Kimberly Stuart by Act Two: A Novel in Perfect Pitch

every time crazy hairy man came to mind. Soon I’d be wearing a loincloth in the Amazon and teaching the natives how to read treble clef.
    â€œNow please bless the food we’re about to eat and bless the hands that prepared it. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”
    â€œAmen!” the kids shouted, and mealtime commenced.
    I’d grown up an only child so this kind of culinary experience was not unlike watching a PBS special. Jayne was so occupied with the feeding frenzy, I don’t believe she ate a bite. I certainly didn’t see it. Her children were just so needy .
    â€œMommy, milk,” Joel said, holding his plastic cup up and letting it down with a bang.
    â€œMommy, milk, please,” Jayne parroted, reaching for the cup.
    â€œPweeeeeeese,” Joel said, then took the cup and spilled all of its contents.
    â€œSo, Ms. Maddox, tell us about what you all like to eat up in New York City.” Cal was reaching across his plate to cut Drew’s slice of ham, likely butchered on the back porch before he came to retrieve me from the airport.
    I patted my mouth with a paper napkin. “Well,” I said, shrugging, “New York was and continues to be built by people from all over the world. You can buy any kind of food imaginable, and often at all hours of the day.”
    Jayne reappeared from below the table where she’d been mopping up milk that had dripped between the cracks. She blew her bangs off her forehead and turned to me, eyes shining. “Like what? What’s your favorite?”
    I took a gulp of cold milk and wondered if these people milked their own cows, too. Much more disturbing, I wondered if touching udders would be required of guests. “For example, the block on which I live has restaurants serving food from Morocco, Ethiopia, northern Italy, Greece, and India. And that’s just one block among hundreds.”
    Cal looked at me across the table, chewing thoughtfully. “What about normal food?”
    I swallowed a mouthful of cheddar-bombed potatoes. “Well,” I said, “to many people that food is normal, Cal.”
    The house hummed in Cal’s silence. A furnace clunked around in the basement as it roared to life. Cal nodded slowly. “Not to me,” he said, slicing off a wedge of ham that would have been the weekly protein allowance for a fashion model. “I want to know where I’d go if I wanted meat and potatoes. Normal food.”
    I glanced at Jayne. She was mired so deeply in the care of her children, Cal and I could have been discussing the strengths and weaknesses of the UN in the former Yugoslavia for all the opportunity she had to participate. I watched her butter three slices of bread rapid-fire and cut one into halves, one into fourths, and one into bite-sized chunks, all within the time in took Cal to finish his mouthful of ham.
    I returned my gaze to the man of the house. “If you came to New York, Cal,” I said, “I’d send you straight to Times Square for a neon-lit, bright lights, big city meal at ESPN Zone. Perfect for your appetite, I would imagine.”
    â€œExcellent,” he said through a smile. He took a swig of milk. “Now you’re speaking my language.”
    â€œMommy, I’m finished.” Drew slumped in his chair. “My tummy is sooooo full.”
    â€œToo full for dessert?” Jayne asked. She was feeding the baby spoonfuls of yogurt.
    â€œNo, I think I can fit some dessert,” Drew said slowly, weighing the gravity of the task before him.
    â€œIf that’s the case, you’ll need to finish your dinner.” Jayne pointed at the boy’s half-empty plate with her spoon. “Five more bites of ham and three more of your potatoes. And finish the broccoli.”
    â€œMommy,” Drew whined. “I’m only hungry for dessert.”
    â€œYou heard your mother,” Cal said. “Dessert is only for people who eat the good stuff