William arrived shortly after I did. He was still carrying his wooden cane with the curved handle, which he would occasionally swing in a half arc. He didn’t seem to need it to balance his weight, but it lent him the jaunty air of a man on the move. Judging from his three-piece suit and the shine on his wingtips, I was guessing he’d just returned from a funeral. I expected an outpouring of gossip and information, the sort of inside dope that only an inquisitive chap like William can elicit from total strangers in their hour of grief. Instead, he greeted me with a fistful of pamphlets he’d received from Mr. Sharonson.
“What’s this?” I asked when he’d pressed one in my hand.
“Pre-need funeral arrangements. Take a look,” he said.
Once I heard the term, I couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it himself. I gave the information a cursory look while he took out a second pamphlet and opened it. “Just listen to this. ‘Preplanning a funeral allows you to determine the type of service and disposition you’ve always dreamed of. You have time to consider important details and to discuss them with your loved ones. Preplanning spares your survivors the uncertainty of last-minute decisions that may or may not be in keeping with your most cherished beliefs.’ I can’t wait to tell Rosie. She’ll be thrilled.”
“No, she won’t,” I said promptly. “Would you listen to yourself? She’s bossy. She likes to be in control. If you died, she’d be in her element. She’d have Mr. Sharonson in tears, trying to please and appease her. Surely you don’t propose to spoil the moment for her.”
He frowned. “That can’t be true. Are you sure? Because this says ‘Your loved ones can rest assured that the distress of this deeply personal moment has been minimized by your lingering consideration.’”
“Which is the same as taking all the fun out of it for her. Look at it from her perspective. She’s opinionated and overbearing. She’d love nothing better than to tangle with Mr. Sharonson over every everlasting detail.”
“What if we worked on it together?”
“And spoil the current peace? I thought you and Rosie were getting along so well.”
“We are.”
“Then why mess it up? Take my word for it. You bring up the topic, Rosie will have a fit.”
“But it makes so much sense. You think she’d be pleased.”
Rosie used one ample hip to push open the swinging door and emerged from the kitchen with a plate piled with fried potatoes, which she fed to the local drunks in hopes of offsetting the worst effects of alcohol consumption. In one smooth motion, William took the pamphlet from my hand and slid the lot of them into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. Returning, Rosie took one look at him and came to a halt. Her sharp gaze moved from his face to mine.
“Wot?”
He must have guessed that if he said ‘Nothing’ it would be all over for him. She’d know he was getting into trouble of some kind. I stepped into the gap. “I was just asking what smelled so good. He said you were working on a dinner special, but he wasn’t sure what it was called.”
“Kocsonya. I cook yesterday and is chillink as we speak.”
I said, “Ah.”
“You puts any five Hungarian womens together and you gonna have argument about who cooks the best kocsonya. Makes no mistake. Is me and I give you Rosie’s secret family kocsonya recipe. Hev a seat and I’ll dictate.”
I took a chair at the nearest table and dutifully dug into my bag. I pulled out a pen and an envelope, which I noticed was my unpaid electric bill. I put that aside and grabbed my spiral-bound notebook.
Rosie was already impatient to get on with it. “You no writing.”
“You haven’t said anything yet. I’m getting myself set.”
“I’m wait.”
“Is this like a regional specialty?”
“Absolutely. Is whatever you say. Years I’m working on my recipe and is finally perfect.”
“What did you say it was?”
“Kocsonya? Is jell… how you say it…”
“Jellied pig feet,” William supplied.
Wincing, I lifted my pen from the paper. “Uh, you know, Rosie, I’m really not much of a cook.”
“I’m telling you wot to do. Exactly wot I say. Okay so you puts in one pig ear, one tail, and one jowl. Plus one fresh pig’s knuckle cut in half, plus one pig’s foot. I sometimes put two. Slowly bring boil and keep over low fire one hour. Then is adding…”
She was going on. I could see her mouth move, but I was wholly distracted by the picture she’d painted of pig parts-not even the good ones-simmering in water. She stopped midsentence and pointed at my paper.
“Put down about froth,” she said.
“Frost?”
“Froth. Is skimming froth like gray fat scum. No wonder you can’t cook. You no listen.”
By the time she finished telling me how tender the feet should be when I put them in a serving dish, my eyes were beginning to cross. When she went on to describe the side dish she was serving-pasta filled with calf’s lung-I thought I’d have to put my head down between my knees. Meanwhile, William had backed away from us and he was now busy behind the bar.
Rosie excused herself and returned to the kitchen. This was the only chance I’d have to get away. As I reached for my shoulder bag, she burst back into the bar with a dish of cold jellied pork and a soup bowl filled with what looked like ravioli filled with dark clots. She put the two dishes down in front of me and wiggled in place, hands clasped under her apron. The ravioli was surrounded by a clear broth, and the steam coming off the surface smelled like burning hair.
I stared. “I’m at a loss for words.”
“You try. I’m seeing how you like.”
What was I to do? I retrieved a modest spoonful of broth. I raised it to my lips and made a slurping sound, saying, “Oh, boy. It’s perfect with this wine.”
She might have pressed me for more since she favors detailed compliments that abound in adjectives. Happily, a number of patrons had drifted in and Rosie had responsibilities in the kitchen. As soon as the swinging door closed behind her, I picked up my shoulder bag and rescued my wallet from the depths. I left a generous sum of money on the table and eased out the door. Later I’d think of a compelling story to cover my hasty exit. I didn’t think imminent upchucking would be considered a compliment. For now, it was enough that I escaped without having to eat anything.
On the street again, I had to control the urge to break into a run. It wasn’t fully dark, but the neighborhood was gloomy under trees just beginning to leaf out. I paused at the curb and waited for a car to pass. The car windows were down and the driver had the music turned up so loudly, the car seemed to pulsate. I crossed at the corner and continued the half block to my apartment, walking on the opposite side of the street. A pale blue sedan was idling in Henry’s driveway, and as I watched, two men emerged from the backyard and got in, one into the backseat and the other, the passenger-side seat. The driver backed into the street and drove away. The car turned at the corner onto Bay and disappeared.
What were two strangers doing in Henry’s backyard? His station wagon was in the drive where I’d parked it. His house lights were on. The lights in my studio were out. I hesitated, heart thumping. When I’d left for supper the sky was still light, but I’d realized I’d be returning home after dark so I’d turned on the desk lamp. I retraced my steps and returned to the intersection where Rosie’s Tavern sits. This time, I kept to the side street and continued as far as the alleyway that runs along Henry’s rear property line. On more than one occasion, I’d used this approach, which allowed me to slip through the shrubs that envelop the fence behind his garage. By pushing the chicken wire away from the support post, I could slip into the backyard unseen.