What I Loved

knife, and bleach the loft's bathrooms. On the third evening, I walked upstairs with a bag of groceries for our dinner, and when she answered the door, Violet was wearing rubber gloves and had a pail of soapy water in her hand. I didn't say hello. I said "Stop. Stop cleaning. It's over, Violet." After giving me a surprised glance, she put down the pail. Then I walked over to the phone and called Lazlo in Williamsburg.
    Within half an hour, he buzzed from the front door. When Violet pressed the intercom and heard Lazlo's voice, she made a noise of astonishment. The clogged bridges, traffic jams, and lazy subway lines that slowed travel for every other inhabitant of New York didn't seem to hinder Lazlo Finkelman. "Did you fly?" Violet asked him when she opened the door. Lazlo smiled faintly, strode into the room, and sat down. Just looking at Lazlo had a soothing effect on me. His familiar hairdo, big black glasses, and long poker face inspired me even before he said he would look into Mark's disappearance. "Keep track of your hours," Violet said to him. "And I'll add on the extra money when I pay you at the end of the week."
    Lazlo shrugged.
    "I mean it," she said.
    "I get around anyway," he said. He followed this vague statement by saying to Violet, "Dan said I should tell you he's writing you a play."
    "He told me he calls you," Violet said. "I hope he's not bothering you too much."
    Lazlo shook his head. "I've got it down to one poem a day."
    "He reads you poems over the telephone?" I said.
    "Yup, but I told him I could only deal with one a day. I had to ward off inspiration overload."
    "You're very kind, Lazlo," Violet said.
    Lazlo squinted behind his glasses. "No." He lifted a finger toward the ceiling and I recognized Bill's gesture. "Sing loudly," Lazlo said, "Into the dead face. Bang hard on the deaf ears. Jump up and down on the corpse and wake it up."
    "Poor Dan," Violet said. "Bill won't wake up."
    Lazlo leaned forward. "Dan told me that it was a poem about Mark."
    Violet looked at him steadily for a couple of seconds and then lowered her eyes.
    After Lazlo left, I made dinner. While I prepared the food, Violet sat quietly at the table. Every now and then, she would smooth back her hair or touch her arm, but when I put the plates of food on the table, she said, "Tomorrow morning I'm going to call the police. He's always come back before."
    "Worry about that tomorrow," I said. "Right now you have to eat."
    Violet looked down at her food. "Isn't it funny? All my life I've worked hard not to get too fat. I used to eat when I was sad, but now it just won't go down anymore. I look at it, and it's gray."
    "It's not gray," I said. "Look at that nice pork chop—a lovely Castilian brown—beside those attractive green beans—the color of dark jade. Now, ponder the brown and green in relation to the pallor of the mashed potatoes. They aren't quite white, but tinged by the faintest of yellows, and I put the tomato slice near the beans for color—a clear red to brighten the plate and give pleasure to your eyes." I moved into the chair beside her. "But the visual satisfaction, my dear, is only the beginning of the feast."
    Violet continued to look glumly at her plate. "And after writing a whole book on eating disorders," she said.
    "You're not listening to me," I said.
    "Yes, I am."
    "Then relax. We're here to have dinner. Have some wine."
    "But you're not eating, Leo. Your food is getting cold."
    "I can eat later." I reached for her glass and brought it to her mouth. She took a small sip. "Look here," I said, "your napkin's still on the table." With the pretentious flourish of a waiter, I grabbed the napkin by one corner, waved it open, and let it fall to her lap.
    Violet smiled.
    I leaned across her plate, picked up her knife and fork, cut a small piece off the pork chop, and then added a bit of mashed potatoes to the bite.
    "What are you doing, Leo?" she said.
    As I lifted the fork off the plate, she turned to me and I saw two wrinkles form between her eyebrows. When her mouth quivered for an instant, I thought she might cry, but she didn't. I brought the food to her lips, nodded at her as she hesitated, and then she opened her mouth like a small child and I gave her the meat and potatoes.
    Violet let me feed her. I worked very slowly, making sure that she had plenty of time to chew and swallow, that she was allowed a pause between forkfuls and took drinks of the wine. I think my scrutiny made her eat more