Page 39

Dinah

In the morning, Joe scrambles eggs and fries bacon.

We have the window open over the sink, and there’s the twitter of birds and the rustling of pine needles every few moments with each strong breeze.

I’m sitting at the round kitchen table, a copy of the Los Angeles Times spread out on the table, a pencil in hand, the Saturday-morning crossword puzzle stretching across the page.

“Three letters. Symbolic embrace.”

There is a pause with just the scrape of his spatula against the pan and the crackle of bacon.

“Hug.”

I write it down, but it seems too basic. I go to the next one. “Sixth-amendment guarantee. Nine letters. Second letter, T.”

“Attorney.” He turns down the burner and opens a cabinet above the stove, grabbing two plates. “These are almost done.”

I put down the pencil and pick up my cup of coffee. “You need a top-off?” I slide the paper to the side, clearing a spot for us to eat.

“Nah, I’m okay.” He scoops half of the eggs onto a plate and turns from the stove, placing it at his spot on the table.

I like my eggs without a hint of moisture in them, so he leaves mine in the skillet while he transfers some of the bacon to a paper towel–topped plate.

He cooked two pounds of bacon, way more than we’ll ever eat, but we’ll take the extra to the clinic and share it with the patients.

It’s a Saturday-morning tradition, one that will allow him to fit in some sessions, and me to help out for a few hours.

I press on the top of the Keurig and consider mentioning his absence last night.

Not because I don’t trust him, but because I’m curious how long he was gone and if he was having trouble sleeping.

He used to have problems with insomnia and restlessness.

I haven’t heard him complain about it recently, but I also haven’t woken up to an empty room in a while.

“Did you want to run up to Bottle Cap tonight and have a few drinks?” He turns off the burner and transfers my eggs to the plate.

“That sounds good to me. But it’s Saturday, so you know Lucy will try to make you sing.” The coffee maker starts to gurgle, and I watch as a stream of steaming black espresso falls into the white mug.

“Oh, that’s right. Karaoke night.” He winces, like he doesn’t like it when the bar’s owner begs him to get up onstage.

He loves it.

He loves it for the first half hour while he protests and refuses, insisting he’s just there for a few drinks, not to make a fool of himself.

He loves it while he downs beers and flips through the book of song selections, all while continually insisting that he won’t sing, that the ones who do embarrass themselves.

He especially loves it when Lucy takes the mic in between performers and points him out in the crowd and tells the bar that Dr. Marino will put everyone to shame if they can just convince him to get onstage.

And then I’ll start to clap and chant, “Dr. Marino,” while he scowls at me and shakes his head and calls out, “Absolutely not,” before Lucy jumps off the stage, runs over, grabs him by the arm, and pulls him up to the stage.

Only she isn’t really pulling, and she and I and every employee of that bar know the game. They all know that Joe loves the show and that his bar-tab tip will be four figures long, and that his voice is above average at best and certainly not worth all the whooping and hollering they will do.

And he’ll preen and blush and come back to the table with a big smile, one that will last all night, and it will be worth every dollar of the tip and every minute of the act.

I play the game because I love him. It’s the same reason I work at the clinic and helped him build it from the ground up.

There are certain things that rev my husband up.

The cheers of the crowd at Bottle Cap. The respect of the patients at the clinic.

The rapt faces of his students at the university. The unwavering support of his wife.

“If we head up there early, we can leave before karaoke starts.” He grabs the pepper shaker and seasons the top of his eggs.

“Sounds good to me.” I steal a piece of bacon off the top and crunch into it as I take my seat. “Bacon’s delicious, babe.”

He nods as if it’s nothing, but the corner of his mouth twitches into a small smile. If he were a piano, I’d have him tuned to perfection.