Free Late Stories by Stephen Dixon Page B

thinking.
    Puts the tea kettle on for drip coffee. The cat. Did he let him out? He did; hours ago. He forgets sometimes where the cat is, he lets him in and out so many times in a day. There have been foxes around. He gets worried. He goes outside to see if the cat’s around. Looks; whistles for him. Calls for him a few times. Starts weeding around the blueberry bush his younger daughter put in this spring by the driveway. Likes it to stand out. Often the cat sidles up to him while he weeds. Or just quietly appears next to him, lying on his stomach. From there he weeds around the other blueberry bushes near the blueberry bush. He forgets who put them in. Maybe they came with the house. His wife was always good at knowing those things. Gets a big leaf bag out of the garden shed and puts most of what he’s weeded into it. That’s enough work outside today. It’s gotten too hot. Heads for the house. The cat. Ah, he’ll be all right. Smells burnt metal through the kitchen screen door. The tea kettle. Knows all the water must be gone and the handle will be too hot to touch. Uses a potholder to lift the kettle off the stove and put under the faucet. Steam fogs up his glasses and he has to wipe the lenses to see out of them. Kettle’s probably ruined, but maybe not. Didn’t he ruin a tea kettle a few months ago by letting the water boil out? Sometime, anyway, but hasn’t happened since. He’s been extra careful about it most times. He also has to remember to always put the whistle part down.
    Makes a frittata in a frying pan on the stove. He’ll have half of it for dinner and then some of it cold for lunch tomorrow. Puts it in the oven for about ten minutes and then sprinkles grated parmesan cheese on it and sticks it under the broiler to make it crisp on top and turns the oven knob to “broil.” Should take no more than a minute under the high flame. Makes himself a drink. A fast one: just vodka and ice in a glass. Sips it. Puts the bottle of vodka back into a kitchen cupboard. Ice container could use more ice. He empties a tray of ice into the container, drops another ice cube into his glass, fills the tray with water and puts the container and tray into the freezer. Smells the frittata burning. Damn, there goes that. Turns the oven off and pulls the pan out. Frittata’s scorched. Who knows what with the pan? And it’s an expensive one, his wife’s before he even met her, French—Creuset, he thinks it’s called; supposed to be the best. Not going to make another frittata. There’s some egg salad and Muenster cheese in the refrigerator, and with two slices of bread—don’t even toast them; the way his mind’s going today, don’t even chance it, though he’s really only kidding himself; he’s not that bad off—and lettuce and cucumber slices, he’ll make a sandwich.
    Did he take his tamsulosin pill this morning? Thinks he did, but then maybe not. Supposed to a half an hour after breakfast. Doesn’t want to take two in one day. Especially one so soon after the other, if he did take it today. So did he? Think back. Doesn’t come up with anything. Let it go for today. Not taking the pill one day won’t kill him. Get a pill holder that has seven compartments for each day of the week. Do it next time you’re in a pharmacy. Remember to. Do it even sooner. Make a special trip to the pharmacy when you go to the market later, and start using the holder tomorrow. Three carbidopa-levodopas, one tamsulosin and one omeprazole per compartment. That should do it. Prepared a lentil rice loaf and puts it inthe oven at 375 degrees. Lentils and rice are already cooked, so the whole thing should take half an hour; at most, forty minutes. He’ll see when he looks at it thirty minutes from now. Has plenty of time to check his emails. Hopes his daughter answered his email about Maine this summer, a decision he has to have in the next