left side as she crossed the grass to put the packet in his hands. "You haven't eaten all day. Warm this up in your microwave . . .
promise?"
"I will. Thanks."
It was cold on his palm, chilled from her refrigerator. He didn't have to open it to know it was lasagna.
Chapter 3.
N his car, Christopher set the tinfoil packet on the seat, started the engine and with the greatest reluctance headed home.
Home was an apartment in a complex called Cutter's Grove where he and Greg had lived for two years. What had attracted Chris to the buildings at that time was the fact that they were brand-new and he'd be the first renter in his unit. Ask him and he'd admit he had a colossal hang-up about cleanliness. Not only was the apartment going to start clean, anybody who shared it was going to keep it that way!
When he learned that the new guy on the force was looking for a place to live, he'd approached Greg and told him truthfully, "I grew up in filth. I had two alcoholic parents who didn't give a damn whether there was food on the table, much less whether or not the joint got cleaned. So if you don't intend to do your share of KP duty, say so now. It'll save us a lot of friction later on."
Greg had replied, "I grew up with a mother who was widowed at thirty-six and had to leave the house and work from that time on.
There were three of us kids left at home. Every Thursday morning she'd roust us out of bed at six o'clock and make us clean until seven, then that night after supper we had to finish the job so the place was shipshape for the weekend. If we didn't do our share of the work around the house we lost all privileges--and that included pocket money and using the car. How's that, Lallek?"
They had assessed each other, grinned, shaken hands and begun a friendship.
When Christopher unlocked the apartment door and turned on the light all was in order, as usual. To his right the kitchen was neat.
Straight ahead, the living room was, too. It was decorated-actually decorated-in off-white and cocoa brown. They had agreed when moving in that there was no reason two bachelors had to sit on beer kegs and prop their feet on wooden reels that had formerly held telephone cables. So the place had taken on a personality--with a great big cream-colored sofa and oversized pillows, a pair of overstuffed club chairs, a snazzy brown leather chair with matching ottoman, a monstrous entertainment center that covered one whole wall and a few odds and ends to make the place homey: a fig tree beside the sliding glass doors (donated by Greg's mother, along with a few smaller green plants), a couple of framed posters on the wall, some brass lamps, Danish teakwood tables and on one wall their collection of bill caps.
They both liked bill caps and had decided right away to put up a couple of expandable crisscross racks and hang them up where they were easy to grab.
Christopher had remembered right--the red Minnesota Twins cap was gone from the rack. He wondered where it was now and what it looked like.
Greg's favorite green one was still there though, the one his grandpa Reston had given him for his last birthday.
It said PEBBLE BEACH on it and Greg had always claimed it was shaped the way a bill cap ought to be shaped. Chris shuffled slowly to the rack, took down the green cap and held it a long time. He went to the leather chair and sat down with the sluggish, labored movements of an old man, and put the tinfoil packet on the ottoman and the Pebble Beach cap on his head. He closed his eyes, tipped back against the chair and let memories of Greg flutter over him like film across a screen: playing ball in the summer police league, waterskiing, eating hot dogs--the man had been crazy about hot dogs--riding in his black-and-white cruiser, sitting in the patrol room with his feet up on a table bullshitting with the guys, working around the apartment, turning up the radio when a song came on that he liked, especially anything by Vince Gill.
Memories,
promise?"
"I will. Thanks."
It was cold on his palm, chilled from her refrigerator. He didn't have to open it to know it was lasagna.
Chapter 3.
N his car, Christopher set the tinfoil packet on the seat, started the engine and with the greatest reluctance headed home.
Home was an apartment in a complex called Cutter's Grove where he and Greg had lived for two years. What had attracted Chris to the buildings at that time was the fact that they were brand-new and he'd be the first renter in his unit. Ask him and he'd admit he had a colossal hang-up about cleanliness. Not only was the apartment going to start clean, anybody who shared it was going to keep it that way!
When he learned that the new guy on the force was looking for a place to live, he'd approached Greg and told him truthfully, "I grew up in filth. I had two alcoholic parents who didn't give a damn whether there was food on the table, much less whether or not the joint got cleaned. So if you don't intend to do your share of KP duty, say so now. It'll save us a lot of friction later on."
Greg had replied, "I grew up with a mother who was widowed at thirty-six and had to leave the house and work from that time on.
There were three of us kids left at home. Every Thursday morning she'd roust us out of bed at six o'clock and make us clean until seven, then that night after supper we had to finish the job so the place was shipshape for the weekend. If we didn't do our share of the work around the house we lost all privileges--and that included pocket money and using the car. How's that, Lallek?"
They had assessed each other, grinned, shaken hands and begun a friendship.
When Christopher unlocked the apartment door and turned on the light all was in order, as usual. To his right the kitchen was neat.
Straight ahead, the living room was, too. It was decorated-actually decorated-in off-white and cocoa brown. They had agreed when moving in that there was no reason two bachelors had to sit on beer kegs and prop their feet on wooden reels that had formerly held telephone cables. So the place had taken on a personality--with a great big cream-colored sofa and oversized pillows, a pair of overstuffed club chairs, a snazzy brown leather chair with matching ottoman, a monstrous entertainment center that covered one whole wall and a few odds and ends to make the place homey: a fig tree beside the sliding glass doors (donated by Greg's mother, along with a few smaller green plants), a couple of framed posters on the wall, some brass lamps, Danish teakwood tables and on one wall their collection of bill caps.
They both liked bill caps and had decided right away to put up a couple of expandable crisscross racks and hang them up where they were easy to grab.
Christopher had remembered right--the red Minnesota Twins cap was gone from the rack. He wondered where it was now and what it looked like.
Greg's favorite green one was still there though, the one his grandpa Reston had given him for his last birthday.
It said PEBBLE BEACH on it and Greg had always claimed it was shaped the way a bill cap ought to be shaped. Chris shuffled slowly to the rack, took down the green cap and held it a long time. He went to the leather chair and sat down with the sluggish, labored movements of an old man, and put the tinfoil packet on the ottoman and the Pebble Beach cap on his head. He closed his eyes, tipped back against the chair and let memories of Greg flutter over him like film across a screen: playing ball in the summer police league, waterskiing, eating hot dogs--the man had been crazy about hot dogs--riding in his black-and-white cruiser, sitting in the patrol room with his feet up on a table bullshitting with the guys, working around the apartment, turning up the radio when a song came on that he liked, especially anything by Vince Gill.
Memories,
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