Dear Emily. Fern Michaels
“Have some more,” Ian said, refilling her glass just as the waiter arrived at their table to pour it for him. Ian waved him away. “I hate hovering waiters,” he whispered.
“Me, too,” Emily whispered in return.
“Bet nobody hovers at that place you work at.”
“You’re right. Ian, what’s the name of that place I work at?”
“What?”
“You know, the name of the lounge I work at? What’s the name of it?”
Ian shrugged. “It escapes me at the moment. It’ll come to me.”
“No, it won’t. You never asked me. I bank the checks so how would you know?”
“You told me, I guess. I’ve called you there.”
“So how do they answer the phone?” Emily persisted.
“Jesus, Emily, what is this, twenty questions? Just because I can’t remember the name of that joint doesn’t mean I don’t know it. I know the phone number by heart so why do I need to know the name of it?”
“What if something happened to me and you had to get there right away?”
“I’d call first. I have it written down somewhere. None of this is important, Emily.”
“Yes, Ian, it is. The dive I work at is called Sassy Sallie’s. That dive put you through medical school, paid our rent, bought our food, paid our utilities, helps to pay your student loans, paid for that suit, shirt, and tie, not to mention your underwear and shoes and socks as well as my new outfit. And this dinner. So, you see, it is important. To me. And it should be important to you too.”
“Emily, that isn’t what I meant. I meant the discussion. Dive is just a word. You’re the one who used it first when you first started to work there. I picked it up from you. I am appreciative. What is it you want?”
“Respect. Why did you tell me not to tell anyone what I do? You admitted you don’t tell people because it’s none of their business.”
“It isn’t. Do you tell people what I do?” Ian asked huffily.
“To anyone who will listen. I’m proud of you, Ian. Waitressing is honest work. Hard work. Look, let’s drop it. I guess I’m just tired.”
“You’re always tired, Emily. Are you taking those vitamins I got you?”
“I take two a day and I’m still tired. I can’t wait to sleep in and do nothing.”
Ian shrugged. Their salads arrived. Ian refilled their wineglasses a third time.
A long time later, their soup and salad plates gone, Ian said carefully, “Listen, I don’t have the foggiest idea of what I ordered for us. The menu was in French. I just pointed. I think it’s some kind of fish. Let’s not make a fuss if it’s something we don’t like. I’d hate to be embarrassed.”
Emily felt her hackles rise as she thought about the hours she’d worked, the hours she’d stood on her feet to pay for a dinner she might not even like just so her husband wouldn’t be embarrassed. She sighed and shook her head to show she would do as he wanted. She always did what he wanted. Always.
Ian ordered a second bottle of wine. It arrived when the dinner of salmon mousse was set in front of them. Ian beamed. Emily stared at her plate. She hated salmon. She’d rather have a greasy hamburger.
“You’re a good sport, Emily,” Ian said happily. “I love it when you look like you do right now.”
“How’s that?”
“Determined.”
Emily burst out laughing. “This tastes like…like my father’s muddy galoshes with a topping of Parmesan cheese.” Ian choked on his food and then burst out laughing. He finished the wine in his glass at a gulp, his face red. “Is everyone looking at us?” he whispered.
“Uh-huh. I think we need a little more practice before we eat in restaurants like this or else we need a crash course in French.” Emily giggled.
“I think you’re right, Emily. We’ll stop and get a banana split when we leave here.”
“Are you kidding? We’ll be too drunk to make it to the ice cream parlor. Besides, I thought you had other things in mind,” Emily said, leering at him across the table. “Oh, Ian, I can’t wait to give my notice.”
“You look so beautiful in candlelight, honey. When we finally settle in somewhere, let’s have candlelight every night.”
“Okay. You’re the handsomest man in this restaurant, Ian.”
“How blitzed are you?”
“I can still see straight. You are the handsomest. Look around at the men in here. Pot bellies, bald heads, I’d wager half the women in here are mistresses. You know how you can tell?”
“How?”
“They’re talking. Husbands and wives drink, eat, and leave. Lovers dally, smile, talk, and look into each other’s eyes.”
Ian looked around. “Jeez, you’re right. That’s disgusting.”
“Will you always be faithful to me, Ian?”
“Of course. What about you?”
“Always,” Emily said, her eyes shining with love. “I would never muck up what we have. Men…I’m not sure men feel the same way women do when it comes to affairs.”
“I feel just the way you do, Emily. We are going to have the perfect life to make up for all our sacrifices. We deserve the best and I’m going to make sure we get it. That’s my job.”
Our sacrifices, Emily’s head buzzed with the wine she’d consumed. She should be paying attention to what Ian was saying. She’d think about it tomorrow while she lay in bed. Maybe Ian would bring her breakfast. She didn’t realize she’d said the words aloud until Ian said, “It will be my pleasure. How about French toast with melted butter, warm syrup, and sprinkled with powdered sugar or maybe that spice you use?”
“That sounds wonderful, Ian. Let’s stay in bed till noon and have brunch.”
“Sounds good to me. Here comes our coffee and we finished the wine. I need to talk to you about something, Emily.”
“Okay, talk.”
“Emily, honey, I want us to go back to New Jersey. This is…I don’t know how to say it except to blurt it right out. I want to work for myself. I want us to open a clinic. I’ve talked, long distance, to a few bankers back home and the guy at First Fidelity said he didn’t think there would be a problem loaning us money for a clinic. I thought Front Street in Plainfield would be good. A walk-in-off-the-street clinic, open to everyone. I didn’t commit, said I had to talk it over with you. Two years Emily, if my predictions are right. Clinics are moneymakers. If you keep working, plus help out in the clinic, we can pay off my loans and the loan for the clinic. Two years. What’s two years, Emily? Twenty-four months. Seven hundred and thirty days. We can do it, Emily, if you pitch in. It will be ours. You won’t have to bust your ass anymore. I mean after two years. This is how I see it: You work mornings, seven to one, and then you can work the night shift at your old place, you know, what was it called, Heckling Pete’s? What do you think, Emily?”
What she thought was she wanted to die, right here at this very table where she’d consumed almost a whole bottle of wine and eaten salmon mousse.
She chose her words carefully. “That means I have to put school off again. How’s that going to look when I finally go back and everyone is years younger? I won’t fit in. I was so looking forward to starting school. Ian, I don’t know if I’m strong enough to put in two more years.”
“The first thing we’re going to do is some blood