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| "The New Year" by Pamela Painter |
| It's late Christmas Eve at Spinelli's when Dominic presents us, the waitstaff, with his dumb idea of a bonus--Italian hams in casings so tight they glimmer like Gilda's gold lame stockings. At home, Gilda's waiting up for me with a surprise of her own: my stuff from the last three months is sitting on the stoop. Arms crossed, scarlet nails tapping the white satin sleeves of her robe, she says she's heard about Fiona. I balance the ham on my hip and stuff my things--CDs, my weights, a vintage Polaroid--in the garbage bags she's provided free of charge. Then I let it all drop and offer up the ham in both hands, cradling it as if it might have been our child. She doesn't want any explanations--or the ham. Fiona belongs to Dominic, and we are a short and sad story of one night's restaurant despair. But the story's out, and for sure I don't want Dominic coming after my ham. I pack up the car and hear west. The ham glistens beside me in the passenger seat. Somewhere in Indiana I even give it a seat belt. I stop to call, but Gilda hangs up every time. So I send her pictures of my trip. The Ham under the silver arch of St. Louis; The Ham at the Grand Canyon; The Ham in Las Vegas. I'm taking a picture of The Ham in the Pacific when a big wave washes it out to sea. I send the picture anyway: The Ham in the Pacific Undertow. In this picture, you can't tell which of us is missing. |
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