Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [128]
“I am in your kitchen,” Richard says petulantly. “Besides, I don’t even like tamales.”
“Too bad. It’s what’s for dinner. I’ve got to get this column finished, and I need to test these recipes.”
He ruins the next two husks, deliberately, I suspect. His lips are set in a grim line, and his hands curl into small, loose fists as he weakly pounds the table. “Okay, okay, I think that’s enough. Thanks, Richard,” I tell him.
He removes his apron, dusts off his paisley bathrobe, and tries not to look smug as he wheels himself over to the window where he begins pawing through a stack of library books Fiona has brought him.
I’m just in the process of filling the last of the corn husks with the masa harina when the door buzzes. It’s Ben Stemple, a tool chest in one hand and a couple of brown paper bags in the other.
“I was in the neighborhood and I remembered that I never activated the water lines on that pasta spigot. I thought I’d stop by, hook ’em up for you. I’ve given up on your promise to cook me dinner, so I brought my own,” Ben says, depositing the two large, grease-stained paper bags on the counter. “I’m willing to share, but I’m warning you, it’s not up to your standards. I got it from that little Oriental cart on Twentieth. I’m not exactly sure what it is, though. My Chinese is a little rusty. And since I had no idea what kind of wine you drink with Chinese, this is what I came up with,” Ben says, pulling a six-pack of Sapporo from another brown paper bag. “I figured Japan was close enough.”
He stops short when he sees Richard in his bathrobe in the wheelchair. “Oh, I didn’t know you had company.”
I make the introductions.
Richard sits up a little straighter in his chair, runs a hand through his wispy hair, and adjusts his paisley robe before shaking Ben’s hand.
“If this is a bad time . . .” Ben says, looking from Richard to me, a puzzled expression on his face.
“No, not at all,” Richard says. “Hurry up on that spigot and maybe I’ll be spared the low-fat tamales.”
Ben looks at me.
“No, really, it’s great,” I tell him. “The kitchen is a bit of a mess, but do a good job and I’ll pay you in tamales.”
“Deal, but you have to promise at least to try the stir-fried pigeon. It’s a real delicacy, and besides, you’ll be doing your part to help keep the neighborhood pest free,” he says, winking at me.
After dinner, Ben does the dishes while I put Chloe to sleep in the upstairs loft. When I come downstairs, Richard is propped up in bed reading Lord of the Flies.
“I’d forgotten what a perfectly vile book this is,” Richard calls from the living room, mid-yawn. “I can’t believe they assign this book to children. It’s a wonder teachers don’t have more sense.” He holds the book at arm’s length, examining the cover.
“Where did you get that?” I ask.
“It was in the bag of books Fiona brought. I told her I wanted to read some of the classics, but I was thinking more along the lines of Henry James or Tolstoy,” he says, peering at us from over the rims of his reading glasses.
Ben, who is in the midst of drying dishes, studies Richard with a slightly bemused expression. Throughout dinner, a mismatched hodgepodge of ethnic food—Mexican, Chinese, and Italian—I’d gotten the feeling he was trying to find out who Richard is.
By the time we’ve finished the dishes, Richard is snoring, gently riffling the pages of Lord of the Flies, which lies open on his chest, with each prolonged exhale. I should be working on my column, a draft of which I’d hoped to finish tonight, but when Ben pops the lids on the last two beers, I take the one he offers me and lead the way out onto the balcony.
“The tamales were great,” Ben says, stepping outside. “The pigeon, not so good.”
I don’t have any furniture outside yet so we sit on the floor, our backs up against the wall, our feet stretched out against the railing. Ben leans over and shuts the balcony door with the toe of his work boot. “So we won’t disturb your, ah, friend?” he asks, gesturing toward Richard, who is sleeping just inside the doorway.
“Richard?