Rosemary and Reuben

By V.S. Kemanis

V.S. Kemanis is this month’s winner of $535.00 for a story as rich and layered as the finest dish at the best restaurant.

Bio: Dance artist and lawyer V.S. Kemanis has published six legal thrillers drawing on her experiences in New York's criminal justice system, and five literary story collections. "Rosemary and Reuben" is included in Your Pick: Selected Stories, winner of the Eric Hoffer Award for Best Story Collection.

https://www.vskemanis.com

Without further ado, “Rosemary and Reuben” by V.S. Kemanis.

Anderson is single by choice and always has been. True to his one love, he treats himself to an epicurean delight every Saturday night. At this stage of his life, he’s indifferent to money and mortality and gladly indulges to excess. Only the finest restaurants in Manhattan will do.

Before stepping out, Anderson trims the goatee and puts on his evening best. Invariably, he dines alone, although he isn’t without a list of possible companions, female and male. Still, there’s no wish for a lover to dine with, never mind his age. On his evenings out, he indulges a craving of a different sort, the sensual experience of taste, texture, and aroma, the heft of silver and gleam of crystal, the lengthening and savoring of time. For a few hours he forgets his life—everything it is, and is not. A full belly and a buzz from the grape will do that.

On this particular Saturday, Anderson is fortunate to have a reservation for one at the celebrated Ole Factory in the Village. Competition is high. It’s rumored that, after 35 years in business, Rosemary and Reuben Blandrigard will soon be retiring.

At seven o’clock, Anderson alights from a taxicab, braves an icy blast, and darts over the frozen pavement into the restaurant. The small foyer is square, dim, and hushed like a confessional, with a single, warm light directed from the ceiling toward the opposite wall. Anderson is drawn to the sepia-toned photograph of the owners, framed in a simple mahogany rectangle, displayed on the eggshell wall. Rosemary lovingly gazes at Reuben, and Reuben gazes at Anderson with a look of glazed contentment.

Past the foyer and over the threshold, a young hostess looks up. Anderson squares his shoulders and announces his name. She seems to know him. “How are you this evening, Mr. Anderson?”

“Fine. Just fine, thank you.” He strokes the goatee and drops his eyes to her neck.

“Is this your first time at the Ole Factory?”

“Yes, indeed it is,” he informs her neck. “I’ve run the gauntlet successfully, it seems.”

“And you’ve earned your reward.”

“I look forward to it.”

He senses her amusement, feigned or real, from the tension in her neck.

“Right this way, please.” She turns, sending her long skirt into a gentle swirl, and guides him at a leisurely pace through the well-spaced dining room of about twenty tables. The décor is spare but comfortable. In the far corner, a small, round table awaits him. The single chair is backed into the corner, allowing him a view outward into the room—a thoughtful arrangement. At some establishments, he’s made to face the wall, and at others, an empty, second chair stands in silent rebuke of his social failings.

Anderson sits and orders an aperitif. Glancing at the menu, he senses, in the periphery, the sexual murmurings of a young, starry-eyed couple at the next table. Against his will, he’s aroused by a fleeting emotional stirring. The moment passes, giving way to the pleasing texture in his hand—the single sheet of cardstock. This is the message printed on the front:

“Welcome to the Ole Factory.

We’ve created a unique menu for tonight’s meal.

Let your server know if your pleasure is One or The Other.

Your hosts, Rosemary and Reuben.”

Always a surprise, always superb. (The critics agree.) Each meal at the Ole Factory is specially created for the clientele, a process that begins with a telephone interview to vet personal aversions and food allergies. Simpatico tastes of prospective patrons are carefully matched, and a guest list is compiled for each sitting before any reservation is confirmed. It can take a year to get on a list.

As a successful applicant, Anderson has won the right to ponder his two options for the evening. Without much thought, he selects “The Other” before flipping the card over. Printed on the back is a short paragraph titled “The Story of Rosemary and Reuben.” Legend might be the more descriptive term. Everything about them is legend, including their habit of circulating through the dining room during coffee and dessert. They appear at the kitchen door, wrench apart like cloven chopsticks, and weave different routes through the tables, separately greeting their guests.

As he sips his aperitif and reads “The Story” a second time, Anderson silently hopes that Rosemary will be the one to visit him at the end of his meal.

Two and a half hours later, he gets his wish. At 9:30, she emerges from the kitchen with Reuben. Nearly touching, they suspend all movement for barely an eye blink. Reluctantly they part. With a quick, light step, Rosemary toes a straight line along the wall to Anderson’s table. She’s a roundish, dwarflike woman of about Anderson’s age, with silvery-gray hair pulled tightly back into a doughnut at the nape of her neck, exposing delicately-lobed, naked ears. Coming to a halt in dramatic proximity, she’s not much taller than Anderson, even as he sits. With a familiar air, she regards him from beneath jet-black eyebrows. Hold still please, says the creator of that sepia-toned photograph.

“Mr. Anderson. We’re very glad you could come this evening.”

His heart races in confusion. Her visit to his table fulfills his dearest wish, but everything else has been less than expected, troublingly so. He doesn’t understand the meaning of the past two and a half hours. He wants to tell her, but the words are bottled under a well-aged cork.

Before he can speak, Rosemary lifts a bent index finger and rests the knuckle on the tip of her sharply-pointed nose. The finger covers her nostrils, the fisted hand covers her mouth.

Anderson searches for the right words but finds the single, obvious truth. “The service was excellent, thank you.”

With a nod, she removes her hand. “It’s been our pleasure. Is there anything else we can get for you? Anything at all?” Pausing after the last word, the silence that follows announces her omission. She hasn’t, and will not, ask him how he enjoyed his dinner.

#

In the middle of the night, Anderson lies awake, puzzled and unsettled. He remembers eating but feels hollow and unsatisfied. More than anything, he’s deeply ashamed. The words of The Story march relentlessly across his brain like sturdy, soldier ants. Between the permanent black bits, the holes wait to be filled.

Staring into the lightless room, he mourns the passage of time. In 1975, the three of them shared this city, unaware of each other. For Rosemary, it was the year The Story began. For Anderson, it was the middle of the sameness of his life. In the inky stillness, he conjures her in the predawn streets of midtown, January of 1975. Where was he, and what was he doing at that hour?

It’s 6:40, still dark. Rosemary scurries along the pavement on her way to work. She’s a girl of 25, but looks older in her nappy wool overcoat and sensible, rubber-soled shoes. Winter is her friend, a time when outdoor offenders are put on ice. She avoids any close, overheated indoor space. She avoids the subway with its coffee spills, underarms, garlic, perfume, earwax, intestinal gasses, hair, breath, mothballs, greasy take-out, and aftershave.

Rosemary walks a mile to the forty-six story office building of her employer, a monstrous insurance underwriter. Her cubicle on the thirty-fifth floor is stacked with claim forms. Check, check, check. She’s the first employee ever to be granted flextime—a special medical dispensation for a disability of indeterminate nature. In by seven, hungry by eleven, Rosemary takes her lunch every day at that early hour, avoiding the crowd. Food is not permitted in her cubicle, but the company offers more than one option for dining in the building.

On the second floor, a cafeteria exudes tumultuous, clashing odors. Spaghetti and meatballs. Fried chicken. French fries. Pizza. Turkey, gravy, and mashed potatoes. Hot and sour pork. Tacos and enchiladas. Rosemary avoids the second floor. On the third floor, the options are less fragrant. Two choices. The lunchroom for brown baggers, offering a perfume of burnt crusts from the toaster oven, and the automat, Rosemary’s daily choice, where the food is pre-packaged in cellophane bags, neatly slotted into machines. Sterile, odorless, chrome, glass, plastic. Refrigerated. Her usual choice is American cheese on white and a bottle of sparkling water.

On the first day of The Story, another early lunch taker sits alone at a small table on the other side of the room. Rosemary has seen him before and feels embarrassed by her interest in him. She lowers her head and nibbles one corner of the white sponge in her hand, barely able to swallow the marble. Surrendering to an irresistible urge, her eyelids flutter upward, but he’s gone. Disappointed, fighting tears, she drops her eyes to the table, unable to eat. Her nostrils prickle. There’s a shift in the atmosphere, a softening of the air, and her nose relaxes. When she looks up, he’s suddenly there.

“Hello,” he says, clearly nervous. He’s gaunt and pale, a sign of ill health, but his eyes burn with the desire to overcome his frailty. She wonders how she must look to him and clutches a napkin in her lap. If he were someone else, that napkin would instantly be pressed to her nose in her usual pretense of needing to stop a drip. But something about him elicits the opposite need. She wants him to come closer.

“Hello,” she replies.

He glances at the half-eaten sandwich while the fingertips of his right hand stroke the tabletop in round movements. “I had the same one today. American. I’m also okay with Havarti or Provolone.”

In this, she hears a confession more exciting than any pickup line, but she holds back, not wanting to assume. “You’re fond of milder cheeses then?”

“Fond?” He laughs heartily, revealing his true nature. “Those are the things I can barely eat!”

She laughs along with him, suddenly sure of his meaning. When silence falls again, their eyes meet in a sustained, intuitive gaze. It makes her feel daring, and she invites him to sit.

“My name is Rosemary,” she says.

“I’m Reuben.”

They shake hands across the table. “Forgive me,” she says, “but, just now, I couldn’t help wondering … do you suffer from hyperosmia?”

He shakes his head, but his eyes sparkle. “No. Hypergeusia.”

Sudden joy! Their teeth have never been so whitely exposed to the world.

#

That night, Rosemary lies awake at Reuben’s side, thinking of Anderson sitting alone at the corner table with shame written on his face. Framed by his two forearms, the cranberry sorbet melts into the tuile cup on his plate, barely tasted. He’s a curious character with a precisely-crafted goatee, cherry-apple cheeks, and alarming intensity.

The Ole Factory has seen many solo diners over the years. Every sitting includes at least one, despite the lost revenue from an empty seat that easily could be filled. It’s a tradition rooted in kindness. Recalling their many lonely sojourns in the automat before they met, Rosemary and Reuben feel an especial fondness for those who, by choice or necessity, must dine alone. These people, more than any others, are deserving of a sumptuous meal, or at least, the effort to deliver such a meal to them.

Anderson’s ill-concealed torment haunts her. She feels no fondness or affinity for this man. She blinks him away and recalls other faces of single diners from times long past. A gallery of aging lonely hearts. Kindness? Is that truly her motivation? For the first time, she suspects something else. Arrogance. Maybe even cruelty.

A teardrop descends, carving a path along her cheekbone, making a final plunge into her ear.

#

In his coal-black room, suffering from reflux, Anderson pulls the covers up to his chin and welcomes the chilly air on his cheeks. The Story is momentarily interrupted. That dark-haired young man at the next table is depositing lascivious whisperings into the ear of his tawny-skinned lover. His lips touch the outer curve of cartilage, moving warmly and moistly against the opening of the auditory canal.

In his youth, Anderson had a handful of failed affairs. He was naturally timid with the opposite sex and moved slowly, afraid of rejection. Women usually left him even before he contemplated a move. Analyzing his failures, he resolved, in one instance, to move faster. That, too, resulted in a stinging rejection. How dare you! Her face is still vivid in his mind. She’s the majorette thrusting the baton in his lifelong parade of humiliations.

His gratitude for the carefully-placed corner table is fading. To be sure, that sexy couple was deliberately placed in close proximity. Why is Rosemary so entitled? Shame might have been her fate too, if not for the fortuitous arrival of Reuben in 1975. Everything about her today might have been the same—the roundness, the tight bun at the nape of her neck, the skin translucent like filo dough—except for her brow, which might have been crimped and hard as a rim of crust instead of smooth like the uncooked pie shell that it is. It could have been.

But no, Rosemary meets Reuben a second time in the automat, and a third, and then it’s on to greater things. A sexual conquest isn’t on their minds, or even possible in light of their disabilities. Not immediately. They set foot on a cautious path toward healing.

Rosemary refrigerates all of her food to mask the smell, but the ingredients are not always flavorless. The first night that Reuben visits her apartment, she serves a chilled pasta salad. What could be blander? White shells barely greased in the lightest virgin olive oil with green peas and a tiny shaving of pimento for flavor. It’s cold and odorless, but Reuben nearly gags on the pimento.

“Dear Reuben! I’m so sorry.”

Tears fill his eyes, and the fingertips race hectically along the tabletop. “Please don’t be sorry. Let me try it again.”

He clutches the fork in his right hand while touching her forearm with his left, girding for the excruciating hypersensitivity of his taste buds. But something magical happens. With the next bite, he relaxes and the magnificence of tang hits him in all its glory. “Pimento! So that’s what it is!” He takes another bite. “Excellent. Give me more.”

For dessert, they have vanilla ice cream. He encourages her to let it melt a bit, releasing the sweet fragrance. She leans toward the bowl and sniffs, vanilla, cream, sugar, but immediately she turns away. His heart goes out to her. Reaching across the table, he takes her delicate earlobe between thumb and index finger. She turns her head toward him, bringing her nose closer to the hand on her ear.

“Your skin is very soft,” he says, like whispering in a closet.

She’s intoxicated by the smell of his skin and the sound of his voice. How can it be? “Say that again,” she says.

“Your skin…”

“Wait until I get a spoonful.”

“No, you wait!” He drops his hand. “We’ll do it together. Just … you’ll have to … I mean, will you let me touch you?”

“Yes, please.” She blushes.

They each scoop up a spoonful of ice cream. He waits while she holds her spoon under her nose, and he takes her earlobe again with his free hand. “Your skin is very soft.” Her head clears and the nausea vanishes. With their eyes locked, they open their mouths to receive the cool sweet at the same time, knowing the pleasure of four senses in perfect balance and proportion.

#

Standing at the edge of Anderson’s table, Rosemary is suddenly in the grip of a revulsion she hasn’t felt in years. The pong he emits is foul indeed, despite the cardamom in his coffee, a bad-breath neutralizer. His cup still holds most of the liquid, growing cold. She’s compelled to cover her nose and mouth. He sees and understands. If this is kindness, it’s the cruelest sort. She exerts the willpower she once needed so desperately, and her hand falls away.

“It’s been our pleasure. Is there anything else we can get for you? Anything at all?”

She pauses, hoping he’ll say no. She’d rather move on to that young couple at the next table. Their juicy bodies telegraph their enjoyment of each other and complete satisfaction with the culinary masterpiece they’ve just consumed.

#

At Reuben’s apartment, the food is bland and spiceless but warm, releasing its aroma. On her first visit, when he opens the front door, the smell hits her. Something is cooking in the kitchen. Later, she’ll confront it on her plate: the boned and skinned chicken breast, no grease, no salt, no pepper, no herbs. But first, all she knows is an overpowering smell of gamey flesh. Her head tightens in pain and her stomach does backflips. She covers her nose with one hand while the other hand clutches the string of a boxed apple pie she’s brought for dessert. It’s still cold, and she’s anxious to get it into the refrigerator.

“Rosemary,” he says, moving toward her, touching the hand that covers her nose. It’s enough. The smell of his skin replaces everything. In this way, she’s leaping ahead of him. She has the scent and sound of him, but he doesn’t have the taste of her. Only touch.

That evening, they take new baby steps. For Reuben, the chemistry of touch starts to regulate the pain and pleasure of taste. During the meal, he holds Rosemary’s forearm with his left hand while eating. “It’s as if I’ve never touched the skin of another human being before,” he muses.

Batting her eyelashes mockingly she says, “You expect me to believe that?” She’s acting the coquette, wanting to provoke a response so that his words will diffuse the molecules of cooked bird invading her nose. The mellifluence of his voice regulates the pain and pleasure of scent.

“If I’ve touched anyone before, it’s never been like this. My fingers are melting into your skin. I have a feeling I could eat anything!” He sprinkles a bite-sized piece of chicken with salt and pepper, forks it into his mouth, chews and swallows, all the while holding onto Rosemary’s forearm. His taste buds are calmed by the touch. “Easy shmeezy! Maybe even a little bland.”

After dinner, in their anxiety about the pie, he insists on heating it because he loves the bouquet, a mixture of warm apple, cinnamon, and butter. She’s able to tolerate it only because he’s near. She no longer needs his hand next to her nose because his pheromone is released into the air, traces of his skin and everything it oozes—the oil, perspiration, and foods he’s eaten. His thoughts and desires.

They sit down to their dessert. “What a delicious aroma,” he says. But she notices his hesitance in taking a bite. He distracts her with a question. “Have you ever made a pie before?”

“I’m afraid not. I purchased this one because I’ve heard it’s the best.” She glances at the box, which bears the logo of a famous pie shop. Fearing a seizure if she set foot in the shop, she ordered it by phone for delivery to her apartment. “I’d like to be able to bake a dessert, but I’m sure it’s impossible. Maybe I could handle the dough, if it’s cold enough. But it would get warm in my hands, wouldn’t it?”

“Warm or cold, I think you could do it. You’re surviving this heavenly scent right now, aren’t you?”

“But you’re here with me.”

“Then, maybe we should cook together.”

Briefly, her eyes reflect disbelief, and in the next instant, her face lights up. “Yes. I’d love it!” No one is more surprised than Rosemary to be excited at the thought of baking with all of its sensory consequences. Reuben makes anything possible. She notices then that her mouth has started to salivate heavily. Her enjoyment of the apple-cinnamon smell is translating into an urgent desire for a mouth-stuffing bite. Eagerly, she chops off a hefty forkful and shoves it in, clumsily leaving a morsel of crust and apple goo on her lower lip. She lifts her napkin to wipe it away, but he stops her.

“Let me do it.” With an index finger, Reuben gently wipes at the crumb, taking it up with a bit of saliva from her glistening lip. He sticks his finger in his mouth, and his eyes go wide.

He’s discovered the taste of her.

At the end of their evening together, they stand awkwardly in the tight space near his front door. She hopes to have stored enough of his essence—inhaled and deposited on her skin and clothing—to last until the next time they meet. Tentatively, he takes her in his arms and gently touches his lips to hers. The kiss deepens and calms his throbbing taste buds as he sucks and drinks her taste. They each take enough of the other to last until morning when, at eleven o’clock, they will meet again in the automat.

Someday … the cafeteria? With Reuben, anything is possible.

#

Rosemary sees the artery throbbing in Anderson’s throat, telling her that their conversation isn’t over yet. He’s working himself up to ask The Question. It’s a predictable inquiry that many solo diners have posed, but tonight, she’s not in the mood for it. Not from him.