She arranged the lunch on her doily. “I have a thermos bottle with cream of tomato soup, ” she said. “And a lobster-salad sandwich on thin slices of white bread. I have celery, carrot sticks and black olives, and a little cardboard shaker of salt for the celery. And two plums and a tiny basket of cherries. And vanilla pudding with chocolate sprinkles and a spoon to eat it with.”
“That’s a good lunch,” said Albert…
And she made the lobster-salad sandwich, the celery, and the carrots and the olives come out even.
He glanced over to her. It was rare for her to fall asleep before the end of a story; but her eyes had closed, her long eye lashes drawn like a shade on her soft cheeks.
There would be no scritches, rubs and pats to complete their nightly ritual… sleep had been too powerful to overcome.
She had said that it was his turn to pick out a story… and without hesitation he had chosen Bread and Jam for Frances. He loved all of the Frances stories by Russell Hoban… and he loved the accompanying drawings by Lillian Hoban, done in soft charcoal, tinted with colour. The stories of the little badger, her sister Gloria… and her friends, just put him in a good mood. After a long day at work, it was hard to tell who needed the comfort of good story more…
In telling the story, he would sometimes linger on a page if a drawing had a special allure. He would say that Frances’ expression reminded him of their Keeshond.
And then there would be a day when they got a new Keeshond and they would name her Gloria after Frances’ little sister. And all agreed that a puppy Keeshond did have a badger quality. And in particular, a Gloria quality.
These thoughts passed thru his mind one winters’ morning. Thoughts from long, long ago. The sun had struck clear, and there would have been a time that he would have found some reason to be outside to enjoy the cold crisp air of a Sunday morn… but now he preferred to remain inside…
The placement of his favorite chair had been carefully planned to take advantage of the sun that would come bursting thru the den’s southeast facing windows.
She would place the knitted afghan to cover his lap and legs once strong, now gone frail… and she smiled. A smile he returned. His mind carried him to the stair landing of his boyhood home… to a place that he would seek out for its sun… a perfect place for a morning nap. A place that he would share with the dogs… a perfect spot for a little boy and his two dogs to re-charge their batteries.
There was no dog by his side now. Instinctively he pivoted his head slightly so he could feel the sun flush on his face. If he could have stopped the sun’s path from traveling further to the west, and to another part of the room, he would have done so. He so wanted the sun to remain exactly where it was.
She had been busy all morning with her fledglings. You know how it is. Getting breakfast ready for small ones. Grabbing some coffee. Throwing a load of wash in. Answering some emails & after lunch she would be taking the kids to the pond to ice skate… lunch being somewhat of a challenge for her fussy eaters.
But before lunch she had a treat to share… as she herded the small ones into the den… and gathered by his chair, they listened as she read her story…
“What do you have today?” said Frances.
“I have a cream cheese-cucumber-and-tomato sandwich on rye bread,” said Albert. “And a pickle to go with it. And a hard-boiled egg and a little cardboard shaker of salt to go with that. And a thermos bottle of milk. And a bunch of grapes and a tangerine. And a cup custard and a spoon to eat it with”… Albert made the sandwich, the pickle, the egg, and the milk come out even.
And before she completed the story, she noticed that his eyes had closed. And while sleep did not draw him away, the sweetness of memory did.