Wendy Hornsby - The Color of Light

“A nice veal scaloppini with marinara sauce and a side of fettuccini aioli?” Bart said, scooting further up on his pillow as he searched for the controls to raise the head of his bed.

“Close,” the tech said, lifting the cover off Bart’s tray. “How about vegetable soup, mashed carrots and a ground turkey patty?”

Bart took a look at the food and pushed the table aside. He glanced at the robe on the back of the chair and said, “My wife was here a minute ago, I was just talking to her. Where’d she get to?”

Kevin paled. I said, “She’ll be right back, Bart.”

The tech caught my eye on the way out, gave a little shrug. “I’ll leave the tray; he might get hungry.”

“Go ahead and take it,” Bart said. “Tina will bring me in something nice for dinner.”

As a distraction, I opened the drawer in the bedside table and pointed. “You asked for some things from home, Bart. They’re here.”

He looked over, smiled. “My Tina takes good care of me.”

There was a tap on the door and I turned. Jean-Paul came in carrying a muslin shopping bag from a local market. We exchanged les bises and he shook Kevin’s hand before I introduced him to Bart as if it were the first time; Bart seemed to have lost complete track of Saturday night.

After a few minutes of stilted conversation, Kevin asked, “Who’s spelling you here, Maggie?”

“Beto, after he closes the store.”

Kevin checked his watch. “He’ll be here pretty soon, then. Why don’t you two go on ahead? I need to talk to Beto.”

When I said, “Thanks, we will,” Jean-Paul seemed relieved.

I went over to the bed and kissed Bart’s cheek. “We’ll see you later.”

“Thanks for coming by.” He still hadn’t called me by name. “I was real sorry to hear about your mom. Real sorry. She was always so good to Tina.”

Kevin walked us to the elevator and pushed the down button. In a sardonic tone, he asked, “You think Bart can handle those hardball questions now, Maggie?”

I shook my head. “We both know it’s too late.”

The elevator came and we said good-bye to Kevin as we stepped inside. He turned to go back to Bart.

Happy to be alone with Jean-Paul, I asked him, “What’s in the shopping bag?”

“Dinner,” he said, pushing the button for the lobby. “I was hoping you might agree to a quiet evening in.”

“That would be so nice.”

“I have some interesting news for you,” he said as the doors began to close. “Something we should discuss.”

A hand shot into the opening and triggered the door to open again. We both looked up, surprised by the suddenness of the move, curious. I was also disappointed that there would be another passenger.

It was Kevin, but he didn’t get in. Staying in the corridor, he held his hand against the door’s sensor to keep it from closing.

“Sorry I got a little frosty there, Maggie,” he said. “I don’t want you to go away thinking that I’m not taking what you said seriously, because I am. It’s just that this whole thing has been…”

He dropped his head, searched for the right words. When he looked up again and met my eyes he said, “It’s been hard. Real hard.”

“I understand that,” I said. “And it isn’t over yet. But you’ll get through it.”

“Says you.” He removed his hand and let the door close.

Alone, I wrapped my arms around Jean-Paul, pressed my lips to his, and held him in that clutch until the doors began to open again in the lobby. Jean-Paul was thoroughly cooperative, as he always was; a quality I appreciated.

“Lovely,” he said, offering me his arm. “I missed you, too. What’s new?”

“How much time do you have?” I slipped my hand through the crook in his elbow.

“All the time in the world.” He covered my hand with his. “All the time in the world.”

We ran into Beto as he came out of the parking garage carrying a big bag from the deli.

“That better be veal scaloppini,” I said.

He laughed. “Is that what Papa’s asking for now? This morning it was a meatball sandwich. He’ll have to make do with wedding soup and lasagne.”

“He seems to think your mom has been to see him,” I said as warning.

Beto’s smile was rueful. “He’s been talking to her for a while now. I have a feeling that she’s coming to get him soon.”

“What do the doctors say?” I asked.

“He has a leaky aneurysm in his brain. It’s a race between a blood clot and a blowout.”

“Oh, Beto.” I reached for his hand.

“It’s okay,” he said, squeezing my hand and working up a game smile. “I think Papa’s ready to go with Mom. I think he’s been ready for a long time.”

I was stepping into the shower, eager to wash away the grime of the day before we began making dinner, when Jean-Paul walked into the bathroom holding the red leather jewel box I had sent home with Susan. I was mystified; I thought I would never see the box again.

“Where did you find that?” I asked him.

“On my pillow,” he said. “I was curious.”

“Is it empty?”

“No.” He opened the box and showed me the brooch inside. “I remember that when you took off the dragonfly after the reception on Friday you said it was to go to your cousin. I know you are very fond of the brooch but you were quite clear that it should be Susan’s. And here it is. What changed your mind?”

“I didn’t change my mind,” I said. “I gave it to Susan last night.”

“Then she has made it a gift to you,” he said, closing the box again. “A very fond and generous gift, yes?”

“C’est un beau geste,” I said.

“Bien sûr.” He patted my naked bottom, smiled, and walked back out of the room.

When I went downstairs, shiny and clean again, I found Jean-Paul in the kitchen washing lettuces he had picked out of the garden. He handed me the dripping colander of greens. “Ever since you told me your uncle was going out for steak tonight, I have been thinking about steak. Big, red, bloody steaks. The grill is started, potatoes are baking in the oven, and the salad I leave in your hands.”

“You’ve been busy,” I said, taking a redwood salad bowl out of the cupboard. “Anything else I can do to help?”

He paused from peppering the meat. “Open some wine?”

“I can manage that.” I uncorked a bottle of cabernet and poured two glasses. He clinked his glass against mine, took a sip, and nodded his approval.

During the drive home from the hospital, I had given him, in broad strokes, a summary of the events of the last day and a half. I had almost convinced him that he shouldn’t beat himself up for going home Sunday afternoon and leaving me to find Larry alone. Whether he had been there or not, the outcome would have been the same. When I reminded him that Larry probably was put into the Dumpster not long after he walked out of our garage on Saturday night, very likely at about the same time that Jean-Paul and I were enjoying each other on rose petal-festooned sheets, he conceded that what happened to the man was nothing we could have either foreseen or prevented.

“The important thing,” I said, tearing radicchio into the bowl, “is that except for some last odds and ends, we’re finished here. The cleaning crew comes in the morning. When they leave, we hand the keys over to University Housing, and we’re gone.”

“Finished?” The question sounded loaded. “All finished here?”

I looked around the kitchen as I took out plates and silverware and stacked them on the tray that he had already loaded with various condiments. There were no boxes stacked anywhere, and no more cupboards to sort or empty. I said, “Yes, finished.”