You Are Not a Stranger Here - Adam Haslett [33]
As he steps into the house, a heavy, warm odor envelops him. His first reaction is to close his nostrils, breathe only through his mouth. Then, tentatively, he sniffs. It is flesh he smells, not sweat or the dankness of a locker room, but something close. A rotting.
Breathing through his mouth, he advances down the hall toward a light that has come on in the next room. He won’t want to stay long, he thinks, wondering how anyone could live with such a smell. She’ll comment on it, make an apology of some sort, he feels sure. But when he reaches the kitchen, she is calmly stowing her groceries.
“Have a seat, dear. Tea won’t be a moment.”
Though it is day, the curtains are drawn and a naked bulb provides the only light. He perches on the edge of a chair by the kitchen table, sampling the air again. The stench tickles his nostrils.
The kitchen looks a bit disheveled, the counters cluttered with jars and mugs, but otherwise it is like any other kitchen. There is nothing here to explain such an odor. He imagines naked, sweating bodies packed into the other rooms of the house.
“I’ve got some biscuits round here somewhere, what did I do with them? Do you take milk and sugar?”
Watching the old woman shuffle past the sink, he feels disoriented and tries to confirm to himself where he is, the day of the week, the country they are in.
“Milk, dear?”
“I saw you in the restaurant last night, didn’t I?” he says.
“Yes, dear, you did. Sometimes I come and sit in the evenings, if I can find someone for Albert. He’s my grandson. You’ll meet him.”
She arranges cookies on a plate. “Have you been visiting elsewhere, then?”
“We passed through Edinburgh,” he says.
“Terrible place. Full of strangers. What do you do in the States?”
Paul has to repeat her words to himself before replying.
“I used to teach,” he says.
For a moment, he sees the classroom on the third floor of the high school, its scratched plastic windows, chairs of chrome metal, beige desks affixed, a map of America, the portrait of Lincoln tacked to the back wall. The students staring, waiting for him to speak.
“How wonderful. Noble profession, teaching is,” she says, placing a mug on the table beside him. “There’s sugar there if you like.”
She puts her own mug down and takes a seat opposite.
“And what is it you taught?”
“History,” he says.
“Dates. Yes. Albert’s very good with dates . . . Are you a father?”
“No,” he says, wondering why he is here.
“A mixed blessing children are, of course. Up to all sorts of things. When they’re young, though—nothing like it. You taught young ones, did you?”
“Teenagers.”
“Difficult they are.”
There is a pause. The old woman leans forward in her chair. “You’re tired,” she says.
“Sorry?”
“You’re tired, dear, under the eyes. You’ve been sleeping poorly.”
Paul feels a surge of anger. He wants to yell at the old woman. How dare she presume? But there is something so frank in her expression, so lacking in judgment, he can’t bring himself to do it.
“Jet lag, I suppose,” he says.
He sips at his mug. The odor leaks in. He feels he might heave the liquid up.
“Have you ever had fresh mutton?” she asks.
He shakes his head.
“An excellent meat. My friend Sibyl gets it straight from the abattoir. Rosemary, wee spot of mint jelly. Quite delicious. Perhaps you might come for dinner. I doubt they’ll be giving you any Scottish meat in the hotels.”
The smell has got to him now and he is beginning to feel dizzy. “What time is it?”
“It’s early, dear. Just gone half eight.”
“I should go back.”
“There’s no hurry, surely.” She stirs her tea. “Just out for a walk this morning, were you?”
He looks up at her. “My wife,” he says. “She’ll be waking up. I really have to go.” He stands up from his chair.
“Well, if you must rush, then—pity though, you’ve just arrived. But there we are, you’ll come tomorrow. For dinner—two o’clock. It’ll rain