57
Griff
“Can you teach me how to make choux pastry, Griff?” Scotty lies on his stomach, kicking absently in the air as he flips through
my old cookbook, his face lit up like he’s reading a thriller instead of a list of French desserts. His landscaping work has
slowed, and he visits most weekdays for secret cooking theory tuition, filling what would otherwise be a torturous Monday-to-Friday
stretch of wall-staring, midday television, creamed corn, and being congratulated for using a spoon.
“Ooh! And do you reckon we could make chicken paté now? I’ve always wanted to try!” he adds enthusiastically.
My body goes cold. “No,” I say too loudly.
Scotty’s face sinks.
“But the pastry? Definitely. We could even make some éclairs for afternoon tea this weekend. The residents would love it.”
He grins and bookmarks the page, like I used to.
We finish planning the weekend menu, and I’m impressed by his suggestions. I jump onto the supermarket app and organize the
delivery—now straight to his house at a reasonable hour, saving me the hassle of midnight capers.
That night we sit on the couch and fire up the telly.
I haven’t watched anything with someone else since Beau.
Back then, we’d stay up past midnight, giggling at some comedy, the jokes carrying over into the next day with just a glance.
Later, when he got sick, I’d turn to share a chuckle and find him staring blankly at the screen, or asleep.
Laughter isn’t the same when you’re laughing alone.
Scotty grabs the remote, scrolling the streaming services. To my horror, he hasn’t seen either of the Avatar movies. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to handle them again. But I can’t let this travesty slide.
As the music starts, my grief takes hold. But when I look over and see Scotty’s youthful, animated face, the sadness begins
to dissipate, and I can actually enjoy the movies.
For a second, I see Beau sitting with us, not staring vacantly or sleeping but mesmerized like he used to be.
It’s one in the morning when the credits roll.
“You know you don’t have to sit around with an old codger on a Thursday night. I’m sure you have much better things to do
with your mates,” I say.
Scotty packs up his bag and slides open the window—a convenient exit when he doesn’t want to risk being caught after visiting
hours. “Nah, I just have one mate.”
“Oh yeah, what’s he like?”
Scotty scratches his chin. “Hmmm. I’d say he’s a bit of a pineapple.”
“A pineapple?”
“Yeah, spiky on the outside but sweet in the middle.” He jumps nimbly over the windowsill onto the grass. “Griff?”
“Yeah, mate?”
“It’s you. You’re the pineapple.”