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Article Excerpt
Almost furtively Bernie drops into his shopping cart: one red pepper, one yellow pepper, the smallest bunch of carrots he can find, four Yukon Golds, six, no seven, Brussels sprouts, a loaf of Berkshire Bakery sesame bread, one sinful brownie, and a pint of Haagen-Dazs coffee ice cream, which he is determined to make last three nights. Standing uneasily at the fish counter, he orders a half pound of scrod; when the boy packs up the fish, it looks scarcely bigger than a fist.
This is the worst, he thinks, shopping without Wendy. Because she never had to watch her weight she would search for treats, sweet or savory, depending on her mood, and come up with a special olive paste, a pungent curry powder, or shortbread that tasted better than anything you could get in the British Isles. Together they would set off on a weekly adventure in which they spent more than they should have, but "what the hell," she would say with the most delicious smile, "it's a lot cheaper than eating out, especially now that this town has become so gentrified." And while she unloaded their teeming cart, she would tell the person on line behind them where such goodies could be found.
Why does he miss that so much? He guesses it's because here in this upscale market her playfulness came out in the most natural way. Her sense of fun, the very thing that inspired him when he was working well, is what he yearns for most.
Bernie grabs a four-pack of toilet paper, a box of Kleenex, one roll of Bounty, the smallest bottle of Palmolive (the dishwasher doesn't make sense for one person), and a small cream cheese, light; then he heads toward the cash registers. Not fast enough.
"Hi, Bernie, how're ya' doin'?" In front of him stands his neighbor George, feet planted squarely in the middle of the aisle, eyeing his cart. Bernie pastes a smile on his face but before he can utter a brusque "Fine," George asks, "Hey, Bernie, have you and Wendy split?"
Tears well in Bernie's eyes. He takes out a handkerchief, unironed, of course, and blows his nose hard, and nods. The relief of not having to pretend anymore surges through his body, making his legs rubbery. "Do I look that bad?"
"No, you look fine, if anything better than when I saw you last. The tip-off is your cart. If I ever saw a bachelor basket, yours is one." When Bernie looks down, the food appears even more forlorn than it did 10 minutes ago. Bernie last saw George--last saw anyone--at the Harvest Festival, two weeks before Wendy announced that she had taken a small apartment in town and needed to think about her life, especially their marriage. "Too much stress," she explained, which almost knocked Bernie over, because they had finally begun to have some security after living for more than 20 years from day to day.
"Hand to mouth," Bernie's father used to sneer. Unlike Wendy, who was always supportive, or so Bernie thought, his father had only contempt for Bernie's work as a toy maker--one of the best in the business, whose chosen material was metal, which he shaped and welded to make what Wendy called "wonderfully witty inventions." A toy maker with a mailing list from here to Kalamazoo, articles about him in dozens of magazines and newspapers, and a shop that was the pride and joy of this small town in western Massachusetts.
Within the last decade Bernie's trains and barns and people had become collectors' items, and with that came some real money. The tide had turned after his father died unexpectedly and blessedly five years ago, but at least his mother lived to see it. Although she had always encouraged Bernie, she'd also worried that he "had no feel for money." Of course she was right. So when he finally came to her for advice about where to invest--she was a whiz with stocks--she was thrilled, then filled with pride, when he and Wendy could afford to send their sons, Jonathan and Seth, to Amherst and Colby.
But best of all were the new house and studio they finally built, where George had done most of the finish work. Wendy had taken more interest in the house than Bernie had. Now, Bernie explains, "Wendy's moved out, left all those million details she agonized over as if they didn't mean a thing."
"I want everything as good as we can possibly make it, this is the last time I want to do this," Wendy had kept saying.
That's when Bernie was truly grateful...
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