So Long, Chester Wheeler(41)

“To your health and sanity.”

We clinked glasses and then tipped them back and drained them.

It helped some. Whether it was the good wishes or the whiskey, I’m not sure. Probably both.

She picked up a bowl from the counter. It was a Blue Willow china pattern, and big enough that I was left unclear as to whether it was for serving or eating. She began ladling stew into it.

“You can take this out to him,” she said. “Oh, wait. I need to cut him a big hunk of bread. Chet loves his bread. But I need my bowl back.”

“Of course you need your bowl back. It’s a beautiful bowl.”

I took it from her and held it by the edges because it was hot.

I watched as she slipped on hot mitts and took the loaf out of the oven. She cut off an end piece that looked to be nearly a quarter of the thing. I waited while she balanced it on the rim of the bowl. Then she took a soupspoon out of a drawer and buried it in the stew.

“I need the spoon back, too.”

“You have my word,” I said. “I will be personally responsible for making sure you get your bowl and spoon back.”

She leaned in and patted me on the cheek in a motherly sort of way. It was unexpected, but not unwelcome.

“You I like,” she said.

I noted that she put a strong emphasis on the first word of the sentence.

“I’ll be right back,” I said. “With any luck.”

She opened the front door for me because I had no free hands. Then she followed me to the street, presumably to open the door of the Winnebago for me as well.

The evening was dusky, but still hot. The sky was steely blue and light behind a section of the mountains, which made them stand out in stunning relief.

“Nice of you to risk getting closer to your ex by helping,” I said quietly.

“Purely selfish. I don’t want my bowl getting broken.”

She reached out to open the side door of the Winnebago, but I stopped her.

“Wait,” I said.

“What?”

“Knock. He might be on the bedpan.”

“Oh, jeez,” she said.

She rapped on the door.

“Come on in, Lewis,” Chester’s booming voice called out to where we stood. “Coast is clear.”

The curtains on the Winnebago were still down, and she was able to open the door while staying behind it, where she couldn’t be seen from inside.

I made my way carefully up the steps and set the bowl down on the kitchen counter. When I crossed to the door again to close it, she was gone. In the mostly dark evening I could just barely see her stepping back up onto her porch.

I set up the portable table and served Chester his meal.

“So you didn’t really have to use the bedpan,” I said.

“No, I do. I just wanted to wait until I was really ready. You know. Till it was dying to come out. So I wouldn’t have to spend too much time sitting and pushing.”

“Holy crap, Chester.”

“What now?”

“TMI.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Too much information.”

“You’re such a cream puff. Did you get me another chance with her?”

“Not yet. We’ve barely started talking.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Not you,” I said.

And I let myself out.

He didn’t just let me go that easily, of course. He was jabbing at me with words the whole way, but I kept moving, and fortunately I could barely make them out.



“This is incredibly good,” I said. “I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in . . . I honestly can’t remember.”

We were eating in her tiny nook of a dining room, with taper candles in the middle of the table, and silverware that actually was silver.

“What have you been eating?”

“Sandwiches. Pizza. Anything cheap. Although . . . my friend Anna treated me to a couple of restaurant meals. I felt guilty that she was paying, so I just had pasta.”

“Restaurant pasta is not a home-cooked meal.”

“I suppose not,” I said. “But at least it’s cooked.”

I took another long sip of the whiskey. The combination of a lot of good protein followed by booze on a full stomach was changing the way I felt. Not making me feel any less tired, of course. But somehow I was starting to feel grounded and real in my exhaustion.

“Anna is your girlfriend?” she asked.

It didn’t really sound like a prying question. She seemed just to want to know more about me. I told her more about me.

“No, Anna’s not my girlfriend. Just a friend. I don’t have a girlfriend. I had a boyfriend, but he left unexpectedly.”

“You’re gay,” she said.

She sounded a little bit shocked, which shattered my sudden new calm.

“Yeah. Why. Does it matter to you?”

“Oh, hell no. Not me. I couldn’t care less one way or the other. I was just thinking . . . I figured it would matter to Chet.”

“Oh, it does.”

“He gives you a hard time about it.” It was a flat statement, not a question.

“Every chance he gets.”

“I’m not surprised.”