“I am not understanding,” Tünde said, grabbing more garbage from the table and compacting it in her arms before cramming it into the trash can beneath the sink.
“The Pig is an urn,” he said in a voice full of shame. “A temporary one. I have to get something proper, and I will. But for now I put the container with her ashes in there.”
Tünde ceased with her garbage crunching and stood upright to look at him. “Mrs. Webster is no longer living?”
Charlie glanced down at the cracked tiles of the kitchen floor, nodding his head, afraid tears would come the way they so often did now.
“When?” she asked. “How?”
He took a breath, lifted his head. “This winter. We were at our apartment in Fort Lauderdale. She fell.”
“Fell how? Down some stairs, you mean?”
“I don’t . . . I can’t . . . It was just one of those freak accidents. That’s all.”
“I see.” Tünde released a deep sigh then offered up her condolences, though in truth, it just seemed like words she was tossing out, because she moved on to cleaning again and moved quickly on to another topic as well. “You must be rich to have place there and here. I did not know security guard make so much. Art teacher either.”
“I’d hardly call us rich. Joy’s parents left her this house a long time ago. Since we never had kids, we were able to save and buy that apartment in Florida for retirement.”
“Sounds rich to me.”
By then, Tünde had found a sponge and was wiping the scum of his leftovers from the table with such force that it rocked back and forth. The Pig shook back and forth too, and Charlie listened with a shiver to the rattle of remains inside. Finally, when Tünde paused a moment, she looked up and said, “I tell you again: I am sorry about your wife. She liked me. Then she didn’t like me. So no loss for me. But I am still sorry for you.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, picking up The Pig because he had grown worried about it falling and crashing to the floor, about Joy’s ashes and tiny chips and slivers of bones spraying everywhere in that once-happy kitchen.
“That lady—your wife—she fired me from this place. Told me she did not want me cleaning here no more. That is why I felt the surprise of your call. But I need money to leave Providence so I come back.”
Charlie said nothing, remembering that thunderbolt and that squiggly line. He had never known Joy’s doodles to have any particular code of meaning, but for the first time, he began to wonder.
“Now,” Tünde said, “table is all clean. I help with pills, yes?”
“Okay,” he told her.
For the next few minutes, he watched as she studied the prescription containers on the counter, reading labels and instructions. At last, she popped open the days of the week and dumped the various medications inside. “Here,” she said. “I am no nurse so you should make certain with your doctor. But for time being, I think this is the way it is meant for you. Today is Tuesday, so start. Get water and take pills.”
Even if he was not so good at remembering the specifics of his various medications, Charlie knew that taking them on an empty stomach would only make him nauseous. That led him to show Tünde the grocery list he had written out for her trip to Whole Foods. She examined it, then took what he offered from his wallet before pulling on her heavy wool coat and scarf and heading out the door.