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Authors: Ethan Mordden
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her Sheila. I’ve always hated that name. Right , so Sheila texts Tom with ‘I called you seven times last night where were you why didn’t you and the flowers for my mother’s birthday, buster!’”
Lloyd laughed.
“And,” Lucy concluded, “that’s really not the girl for Tom, is it?”
“With that philosophy, I’ll bet you’ll prevail—no, let me”: because Lucy was about to check on her kids again. Lloyd looked out instead. Ella Kate, still working with the LEGOs, had moved into the living room and Evan was napping in Tom’s arms.
“They’re fine,” said Lloyd, coming back.
“Speaking of all that,” said Lucy, taking two smallish wicker baskets out of the typical children’s things bag, “how’s your romantic life, if I may ask?”
Lloyd paused.
“Tom says you’re one of those worldly guys. ‘European and classic’ was how he put it. He means ‘classy,’ of course. Still, if you’d rather not…”
“What are those, anyway?” Lloyd asked, looking at the baskets.
“We call them ‘luncheon kits.’ The children can’t do spaghetti, so these are…” Lucy opened one: a sandwich neatly wrapped in see-through, a bag of carrot sticks, a little carton of milk, a box of raisins. “It’s a trick to get them to eat healthy. I assign the sandwich, but they choose the rest, and that makes them feel grownup.”
“They’re delightful kids,” said Lloyd, inspecting the other basket, whose electives were celery sticks, sugarless lemonade, and almonds.
“Well.” She smiled, admitting the obvious. “They’re always at their best on a Tom Day. Their term. I’ve never known anyone who didn’t try to be at their best around Tom. I suspect because his disapproval is so—”
“Where’s the eats?” demanded Jake, abruptly popping in.
Lloyd held up fingers at Lucy.
“Oh, I’m the…translator?” To Jake, she said, “Ten minutes.”
As Jake returned to The Game, Lucy asked Lloyd, “That fast? Really? And is there something unhappy between you and Jake? Because he’s just a big goof, you know.”
Lloyd was sliding the dry spaghetti into the pot. “We’ll broil the fish sticks in that foil pan. And what is Tom’s disapproval, exactly?”
“Sheer damnation, trust me. Shall I open the box of…oh, good, no trans fat.”
Then the secret of Lloyd’s sauce: you plopped the cooked macaroni onto a bed of grated cheese, tossing it with olive oil and fresh-cracked peppercorns. But not too tossed, so the cheese could melt in clumps.
“Tom likes it crusty,” Lloyd explained.
Showing Lucy how to decorate the dish with the tomato sauce rather than saturate it, Lloyd said, “This way, you get a soupy business with the oil at the bottom. It’s a kind of dessert if you like to bread-dip.”
“Right. It looks wonderful,” said Lucy. “But isn’t this a little like a four-star restaurant offering the blue-plate special? After all, it’s just fish sticks and spaghetti.”
“That’s the point,” Lloyd replied, as he divvied up the meal into plates for the grownups. “It’s basic, but dependable.”
The food was served on those folding television tables that went out of fashion everywhere but the midwest, where paper napkins are tucked into collars, where nobody mutes the sound during commercial breaks, and where Ella Kate announces, “Evan sometimes puts a carrot in his nose.”
Much later, when Tom got back from Lucy’s, he complimented Lloyd on making the afternoon “breezy.”
“Are you going to marry Lucy?” Lloyd asked, washing while Tom dried.
“Well, now, buddy, I just might. And I just might not, so there you are.”
“It’s captivating to see you with her. Because you’re so obviously a couple, yet you play it totally cooldown. None of those showboating bits proving your love, where you grab at each other making coo-coo noises.”
Tom snorted.
“Well,” said Lloyd, “some couples really get into that.”
“Don’t need to be in love to
Lloyd laughed.
“And,” Lucy concluded, “that’s really not the girl for Tom, is it?”
“With that philosophy, I’ll bet you’ll prevail—no, let me”: because Lucy was about to check on her kids again. Lloyd looked out instead. Ella Kate, still working with the LEGOs, had moved into the living room and Evan was napping in Tom’s arms.
“They’re fine,” said Lloyd, coming back.
“Speaking of all that,” said Lucy, taking two smallish wicker baskets out of the typical children’s things bag, “how’s your romantic life, if I may ask?”
Lloyd paused.
“Tom says you’re one of those worldly guys. ‘European and classic’ was how he put it. He means ‘classy,’ of course. Still, if you’d rather not…”
“What are those, anyway?” Lloyd asked, looking at the baskets.
“We call them ‘luncheon kits.’ The children can’t do spaghetti, so these are…” Lucy opened one: a sandwich neatly wrapped in see-through, a bag of carrot sticks, a little carton of milk, a box of raisins. “It’s a trick to get them to eat healthy. I assign the sandwich, but they choose the rest, and that makes them feel grownup.”
“They’re delightful kids,” said Lloyd, inspecting the other basket, whose electives were celery sticks, sugarless lemonade, and almonds.
“Well.” She smiled, admitting the obvious. “They’re always at their best on a Tom Day. Their term. I’ve never known anyone who didn’t try to be at their best around Tom. I suspect because his disapproval is so—”
“Where’s the eats?” demanded Jake, abruptly popping in.
Lloyd held up fingers at Lucy.
“Oh, I’m the…translator?” To Jake, she said, “Ten minutes.”
As Jake returned to The Game, Lucy asked Lloyd, “That fast? Really? And is there something unhappy between you and Jake? Because he’s just a big goof, you know.”
Lloyd was sliding the dry spaghetti into the pot. “We’ll broil the fish sticks in that foil pan. And what is Tom’s disapproval, exactly?”
“Sheer damnation, trust me. Shall I open the box of…oh, good, no trans fat.”
Then the secret of Lloyd’s sauce: you plopped the cooked macaroni onto a bed of grated cheese, tossing it with olive oil and fresh-cracked peppercorns. But not too tossed, so the cheese could melt in clumps.
“Tom likes it crusty,” Lloyd explained.
Showing Lucy how to decorate the dish with the tomato sauce rather than saturate it, Lloyd said, “This way, you get a soupy business with the oil at the bottom. It’s a kind of dessert if you like to bread-dip.”
“Right. It looks wonderful,” said Lucy. “But isn’t this a little like a four-star restaurant offering the blue-plate special? After all, it’s just fish sticks and spaghetti.”
“That’s the point,” Lloyd replied, as he divvied up the meal into plates for the grownups. “It’s basic, but dependable.”
The food was served on those folding television tables that went out of fashion everywhere but the midwest, where paper napkins are tucked into collars, where nobody mutes the sound during commercial breaks, and where Ella Kate announces, “Evan sometimes puts a carrot in his nose.”
Much later, when Tom got back from Lucy’s, he complimented Lloyd on making the afternoon “breezy.”
“Are you going to marry Lucy?” Lloyd asked, washing while Tom dried.
“Well, now, buddy, I just might. And I just might not, so there you are.”
“It’s captivating to see you with her. Because you’re so obviously a couple, yet you play it totally cooldown. None of those showboating bits proving your love, where you grab at each other making coo-coo noises.”
Tom snorted.
“Well,” said Lloyd, “some couples really get into that.”
“Don’t need to be in love to
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