do steaks one night, but apparently, it’s not in the budget, and it ain’t too easy on our bowels.”
“Lovely,” Peter said.
“I like vegetables,” I said.
Mr. Stenley eyed me curiously. “Yes, I suppose you look like the sort who eats a lot of rabbit food.”
I laughed. “I like steak, too. And bacon. And cheese and potatoes. Especially when the two are mixed together.”
The old man pointed at me. “Now that’s a girl who knows what she’s talking about. Who are you again?”
Peter spoke up before I had a chance to offer my name again. “Dad, this is Katie. She and I have been seeing each other and I wanted to bring her here to meet you.”
“Katie,” Mr. Stenley said like he was learning a foreign name. “Katie. I knew a girl when I was a boy named Katie. She had blonde hair and rode a blue bicycle. It was a boy’s bike. All the neighbors used to make fun of her for it. She wore boy’s clothes, too. Good kid. Funny. Terrible parents though, that girl. Terrible parents.”
It wasn’t strange for me to sit with Peter’s father. I’d been exposed to several people in my life who had dementia or Alzheimer’s, so the nonlinear conversations felt normal. I could tell that Peter felt uncomfortable, and I hoped he wasn’t embarrassed because I saw nothing worth being embarrassed about. Mr. Stenley seemed like a happy man who was being well taken care of. I could understand how this would be hard on his children, but I wouldn’t ever want them to think that I was uncomfortable.
Mr. Stenley was still talking more to himself than to anyone else. “Archie was a strange kid, too. All gangly. Big teeth. White hair. His mother was a saint and she used to leave apple pies on the windowsill, knowing the smell would call her boy back home at the end of the night. For a kid who ate so many pies, he sure was skinny. All gangly. Big teeth.”
I leaned toward Peter. “Do they let you bring food in here?”
“Yes, I think so,” he said.
“We should come back and bring your dad a good steak or something special. Something he wouldn’t be able to have here. With a side of veggies, of course.”
Peter grinned. “I think he’d like that.”
“I’d like it too,” I said, and I meant it.
Peter nodded. “Dinner, it is. How does that sound to you, Dad? What if Katie and I come back and have dinner with you tonight? Our treat.”
“I want steak,” Mr. Stenley barked.
“And you shall have it,” I said. Then I turned to Mike. “You should join us, too. We’ll make a family dinner out of it. What do you say?”
Mike looked from me to his brother. “That sounds nice actually.”
After spending an hour or so with Mr. Stenley, we took our leave of the home. Peter told Tiff we’d be coming back around five thirty. That was far earlier than I was used to eating, but his father went to bed at eight o’clock at night, and it didn’t seem right to send him off to sleep with a belly full of red meat and potatoes.
Because, damn it, I was going to make sure the old man got his meat and potatoes. Food was a simple thing to make someone feel special and bring people together. Sitting in that room and feeling the tension between the three men, I knew it was nothing a good old American meal couldn’t fix.
We dropped Mike off at their father’s house, which Peter profusely apologized about and made excuses for. He was ashamed of the state of the house.
We drove the rest of the way to the hotel with my hand on his knee and I promised the house didn’t bother me. Neither did his father’s state.
And yet Peter was different somehow. He was withdrawn and the company he was keeping was not with me but rather with his thoughts.
We walked through the hotel and made for our room.
If I were in Peter’s shoes, I’d be lost in thought too. And I’d be sad. How many more visits does he have left with his father?
Every time Peter saw his Dad, he probably wondered if it would be the last. I couldn’t imagine what that would feel like, especially when the visits you did have weren’t always satisfying because his own father might not recognize him.
We got back to our room and I closed the door behind us. “Peter?”