Saturday

 Saturday 

This past Saturday.

     Roz woke me before seven. “Uncle Albert,” she said, handing me the phone that had been ringing in my dream.

     “Yes?” I said.

     “When will you be here?” it asked. “Kick-off is seven-thirty.” It was talking about the Arsenal-Tottenham match. The Gunners are Uncle Albert’s team.

     “I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” I said.

I was, if still a bit sleep-drunk. He was standing on the front porch that extends the width of the house he lives in. The young woman that served us lunch was with him. He was leaning on his cane. She had her arms wrapped around her shoulders. I started to get out of the car.

     “Stay there,” he said, waving his cane at me. She had taken his arm and was escorting him down the wooden stairs from the porch. Then, down the concrete stairs to the street. She took his cane from him and put it on the roof of the car. She held him lightly under his arms as he slid backside-first into the seat beside me. He maneuvered his feet into the vehicle; she handed him his cane.

     “You remember Maggie?” he looked at me. I waved at her across him. She dropped her fingers over her palm, shut the door, and turned; rewrapping herself in her arms, she turned and started back up the stairs.

To Uncle Albert’s delight, Arsenal beat Tottenham 2-0. Mustafi and Alexis Sánchez scored the goals.

Katje Ogbonna and Alexis Sánchez

     Roz made brunch for the three of us, waffles with a scattering of pecans and syrup, coffee blacker than anthracite, which I lightened with half-and-half and sugar. She was playing a CD of Cuban jazz, Rubén González bumping his piano against Carlos González’ congas bumping against Orlando “Cachaito” Lopez’ bass in a series of descargas.

     After, Uncle Albert lay under an afghan on the couch in the living room, snoozing, while I policed the kitchen. Roz went to meet her young friend from work, Katje Ogbonna, who told her, she said later, that the differences between black and white weren’t shades of gray but of fuchsia.

     “What did she mean by that?” I asked.

     Roz shrugged, but not as if she didn’t know, rather as if I should.

11.22.17