CHAPTER TWELVE
ON TUESDAY, Arthur stumbled back into the office after a late-night flight; the budget airline feeling that much more terrifying in the dark.
Martin had gotten the flight with him and managed to sleep the whole way while Arthur had a death grip on his arm rests. When the turbulence did manage to settle out, he'd take a few minutes to watch Martin sleep. His hands were folded neatly in his lap and his head tilted back. He couldn't help thinking how vulnerable it made him look, throat exposed to the world, and Arthur resisted the urge to tilt his head down. His face was animated in sleep, more so than when he was awake. His lips moved as if he were whispering to someone. There would be flashes of smiles or frowns. He wanted to lean in close to see if he could catch those whispered words and discover some secret key to Martin's mind. That half remembered drunken urge to touch those lips returned.
He was half asleep himself when he pinned the sheet for the Super Bowl pool in the break room. Turns out it just involved printing out a grid and writing numbers on it later. Carol tapped him on the shoulder.
"Hey, you're back. I heard about your dad. How are you holding up?"
Arthur shrugged and didn't ask how she knew. "We haven't exactly been close since I left home but, I don't know, still feels weird."
"At least you had your boyfriend for support."
"He's not my boyfriend."
Carol smiled and patted him on the arm. "Yes, he is and I think you know it."
Arthur was going to argue more but the guy who sat a few cubes down, Andrew maybe, came in.
"Hey, Super Bowl pool! Who's running it?" he asked Arthur and Carol.
"I am. Five bucks a square." Arthur replied despite the fact that his name and cubicle coordinates were on the bottom of the sheet.
"Cool. I don't have cash today but I'll swing by your desk tomorrow."
"No problem."
ARTHUR HADN'T been able to put himself together much of a lunch. He hadn't cleaned his fridge before he left and had returned home to find mostly wilted vegetables and meat past its best-by date. Best he'd been able to manage was some boiled eggs, good cheese, a bit of salami, and some cherry tomatoes that had held up over the week, and at lunch they slipped right back into routine. Martin had his alien face back on and was reading The Food of a Younger Land: The WPA's Portrait of Food in Pre-World War II America. Arthur had found his copy of Tolkien's Beowulf in his desk drawer where he left it, and they sat reading in silence with Arthur pushing food in Martin's direction. Arthur luxuriated in the moment. After a week of chaos and swinging emotions, to sit there quiet, across from Martin, reading a book, was like slipping into a warm bath.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned to see one of the guys who always gave him weird looks smiling and holding a five-dollar bill.
'I'm going to kill someone.'
BY SATURDAY, most of the guys who had given him weird looks his first week on the floor had filled their names on the paper grid and were giving him less weird looks. Several gave condolences as they did. Arthur still didn't ask how that had gotten around. They were gossipy secret agents.
The children at the library were happy to have Merlin and Arthur back, but reported that Julia had done a good job filling in. Merlin smiled at them, collected neatly penned homework, and began the Odyssey, though in English instead of ancient Greek. Apparently, there were even limits to his knowledge of obscure languages. He still managed to find a rhythm though and Arthur could picture him in a Greek court, reciting by torch light to the notes of a lyre. He smiled and the children were enraptured.
"I WAS wondering if you'd like to come back to my place this afternoon?" Arthur asked as Martin picked up next week's books, his stomach doing flips, worried that he might just be about to ruin the most enjoyable part of his life. Martin froze, his face going blank. "I said I'd teach you to cook," he added quickly, not wanting Martin to get the wrong impression. He'd remembered that much from his night of serious drinking. "It's really a pretty analytical endeavor at the start."
Martin said nothing and Arthur stayed silent not wanting to sound pushy or dig himself a hole.
"Yes," Martin finally replied. Behind Martin the reference librarian gave Arthur a big grin and double thumbs up.
ARTHUR HAD spent days contemplating exactly what he should do for Martin's first lesson. He tried to remember what, of all the things he'd fed Martin, he'd responded to the best. Eggs were usually a good place to start when teaching someone how to cook, but they could also be a bit plain. What he wanted was something easy, but not too easy, Martin was no idiot.
"Croque Monsieur. Ever had it?"
"No." Martin had removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves, but there was a stiffness to him again that Arthur had not seen for a while.
"It's a French style ham and grilled cheese sandwich that literally translates into Mister Crunch. It's a little more complicated than something you make in a dorm room and so much better. Ideally you use Gruyere cheese and a Béchamel sauce, which is really easy to make and everyone should know how." Arthur pulled the ingredients from his fridge as he talked, not wanting to seem like he was lecturing. He'd gone for best quality everything and it was likely to be the most expensive grilled cheese sandwich in history, but if there was one thing in his life he wasn't going to half-ass, it was this.
He handed Martin a small pot and a whisk then took out a pot and whisk for himself. "We'll start with the Béchamel sauce. The trick is not to let it get too hot and to keep the right proportion of butter, flour, and milk. And really, every sauce you will ever make is about keeping the right proportion of fat, starch, and liquid. If you can manage this, the rest is just riffing on a theme."
Arthur had to throw out his after it burned. He was too busy being distracted by Martin's, which came out perfectly on the first try. Martin smiled.