At first because Beatrice had no nearby family.
Then because he wanted to.
They did crosswords.
Argued about clues.
Beatrice accused Roger of cheating because he knew obscure postal abbreviations.
Roger accused Beatrice of inventing words.
She had been a high school librarian for thirty-four years.
She knew more words than he did and enjoyed proving it.
They talked about spouses.
Beatrice’s husband Harold had died twelve years earlier.
Heart attack while mowing the lawn.
They had no children.
A niece visited when she could.
That was all.
Roger told her about Elaine.
Beatrice listened the way Hector did.
Without offering solutions.
On the fourth day, she said:
“You still talk about your wife in the present tense sometimes.”
Roger looked at her.
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
“Does that bother you?”
“No.”
Beatrice looked toward the window.
“I sometimes still buy two bananas.”
Roger understood completely.
Beatrice stayed nine days.
On the ninth morning, Roger arrived and found her sitting in a wheelchair wearing normal clothes.
“You’re escaping.”
“Apparently.”
“Need a getaway driver?”
“My niece is bringing me.”
Roger tried not to feel disappointed.
Beatrice noticed.
“You could still help.”
“With what?”
“Getting the apartment ready.”
He nodded too quickly.
“Of course.”
Darren helped install temporary grab bars.
Frank brought a shower chair from the fire department’s community equipment program.
Maya moved a small table so Beatrice could reach her phone more easily.
Roger stocked the refrigerator.
Milk.
Eggs.
Soup.
Fruit.
Sardines.
Beatrice noticed.
She pointed.
“Those aren’t for me.”
“You might like sardines.”
“I do not.”
“They’re for Hector.”
“Hector.”
She sighed dramatically.
“I still hate the name.”
“You agreed.”
“I was medicated.”
“You were completely lucid.”
“Prove it.”
Roger smiled.
The afternoon Beatrice returned, five residents were waiting outside 561.
Frank.
Maya.
Darren.
Mrs. Dobbs from the third floor.
And Roger.
It was the first spontaneous gathering Roger remembered seeing in that hallway in years.
Beatrice looked from face to face.
“Well.”
Frank shrugged.
“We figured you shouldn’t come home to an empty corridor.”
Her eyes filled.
She covered it by complaining about the wheelchair.
That evening, at 5:58, scratching came at the kitchen window.
Beatrice froze.
Roger was sitting at her table.
They looked at each other.
Another scratch.
Then a meow.
Beatrice moved carefully with her walker.
Roger opened the kitchen window for her.
Hector stepped in from the fire escape.
He stood completely still.
Then saw Beatrice.
The cat crossed the kitchen so quickly that Roger almost laughed.
Hector jumped onto the chair beside her.
Beatrice bent carefully.
“Oh, Honey.”
The cat pushed his head against her hands.
His purr filled the kitchen.
Beatrice cried openly.
Roger looked away to give her privacy.
Then Hector turned.
Walked toward Roger.
Pressed his head once against Roger’s ankle.
A simple acknowledgment.
Thank you.
Or perhaps:
You finally figured it out.
From that point on, Hector’s schedule changed.
Not completely.
Cats dislike unnecessary change.
But the routine expanded.
At 8:30 every morning, scratching came at Roger’s apartment door.
The first morning, Roger opened it in his robe.
Hector sat outside.
“You’re early.”
The cat entered without invitation.
He inspected the living room as though evaluating property.
Then sat beside the kitchen.
Roger stared.
“You want breakfast now?”
Hector blinked.
Roger opened a can.