Chapter Eleven

Arthur squared his shoulders and went into what he called 'secret agent mode.’ He'd never actually used it in the course of his job. Mostly it came out when he was arguing over warranties or on the phone with tech support.

He told his mother he was going out for a quick bit of post-Christmas shopping. Which was true, but he had one other stop he needed to make.

He took off his gloves so the knock on the door would be extra sharp and clear. He waited as heavy steps neared the door. There was the click of a lock and the door opened.

"Arthur?"

"Mr. Edwards." Arthur kept his voice as crisp as the winter air.

"Call me David. Come in." He tried to gesture Arthur inside.

"No. I don't think I will. This will only take a moment. I’m just here to remind you that I am in insurance, which means I can find out everything about you."

Coach Edwards looked briefly confused. "I thought you were in industrial insurance or something?"

"Shipping. And insurance is insurance. We were big data when that meant wooden crates and quill pens. We know everything. So, if say, hypothetically, you were pulled over for drunk driving at age twenty, and one of our Hicksville judges let you off on a ‘boys will be boys’ defense, I could find out about it."

Coach Edwards blanched.

"And if you were picked up in a bar fight at age twenty-three and the judge waved the whole thing as long as you promised to pay for some broken pool cues, well, I might be able to find that out as well."

His face went from white to red. "Now just—"

"No. My mother is very against the evils of alcohol and does not believe in violence. She also has some fairly understandable issues around adultery. And considering the entire school knew about you and the very married Mrs. Fairworth, well…"

"Are you actually trying to blackmail me, boy?" Coach Edwards used the same snarling voice that had once sent Arthur, and hundreds of other boys, sprinting around the school track. It didn't work anymore.

"There is no trying here. I am. Now, if you have a genuine fondness for my mother, then I suggest taking a page from the Catholics: confess all your sins to her, and repent. If, on the other hand, you are just looking for someone to wipe your ass when your brain melts out your ears in a few years then I highly recommend you keep walking. Are we clear?"

Coach Edwards tried to stare him down. It didn't work in the slightest. "Understood."

"Good." Arthur put on his gloves, and with no other comment, walked away.

SIRANG was the note taped above the little button. He would send someone around to fix the doorbell as soon as he could. They had stopped pretending that, through various layers of lawyers and property managers, he wasn't her very generous landlord, but they never spoke of it, and she hated to ask for any repair work or help. One winter he had come and found her trying to fix her own heater while ice formed on the windows.

He stripped off one glove and knocked, then waited. If she was at the market or with a friend, it could be a long wait. It didn't matter. This was the only thing on his schedule until six that evening. He put his glove back on and stuck his hands in his pockets. People scurrying along the sidewalk, dodging patches of ice, looked at him sideways but no one approached.

He heard the snick of the peephole cover. He looked into it. There was the click of various locks being opened and the final rattle of a chain. Tala opened the door. Short and weathered with steel gray hair, she looked him up and down.

"Someone's been feeding you." It was a statement with a heavy undertone of questions. Who? Why?

"Yes." How she could tell under the layers of suits and winter clothes, he didn't know, but then she could tell when anyone was underfed with the same glance. She stepped aside. He stepped in.

The apartment was warm and felt dry. He couldn't hear any pipes clanging. She led him to the small table, only steps from the stove. He could easily put her up in someplace bigger. Let her live in luxury. She would never accept it.

Martin sat.

Tala turned on the stove under a large, heavy pot.

"You are well."

Another statement.

"Yes." In all years past, this was the annual administrative task that he needed to take care of himself or else find someone to take care of it for him. She was one of only two people left alive who had truly known him as he was and seen what he had become.

At the farm, there was the Time of Confession. He had been too young to participate, but he remembered the adults and older children entering the barn every week and exiting in tears. Another six months and he would have joined them.

Tala was his Time of Confession. Not that he confessed anything. She looked at him and knew what needed to be said between small bursts of idle conversation. Even if it was things he didn't want to hear or wouldn't act upon.

She poured thick coffee from a pot into two cups. She placed one in front of him before sitting and sipping the other.

"Are you well?" he asked. She shrugged. This was their conversation. There had been people in his life who judged him for his quiet and people who simply existed in the quiet with him.

"Your sons?"

"Well."

He knew exactly how they were, just as he knew she had been to the doctor two months ago and had a mammogram a month before that.

"Who is feeding you?" she asked.

"I met someone. At work," he added. He didn't want to give her the impression that he'd magically gained the desire to flirt with strangers at a bar.

"Good."

There was no more conversation over the course of several sips of coffee. The lid on the pot began to rattle. She stood and took off the lid, letting a cloud of steam fill the kitchen.

"Chicken stock."

She looked over her shoulder at him. "Yes. Can you cook now, too?" It was teasing, but also a deeper question into the changes in his life.

"A little. I can make a croque madame."

She waved a dismissive hand. "I'll show you how to make sotanghon. Real food."

Tala had been his aunt's housekeeper. An older woman named Diwa had technically been the cook, but the two had worked together. When a terrified and confused child was dumped into the New York penthouse where they worked, they had teamed up to keep him as fed and settled as he could get.

He had spent the last couple of months trying to recreate Diwa's soups, but between his general lack of culinary knowledge and imperfect memory, they were never quite right.

Tala put a cutting board and a large knife with a cracked plastic grip in front of him. "Chop what I tell you to."

Martin only nodded and felt more relaxed than he had since coming to New York.

"I'll send you some pictures from New York," Arthur said as he gave his mother a tight hug.

"Please be safe. It's such a big city and all those people—"

He kissed the side of her head. "I will be fine, I promise."

"I know, but I'm your mother, I get to worry. At least call me when you land so I know the flight went okay."

"Of course."

She pulled him close again. "Are you happy?" Her voice was soft and small, and Arthur almost couldn't make out the words as they were whispered into his shoulder.

"Yes, I am."

"Good," she replied, her voice hardly more than a whisper now. Then she pushed him back to arm’s length. "Okay, you've got a flight to catch. Enjoy New York."

He smiled at her, "I'll send you a postcard of something beautiful."