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Nation of Airports 01.07
They picked up Laurie and Tammy at nine-thirty, both women outdressing them, for late dinner at a homey Italian restaurant. Walt ordered lavishly without consulting the table: carpaccio and salads, three pastas and two kinds of veal.
Walt and Laurie drifted into talk about local real estate. "How's your food?" Michael quietly asked Tammy.
"Good. Yours?"
"It's good."
"You eat like a bird," Tammy said. He had taken one small serving of each dish. Walt was already reaching for seconds. Even Tammy had taken more.
"I'm not a big eater."
"Another vice conquered?"
"Honestly?" Michael said. "I don't like food. I get hungry, but I don't worry much about taste or subtle flavors. I could live on brown rice and protein bars."
"They say taste is really smell," Tammy said. "That's why food doesn't taste good when you have a cold."
"Then I have a permanent cold."
Tammy laughed. "Why haven't you come up before? Walt's been here a while."
"I've been out of commission." He hesitated to explain, worried he might spoil the bantering mood. "My brother died in December. In a car wreck with his fiancée."
"I'm so sorry."
"Thank you."
"They both died?"
"They were on the highway, coming back from a concert in Chicago. A drunk driver crossed the median and hit them." He had seen the police photographs. The drunk's massive truck had one dented corner and a bent front axle. His brother's old compact was crushed.
"What was his name?" Tammy asked.
"RT."
"Artie?"
"Raphael Theodore. RT. He never liked his name," Michael said, smiling at the sweeter memory. "His fiancée's Gina. So that was just before Christmas, and right after that I changed jobs. I spent the winter in a shell. I'm finally busting out. Nothing huge. Just going out, like with people from work. Making friends. Getting out of the house."
"You should come up here more," Tammy said. "I get down to San Francisco a lot."
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