“Charles, what are you doing here?” The petite woman wiped down long rectangular tables where they would serve free lunch in forty minutes’ time.
Charles couldn’t remember her name. If he had missed the annoyance in her high-pitched words, he could see it in how she scrunched her cheeks. But he kept thumping his wooden cane down across the scratchy, scratched vinyl floor of the church hall.
Before he reached the industrial-sized kitchen, his retort came. “What I always do, Maria!”
And that was true. He had been coming to prep vegetables in the kitchen or stir the spaghetti pot for years, every Wednesday. He didn’t come last week because of all the fierce warnings about the coronavirus, but he’d had it with staying home and reading the newspaper or flipping through magazines and TV channels. He could no longer find anyone to play shuffleboard with at the Parks and Rec, nor could he gather with friends for coffee at the nearby café. One by one things were shutting down. His poker buddies had bought air tickets for their Arizona home, saying, we’ll wait it out.
Maria stopped her wiping and put a wrinkled hand on her plump hips. “It’s dangerous for you to be here!” Her work smelled of bleach—a new precaution.
“Well, it’s dangerous for me to be doing nothing but opening cans of soup or watching disgusting news.”
Maria raised her sponge, making as if she meant to pitch it towards him, but she didn’t. What comfort Charles found in glimpsing the veins of her forearm, paler than the rest of her lovely brown skin. Here was real flesh and blood circulating near him, what he craved. Those TV church services weren’t for him. Disembodied voices with no substance. Besides, the homeless were most hard hit by sickness and he wanted to help. He had to do something. Not waste away in his easy chair. Being idle opened the door to depression and thoughts of his beloved wife, passed on two years ago.
Maria whistled a sigh, a complaint meant to halt him. Charles angled past her into the kitchen anyway. A slim man, boasting a full head of hair—not balding like Charles—stirred a huge pot on the stove. Luigi worked for a family business and set his own hours. He asked Charles, “Has your age gone downwards?”
Charles chuckled. “Yep, getting younger!” He had missed them all, more than he could say. When he started to speak, he had to overcome the clutching ache of his throat, the hunger for the warmth of smiles, jesting and touch. “Let me do that.”
Luigi stopped the back and forth of the long spoon, pulled it out, and retreated into the rear of the kitchen, where he placed the tool far from the elderly man. Luigi raised his arms towards Charles, curving them like two crescent moons. “Here’s a virtual hug. Glad to see you, but can’t let you help.”
Charles felt a burning ache in his belly. “I need to be here. Not only for them, but me.” He gestured out the door, then back at Luigi. He still wagged his head in a no.
Charles gave up. He rested his cane and raised his arms to match Luigi’s.
Luigi fixed his gaze on Charles, with eyes as sweet and dark as kalua. “All kinds of food get cooked up here! You’ve had yours.” He put his arms down and gestured towards the exit.
“You’re saying I best go home.”
“Yeah, please, please go. By next week the government will shut us up, so you won’t miss much. Go pray for us and the homeless. We want you here when we open again.”
A vise constricted Charles’ chest and something between a sigh and a moan issued from his throat. Like what his big dog used to do. That craving for attention. “I hate not seeing anyone.”
“Yeah, it’s tough. Do you go for walks down your street?”
“Yeah, sometimes someone is out.”
“Keep it up. I’ll bring you a plate of food tonight and we’ll talk six feet apart at your doorstep.”
“Really?”
Luigi nodded.
“Get my address from Maria. I gave it to her that time I got sick. You know I recovered then—I’m hardy!” Charles shuffled out, shoulders dipped, and paused near Maria. “Tell Luigi where I live.”
“Sure thing! We want you back with us after this ends! Here, let’s knock elbows.” Luigi danced his way and just as swiftly parted from Charles.
Though the elbow tap was foreign, it eased his pain for a moment.
“I’ll drop a meal by next week.” Maria winked. “We won’t forget you. Now go rest!”
Couldn’t the woman stop bossing a man around?
When Charles opened the door to leave the church hall, a dozen men and a few women in rag-tag clothing and rumpled hair gathered outside, waiting for when the meal was ready.
Charles took in his paunch, dripping over his belt. He already felt nourished.
Solitary again at home, Charles gazed out at the few shriveled leaves on the ash tree in front, what refused to fall with the rest. This social isolating could stretch on for months or more. Was it worth the effort to keep safe?
It swept over him—the lengthening of lonesome days. The chilly width of his bed, once shared with his sweetheart. He might as well join the dried up leaves on the sidewalk.
Yet, at dusk, Luigi stopped by with food and a few things to say. Maria chatted with him the next week. For days onward he kept seeing her ruby lipstick and jeweled smile. Something akin to his wife’s, he thought, and when his innards ached, he called to mind their promises and his.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Carol Park’s homes range from suburbs, to wilderness, to cultural mazes. While teaching and befriending English learners from far places, she’s learned how little she knows and how precious is the meeting of minds over tea. Through Seattle Pacific University’s MFA program, she honed her writing.
Her short fiction has appeared within The East Bay Review, Harpoon Review, Shark Reef, Birdland Journal, Indigo and the anthology Irrational Fears and will be included in an upcoming California Writer’s Club anthology. Her work is heard frequently at the Flash Fiction of San Jose and appears in its new anthology, Barbies that Were and Never Were.