“I have more jobs tomorrow already in the line,” she said in her odd way of phrasing things. “But I need money always. I come only early if good by you?”
Early was just fine for Charlie Webster, and he asked her to go around to the kitchen door, where he would be waiting at the appointed time. He figured that call would be the most eventful thing to happen all evening, but after he hung up the phone and walked back to the house on Arnold Street, he found this note on the door:
Mr. Webster,
If by any chance you made it back from Florida and are here in town and you get this, please call the number below. It is urgent!
Todd
Safely inside once more, Charlie checked to be certain all the doors were locked, then carried the note along with The Pig up to bed. He was no longer used to chilly nights, but since he had come home to Providence earlier than he had in years, he was faced with a long and windy March evening ahead. While he rubbed his arms beneath the pile of sheets and quilts to get warm, Charlie began speaking to Joy as was his way now. He told her about calling Tünde and the things she said when he asked how she had been doing, the specifics of which he found hard to follow but had something to do with a legal matter and her plan to move away from Providence once she saved enough money. He told her about the note from Todd, though given the muddled and weary state of his mind, Charlie could not, no matter how hard he tried, recall anyone in their lives with such a name. And then he told her how hungry he felt, how cold, how terribly he missed her, and how deeply sorry he was for so many things, but in particular, the thing that had happened during their very last fight. And as he stared into the googly eyes of The Pig, saying all that to his wife and more, at long last Charlie Webster drifted off to sleep.
*
“Your head. What has happened to it?”
Those were the first words Tünde spoke when she stepped through the back door into the kitchen and removed her scarf and wool coat. Standing before him in the gentle early-morning light, no longer wearing a bland beige cafeteria uniform, but dressed in a thick dark sweater, old jeans, and mannish boots, she looked beautiful in her own peculiar way. Her hair was still yanked back in a single braid, and she wore no makeup from what he could tell. He examined those dramatic cheekbones, the wide flat expanse of forehead, and her deep brown inset eyes. In this corner, we have the Hungarian Barbarian! those kids shouted in his memory as he studied her. As if to erase the words, Charlie said, “You look different than I remember. Very nice, I mean.”
“Yes, well. I was fired from cafeteria. So no more eating that shit food for me. I dropped pounds as result. Now back to your head. What has happened to it?”
Charlie reached up and touched the wound that had been there since leaving Florida. It was on its way to healing, or mostly so, except for the bruising and scabbing. “Bumped it” was the only explanation he gave.
They were standing at opposite sides of the kitchen table, littered with the remains of his microwaved meals. Crumpled aluminum foil. Cardboard trays from frozen dinners with hardened rings of sauce clumped to the sides. An empty box of fish sticks and another box of breaded cod fillets. Charlie watched her sizing up all of it, probably calculating how long it would take to clean, until her gaze came to rest on his pill container parked by The Pig among the mess. The days of the week were marked in giant letters on that container—M, T, W, T, F, S, S—and at the start of each week, Joy used to count out his various pills and fill the compartments for him so there would be no mistakes. Charlie explained this ritual to Tünde, letting her know that, without Joy to keep things on track, he had not been taking his medication the way he was supposed to. As a result, his mind and memory were hazy at best, so he hoped she would understand and give him whatever help he needed.
At this information, Tünde fell quiet. Charlie watched as she picked up the two fish boxes and squashed them in her large hands in preparation for the trash. The Pig watched as well. At last she spoke again, asking, “And where is your wife?”
A big part of Charlie had counted on her broken English and what he had always sensed as her pure lack of interest in others to keep this conversation at bay, but here it was anyway. He did not want to tell her the truth about their sudden surge of fighting after so many years of marriage in their final months in Florida. He did not want to tell her about his screaming and breaking things and about Joy’s weeping out on their tiny third-floor terrace. He did not want to tell her about any of it, because it was all too unbearable to speak of ever again. And so, his only answer was to point to The Pig, who smiled at her with a mouthful of crooked teeth.