Page 69 of The Husband I Left

“I burned dinner,” I say, gesturing vaguely toward my apartment. “Again.”

“Jesus, kid. How the hell do you keep managing that?” He steps back from the door and waves me in. “Come on in while I get the fan. Don’t touch anything.”

His apartment is exactly what you’d expect from an elderly man who’s lived alone for God knows how long. The furniture is worn. A game show plays on an ancient television. Framed photographs cover every available surface, most of them featuring Mr. Hill and a woman with a kind smile who I’ve never seen before.

“That’s Janice,” Mr. Hill says, noticing where I’m looking. He’s rummaging through a closet in the hallway, his voice muffled. “My wife. Passed five years ago. Cancer.”

“I’m sorry,” I say automatically.

“Don’t be. She had a good run.” He emerges from the closet with the fan.

“You know, the only other person I’ve known who burned food as often as you do was Janice herself.”

He lets out a cackle at that, delight transforming his face.

“That woman could burn water, I swear to God. Fifty years we were married, and she never once managed to cook a meal that didn’t have at least one element charred beyond recognition.” He sets the fan down and folds his arms, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “That’s why I did the cooking. Every night for fifty years. She’d try sometimes, God love her, but I’d always find some excuse to take over.”

The warmth in his voice when he talks about her makes my chest ache.

“Anyway,” Mr. Hill says, picking up the fan. “Here you go. Try not to burn the whole building down next time.”

“Thank you,” I say, taking it from him. “I really appreciate—”

“I made cabbage rolls,” he interrupts, nodding toward the kitchen. “Since you burned your dinner, maybe you’d like to join me for mine. Got plenty.”

The offer catches me completely off guard. My instinct is to decline politely. I have things to do. I need to clean up the mess in my apartment. I need to plan my next move with Genny. I need to—

Mr Hill must see the hesitation on my face because he’s already waving a hand. “No worries if you’re busy. Just a passing thought.”

I watch his eyes drop to the floor and his shoulders deflate slightly and it hits me suddenly that this man, who talks about his dead wife with more tenderness than I ever managed to show my living one, isn’t offering me cabbage rolls just to be nice. He’s offering me cabbage rolls because he doesn’t want to eat alone.

“I’d love to eat with you,” I say. “Let me just go set this fan up to air out my place, and I’ll be right back.”

Surprise flickers across Mr Hill’s face, but he only nods. “Take your time. They’ll keep.”

It’s the best meal I’ve had in months. Maybe years.

I’ve eaten in restaurants with Michelin stars and tasting menus that cost more than most people’s monthly rent. None of it compares to sitting at Mr. Hill’s kitchen table, eating cabbage rolls off a chipped plate, while an old man tells me stories about his wife.

“Janice used to sing while she washed the dishes,” Mr. Hill says, pushing another serving onto my plate before I can protest. “Terrible voice. Absolutely awful. Sounded like a cat being strangled. But she’d belt out those old show tunes like she was on Broadway, and I’d sit right there where you’re sitting and pretend to read the paper while secretly watching her.”

He takes a sip of his coffee, and his eyes go distant with memory. “Fifty years of that woman singing off-key in my kitchen, and I miss it every damn day.”

“Fifty years is a long time,” I say, because I can’t think of anything smarter.

“Not long enough,” Mr. Hill replies, and the conversation lulls into a comfortable silence broken only by the sounds of the television in the living room.

“What would you have done,” I ask, my voice quieter than I intended, “if you’d done something to make Janice angry? Really angry. Something that made her wonder if she should stay.”

Mr. Hill doesn’t look surprised by the question. He just regards me with those keen old eyes, as if he’s been waiting for me to ask.

“Depends on how angry,” he says. “If it was just a regular mad, I’d bring her flowers. Tulips. She loved tulips. If it was a serious mad, the kind where she wasn’t speaking to me…” He pauses, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I’d make her Pacziki.”

“Pacziki?”

“My grandmother’s recipe. Janice never could stay grumpy with me when I made her Pacziki.” He chuckles, the sound warm and full. “She’d try, God love her. She’d sit there with her arms crossed, giving me the silent treatment, and I’d slide a plate of those donuts in front of her, still warm, and she’d hold out for maybe thirty seconds before caving.”

My chest aches at the thought of a life built on small kindnesses and inside jokes, and understanding. The kind of life I could have had with Genny if I’d been a better man.