Customers continued to arrive in a steady stream right through the noon hour. Finally about two-thirty, business slacked off to a more normal flow that Neil’s two sales clerks, Jimmy Boudreaux and Peewee Oliver, could easily handle.
“You eat lunch yet, Boss?” asked Peewee, an African-American man in his late twenties whose nickname certainly didn’t describe his muscular build.
Cara had just come out of the office. She answered for Neil. “No, he hasn’t eaten.” She spoke to Neil, “I ordered you a roast beef po’boy earlier. It’s in the refrigerator.”
“Thanks,” Neil said, smiling his appreciation. “That was sweet of you.”
“Somebody has to see that you don’t go hungry now that your mom and dad have moved away to Florida. I’ll bet you skip at least one meal a day,” she chided him.
Neil couldn’t honestly deny her accusation. If eating wasn’t convenient, he could easily skip a meal. He’d regained some enjoyment of food during the last three years since he’d lost his wife and small son and his whole world had disintegrated, but food would never taste as good as it had when he’d been a happily married man with a family. None of life’s rewards would ever be the same again. That was something he accepted.
At least the terrible grief had softened with time into sadness. The key to surviving tragedy, he’d discovered, was keeping busy and not thinking a lot about himself.
“Hey, skipping a few meals doesn’t hurt me,” he declared, gesturing toward his tall, lanky frame. “It’s my diet plan.”
Cara made a batting motion with her hand. “Diet plan. You could eat a million calories a day and not gain a pound. All I have to do is take one bite of a rich dessert and the scales jump five pounds.”
“You worry too much about your weight.”
“If I don’t, I’ll end up wearing the same large sizes as my three sisters.”
“Their husbands don’t complain, do they?” Neil draped his arm around her shoulders and gave her a brotherly hug. “Come and share my po’boy. You probably had a salad for lunch that didn’t even satisfy your hunger pains.”
She sighed, walking along with him toward the small room that served as an employees’ lounge. “I did. And I’m starving. The salad had that nasty nonfat so-called Italian dressing on it.” She shuddered. “No self-respecting Italian that I know would make a dressing without real olive oil.”
Neil grinned at her expressiveness.
At the door of the lounge, Cara came to a standstill. “I’d better get back to work.”
“Take a break and keep me company,” Neil urged. “We haven’t had a chance to chat today.” He hadn’t forgotten that she’d been crying earlier, and he was still concerned about the reason.
“Okay, but I can’t promise I’ll be very cheerful,” she said, relenting.
“Why not? Are you feeling depressed about your grandmother’s health?”
Cara nodded, blinking hard to hold back tears that suddenly welled up in her eyes. Neil gently drew her inside the lounge and pulled out a chair at the table while he lectured in a sympathetic tone, “We’ve already talked about this. Sophia is a very religious woman. She’s not afraid of death. She’s even looking forward to being reunited with deceased loved ones in Heaven.”
“I know all that.”
Cara resisted letting him seat her. “You sit down,” she said. “I’ll get your po’boy for you. What would you like to drink?”
“I can wait on myself. You don’t need to serve me.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Sit.”
Neil was already on his way to the refrigerator. He was more interested in getting to the bottom of her unhappiness than he was in having his lunch, but he figured he might as well humor her. After retrieving the sandwich loaf, he unwrapped it on the counter and used a kitchen knife to cut each half loaf into quarters. Then he transferred the po’boy over to the table, the white butcher paper doubling as a plate. Before he sat down across from Cara, he got each of them a canned drink from the refrigerator, a diet cola for her and an iced tea for himself.
“Help yourself,” he offered and bit into crusty French bread.
“I shouldn’t.”
“Sure tastes good. If you take the edge off your appetite, you can eat a light supper.”
“That’s true. And, darn it, I’m starving.” She picked up a sandwich section and began to eat it, obviously relishing the taste of roast beef and provolone cheese. Still, her expression remained downcast, Neil noticed with compassion.
“Back to our conversation about Sophia,” he said when she’d dusted the crumbs off her fingers and sat back. Going on past experience, he knew that pouring out her thoughts and feelings to him would be therapeutic. “Is she going downhill faster than the doctor told the family she would?” Several months ago, the oncologist in charge of Sophia’s care had given a life-expectancy range of eight months to a year. Sophia had opted not to subject herself to chemotherapy when she was diagnosed with lymphoma.
“No.” Cara’s voice broke, and tears spilled down her cheeks. She wiped them away impatiently.
“Something happened since yesterday. Tell me about it. Maybe I can help.”
“You can’t help.” She sniffled and pointed a forefinger toward the uneaten half of his po’boy as a reminder that he should keep eating. Neil dutifully picked up another sandwich quarter to pacify her. Cara filled him in without any more prodding. “This morning I stopped off at my parents’ house on the way here to spend a few minutes with Nonna, like I do several mornings a week.” Neil nodded, familiar with her routine. He didn’t need her to explain that nonna was Italian for grandmother.
Cara went on, “I let myself in through the back door and went straight to Nonna’s bedroom, figuring I’d poke my head in the kitchen and say hi to Mamma on my way out. The door to Nonna’s bedroom was open and I heard Mamma’s voice and Nonna’s voice. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but before I could call out, I started listening to their conversation. Nonna was telling Mamma that she’d dreamed I’d gotten married. She described my wedding gown and the dresses my attendants wore. She described the flowers in the church. Neil, you should have heard Nonna’s voice. She sounded so happy, recalling every detail of her dream.” Cara bit into her quivering bottom lip and wiped away two more huge tears.
“Go on,” he prompted gently, getting the picture now, but wanting to let her finish out her explanation.
“Then she and my mom talked about the fact that I’m twenty-nine years old and not even engaged to be married. Nonna said if only her dream had been real, she could die without a single regret. Her main reason for trying to hang on was wishing she could see me settled down with a good husband.”
“You poor kid. What a guilt trip.” Neil’s warm sympathy was mixed with exasperation. “That family of yours mean well, but they’ve been putting pressure on you to find a husband since you were twenty years old.”
