The Second Coming

I worked in it for six months.”
    â€œDoing which and how and was it for consideration? How much?” she asked, eyes widening with interest. “Would you—” She stopped. Would he what?
    â€œWork for you?” he said. “How much do you pay?”
    â€œNever mind.” She gave him the Clorox bottle. He drank a long time.
    â€œThank you. Is this where you have to get your water?”
    â€œYes. How thirsty. It’s been a long time.”
    â€œSince what? Since seeing anybody thirsty?”
    â€œSomething—something is up front but not all the way.”
    â€œYou mean you’re having difficulty remembering things and that you almost remembered something?”
    â€œYes, that’s—”
    â€œI had that once. In my case it was a question of not wanting to remember. In fact, I remembered something here in this spot that I hadn’t thought of for years.”
    â€œWas it for a gladness or the same old Sunday coming down?”
    â€œNo, it wasn’t the same old Sunday coming down. I can’t say it was a happy memory but I was glad I remembered. I feel much better. You will too. Thank you for the water.”
    â€œYou are—Are you?”
    â€œI brought you something.”
    â€œWhat?” She noticed the brown bag. “Oh, I don’t need. I am fine though I was in the hospital for—it is the time I can’t remember.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œI was somewhat suspended above me but I am getting down to me.”
    â€œGood.”
    She was about to say something but she saw in his eyes that he had drifted away.
    They stood in silence. It was not for her like a silence with another person, a silence in which something horrid takes root and grows. What if nobody says anything, what then? Sometimes she thought she had gone crazy rather than have to talk to people. Which was worse, their talk or their silences? Perhaps there was no unease with him because he managed to be both there and not there as one required. Is it possible to stand next to a stranger at a bus stop and know that he is a friend? Was he someone she had known well and forgotten?
    â€œAre you—?”
    â€œAm I what?”
    â€œAre you my—?”
    â€œAm I your what?”
    For a moment she wondered if she had considered saying something crazy like “Are you my lover?” Or “Are you my father?”
    She sighed. “You said the bag.”
    â€œWhat? Oh yes. I brought this for you.” He gave her the bag.
    She opened it. “Avocados? I think. And—what? A little square can of—” She read: “—Plagniol.”
    He watched her.
    â€œWhat a consideration! But more than a consideration. The communication is climbing to the exchange level and above. And the Plagna is not bologna.”
    Gazing at her, he almost smiled. In her odd words he seemed to hear echoes of other voices in other years. One hundred years ago Judge Kemp might have said on this very spot: “How considerate of you!” with the same exclamatory lilt. But there was another voice, something new and not quite formed. Did she mean that his consideration (being considerate) was more than just a consideration (a small amount), more than exchange (market value of the Plagniol), which was after all baloney?
    â€œI think you will like that olive oil. It is very good. Some friends brought the avocados from California. They’re the best kind, not hard and green, but a little soft and brown. They’re very good for you. You’re too thin. Fill a half with olive oil.”
    The avocados were as big as coconuts. “I’ll plant the pits in the greenhouse,” she said. “No tricks with toothpicks.”
    â€œRight. Plant them in soil.”
    Later she tried to decide why she felt so free to talk or not talk with him. Was it because of her, that in her new life she could have gotten along with anybody? Was she just lonely? Or was it a certain tentativeness in him that waited on her, like the dog, even now and then cocking an eye in her direction? Or could it be a Northern awkwardness in him that brought out her Southern social graces because she was ha ha her mother’s daughter after all?
    Her fingers felt the rough pebbled texture of the avocados. “Why are they here?”
    â€œWhy did I bring them? I thought you might like them. For another thing—”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œThey are the most