thirty-three:
wednesday evening

Alfredo slurped tomato-basil soup with the slow appreciation of a patient monk. He let each swallow settle before taking the next. Three basil leaves floated on top of the hot, creamy slurry. A homemade cheddar scone was ready about the time he had finished half the soup. The next course was a large bowl of gluten-free rigatoni and a simple garlic sauce with chopped zucchini, eggplant, roasted red pepper, and oregano. He would apparently keep eating and drinking as long as she produced food and kept his glass full. His devotion to the task—eating every scone crumb on the plate, leaving the pasta bowl empty except for a glistening sheen of sauce—made her smile inside.

“Full?” Trudy patted her stomach. “¿Más?”

“No más,” he said with a shake of his head. “Gracias.”

“¿Café?” she said. She remembered somewhere the Mexican word sounded like the French.

“No, gracias,” he said.

She showed him the front bedroom where he would stay, handed him a fresh set of towels and clothes, selected from the small stash of Jerry’s stuff that had accumulated over time. The fit was reasonable.

Alfredo nodded. Sí. Gracias. Comprendo. His nerves were obvious. He was still unsure. When he walked, he favored his tender ankle, still swollen. The weak foot’s sneaker, a brown running shoe, was loosely tied.

Trudy washed his clothes while he showered and by the time she had cleaned the kitchen, Alfredo was lying down on the couch. She poured a shot of tequila from Allison’s stash and he smiled at the smell, offered her a toast. He took a polite sip of the India Pale Ale in the brown bottle but it was not to his liking. Five minutes later, his eyes were closed and he fell asleep on the couch.

Trudy steeped a cup of chamomile spearmint tea and took it to the front porch. A late-August shower had stopped, though another might be gathering over the ridge to the west. For now, the air was refreshing. She felt as if she had snatched someone back from the brink of a black hole. She didn’t know precisely what the black hole was but it wasn’t good. Let them try to come and get him now, she thought. Let them come and explain who they were, what government organization they belonged to, or claimed to be with, and then they could have a detailed conversation about their legal basis for pulling Alfredo Loya away from his work, family, and home.

The telephone rang and she tip-toed back inside through the living room, as if footsteps would have been louder than the shrill old-school ring.

It was Jerry.

“Checking on you—and Alfredo.”

“Everything’s fine,” said Trudy. Alfredo, in fact, hadn’t moved an eyelash since he had stretched out on the couch. “All that stress. He’s sleeping it off.”

“And his first decent meal in a long time,” said Jerry. “If I know you.”

“He’s had some food,” said Trudy. “Are you coming up tonight?”

“Not at the rate I’m going,” said Jerry. “As long as you’re okay and as long as you don’t think you need me.”

There was a chipper attitude to his voice that didn’t seem right.

“You’re the one who said they might track Alfredo up here.”

“Is Allison around?” he asked. “Or any of her crew?”

“They should be, I suppose. Maybe working late up at the barn.”

With the long cord on her phone, Trudy could talk and drift into her greenhouse, two steps down off the back of her kitchen. She pinched a dead leaf from a Weeping Fig.

“I’ll be up later,” said Jerry. “Now that I think about it. Looks to me like we had a great day, based on how tired everyone looks around here.”

Daily receipt fluctuations. A favorite topic. In his perfect world, every day would be better than the next, a steadily rising line of income and profits like no other business in history.

“I’ll button up here and head your way,” said Jerry. “But don’t wait up. Might take a while.”