I took myself out to the golf club almost every night. Les’s Martha couldn’t cook anything except red beans and rice and chicken with enough garlic to kill you. Apparently, the people in wherever she came from never heard of plain string beans or steamed spinach or God, I don’t know, but I couldn’t take her cooking anymore. I mean, Les was no four-star chef, but at least her cooking didn’t fight me all night long. Suddenly I was living on antacids and longing for salad from a bag with lemon juice and olive oil, the way Les always fixed it.
So, as I was saying, I was at the club in the grill room studying the menu and who walks in? Cornelia!
“Hi, Wes!” she said. I stood and she gave me a peck on the cheek. “Sit! Sit!”
I continued to stand. “Well, good evening, Mrs. Stovall! Where’s Harold?”
“Oh, he’s home in a funk and I figured you might be here.”
What in the world? Trouble in paradise so soon?
“Well, come join me! This eating alone business is getting old!”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to intrude.”
I moved around the table to pull back a chair for her. “Don’t be ridiculous! Sit! Join me! I haven’t even ordered yet!”
“Well, if you’re sure . . .”
“I’m positive.”
She lowered herself into the chair with a practiced and singular hip-swiveling movement reminiscent of Hollywood bombshells from movies made in the 1930s. You know, it was like watching Lana Turner or Rita Hayworth swing their gorgeous haunches into a sports car without touching a thing. That Harold was some lucky dog.
I took my seat again and snapped my napkin over my lap and motioned for the waiter to bring us another setup and menu.
“Would you like a cocktail? I was just thinking about ordering a martini.”
“You know what? Yeah! I’d love a martini.”
“Vodka or gin?”
“Vodka, dirty not filthy, straight up with two olives.”
“That’s just how I like mine!”
“Really? Wow! I had no idea!”
So I ordered our two martinis, and they were there in almost under a minute and we touched the edges of our glasses. A speedy bartender is essential to a good club.
“What are we toasting?”
“I don’t know. Let’s drink to Thursday night! It’s still Thursday, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am! It’s still Thursday. Here’s to it!”
She drank half of it in one sip and I thought, Wow, young people must have cement guts or something.
“That’s delicious!” she said.
“Yeah, the guys here make a mean drink.” We were looking at the menus. “I’m thinking pork chops. How about you?”
“Pork chops sound great,” she said. The waiter arrived and Cornelia looked up at him demurely. “Mr. Carter can order for me.” She smiled and handed her menu to him.
Now, in the South and perhaps elsewhere, it was customary for a gentleman to order for a lady, but in the privacy of your own club? It seemed unnecessarily formal. I mean, Les knew all the waitstaff forever and they knew that she liked the Dover sole with the mustard sauce on the side. So if she said she felt like fish or how’s the fish, they took her order.
“Well, it looks like we’re having pork chops,” I said. “Pink on the inside, but not rare.”
“They will be perfectly done to your taste,” said Diego, who’d worked at the club longer than I could remember. “Would you like another?” He lifted Cornelia’s empty glass.
“Why not?” she said.
Why not, indeed? Maybe because you might roll out of your chair and pass out on the floor? But I wasn’t saying a word about it.
“So what’s going on with Harold? Why’s he in a funk?”
“Because, because . . . oh, Wes! Harold can’t . . . you know. . . . perform!”
“Oh, Lord.”
“Wes? Aren’t I too young to face the rest of my life with no more sex?”
Aw, sweet Jesus! Did I really want to know this?
“Um, sweetheart, that’s really none of my business, but you know . . . there are pills?” I was whispering because the last thing I wanted was to be overheard.
“He can’t take them. They goof up his heart or something.”
The pork chops arrived and I realized I was starving. We began to eat.
“Wow. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
“I mean, my whole marriage is just a mess. I broke up his marriage with Danette and she hates me, which is too bad because she’s really supposed to be a nice lady.”
“She is. She’s great. So you feel bad about coming between them?”
“Sort of. The wedding is going to be awkward as hell. But, I mean, I never put a gun to Harold’s head, you know.”
“True.”
“I’m not ever gonna get laid again and oh, Wes, don’t you have any advice for me?”
I sat back and wiped my mouth. What could I say? “Honey, if I was that smart, Les would be sitting here right next to me.”
“But, Wes? You’re the smartest man I’ve ever met. Surely, you can help me figure this out. Please?”
She put her hand over mine and squeezed it and I thought, Oh, boy, this is way more than I bargained for.