Free Please Don't Go by Eric Dimbleby Page A

chocolate ice cream from one of the bags, swinging open the freezer, and placing it inside. It barely fit amongst the plague of thick white frost that had overtaken the space.
    “ Well, yes. You are correct, my boy. I get lonely, just like anybody would. But is that not why we have begun this new friendship?” he asked, his eyes glimmering.
    “ Of course.” Zephyr nodded an uneasy, unnatural nod. Had they arrived at friendship so quickly? He thought then of the narrator and red-headed woman from Rattup’s story- the acceleration of acquaintance, like a runaway stallion, beaten and bruised.
    Rattup approached him, placing his hand on his shoulder. He gazed into the young man’s face, declaring, “I am so glad that you chose to return. I would have been hesitant after last time, if our roles were reversed. You’re a braver soul than me, for sure. But everything is fine now. It’s all been taken care of. You know that, correct?”
    Zephyr was confused, and his face betrayed him in that regard. “I don’t follow.”
    “ Everything is copacetic now. We talked. You’re okay to visit anytime you’d like. She’s approved of you.” He winked at Zephyr, changing the subject so swiftly that the young man dared not to bring up past discussions, though he wanted to desperately, “And so we dine?”
    “ And so we dine,” Zephyr repeated, studying the man’s face for the plaguing insanity that seemed to be hiding in the shaky bushes of his mind. He spoke of a woman who did not exist, of a she that Zephyr could not detect, but he felt guilt in pointing this out, and so he abstained. The old man had quite simply lost his mind, and Zephyr immediately laid blame upon the wrenching agonies of Alzheimer’s. He had once seen his Uncle Abbot go through a similar downfall, and in those final days of his life the man could scarcely recall his own name, let alone Zephyr’s. The look that had hidden itself behind Abbot’s retinas, though, was not so apparent in Rattup’s. Not yet, at least. Of course, every person responded to their respective illnesses with different results. Perhaps it was still early for Rattup.
    “ And so we dine!” Rattup declared with a shout, never known to allow anybody the last word. Writers , thought Zephyr, trailing off into his own mind. And so we dine!
     
    ***
     
    For their second lunch, Rattup had prepared something more vegetarian-friendly than before. He waltzed from his kitchen, through the short hallway that connected to his poorly lit library-slash-den, and brought in his wake a trail of pungent steam. “Today, we eat like the brontosaurus did, sans flesh. Portabella mushrooms, the fattest ones you’ve ever seen... well, of course you’ve seen them already, you brought the damn things from your market,” Rattup announced himself, chuckling at the ridiculousness of explaining the parameters of the hearty foods that his grocery ward had delivered. “But you could not have known of the delectable homemade stuffing which I have whipped together. I use stale Italian bread for my stuffing, but sometimes I throw in a plain or onion bagel. Not this time though. I saute some celery, onions, and butter. The secret ingredient is chopped broccoli. I whip that stuffing up good, jam it into the bellies of the mushrooms, then I sprinkle it down with dill weed and salt. It melts in your mouth. A satisfying meal. And of course, I will top off our meal with artichoke hummus and salted pita chips.”
    “ Sounds great,” Zephyr replied, rubbing his hands together and smiling with voracious eyes, soon forgetting the strange happenings of his last visit. It sounded and smelled like the ideal meal to Zephyr. Ever since swearing off it-had-a-face foods, Zephyr had searched high and low for desirable victuals to supplement his limited palette. Vegetables became worn out after a while, he had found. And so spicy new additions to his repertoire were always welcomed, and with open arms. Though he had never