26 #2
I grabbed the plastic tablecloth we used for that. Dante spread it out on the table and asked Bento to pick out the papers. The two of them were already busy when I went to the bedroom to get my jacket.
I came back wanting to say I could postpone the appointments. The counter wasn’t going to walk out of the shop. The estimate could wait. I knew every line that would make it sound as if I needed to stay.
I glanced at my watch.
“I’m leaving.”
Bento came over to give me a kiss. He squeezed the collar of my blouse for a moment.
“After lunch?”
“Yeah. I’ll be back after lunch.”
He let go of me.
In the hallway, I waited to hear something through the door—crying, a call, maybe the start of a reason to come back.
I heard Dante ask which color they should use first.
I walked to the elevator.
***
The counter I wanted had a fitting that wouldn’t work in the space I had.
I figured that out in less than ten minutes, standing in front of a piece I’d already imagined in my kitchen at least twenty times. The salesperson showed me the difference and suggested a simpler alternative. I asked about cleaning, height, and delivery time. I jotted down the answers.
My phone stayed inside my purse.
My awareness of it was almost physical. When a phone vibrated in someone else’s bag, my hand moved before I noticed.
On the second visit, I opened the photos of the space and showed the measurements.
The conversation shifted from having a bigger kitchen to where two people could work without getting in each other’s way.
I left with some questions answered and others to pass on to the person who would do the on-site assessment. No purchase order was signed.
Only then did I check my phone.
There was a message from Dante, sent a few minutes earlier.
“We painted. He asked about you, and I reminded him you’ll be back after lunch. We’re going to heat up the food now.”
I read the message twice, standing by the door.
I replied that the visits were over and that I’d arrive on time.
There were still forty minutes to go.
I walked past a café and stopped.
I could go back early, surprise the two of them before they finished their meal, and regain control of the situation. Instead, I ordered a coffee and sat by the window. I took my notes out of my purse, checked two measurements, and then put them away.
I stared out at the street.
There was a strange joy in that pause, mixed with the urge to cry. I’d left Bento with my mother many times before. Marina also took care of him when we arranged it. This was different because the person with him was the man whose absence had shaped so many of my decisions.
I drank the rest before it got cold.
When the cup was empty, I paid and went home.
***
I heard Bento laughing before I opened the door.
He was at the table, talking about a blue stain. Dante held a cloth, his T-shirt marked near the waist. Two plates sat in the sink, and a large sheet of paper was drying on the plastic tablecloth.
“Mom!”
My son climbed down from the chair and came running. I crouched to greet him. The front of his hair was a little damp, probably from his hands, and traces of paint lingered around his fingernails.
“You came back later,” he said.
“After lunch. Just like we agreed.”
He pointed to the table.
“Dante drew a potato.”
I looked at the painting.
“It was supposed to be a dog,” Dante explained.
Bento started laughing again.
I tried to find a dog in the brown shape and four lines. I couldn’t.
“It has promise as a potato,” I said.
Dante made an offended face that didn’t last long.
The three of us laughed.
Then Bento wanted to show me the part he’d done on his own.
I listened to his explanation, put away my bag, and went to wash my hands.
The house looked familiar. A dishcloth was drying near the sink, the books had been moved, and lunch was almost entirely put away.
Nothing seemed prepared for an inspection.
That put my mind at ease.
“Did he eat?” I asked Dante while Bento looked for another drawing.
“He ate the rice and beans. He left some of the chicken. He said he was full and then asked for fruit.”
I smiled.
“It happens.”
“I figured. I gave him the fruit you’d set aside.”
He rinsed the dishcloth and hung it up.
“He asked about you twice. The second time, we went over what we still had to do before you got back.”
I nodded. I wanted to know that. He’d missed me a little, and managed. Someone else had answered him. The morning had gone on.
“Thank you.”
Dante looked at me.
“I enjoyed spending time with him.”
I believed him. I could see it in the way he still listened to the sounds from the bedroom, alert for a call that might come.
I looked at the stain on his T-shirt.
“I think it’ll wash out.”
“If it doesn’t, I’ll wear it next time we paint.”
I looked at the stain again. I tried to imagine the T-shirt after another morning like that.
He gathered his things. Bento came to say goodbye, explained where he’d leave the painting to dry, and asked Dante not to take it without letting him see. Dante promised to leave it there.
At the door, I hesitated.
I wanted to tell him about my appointments, show him the fitting that wouldn’t work, laugh at how sure I’d been a counter would fit just because I liked it. I wanted to keep talking without having to invent something Bento needed.
“I managed to clear up a lot of things about the kitchen,” I said.
Dante stopped.
“That’s good. Did you find what you were looking for?”
“I found what doesn’t fit. That’s already helpful.”
He smiled.
I told him a little about it. He listened, asked a question about the layout, and didn’t turn the problem into a purchase he could make for me. We stood there talking for a few minutes, with the door open and the sound of Bento putting away pencils in the background.
When Dante left, I still felt like talking.
I closed the door slowly, without trying to decide right then what I would do about it.