Chapters (14)
Robert, home, glad for that, vowed to never pack another bag. His second night back, he nearly stood us up for a dinner at Rocco’s. He was rarely late. She and I were splitting our zabaglione, table still littered with mussel shells, when he wandered past and chanced to see us. Robert came rushing in, turned his chair around, settled there, his head at rest on his crossed arms. Staring at us, silent. He did not appear talkative.
“Uh … dearie?” she started. “Welcome home to you, too. You hate my always being late, so what good are you? You had an appointment with us.”
“Did not.”
“Did friggin’ so.”
“Sorry—did? Forgot.”
“Forgot! So,” she gave him a chance, “what did you learn on tour?”
“‘Earn’?” he asked.
“‘Learn.’ You taught us that.”
“I caught a cold. Walked to Mrs. Park’s for milk yesterday? Had to sit on two stoops. Nina let me rest on her cot she keeps for beauty naps behind the steam presses in back. Can’t seem to shake this chest thing. Feel so out of it. Last night, shivered my nuts off. Sweated like it was the Tropics and I was Joan Crawford chewing scenery in … (don’t even tell me, Hart. Because I know you’re going to try to act it out) … Rain. Shook to where my bed squeaked. That bed, even with a crowd, never squeaked before.”
I advanced a theory. “Maybe it’s been loosened up by all the recent floor activity.” And we all laughed, but out of Robert’s mouth a goodly sample of his chest cold, one corner piece of gray-green phlegm—shot, hit, then slipped down the side of one glass Parmesan dispenser. Our waiter, seeing, looked prissy, then solemn. Robert alone laughed at the projectile, laughed quite loud, pointing. Two candlelit couples at far tables turned, romance offset by his sudden braying, peeved.
“Honey,” she said. “Honey?” And I saw her hand scoop forward. At her touch, he set his head down on the checkered cloth before us, good jaw amid rattled mussel shells. Bama’s palm pulled back as from a lit stove.
“Hartley, feel him.”
My hand now met his heat. At this temperature, it felt unlike a human surface.
“What?” Robert awarded us a dazzling out-of-sequence smile. “Because is it something I said?”
“I’ll pay.” I signaled for our waiter. “Robert, sweetie, you have a temperature, a brain-cooker temperature. Robert? We’re going to get you fast over to St. Vincent’s.”
“A saint lives in the Village? I don’t feel my absolute best. But, where is there one? Can we walk to see the Saint?”
“Yes.” She held his right arm. I took his excellent left one.
It was among us.