“That’s one every four and a half months.”
“Eleanor is tracking the rate.”
“Of course she is.”
They were halfway up the second block when his knee went.
His left foot came down and it didn’t hold and he pitched forward and sideways, his hand going out for the low stucco wallof the house they were passing. He caught himself with both hands, hard, and didn’t go down.
Margo was beside him before she knew she was moving, one hand on his arm and the other flat against his back.
“I’ve got you,” she said.
“I’m fine.” His voice was tight, his hands pressed flat against the stucco. “It locked up. Just give it a minute.”
She kept her hand where it was.
He tested it after a minute, shifting a fraction of weight onto the left side. “You don’t need to hold me up, Margo.”
“I’m not holding you up. I’m standing next to a wall.” She kept her hand where it was. “The wall is doing all the work. I’m providing moral support.”
He turned his head and looked at her, and despite the wall and the February cold coming up through the sidewalk, something in his expression eased.
“Moral support,” he said.
“That’s what I said.”
Somewhere up the hill a dog barked once and went quiet. It released enough that he could shift his weight back onto both feet. She kept her hand on his arm until he was standing on his own, and then she let go.
The sidewalk was quiet. The cold was where her hand had been.
“Get the surgery, Bernard.”
Bernie brushed the stucco dust off his palms. His fingers curled against his coat and flattened. “I’ll get the surgery. I’ll call Monday.”
“I hope so.”
“I said I’ll call Monday, Margo.” He eased himself off the wall and tested it—one step, two. It held. He reached for his tablet and tucked it under his arm. “Now I’m walking you home.”
“Bernard, it just buckled on a sidewalk.”
“And now it’s un-buckled. That’s how it works.” He took a step to demonstrate. “I’m walking you home.”
She folded her arms. “My house is out of the way. I am taking you home. I’ve been winning arguments in that restaurant forever, and I’m not losing one on a sidewalk.”
They stood in the small yellow circle of the streetlamp, and the dog up the hill had gone quiet.
He frowned. “Alright.”
They covered the three blocks to his place without talking. She stayed at his elbow—not touching him, but close enough to catch him if it went again.
His bungalow was set back from the street behind a low hedge she’d known about for decades without ever going inside. He fished for his keys at the door, one hand in his coat pocket while the other held the tablet against his side. The porch light—moth-yellow—made his face warmer than the February night had any right to.
“I can come in,” she said from the bottom of the steps. “Make sure you’re settled.”
“I’ve got it.” He pushed the door open and turned back, one hand on the frame. “I’m going to sit in my chair, watch the last ten minutes of something I’ve already seen twice, and fall asleep before the ending I already know. In the morning it’ll be stiff and my coffee will be bad and I’ll be fine.”
“That’s a lot of planning for a man who just caught himself on a wall.”
