Chapter 4

Roberto

When the news was over they went back into the kitchen, and Roberto leaned on the counter as Toni got a skillet out of the cabinet underneath. She took the package of sausage from the refrigerator and placed a dozen links in the skillet. "If that's too many we can have the rest later, for a snack."

Roberto blinked at that. She was implying things that he wasn't sure she intended, or even recognized. This wasn't like any meeting with a woman he'd ever experienced. The only woman who'd ever cooked him supper was his mother. The only woman who'd ever cared what he wanted to eat, or offered him snacks, was his mother. The women he was used to were as uninterested in domesticity as he was.

But this was different. Although he'd only seen the living room and the kitchen, the whole afternoon – and now evening – had a domestic feel that reminded him of home. In fact, he realized, it reminded him of how his parents were together. His father would help in the kitchen, or sit talking quietly with his mother, and they would touch each other – squeezes of the shoulder, touchings of their hands, a kiss on lips or cheek or hair. Toni had been touching him through the passage of the hours...

He reached out as she was putting the links into an orderly arrangement in the skillet, and briefly grasped her upper arm just below the shoulder. She turned and smiled at him, the gentleness of her face giving the smile a warmth that he found he loved. He said nothing, and after a few seconds let his hand drop again, as Toni returned her attention to her cooking. The sausages were beginning to sizzle just a little, and Toni reached up and turned on the hood light over the stove, to better see what she was doing – at least that's what Roberto assumed was her motive. In fact she could as easily have done it to accentuate her serene brown face, for that's exactly what it did.

How can she be so thin, and yet not skinny? he wondered. Her face was soft, not hollow cheeked. Her arms were, he'd seen as she washed the dishes, slender without being flabby or bony. He was sure her legs would be equally slim and strong, though the khaki pants she wore blurred the outlines until he could only guess. He knew, without seeing, that her stomach would be flat and smooth, and he imagined her navel, a startling brown dimple in the flatness.

And he stopped himself there. When he chose a woman at the Corner Bar, he did so after imagining how she would look unclothed. He tried to think, on those occasions, of how she would look bending over, of how she would look sitting or standing or lying down. He worked himself up to a high pitch, and then spent it hurriedly, the urgency of it having built up during the time over drinks and in constant flirtations.

He couldn't do that with Toni. He was sure that under her loose clothing she was exquisitely enticing, but he couldn't bring himself to consider that. In his mind she wore the same clothes she wore standing next to him, and even if he'd wanted to, he didn't think that he could have pictured her undressing.

She turned to him as the sausages cooked. "A penny for your thoughts."

"You don't want my thoughts, Toni. They're not exactly uplifting."

He had the sense that she knew, just then, exactly what thoughts he'd been having – and he was glad that he'd been unable to go as far with them as he usually could. But she just smiled and said, "Then I won't give you that penny."

"That's all right. A penny's not worth much these days. I don't even pick 'em up when I find 'em on the ground."

She laughed. "My parents taught me to pick up pennies. But these days, by the time you've picked up 100 of them, you've put in about a dollar and a half's worth of stooping."

"Ain't that the truth!" It was his first truly ungrammatical expression. For some reason Toni called forth his best English. He'd been speaking much more correctly here in her house than he'd done back at the bar.

"It is." She checked the sausages briefly. "It feels like it's going to be a cool night," she said, turning back to him. "Would you mind going into the bedroom and turning the heat on in there? Set it at about 50, at least for now."

"Sure. Where's the bedroom?"

"Down the hall, the only door on the left." And she smiled at the directions.

Roberto patted her shoulder as he left the kitchen. Down the hall, there was indeed only one door on the left. There was just one on the right, which was the short side of the hall, the living room extending in that direction; that door was, he saw, the bathroom.

The bedroom was nearly dark, for the sun had just set and there were heavy curtains over the windows. He turned on the light switch that was in its proper place by the door, and found the thermostat beside the closet door. He set it to 50 degrees, and heard the ticking as a baseboard heater began to warm up. He looked around the bedroom. I've been in bedrooms before. So why do I feel this time like I don't belong here?

It was, he realized, because always before, he and the woman had known, before they ever left the bar, what would happen. But here he was a guest, nothing more ... and nothing less, either. And, on top of that, Toni wasn't that kind of woman. He was sure of it. 'Vangeline's description – "a nice girl" – was the exact truth. His sense of discomfort increased, and he turned out the light and went back to the kitchen. He found Toni putting the grated potatoes into the skillet, on top of the sausages. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"I had a thought – I'm experimenting after all. I had originally intended to cook the sausages, and then cook the potatoes in the grease, but then it occurred to me to cook them together. The grease will still work for the potatoes, and they'll slow down the sausages' cooking. I'll put in a little paprika too, like we talked about, but I think a lot of seasoning will come from the sausages this way."

"That sounds pretty good." He was standing behind her, and a little to the side, and he tentatively put both his hands on her shoulders. When she didn't flinch or move away, he let his hands rest more firmly on her body. She was thin, all right. He nearly snatched his hands away then, with the feeling that he was now in possession of forbidden knowledge, but realized just in time that such a thing would probably offend her. He could imagine her thinking, What is so awful about me that he can't stand to touch me? He didn't know if she would think that – but he didn't want to give her any occasion to do so.

He leaned a little forward to look over her shoulder. He was conscious that, though only his hands touched her, just a few inches separated them. "It smells good," he said. "Do you like to cook?"

She smiled without turning her head. "I do. It's one of the ways I relax. I like doing things with my hands anyway – it's part of why I like my work. But it's just fun to cook, too."

He shook his head. "I don't know how to cook," he said, "and I never wanted to know. I like eating, but cooking never interested me."

Now she did turn her head, and they were so close that her head tilted far back to look into his eyes. "Is that a man thing?"

He laughed. "Maybe it is. I know my dad doesn't cook either."

She turned back to her skillet, and it seemed to Roberto that a slight flush crept up her cheeks. "My father doesn't cook either. But maybe I could teach you to cook, and to enjoy cooking..."