The space I now occupy was formerly a single-car garage, converted into a studio, complete with a sleeping loft and spiral staircase. I have a galley-style kitchen, a living room that serves as guest quarters on occasion, one bathroom down and another one up, all of this fitting together with amazing efficiency. My landlord redesigned the floor plan after an unfortunate explosion two Christmases before, and he’d infused the “day-core” with a nautical motif. There was a lot of brass and teak, windows shaped like portholes, built-ins everywhere. The apartment has the feel of an adult-size playhouse, which is fine with me, as I’m a kid at heart.

When I rounded the corner, moving toward the backyard, I saw that Henry’s back door was open. I crossed the flagstone patio linking my studio apartment to the main house on the property. I tapped on the screen, peering into his kitchen, which looked empty.

“Henry? Are you there?”

He must have been in cooking mode. I could smell the sautéed onions and garlic that Henry seems to use as the basis for anything he makes. It was a good indication that his mood had improved. In the months since his brother William moved in, Henry had ceased cooking altogether, in part because William was so finicky about what he ate. In the most self-deprecating manner imaginable, William would declare that a dish had a little bit too much salt for his hypertension or just that wee touch of fat he wasn’t permitted after his gall-bladder removal. Between his fussy bowels and his temperamental stomach, he couldn’t handle anything with too much acid or spice. Then there were his allergies, his lactose intolerance, and his heart, his hiatal hernia, his occasional incontinence, and his tendency to pass kidney stones. Henry had taken to making sandwiches for himself, leaving William on his own.

William began to take his meals at the neighborhood tavern his beloved Rosie had owned and operated for years. Rosie, while paying lip service to William’s maladies, insisted he eat according to her personal gastromedical dictates. She feels a glass of sherry will remedy any known debilitation. God only knew what her spicy Hungarian cooking had done to his digestive system.

“Henry?”

Henry said, “Yo,” his voice emanating from the bedroom. I heard footsteps and he came around the corner, his face wreathed in smiles when he caught sight of me. “Well, Kinsey. You’re home again. Come on in. I’ll be right there.”

He disappeared. I let myself into the kitchen. He’d pulled his big soup kettle from the cupboard. There was a bunch of celery in the dish rack, two large cans of crushed tomatoes on the counter, a package of frozen corn and one of black-eyed peas. “I’m making vegetable soup,” he called out. “You can join me for supper.”

I raised my voice so he could hear me room to room. “I’ll say ‘yes,’ but I gotta warn you you’re risking a cold. I came back with a real doozie. What are you doing back there?”

Henry reappeared, bringing a stack of fresh hand towels into the kitchen with him. “Folding laundry,” he said. He tucked the towels in a drawer, keeping one out for current use. He stopped and squinted at me. “What’s that on your elbow?”

I checked the skin on my forearm. The self-tanning lotion had darkened decidedly. My elbow now looked as if it had been swabbed with Betadine in preparation for surgery. “That’s my Tan in a Can. You know I hate to sunbathe. It’ll wash off in another week. At least, I’m assuming it will. What’s been happening around here? You seem cheerier than I’ve seen you in months.”

“Sit down, sit down. You want a cup of tea?”

I took a seat on his rocker. “This is fine,” I said. “I’ll only stay a minute. I took some medication for my nose and I can barely stand up. I’m thinking to crawl back in bed for the day.”

Henry took out a can opener and began to crank open the two tins of crushed tomatoes, which he dumped into the kettle. “You’ll never guess what happened. William’s moved in with Rosie.”

“You mean for good?”

“I hope. I finally understood that what he did with his life was simply none of my business. I kept thinking I had to save him. It was all so inappropriate. It’s a bad match, but so what? Let him discover that for himself. In the meantime, it was making me crazy to have him underfoot. All that talk about sickness and death, depression and palpitations and his diet. My God. Let him ‘share’ that with her. Let them bore each other senseless.”

“Sounds like the perfect attitude. When did he move out?”

“Over the weekend. I helped him pack. I even pitched in and moved some of his boxes. It’s been heaven ever since.” He flashed me a smile as he picked up the celery and pulled the stalks apart. He rinsed three ribs, then took a knife from the rack and began to dice them. “Go on and hit the sack. You look exhausted. Pop back over here at six and I’ll feed you some soup.”