Chapter 40
Marin
The casserole is still warm.
I carry it downstairs to the basement with a glass of water and two ibuprofen. Charles is sitting against the iron column, wrists cuffed around it, looking at me with the quiet fury of a man who is trying very hard to maintain dignity on a concrete floor.
“Dinner,” I say, setting the plate beside him.
“From?”
“A neighbor. She made it for you.”
“A neighbor made a casserole for a man she’s never met.”
“She thinks you’re dying, Charles. People bring food when you’re dying. It’s a whole thing out here.”
He looks at the casserole. Looks at the basement. Looks at me.
“I’m eating on a floor.”
“You pissed the bed. Four times. Remember?”
He doesn’t argue. He eats. Slowly at first, then faster. He’s hungrier than he wants to admit.
“I’m going out tonight,” I say. Casual. Checking my phone.
His fork stops. “Out?”
“Dinner. With Luke.”
“With the handyman.”
“With Luke.”
Silence. He chews. Swallows. Sets the fork down.
“You’re going to dinner with the handyman while I sit in a basement eating casserole off a concrete floor.”
“It’s not a date. It’s a work dinner. We’re discussing the renovations.”
“The renovations.” He laughs. Short. Hollow. “Which renovations, Marin? The ones where you soundproofed a basement? The ones where you plan to bolt restraints to a wall?”
“The house has a lot of needs, Charles.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re eating Mrs. Mather’s chicken and rice on a basement floor. So maybe save the moral high ground for someone who isn’t sitting in it.”
I take the plate. He’s finished most of it. I leave the water. Leave the ibuprofen.
“I’ll check on you when I get back,” I say.
“Don’t hurry on my account.”
I close the basement door. Stand at the top of the stairs.
The prayer beads are still on the kitchen counter. I pick them up. Turn them over in my hand.
Mrs. Mather thinks they’ll bring Charles peace.
I just brought him something worse.
Doubt.