After a leisurely, wonderful breakfast, Kiefer spent most of the late morning and early afternoon napping. He'd wake up from time to time for a pee and a drink, but mostly he lazily snoozed. I didn't care. He sprawled on the large sofa in my den, and because it faced the kitchen, I was able to glimpse him frequently as I moved alternately between the kitchen and the breakfast table where my laptop roosted. It was so good to have him here. Sometimes the unexpected visits are the best.
Around 3:00 p.m., Kiefer rose from the couch and headed to the kitchen where I was finishing preparation of our evening meal--pot roast and vegetables. When the time came, I'd also prepare homemade rolls. Kiefer usually took salad duty. Although I had consumed a huge amount of the food that Kiefer had prepared earlier, his morning disinterest in food had caused him to eat sparsely at breakfast. Because of this, I'd already prepared a turkey sandwich for him to keep him from starving before dinner. When he reached the kitchen, he came up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist, resting his chin on my left shoulder.
"Whatcha doin'?"
"Choppin' cotton. Wha' choo doin'?"
He unwound his arms and moved away, turning his back to the counter near the sink so he could see my face.
"What the hell is chopping cotton? Is that one of those Southern things? Is that kin to spitting cotton? I've heard you say that before. What's all this cotton shit?"
"Oh, Kiefer. Give me a break. I don't get all your Canuck humor either. God. I can't even believe you ARE a Canuck!"
"Well, technically I'm not, you know."
"Close enough, love. Close enough."
I completed sealing the foil around the dish that held the roast and vegetables and turned to face Kiefer.
"You hungry? I fixed you a sandwich. It's in the fridge."
"And what's a fridge?"
"It's where your sandwich is so you'd better figure it out if you're hungry."
I turned around to move the dish into one of the ovens. Thanks to Kiefer, I now had three ovens. When I'd mentioned remodeling my kitchen a couple of years ago, he'd jumped on the bandwagon, offering suggestions and placing requests. I'd told him to slow down on his requests because I had a budget I was sticking to. He told me the remodel was my birthday present. I told him I didn't want a birthday present that cost that much. He told me to fuck off. I got the remodel.
I only used the third oven at Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. Kiefer, however, used all three when he stayed here more than a couple of days. He was a really good cook, but he cooked gourmet stuff. I was a plain old Southern cook. Oddly, he liked my cooking. I couldn't imagine him liking all of the relatively heavy fare since he cooked such delicate stuff, but he did. In fact, between Thanksgiving and Christmas in Canada, he always made his way down here for a Southern Thanksgiving meal. He loved the sticky, moist, highly seasoned dressing as opposed to the familiar stuffing he had grown up with. Candied sweet potatoes? He ate his weight in them. But his weight was down, now. Damn that Jack Bauer's heroin habit. Too skinny. I'd been calling him Barney Fife for months.
"Maybe you'd better skip the sandwich, Barney. You wouldn't want to gain an ounce."
"Oh, fuck you. I don't look like Barney Fife." He had already opened the refrigerator door and was pulling out the sandwich.
"Where's your bullet, Barney?" I teased. "Don't lose it. Andy will be pissed."
He ignored me. He moved out of the kitchen and around to the bar separating the kitchen and den where he perched on a barstool and began to eat his sandwich.
Pot roast safely tucked in one of the ovens, I moved to the sink to rinse the few dishes I'd messed up while preparing the evening meal and transferred them to the dishwasher. Oh. One of the two dishwashers that I now had. Wonder how that happened. Two dishwashers. Absurd. Two freakin' dishwashers. Kiefer had three in his kitchen!
"How's the sandwich? O.K.? You want some chips? A pickle?"
"Nah. No chips. I'll take a pickle, though, if it's a dill."
"Sure. I made them this summer. I'll get the jar out of the fridge. You know. That thing where your sandwich was."
He eyed me darkly. He even growled, I think.
I retrieved the pickles from the refrigerator, unscrewed the band and removed the lid, and passed the jar and a fork up to the bar. He plucked a pickle from the jar and took a huge bite.
"God, I love your pickles. You know, I'm out of them at home," he hinted.
"Too bad. Have to come here for your pickle fix."
I moved to the breakfast table to finish the review I was working on. Only about a half hour more and I'd be done. I glanced up to see Kiefer finishing his sandwich and fishing another, was it the third, pickle from the jar.
"Whatcha doin' on that thing?" he asked of my work on the computer.
"Oh, writin' a review. I'll be through very soon. Why don't you play with Athos for a while? You promised him last night and he needs some exercise. And you'll be able to work off those sandwich calories, Barney."
Kiefer threw me a truly evil look. He made his way back to the kitchen, tossed the paper plate in the trash, placed the pickles back in the fridge, the fork in the dishwasher, and headed to the French doors leading to the backyard. He opened the right one to step out, hesitated, closed it, turned and walked to me at the table. He leaned down and kissed my head. I reached up and pulled his head down where I could kiss his forehead. He tilted his head to one side and kissed my lower lip. Once. Twice. He pulled away and looked at me. This was too weird. I was getting the same feeling I'd gotten this morning when he kissed me differently. Whaddup with this boy? I hoped I'd find out before he left tomorrow. God, I hated Sundays. They were like the last day of something--last day of spring, last day of summer, last day Six Flags is open, last day he's here.
Kiefer returned to the door and went out to play with Athos. I could hear them through the doors. I was most certain that Athos talked to Kiefer. Even more, I was certain that Kiefer understood him. I think maybe Athos gathered information about me for Kiefer and then related it to him when Kiefer visited. No. I'm not crazy. And I am kidding. Sorta. Kiefer had an amazing way with animals. What were they telling one another, I wondered. I returned to my work, finished up a few minutes earlier than I'd anticipated, and determined to go out and play with the boys.
About the time I had shut down the computer, Kiefer opened the door and came in. He was a mess, grinning from ear to ear. Apparently, the two of them had found the mud at the edge of the garden and attempted to get every drop of it to adhere to them. Beyond the door, Athos was unrecognizable. As I determined that Kiefer was about to step forward, I leapt to my feet and began to scream.
