2005

Bruce Kuipers found the baklava on his porch, plated and wrapped. It sat on the table, under the eight-point rack of antlers, and his retriever sniffed at it with a wagging tail. The plate was heavier than he expected, and he nearly spilled its contents kicking off his sandy shoes in the mudroom. In the kitchen, dried egg crusted on the stovetop’s cast iron skillet. His Cessna’s transponder sat on the table, colored wires snaking from its backside, copper tips poking from their ends. He set the plate on an avionics manual and fished one of the treats from its Saran wrap cocoon. He brought it to his nose, the sugar and pistachio scents melding with the motor oil sponged into his skin. When he bit into the moist pastry, flakes of it tumbled to the floor. The dog was quick to lick them up, leaving the hardwood wet, with no trace of what had been consumed.

A salad was next, in an ornate bowl Linda would have liked, the glass a quilt work of protruding squares. It was almost July. His own chard and lettuce heads had begun to wilt in the heat. He could tell the spinach and arugula were store-bought through the plastic, but the vinaigrette smelled homemade. The salad had come with two tubs of feta cheese and spiced olives bathing in their own oil. When he popped the lid from the latter, Tolkien whined like a panhandler.

He drew the line at lamb chops, half a platter waiting for him when he returned from Ace Hardware with fittings. The meat was still warm, dripping in a lemon sauce and starred with oregano.

“Down!” he said when Tolkien rose on his hind legs, a line of drool dribbling from his jowls.

Bruce set the plate on top of the refrigerator and poured himself a glass of milk. She had done this when Jonah had passed, almost six years ago, but even then, not with such excess. After eating the lamb chops for dinner and lunch again the next day, he washed the serving dish and the glass bowl and knocked on her door.

“Yassou?” said a voice. “Come in.”

Bruce opened the door and stepped inside. The hall was a peach pastel color, pictures and paintings postmarking it in frames. Classical music echoed from the kitchen, a plinking piano over deep strings, the kind of thing Linda had playing in the house when Jonah was a toddler. Over it was the ringing of pots and pans and the sliding of metal sheets. It smelled of cinnamon and oranges.

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