George went to Richard’s office that afternoon. The landlord was reviewing utility statements and did not look pleased to see him.
“I got your notice,” George said.
“Everybody gets one. Costs are going up.”
“I understand. I want to ask about Mrs. Benson’s unit.”
Richard leaned back. “That’s not officially on the market yet.”
“I’d like to apply when it is.”
“Your payment history isn’t exactly perfect.”
George placed a folder on the desk. Inside were the rent receipts from the previous three months, the employment verification Paul had provided, and a brief note from the clinic about the difficulty stairs caused him.
“My current payments are on time,” George said. “I’d like the same consideration as any other tenant.”
Richard looked through the papers. He could no longer rely on George arriving desperate and unprepared. The older man who had once said very little was learning to ask for specific things in a calm voice and wait for an answer.
“I can put your name down,” Richard said at last. “No promises.”
“That’s fair. I’d also like the application criteria in writing.”
Richard sighed. “You’re making this difficult.”
“I’m making it clear.”
He left with the form and no guarantee. It was not a victory. It was an option, and for the first time in a long while George had more than one.
That night he told Sadie they might move downstairs in the same building. She looked alarmed until he explained that she could remain at the same school and still visit Mrs. Moreno.
“Would we have to leave the pencil marks on the door?” she asked.
He looked at the kitchen doorframe. There were four pencil lines showing her height across different birthdays. Elena had drawn the earliest two. George had made the others.
“We could photograph them,” he said. “And make a new board to keep track.”
Sadie considered. “Could we take the lobster magnet?”
“Absolutely.”
“Even if it’s guarding a different fridge?”
“Especially then.”
She nodded. The move had become imaginable. George folded the application and put it with his employment papers, where he could find it when he needed it.
A white envelope could still make his heart race.
It no longer meant he was helpless.
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Thanksgiving for Three
Thanksgiving had been Elena’s favorite holiday because she said it was the one most people couldn’t turn into an individual achievement. Somebody had to cook, somebody had to set the table, somebody had to show up with bread or a pie, and everybody had to share the same food regardless of how impressive they believed themselves to be.
The first Thanksgiving after her death had been quiet and miserable. George burned the turkey breast. Sadie cried when he placed Elena’s plate on the table by mistake. The second year, they ate sandwiches and watched a film because neither could bear the ritual.
This year Mrs. Moreno invited them over and refused their polite attempts to decline.
“I’m making a turkey whether you come or not,” she told George. “And I already told my daughter in Arizona you’re coming. So now you would be embarrassing me across state lines.”
George brought roasted carrots and potatoes. He had practiced the recipe twice, following Elena’s notes from the blue book. Sadie brought a folded paper turkey with a purple bow tie. Mrs. Moreno set it in the center of the table, announcing that it was clearly the most distinguished bird in the room.
The dinner was small: the three of them, a widowed neighbor from downstairs named Mr. Patel, and Janelle, whose family had traveled out of state without her because she had promised to cover a holiday shift at another job. They sat around a table too crowded for the number of plates, passing bowls and arguing amiably about whether green beans ought to be cooked until soft.
George found himself laughing more often than he had expected. He told Janelle a story about a recruit who packed only one sock for a training trip because he had misunderstood the packing list. Janelle insisted the person had to be fictional. George declined to confirm or deny it.
After dinner Mr. Patel asked about the fight video. George braced himself, but the older man did not want to know how the strike had worked.
“My grandson showed me that,” he said. “He was very impressed. I told him I hoped he’d be smart enough never to need to do it.”
George smiled. “That’s what I hope too.”
Sadie was sitting beside Mrs. Moreno, building a tower of empty butter containers. She looked over at her father and raised one thumb in approval. He returned the gesture.
Later, when the guests had gone and the plates were stacked, George stayed to help wash dishes. Mrs. Moreno finally allowed him the modest duty of drying, provided he did it sitting down.
