Widow's Dozen

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Marek Waldorf. Widow's Dozen

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WIDOW’S DOZEN

TURTLE POINT PRESS

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He offered me a cup of tea: “It’ll only take a couple of hours. Now that you’re a free man, you have the time to spare.” Taking invisible umbrage at this sally, I made no offer to help as he ran both hands through the eccentrically stocked kitchen cabinet, knocking over boxes of sweet cereal and cans of black beans and dog food until he found the Lipton’s he was looking for, lifted out two tea bags, and then started to search for a pot, a kettle, anything in which water could be brought to a boil. Rice and pasta rained from their bags onto the counter. Aaron seemed to be injuring himself deliberately—releasing yelps of probably genuine pain—in order to prove to me how poorly he’d adapted to his affliction. I made sympathetic noises, but that was it. Finally, he grew tired of the game. “Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t you just keep standing there?”

The place smelled bad. Those filthy clothes, of course. But there was something more, or stronger, than the smell of mildew, sweat, fur, stale smoke and dirty feet, and while it was rank, I couldn’t identify it, either as a peculiar amalgam of the smells just mentioned or as a separate smell, distinct but not yet attached to a source. It was the kind of smell you refrained from joking about. Too personal, I thought, but I was wrong. Rinsing out a cup in the sink, I noticed a saucepan in which the residue of a cheesy tuna casserole had been watered down and left for days, with a green gelatinous mold shaped like a sombrero on top. Backing away, I stepped on—and broke—a cheap pair of sunglasses.

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