Brooklyn Secrets by Triss Stein Page B

applies if there is potential for romance. Otherwise it is just “dinner plans.”
    I love being condescended to by my fifteen-year-old. Though she had a point. I was having dinner—which I would bring—with my friend Leary, who is older than my father and is overweight, grouchy, and ill. At least half of his many ailments are lifestyle related, a subject he chooses, vehemently, not to discuss. At his request, I would bring spaghetti and meatballs, garlic bread, and wine. I sneaked some broccoli onto the menu and some ground turkey into the meatballs. Good thing Chris likes broccoli, because I knew I’d be bringing it home.
    Chris could come but she turned me down with homework as her excuse. She’s met Leary and though she won’t admit it, I think she finds him scary.
    I had his number now, though. I first met him doing research. He covered Brooklyn as a reporter, way back when, and I needed to know what he knew about a long-ago notorious landlord. It took a while to get his cooperation. A long while, and several meals. Now I know the belligerence disguises loneliness, though he’d throw me out if I ever said so. I don’t know if he was ever married, in love, had children. Most of his old friends seem to have moved away or died or forgotten him.
    I went over to see him once in awhile, and when the weather was nice, I might take him out in his wheelchair. I tried to make the visits on Wednesday, when a housekeeping aide comes and his place is clean enough not to be a health hazard. Besides being grouchy, the man is a slob.
    He also knows more about Brooklyn before my time than any human being has a right to. He lost a leg to diabetes so he can’t get around easily, and he was never what you’d call a people person. To be honest, perhaps an anti-people person. I often wondered how he functioned as a reporter, asking questions, getting answers. Maybe he just scared people into telling him what he wanted to know.
    He liked my visits, even if he would never say it.
    His building is slowly deteriorating along with his neighborhood. The security door is often open, and often broken. I can get in easily.
    â€œLeary!” I pounded on the door of his apartment. “Answer, dammit. I’m hauling heavy bags.” I always worry if he doesn’t respond quickly. Once I found him beaten up, and twice I’ve found him sick.
    â€œDoor’s open.”
    I struggled in, and put my bags down. He rolled himself out in his wheelchair.
    â€œI brought enough for two meals.” I found clean dishes in the dish rack and set the table. When l moved the stack of mail and papers to another table, with more mail on it, I saw a flyer for the Espy exhibit.
    â€œWould you be interested in seeing this?” Maybe I should think before I speak. I had no idea how I would manage that.
    â€œI did see it. You think you’re the only person I know with a car?”
    â€œDrop the shoulder chip or I take the wine home.”
    â€œTut, tut, where are my manners?” He paused and said in another tone, “Once in awhile, social services arranges for an outing. Ya know, through one of those do-gooder organizations.”
    â€œAnd? And?” I portioned out dinner.
    â€œOkay, okay, it was a nice day out. Except for all the old ladies on the bus.” He looked at his plate. “That’s a bird-size serving.”
    â€œHere. I’ll add garlic bread. ‘
    â€œAh, garlic, seasoning of the gods.” He considered the small piece of butter-soaked Italian bread. “Worth the heartburn.”
    â€œLeary? Did you remember any of the Espy photos?”
    â€œWhat? How old do you think I am? Sweet jaysus. But yeah, I have seen a lot of them before.” He focused on his food, but I knew the smug gleam in his eyes.
    â€œThere’s more. Spill it.” I moved the garlic bread out of reach, just to emphasize my point.
    â€œYou got me. I knew