Page 29 of Levi

“It is tonight. Pie’s got eggs, fruit, dairy. Three food groups a doctor would sign off on.”

“No doctor is signing off on that.”

I keep my eyes on the road to keep me from giving him a lecture.

“Stop at the liquor store before you take me back,” he says as if the thought just occurred to him.

“I will tomorrow. I’ll be back at ten in the morning for the humidity check.”

“Our deal says you’ll take me to get supplies. Even tequila. Remember?”

“The deal gets kept tomorrow,” I say.

“That’s not keeping the deal.”

“Neither was causing more damage to the house that I had to clean up.”

“The flood was an accident,” he says. “This is you punishing me for it with the one errand I actually care about.”

“It’s not punishment. It’s a schedule. I spent my morning on my knees in the suds instead of pulling comps for Saturday. Tomorrow, you get your liquor store.”

“A schedule that slides every time I inconvenience you isn’t a deal. It’s a leash with better manners.”

“Then stop yanking it from your end, Levi.”

He waits a mile before speaking again. “Where does a man buy weed around here?”

My foot comes off the gas in shock and then goes back. “No, Levi.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“The broker with a potential buyer smelled your weed from the foyer on Saturday. The crew sealed the house seven hours to get the smell out of the ducts. The buyer walks through in days. You’re asking me to help you restock the problem while I’m in the middle of racing against a ticking clock to fix the problem.”

“The terrace is mine. I can smoke out there. That was the deal you made.”

“The terrace is ten feet from the intake vent,” I tell him. “That smoke has never once stayed outside.”

“It’s a no then?”

“It’s a no,” I tell him. “There will never be a time when I will help you get weed.”

“Big words for a man whose month depends on me being agreeable.”

“My month depends on that house being clean. Not on you being happy. Learn the difference.”

“Then I’ll figure it out on my own.”

“Levi.”

Neither of us says anything else. I take him to the house. He grabs the duffel and shuts the car door without a sound. When I check the rearview mirror at the gate, he’s still standing in the driveway watching me.

I cross the highway for what seems like the hundredth time today and let myself in. The pan of leftovers in the refrigerator is lighter than I left it. The foil is creased back on a different line than mine. There’s a washed fork in the dish drainer. I told him to eat anything he found in the kitchen. At least now he has decent food in his stomach. Key lime pie is not dinner. Or supper, as he calls it. Must be a Tennessee thing.

I change into shorts and a faded t-shirt. I eat the rest of the beef cold, straight from the pan. Probably the same way he did. Cold rice and beef, eaten standing, is a crime in Miami. I commit it anyway.

On the way to the bathroom for a shower, I pass the second bedroom. In my mind, the gap between the boxes and the wall now holds the place of a man who isn’t in it.

Chapter 11: Levi