Eddie drives away, and Bart takes Allegra by the hand. He holds the door to the restaurant open and ushers her inside. The restaurant is lit by candles, and Bart and Allegra are seated at a cozy, tucked-away table.
“This is so romantic,” Allegra says. “This is a real, grown-up date.”
“I figured I’d better bring my A game,” Bart says. “I know you’re used to smooth operators like Hunter Bloch.”
“Oh please,” Allegra says. “I’m all finished with smooth operators like Hunter Bloch. I want…”
Bart leans forward. He can hear Centaur’s voice in his ear, saying, PAY ATTENTION TO WHAT SHE WANTS!
“… I want a real man.”
A real man, Bart thinks. What does Allegra mean by that? Probably she means she wants someone strong, intelligent, competent. Someone who has achieved something noteworthy: in Bart’s case, joined the Marines, been captured, and been held prisoner. If Hunter Bloch were to walk into this restaurant right now and make a snide comment to Allegra or try, somehow, to win her back, Bart would bring Hunter to his knees, using only one hand. But Bart knows there are other elements that go into being a man, qualities that his father and his brothers have that he has yet to develop.
Patience.
Thoughtfulness.
“Let’s order a bottle of sparkling water,” Bart says. “I don’t want you to get carded or have it be awkward.”
“You can order a drink,” Allegra says. “I don’t mind.”
“That’s okay,” Bart says. “I look forward to spending an evening sober with you.”
“You’re very sweet,” Allegra says. “Thank you.” She locks eyes with Bart, which is intoxicating enough. Bart thinks about nine-year-old Ruby Taylor kicking Charles Buford Duke right above the ankle bone with her Mary Jane, or whatever shoe little girls down south wore, and stealing his heart forever. Centaur showed Bart the spot on his right leg that Ruby had kicked.
I get it now, Bart thinks. I get it! He takes Allegra’s hand across the table. There’s music in the restaurant—Eric Clapton singing “Wonderful Tonight”—and Bart feels like pulling Allegra up to dance. He’s alive, they’re alive; it’s their first real date and they’re going to need to tell their children about it someday, so why not make it a story? Bart stands up.
“Dance with me,” he says.
She doesn’t say: Here? Now?
She doesn’t say: But no one else is dancing. Everyone else is eating dinner, Bart. This is a restaurant, not a nightclub. Everyone will look at us.
Instead she says, “Okay.” She rises and moves into his arms. She fits right under his chin even in her heels. Bart is suddenly very glad that Mitzi taught him to dance when he was young, despite his mighty protestations. Someone must have also taught Allegra, because she is graceful on her feet, fluid and poised.
The song ends. The other diners clap. Allegra curtsies. Bart feels that, wherever he is, Centaur approves.
Everything is fine. Everything is better than fine—until the chicken.
Bart blames himself initially. He wasn’t paying attention when Allegra ordered her dinner; he was too busy deciding between the steak-frites and the Nantucket bay scallop special. They agreed to split the mussels as an appetizer, which were delicious in a coconut curry broth over jasmine rice. Bart insisted on taking the mussels out of the shells for Allegra. He was a real man, meaning he would do the lowliest of chores for his beloved. He would plump the pillow for her every night, he would bring her coffee in bed every morning. He would clean the gutters of their imaginary house; he would stop by the store for eggs or butter or tampons without complaining.
During the mussels they talked about their past relationships. Bart wanted to get it all out in the open now, on their first date, instead of later, a month or six weeks later, when his attachment to Allegra, and therefore his jealousy, would be greater.
“You’ve had boyfriends other than Hunter Bloch, I assume?” Bart said.
“One boyfriend in high school,” Allegra said. “Brick Llewellyn. He was my year. Do you remember him?”
“No,” Bart said. He didn’t add that high school hadn’t really been his thing. He’d skipped a lot and done no activities. After school he and his best friend, Michael Bello, had smoked dope, wrecked cars, stolen beer, and thrown parties. If this Brick Llewellyn wasn’t an established derelict, Bart didn’t know him.
“He was a good guy. Still is. He’s very smart, goes to Dartmouth. He hates me. I cheated on him with this jerk named Ian Coburn.”
“I know Ian,” Bart said. “And you’re right. He’s a jerk. He drove that red Camaro.”
Allegra had a mussel suspended over the bowl. “I learned my lesson with Brick. I hate myself for what I did to him. I won’t ever cheat again.”
Bart nodded. He hadn’t been a saint either, although in his case, he’d never committed seriously enough to anyone to have his extracurricular activities count as cheating. “I had a sort-of girlfriend named Savannah Steppen. She was more like a friend with benefits. That was really it, Savannah and the nameless, faceless conquests I made as a young Marine.”
“I remember Savannah,” Allegra said. “She was beautiful.”
“You’re beautiful,” Bart said.
They grinned at each other, holding hands across the table.
And then the chicken arrived.
Allegra says, “Oh, this looks good.”
Bart stands up. His fault: he wasn’t listening. If he had been listening, he would have steered her toward the lamb or the gnocchi.
“I have to step outside,” he says.
Allegra looks more surprised than affronted, although certainly she is both. It’s unspeakably rude: their food has just arrived, it’s hot now, appetizing now, and if Bart leaves, then Allegra can’t politely start.
“Is it… do you…?” Allegra says. She must not know what to think. Maybe Bart has to make a phone call, maybe he smokes and can’t hold off his craving for nicotine one more second. Maybe he found the story of Allegra cheating on Brick Llewellyn off-putting.
“I don’t feel well,” Bart says. “I need air.” He strides for the door and steps out into the cool night.
He hears Centaur screaming, WHAT ARE YOU DOING? IT WAS GOING SO WELL!
It’s chicken, man, Bart tells him.
He’s not a real man after all. He has issues. He’s a mess. His parents tried to get him to see a therapist. Mitzi had an appointment all lined up, and Bart agreed to go, but at the last minute he detoured to the beach instead, where he waited out the hour in his car, radio blaring.
Chicken.
He’s afraid of the chicken. No, afraid isn’t the right word. He can’t be in its presence. He can’t look at it or smell it, and he certainly can’t eat it. Even the word chicken makes him ill.
The door to the restaurant opens and Allegra steps out.
“Bart?” she says. “What is it?”
He turns his eyes to the street. He is blowing this date. He has blown it already. Bart feels Allegra’s hand on his shoulder. She’s touching his new blue cashmere jacket.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” she says.
Can he tell her? If he tells her, will she understand? She’s outside without her coat. He wants to send her back inside, but he can’t banish her and he doesn’t want to go back to the table.
“When I was… while I was captured… ,” he says.
She moves her hand to cup his elbow and sidles her body up to his. When she speaks, her voice is in his ear. “Yes, tell me. It’s okay, Bart. You can tell me.”
“We ate potatoes,” he says. “Every day, every night, potatoes—no butter, no oil, no salt or pepper. Just the potatoes, either boiled or roasted in the ashes of the fire.”
“Yes,” she says.
“And then, one day, we had chicken. There were chickens scratching around the camp. They produced eggs, which the Bely ate; we were never given any eggs. But then there was spit-roasted chicken and we all got some, and it was, I kid you not, the most delicious thing I’d ever eaten, that piece of chicken.”