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“No. I’m not sure how you got that idea, but—”
In a growl utterly unlike her usual soft tone of voice, Holly says, “Because she told me.”
December 2–14, 2018
1
It’s the Christmas season, and along Ridge Road, residents are marking the season in suitably tasteful and subdued fashion. There are no lighted Santas, rooftop reindeer, or lawn tableaux of the Wise Men looking reverently down at the Baby Jesus. There are certainly no houses tricked out in enough flashing lights to make them look like casinos. Such gaucheries may do for other neighborhoods in the city, but not for the genteel houses on Victorian Row between the college and Deerfield Park. Here there are electric candles in the windows, doorposts dressed in spirals of fir and holly, and a few lawns with small Christmas trees studded with tiny white bulbs. These are on timers that click off at nine o’clock, as mandated by the Neighborhood Association.
There are no decorations on the lawn or the front of the brown and white Victorian at 93 Ridge Road; this year neither Roddy nor Em Harris have felt spry enough to put them up, not even the wreath on the door or the big red bow that usually perches atop their mailbox. Roddy is in better shape than Em, but his arthritis is always worse once cold weather arrives, and now that the temperature slides below freezing by most afternoons, he’s terrified of slipping on a patch of ice. Old bones are brittle.
Emily Harris isn’t well at all. She now actually needs the wheelchair that is usually part of their capture strategy. Her sciatica is unrelenting. Yet there’s light at the end of the tunnel. Relief is now close.
Their house has a dining room (all of the Victorians on Ridge Road have dining rooms), but they only use it on the occasions when they have guests, and as they move deeper into their eighties, those occasions are more occasional. When it’s just the two of them, they take their meals in the kitchen. She supposes the dining room will be pressed into service if they have their traditional Christmas gathering for Roddy’s seminar students and the writing workshop kids, but that will only happen if they feel better.
We will, she thinks. Surely by next week and perhaps as soon as tomorrow.
She’s had no appetite, the constant pain has taken that, but the aroma coming from the oven causes the smallest pang of hunger in her stomach. It’s wonderful to feel that. Hunger is a sign of health. A shame the Craslow girl was too stupid to know that. The Steinman boy certainly had no such problem. Once he got past his initial distaste, he ate like… well, like the growing boy he was.
The kitchen nook is humble, but Roddy has dressed the drum table overlooking the backyard with the good linen tablecloth and set two places with the Wedgwood china, the Luxion wine glasses, and their good silver. Everything sparkles. Em only wishes she felt well enough to enjoy it.
She is in her best day dress. She struggled to put it on, but managed. When Roddy comes in with the carafe, he’s wearing his best suit. She notes rather sadly that it bags on him a little. They have both lost weight. Which is, she reminds herself, better than gaining it. You don’t have to be a doctor to know that fat people rarely get old; you only had to look at the few colleagues of similar ages they still have. Some will be at their Christmas party on the 23rd, supposing they are well enough to have it.
Roddy bends and gives her a kiss on the temple. “How are you, my love?”
“Well enough,” she says, and presses his hand… but lightly, because of his arthritis.
“Dinner in a jiff,” he says. “In the meantime, let’s have some of this.”
He pours into their wine glasses from the carafe, being careful not to spill. Half a glass for him; half a glass for her. They raise them in gnarled hands that were once, back when Richard Nixon was president, young and supple. They touch the rims, producing a charming little chime.
“To health,” he says.
“To health,” she agrees.
Their eyes meet over the glasses—his blue, hers bluer—and then drink. The first sip makes her shudder, as it always does. It’s the salty taste underlying the clarity of the Mondavi 2012. Then she drinks down the rest, welcoming the heat in her cheeks and fingers. Even in her toes! The surge of vitality—faint, like her hunger pangs, but undeniable—is even more welcome.
“A spot more?”
“Is there enough?”
“More than enough.”
“Then I will. Just a little.”
He pours again. They drink. This time Em barely notices the salty undertaste.
“Are you hungry, dear one?”
“I actually am,” she says. “Just a little bit.”
“Then let Chef Rodney finish up and serve out. Save room for dessert.” He drops her a wink and she can’t help but laugh. The old rogue!
The broccoli and carrot mix is steaming. The potatoes (mashed, easier on old teeth) are in the warmer. Roddy melts butter in a skillet (he always uses far too much, but neither of them is going to die young), then tilts in the plate of chopped onions and gets them frying. The smell is heavenly, and this time her pang of hunger is stronger. As he stirs the onions, turning them so they are first transparent and then just slightly browned, he sings “Pretty Little Angel Eyes,” a song from the way-back-when.
She remembers record hops when she was in high school, the boys in sportcoats and the girls in dresses. She remembers doing the Shake to Dee Dee Sharp, the Bristol Stomp to the Dovells, the Watusi to Cannibal & the Headhunters. A name that would be considered very politically incorrect today, she thinks.
Roddy takes their plates to the counter and serves out: veg, potatoes, and from the oven, the pièce de résistance: a three-pound roast, done to a turn. He shows it to her, simmering in its juices (and a few herbs which are special to Roddy), and she applauds.
