Eighteen People Every Hour
2023; University of Missouri; Volume: 46; Issue: 4 Linguagem: Inglês
10.1353/mis.2023.a915401
ISSN1548-9930
Autores ResumoEighteen People Every Hour Dennis McFadden (bio) Click for larger view View full resolution Photo by Matthew Paul Argall [End Page 10] The first time he saw her, asleep on the sofa when he came home from work, he honestly thought of an angel. Of course now, in his condition, he was more susceptible to thoughts of angels. His mother greeted him at the door, a finger to her lips, and over her shoulder he saw her, Lidia, curled on the sofa in the living room, a white sheet covering her. She'd arrived from Logan Airport and had fallen asleep visiting with his mother, waiting for her cousin to come home. "The lag jet," his mother explained in English, her non-preferred language. [End Page 11] His mother went into the kitchen. Finding himself alone with this girl, a virtual stranger, vulnerable and unaware, created a fleeting sensation of omniscience, and he tilted his head to look at her face, her lips trembling little secrets. He held his breath. She was lovely. Exquisite. Her skin glowed, her black hair rich and luminous. He came closer, and the closer he came the more angelic she looked, her features perfect, at peace, unaware, her body curving softly beneath the sheet. She shifted slightly in her sleep, and from beneath the sheet came the sound of a soft, perhaps feminine, but distinctly unangelic fart. Her eyes popped open. Henry fell into the deep black pools. "Przepraszam," she said. Excuse me. Her shy smile grew bigger; he smiled at her smile. "Nie," he said, "przepraszam." After all, it was he who'd invaded her privacy. "Henry—I am so happy to see you." "Cześć," he said. "Talk English," she said, sitting up. "I need to practice English." "Dobrze," said Henry. Okay. "I remember this about you, cousin. You are wise guy." "You remember me?" "You do not remember me?" Her lips came out in a pout. "Aunt Helen's and Uncle Jerzy's? That was you?" Lidia nodded. "Then I was little skinny kid." "Boy. Not skinny now." His mother appeared in the kitchen doorway with a smile and a platter of pickled eggs. "Głodny?" she said. "Jeez, Mom," Henry said. "Aren't we eating soon?" "Tak. Start now." Reunions filled his mother with joy, as did any occasion to eat. Henry'd never had much of an appetite, and now it was all but gone, so his mother was happy that Lidia was famished. Although she did use mustard with her kielbasa, she at least put it to the side and only dipped, greatly appeasing her Aunt Klara, who quizzed her on every living soul in Poland, or so it seemed, monopolizing the conversation. Which suited him fine. His lungs had lost their ability to multitask, and talking and eating and breathing were becoming mutually exclusive. He picked apart a stuffed cabbage, smiling and congenial, offering an occasional wise-guy comment, trying all the while to keep his staring within the boundaries of propriety. [End Page 12] "How long you here for?" he said. His mother looked at her plate and Lidia hesitated, fork midway to her mouth. A golden drop of mustard fell, and she looked down, distressed. "Oops," she said. "Missed napkin." "Henry, eat cabbage part," his mother said, pointing her fork. "Cabbage part good." Lidia wiped at her lap with her napkin. "You know what I do? At home?" She looked up. He shook his head. "Take care of people," she said. "Nurse like." "A nurse?" "Like nurse. In army I learn—what do you call it? Medic? That stuff. Afterwards, I take care of sick people some." "Sick people some," he echoed. The clouds began to part. "Aunt Klara, she getting old. Family they send me to help." Henry blinked. "I feel fine. They got it, whataya call it, under control." "No," said Lidia. "I think you do not feel so fine. And if you do, you do not feel so fine for so long." He wasn't naïve. He was fifty-eight years old. He knew the odds. He knew the cancer would probably kill him someday, but not today, and not tomorrow either. Who...
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