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As soon as he stepped into the apartment, Ricky stopped in his tracks, his whole body going very still.
He was searching for any hint of the familiar aroma he was used to on Wednesdays and found nothing of the sort, not even a faint trace of it. He thought back, frantic, wondering if Lucy mentioned she would be out at this time. She rarely ever was, and never neglected to inform him.
His head was starting to get full again. Far too full in a way that made it hard to focus. This wasn’t a minor inconvenience - this was going to throw off the whole night.
He could feel it - the itchy feeling creeping up his skin. Like teeny, tiny bugs crawling all over him with no way to stop it. If dinner wasn’t done on time, he wouldn't know whether to eat a sandwich in the meantime or wait. Eating now might suppress his appetite, he might not eat much during the actual meal when it eventually did get finished, and then he’d end up hungry when he should be in bed.
Without the predictability of his regularly scheduled dinner, what was he supposed to do until then? The checkbook needed to be balanced, but the fights were on tonight and Fred was coming over to watch them.
Ricky exhaled. It was shaky and soft and he grasped the back of the armchair to ground himself.
But then he heard it.
Soft clatter in the kitchen. The oven door opened and shut with a bang that made him flinch.
And then it occurred to him.
The beans and rice didn’t have to be heated in the oven.
So what could she be cooking?
He swallowed - unsure, tense. “Lucy,” he called, tapping a rhythm on the back of the chair, a grounding gesture that kept him steady when the world threw him into a tizzy.
She poked her head out, smiling brightly. “Hi, honey! How was your day?”
Her voice was loud. It cut through the dull ache settling into his head. Lucy was normally good about minding her volume for his sake - was this one of those days where she had difficulty containing herself or was he the problem?
It didn't matter. Not really. The noise made his head throb worse and he nearly forgot why he called for her in the first place.
“Have you made dinner yet?” He said, bypassing her question entirely.
It was rude. People didn’t typically take that well when he accidentally did that to the guys at the club or Mr. Littelfield. It wasn’t on purpose; Ricky was fairly good at understanding the proper social clues. But sometimes his brain was working too fast or he was focused on part of a conversation when everyone else had already moved or were looking at the bigger picture.
It was exhausting. Socialization. He craved it and he loathed it all at the same time.
“I did! It’s all ready.”
He studied her face, looking for anything to clue him in. Her eyes were crinkled, her smile wide and excited.
It didn’t give him a good feeling at all. A twitch in his fingers had him clenching and unclenching his fists, not out of anger, but from a place of nerves.
“It’s Wednesday, Lucy,” Ricky reminded her, his voice steady but his head racing. “We usually have beans and rice on Wednesdays.”
“Oh, I know,” she chirped, “but I saw this recipe in one of the magazines at the beauty salon and just had to try it!”
The room seemed to grow smaller. Lucy was still chattering- this time moving onto the gossip she heard while at the beauty parlor, something about an argument one of her friends had with her husband.
Her voice just seemed to fade away. Ricky breathed in and out, gripping the chair, holding on just to keep himself from spiraling any further.
The reality came crashing down on him. A new recipe.
His chance at relaxing, to settle into a peaceful evening so he could wind down from the taxing atmosphere of the club had evaporated in an instant.
She’d want him to try it. She’d coax him into taking just one little taste even if he came up with a plausible excuse not to. She’d pout and fold her arms and even cry, jumping straight to the idea that he must not love her if he wouldn’t be willing to try her latest creation.
But he wasn’t being difficult. He wasn’t trying to devalue all her hard work.
He just couldn’t do it.
But then - he snuck a glance at Lucy; he saw her hands clasped together, he saw how eager she was for him to see what she’d done.
Guilt gnawed at him.
He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t tell her he’d much rather have the consistency of the beans and rice, that the mere thought of something different in its place made his stomach twist.
He couldn’t - because it wasn’t right and he was a grown man and he should be able to handle a slight change.
Ricky’d just pretend he liked it, washing it down with plenty of coffee and secretly heading back to the kitchen for saltine crackers and sliced cheese later.
Even if it would disrupt his routine for the evening. If he offered some to Fred, she wouldn't say anything about it.
“In a magazine, you say?” Ricky managed a weak smile.
She beamed again, leaning in to kiss his cheek and he fought not to wince. Even her lips felt prickly on his skin. “It made the top ten for party entrees! I’m going to save some for Fred and Ethel to try.”
Lucy disappeared back into the kitchen, while his feet stayed firmly planted in place.
“Lucy?”
“Yes, dear?” Her voice floated out to the living room, somewhat distracted.
It can’t be that bad. It can’t. “What is this recipe called?”
“Ham and banana hollendaise.” A slight thud on the table indicated she’d just set the dish down.
“Ham and-” He whispered, the words getting stuck in his throat.
A soft crinkle was heard, and a different kind of smell wafted through the apartment just then - a mixture of sweet and salty and one other thing he couldn’t quite place. Together, it made his nose wrinkle, giving him a sudden desire to flee into the hallway to get away from it.
The door to the kitchen burst open again. “Well, come on,” Lucy said, oblivious to his thoughts. “It’s fresh out of the oven.”
A heaviness settled into his legs that made walking to the kitchen much harder than usual. Inside, the smell was overwhelming, with nowhere to go to escape it. He remained close by the door while Lucy asked him if he wanted any coffee, nearly missing the question entirely.
“Sure,” Ricky fought against the daze that was coming over him, digging his nails into the palm of his hand to keep him in the moment.
Standing there, surrounded by the smell, everything seemed to muffle. The splash of the coffee hitting the bottom of his cup was the only noise that penetrated through it, while Ricky stared down at the dish - his chest much too tight. He wasn’t sure if he was breathing normally.
Half a dozen bananas were peeled, lined up in the casserole dish. Hollandaise sauce drizzled over the fruit and then draped with two thick slices of ham draped over each one, and the rest of the sauce on top.
“Well, come on,” Lucy said playfully. She was already seated at the table and waiting for him.
Up close, the smell was worse. A frothing wave of nausea came over him that he hurriedly washed down with a gulp of coffee. Lucy was none the wiser; she’d served herself and was happily digging in. “Oh, Ricky, this is marvelous! Go on, try it.”
He glanced down.
A droplet of hollandaise fell from the banana onto the dish. Ricky swallowed thickly. With painstakingly slow movements, Ricky sliced off the end of the banana covered in the sauce, bringing his fork up to his lips.
And immediately wanted to spit it back out.
Every part of him was screaming. He went stiff again, locked in that position with nowhere to escape. It was too much. The clashing flavors. The tangy bite of the sauce against the sweet banana. His jaw tensed, clamping shut.
The rest of the world slowed down. Noises blended together, then faded.
He was stuck. Sitting there, the bite still in his mouth. It was - he needed to get rid of it. . He needed to get it out of his mouth.
And Lucy noticed. Her fork came to rest on the table with a soft clang. “Ricky?”
He didn’t see the slight widening of her eyes. He didn’t hear the concern.
He had to - he needed to -
He couldn’t swallow it. He couldn’t sit here and pretend to tolerate it. Something broke just then, and Ricky grabbed the napkin beside his plate and spit in there.
His stomach was still clenched painfully, a lump forming in his throat from the sheer willpower of not vomiting.
“I’m sorry.” He gripped the edge of the table, his breathing coming out heavy and unsteady. “I’m sorry, Lucy. I know you must have spent a long time making this but-”
His eyes stung. The lights in the kitchen were too bright when they hadn’t been a second ago.
Abruptly standing, his chair scraped against the floor loudly as it was pushed back. Lucy remained seated, her eyes still big and her mouth slightly parted.
“Ricky? What's the matter?”
If he would have paid closer attention - if he could have - he’d have heard the sense of urgency in her tone. But the faint taste of the meal lingered in his mouth. A foul aftertaste that nearly made him gag.
“I can’t do it,” he whispered.
He couldn’t look her in the eyes. Couldn’t bring himself to when he was so ashamed.
“Lo siento mucho. I tried to - for you. But I can’t.”
He was a grown man. He was a husband. He led an orchestra that brought in many people to the Tropicana. He was a well respected man in the industry.
But he couldn’t eat this meal. Couldn’t even swallow one bite.
“I’m sorry.”
The air was suffocating. The silence stretched over them. Lucy furrowed her brow and Ricky prepared himself for her to take offense.
She was going to be upset. She was going to storm out of there and complain to Ethel that her efforts weren’t being appreciated and that he was just being difficult. She wasn’t going to understand that it wasn’t a matter of refusal as much as it was that he simply couldn’t.
He waited. Bracing himself.
But it never came.
“Oh, honey,” Lucy said, so soft and so understanding. “Does it not feel right?”
He had to take a moment - standing there, staring as his brain raced to make sense of her question.
It wasn’t that he didn’t understand, he did. But he had to think, he had to process it.
“It’s mushy,” he said, still thrown that she hadn’t reacted the way he believed she would. “I...I don’t - I can’t eat this. And the smell...it’s too much, Lucy.”
He still thought she might become upset. That he was going to be hearing about this for many dinners to come.
But then the dish and the dinner plates were shoved back into the oven for the time being. Above the stove, the window was opened and the evening breeze floated in, dissipating the worst of it.
And then he was able to breathe.
The relief was almost dizzying. The tension hadn’t fully left. That fullness in his head was still there.
But it was better.
It didn’t last long, this moment. Not when the shame came back worse than before.
Other people didn’t have these oddities about them. Fred didn’t struggle at new restaurants because he didn’t know what was on the menu. Ethel wouldn’t avoid going to someone’s home for dinner should they prepare a meal in a way that wasn’t completely familiar and consistent.
So why did he?
With her back against the oven handle, Lucy regarded him much in the same way one might do in the presence of an unpredictable wild animal that could strike at any second. She didn’t try to reach out to touch him. She didn’t raise her voice or get defensive. She was completely understanding, which made the guilt intensify.
“It’s okay, Ricky,” she assured him, lips forming a small, encouraging smile.
But it couldn’t be. She was saying that out of obligation.
“No, it’s not-”
His voice dropped down to a mumble. Now humiliated, he had the overwhelming urge to flee.
“I should be able to handle it and I...I can’t.”
“Ricky-” She tried again. Trying to come up with the right words. Trying to know how to comfort him. “Now come on, let’s talk this out. There’s no reason to-”
Ricky made it all the way to the bedroom, ignoring her calls from behind. The door swung shut.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.
The memories- they came back. The sun drenched days in Havana, sitting at the table in his Uncle Alberto’s house amongst family, laughter and chatter filling the air while he stared down at his plate, his stomach twisting in discomfort. He thought back to the relatives that whispered amongst themselves, seeing his inability to eat certain foods as defiance, giving his mother suggestions on how to handle it. Suggestions of which, should he and Lucy ever have a child, he’d never think to use.
He thought back to the snickers and teasing from cousins. He thought back to his mother, how frustrated she’d be, rendered down to her last nerve when he couldn’t do the simplest of tasks and eat his food. Uncle Alberto was the only who ever had a sliver of sympathy for him, but ever the commanding father-figure, that shred didn’t stop him from expecting Ricky to finish his plate until there was nothing left and when he didn’t, when he’d still be sitting at that table while the rest of the family had moved on to a fun activity and he was alone, his uncle was visibly disappointed.
Ricky hated to disappoint him.
Unfortunately, it happened often.
Soon enough, he’d see the disappointment in Lucy too. What wife was going to put up with this?
The door opened a crack. Lucy peeked in, her face lined with a hint of regret.
“Can I come in?”
He couldn’t stop her if he tried. “Sure,” he said, voice barely audible.
She came in, smoothing down her dress before sitting next to him. He stiffened, the fullness overriding the chiding voice that reminded him he should be glad his wife was willing to sit next to him after all that.
Lucy didn’t say anything right away, she let the silence permeate the air for a few seconds longer.
“I threw it away.”
“You didn’t have to,” he said, thinking of the wasted food and all the time she spent putting into it.
She gave a tiny shrug. “Well, I realized it wasn’t that good after all. I got rid of the dish too. Now there’s less dishes to wash.”
Ricky glanced at her. “You threw away the casserole dish?"
“It wasn’t one of our wedding gifts,” she said, as if that explained her odd decision. “It was from Mother. It had a crack in the lid anyway. She probably won’t even know it's gone, in fact, she’s probably forgotten she gave it to us anyway.” Something in her tone shifted, softening into a lilt that was quieter and sweeter. The kind of tone she reserved for when she was feeling particularly tender. “I thought it might be better so you weren’t smelling it anymore.”
“I’m fine, Lucy,” he said. He wasn’t - not really. But it’s what he told her anyway, this automatic urge to downplay the issue. It felt compulsory. A necessary part to keep his dignity and respect. Wouldn’t anybody else feel the same way?
She twisted a bit so she was facing him properly. “Now I know that’s not true,” she said, her voice a mere whisper. His gaze dropped. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. I got so excited I wasn’t even thinking. I hope you can forgive me.”
He didn't speak, didn't look her way.
In the corner of the room, the clock gave off a soft tick tock. And despite the shut window, the muffled noise of the city drifted in anyway.
“I don't know what's wrong with me,” Ricky gripped a fistful of the bed sheet.
Lucy’s hand was reaching to cup his face, but held back at the last minute. Several emotions crossed her face, and she desperately wanted to assure him. “Nothing is wrong with you.”
“There is. I’ve- as far as I can remember, I’ve always been this way.”
“But that doesn’t mean-” Lucy faltered. “It doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you. This is just how you are. Why, I couldn't eat lamb chops for the longest time because the way Mother made them was positively terrible.”
But in the face of her optimism, Ricky lifted his face - miserable, worn - to meet hers. “Lucy,” he said, his voice quiet and exhausted. “That’s not the same thing.”
“Well, maybe not exactly. But that’s okay. It doesn’t have to be. Honey, I’m not upset and you shouldn’t be either.”
“But it’s the principle of the thing,” Ricky’s face heated, his mind re-playing what just transpired. “I should have been able to eat the thin’.”
“Forget the dish,” Lucy said with firmness. “It’s not important anymore. As far as I’m concerned, it’s never come into the house. Ham and bananas together? Never heard of it.”
Against his better judgement, he started to smile a little. “You’re ridiculous,” he said, a chuckle escaping.
“Maybe,” she agreed. “But it got you to smile.” She looked at him closely, the moment lingering for a second longer. “But you’re still thinking about it, aren’t you?”
She caught him. Ricky sighed, that brief amusement evaporating. “What am I supposed to do if it happens in front of Fred and Ethel - or Mr. Littlefield?”
“Fred and Ethel will understand,” she said soothingly. “You know they will. Ethel will probably ask me for a list of what you can’t eat and Fred will probably tell you as long as you pay the rent on time, he doesn’t care what you can and can't eat.”
“And Mr. Littlefield? He won’t understand that I can’t eat mushy food or prefer to eat my rice and beans on Wednesday's."
She didn’t have a response for that, and fell silent.
“It’s..it’s not normal, Lucy,” he whispered, the weight of that reality crushing him. “I'm a grown man. What’s wrong with me?”
“Nothing,” she said fiercely. “You listen to me, Ricky Ricardo; you may be particular but don’t think for a second that it means something is wrong with you.”
“But it does,” he argued, thinking back to all the times he’d be overcome with nerves if his routine didn’t follow a predictable pattern or he was thrown into a situation any other man his age would handle without a problem.
“Why?”
The question was pointed, punctuated by Lucy folding her arms across her chest. But Ricky wasn’t in the mood for this. He sighed, a heavy one.
“Lucy...”
She reached for his hands but he couldn’t bear the thought of her skin touching his - not right now, when the prickling would be at its worst. Ricky pulled them back, expecting her to be hurt, expecting her face to fall and leave him be.
But she didn’t.
She hardly reacted. Just kept her hands back and even scooted away a smidge. It was a much needed breath of fresh air - the space didn’t feel so suffocating.
He exhaled, the tension dropping from his shoulders just a bit.
“It’s not right, honey,” he said, voice no higher than a mutter.
“Says who?” Lucy said rhetorically. “If anyone has anything to say about you, they better be prepared for Lucy Ricardo to come kicking at their door.”
A warmth settled in him. The kind that spread through his body and into his bones. Lucy wasn’t just being funny; he studied her face again, heart tugging at the utmost sincerity in her expression. His wife, usually so insistent on trying to act proper for the high society ladies at those fine art league meetings, was more than willing to defend his honor in the most scandalous way possible.
He hadn’t realized he’d started to smile, not until Lucy beamed back at him.
“There you are! Now come on, mister. There’s some saltine crackers and a slice of cheese with your name on it.”
“What about dinner?” He said, already thinking about the arrival of the Mertzes soon.
“I’ll make your rice and beans right now,” she said.
“What about the Mertzes?”
“They can eat with us if you don’t mind,” Lucy suggested. “Fred won’t say no to a free meal and neither will Ethel. We’ll just pretend I was distracted by a nice looking hat at the department store.” Then she paused. “It isn’t far from the truth, actually. I was at the department store and saw the most beautiful looking hat in the window.”
She smiled at him - a surgery sweet one that meant trouble for his checkbook.
“No, Lucy,” he said, lips tugging up into a smile.
She pouted as they went back out to the kitchen. “Well, fine. But it really was a beautiful hat.”
It didn’t fix things here and there. It was going to come up again, he knew that. But sitting there as she gathered up the food she knew he’d be content with for the time being until the real dinner was finished, Ricky felt a pang of gratitude towards his wife. Other people may not understand what he was dealing with or why he was so particular, but Lucy - even when she made mistakes and even then, she’d try to make it right - did her best.
Now that he knew the prickling wouldn’t come, Ricky gently took Lucy’s wrist in his hand as she passed by. Just to hold. A silent means of communicating his thanks.
She smiled down at him, pressing a kiss on his hair.