Belle's Story

Chapter Four

Breakfast routines reveal a lot about a person. I prefer a quick and easy breakfast: coffee, yogurt, newspaper. The hotel had a little cafe by the street with just what I was looking for. I could grab a bite and then jump into the day. Ben, however, felt breakfast was the best part of staying at a hotel. He walked right past the cafe, not even glancing inside, and headed straight for the more substantial offerings in the full service restaurant. Ben took no time at all to find the full buffet with fresh fruit, cheese and yogurt, bread and cereal, smoked fish, two types of eggs, sausage and ham, stations for waffles and omelets. He filled up his plate until it overflowed. I grabbed my predictable strawberries, yogurt and granola and picked at my food. Across from me was the man I married, the man I loved, a man selected as one of Chicago’s “Forty under Forty,” awarded to the city’s brightest up and coming talent. There he was shoveling food into his mouth with both the manners and appetite of a 13 year old linebacker in the middle of a growth spurt.

 “Ben?”

“Yeah?”

“What do you think about my calling my mom after breakfast?”

“I was surprised you didn’t call her last night.”

“Well, I know she needs to know and all. I want to call her. There’s just something nagging at me telling me not to.”

“Well, wait then.”  Ben folded the paper to the sports section and started to scan its “.

“You’re right. I should stick to my original plan. I’ll call Mom after Belle tells me. I’m sure she’ll do that today. I wish I could come back here later on today and have the room for some privacy.”

Ben put down his paper. He reached across the table and stroked my chin. “Deb, I’ll stay if you want.”

“No. Go on home.”

“Okay, but remember I’m here and that you’re stronger than you realize.”

Ben left for the airport shortly after breakfast. It was getting later in the morning than I had realized, so I made my shower quick. I wrapped a towel around me, slipped my feet into a pair of flip flops to protect them from the mold and fungus spores that I was sure lurked even in the cleanest and swankest of hotels, and headed for my suitcase. I selected a pair of black jeans and a black cashmere turtleneck for today's ensemble. Now, what to do with my hair? I tried a sleek ponytail, but even in Manhattan, that looked a tad bit severe with the all black thing going on. I used a dime-full of gel to tame my curls and flipped my head upside down to blow it out as straight as possible. This was the Land of Flat Hair, and I hate mall-hair as much as anyone with half an ounce of taste and style, but I just couldn’t go board-straight. I back-brushed the front of my hair a couple of times for lift and curled under the tips so they would bounce as I walked. I pulled a cream and gray striped wool scarf off a hanger in the closet and looped it around my neck in a loose slip knot, adding just a touch of understated charm. I glanced in the mirror; my look was complete.

The wait for the subway was short, getting me to Belle’s stop about half way through the morning. Belle was sitting at the dining room table, fully dressed in a maroon wool Chanel suit with black piping. There was a little more color on her cheeks and strength in her eyes this morning. She eyed my outfit. When I asked her if she liked it, she responded with a shrug and said it was just fine. She then made a comment about all the black clothes people where these days and how depressing she found it. I interpreted this as meaning I was dressed like a Midwestern tourist attempting to impersonate a New York native (which, technically I was, but somehow that didn’t matter). Score: Belle: 1, me: 0.

I looked around. The apartment was covered in a layer of thin dust that clung to the air and danced around me. Books and tchatzkies l[1]ittered most surfaces. On the coffee table across from the sofa where I was sitting laid some of my favorite Belle-things: an abalone fish bottle opener; a nut cracker in a bowl of walnuts: and a tarnished picture carrousel featuring photos of children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews. Almost without realizing it, I cracked a walnut and picked out the meat, popping a piece in my mouth and flipping through the photos as I chewed.