I frowned and shook my head in disgust. “Barista,” I said.
Kathleen giggled harder. She scrunched her face into a pout.
“You’re such a grump!” she said.
“Well, it’s ridiculous,” I said.
She broke into a bubbly laugh. I continued my rant.
“These trendy restaurants, they’re all so pretentious! Just yesterday I saw a guy nearly die from eating some kind of exotic Japanese dish. And here,” I gestured toward the coffee-making apparatus, “you have to learn a whole new friggin’ language in order to justify spending four bucks for a cup of Joe.”
She laughed harder. “Joe? Oh, my God, did you just say Joe? Tell me you just climbed out of a forties time machine.”
I think she liked saying the word “Joe,” because she said it two more times while laughing uncontrollably.
The other customers glanced at us, but I wasn’t finished yet.
“Grande,” I said. “Solo. Venti. Doppio. What the hell is doppio, anyway-one of the seven dwarfs?”
“No,” she squealed. “But Grumpy is!” Kathleen’s laughter had passed the point of no return. Her cheeks were puffy, and her eyes had become slits.
I frowned again and recited the conversation for her. “All I said was, ‘I’ll have a coffee.’ ‘What size?’ she says. ‘A regular,’ I said. ‘We have grande, venti, solo, doppio, short, and tall,’ she says. ‘Four hundred ninety calories,’ you say. It’s a flippin’ two-inch square!”
Kathleen gripped the sides of the table. “Stop it!” she said. “You’re going to make me pee!”
When her last bubble of laughter died down, she told me it felt good to laugh after two hours with the kids. I understood what she meant. Bad as her life had been with Ken, she still managed to feel guilty that she had it so good by comparison.
I said, “I hate to end the party, but I need to ask you a few questions about Ken Chapman.”
She frowned. “Just when we were having such a good time.”
“I know.”
“I really hate to talk about it,” she said.
“I know.”
She looked at me and sighed. “Okay, Homeland. You put in your time. What would you like to know?”
For the better part of an hour, we talked about her marriage to Ken Chapman. It was hard on her, and by the time she dropped me off at my hotel, I could see she was emotionally drained. I didn’t ask her to join me for a nightcap, and she didn’t offer to, though she asked if I wanted to get together the next day.
“Tomorrow’s Valentine’s, you know,” she said.
I told her I had to meet someone, which was true. In fact, I said, I had to pack my overnight bag and head back to the airport that very night-also true. She nodded in an absentminded way as though this were something she’d heard before, something she expected me to say.
