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Authors: Masha Hamilton
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again. "No problem. Here‟s my card," he said. "Call if you need us. And we‟ll check in with you tomorrow, let you know where we are. Though there may not be any change that quickly."
Clarissa didn‟t respond to this forecast. She rose to show Jack and Sandy to the door. Before leaving, Sandy surprised her by giving her a quick hug.
Back in the kitchen, Ruby was already at the stove, preparing a fr ittata for everyo ne to share. Ruby, who Todd said had insisted on only fish-sticks and apple slices for breakfast, lunch and dinner for five months when she was eight years old, had become a gifted chef at a Brooklyn restaurant. She prepared dishes Clarissa couldn‟t pronounce, patient with slow boils and constant stirrings and recipes so complex that Clarissa would have put them through the paper shredder if they‟d ever found their way into her kitchen. Ruby went for sauces. Coquille St. Jacques. Foie de veau. Canard roti à la framboise. Ruby lived with Angie in an apartment crowded with two dogs, garden tools, even a canoe in the living room, and Todd had described her as perpetually disorganized, the kind of person who missed meetings and went out in mismatched shoes. But to her work as a chef, she brought awe-inducing precision.
The doorbell again. Joel Bass, her department‟s dean, in a suit, shifting his weight from one foot to another. He hugged Clarissa.
"Joel. Did I call you?"
A smile swept briefly across his face like a bird uncertain of whether to land—was Clarissa joking? "Remember? You told me you couldn‟t come in today, and then you told me— what had happened, Todd and all, oh, but Clarissa, this is natural. What a morning you‟ve had. What stress you are under."
"Yes, of course, sorry, come in," Clarissa mumbled, embarrassed, and led Joel in to the kitchen. Joel knew Clarissa as so capable, so solid with details. And in fact, she‟d always had a shockingly good memory, the kind of memory that sorted and stored facts, faces and figures while she looked the other way. Now, though, she apparently couldn‟t recall a phone call she‟d made a few hours ago.
They all greeted this newcomer, everyone speaking in hushed, serious voices, even as Ruby offered some coffee and said a fr ittata was coming. Joel sat next to Clarissa and leaned close. "As long as you want. You know that, of course," he said, and Clarissa had no idea what he was talking about, so couldn‟t respond.
"A leave of absence. We‟ll fill out the paperwork later," Joel added after a moment.
The job, Clarissa realized at last; they were talking about her job at Columbia, and the FBI agents had said to keep things as normal as possible, but Clarissa couldn‟t imagine going into work right now, standing in front of the students, who would surely know—was it even possible to keep secrets these days? And then Clarissa either breaking down and discussing everything, which the FBI would frown upon, or pretending nothing had happened. Which was impossible. "Yes," she said, "that sounds good; that sounds right. Thank you."
Then Ruby was bringing the food to the table, and there seemed to be a lot of it; Clarissa didn‟t even think she had enough ingredients for all this so maybe someone had gone out to the bodega while she hadn‟t been looking? She couldn‟t stand the thought of eating. In fact, even with the scent of food, she felt an intense, dull pressure growing in the middle of her chest, reaching toward her belly, and she thought she might throw up. Then someone held her by the elbow—it was Bill Snyder; was he s till here? "Are yo u okay?" And the kitchen grew quiet as they waited for her reply. Against her will, she‟d become a delicate piece of porcelain they all feared breaking.
And at that point, something did break. "Thank you all for coming," she said. "But now I
Clarissa didn‟t respond to this forecast. She rose to show Jack and Sandy to the door. Before leaving, Sandy surprised her by giving her a quick hug.
Back in the kitchen, Ruby was already at the stove, preparing a fr ittata for everyo ne to share. Ruby, who Todd said had insisted on only fish-sticks and apple slices for breakfast, lunch and dinner for five months when she was eight years old, had become a gifted chef at a Brooklyn restaurant. She prepared dishes Clarissa couldn‟t pronounce, patient with slow boils and constant stirrings and recipes so complex that Clarissa would have put them through the paper shredder if they‟d ever found their way into her kitchen. Ruby went for sauces. Coquille St. Jacques. Foie de veau. Canard roti à la framboise. Ruby lived with Angie in an apartment crowded with two dogs, garden tools, even a canoe in the living room, and Todd had described her as perpetually disorganized, the kind of person who missed meetings and went out in mismatched shoes. But to her work as a chef, she brought awe-inducing precision.
The doorbell again. Joel Bass, her department‟s dean, in a suit, shifting his weight from one foot to another. He hugged Clarissa.
"Joel. Did I call you?"
A smile swept briefly across his face like a bird uncertain of whether to land—was Clarissa joking? "Remember? You told me you couldn‟t come in today, and then you told me— what had happened, Todd and all, oh, but Clarissa, this is natural. What a morning you‟ve had. What stress you are under."
"Yes, of course, sorry, come in," Clarissa mumbled, embarrassed, and led Joel in to the kitchen. Joel knew Clarissa as so capable, so solid with details. And in fact, she‟d always had a shockingly good memory, the kind of memory that sorted and stored facts, faces and figures while she looked the other way. Now, though, she apparently couldn‟t recall a phone call she‟d made a few hours ago.
They all greeted this newcomer, everyone speaking in hushed, serious voices, even as Ruby offered some coffee and said a fr ittata was coming. Joel sat next to Clarissa and leaned close. "As long as you want. You know that, of course," he said, and Clarissa had no idea what he was talking about, so couldn‟t respond.
"A leave of absence. We‟ll fill out the paperwork later," Joel added after a moment.
The job, Clarissa realized at last; they were talking about her job at Columbia, and the FBI agents had said to keep things as normal as possible, but Clarissa couldn‟t imagine going into work right now, standing in front of the students, who would surely know—was it even possible to keep secrets these days? And then Clarissa either breaking down and discussing everything, which the FBI would frown upon, or pretending nothing had happened. Which was impossible. "Yes," she said, "that sounds good; that sounds right. Thank you."
Then Ruby was bringing the food to the table, and there seemed to be a lot of it; Clarissa didn‟t even think she had enough ingredients for all this so maybe someone had gone out to the bodega while she hadn‟t been looking? She couldn‟t stand the thought of eating. In fact, even with the scent of food, she felt an intense, dull pressure growing in the middle of her chest, reaching toward her belly, and she thought she might throw up. Then someone held her by the elbow—it was Bill Snyder; was he s till here? "Are yo u okay?" And the kitchen grew quiet as they waited for her reply. Against her will, she‟d become a delicate piece of porcelain they all feared breaking.
And at that point, something did break. "Thank you all for coming," she said. "But now I
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