Bibles from an armchair and setting them on the floor. He brushes the chair with his hand and motions for me to sit.
“Joey ain’t home,” he says. “You thirsty? Want a beer or something? A soda?”
“Sure,” I say. “Soda. Whatever you got.”
He goes over to the kitchen. There’s a big stack of hunting and fishing magazines on the floor in front of the sofa, and old papers—postcards, ledgers, letters—on the coffee table. Everything’s dark in here—the old upholstered chairs, the ornate wooden tables, the wallpaper, the hardwood floors. I think things have stayed pretty much the same for three or four generations of Onagers. I pick up one of the postcards showing downtown Scranton. The postmark on the back is 1916.
He comes back and hands me a can of Sam’s Club orange soda. “I just got all that crap at an auction,” he says. “Cool, huh?”
“Yeah,” I say, picking up another postcard showing the Jermyn Hotel in 1925.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Most people would just burn that stuff. I think it’s interesting. Lives lived, you know?”
“Definitely.”
“I don’t know where the hell he is,” he says, meaning Joey.
I glance down at the Bibles. “You studying these?”
He laughs. “Nah. I got the whole bunch of ’em for two bucks, and I couldn’t resist.” He seems a little embarrassed. He explains, “I hate to see stuff like that get chucked, you know? It’s got deepness or something. Etern—What’s the word? Eternality? You know what I mean.”
“Sure. Stuff has meaning,” I say. “Believe me. You know these obituaries I write? You talk to the families, and it’s always something simple that they remember most about the one who died. Their cookbooks or their bottle collection or the scarves they knitted for their grandchildren.”
“Yeah,” he says, “that’s what I mean. We got shit in the attic here—my old man’s army medals,
his
old man’s tools, my grandmother’s buttons and sewing needles. I could never throw that stuff away. Haven’t even looked at it in years…. I ought to.”
He sits back on the couch and burps. “Scuse me,” he says. “You hungry? The wife’s at some church thing, and God knows where Joey’s at. I got a stew cooking.”
“Yeah, I can smell it. Smells good.”
“I tell ya, I got this nice lean pork, browned it up in olive oil, threw in a bunch of spices…nothing hot, just parsley and garlic and something else—black pepper—and it’s been simmering for about three hours. The key is a bottle of beer—domestic stuff. If you use Heineken or Molson or something imported like that, it gets sour. I use Stegmaier; they brew it right over in Wilkes-Barre, you know. Anyway, you simmer that all together, and my God—you can smell it, can’t ya?”
“Yeah. It’s ready?”
“It’s ready. Oh, and a little can of tomato paste. You’ll see.”
He goes back to the kitchen. I get the impression that he doesn’t work much. He always seems to be on call to do some sort of labor, but the calls don’t come in very often.
I figure Mrs. Onager is out at some bar. It’s after ten; I don’t see any church events going on this late. Maybe Mr. Onager is lonely. He sure seems glad to have company.
He comes in with two bowls of the stew and hands one to me. “Joey should be eating this,” he says. “He’s out every friggin’ night.”
I dig into the stew, which is fantastic.
“I can be a prick,” he says, acknowledging, I suppose, why his son and wife are missing. He laughs. “So how are you?”
I don’t even hesitate. “I’m in trouble.”
“Aren’t we always? Hey, you want bread?”
“Yeah. Why not.”
“I got some great bread.” He moves some of the postcards and stuff and sets his bowl on the coffee table, then quickly gets a couple of hunks of sourdough bread for us.
“Sop up that gravy,” he says. “It’s the best part.”
He clicks on the TV and switches to one of the sports channels, where two
“Joey ain’t home,” he says. “You thirsty? Want a beer or something? A soda?”
“Sure,” I say. “Soda. Whatever you got.”
He goes over to the kitchen. There’s a big stack of hunting and fishing magazines on the floor in front of the sofa, and old papers—postcards, ledgers, letters—on the coffee table. Everything’s dark in here—the old upholstered chairs, the ornate wooden tables, the wallpaper, the hardwood floors. I think things have stayed pretty much the same for three or four generations of Onagers. I pick up one of the postcards showing downtown Scranton. The postmark on the back is 1916.
He comes back and hands me a can of Sam’s Club orange soda. “I just got all that crap at an auction,” he says. “Cool, huh?”
“Yeah,” I say, picking up another postcard showing the Jermyn Hotel in 1925.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Most people would just burn that stuff. I think it’s interesting. Lives lived, you know?”
“Definitely.”
“I don’t know where the hell he is,” he says, meaning Joey.
I glance down at the Bibles. “You studying these?”
He laughs. “Nah. I got the whole bunch of ’em for two bucks, and I couldn’t resist.” He seems a little embarrassed. He explains, “I hate to see stuff like that get chucked, you know? It’s got deepness or something. Etern—What’s the word? Eternality? You know what I mean.”
“Sure. Stuff has meaning,” I say. “Believe me. You know these obituaries I write? You talk to the families, and it’s always something simple that they remember most about the one who died. Their cookbooks or their bottle collection or the scarves they knitted for their grandchildren.”
“Yeah,” he says, “that’s what I mean. We got shit in the attic here—my old man’s army medals,
his
old man’s tools, my grandmother’s buttons and sewing needles. I could never throw that stuff away. Haven’t even looked at it in years…. I ought to.”
He sits back on the couch and burps. “Scuse me,” he says. “You hungry? The wife’s at some church thing, and God knows where Joey’s at. I got a stew cooking.”
“Yeah, I can smell it. Smells good.”
“I tell ya, I got this nice lean pork, browned it up in olive oil, threw in a bunch of spices…nothing hot, just parsley and garlic and something else—black pepper—and it’s been simmering for about three hours. The key is a bottle of beer—domestic stuff. If you use Heineken or Molson or something imported like that, it gets sour. I use Stegmaier; they brew it right over in Wilkes-Barre, you know. Anyway, you simmer that all together, and my God—you can smell it, can’t ya?”
“Yeah. It’s ready?”
“It’s ready. Oh, and a little can of tomato paste. You’ll see.”
He goes back to the kitchen. I get the impression that he doesn’t work much. He always seems to be on call to do some sort of labor, but the calls don’t come in very often.
I figure Mrs. Onager is out at some bar. It’s after ten; I don’t see any church events going on this late. Maybe Mr. Onager is lonely. He sure seems glad to have company.
He comes in with two bowls of the stew and hands one to me. “Joey should be eating this,” he says. “He’s out every friggin’ night.”
I dig into the stew, which is fantastic.
“I can be a prick,” he says, acknowledging, I suppose, why his son and wife are missing. He laughs. “So how are you?”
I don’t even hesitate. “I’m in trouble.”
“Aren’t we always? Hey, you want bread?”
“Yeah. Why not.”
“I got some great bread.” He moves some of the postcards and stuff and sets his bowl on the coffee table, then quickly gets a couple of hunks of sourdough bread for us.
“Sop up that gravy,” he says. “It’s the best part.”
He clicks on the TV and switches to one of the sports channels, where two
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