Upstander by James Preller (free ereaders .TXT) 📕

She wrapped the chain loosely around the seat pole and rolled the bike out of the rack. He was still there, watching.

“That’s a nice bicycle, Mary. Is it new?”

He knew her name. Okay, that was unexpected.

“I borrowed it from a friend,” she answered.

Officer Goldsworthy nodded. “That’s a nice friend.”

A short laugh leaped from Mary’s throat. “Not really.”

He laughed, too, and asked, “How’s your brother doing?”

Oh hell, not now. Mary wasn’t up for this. She snapped on the strap of the bicycle helmet. “He’s…”

And that’s all her mouth could manage. Her vocal cords glitched. The words wouldn’t come.

“I’m sorry,” the officer said. “I’ll leave you alone. Maybe we’ll talk another time.” He turned to step away and stopped himself. He loitered for a few seconds, nodding, looking off at the clouds. “I’m rooting for him. You tell Jonny that for me. I’m rooting for all of you.”

“You know him?”

“I do,” Officer Goldsworthy said, stepping closer. “I remember Jonny when he went here. We talked sometimes. I played football for Clemson, back when I had two good knees. Jonny liked asking me about that. And I’ve seen him since.”

Mary looked at the man. Without thinking, she blurted, “Some jerk called him a junkie today. That’s why I was crying.”

The man took that in, gave it some thought.

“Is that what you call him?” he asked.

Mary shook her head. “He’s my brother.”

Officer Goldsworthy scratched the side of his face. He wore a big, gold ring. “At the force, we’re trying to get away from that kind of language. It’s degrading and demeaning. Junkie. Druggie. Crackhead. Addict. It dehumanizes the victims of this disease.”

Mary listened, swallowed. Her throat felt dry.

“There’s too much blame and not enough compassion,” the man said. “I don’t think calling people names helps us face the problem, do you?”

Mary’s eyes supplied him with her answer.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to preach,” he said. “That’s something I got from my father, the good Reverend Goldsworthy. But this is an issue I care about a great deal. We see a lot of it around here, more than you’d expect. The EMTs, you don’t want to hear their stories. It’s the hidden disease. People don’t like to talk about it. The shame and the suffering. We’ve lost too many lives already.”

Mary didn’t speak. There wasn’t anything to say.

And then, in parting, the man offered up five simple words, like a priest at the altar in a high-ceilinged church: “Your brother’s a good kid.”

Mary watched him walk toward the front doors, feeling the echo of his words reverberate in her chest. He was, she thought. Maybe he always will be. Mary pushed the bike back into the rack, left it unlocked, dumped the helmet on the ground, and walked home. She’d never ride that bike again. Three days later, it was gone.

28[paella]

Ernesto had been spending more time at the house, which didn’t bother Mary. He did something subtle that Mary observed but couldn’t quite figure out. Her mom was happier, lighter, but that wasn’t it. Everything just went smoother, like in science when she experimented with friction and gravity. Mary recalled sliding blocks of wood down a ramp. Each identical block was covered with different surfaces: aluminum foil, ordinary wood, and sandpaper. The aluminum foil slid down easily, the regular block came next, while the sandpaper required a lot more gravity.

Ernesto, she realized, was aluminum foil.

Less friction.

He cooked that night for the first time in their house, and Mary helped. It was fun. They made a traditional paella dish that Ernesto said he learned from his grandmother, who immigrated from Spain long ago.

“First a sprinkle of salt into the pan, then the olive oil,” Ernesto instructed. He prepared the chicken—which was gross, not Mary’s thing—and had Mary fry it in the pan. When the chicken was almost ready, he asked her to open space in the middle of the pan for the vegetables, lima beans, and other greens. With flair, Ernesto added the seasonings. “I never measure,” he said, scoffing at the thought. “A good cook does it by taste.” He threw in sweet paprika and grated tomato and garlic. Mary stirred it all together, breathing in the rich aroma. Ernesto poured in chicken stock and two pinches of saffron, bringing it all to a boil.

“I didn’t know you knew how to cook,” Mary said.

“Ah, this is simple. I’ve lived alone many years. Look at my belly—I do okay, no? But today I miss my pots and pans. A good cook wants an iron skillet, Mary, not this fake Teflon stuff. It flakes off, you die, cancer, boom. What good is that? And these flimsy knives,” he said, making a face, “very sad.”

Mary’s mother, laughing from a seat at the table, said, “You should bring your knives here, if mine make you want to cry.”

Ernesto turned to her, “If you’d like.”

It felt to Mary like she was witnessing a moment. They were talking about knives, but it was bigger than that. A merging of cutlery, of lives. “What now?” she asked.

“The rice!” Ernesto exclaimed. He poured it into the pan. “No more stirring, Mary. Give your arm a rest. Now we let it cook. You can set the table, if you don’t mind. And pour your splendid mother more wine.” Ernesto adjusted the flame to a simmer with painstaking precision.

“Pay attention, Mary. I like the rice to be a little burnt, sticking to the bottom of the pan,” he said, a trick his grandmother had taught him. “Some lemon and—perfection!”

The meal was a happy one, and delicious. They didn’t talk about Jonny. And Mary noticed that her mother never once checked her phone.

“But what a mess you’ve made of my kitchen!” Mary’s mother teased.

“No, no, you sit,” Ernesto said when the meal was finished. “I actually like to clean.”

Mrs. O’Malley looked at Mary, raising her eyebrows and flashing a discreet thumbs-up. Mary grinned. “Mom, maybe you should show Ernesto where we keep the vacuum.”

Later, snuggling together on the living room couch, Mary told