Uno
The course of true love never did run smooth. -William Shakespeare
David Bigelow was like so many of us who believe our lives to be tragedies for the simple reason that we lack the imagination to envision the happy turn of events awaiting us around the next bend. Some may argue that as a student of literature and a successful author he should have been more perceptive, but self-awareness is a rare commodity in the human race. And David’s root mistake was the most basic of all: he failed to realize that all that had happened to him so far was not the defining story of his life but just setup, backstory. The true story of his life was only just about to begin.
It started in a restaurant in Chicago. At dinner with his agent, Nina. Just after a waiter that reminded David of Lieu‐ tenant Fletcher Christian (from the way he wore his hair tied back in a ponytail and the conspirational glint in his eye) backed away from their table with their drink order.
"Did you see that? See what he just did?" David said.
Nina looked around the restaurant. "Who?"
"The waiter."
"The one that just took our order?"
"Who else?" David said. "You couldn't miss it."
"What did he do?" Nina asked, lowering her voice.
David leaned forward and murmured, "He went down. He squatted. He used our table like a desk."
"So?"
"That’s a serious breach in hospitality protocol. Don’t you think?"
"You can't be serious," Nina said.
"Look, I’m not singling him out," David said. "It’s an industry-wide problem. I blame the aprons."
"What do aprons have to do with waiters squatting?"
"Think about it. Waiters never squatted when they wore bowties. Soon as they traded those bow ties in for aprons," David clicked his tongue, "just like that, they started going down. Like their muscles get fatigued walking from the kitchen. A few weeks back—get this—some waiter scoots into our booth and sits next to my date as he takes our order. I thought he was going to put his arm around her, nibble on her ear lobe, for crying out loud."
"That's shocking."
"Honest to God. He plopped right down next to her, butt cheek to butt cheek."
"I’m astonished," Nina said. "You actually went on a date?"
David frowned. "It didn't go very well. If that helps bring your universe back in alignment."
"Maybe if you weren't so hard on your waiters, things might turn out better. Women take note of that, you know? How you treat servers. I know I always do."
"I wasn't hard on the guy. Who said I was hard on the guy? Look, I waited tables all through college. Are you kidding? I’m tender as a lamb in restaurants. I have only compassion and empathy and reverence for waitstaff. The only thing I expect in return is for the server to stand Homo Erectus, so to speak, while taking my order. Is that too much to ask? I mean, what's next? Pushing out the dessert cart crawling on all fours?"
"I noticed you ordered a glass of Chardonnay," Nina said, in a feeble attempt to redirect the conversation. "I thought you hated Chardonnay."
"I do! How does one concentrate on a wine menu whilst apron-clad waiters breathe down your neck? It’s a setup. Mistakes are bound to happen."
Nina picked up her fork and began polishing it with a cloth napkin. "Why is this such a big deal for you?" She asked the question with the measured tone a therapist uses to get down to business.
"Don't you see? It's just a phony way for them to ingratiate themselves with customers. It's so damn artificial. Can no one manage to be authentic anymore?"
"Look at you," Nina said, smiling that motherly smile of hers. "Holden Caulfield all grown up—in the flesh, alive and kicking. That was my shin, under the table."
“Sorry.” David leaned back in his chair in defeat. Once again, he had maneuvered himself into a checkmate position. The next thing that would happen, Nina would shift the conversation with a simple turn of the phrase, swivel the spotlight around and make it all about him like she always managed to do.
"What's this really all about, David?" And just like that, he was sunk. He took a deep breath and said, "I'm an impostor, Nina. A no-good, cut-rate charlatan."
Nina nodded, placed the fork back down on the table, taking her sweet time to negate his assertion and rise to his defense. She clasped her hands together. "This is natural, you know. The way you're feeling right now, I've witnessed it a thousand times. You've had your first taste of success—your breakout novel—but you still have those quiet moments of desperation when you wonder how you ever managed to pull it all together: characters, plot, prose. Now, every time you put pen to paper, you become paralyzed by doubt. You've already convinced yourself that you'll never be able to replicate your masterstroke. It's only natural, in this setting, to conclude that your prior success was somehow unmerited. So let me be frank: you're no Shakespeare, okay? Your prose can’t hold a candle to Faulkner's, Fitzgerald's, or even Hemingway's."
David frowned. He knew that, as his literary agent, Nina had his best interests at heart. But her loving touch left welts on the flesh.
"You're not even on the level of a Nicholas Sparks, but who cares? You've had your first big hit. That's all that counts. And you deserve it! No matter what all those nasty critics say, you deserve it." She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "Now, it's time to sit your little butt back in that padded office chair of yours and crank out another hit."
David's eyes fluttered. "I… I wasn't talking about my writing."
"Oh," Nina said with unmasked relief. She let go of David's hand and straightened in her seat. "Oh, yes, of course. You were telling me about your mother's funeral. We left off in the graveyard."
David cleared his throat. "As I was saying, I stood there in that graveyard with my head down and said nothing. Not a word. Don't you understand? I was complicit in a conspiracy of the vilest kind."
"David, you saw your mother's grave for the first time. All kinds of emotions got roiled up in your pretty little head. You're still not thinking straight."
"But that's precisely the point I'm trying to make. Don't you see? That was not her grave. Sure, her name is chiseled in granite right next to that of my father, but she's not there. It's like… False advertising."
Nina exhaled. "A tombstone isn't a highway billboard. It's a memorial, not a list of contents."
"Her name was chiseled in stone. That's supposed to mean something."
"You know what I think? I think you still have some of that Catholic altar boy steeped inside of you. You're not at all comfortable with the idea of cremation."
David sighed and rubbed his temple with his thumb. "It's not that. She was supposed to be buried next to my father. That was the family plan."
"So she changed her mind," Nina said. "People have their reasons for choosing cremation. Maybe she became eco-conscious in her old age."
"Eco-conscious my foot. You didn't know my mother."
"What's your theory? Why do you think she did it?"
"Pride," David said.
"Pride? In what way."
David looked Nina in the eye, took a couple of cleansing breaths, and in a steady tone, said, "Mom said she'd never be caught dead riding in one of Mr. Holbrook’s powder-blue vintage Cadillac hearses."
Nina furrowed her brow. "I think you're interpreting what she said a bit too literally."
David shook his head. "You never met my mother."
"Powder-blue, huh?"
"White-wall tires." "Well, who could blame her then?" Nina said. "Are there no other funeral homes in Dorchester Hills, Illinois?"
"Dorchester Heights," David corrected. "Mr. Holbrook runs a mortuary monopoly there."
"A man with a morbid entrepreneurial spirit," Nina said, as the waiter approached the table with a big smile and a tray of drinks.
"The peach martini for the lady," the waiter said, "and a glass of Sauvignon Blanc."
"Didn't you order Chardonnay?" Nina said.
"I'm sorry," the waiter said, squatting next to the table. "Was there a mistake?"
"No, this is fine," David said.
"He ordered Chardonnay," Nina interjected.
"I'll be happy to exchange it," the waiter said. "It wouldn't be a problem at all."
"I'll just drink this," David said. And to prove the point, he reached for the wine glass and downed two-thirds of it in one gulp.
"Well, let me know when you need a refill," the waiter said, finally getting off his haunches and heading for the kitchen.
"How's the wine?" Nina said in a sarcastic tone.
"I'm not even sure it's Sauvignon Blanc. Tastes more like a Riesling."
"I'm starting to see your point about waiters and squatting," Nina said. "It is kinda annoying, isn't it?"
"My dad bought that plot in the cemetery years ago. They made plans. A family should stay together."
"And now your mother has abandoned you."
The words hit David like a sock in the gut. He had to bite his lower lip to keep it from quivering. "She was all the family I had, Nina. The last of my blood relatives. Now I'm genetically cut off from the rest of humanity. A Mendelian castaway."
"Surely, you still have some relatives. Cousins, nephews…"
"Not a single one. Mom and Dad were both only children. And I was their only child. I'm all that's left of my tribe, a genetic cul-de-sac."
"You know there's an easy workaround for this, right?" Nina said.
"What's that?"
"Contribute to the gene pool. Spawn a couple of little ones of your own."
"You mean, become a sperm donor?" He shook his head. "It’s all too antiseptic."
"I meant becoming a father," Nina said. “Holy mackerel! You're only thirty-six years old."
"Me? A father?” David scoffed. “What do I know about raising children?"
"It's easy. Kids are a lot like plants," Nina said. "The trick is to water them without drowning them. Speaking of which, I forgot to water your plants."
"Don't worry about it."
"Your cat is still alive."
"I don't have a cat," David said.
"That big red furry thing?"
"That's Pugs, my neighbor’s cat."
"What's it doing under your bed?"
David put his elbows on the table and rested his head in his hands. "I can't be a father."
"David, your biggest problem is that you don't know what you want."
"You're wrong, Nina. I know exactly what I want. I want to feel grounded. I want to have a deeper connection than what you can share with friends, or even—no offense—a literary agent. I want to have someone who will share in my successes and sustain me through those dark moments. Someone to help me navigate through this turbulent ocean we call life."
"You know what you just described?" Nina said.
"My mother?" "No, you moron! A spouse."
"I was married, remember? See how well that worked out."
"You also wrote a pretty crappy first novel before you wrote your big hit." David shook his head.
"It wouldn't work out."
"Why not?"
David wasn't going to tell her. He couldn't divulge that he had never fallen in love with his ex-wife, Barbara. Not in a head-over-heels way. Not like he had so many years ago with his one true love. And he couldn't possibly find a love like that again. One's lucky to experience such a feeling once in a lifetime.
"It just wouldn't work."
The entrees arrived, and they ate in silence for a while. Then, Nina snapped her fingers. Her eyes lit up. "I know," she said. "I should have thought about it sooner."
David dabbed his lips with his napkin. "What is it?"
"I saw this news story about a company that came out with a genetic test. They send you a kit at home, you spit into a plastic jar, ship it back to them, and they can tell you everything about your ancestry all the way back to Neanderthal man."
"So?"
"The crazy thing is, they've been able to reunite relatives by matching up their DNA: cousins, second-cousins, even siblings on a few occasions."
"I don't have missing relatives."
"How can you be sure?"
"I just know," David said.
"Do it for me."
"It's a waste of money."
"I'll pay for the damn test."
David sighed. "It's a waste of time."
"Let me put it this way," Nina said. "I'm ordering the kit for you. I'll have it shipped to your home. You don't show me the results in two weeks, you can find a new agent."
"You're bluffing."
"Don't try me, David. I've just given you an ultimatum."
David studied her expression. Her features were those of a Rottweiler eyeing an intruder. David slipped a piece of Coq au vin in his mouth and swallowed hard without chewing. "A fortnight, then," he said.
"A blessed fortnight," Nina replied
