Chapter Forty

We’d settled into a good routine, Rick and Keller and I. And Pax. Pax was a godsend. Keller did all the heavy work, and I was given the freedom to act like a normal housewife, planning meals and changing the curtains with the change of season. I think that Rick was showing improvement. During the late summer and early fall, we got him out into the backyard a few times, or I should say that Pax did. He’d tease with the rubber ball, poking it at Rick until Rick finally took it and tossed it. If Pax teased enough, Rick might allow us to get him outside and he’d throw the ball for the dog like he had on that first evening. But the weather turned colder and I didn’t want to risk letting Rick go outside and sit. He was so delicate in so many ways. Prone to infections. Every day that went by when he didn’t show symptoms of a bladder infection or a wound infection or a cold coming on was a good one.

Keller started school, testing the waters with a class in English literature. He had that book, the one about King Arthur that he’d kept on his nightstand as long as he’d been living with us, and it turned out that Le Morte d’Arthur was part of the syllabus for that class. I’d never read it, so, because he had a paperback edition from the college bookstore, Keller offered to lend his hardcover copy to me so that we could talk about it and help get him ready for the class discussion. The first thing I noticed was the inscription on the flyleaf: To Keller Nicholson as he begins the journey of a lifetime. Miss Jacobs. Keller was so closedmouthed about his past, whereas I found myself talking about mine, telling him about life in a small Iowa town, about my friends and what high jinks we used to get up to. Things like lighting May baskets filled with horse manure on fire and putting them on the front porch of the school principal’s house, then running like mad, so we never actually got to see the look on her face. Picking all the new lilies in Mr. Bernardsen’s garden and taking them home to appalled mothers. Keller had no such anecdotes, as if he’d passed through his early life, arriving fully formed on the shores of World War II. He chuckled at my exploits but never shared any of his own.

“So, who’s Miss Jacobs?” I asked one day.

“My high school English teacher.”

“You must have been pretty smart in school to earn this.”

“I was. Smart enough.”

It was like pulling teeth. “Was this a graduation present?”

“No. She gave it to me the day before I left for induction.” He looked at me with what I’d come to recognize as his “Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies look, but not before I saw a flicker of memory soften his eyes. Whoever she was, Miss Jacobs meant something to Keller Nicholson.

*   *   *

Keller finally made that chowder that he promised. I took some in to Rick, knowing full well that the challenge of eating left-handed with a spoon was going to be hard. Keller, as usual, didn’t join us for dinner. “Gotta study.” A good new excuse for him to keep to himself, allowing us a privacy we didn’t really need.

As dignified as Pax was, he was a terrible beggar and sat watching us, me on one side of the tray table, Rick on the other, the dog’s eyes following every mouthful. “Go lie down.” I wasn’t usually the one to order the dog around, but that night I wanted no distraction for Rick. Pax gave me one of his “You’ve broken my heart” looks, but he went to his basket. I tied a tea towel around Rick’s neck, set another one in his lap. He might not have been able to feel it, but hot chowder in his lap would have been very bad.

Rick didn’t say anything, just stared into the shallow bowl filled with Keller’s beautiful traditional New England clam chowder. Not thick. A thin cream broth with chunks of potato and clams. He’d bought the clams and shucked them himself, disdaining to buy minced clams.

“Try it.” I took a mouthful. “It’s really good.”

“I can’t. Give it to the dog.”

“I will not.” I set my spoon down and took his, dipping it into his bowl. “Here.” I offered it to his mouth like a mother offers a spoonful of baby food to a child.

Like a child, he screwed up his mouth and turned away. “I’m not a baby. Stop treating me like one.”

“Then pick up your own spoon and eat your dinner.” I don’t know why I got so mad then. It wasn’t a particularly unusual refusal on Rick’s part. It was just that Keller had made this chowder, made it because I said Rick liked it. Rick was being rude. I was glad that Keller wasn’t in the room to hear him, but it would be hard to lie to Keller and tell him that Rick had gobbled it down. “Stop being a baby. You’ve got to learn to use your left hand sometime, and this chowder is worth it.” I set his spoon beside his bowl, took up my own, and commenced eating the rest of my dinner.

Rick sat there, the soup spoon at a right angle to his full bowl. I’d inadvertently put it on the right side. I grabbed it and put it on the left side of the bowl, handle toward him.

“You don’t have to hold it correctly. Remember that’s what the occupational therapist said. Just grip it. Lean in, and eat this damned chowder.”

Keeping my eyes on my own dinner, I didn’t watch as he lifted the spoon left-handed, clubbing it in his hand like a little kid struggling with his manners. He dipped it, catching a little in the bowl of the spoon. Somewhere between the bowl and his mouth, the spoon tipped and the mouthful of chowder went right down the front of him. Slowly, Rick set the spoon down, pulled the tea towel from his neck, and placed it carefully over the still-full bowl. “I’m done.”

Rick refused to try, so I gathered up those bowls, nesting my empty one beneath his full one. I grabbed the napkins and spoons and the waxed paper–sealed rectangle of pilot crackers and fled that room, my head roaring with the unspoken. Chowder slopped over the edges of the bowl, dotting my path from sickroom to kitchen. I didn’t care. I stalked into the kitchen, the brightness glaring down from the ceiling light after the evening dimness of Rick’s room. I was shaking, and that inner vibration of anger thrummed so intently that the chowder left in Rick’s bowl trembled like a lake in an earthquake. A dollop crested the edge and ran down my wrist. It was cold, but I reacted as if I’d been scalded, and slammed the bowls from our wedding china hard into the porcelain sink, and I was glad at the destruction. Shards and chowder flew, spattering the window over the sink and the floor and the counters. One shard struck me on the cheek.

“Are you all right?” Keller was beside me, pulling me away from the sink. A towel dangled from the back of a chair, and he grabbed it, dabbing it gently against my cheek. “What happened? Did you slip?” He sat me down on that chair and knelt to examine me for more damage.

“He wouldn’t eat it.” I was crying, and the words came out in individual bursts.

“Oh, Francesca. Don’t take it so hard.” Keller turned my face toward his. “It’s all right.”

“No, it’s not. Don’t you see, Keller, he’s just not trying.”

Keller pulled me to my feet and, I don’t know if it was instinct or impulse, but he held me in a hug. A hug is such a simple thing, and yet can mean so much … affection, sympathy, joy. I felt the length of his strong, healthy, complete body next to mine and gave in to the urge to lay my head against his chest. I hadn’t been held by a man in such a long time except for Sid’s cousinly embrace or my father’s paternal one. This was both and neither. I look back now and imagine that he rocked me a little, but I’m not sure that he did. I put my arms around him and felt an equal contentment in the relaxation of his shoulders and back muscles. It would only hit me later, when I knew more of his story, that Keller had not had a hug himself in many a year. Maybe most of his life. I don’t remember how long we stood like that, under the glare of the overhead light, chowder and china all over the place, maybe twenty seconds, maybe an hour. My arms around him, his around me. I could feel his breathing slow. In and out, in and out, until my agitated respiration finally matched his.

Finally, we did let go of each other, laughing a little in that embarrassed giggle of humans who have given into temptation, filing the moment away under things never to speak of. Keller got a mug out of the cupboard and filled it with chowder from the pot still warm on the stove. He buttered two pilot crackers and walked Rick’s dinner down to him.

I should have thought of that. A mug. So simple an answer for a man not converting to left-handedness easily. If I had, that evening’s meal would have been so ordinary. Things would not have been set in motion. Even now, I don’t regret it. Even now, I remember how good it felt to be held.