Table for Two by Larry Kraft

TABLE FOR TWO 

I slid onto the last open seat at the bar, which was at the end closest to the host station. The bartender asked me whether I wanted still or sparkling water and handed me a menu. When he served my water - sparkling without ice - I ordered a Tanqueray 10 martini, bone dry with a twist.

As I settled into my usual evening - alone and at a bar - I perused the menu. How hungry was I? What did I want to try? My gustatory reverie was interrupted by a tap on my right shoulder. I turned to see the woman who had smiled at me from the line.

"Excuse me," she said.

Smiling back at her, I asked, "Are you ordering a drink?" "Go right ahead," I said as I leaned a little to my left to allow her to get closer to the bar.

"Actually, no," she said. "I don't need a drink. I need a favor."

"Oh?" was the only word I could manage as my cocktail, large and cold, arrived in front of me.

"I have a dinner reservation," she began, "but they won't seat me until (and here she made air quotes) 'my entire party has arrived.'"

I turned to her after taking a sip of my drink, "And?"

She moved closer to me and looked directly at me. "And one (she raised a finger), my husband is not coming, two (another finger), I have always wanted to eat here, and three (yet another finger), I had to wait months for a reservation. So, I want you to have dinner with me - my treat."

I looked at her three fingers, which were still inches from my face, turned back to the bar, took another sip of my drink and asked "And what about four? If your husband does show up, then I would lose my seat at bar."

She lowered her fingers. "Oh, he won't show up," she said, with more emphasis than empathy, more certainty than compassion.

"But how can you be sure?"

"Because he's dead," she replied evenly.

"Excuse me?" I sputtered, reaching for another dose of alcohol.

Fortified, but still mortified, I added, "Dead? How?"

She looked past me into the mirror behind the bar. Whatever she saw there, or whatever she felt inside herself, caused her to stop, gather herself up, and look me straight in the eyes.

"Look," she said in her most adult voice, "You're already wearing a jacket for the dress code. You're looking at the menu, so you are going to be eating anyway. And I already told them you were my husband and that I was coming to get you. So come on, they called our name."

No fingers in my face this time. Still, another three out of three, I thought, as I caught the eye of the bartender, who indicated that they would bring my drink to the table. I stood as dutifully as a chastised child and followed her.

But to her back I protested, "Our name?"

As we walked to the table, I finally had a chance to look at this woman of mystery, or at least mysterious words. She was wearing a black dinner dress, with a necklace - no pearls, thank God - and seemed to be somewhat younger than me. She was not only stylish, but also slim-ish and even a bit tall-ish. Three out of three if I was still counting. Not that any of that mattered.

When we got to the table, which I noticed was well positioned near a window with a city view, the server pulled back her chair and we sat across from each other. He removed the "Reserved" sign from the table, placed menus in front of us, and asked us our preference for water. She looked over at me and answered "Sparkling, please." He left with an "Enjoy your meal, Mr. and Mrs. Jamison."

So, now I knew the name she had been given by her husband or at least the name she had given to the restaurant.

My drink was delivered, and I took a sip as she told another server, who had just appeared at the table, that she was fine with just the water.

I couldn't help myself. "Dead?" I sputtered to her in a whisper. "How, when ..."

While I paused to think of more interrogatives, she reached across the table and touched my forearm with her ringless left hand, "So many questions, so little time."

She looked around the restaurant, taking in the setting's elegant sophistication - the white tablecloths, the wood accents, the flowers - with awe and wonder, proving one of her points to be true: she really did want to be there.

"But..." I continued.

She looked back at me and smiled. "Let's just enjoy this great meal. I have read so much about this place. I am almost giddy with anticipation."

I looked back at her and almost said what I was thinking, "Giddy you are most certainly not."

Before I could come up with something to actually say out loud, the server came to take our orders. Without hesitation, almost as if she had rehearsed her lines, she told him that we'd have two chef's tastings, that she would have the wine pairings, and that "the gentleman will have another cocktail."

We were asked if we had any food allergies and then were alone again. She looked so satisfied with herself that I thought her next words would be "There, that's done."

Her reference to "the gentleman" turned out to be the closest we would get to addressing each other. I never called her Mrs. Jamison, and she never asked my name or the usual first date questions like what I did for a living or if I had a family. She may have noticed that I, too, was not wearing a wedding ring. If she had asked, she would have gotten what has proven to be my most charming answer that I was "between marriages."

But none of this mattered to her. I was watching a one-woman performance for a one-woman audience. I was not even her co-star. I was a stage prop.

Over eight courses of delectable seafood, when we weren't gushing about the dish in front of us, we talked about our favorite movies, music, and books. We shared nothing personal or political. Nonetheless, our conversation was amicable, even animated. But my inner detective was on the case. In my head I was analyzing everything she said and adding my unspoken "yes, but" and "what if."

The first course of our culinary adventure, scallops with caviar, left little room for anything but our responses to its savory artistry. But I watched her carefully in case her table manners revealed something about who she was or where she was from.

As we awaited the next course, which turned out to be lobster carpaccio with lemongrass bouillon, she began our dinner conversation with the topic of movies. Her favorite movie she said was Pretty Woman. I remembered Julia Roberts saying that she had sex when and with whom she wanted, and I wondered what this fantasy of money and sex said about my dinner companion. But she offered nothing further. When I offered as my favorite John Huston's The Man Who Would Be King, I was met with only a blank stare.

Between the smoked yellow fin tuna and the crispy black bass, we moved on to the small screen, where neither of us had much to say about television shows. She said that she refused to watch the evening news. As I wondered why that was, I offered that, for me, award shows were on my "do not watch" list.

The sautéed langoustine with mushrooms was our cue to share our musical tastes. Her favorite song was Peaceful Easy Feeling by the Eagles, to which I asked her - to myself, that is - before or after your husband's death. She frowned at my choices of Randy Newman and Leonard Cohen, but allowed for John Prine because she thought she remembered hearing one of his songs.

During the pan seared fluke with potatoes, I asked her about what she liked to read, and she expressed a preference for murder mysteries. This generated scenarios and suspicions in my mind that must have been reflected on my face because she quickly added that she mostly followed the New York Times best sellers list. She then surprised me by saying that she had a fondness for Shakespearean sonnets. She declined to explain when and how she discovered them, and which were her favorites, so I silently assumed that this information fell into the category of personal and private that she had declared off limits.

She did allow one bit of intimacy during the meal. She offered me a taste of each of her wine selections before she drank them herself. I took a very small sip from the edge of the glass closest to me and she drank from the other side. This allowed us to compare our opinions about the wines and how they complemented the food courses.

We listened dutifully to the sommelier as she described each wine and then we exhausted our individual vocabularies as we outdid each other trying to put into words what we had tasted. Knowing probably less about wine than we did each other, we soldiered on through the first few pairings with terms such as dry, sweet, smooth, fruity, oaky, rich, opulent, and intense. By the last two wines, however, we both agreed that they were very "good."

After we enjoyed the final savory course of steamed halibut with root vegetables, she looked sheepishly at me and said, "I'm so sorry, but..." and she looked down at her lap.

"But what?" I asked. Finally, I thought.  A confession. Or at least an explanation.

"Oh, it's just that all of this wine has gone right through me, and I have to use the ladies room."

"So, go."

"No, they won't serve a course here unless - air quotes again - 'all members of the party' are at the table. I don't want you to wait for dessert. I hear it's amazing."

She looked around the restaurant once again. This time with more expectation than excitement.

"Here's what I'll do," she said conspiratorially. "As soon as the dessert arrives, I'll jump up and run to the bathroom."

"Okay," I said, "I'll wait for you to return so we can enjoy it together."

"No, don't do that," she protested. "The dish is served warm, I think, so enjoy it while it's hot." She smiled. "Unless there's a line, I'll be back to start mine before you finish yours."

She looked satisfied by her little plan.

The server presented the dessert, explained it to us, and left with another "bon appétit." As she had predicted, it was a warm chocolate tart with house made hazelnut ice cream.

And she did indeed jump up and follow the server away from the table. I watched her walk through the restaurant and into the lobby where the bathrooms were located.

I stared at the dessert and picked up my spoon.

I got so lost in the excellence of this final treat that it wasn't until I had finished my entire serving that I looked up and saw her dessert melting in front of her empty chair. I looked expectantly across the restaurant, just as she had done. How long ago was it?

Just then, the server appeared with chocolates and a small leather-bound book. At first, I thought they might be a surprise from her but when the server set them on the table, he smiled and said, "I'll take this whenever you are ready, Mr. Jamison." And then after a pause, he looked at the napkin that he had draped over the back of her chair and said "I'm sorry your wife had to leave so quickly. She missed the best part of the meal."

I tried to restrain myself, but my face must have given away my - what? - shock, disappointment, shame.

Whatever he saw he did not reveal. He simply said almost automatically and, I thought, a bit apologetically, "Thank you for joining us this evening."

I put a chocolate in my mouth and looked at the bill: 2 chef's tasting @ $295, 1 wine pairing @ $165, 2 martinis @ $25.

After tax and gratuity, the total would be well over a thousand dollars. An expensive meal, for sure, but just the money could not have been all that motivated her. I thought back at how firmly and coldly she had said, "Because he's dead," and I once again conjured up scenarios of homicide, justifiable and otherwise.

It seemed that the eyes of all the servers and staff were on me as I stood after paying the bill with a credit card that did not have a name anything like the name on the reservation.

As I walked sheepishly past the host stand, I heard "Mr. Jamison?" I turned and the host held up an envelope, "This was left for you," she said and handed it to me. I took it from her and started to walk away.

But then I turned back and asked, "How did you know this was for me."

She looked up from the reservation list and said, "Oh, that was easy. I was told that you were tall, blond, and handsome," and she gave me her very best service smile.

Once again, three out of three. A perfect score.

I took a few more steps toward the restaurant's exit then stopped and looked at the envelope. There was nothing written on it, so I turned it over. On the back of the sealed envelope there was a handwritten message. It read, "One more favor. Don't open this until you get back to your hotel."

As I slipped the envelope into my jacket pocket, I knew, somehow, that she, somewhere, knew that, once again, I would do exactly what she asked.

Larry Kraft's play, Waiting For A Eulogy, described as Samuel Beckett meets Douglas Adams, recently had its world premiere in community theater and has been published by Open: Journal of Arts and Letters. In addition to his short stories, he has written  a one-act play and two 10-minute plays. Previously, he published articles while a graduate student at Cornell University, a book of institutional history for Springfield (Vt.) Hospital, and feature articles for a weekly newspaper.