The Last Supper
Edward swore me to secrecy about what he jokingly referred to as The Last Supper.
He wanted to throw a big dinner party. He would extend his dining table with the wooden leaf to accommodate all of his guests, who would be a mix of old people he had known for a long time and also new people whom he had never hosted.
This dinner would begin with his guests seated in the living room, where he would serve his lemon-infused gin martinis and savory tartines—thin slices of toasted baguette, topped with his homemade cognac chicken liver pâté.
Then, at the dining room table, he planned to serve small bowls of New England clam chowder, made with heavy cream, potatoes, and fresh Long Island clams from his fishmonger in Astoria. He would slow roast a pork shoulder, slicing it thinly and serving it with baked prunes. He would bake squash, with a hint of brown sugar and dab of cold butter. For dessert, individual apricot soufflés and Turkish coffee. There would be jazz in the background; maybe Ella Fitzgerald or Ute Lemper performing Kurt Weill in her animated German. Maybe even Thelonius Monk.
But while Edward dreamed about preparing dinner, I worried that it had too much of the air of finality about it. Shortly after he turned ninety-four, he had sent a letter to his circle thanking everyone for their birthday wishes. In it, he contemplated his own advanced age.
“When my professed age becomes known, the skepticism I encounter is beginning to become comedic,” he wrote. “But if the gods have made some mistake, am I to blame?” He attributed his youthful energy to Paula’s enduring love. “The song ‘Younger Than Springtime,’ was her mantra and being so close I couldn’t avoid being touched.”
I had also been touched by Edward and Paula’s enchanted love story, even though I had never met Paula. To borrow from that Rogers and Hammerstein song she adored so much, during my own dinners with Edward I felt my heart grow strong, and now, years later, I held a world in my embrace. I couldn’t allow myself to think that it could all come to an end one day. But, of course, it would.
“Life is not stationary,” he continued in his missive. “I’m growing very old in spite of my deceptive appearance.”
I didn’t want to believe it. And I didn’t want this final dinner with Edward, this last supper. After I received his letter, I refused to talk about the dinner or commit to any dates. Then I came up with an idea: I would cook the dinner and Edward would be my guest. It would be the perfect dinner, evidence and appreciation of everything I’d learned from him. I would invite people he knew and people he didn’t know.
Edward feigned resistance, but when I dropped by to tell him my idea I could see that he was intrigued.
I had arrived unexpectedly, without an invitation. It was cocktail hour and Edward busied himself making drinks and filling a bowl with salted cashews. For me, he mixed ice-cold lemony gin and vermouth into a martini glass. Then he poured Canadian whiskey into a tumbler for himself and added some ice. He swirled the amber liquid around in his glass, knocking the ice cubes together before he spoke.
He told me he was grateful that I had come into his life right after he lost Paula, when he needed attention and affection. “And while Laura was still in Greece and Valerie was in Toronto, we formed a bond over dinner. We gave each other the courage to go on with our lives. We were equally giving and receiving in that period, which was crucial to you and me,” he said.
Edward had nourished me with more than just food. Yes, he had made magnificent feasts and even plain meals, and I remember each of them still so vividly because every dinner with Edward sustained me “truly against the hungers of the world,” as M. F. K. Fisher wrote.
And then he suddenly set his whiskey glass down on the table and grabbed my arm, his twinkling blue-gray eyes welling with tears: “Nobody knows how much we love each other.”
“Of course they do, Edward,” I said, suddenly overwhelmed.
“No,” he insisted. “Nobody knows because I’ve never told them.”
I took a sip of my martini to prevent myself from crying.
I felt that Edward and I had now come full circle and I remembered what I had written in the card I gave him on his birthday. Distracted, I had mailed it to the wrong apartment, but it magically ended up in his mailbox on the day of his birthday. “May you have as many more years as you desire,” I wrote. “And know that for me you already live forever.”
Now the tears rolled down my cheeks. I grabbed my empty martini glass and walked to the kitchen so that Edward wouldn’t notice. I moved some plates around in the sink until I could compose myself, and then I walked back into the living room, where Edward sat finishing his drink, staring out at the shimmering lights of Manhattan and wiping away his own tears with a cocktail napkin.
“So you’ll come to my dinner, Edward?” I asked, my voice cracking despite my best efforts to keep it together.
He smiled. And did I detect the slightest nod of agreement?
“Just don’t give away my secret on the martini, baby,” he said.
Never!
I clasped his hand and we walked toward the elevator. As usual, he held the door open with his cane. He was about to say something. Perhaps he wanted to tell me where to buy the best Turkish coffee, where to get the freshest clams for the chowder, or not to forget to brine the pork in apple cider. Two days, for best results, he always said. Or maybe there was a last bit of wisdom he wanted to impart.
But I was having none of it. I had a lot to do before our next dinner.
“Seven o’clock,” I said. “I’ll be expecting you.”