“Made with locally milled flour and all natural ingredients,” Elaine said. “After all, this is Berkeley.”
I took a deep breath, deciding I might order according to smell. Bacon or fruit? Buttery pancakes or hash browns? Even the salad that swished by us in the hands of a waitress had a fresh, handpicked aroma.
I resisted a reminder to Matt to choose an item with a heart icon: low-fat, low-cholesterol choices. I didn’t remember noticing his diet before his prostate cancer; I know I never kept surreptitious track of his fat and calorie intake every day But since his diagnosis I’d been on guard, as if everything he ate, every choice of movement or activity, was related to his illness, which had to be kept at bay
To his credit, Phil rushed to clarify his comment to me. “I didn’t mean to sound surprised, Gloria. I work with a lot of women these days.”
“You’re not helping yourself, Phil,” Elaine said, containing a laugh. And then to me, “He’s old-school, as you can see.”
It wasn’t the first time I’d met sexism as a woman in science, but I didn’t often meet it among scientists themselves. And I wondered about the “old-school” designation. Did that mean he and Elaine never went out without a chaperone? Too snide, I told myself, and held that remark back.
I thought of Elaine’s two ex-husbands and her “extra” fiance. Where were they now? I wondered. Not in our lives. Elaine had lost track of Greg, a lab engineer; Skyler, a San Francisco street artist; and Rene, a Parisian chemist, whom she’d been engaged to but never married. In between, there had been Bruce, Mel, José …
Looking at Phil, I missed them all.
We spoke only briefly of Tanisha Hall’s death, but the fact of it was there, hovering over the heavy white mugs of strong coffee and the wide-bottomed glasses of orange juice. Every time we laughed, someone cut the moment short, as if it were improper to be frivolous so soon after hearing of the young woman’s murder.
“How’s Dana holding up?” I asked Phil, once our pancake and French toast specials had arrived. I knew he’d had a lengthy conversation with his daughter last night, though he hadn’t left his meeting to visit her.
I saw a pained look cross Phil’s face, but it passed quickly. He shrugged his shoulders, then swung his syrupy fork in the air, its tines pointing upward, carving out a small circle a few inches from his face. “You know Dana,” he said, turning to Elaine. “She takes everything so seriously.”
“Murder is pretty serious, don’t you think?” Matt asked. A simple question from one who’d made a career out of bringing killers to justice. His voice was calm, his eating uninterrupted, and he saved me from making another remark I might later regret.
“Sure, sure,” Phil said. “It must be hard seeing someone you know get shot. And over a duffel bag.” He shook his head: the futility of it all. “But Dana’s strong. She’ll be okay.”
I caught the error in Phil’s comment. According to Elaine, the shooter had taken a briefcase, not a duffel bag. I almost corrected Phil, but I thought I’d caused enough friction already.
I did my best to be pleasant for the rest of the meal, though anyone who knew me would have been able to tell I was in a polite-but-cold mood. Then I saw the look on Elaine’s face. She did know me well, and she was distressed.
I felt guilt settle in my stomach, making Bette’s double-egg-dipped sourdough French toast seem feather-light by comparison. Elaine had chosen Phil; it was my shortcoming that I couldn’t find his redeeming qualities. And what about Phil having to sit through breakfast with his fiancee’s flighty friend, going from one coast to another every twenty or thirty years?
I gave myself a mental slap. I needed to get with the program and behave like a normal maid of honor. I’d come to help with bridal tasks. I’d been Elaine’s attendant twice before, and I knew there were endless errands to run and phone calls to make concerning the food, the champagne, the minister, the flowers, the rings, the photographer, the decorations, the music, the outfits. I was out of breath thinking about it.
“So, when are we going shopping for our shoes?” I asked Elaine. “I’m favoring some navy patent leather flats with a little Mary Jane T-strap.”
Poor Elaine choked on a piece of Bette’s famous lemon scone.
Phil was a connected guy. Not connected like my long-deceased Uncle Pasquale, a small-time Revere bookie, but connected to his cell phone and pager and state-of-the-art PDA, each of which he fingered at one time or another during our breakfast. Taking a call, entering a date, answering a page, making a note with a sleek black stylus. Elaine didn’t seem to mind this, so I tried not to. Not surprisingly, Phil had to leave our company earlier than he’d hoped, to attend an important meeting. I congratulated myself on resisting the temptation to ask why he couldn’t clear a whole Saturday morning for his fiancee and her maid of honor.