Free Ask Again Later by Jill A. Davis Page B

down.

Leftover Love
    WE’RE IN THE LARGE dining room at the Club. It overlooks the FDR and the East River. The river is always swirling and moving faster that you’d expect it to, making it a stressful backdrop for anyone who is paying attention. But no one seems to be paying attention to it, except for me.
    We sit at his table. His usual table. What is it with everyone I know having his own table in a restaurant? Everyone except me? How long do you have to go to a restaurant to get your own table? How nice do you have to be? How much do you need to spend? Is your table for dinner also your table for lunch—and breakfast? Who do you lose your table to?
    A man dressed in a green polyester uniform with brass and gold nautical detail takes our order. His name tag says MARTIN , but we have no need to know his name. It makes me think it’s not his real name. It’s just something he’s adopted here, at the Club. For his role as a waiter. Name tag? You want me to wear a name tag? Okay, I’ll wear a name tag. But not my name tag. Way to stick it to the man, “Martin.”
    â€œMartin, we’ll have two chopped salads, two dirty martinis,” Jim says.
    â€œGreat choice, sir,” Martin says, not writing anything down. My father reaches for the basket on the table. He offers me some bread.
    â€œStill at Schroeder, Sotos, Willett, and Ritchie?” Jim asks.
    â€œNo. Not really,” I say. I had no idea he knew where I worked.
    He puts some butter on his bread. I notice his watchband is old and the leather is cracking. His cuff links and shoes are polished, so I decide he likes the way the watchband looks. Worn. Trusted.
    â€œNot really?” Jim says.
    â€œI don’t like being quoted,” I say.
    Martin brings our martinis. We sip them. I cough. Who knew people really drink martinis at lunch?
    â€œEveryone likes being quoted. It feeds the ego,” Jim says. “Who doesn’t want to hear his own conversational highlights?”
    â€œMaybe it’s a gender thing,” I say.
    His words are matter-of-fact, but his tone is friendly, kind. He doesn’t seem at all self-conscious that we are essentially strangers. Or if he is self-conscious, I don’t know him well enough to read the signs.
    â€œWhere are you then?” Jim asks.
    â€œNowhere,” I say. “I quit. I needed to take a break, and I thought Mom could use some support. But as usual, I forgot who I was dealing with. She’s amazing. She’s managed to turn breast cancer into a social network.”
    â€œWell, I can understand why you’d quit. I don’t know why anyone would want to be a lawyer anyway,” Jim says.
    The relief of having someone say the right thing should never be underestimated, whether he means it or not.
    â€œ You’re a lawyer,” I say. “And you should have mentioned all this when I was applying to law school.” My thankfulness wears off, the way thankfulness does.
    â€œI don’t think we were on speaking terms at the time,” Jim says.
    â€œRight,” I say. “Well, then, you’re forgiven for that one.”
    The salads are delivered. We start to eat. So this is what it’s like to have a father?
    â€œMy father was a lawyer,” Jim says, as if that justifies his life’s work.
    â€œIronically, so is mine,” I say. “I never met your father, did I?”
    â€œNo,” Jim says. “And neither did I.”
    I don’t remember his mother, either. I just remember that in her kitchen, she had a rack of wooden spoons, in graduated sizes. When I was about three, my grandmother showed me which spoon she used to hit my father with when he was “bad.” I cried whenever we went to her apartment; I was terrified to go into the kitchen.
    â€œSo being a lawyer—is that your way of getting to know who your father was?” I ask. Clearly it’s mine.
    â€œWhat else was I going to