Page 100 of Matteo

“Emotional labor, too, because Arthur will probably tell you his entire life story. Or Irene will.”

“I have to hang out with Arthur?” I dread to think what he might say to me this time.

***

Hours later, I'm carrying grocery bags into a neighborhood senior center like this is my normal Sunday morning routine.

The place is warm and smells like warm soup and bread. It's filled with elderly people. Men playing chess. Women knitting. A few people watching a game show on a TV that is set to very loud.

A couple argue about the state of the world and how it was nothing like this in their day. Their faces light up as soon as they see Elizabeth. She walks in like she belongs here, like this is her second home, and they gaze at her with affection, as if she’s family and they’ve been waiting for her.

“You’re late, Lizzie!” The elderly woman says, hobbling towards us with a walking stick.

“I’m not late,” Elizabeth replies, smiling sweetly. “I’m fashionably delayed, Mimi.”

“And who is this?” Mimi asks, looking at me.

“Uh ... this is Matteo. He’s free labor.”

The woman looks me up and down like I’m a piece of meat. “Good shoulders. He can move furniture.”

Before I can respond, Elizabeth leads me to the kitchen area where I set down the groceries. She introduces me to some other helpers who help with putting the shopping away.

Once we’re done with that, Elizabeth steps out to the main area, scanning around the room. “There they are,” she murmurs, before pulling me along with her over to a table where an elderly man is sitting next to an elderly lady. They have their backs turned to us, but when we reach them, I see that it’s Arthur, and I assume the lady next to him is his wife. Her silver hair is neatly pinned back and her pale grey eyes linger on me a moment too long, as though she's trying to decide whether she knows me from somewhere. Arthur fusses over her, stirring her cup of tea.

“Hi, Arthur,” Elizabeth says cheerily. “This is Matteo. Matteo, this is Arthur. You’ve already met.”

Arthur squints at me. “You're back.”

“I am.” I fold my arms and stare at him in defiance.

Elizabeth's hand rests on my arm. “Steady, tiger,” she whispers under her breath. “Be gentle.” Then, louder, “This is Irene, Arthur’s wife.”

I put my arms by my sides and nod. “Nice to meet you, Irene.”

She smiles, before turning back to a small radio beside her.

“How are you, Arthur?” I ask, slapping on a cheery grin.

A burst of static crackles in the air.

Arthur immediately frowns. “That darned thing,” he mutters, reaching for the radio. It looks ancient. Even older than he is. He gives it a thump with the palm of his hand, but the static gets worse.

Elizabeth moves closer. “What's wrong with it?”

“I found it at a thrift store last week.” Arthur sighs. “Irene likes listening to the old stations. Sinatra and Dean Martin. Nat King Cole, too. Songs that sounded like songs, not any of the nonsense you get these days. But it doesn’t work too well.”

Irene smiles from her chair. “It sounds lovely when it works.”

Another burst of static fills the room. Arthur glares at the radio, then thumps it again.

I hold out my hand. “Let me see.”

He eyes me suspiciously. “Why?”

“I work in computers, remember?”

He narrows his eyes, pushes his spectacles back up, before reluctantly handing me the radio. I turn it over in my hands and immediately spot the problem. The battery compartment is hanging loose, and one of the metal contacts has bent out of place.