Mr Peanut - Adam Ross [23]
“Das Judif,” he said, his speech mauled, the syllables blunted and deformed.
“Judith?”
The man gave him a crooked smile. “Das my wife.” He looked at the picture and pointed again, then touched the same finger to his lips. “Das Judif?” he asked.
Hastroll left, closing the door behind him quietly, reminding himself that no matter how much pain he felt, he must be careful what he wished for. Hannah let Hastroll feed her. It wasn’t like she was on a hunger strike. In fact, when he brought her dinner in on a tray she became as chatty as she ever was. “How are things at the station?” she’d say, or “It sure looks hot out there,” or “You’ve seemed pretty busy lately.” In fact, it was almost galling, because for those brief moments before she tucked her napkin in her slip, she was acting like a woman who hadn’t been in bed for five months but instead was on the upswing after an illness, the flu, say, was a lot better, thanks, just a day away from feeling strong enough to go back to work.
Hastroll stood there, amazed and obliterated. But he said nothing. He asked if she needed anything else—“I’m great,” she said—and went back into the kitchen, since eating in bed was one of his pet peeves; and then he cleaned up, since another bugbear was waking up to a mess. Though now, standing over the full sink, Hastroll thought about how what he’d cooked her tonight—butterflied chicken over couscous with lemon butter sauce and Italian parsley—had become his favorite dish to make of late; and as he thought over their years together, he realized their relationship could be described as an ever-changing menu, or a sort of bistro à deux, Hastroll the chef and Hannah his only customer. And if he were asked to make a final tasting menu, one that charted significant dates in their history course by course, from the beginning to now, they’d end with that dish after working through Tuscan ribollita with kale, carrots, and cannellini beans, filling and blessedly cheap; cold sesame noodles with grilled pork belly (this during Hastroll’s Chinese phase) and delicious morning, noon, or night, but especially after sex; shrimp and black bean enchiladas, a Friday evening tradition ever since traditions had suddenly started to occupy Hastroll; salmon steaks poached with lemon and black peppercorns finished with a cucumber yogurt sauce (they began eating more fish once they had some dough); and finally his fettuccine with spinach in a cream sauce with mascarpone and a dash of nutmeg, a fistful of parmesan added at the end, because it was easy to make and stuffed his empty belly, and since it was just him and Hannah, after all, did it really matter anymore if either of them got fat?
He returned to their bedroom to collect her plate.
“Do we have anything sweet?” she asked.
Hastroll blinked twice. “You’re kidding,” he said.
“Kidding how?”
“You mean like blueberry pie?”
“That’s right.”
“Pineapple upside-down cake?”
“That sounds delicious, though just some ice cream will do.”
Hastroll pointed at his chest and jabbed himself. “I don’t do dessert!” Then he pointed at her. “You do dessert!”
Hannah smoothed the blankets over her legs and sighed. “You still haven’t figured it out.”
“David and I are business partners,” said Frank Cady. “We started this company together. What’s all this about?”
“Do you know if he and his wife had any marital problems?” Hastroll asked.
“We didn’t have the kind of relationship where he’d tell me.”
Hastroll looked around his office. The walls were covered with posters of Marvel Comics superheroes, some of which even he recognized (though he imagined he’d know them all if he and Hannah had any kids): Spider-Man, Silver Surfer, the Hulk. Action figurines lined shelves along with Dungeons & Dragons books, the Dune series and Lord of the Rings, a Wolverine phone in a glass case. A light