It was almost like having Henry in residence. So far the ruse had worked because no one had broken in. He’d been gone for a week and the very air smelled forlorn. I dampened a sponge and wiped down the kitchen table and the counters, which had picked up a fine haze of dust. Aside from that, all was well. I locked up.
I stopped in my studio briefly, pausing to wash my face. I’d been up for hours, and with the drive to San Luis Obispo and back, I was bushed. I decided on an early supper at Rosie’s, followed by an early bedtime. I turned on my desk lamp and flipped on an outside light in anticipation of my return. I locked my door and walked the half block to Rosie’s. It was close to five when I arrived, and the only other patrons were a pair of day-drinkers who’d probably been sitting on the same stools since noon. Rosie was tending bar and she poured me a glass of bad wine before retreating to the kitchen, where she was apparently preparing one of her zany Hungarian entrées.
William arrived shortly after I did. He was still carrying his wooden cane with the curved handle, which he would occasionally swing in a half arc. He didn’t seem to need it to balance his weight, but it lent him the jaunty air of a man on the move. Judging from his three-piece suit and the shine on his wingtips, I was guessing he’d just returned from a funeral. I expected an outpouring of gossip and information, the sort of inside dope that only an inquisitive chap like William can elicit from total strangers in their hour of grief. Instead, he greeted me with a fistful of pamphlets he’d received from Mr. Sharonson.
“What’s this?” I asked when he’d pressed one in my hand.
“Pre-need funeral arrangements. Take a look,” he said.
Once I heard the term, I couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it himself. I gave the information a cursory look while he took out a second pamphlet and opened it. “Just listen to this. ‘Preplanning a funeral allows you to determine the type of service and disposition you’ve always dreamed of. You have time to consider important details and to discuss them with your loved ones. Preplanning spares your survivors the uncertainty of last-minute decisions that may or may not be in keeping with your most cherished beliefs.’ I can’t wait to tell Rosie. She’ll be thrilled.”
“No, she won’t,” I said promptly. “Would you listen to yourself? She’s bossy. She likes to be in control. If you died, she’d be in her element. She’d have Mr. Sharonson in tears, trying to please and appease her. Surely you don’t propose to spoil the moment for her.”
He frowned. “That can’t be true. Are you sure? Because this says ‘Your loved ones can rest assured that the distress of this deeply personal moment has been minimized by your lingering consideration.’”
“Which is the same as taking all the fun out of it for her. Look at it from her perspective. She’s opinionated and overbearing. She’d love nothing better than to tangle with Mr. Sharonson over every everlasting detail.”
“What if we worked on it together?”
“And spoil the current peace? I thought you and Rosie were getting along so well.”
“We are.”
“Then why mess it up? Take my word for it. You bring up the topic, Rosie will have a fit.”
“But it makes so much sense. You think she’d be pleased.”
Rosie used one ample hip to push open the swinging door and emerged from the kitchen with a plate piled with fried potatoes, which she fed to the local drunks in hopes of offsetting the worst effects of alcohol consumption. In one smooth motion, William took the pamphlet from my hand and slid the lot of them into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. Returning, Rosie took one look at him and came to a halt. Her sharp gaze moved from his face to mine.
“Wot?”
He must have guessed that if he said ‘Nothing’ it would be all over for him. She’d know he was getting into trouble of some kind. I stepped into the gap. “I was just asking what smelled so good. He said you were working on a dinner special, but he wasn’t sure what it was called.”
“Kocsonya. I cook yesterday and is chillink as we speak.”
I said, “Ah.”
“You puts any five Hungarian womens together and you gonna have argument about who cooks the best kocsonya. Makes no mistake. Is me and I give you Rosie’s secret family kocsonya recipe. Hev a seat and I’ll dictate.”
I took a chair at the nearest table and dutifully dug into my bag. I pulled out a pen and an envelope, which I noticed was my unpaid electric bill. I put that aside and grabbed my spiral-bound notebook.