A Year Less a Day Read Online Free Page A

drawn look of a prisoner—a lifer; his greasy wan skin the result of daily incarceration in the café’s kitchen.
    How can he sleep so soundly?
Ruth wonders as the night air cools and she gently drapes him with a blanket. But hadn’t it been her complaints about his lethargy that had driven him to the doctor in the first place?
If I hadn’t kept on at him to work harder, this wouldn’t have happened
, she tries telling herself, then shakes it off as she turns the spotlight on her husband, almost willing him to hear. “How could you do this to me?” she muses illogically. “Haven’t I been through enough?”
    Pull yourself together
, she tells herself, realizing that the burgeoning anger is overwhelming her with a desire to smash him in the face. It’s not his fault. He’s not dying on purpose. And it’s not your fault either.
    â€œI bet the fucking old bat’ll blame me,” she whines to the air, knowing that somehow Jordan’s mother will manage to twist the facts until her darling son’s suffering can be laid at her daughter-in-law’s feet.
    It’s not your fault
, she tries again, but can’t avoid the ridiculous feeling that she has somehow driven him into the arms of another, as if the tumor is a malignant third party with whom he is willingly flirting—a cancer that will ultimately win him away from her.

    â€œJordan, I love you. I’m not going to let you go,” she whispers tenderly as she brings herself down and kisses him lightly on the forehead, but she knows that while a pair of frilly panties and a peek-a-boo bra may have worked in the past, it’ll take more than that to break him away from this new mistress.
    The flame of the exhausted candle is barely alive at dawn, and Ruth’s tear-clouded eyes see Jordan through a fog as if he is already cloaked in a shroud when the sound of Cindy’s crappy Ford pulling into the gravel parking lot reminds her that time has not stopped, despite her most fervent wishes. She is still dressed from the day before and rushes downstairs to the front door, waiting with a spare key in her hand, as Cindy arrives.
    â€œSorry. I should have given you this before,” Ruth says, flooring Cindy. “Jordan’s got a bit of a cold. I’ll do the breakfasts,” she adds and quickly turns back into the café.
    â€œAre you all right?” queries Cindy, turning over the key in her hand. Ruth scurries away with her face to the kitchen. “I’ve asked Phil to come in early and I’ll take on someone new if Jordan’s not better in a few days,” she calls over her shoulder, but has difficulty keeping her voice straight.
    Ruth shivers as she turns on the bright kitchen lights.
It’s the stainless steel appliances and ceramic tiles
, she tells herself, but knows it is Jordan’s absence, and quickly fires up the gas stove. “I can’t do this,” she says, losing her nerve. Not that she can’t cook—it isn’t complicated. Eggs—“Any way you want”—bacon, sausage, hash browns, and bagels, mainly.
    You can do it. You just need to eat first
, says her inner voice.
You’ve got to keep up your strength.

    How can I eat when my husband’s upstairs dying?
she scolds herself.
    Not today. He’s not dying today
, nags the voice, and she grabs a frying pan and opens the fridge. Three eggs or four, she is considering, when Cindy’s shouts and the noise of a commotion in the café send her running. In an instant her mind conjures a terrifying scene, with Jordan writhing in death throes at Cindy’s feet, and her heart is pounding as she plows through the door.
    It’s not Jordan, he’s still asleep upstairs.
    It’s Trina, struggling to control a yapping yellow Labrador she has hauled in off the street, and Cindy appeals to Ruth for backup. “I told her not to bring her crappy dog in