The Food Truck

Frank was home. He was not allowed to climb stairs more than twice a day, drive, lift anything heavier than a coffee cup, or, according to Margaret, "have opinions about the class." He was breaking the last rule constantly.

On Sunday afternoon, Lina and Marco visited him. They sat on the porch of the small house in the west end, under a big old elm, and drank lemonade that Margaret had made without sugar, for Frank's heart, and that tasted like punishment.

Frank looked better. Thinner, slower, but his eyes had come back. He wanted to know everything. How Grace was teaching. Whether Ade was still arrogant. Whether Kai was talking. What the landlord was like.

"Grace is a better teacher than you," said Marco.

"I know," said Frank happily. "Isn't it wonderful?"

When they left, Margaret walked them to the gate.

"He's doing well," she said. "But it's going to be months, not weeks. Don't expect him back before the end of summer." She looked at the two of them, and then at the space between them on the sidewalk, which was very small. "And you two should talk about whatever you're not talking about. He noticed. So did I."

Lina went red. Marco looked at the elm tree. Since the morning in February when he had kissed her at the Blue Plate counter, in front of Bev, Gus and eleven customers, they had not once talked about it. They had breakfast together almost every day. They talked about everything else.