Chapter 6

For the next several weeks, Lee and I spent almost every day together. He called me most mornings before 9:00 to confirm racquetball on days we had a game, or to convince me to join him for dinner if we weren't playing ball. I didn't take much convincing. I thoroughly enjoyed being with him— felt alive, awake when we were together, wide awake, like I used to when I was a kid on adventures with Michael. After ball we'd turn the other on to a new restaurant, or meet up after work at an old favorite. I coped the check at the dives I consistently chose. He insisted on paying for the trendy places he picked, since he made five times my income, so he claimed. I humbly accepted his generosity, even though I knew it a bad practice with our just friends status.

On the weekends we ventured further—up to Hearst's Castle in San Simeon the Sunday after Laguna, then down to Sea World in San Diego the next. He always had weed, and always offered it. On the way to dinner after a game, or stuck in traffic on a Saturday, sharing a joint was in almost every scene. Our lives started to mesh together, and Lonely receded further each day. We didn't cross the line of friendship, sticking to a hug or a quick L.A. kiss when greeting or parting.

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The Mercedes' headlights flashed through the bay window as his car pulled into my driveway at exactly 7:30 p.m. I'd been hesitant to accept his offer to help me cook tonight, afraid that inviting him to my place might give him the wrong message, especially with my roommate at her boyfriend's again. But being with Lee provided the desired distraction to the notion of being alone with my pervasive dread all evening, anticipating Thanksgiving with my family. He emerged from his car and swung his black leather jacket over his shoulder, then walked the narrow pathway to my front door with casual confidence. He'd dropped quite a bit of weight in the few weeks we'd been playing ball. His stomach was flat under his soft white shirt that rippled with his stride, tucked into worn blue jeans that hugged his hips just right.

"Hi," I said as I opened the front door.

"Hi." He gave me a quick kiss before acknowledging Face wagging her tail wildly. Lee gave the dog an obligatory pat, their typical exchange when he greeted her at my car or front door. He tossed his jacket on the end of the couch and I lead him through the small dining room and back to the kitchen. “What are we making?”

“Apple pie. I have to wait till tomorrow to make the green bean casserole or it'll get mushy.”

"Ahh. A knowledgeable chef I see. I really enjoy cooking, especially baking. I love the way it makes a house smell— that homey feeling it evokes.”

"Me, too. I hate the cleanup, though."

"I don't really mind that, especially if it's a team effort— sharing the cooking and cleaning. I think it's only fair for partners to split everyday tasks. Halving the pain leaves more time to double the pleasure." He flashed me a quick grin. "I'm ready to start when you are." He stood by my grandmother's linoleum table where I had gathered most of the ingredients and utensils. "Just tell me what you need."

“Recipe is in that Joy of Cooking book. Page 55, I think.” I filled the kettle for tea and waited for the water to boil. Lee found the correct page and got to work.

I pictured my father sitting at the head of the table in my parents' kitchen while my mother, after a full day teaching, cooked dinner and served it. After each meal my mom, sister and I cleaned up as dad read the paper or went to watch TV. At the very least, a life with Lee would not be a repeat of my parents' marriage.

The kettle whistle blew, like a warning to stop harboring such fantasies, and I smiled with the thought. I prepared our teas and brought the steaming mugs to the table before going to the fridge and retrieving the bowl of peeled and cut-up apples I'd prepared earlier. "I grew up with the promise women could become whatever we wanted to be. Except no one bothered to tell me that we can have it all, only as long as we do it all. Women get to have a career, but working or not, we still do the housework, cook the meals and raise the kids.”

"Thing is, it's not only unfair to women, it screws the guy, too." Lee added flour then vigorously mashed the ingredients together, and didn't look at me as he continued with conviction. "It's fucking 1991, and women still makes less than half of what men do in the same damn job, so the guy is stuck with being the breadwinner, which sucks. I want to be with my kids, there for them, as intricately involved in their lives as my wife."

I was glad he was absorbed in his task and didn't notice my enamored grin. I stood at the end of the linoleum table, perpendicular to him, mixing sugar, maple syrup, vanilla into the cut apples.

"Hope you don't mind if I use my hands." Lee set the fork down, went to the sink, washed and dried his hands then came back to the table and gathered the flaky chunks together, almost lovingly coaxing them into a sphere. He retrieve the rolling pin and cutting board at the end of the table, rubbed flour up and down the wood cylinder of the pin coating it in white, then rolled out the dough into a virtually perfect twelve inch circle.

"You've obviously done this before," I marveled.

"Many times. Sharon loved to cook. It was one of the few good things we did together, which is why I gained 50 pounds the two years we were married.”

He may have believed his words, but I knew them a lie. Blaming his wife, ignoring his culpability in the care of his own body reminded me again why we must remain just friends.

“The trick to a perfect crust is in the handling.” Lee retrieved the glass Pyrex and set it in front of him. "You have to get your fingers under the thin skin very gently," which he did as he spoke. "And in one fluid motion put it where it belongs. Then let it go." He separated his hands quickly over the Pyrex and the circle of dough covered the pie plate and fell softly into place. "Voila." He looked at me and smiled, then expertly fluted the edges between his nimble fingers around the rim of the dish.

I poured my apple mixture into his perfect crust, sprinkled brown sugar mixed with flour and pecans on top. He opened the preheated oven for me to put the pie in.

"Looks fabulous. Very professional. Save me a piece if you can," Lee said as we cleared the table and piled the sink with dirty dishes.

”It's unlikely. My family are big dessert people.” I knew he'd be home and alone for Thanksgiving, and an acute stab of guilt motivated me to ask Lee to join our family dinner tomorrow.

"Then we'll have to make another pie soon, just for us. Shall we relax in the living room— put a buzz on?" Lee flashed his Cheshire grin.

The impulse to invite him to Thanksgiving vanished with his suggestion. Inviting a male friend to meet my family would surely come back to bite me. Lee was adorable, smart, witty, successful. He'd win my parent's affections and they'd spend the evening pondering what the hell was wrong with their daughter that I wasn't engaged to him yet.

I led the way into the living room. Lee sat on the couch and sparked a joint. I knelt at the fireplace, struck a match on the brick cladding and lit the pyramid of twigs and logs I'd set up earlier.

"Is that a backgammon board?" He pointed to the wood board I'd picked up in Athens ten years back. It sat on its side on the bookshelf against the opposite wall from the couch, folded into a thin, rectangular box. Only someone familiar with a Tavli board would know what it was.

"You play?" I asked, even though I knew the answer. He sucked on the joint deeply, deftly.

"Yeah, just so happens I do." He blew out a straight thin stream of smoke. It seemed to dance around his hand as he extended the joint to me when I joined him on the couch. “Care for a game?” Lee got up and got the board, brought it to the couch and placed it between us as he sat back down.

We passed the joint back and forth as we set up the board. Within moments everything slowed. The room glowed orange from the firelight, and warmed me. I felt safe with Lee there instead of hyper-aware of every car that passed or every creak of the house. Sweet scents of baking cinnamon and sugar wafted from the kitchen. The familiar pleasure of Lee's company sated me, and I relaxed and focused on the game. Within a few moves we established a fluid rhythm. And Lee was good, quick and intuitive, one of the smoothest I'd run across. But I was better.

"Where did you learn to play backgammon like this?" He wanted to know after I'd beaten him nine out of eleven games.

"In Greece. They call it Tavli, means 'table,' and it's a national past time there. I did a summer quarter at a college in Athens and played like seven hours a day."

"You play very well." He picked up the remains of the joint we'd left in the ashtray and lit it, took a hit and handed it to me. "I thought I was good at this game, but you're killing me."

"You've won two games. And you can clearly keep up with me. Most Americans can't. You're really quite good." I meant it, but then realized it could be construed as patronizing. "I've just had a lot more practice." I took a hit to stop anything else condescending escaping my lips, then handed Lee the joint and excused myself to get the apple pie from the oven.

It looked like a cover shot for Good Housekeeping. Lee's fluted crust was flaky golden brown. Thick, steaming fruit juice bubbled and oozed through clusters of melted brown sugar and tips of baked apples. I think I may have actually salivated as I transferred the pie from the oven to the stove top, fighting the urge to serve Lee and I up a couple of slices. We deserved it, as it was our collective efforts that produced this perfect creation. And I could always buy a pie tomorrow if I didn't have time after working to make one...

I came back into the living room showering accolades for our team effort, proud I'd resisted the siren of sugar, the buzz providing me a moment's pause of resistance to ravenously digging in. Lee humbly credited my management skills as I resumed my position on the couch. I sat cross-legged in front of the backgammon board and we resumed playing.

Again, we established a fast, even rhythm, but this time it seemed charged. Lee's focus was intense, like with racquetball. I could feel him collecting and directing his attention to the game, competing with the fire for the oxygen in the room. No words passed between us as we played. Most games lasted only minutes, and our rate of play accelerated with each.

I finally yielded from exhaustion. "As much as I'm enjoying this, I'm done for the night." Other than Chris, my roommate in Athen's, I hadn't played anyone of Lee's caliber since the locals at the cafes in Kolonaki Square.

"What a rush playing fast like that!" Lee straightened his legs and sank back into the couch cushion almost breathless. "That was great, a total kick, even though you just won the last fifteen games in a row." He picked up the roach in the ashtray, lit it and sucked. "A cynic, an idealist, and now a ringer. You're like a modern-day Sally Bowles, ever the mystery, Ray." His eyes twinkled with mischief as he extended the joint to me. I declined, to avoid burning my fingers on the last bit of the J, uncertain if I should be flattered or insulted by his reference to the neurotic American played by Liza Minnelli in Cabaret. "Do you have any idea how much you could make in Vegas with this game?" He stared at me. His dark, wavy hair hung in his eyes. He looked like the lead in a punk band.

"The old Greek barfly who taught me how to play like this told me never gamble on Tavli." I felt a need to temper his exuberance. "So, of course I did, took a local for a lot of drachmas. Never got a penny of it, and lost a good opponent. I didn't see him at the cafe after that. The old man was right. Playing Tavli is about passing the time of day, relaxing with a friend, or should be."

"Bet that old barfly was broke, which is why he spent his days in a cafe instead of at his villa on some island." Lee said. "It'd practically be a sure win putting money on you in a Tavli tournament." He flashed a cocky grin that chilled me. “Seriously, I'll back ya with some cash if you wanta give it a go.”

I stared at him. He wore a poker face, and I got he wasn't joking. "I think gambling is devoid of creativity and fundamentally corrosive." I wasn't trying to be contentious, but didn't really care that I was, irked he'd ignored the moral of my barfly parable. "Win or lose, you still lose. When you win, you're winning from some poor schmuck who can't afford to lose. When you lose, you are the poor schmuck. Across the board, it's lose lose."

"I agree. That's why I don't gamble anymore,” he said, then looked away, as if he'd been caught in a lie. He took a quick hit before dropping the roach in the ashtray. "I quit years ago, but I took it pretty far out there before giving it up." He focused on stacking the game pieces in their narrow holders on the side of the board and didn't look up while he spoke. "Started my junior year of high school. My friends and I would go to Vegas on the weekends. I quit college my first semester and worked for my dad's shipping company, which is where I learned the trade, to support my gambling habit. By your age, I was in major debt, quite a bit of which I owed to my father for covering what I took from his company." Lee glanced at me.

"You mean stole?"

His brow tightened, and I felt a visceral change, like a wall was suddenly between us. "Yeah. I told you I took it pretty far out there. My dad was very cool about it though, got his partner not to prosecute so long as the money was repaid, which I did, in full. Still owe the government close to half a mill in back taxes though. And I blew the shit out of my credit, which is why I always pay with cash. My dad had to co-sign for just about everything I own, from the Mercedes to my condo." Lee shrugged. "It was all a long time ago."

Not to me. His confession was new, and deeply disturbing information. I flashed on my mother delivering her parable of warning when I was very young, telling me and my sister of her first husband, addicted to gambling and alcohol, abandoning her at 21, leaving her broke and virtually homeless with an infant son. I thought I heard my inner voice scream run! I heard Lee's words but they didn't really register, like he must be telling a story of someone else. "You owe half a million dollars in back taxes?"

"Well, a bit over $400 g's now. I've been paying it off for the last four years, and it'll be a non-issue in five more. Then I close the book on my gambling days." He huffed. "Not exactly where I wanted to be at this late date, but once the taxman is off my back I'll be set to start socking it away." Lee shook his head as if disgusted. "Never again," he vowed, more to himself than me, I think.

All our intimate talks and he'd never mentioned his gambling problem. He'd led me to believe he'd completed college and was flush with money— financially secure. I glared at him, but was mad at me. Lee's admission confirmed what he'd clearly demonstrated— with weed, with food, with racquetball, and with Tavli tonight— all empirical evidence of his obsessive nature. His gambling days may be in the past, but every part of me knew it an indicator of his future. Some people turned practically anything into an addiction, and I could not dismiss my intuition's insistence that, like me, Lee was among them. He too was looking to fill a void inside. I sighed. "It's late, and I've got to work in the morning."

Lee picked up the dice and held them up between his thumb and forefinger. "Any time you're ready for another game..." He gave me a gentle, teasing smile.

I believe we're already engaged in one, but I didn't say it. I put my hand under one side of the board and waited for Lee to release the dice. He hesitated a moment then tossed them in. I closed the box, picked it up as I stood and went to the bookcase to put the game away and some distance between us. "Thank you for your help tonight."

"My pleasure." Lee ran his hand through his thick hair.

"Mine too. It was fun." I tried to think of something to say to get him to leave without chasing him away. "I'll see ya Friday on the courts?"

"Look forward to it." He stood, inhaled deeply. "God, it smells great in here."

It did too, smoky; sweet; citrus and cinnamon wafting from the kitchen for the fire to consume. He lifted his jacket from the end of the couch and watched me as he put it on. His glassy eyes flickered, reflected the firelight.

I moved to the door then rested my hand on the brass knob. "Thanks again for coming, and helping, and everything." I opened the door and cold crept in.

He stood close, less than a foot between us, facing me. "Call me tomorrow after dinner if you want to hang out, put a buzz on, play Tavli or something." He gave Face the pat she'd been standing next to us waiting for, then looked back at me. "Tell me, where's the good in goodnight?" He stared at me as if awaiting my reply to his rhetorical question.

I shrugged, smiled. "Goodnight, Lee. Drive safe. See ya Friday."

He kept his eyes fixed on mine a moment, then said “Goodnight, Ray,” gave a slight bow and turned away. He waved without looking back as he walked the narrow path, and with only a quick glance at me in the doorway, got in his car and left.

I shut the door and dead-bolted it. The house shuddered, the floor creaked. I was chilled straight through. Suzanne was back to practically living at Tony's, until, of course, she'd catch him making it with some groupie again. It was wild what so many women put up with to have someone to be with. Face shadowed me to the bathroom, lay by the doorjamb and waited, then followed me back down the dark hallway. The dog curled in her beanbag as I shut my bedroom door, closing us in before climbing into bed.

It was creepy quiet, except for the constant hum of traffic on the 101. And I felt scared and alone. Again. Still. A part of me regretted sending Lee away, but my intuition knew he was the freight train coming at me— I'd found my like kind, and mind in Lee. It was why I felt so connected to him. Like me, the siren of obsession was intertwined in his nature, with him every time he smoked a joint, hit a racquetball, rolled the dice. Ate. I could feel it. See it. My intuition screamed it, which is why we'd be poison for each other. Wasn't it Carl Jung that said, "You always fall in love with yourself?" Except I wanted a partner who was better than me.

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