“Mrs. Russo, you’ve given me enough food to last for days. Is everything all right?”
She went into the bedroom and came back, a sweater over one arm, a book in another. A homemade sandwich was wrapped on her kitchen counter next to an apple, a bottle of water. She packed them into a carry-on bag on her kitchen table.
“Clay, would you set those flowering pots in the sink and run some water into them? Run it good, dear, until it comes out the bottom.”
“Are you leaving town?” I asked with growing alarm.
“My son had an accident this morning on his way to work. I need to go help take care of my grandchildren.”
“I’m so sorry. Is he all right?”
“He’s in the hospital, and I need to get to their house so Beth, my daughter-in-law, can be with him. On second thought, can you just take those plants with you? And will it be much trouble for you to collect the paper and mail for me while I’m gone? I don’t know how long it will be, but I’ll let you know if I’ll be more than a few weeks. I might have to trouble you to send me my bills.”
I assured her that it was no problem, that I was glad to help. And while I tried to be as helpful as possible, I felt desperately alone at the thought of her impending departure.
“Why don’t you just call me when you know more? And if you think of anything else, I have my key.”
“Thank you, dear. I meant to knock on your door earlier, but then I realized if I hurried, I could catch a train tonight, and I got distracted.” She looked around, lost, but then fixed her eyes on something—a worn Bible on her coffee table, which she added to her bag.
I loitered, like a child watching a parent pack for a business trip. “I meant to ask if you’d been to that little church down the street, the Gospel Room.”
“No, I haven’t, which is a shame since it’s so close.” She looked around as though searching for anything she might have forgotten.
“Maybe,” I said awkwardly, “we could go there together after you get back.”
She paused to give me a wondering smile. “Why, I’d like that very much, Clay. I would like very much to visit that little church.”
Somehow, in that moment, I knew that what I’d thought was true, that within her lay wisdom to counter Lucian’s knowledge and answers I had been afraid to ask for.
“I’ll enjoy our Sunday outing when I’m back. Especially if those grandkids of mine don’t do me in before then.” She chuckled.
THAT NIGHT I ATE a sandwich with some of the lettuce and tomato from Mrs. Russo’s stash of “perishables.”
I found myself thinking of Aubrey more and more, practically by the hour, as I once had. And I felt inexplicably guilty for the days I had forgotten her, for my mental absence, as if I had been taken in by someone new, like an interesting new friend in school who makes our old loyal standbys fade in comparison. Or a new fling, next to whom old relationships seem stale, familiarity having bred its inevitable contempt—only to discover that the luster of the new face had grown thin or, worse, that I had become the one passed over in favor of a new infatuation.
Never mind that she had been the one to leave. When I was truthful about it, when I was honest with myself, I could admit that I had left her first—in spirit if not in deed.
Now, abandoned by Lucian, I found my thoughts returning to her in lieu of any other crutch on which to lean. My selfishness filled me with self-contempt, even as I wondered if she was happy or if she might be tiring even now of Richard, of his habit of playing the radio too loud, of chasing his food around on his plate with his fork as if it were a hockey puck, of predictably retreating from certain topics or conversations, of repeating the catchphrases that had once seemed funny but had grown as tedious as a pull toy. For the first time since the day in the museum, I considered calling her.
But I returned to my manuscript instead, adding to it my conversation with Mrs. Russo, my thoughts of Aubrey, my dread of the monster at the end of the book.
30
With Mrs. Russo gone, I felt exposed, vulnerable, fearful. And hopeful.
Would Lucian come back to me now that she was gone and the “spiritual static” was no longer present? And if he did, would I welcome him? I could not shake the memory of our last encounter—hearing that screaming, even in my mind, sent chilly spikes through my gut.
I told myself I should get back to my life. There was still a life waiting for me as far as I knew, and I needed, if nothing else, to find a job.
One night I lay in bed trying to picture my future. It was filled with insomnia and demons. I stared at the ceiling and thought of Mrs. Russo.
“El?” I spoke, softly, feeling foolish. And then, “Elohim?” The night answered with silence.
I missed Mrs. Russo. I hoped for selfish reasons that her son would recover quickly. Lucian was right: I was not such a good man.
I WAS GATHERING MAIL—mine and Mrs. Russo’s—the next day when I saw it, peeking out from between a bill and her
But I did anyway.
