“I’m going to make things work with Charles.We’re just going through a rough patch.”
“That much is obvious.”
“I’m saying it so we’re clear.”
“We’re clear.”
She goes upstairs.I hear the bathroom door close.The water turn on.
I stand in the kitchen.Her kitchen.My kitchen.The prayer beads are on the counter next to her phone and a casserole from a woman who thinks the man in the basement is dying.
I pick up the prayer beads.Turn them over in my hand.
Downstairs, Charles is quiet.He’s learning what quiet sounds like when there are no windows and no bell and no one coming to fluff your pillow.
From across the yard, Mrs.Mather’s kitchen curtain moves.
She’s watching.She’s always watching.
I set the prayer beads down and wonder what she sees—a handyman waiting for a married woman to shower while her dying husband sleeps upstairs.
The truth is stranger.It’s always stranger.
40
Marin
The casserole is still warm.
I carry it downstairs to the basement with a glass of water and two ibuprofen.Charles is sitting against the iron column, wrists cuffed around it, looking at me with the quiet fury of a man who is trying very hard to maintain dignity on a concrete floor.
“Dinner,” I say, setting the plate beside him.
“From?”
“A neighbor.She made it for you.”
“A neighbor made a casserole for a man she’s never met.”
“She thinks you’re dying, Charles.People bring food when you’re dying.It’s a whole thing out here.”
He looks at the casserole.Looks at the basement.Looks at me.
“I’m eating on a floor.”
“You pissed the bed.Four times.Remember?”
He doesn’t argue.He eats.Slowly at first, then faster.He’s hungrier than he wants to admit.
“I’m going out tonight,” I say.Casual.Checking my phone.
His fork stops.“Out?”
“Dinner.With Luke.”
“With the handyman.”
“With Luke.”
