"She's interested, you dolt!" William said. "Look at this. She's coming back to town in a day. She said so herself. Didn't you hear her say that?"
"Because it's right in her path. She isn't stopping off to see me."
"Oh yes she is, or why wouldn't she drive straight on through?"
"Because she has to buy gas and stretch her legs."
"Which she could do without taking the time to see you."
"William has a point. I'm with him," I said.
Henry began to coil the hose, his hands picking up bits of grit and cut grass. "She's a wonderful person and I value our friendship. Let's just leave the subject. I'm tired of it."
William turned to me. "That's how this started. All I did was point out the obvious, that she's a wonderful person and he'd better get a move on and snap her up."
Henry said, "Nuts!" waving William off as he returned to the house. He opened the screen door and banged it shut.
William shook his head, leaning on his walking stick. "He's been like this all his life. Unreasonable. Stubborn. Having temper tantrums at the slightest hint of disagreement."
"I don't know, William. If I were you, I'd back off and let them work it out for themselves."
"I'm only trying to help."
"Henry hates to be helped."
"Because he's mulish."
"We're all mulish when it comes right down to it."
"Well, something has to be done. This may be his last chance at love. I can't bear to see him make a hash of it." There was a gentle pinging sound and William reached into his vest pocket and checked his watch. "Time for my snack." He took out a small cellophane packet of cashews that he opened with his teeth. He popped two in his mouth, chewing them like pills. "You know I'm hypoglycemic. The doctor says I shouldn't go more than two hours without eating. Otherwise I'm subject to faintness, weakness, clamminess, and palpitations. Also, tremulousness, which you've doubtless observed."
"Really. I hadn't noticed."
"Precisely. The doctor's encouraged me to instruct friends and family in recognizing the symptoms because it's imperative to render immediate treatment. A glass of fruit juice, a few nuts. These can make all the difference. Of course, he wants me to undergo tests, but in the meantime, a diet high in protein, that's the trick," he said. "You know, with deficient glucose production, an attack can be triggered by alcohol, salicylates, or in rare cases, by ingesting the ackee nut, which produces what's commonly known as the Jamaican vomiting sickness…"
I cupped a hand to my ear. "I think that's my phone. I better run."
"Certainly. I can tell you more over supper since you're interested."
"Great," I said. I began to edge toward my door.
William pointed at me with his walking stick. "As for this business with Henry, isn't it better to feel something intensely even if you're wounded in the process?"
I pointed at him. "I'll get back to you on that."
Chapter 6
I had a brief debate with myself about working in a three-mile jog. I'd had to skip my morning run in the interest of reaching CIW by nine. I usually run at 6:00 when I'm still half-asleep and my resistance is down. I've discovered that as the day wears on my sense of virtue and resolve both rapidly diminish. Most days, by the time I get home from work, the last thing I want to do is change into my running clothes and drag myself out. I'm not so fanatic about exercise that I don't occasionally let myself off the hook; however, I'd noticed a growing inclination to seize any excuse to sit on my butt instead of working out. Before I thought too much about it, I went up the spiral stairs to change my clothes.
I kicked off my loafers, peeled out of my jeans, and pulled my T-shirt over my head, tugging on my sweats and my Sauconys. In circumstances like this, I make a little deal with myself. If I jog for ten minutes and really really hate it, I can turn around and come back. No shame, no blame. Usually by the time the first ten minutes have elapsed, I'm into the swing of it and enjoying myself. I tied my house key in the laces of one shoe, locked the door behind me, and set off at a brisk walk.
Now that the marine layer had burned off, the neighbors were out in their yards, mowing lawns, watering, and pruning deadheads from the rosebushes massed along the fences. I could smell ocean brine mingled with the scent of freshly clipped grass. My block of Albinil Street is narrow. Aside from vehicles parked on either side, there's barely room for two cars to pass. Eucalyptus trees and stone pines provide shade for the assorted stucco and frame houses, most of them small, dating back to the early forties.
By the time I reached the jogging path, I was sufficiently warmed up to break into a trot. After that, I only had to cope with my protesting body parts, which gradually melded into the smooth rhythms of the run. I was home again forty minutes later, winded, sweating, but feeling virtuous. I let myself into the apartment, stripped off my sweats, and took a short hot shower. I was out and drying myself when the telephone rang. I took the call while turning the towel into a makeshift sarong.
"Kinsey? This is Reba. Did I catch you at a bad time?"
"Well, I'm standing here soaking wet, but I should be good for a minute until the chill sets in. What's up?"
"Not much. Pop was feeling bad so he's gone to bed. The housekeeper just left and the home-care nurse called to say she'd be a little late. I was just wondering if you were free for dinner?"
"Sure. I could do that. What'd you have in mind?"
"Didn't you mention a place in your neighborhood?"
"Rosie's. That's where I was headed. I wouldn't call it fancy, but at least it's close."
"I just need to get out. I'd love to join you but only if it doesn't interfere with your plans."
"What plans? I don't mind a bit. You have transportation?"
"Don't worry about that. As soon as the nurse arrives, I'll meet you down there. About seven?"
"That should work."
"Good. I'll be there as soon as I can."
"I'll grab a good table and see you there," I said, and then gave her the address.
After she hung up, I finished my routine, putting on fresh jeans, a clean black T-shirt, and a pair of sneakers. I went downstairs and spent a few minutes tidying my already tidy kitchen. Then I flipped on the lights and sat in the living room with the local paper, catching up on the obituaries and other current events.
At 6:56, I walked the half block to Rosie's through the lingering daylight. Two sets of neighbors were having cocktails outside, enjoying conversation from porch to porch. A cat crossed the street and eased its slim body through the palings in a picket fence. I could smell jasmine.
Rosie's is one of six small businesses on my block, including a laundromat, an appliance-repair shop, and an automobile mechanic, who always has clunkers lined up along his drive. I've been having supper at Rosie's three to four nights a week for the past seven years. The exterior is shabby, a building that might have served as the neighborhood market once upon a time. The windows are plate glass, but the light is obscured by sputtering neon beer signs, posters, announcements, and faded placards from the health department. As nearly as I can remember, Rosie's has never been awarded a rating higher than a C.
Inside, the space is long and narrow, with a high, darkly painted ceiling that looks like it was made of pressed tin. Crudely constructed plywood booths form an L on the right. There's a long mahogany bar on the left, with two swinging kitchen doors and a short corridor leading to the restrooms located at the rear. The remaining floor space is occupied by a number of Formica dinette tables. The accompanying chairs have chrome legs and upholstered marbleized gray plastic seats, variously split and subsequently mended with duct tape. The air always smells of spilled beer, popcorn, ancient cigarette smoke, and Pine-Sol.
Monday nights are generally quiet, allowing the day-drinkers and the usual sports rowdies to recover from their weekend excesses. My favorite booth was empty, as were most of the others, as a matter of fact. I slid in on one side so I could watch the front door for Reba's arrival. I checked the menu, a mimeographed sheet inserted in a plastic sleeve. Rosie runs these off on a machine at the back, the blurred purple lettering barely legible. Two months before, she'd instituted a new style of menu, closely resembling a leather-bound portfolio with a handscripted list of the Hungarian Specialties du Jour of the Day, as she referred to them. Some of these menus had been stolen and others had served as hazardous flying missiles when opposing soccer teams enjoyed a hot dispute about the last big match. Rosie had apparently given up her pretensions to haute cuisine and her old mimeographed sheets were back in circulation. I ran an eye down the list of dishes, though I'm not even sure why I bothered to check. Rosie makes all my food decisions for me, compelling me to dine on whatever Hungarian delicacies come to her mind when she's taking my order.