FIFTEEN

Oswald Thayer didn’t sleep well anymore. Not since Antonio had died. He doubted he’d had one solid night of more than three hours of sleep since the day dear Antonio, who was supposed to have lived long enough to take care of Oswald, had passed away, quite peacefully, in his sleep. Ever since that time, the old man had always awakened an hour or so after nodding off, a pattern that was repeated several more times each night. So it was no surprise to him when his eyes popped open this evening as well. What did startle old Mr. Thayer was the flashing red light that circled in his room.

With difficulty, because his joints were failing and the walk up to the Clarkson place this afternoon had left him exhausted, Oswald got out of bed and shuffled across the room to the window. The source of the lights wasn’t clear, but they came from somewhere down toward the end of the cul-de-sac. Squinting his eyes, he thought he detected an ambulance. He wondered if there had been sirens, and if it had been the sirens, and not his usual insomnia, that had roused him from his slumber.

He hoped no one was ill.

Oswald turned away from the window. An ambulance had come to this house, too, when he’d discovered Antonio lying cold and motionless beside him. Oswald had never understood how a heart attack could take a man as young as Antonio—he had been just forty-three!—in the middle of the night. He had been absolutely fine, chipper, and cheerful when they’d gone to bed. Yes, Antonio had just taken up running, and he was maybe fifteen pounds overweight, and when he’d come in that evening after his run, he’d seemed particularly short of breath. But a heart attack? No one had suspected it. Antonio had been as healthy as a horse. He was supposed to be here now, taking care of Oswald in his dotage, as they used to jokingly call old age. That was the benefit of these May–September romances. Oswald had taken care of Antonio, who’d been a poor Mexican immigrant when they met. And then Antonio would take care of Oswald.

It hadn’t quite worked out that way.

Of course, Oswald had servants to do the job. Drivers and assistants and housemaids and part-time nurses. But it wasn’t the same.

It wasn’t the way it was supposed to have been.

Old Mr. Thayer sat back down on the edge of his bed. He lifted the photograph of his deceased partner from the bedside table, where he kept it so he could roll over and see Antonio’s face, just as he could when Antonio was alive. He gazed down into the soft brown eyes. Not a day, not an hour, went by that Oswald didn’t miss him.

He replaced the photo on the table and lay back down. The flashing red lights continued to circle the room as Oswald fell back to sleep.