She set the paper bag on the counter. “Mandarins. More bread. A jar of those pickles from the place on Forest.”
Margo turned the jar in her hand.
“I don’t like pickles,” he said.
She stopped. “Since when?”
“Since always.”
“Bernard. You’ve been eating pickles at the Shack since we opened.”
“I’ve been eating the bread the pickles come on. The pickles I move to the side of the plate.”
“I have never once seen you move a pickle.”
“I’m discreet about it.”
She stood at the counter looking at him. She had never once noticed what he did with his pickles.
“What else do you not eat?”
“I’m not giving you a list.”
“Too late. What else.”
He shifted in the recliner. “There was a situation in 1974 involving a mango smoothie at the grand opening of that juice bar on PCH. The one that lasted three months.”
“I remember that juice bar. The owner wore a headband.”
“His name was Daryl. The smoothie was terrible. I was sick for two days. I have not eaten mango since.”
She laughed and put the pickles in his refrigerator anyway. He’d come around or he wouldn’t.
“Walk to the table,” she said. “I’ll play you cards.”
He looked at her. Looked at the walker. Shifted forward in the chair and made his way up slowly, using the arms the way the physical therapist had shown him.
He lowered himself into the kitchen chair and set the walker against the wall. “There,” he said, and pointed toward the sink. “Cards are in the drawer. Second one down.”
He pulled out a deck of cards with flamingos on them and handed them to her. They were soft at the edges, the corners rounded from years of shuffling, and they smelled faintly like the drawer—pencil shavings and wood. She shuffled. He watched her shuffle—with attention and without comment.
“My brother gave me these,” he said. “Years ago. Thought the flamingos were hilarious.”
“They definitely are hilarious.”
“He wanted me to get the manatees. Said they had dignity.”
She laughed. “I suppose he was right about that.”
“He’s right about most things. Won’t stop reminding me.”
Margo dealt. Ten each. Set the deck between them. Turned the top card. Eight of hearts.
“You first,” she said.
He drew, held it a second and discarded.
She pulled from the deck—a queen she didn’t need. She put it on the pile and picked up her tea—she’d made it while he was walking to the table, two mugs, his black, hers black, both from the cabinet where she’d put them yesterday.
