“Fixed the railing,” I say.
“I fell,” Marin says, showing off her ankle.
“Oh, dear.”Mrs.Mather sighs.“Well, I made my chicken and rice,” she says, handing Marin the casserole.“And Father Donnelly gave me these.”She holds up the prayer beads.“Blessed them himself.I thought I might put them on Charles’s nightstand.Sometimes just having them near the body is enough.Father Donnelly says the proximity alone can?—”
“That’s so thoughtful,” Marin says.Her voice doesn’t waver.Not a bit.She takes the casserole with one hand and gently intercepts the prayer beads with the other, cradling them like something precious.“I’ll put them right next to him.He’s been asking for—well, not asking exactly.The tumor makes it hard for him to articulate.But I can tell.There’s a spiritual need there.”
She’s extraordinary.I’m standing three feet away watching her manufacture an entire dying man’s spiritual life on the spot while the actual man is chained to an iron column in the basement ten feet below us.It’s the most impressive thing I’ve seen since I watched a surgeon rebuild a femur with titanium rods.
Mrs.Mather leans in.“Can I just pop up and see him?Just for a moment.I won’t stay.I’d just love to put them in his hands myself.Sometimes the human touch makes all the?—”
“He’s sleeping,” Marin says.Soft.Apologetic.The faintest crack in her voice—practiced, precise.“The afternoons are the worst.He finally drifted off about an hour ago and I just—I can’t wake him.Not when he’s finally peaceful.”
She sayspeacefulthe way you’d say it about a child.Or a dying man.Or a man you just dragged down a flight of stairs and chained to a post because he pissed the bed for the fourth time.
Mrs.Mather nods.Squeezes Marin’s arm.“Of course.Of course.You tell him Helen came by.And that the whole town is praying for him.”
“I will.It means everything.Really.”
Mrs.Mather turns to go.Stops.Looks at me one more time.My hands.My presence.Marin’s flushed face.The smell she’s pretending not to notice.
She smiles.The smile of a woman who is assembling a story she hasn’t told yet.
Then she’s gone.Gravel crunching under her shoes.
Marin closes the door.Leans against it.The casserole is warm in her hands and the prayer beads are dangling from her wrist and she looks like a woman who has been running a marathon in a house that keeps adding miles.
“That woman,” she says, “is going to be the death of me.”
She sets the casserole on the counter.Puts the prayer beads next to it.
I look at her.Sweaty.Exhausted.Holding together a cover story, a hostage, a career comeback, and a neighbor who wants to lay hands on the man in the basement.One person.All of this.Every day.
“Have dinner with me,” I say.
She looks up.Surprised.Not the kind of surprised that means she didn’t see it coming.The kind that means she didn’t expect it to sound so simple.
“We should talk through the plan,” I say.“The basement needs finishing.The anchor plate.And if you’re going to make him jealous, might as well do it over food.”
Practical.Reasonable.Two people with a shared problem discussing logistics.That’s what I’m offering.That’s what she’ll tell herself she’s accepting.
“Dinner,” she repeats like she’s trying it on for size.She looks at the casserole.Looks at me.
“Well, I’m sure as hell not eating Mrs.Mather’s chicken and rice,” she says.“And there is something I wanted to ask you…”
“Great.I know a place.”
She almost smiles.Not the performance smile.Not the Mrs.Mather smile.Something smaller.Something tired and real that she doesn’t bother to dress up.
“Fine,” she says.“But I’m showering first.I smell like piss.”
“I’ll wait.”
She heads for the stairs.Stops.
“Luke.”
“Yeah?”
