I Is for Innocent

to see him, but had decided to postpone the visit until William's health improved. Apparently he was better because Henry'd received a call to say he was coming here.
    "That's right. I forgot. Well, that should be an adventure. How long will he stay?"
    "I agreed to two weeks, longer if I can stand him. It'll be a pain in the ass. Physically, he's recovered, but he's been depressed for months. Really down in the dumps. Lewis says he's totally self-obsessed. I'm sure Lewis is sending him out here to get even with me."
    "What did you do to him?"
    "Oh, who knows? He won't say. You know how parental Lewis gets. He likes to have me think about my sins in case there's one I haven't told him about. I stole a girl from him once back in 1926. I think this is to retaliate for her, but maybe not. He's got a long memory and not a shred of beneficence." Henry's brother Lewis was eighty-six. His brother Charlie was ninety-one, and his only sister would be ninety-four on the thirty-first of December. "Actually, I'll bet it wasn't his idea at all. Nell's probably throwing William out. She never liked him that much and now she says all he does is talk about death. She doesn't want to hear it with a birthday coming up. Says it's bumming her out."
    "What time's his plane get in?"
    "Eight-fifteen, if it doesn't crash, of course. I thought I'd bring him back here for salad and lasagna, maybe go up to Rosie's for a beer after that. You want to join us for supper? I made a cherry pie for dessert. Well, actually, I made six. The other five go to Rosie to pay off my bar tab." Rosie's is the local tavern, run by a Hungarian woman with an unpronounceable last name. Since Henry's retirement from commercial baking, he's begun to barter his wares. He also caters tea parties in the neighborhood, where he's much in demand.
    "Can't do it," I said. "I've got an appointment at seven and it may run late. I thought I'd grab a quick bite up at Rosie's before I head out."
    "Maybe you can catch us tomorrow. I don't know how we'll spend the day. Depressed people never do much. I'll probably sit around and watch him take his Elavil."
    The building that houses Rosie's looks as if it might once have been a grocer's. The exterior is plain and narrow, the plate-glass windows obscured by peeling beer ads and buzzing neon signs. The tavern is sandwiched between an appliance repair shop and an ill-lighted Laundromat whose patrons wander into Rosie's to wait out their washing cycles, chugging beer and smoking cigarettes. The floors are wooden. The walls are plywood, stained a dark mahogany. The booths that line the perimeter are crudely built, destined to give you splinters if you slide too fast across the seat. There are eight to ten tables with black Formica tops, usually one leg out of four slightly shorter than the rest. Mealtime at Rosie's is often spent trying to right the wobble, with the endless intervention of stacked paper matchbooks and folded napkins. The lighting is the sort that makes you look like you've been abusing your Tan-in-a-Bottle.
    Dinner was uneventful once I knuckled under and ordered what Rosie told me. She's a formidable presence: in her sixties, Hungarian, short, top-heavy, a merciless enforcer for the food Mafia. The special that night was called gulyashus, which had to translate to "beef stew."
    "I was thinking of a salad. I need to clean up my act after too much junk food."
    "Salad is for after. The gulyashus comes first. I make very authentic. You're gonna love it," she said. She was already penciling the order in the little notebook she'd begun to carry. I wondered if she kept a running account of all the meals I'd eaten there. I tried to peek at the page once and she rapped me with her pencil.
    "Rosie, I don't even know what gulyashus is."
    "Just hush and I'm telling you."
    "Tell me then. I can't wait."
    She had to get herself all settled for the recital, like a concert violinist with her feet placed properly. She makes a point of speaking lumpy English which she apparently thinks contributes to her authority. "In Hungarian, the word gulyas means 'herdsman.' Like a shepherd. This dish originate in ninth century. His very good. The shepherd cook up these cubes of meat with onion, very little moisture. No paprika then so I don't use myself. When all the liquid is boil out, the meat is dried in the sun and then stored in this bag made of the sheep's... how you say..."
    "Balls?"
    "Estomach"
    "Previously digested. Very tasty. I'll take