Page 60 of One of Them

“I’m glad you could come,” George said as he ushered Delia and her father in. Today he wore a short-sleeved shirt that he hadn’t bothered to pin. The empty sleeve rustled when he moved, which to Delia suggested a phantom arm, invisible but somehow still present.

“Thank you for inviting us.” Delia handed him the bottle of wine Simon had selected, and then froze.

She should have thought more about the gift—he couldn’t very well open it with only a single hand.

But he didn’t seem at all bothered and went into the kitchen, returning with a corkscrew, which he handed to Simon.

“Would you do the honors?” The cork was popped, the wine poured.

Delia continued to look around. She saw poetry, history, and an entire shelf devoted to the works of Shakespeare.

Suddenly she was back in Ian’s class reading Juliet’s lines, and in his car, then his office, and finally staring through the window as his wife took in what she was seeing.

The memories singed. Shakespeare was ruined for her; she looked away in a hurry.

“... I’ve always been a reader, but I like books as objects too,” George was saying. “The feel of them, the weight. I’m always looking for the rare ones, the special ones, you know? The thrill of the hunt is exciting, especially now—what with my mother gone. I need some distraction.”

Delia admired his candor. There was a lot to like about George Frost.

“You’ve read this?” Simon reached for a book on top of a stack and read its title aloud: “ Insect Adventures , by J. H. Fabre.”

“You know Fabre?” George asked.

“Know Fabre?” said Simon. “I revere Fabre!” When George looked surprised, he added, “We lived in France for many years. Fabre is well known there. And look—you have The Life and Love of Insects , and The Life of the Fly too.” He picked up one book and then another.

“He’s a naturalist who writes like a novelist,” George said to Delia. “A born storyteller.”

The Life of the Fly ? Delia shuddered. So in addition to worms, George was interested in flies and other insects, an interest Delia most decidedly did not share.

She stopped listening and, leaving books and bug talk behind, stepped out into the garden through the kitchen door.

The light was just beginning to fade, but she could still see the rows of orderly beds, vegetables on one side, flowers on the other.

And herbs—Delia smelled basil. Separating the two sides was a narrow slate walkway and, close to the house, the table and chairs she’d seen from her own yard. It was lovely out here, an oasis.

From inside, she heard her father’s voice, sounding more animated than it had in a while.

Delia hoped he wasn’t drunk, especially so early in the evening.

Then George appeared in the doorway. “Dinner’s ready,” he said.

“Come in and join us.” Delia followed him inside.

A small bunch of roses in a white ironstone pitcher sat at the center of a table that was set with unmatched plates, all with floral designs; heavy white napkins, each with a different border, sat atop the plates.

Somehow, despite the variety of patterns, colors, and textures, it all seemed intentional, even harmonious.

The napkins were pressed and starched; had George done that?

Delia was inordinately curious about how he managed with a single arm.

Was there something unseemly about her interest?

“You have quite a collection,” Simon said as they ate. “Impressive really. Have you ever thought about selling any of it? You could open a bookshop.”

“Funny you should say that, because I’ve been thinking the same thing,” said George. “I’ve even been inquiring about places to rent along Fourth Avenue. But there are a lot of shops there already. I’d need to set myself apart in some way.”

“Yes! Exactly!” Simon drained what was left in his wineglass, and when George refilled it, he brought it right to his lips.

Delia shook her head when George tried to refill her glass; someone had to stay sober.

“You could focus on books about nature—flora and fauna, if you will. And you could sell plant and animal prints too.”

George got up and started clearing the plates; without asking, Delia helped. On the kitchen counter was a round cake stand; the cake sitting on it was white and sprinkled with coconut. “Did you make this too?” she asked.

“No. I bought it. As I told you, I’ve been teaching myself to bake, but I’m not ready to share the results with company.”

“You’ve taught yourself a lot of things.”

“I’ve got a lot of time on my hands. Or hand.” He smiled again.

Delia couldn’t imagine how he could poke fun at himself. Unable to look at him just then, she went over to the sink, where she started washing dishes.

“Oh, you don’t need to do that,” he said. “Let’s have dessert and keep talking.”

She rinsed a final plate before following him back to the table and watching him while he cut the cake and served each of them a little glass of sherry. Simon drank his in a single gulp and took the bottle to pour himself another. But he missed the glass and spilled sherry all over the table.

“Papa! Look what you did!” Delia cried.

“Don’t worry about it,” George said.

“I’m sorry.” Simon started dabbing at the little puddle with his napkin; now the sherry was dripping onto the floor.

“You’re just making it worse.” Delia took the napkin from his hand and set it beside his glass.

“Here, let me.” George went to the kitchen and returned with a sponge.

“He’s had too much to drink,” said Delia. “I need to get him home.”

“I’ll go with you.” George helped Simon to his feet, then together they ushered him out of George’s house and into the house next door.

Delia settled her father on the sofa, eased off his shoes, and turned on one of the fans.

“Better,” he mumbled. “Much better.” His eyelids fluttered, and then closed.

Delia waited a moment and then said to George, “He’ll probably be all right, but I’d rather not leave him. Can we stay here?”

“Of course. I’ll just go get the cake.” He went next door and returned with the two slices and two sherry glasses all on a tray he supported with his single, spread hand.

There was another piece of cake wrapped in wax paper.

“For your father. He can eat it tomorrow. But we can have ours now. Do you want to go out back?”

“Our yard is pretty overgrown—a mess, really. Let’s sit on the stoop out front instead.”

“Perfect,” he said.

Outside, the street was quiet with few passersby: a couple holding hands, a young man with what appeared to be an old dog and an old one with a puppy; the puppy wouldn’t walk in a straight line but pranced and frolicked on the sidewalk.

The moon, full and golden, rose slowly over the low brick and brownstone buildings.

“Is that a harvest moon?” Delia asked. “Or a strawberry moon?” The cake was delicious, moist and sweet. She hadn’t even known she liked coconut cake.

“I don’t know my moons,” said George. “But I know about the stars, constellations and all. Though of course you can’t see them here.”

“Stars,” Delia mused. “Where did you learn about them?”

“All over. We went camping a lot.”

“Your family?”

“My cousins. We were close as kids. We still are.”

“So you’re an only child—like me.”

“I had two brothers—twins, actually. They were killed, along with my father, in a car accident. That was a long time ago. For years, it was just my mother and me.”

Scratch at the surface of any life, Delia thought, any life at all, and you’ll find the loss that lies beneath it.

Sometimes it was right there; sometimes it was buried deep.

Nothing surprising about that. What was surprising, though, was George’s response to that loss: sad, but not broken.

Accepting, but not beaten down. Delia licked the tines of her fork and set her empty plate down beside her.

She thought of the losses she’d endured; could she say she’d handled them as well?

“What about you?” he asked. “Your mother—I never saw her here at all.”

“She stayed in France. We thought she’d been killed during the war, but that turned out not to be true. She’s living in Israel.”

“You said you went to Israel—to see her?”

“Yes.” That was all Delia was going to say about it, at least right now.

George seemed to understand that because he took a forkful of cake and said, “I’m going to learn to make this. Expand my repertoire.” He smiled at her. “Maybe that sounds silly, but I like to give myself goals, even small ones.”

“That’s not silly at all. What other goals have you set for yourself?”

“Well, after tonight, I think opening a bookstore might be one of them. Also, I want to learn French.”

“French? Why?”

“Why not? You speak French, don’t you? My mother said you and your parents lived in Paris.”

“We did.”

“I’ve never been there, but I’d love to go, and if I do, I want to be able to talk to people. And I like the sound of it—subtle, murmuring even. Like someone’s telling you a secret. Not harsh, like German.”

“You were in Germany.” She didn’t need to ask.

“I was. For a few months. It’s not a happy memory.”

She waited, looking up at the sky. A cloud was passing the moon, obscuring its light. When he still didn’t say anything more, she asked, “Do you want to tell me about it? Because if you do, I’d like to hear.”

His gaze searched her face as if he was trying to decide whether or not to say more.

“It was near the end of the war. April, late in the month,” he said.

“We’d already won, we knew it, we were sure of it.

It was just a matter of time. We were out in the country, not in the cities that were being bombed.

The country seemed peaceful, even safe by comparison.

We saw a small band of German soldiers coming toward us, and they didn’t even stay to fight—they just scattered and ran away. Ran away!”