The sun had already set by the time I reached the apartment. I was unlocking my door when the door across the landing opened. Amanda stood inside the frame, still dressed in her private-school uniform.
“Hey, kid,” I said. “How’s it going?”
“Okay.”
“Is your mother home?”
“No. She had to work late. Again.”
“Want to hang out?”
“Can I?”
“Sure.”
“Just a sec.”
Amanda disappeared from view. When she returned she was carrying a carrot.
“You know, you don’t have to bring food when you come over,” I said.
“But what would Ogilvy say?”
I propped open the door like I always did when Amanda came to visit. She stepped inside. She didn’t need to call for the rabbit; he was already waiting for her. Amanda sat down on the floor, as was her habit, and Ogilvy climbed into her lap, as was his. She hugged him for a long time.
I offered food and drink. Amanda turned me down.
“I’m sure your mother told you not to, but you’re welcome to mooch off me as much as you like,” I said. “Since you’re always feeding my rabbit, the least I can do is feed you.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Sure?”
“Do you have any”—she spoke the words as if she were naming a Schedule II narcotic—“root beer?”
“Coming right up.”
I found a can of A&W, opened it, and poured some over ice in a tall glass. I gave it to the girl.
“I’d be happy to throw some ice cream in there, if you like,” I said.
“Before dinner? My mom would freak.”
“Your mom’s a good person. She works so very, very hard.”
“I know.”
“You need to cut her some slack.”
“It’s not me. I can take care of me. I just want her to have some time for herself.”
“You’re a good kid, Mandy.”
I thought about how much I’d like a shot or two of bourbon, yet decided not to in front of the child. So I drank root beer, too, while I asked about her day. I surprised myself by actually listening to what she had to say.
Eventually her mother appeared. Claire leaned against the door frame, the heavy bag pulling on her shoulder.
“Mommy,” Amanda said.
She brushed the rabbit off her lap and moved to the woman. Claire sank to her knees and hugged her daughter.
“I missed you,” Amanda said.
“I’m so sorry I’m late. I tried to get away…”
“It’s okay. Don’t be sad.”
“Did you eat? Are you hungry?”
“I’m okay.”
Mother continued to hug daughter. She saw me standing there.
“I keep apologizing to you,” Claire said. “I keep thanking you.”
“And yet you don’t need to do either.”
“You’re a good friend.”
What an odd thing to say, I thought. At the same time, I felt like the Grinch in the Christmas story. I could feel my heart suddenly growing larger.
“You look tired,” I said.
“Don’t get me started.”
“You’re staying for dinner.”
“No, we can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
“What are we having?” Amanda asked.
“Mandy,” her mother said.
“Spaghetti and meatballs,” I said. “And salad.”
“Salad?”
“You want to grow up to be big and strong like Ogilvy, don’t you?”
“Oh, Taylor, don’t be silly. He’s a rabbit.”
“Taylor, please…,” Claire said.
“What kind of friend are you that you’d make me eat alone?”
She nodded as if I had just offered to pay her medical bills. It was spaghetti, for God’s sake. It wasn’t like I was making the sauce from scratch. While I set the water to boil for the pasta, I thawed some Simek’s meatballs in the microwave and tossed them into the store-bought sauce that was simmering on the stove. The salad was merely a mix of baby spinach and romaine lettuce from a plastic bag I picked up at a supermarket and a choice of creamy French, Italian, and honey-mustard dressing in plastic bottles.
While the food was cooking, I filled a long-stem glass with Merlot and gave it to Claire. She savored it as if it were something she enjoyed very much yet hadn’t tasted in a long time. I gave Amanda an identical glass filled with root beer. She thought it was “very cool.”
I closed my front door—the first time I had done that while the two women were in my apartment.
We ate at my small table. Amanda practically drowned her spaghetti in Parmesan cheese. She didn’t talk much, but I figured that was because she didn’t want to draw attention while she slipped leaves of lettuce out of her bowl and fed Ogilvy beneath the table. Her mother didn’t seem to notice, and I certainly wasn’t going to bust her. Yet after the third leaf, Claire calmly said, “The salad is for you, young lady. Not the rabbit.”
“Sorry, Ogilvy,” Amanda said.
After we finished, Claire announced that it was time for Amanda to go home, take a bath, and get ready for bed.
“Did you do your homework?” she asked.
“Yep.”
“I want to check it.”
“You always do that.”
“Go.”
Amanda hopped off her chair and did something completely unexpected. She hugged me.
“Good night, Taylor,” she said. “Good night, Ogilvy.”
Then she was gone. Claire watched me as she fingered her wineglass.
“Mandy wants to adopt you,” she said.
“Seems that way.”
“There are things you should know.”
“You don’t need to tell me anything.”
“My husband is in prison for embezzlement. My ex-husband. I wish I could say he stole for Mandy and me. He did it to support his gambling addiction. I tried to help him. For years I tried to help, even after he bankrupted us, even after our home was foreclosed on. Finally, he was arrested. I divorced him after the first six months he was in prison. His family, most of my family, they said I quit on him. They keep saying it. It’s not true. I didn’t give up. I was beaten. There’s a difference.”
“Yes, there is.”
“I want you to know because I want to adopt you, too.”
I shook my head as if it were the worst idea I had ever heard.
“No, you don’t,” I said.
“You’re lonely. As lonely as I am. I can see it in your eyes.”
“That might be true. You and Amanda, you’re among the few bright spots in my life right now. But…”
“But what? Are you going to recite that old line—don’t get involved with me, honey, I’m trouble?”
“Hardly.”
“What, then?”
“I’m coming off a difficult relationship, and I don’t want you to be the rebound girl. I’d hate for anyone I care about to be the rebound girl. A month, three months, six—I don’t want to look across the hall and feel awkward. I don’t want you to feel awkward. I don’t want your little girl to stop knocking on my door.”
“The policewoman—is she the rebound girl?”
“Anne is my friend. Probably my best friend.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“I said it before and I meant it, Claire—you’re always welcome here.”
She finished her wine and rose from the table.
“I’m glad to hear that,” she said. “Because I’m not giving up on you.”
To prove it, she pressed her body against mine and kissed my cheek. A moment later, she was gone. I stared at the closed door. I spoke loud enough to spook my rabbit.
“Taylor, you’re the most pathetic human being alive.”