Tomatoes

It was a busy Sunday for my wife and me. I had vacuumed and scrubbed the house until almost everything shone that was ever meant to shine. What I hadn’t had time to dust or polish I had safely stored away from the prying eye, under the bed and behind closet doors. Judy had cooked and racked her brain to fine tune the last details of the menu. My bosses were coming to dinner that night.

We were both emotionally drained from the events of the day before with our neighbours. Suyen is a bit of a daughter to us by now. Even though we aren’t much older than she is, we have grown to feel very protective of her. The whole episode had shaken us quite badly.

We thought of cancelling the invitation but it had been extended for such a long time now that we loathed the thought of giving our guests a rain check. And we figured that this evening would help take our minds off things.

Early Sunday morning, not wishing to talk to Petersen himself, I had called the hospital, and the nurse had said not to worry, that Petersen’s wife, Suyen was out of danger now. It was a relief to hear that. At least she wasn’t going to die. Just the same, it was impossible not to feel anger and agitation towards the brute. Anything we could do to try to calm ourselves down, we did. We simplified our dinner menu: Judy served an easy but impressive shrimp cocktail rather than the fancy artichoke soufflé she had originally wanted to prepare; I baked an apple crumble instead of my famous triple fruit flambé.

I had been working as an economist for the McCullough’s consulting firm ever since graduation and although I wasn’t supposed to know anything about this, I had heard rumours that my elderly employers, Mr. and Mrs. McCullough, were considering asking me to join their partnership. They had no children and I knew that they were satisfied with my work so it did not seem an unreasonable expectation to me. I had spent the entire week on tenterhooks.

Judy and I knew very well that if they were indeed considering such a proposal, tonight would be a sort of preliminary test for her as well as for me. She was, therefore, feeling as nervous as yours truly. Mrs. McCullough is apparently well-known for her gourmet cuisine although neither Judy nor I have ever had the pleasure of sampling it. On the few occasions when I had dined with the McCulloughs, it had always been at a restaurant, and for some reason or other, probably because we would always discuss business while eating, it had never occurred to them to invite Judy. As a result, they hardly knew her. This was their first visit ever to our humble abode, and of course, we wanted everything to run smoothly.

They arrived fashionably late, just as the sun was slowly sinking between a flaming pink sky and the tall pines at the bottom of our property. We served drinks and hors d’oeuvres and had a pleasant, almost relaxed chat. Through the impeccably shiny glass of the French doors, we watched the sun’s last rays disappear for the night. Judy and I managed to make it look as though we had enjoyed a most leisurely day at the end of a most leisurely week-end. From the kitchen emanated the exquisite aroma of roast veal aux olives et herbes de Provence.

Perhaps because the need to feed ourselves is a universal one, sharing a meal, be it at a restaurant or in one’s home, always strikes me as a somewhat egalitarian ritual where people will expose previously hidden facets of their personality. Despite my having worked for Mrs. McCullough for many years, I felt that I really just knew her as my superior. In our house that night, I was to discover what good fun she could be. Not serious at all like her husband. Not that he is unpleasant, but she is just more spirited than he is. There is an honesty, a purity, a lack of restraint in her smile and in her laugh that seem almost indecent. Sometimes when she laughs out loud, it is as though a curtain has been drawn wide open to expose her soul. At least, her not-so-handsome cavalier appears to think so.