Takata kept talking through dinner—how to pick a good car, how to choose a proper bed, how to stay married. Their meal was over, the food cleared away, leftover spaghetti and green beans stored in Takata’s container. He talked on, shuffling his feet beneath the table, occasionally rocking side to side.
The girls drifted out to the living room.
“It must be time for a smoke,” Slade said, by way of encouragement. Takata had been there for two hours.
For once, the old guy seemed uncomfortable. “I’m working on it.”
Slade blinked.
“Sometimes my joints freeze up and I can’t move. If I work them a bit, I can get moving again.”
“Does this happen often?”
“Don’t you worry about me. You have enough on your mind.”
“I didn’t say I was worried about you. I asked how frequently it happens.” Slade recalled how often he’d seen Takata sitting alone—on benches, at El Rosal, on his front porch.
“I have rheumatoid arthritis.” For once, he sounded defeated. “It happens every day, several times a day. Joints freeze up, hurts like hell for thirty minutes or so.”
Slade felt a corresponding cold inside. “Is that why you sit outside at night? Because you can’t move?”
Takata swelled up like a threatened puffer fish. “Why is it that just because a man is old, people think he can’t take care of himself?”
Slade reached for the patience he knew his mother would recommend in this moment. He reached and reached, but it was hard to grasp when the old man had butted into his life and was scowling at Slade—at Slade—as if he’d done something wrong. “We aren’t on the same wavelength. I haven’t made any judgments about you. I’m just asking about your condition.”
“Well, I’ll tell you, it hurts,” he stated flat-out. “How long and how many times a day it hurts is none of your business.”
If Slade had been the kind of person to argue with senior citizens, now would have been the time.
“But I appreciate your concern. And I’m not too proud to accept help, as long as you don’t rub it in or tell me I need to go live in a home.”
Right. Slade stood. “Can I help you up?”
Takata grumbled his agreement.
Slade came to one side of the old man’s chair, but nothing with Takata was ever straightforward and simple.
“Now, once I’m up, I’ll take my cane in my right hand, and if you could steady me on the left side...”
Together, they got him to standing.
“Ah, still stiff. Could you walk me to the door?” And when they reached the door, he asked, “Could you walk me down the stairs?”
And so it went. Slade walked him slowly home and into his house, wondering how he was going to watch out for the old man and simultaneously keep his distance, worrying over who’d watch out for Takata when Slade finally left town.
“When was the last time you had the windows open in here?” Now Slade knew how Christine had felt coming into his house. The shutters in Takata’s one-story ranch were closed, presumably to keep out the hot sun. But the windows were shut tight, as well. The house smelled of old man, soiled laundry, and rotten garbage.