Court Papers in the Locked Drawer of a Community Doctor
“Let me help with dinner,” he said, pulling a wooden cutting board from the cupboard. “You usually make the salad on Tuesdays, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I said. “The cucumbers are in the crisper drawer.”
He began slicing them into thin, even rounds with the heavy chef’s knife, his movements precise and practiced. The rhythmic thud of the blade against the wood filled the quiet room.
“Do you remember the tiny apartment we had on Maple Street?” he asked, not looking up from the board. “The kitchen was so small we couldn’t open the oven door all the way.”
“The landlord had to shave the bottom of the cabinet doors so they would clear the refrigerator,” I said.
A genuine laugh escaped him, a sound that used to make me feel safe in our early years. It was a low, warm sound that filled the corners of the kitchen.
“We had that green laminate table we bought at a garage sale for twelve dollars,” he said. “We sat there every night planning how we would build our lives here in Oak Creek.”
