It wasn’t yet eleven in the morning when I heard the low rumble of Norman’s Impala pulling into the garage. I set my knife on the cutting board beside the onion I was chopping and opened the door to see what was the matter.
It certainly was unusual for him to be home at that hour in the middle of a workday.
He hefted himself out of his car, the collar of his shirt unbuttoned and pulled loose, his flour-covered apron still hanging from his neck but untied around his middle. Red of face and droopy of jowls, he looked horrible.
“Poor dear,” I whispered, wiping my hands on the skirt of my apron and stepping aside so he could get in past me.
It wasn’t often that Norm got sick, but when he did, he really got it.
He trudged into the house, sandy blond hair plastered to his forehead.
“Is it the indigestion?” I asked.
“Nah. I think I got a touch of the flu,” he said, leaning against the back of a kitchen chair. “Don’t get too close. It’s a bad one.”
“At this time of year?” I moved toward him, putting a hand on one of his. “Do you have a fever?”
“Well, I’m perspiring like a pig.” He lumbered through the kitchen and to his chair in the living room, plopping down in it.
“I can see that.” I took a hanky from the pocket of my apron and dabbed it along his forehead. “You’re sure it’s just a bug? Should I call the doctor?”
“I’m sure. Nothing to worry about.” He cleared his throat.
I felt of his forehead with the soft inside of my wrist. “You don’t have a fever. Are you sure it isn’t something else?”
“Betty, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry,” he said, taking my hand in his, putting it to his lips, and giving it a peck. “Your hands smell like onion.”
“What a romantic you are,” I said, taking my hand back and crossing my arms.
“I thought I could make it to the end of the day.” He rested his head on the back of the chair. “But, thanks to you, Stan kicked me out.”
“Well, I’m glad he did.”
I lifted his head with one hand and pulled the apron off with the other. The smell of the bakery still clung to his clothes, mixed with his Old Spice and Brylcreem.
“I forgot your rolls.” Norman lowered one side of his mouth in a half frown. “If you really need them, I can go back out.”
“You aren’t going anywhere,” I said, shaking my head. “How about I get you a little ginger ale? And maybe a mug of beef bouillon?”
Norm nodded and then cringed as if a great pain had seized him. “You better wash that kiss off your hand. I don’t want you getting this. It’s awful.”
“That’s the least of my worries.”
I went directly to the kitchen, putting water on to boil and finding a can of Vernor’s in the pantry. I considered calling Doctor Lange anyway to see if he could make a house call on his way home that evening, but thought better of it.
What Norman needed was a sip or two of something to soothe his tummy and then a long rest in bed. He’d be shipshape by the morning. He’d always healed quickly. All the Sweet men did.
I hummed “Moon River” as I moved around the kitchen, swaying my hips from side to side as I poured and stirred and reached into the cupboard for a few saltine crackers, wishing I had a voice half as smooth as Audrey Hepburn’s. While I was at it, I pictured myself wearing a hanky on my head and playing a guitar on the fire escape the way she had in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
I shook my head, putting a small stack of the crackers on a plate for Norman. What would he have thought of me playing make-believe? And at my age. I chuckled at myself just to think of it.
By the time I carried the tray of bouillon and ginger ale into the living room, he was gone.
I found him slumped over in his chair, his right arm hanging limp over the side. The tray fell to the floor before I’d known that I dropped it. Hot broth splashed up and through my hose, and the ginger ale spilled into a puddle on the carpet.
“Norman?” I whispered, even though I knew from the deepest part of me that he couldn’t hear. “Wake up, darling.”
Stepping around the tray, I reached for him, trying to straighten him back up in the chair. But he was heavy, and I was weak. Try as I might, I couldn’t move him more than an inch. His skin was warm to the touch, his cheek still smooth from the morning shave. But there was no life in him. No breath. No pulse.
“Oh, honey,” I whimpered. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
I knelt on the floor, taking hold of his still dangling hand. I put my forehead on the arm of the chair.
“What am I supposed to do now?”