because his false teeth hurt. He married the Widow Montini, and lived on her homemade spaghetti—we didn’t call it pasta back then—happily ever after. He had this money clip. I’d never seen one before. It was gold, with a dollar sign. He’d slowly peel out each dollar with great ceremony. He kept his change in a coin purse, all wrapped with rubber bands.”
“You didn’t realize it, but those were your early columns,” said Lyle. “You really noticed those people.”
“I finally had time to notice. Life was so much calmer. Grandma and Grandpa didn’t have screaming fights, although they did argue sometimes. She would call him a stubborn old fool and slam the bathroom door, and then later
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