It’s nice and warm in here, like flannel just out of the dryer. The kind of warmth that can send you into a nap. The sleek ovens baking; two of the gas burners aflame; the fire in the kitchen hearth. Our two bodies. There is a fine sheen of perspiration on my brow, between my breasts, at my lower back. Max is red-faced and sweating like a hog.
“Head into the dining room,” I tell him. He shoves his phone, which he’s been fidgeting with since the salad course, in his pocket and continues to lean by the fireplace. He’s looking down into the flames, lost. Off somewhere. But this is not unusual. Max loses himself sometimes. When he gets drunk enough, he’s basically in another dimension. And we’ve taken care of a bottle of wine between us. “And no more wood in that fire for now.” My voice is gentle. An extraordinary expanse of time passes before he responds.
“Just a little.”
Max pushes off from the wall, comes to the island and pours himself more wine. Yes, please go ahead. Enjoy yourself. Max’s cheeks are red with the pressing warmth of the room and the flow of drink. His limp is considerable. He looks feverish. So many forces acting on and within that man right now. I’ve outed him to both of us. What he wants from me stands like a third person in the room with us. I think of my beautiful painting, meant to provoke, destroyed by a wine bottle. Not one woman at work, but two. I think of Max, unable to contain his jealousy. Unable to contain his ghost.
“Through here?” He gestures down the hallway as he turns for it.
“That’s right. Right out there. I’ll bring the plates—and here—“ I wipe my hands off on the towel slung over my shoulder, turn, and rummage in a cupboard for a box of matches. I fetch them and hand them to Max, who’s come back over. “Light the candle that’s on the table.”
“How very…uhm, romantic, Audie.” He seems charmed by this detail, sheepish that he has used this word. There’s nothing else to do so I smile. His eyes grasp on to it. He looks down at my throat. My necklace. Then he looks up at me and tries the smile again, but he doesn’t quite manage it. Satisfaction ripples through me. He heads out of the room with his glass and the matches. The silverware, napkins, water glasses, and water pitcher are already on the table. I set those out while the filets were resting. I watch Max go. I watch every painful step. Until he is out of my sight.
My hands grip the edge of the cool marble island. It is bracing. It grounds me. I shut my eyes and take some breaths. Then I contemplate the licking flames in the hearth.
The image of an old, rusted-out oil drum springs to mind, fire burning out the top. Pops used to burn garbage in one of those. Had a barrel out at the edge of the driveway and would do a burn every Sunday afternoon, no matter the weather. No trash pickup around here and the dump is ten miles away. Burning was just easier, even if it wasn’t very ecofriendly. I know some people around here who still do that. Take their cast-off trash and burn it to high heaven. It makes me wonder about the letters. My letters. The ones I’ve sent over the past year, postmarked from Boston. I wonder if the man I sent them to kept them or if he ended up tossing them in a fire much like this one. Maybe they were relegated to his burn barrel, not wanting even the ash of them inside the place he lives. I could understand him wanting to be rid of those letters. Wanting the letters to be completely erased from the face of the earth. They’re terrible little reminders. Of a terrible thing he did. Haunty scrawlslips sent by USPS. Just a few. Enough to get his attention. To make him understand. Just enough.
But that is for another day. I look down at the plates. It’s time to go face Max. Time to feed him his last supper.