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  Cornelius looks away, shifting his gaze toward Joe Kramer’s house next door. “I’m fine, son.”

  Twenty-four-year-old Drew had calmed down from hyperactive child to a grad college student. Of all Cornelius’s children, he alone seemed to sense his father’s distress. This bothers Cornelius, although he can’t quite say why. Maybe it’s the inverted nature of their current relationship. Fathers should not be parented by their children.

  Drew follows his father’s gaze to the Kramer house. Beyond the flower gardens, crowded around the picnic tables, the Topper family talks and laughs. “You know, Joe Kramer could sell your soaps at his store,” Drew says. “Have you talked to him about that?”

  Cornelius shakes his head.

  “You should. They’re nice soaps. Talk to Joe when he gets home. Selling those soaps will give you something to do.”

  Something to do. Cornelius had never lacked for something to do. He studies the Kramer house, thinking about the repairs required to make that house whole again. New roof. New shingles. Fresh paint. Something along the left side of the house moves, catching his eye.

  “Dad, are you listening?”

  Cornelius pulls his gaze from the house and back to his son. “Sure, I’ll talk to Joe.”

  “That house bothers you, doesn’t it?” Drew stands, stretches. “It’s a shit hole. Joe should spend less time at the store and more time at home.”

  Only Cornelius is no longer looking at the shingles or the roof—he’s watching the upper left window. Just a moment ago he could have sworn he’d seen the curtains move and a face appear. Round eyes. Brown hair. Emma Kramer. It’d been so long since they’d seen Joe’s wife that he figured she’d left.

  Huh, he thinks to himself. But before he can consider what her appearance means, his son is pushing the brand new motorized wheelchair across the patio to Regina and the party.

  #

  I count nine pairs of matching men’s black socks. Nine.

  Taking a deep breath, I quash the panic rising in my throat like bile. There has to be another pair somewhere. I check under the bed, next to the dresser, even in the trash can. No socks. Socks don’t just disappear. Joe has ten pairs of black socks, not nine. And I’m sure I washed all ten.

  Joe’s fussy about his socks. He likes them washed and folded over into pairs, just so, then placed in an overlapping fashion in his sock and underwear drawer. It isn’t too much to ask—clean socks. I push my hair back, wiping at the sweat beading along my hairline. Ten pairs. He’ll count. He always counts.

  I rub the sore side of my face, then glance at the clock out of habit. Eleven-eighteen. Joe will be home for lunch soon.

  On my hands and knees, I search. The bedroom. The laundry room. Even the basement. Eleven-thirty-nine. He comes home at twelve. Every day. Like clockwork. I run into the kitchen and pull the meatloaf out of the oven. Joe doesn’t like it burnt. A nice crust, yes. Burnt? No. I can’t blame him. Who likes burnt meat?

  I slice the bread I made this morning. Choose a plate from the cabinet. Toss the salad. The dressing will go on at the last possible second. Joe doesn’t like his lettuce soggy. No one likes soggy lettuce.

  I stand back, examining the table setting. Even though everything looks perfect, I know it’s not.

  Joe might be tired when he arrives. A quick nap—sometimes Joe takes a nap before returning to the store—will mean fresh socks.

  I rub my jaw, my finger worrying the skinny red ridge under my chin. Ten pairs of socks, not nine.

  I hear Joe’s truck pull into the driveway. Take a deep breath. Pray, although to whom, I’m not sure. The god of I Did It Again.

  Ten pairs. Not nine.

  #

  Cornelius Topper watches Joe Kramer climb out of his Chevy pickup truck. Handsome in an Everyman sort of way, Joe has unusually long arms—ape arms, Regina calls them—and he uses those arms now to slam his truck door shut and cart a large cardboard box toward his house.

  Truth be told, Cornelius never really cared for his neighbor, who’d moved in three years ago. Cornelius can’t put his finger on it, but he thinks he senses a certain false bravado with Joe. Of course, he barely knows the man, so that probably isn’t a fair assessment. And Cornelius tries always to be fair.

  Cornelius places his fragrant soaps into their clear plastic case and snaps it shut. He thought long and often about Drew’s suggestion. The soaps, which began as a favor to Regina, saved his life—or at least his sanity. He knows that now. His wife grew and dried the flowers; he made the soaps. Lavender. Mint. Honeysuckle. Lily of the Valley. Vanilla. They added a new scent every month or so. He learned to mix the base, cut the bars, and tweak the ingredients until Regina said the fragrance was just right. The damn stroke had messed with his sense of smell, but he still liked the look of the soaps. Glycerin-based. Some with dried petals layered throughout.

  The soaps gave order to his days.

  But making soap was a hobby, something to occupy their retirement, and with a closet full “gift soap,” Cornelius was starting to feel as though this hobby was no longer relevant.

  Drew’s suggestion—selling their soaps—now that could lead to something. And Joe’s store, a gift shop in the heart of town, was perfect. Cornelius even had a name for their soaps: Ana’s Soaps.

  But as Cornelius watches Joe walk up the steps to his front door and disappear inside, he realizes he has a problem. Motorized or not, his wheelchair won’t make it up that walkway.

  He can send Regina. But he hasn’t even told his wife of his plan to pitch this to Joe. He doesn’t want her to be disappointed if Joe says no. She’s out in her gardens, where she’ll be for the next few hours. He’ll give her that peace.

  Maybe he can take the dreaded walker.

  The living room clock chimes twelve. He’s been up since four. Cornelius looks around the kitchen. He’ll make lunch at one, then Regina will serve dinner at six. Soap-making will fill the afternoon gap, the news the evening slot. Cornelius lets out an unintended sigh. These are long days.

  Cornelius wheels himself toward the mudroom. The walker it will be.

  #

  “Looks good, Emma.” Joe sits down at the table. I put his plate in front of him and perch on the seat opposite, watching while he starts to cut his meat. Without looking up, Joe says, “Aren’t you having any?”

  He means it as a question, I know, but his words come out annoyed, twisted. I fix myself a small plate and sit back down. Still thinking about the socks, I look at the food and know I can’t swallow it. But if I don’t eat, Joe will think I’m upset. Then he’ll ask me questions. Then he’ll get angry at my answers, whatever they are. It’s easier to force down the meatloaf.

  I don’t need to take more than six bites before Joe’s polished off his plate. “That was real good, Emma. The lettuce was nice and crisp.” He nods, stands. “I think I’m going to take a nap. Wake me up in an hour.” He pauses. Before I can move, he reaches across the table and slides his hand down the front of my blouse, his fingertips finding my nipple. His eyes have gone all sorts of soft. I look away. “Or you could join me upstairs,” he says.

  I stab a sliver of Iceberg. “I need to finish my lunch.”

  “Come on, it’ll wait. Come upstairs, Emma.”

  My mind spins with the possible outcomes of the next sixty minutes. If I refuse him, he’ll be in a rage—and he’ll still get his way. But maybe he’ll screw me and leave, forgetting about fresh socks. If I go to bed with him willingly, he’ll screw me, fall asleep, and then wake up and want fresh socks. Then he’ll get mad, but there’ll be no sex to calm him down. While I’m deciding what to do, my hand goes to my jaw. He sees the gesture. I watch his eyes go from lusty-soft to fist-hard in an instant, and I know I made a mistake.

  With one furious motion, he pulls me upright. “Why do you always have to push my buttons?” He shoves me face-down on the table. My head hits the wood. Fingers pull at buttons, nails scratch the sensitive skin on my thighs. “You’re my wife.”<
br />
  Hot breath on my neck. I close my eyes, force myself to relax. I know what’s coming.

  A knock at the door stops him cold. “Are you expecting someone?” he hisses.

  I shake my head.

  “Damn it, Emma.” Another knock. He climbs off me. “My truck’s there, so we can’t very well pretend we’re not home.” He looks at me with disgust. “For god’s sake, do something with your blouse.”

  I stand up slowly, biting back tears. My head feels heavy. Another knock.

  “Your tits are still showing,” Joe says. He pushes me toward the sink. “Wash your face, Emma. You’re a mess.”

  #

  Cornelius has just about given up when the Kramer door swings open. Joe Kramer’s bulk fills the space, his tall, broad body bigger close up. Eyes narrowed to slits, face red. His shirt is askew, his pants crooked, as though Cornelius interrupted him while he was dressing.

  Joe gives him a head-to-toe once-over, taking in Cornelius’s misshapen body, the hated walker, the plastic case attached to the walker by a set of carabiners. No threat here, his body language says.

  “Cornelius.” Joe’s voice is overly hearty. “I was sorry to hear… Sorry that you’d… Well, good to see you up and around.” Behind him, Cornelius catches a glimpse of brown hair, yellow linen.

  “Is this a bad time?”

  Joe looks like he’s about to say yes. “No, of course not.” He glances behind him. “Come on in.”

  The inside of the Kramer home is too warm, almost suffocating. Cornelius follows Joe through a narrow hallway and into the darkened living room. Immaculate hard wood floors, pristine white walls, a brown plaid couch that would go better in a hunting cabin than a suburban split level. Even with Cornelius’s limited olfactory sense, the house smells of roasting meat and disinfectant. Joe nods toward the couch and Cornelius sinks down into rough tweed, thankful to get off his feet.

  Joe stands over him. No sign of brown hair and yellow linen. “What can I help you with, Cornelius?”

  Cornelius pulls his soaps onto his lap and snaps open the container. “I thought maybe you’d consider selling these at the store. On consignment, of course.”

  Joe studies the contents of the case, and Cornelius sees them through another man’s eyes. Small bars of sweet-smelling glycerin, dried petals floating in coagulated goo. Women’s stuff. He feels his skin heat, hates the shame bubbling up, bitter and unwelcome.

  Joe reaches in, grabs a bar of rosemary mint. Mint Regina grew, rosemary she tended to in the kitchen gardens on the side of the house. Joe draws the bar to his nose, eyes flat, mouth pursed. A sound from the kitchen—dishes clanging against porcelain—reminds them both that they’re not alone.

  “Emma,” Joe calls. “Come here.”

  A mouse of a woman scurries into the room. Straight brown hair framing a pleasant round face. Yellow linen blouse tucked neatly into a floral skirt. Bare feet. This is the young wife Cornelius remembers from three years ago. The face from the window. But before he can greet her, Joe removes the case of soaps from his lap.

  “Smell these, Emma. Is this something women would pay for?”

  Emma takes her time smelling the soaps, one after the other. She lingers longest at the honeysuckle, his wife’s favorite.

  “Well?” Joe taps a giant foot impatiently.

  Emma turns a lavender bar over in her small hands. One finger traces the bumpy ridges along its edge.

  “Emma, for god’s sake. What do you think? Will they sell?”

  “Yes.” The word comes out quietly on the tail of a long breath.

  Joe frowns at his wife before turning back to Cornelius. “Forty-sixty split. If they sell, we can work something out for the longer term.”

  Cornelius allows himself a small smile. “Okay, then.”

  Joe clips the case shut. “Cornelius, do you have any fancy cards or something telling the story behind your soaps?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Emma’s good with the computer. She can help you make some flyers.” To his wife, he says, “Put some flowers on there, fancy script, that sort of thing—you know, the stuff women like.” He shakes her arm slightly. “Okay? Help Mr. Topper.”

  “That’s okay, Joe. Emma.” Cornelius reaches for his walker. His good leg— overburdened by the extra weight—nearly buckles under the strain of rising. “Regina and I can handle that.”

  “Emma’s not doing anything.” Joe’s tone is firm. A man used to being in charge. “I need to get back to the store, but stay for a few minutes and she can take down your information.”

  Joe walks to the front door, soap case clutched in his hand, Emma trailing behind. Cornelius watches as the big man kisses his tiny wife, then whispers something in her ear before leaving. Whatever he said stiffens her spine. She remains in the doorway for an Iowa minute, watching Joe leave, her profile pale as the wall behind it.

  #

  Joe leaves me alone with the cripple from next door. I straighten my face, tug at my skirt, unsure how to be or what to say. I keep my good side toward him in case he sees the red scar under my jaw, the finger marks on my neck, under my ear.

  “Emma,” he says. “I can have Regina make up some flyers.”

  “Joe wants me to do it, Mr. Topper. I have the time.”

  “Well, if you insist. I call them Ana’s Soaps. They’re handmade in small batches and made of all-natural ingredients. No pesticides used on Regina’s flowers. Do you remember Regina?”

  I nod. “Yes, of course.”

  “She grows all the flowers herself. Dries them. We plan the soap together.”

  “I’ll work that in.” I move back toward the door, hoping he’ll get the hint.

  “Do you need to know anything else?”

  “No, I have enough information.” My mind is back on socks. His presence has given me a reprieve, but Joe will be home at 6:20. He’ll have dinner, then watch the news. He likes me to lay out his clothes for the next day. He may check the sock drawer.

  Cornelius says he’s leaving. I watch him struggle across the living room and he pauses at the front door. I think he catches a glimpse of my left side.

  “Emma, are you okay?” His voice is kind. I feel a knot in my chest and I swallow, hard.

  “I’m fine. I just…I’m doing laundry and I managed to lose some socks.”

  “Check the sheets. I fold laundry all the time. The little buggers are always getting stuck in the corners of the fitted sheets.” He gives me a conspiratorial wink. “Don’t tell my wife. She thinks I separate the clothes when I put them in the washer. Sheets in one load. Socks in another. Controlling woman.”

  The sheets! I smile, no longer listening. I’d done sheets with the socks. “Thank you.” It sounds insufficient, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

  I watch Cornelius Topper make his way slowly down the path. He’s dragging his bad leg behind and his left shoulder seems about to give way under the strain of his weight. It’s a good thing he’s so thin. Still, I’m worried he’ll fall. Joe wouldn’t like if he fell on our property. He wouldn’t like it at all.

  #

  That night, Cornelius Topper lay in bed, listening to his wife’s gentle snores and thinking about soap. Regina had been growing roses; rose soap would be the next experiment. And perhaps sandalwood or another scent for men.

  He wonders what Emma will put together for the flyers. He’d thought about calling her with some ideas but decided he’d visit tomorrow instead. Cornelius recognizes the little niggle building inside him as excitement. Something so lost to him he’d forgotten what it felt like.

  As quietly as he can, Cornelius pushes himself up in bed. He insisted that Regina place the walker by his side for bathroom trips. He’s tired of the portable commode. He’s tired of being dependent. He’s tired of being tired.

  “What are you doing, old man?” Regina’s voice startles him.

  “Can’t sleep.”

  “Do you need a sedative?”

  “No. I need
to get up and do something.”

  “It’s 2:14. Go back to bed.”

  “Yes, dear.” Cornelius begins to count. Within thirty seconds, Regina’s snoring again. He braces his weight against the walker and stands. He’ll pee alone in the bathroom—a small blessing, indeed—and then go into the office and email his son. It’ll take him twenty minutes to sit down at that desk. By then, maybe, he’ll be tired enough to sleep.

  #

  Joe pulls me close, nuzzles his head against my chin. “I like what you did,” he says. “The flyers. They look real nice.”

  “I can do better. Make the flowers brighter, maybe.”

  “I like them the way they are.” He kisses my neck tenderly. His arms feel strong and secure against the shadows of night. “I sold six bars of soap today. Silly, perhaps, but women seem to like them.” His breath tickles me. “We’re a good team, you and me.”

  “We are.”

  He props himself on one arm and stares down at my face. I can see only the barest outline of his features, edges soft and blurred in the darkness. “Are you happy, Emma?”

  “Yes,” I say. And right now, I am.

  #

  Emma answers on the fourth knock. She comes to the door looking breathless and happy in a tentative sort of way, some of the timidity of the day before gone. Cornelius greets her with flowers Regina cut from her garden. Mums and asters and yellow daisies. At Drew’s suggestion, Cornelius rigged a basket on his walker, and he used it to carry the flowers and more soap.

  “Can I come in?” he asks.

  Emma hesitates, looks behind her, and finally steps back. “Sure.”

  Inside, Cornelius holds out the flowers. “For you. They’re from Regina.”

  Emma’s eyes widen. “Oh, I couldn’t. I’m… allergic.”

  Cornelius, not one to push, places the flowers back in the makeshift carrier. “Not to worry. Shall I put them outside?”

  “No, no. Just… please don’t leave them here.”

  Cornelius studies Emma for a moment. He sees the fine wrinkles around her eyes, a fresh red scar along her jawline. The long-sleeved shirt buttoned high to the neck. The way she moves, as though she’s been at spring training or recently run a marathon.