A Hole in the Universe - Mary McGarry Morris [40]
“I’m sorry. I should have thought. I’ll be right there. I’ll still be on time. I just have to make a phone call and then I’ll leave . . . I’ll be right there!”
Bag clutched to his side, Gordon hurried down his front walk.
“Hey, how’s it going?” Jada’s mother, Marvella, called in a lazy voice from her top step as he crossed the street. She waved.
“Hello.” He gave a stiff nod and walked quickly by. Serena knew Marvella’s brother, Bob, the only near-normal one in the family—well, the only one that worked, she’d said. He had his own business—his own truck, anyway—cleaning out septic tanks.
“Come on over sometime. Sixty-four Clover, come over, come over, first floor, door on the right, where there’s always a party going on, going on, going on, always a party . . .”
Her bawdy voice pursued him to the corner.
He had to hurry. He wasn’t enjoying this walk at all. His feet hurt. Winded, he took the steps two at a time to Delores’s second-floor apartment.
“I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry,” they both said with the opening door.
“I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that,” she said.
“I shouldn’t have called at the last minute like that.” He was trying to catch his breath.
Their uneasiness continued through the brief cocktail time. She had a mug chilling in the refrigerator, but all he wanted was a Coke. The can was fine, he said before she could pour it into the frosted mug. “No sense dirtying a glass.”
“That’s no problem,” she said, pouring it anyway. She spilled her Manhattan onto the sofa, then drank the next one much too quickly. They sat at the round table dragged in earlier from the kitchen. She had covered it with an embroidered linen tablecloth and positioned it in front of the living-room window. She struck a match, and her hand trembled as she lit the tall green candles. The two salad plates were the only ones left of her mother’s pattern, Desert Rose. Someday she would complete the set, she was telling him, but he looked at her blankly. Yes, she thought, when she did her registry. She poured them both Cabernet, Albert’s favorite with any kind of roasted meat. She felt better now. He looked at his watch again. Such a big man, he must be hungry. The ruby liquid glistened through the facets as she raised her glass in a well-practiced toast. “To your return home, Gordon.” She paused, but he didn’t take up his glass. “May your days be filled with good food, good times, and good friends. And may your heart know only love.” He began to eat, so she made a little swoop of the glass and then took a sip.
“Thank you. Thank you very much.” He was halfway through his salad. “That was delicious,” he said when he was done. He glanced around the table. She thought he was embarrassed to have finished so quickly while she was still eating. She offered him more; there was a whole other bowl in the refrigerator. “Oh, no. No, thank you.” He told her how Fortley’s salads had been a slimy mush of limp lettuce and crushed tomato chunks. “What’s that cheese called?” He pointed to her fork.
“Goat cheese,” she said, keenly aware that his lips parted as she raised the fork to her mouth. She took his plate into the kitchen. When she returned, he grinned to see the cheese-covered salad she placed in front of him.
Everything was delicious. It was, he said again as he ate the last baked potato. It was the best meal he’d ever had. “Leave room for dessert,” she warned. She hadn’t even mentioned her chocolate cake, so touched was she by his thoughtfulness in bringing dessert.
“I hope you like strawberries,” he said with such hopeful concern that a trickle