After scrambling their last five eggs with three slices of American cheese for their Saturday brunch, Casey grabbed her jacket and purse. “I’m going to the market,” she said.
“I’ll go with you,” Unu said, putting away the dishes in the sink.
She had always seen it as her job to make sure there was coffee, cereal, and toilet paper in the house. When she lived with Jay, she’d taken care of these domestic details, and so also with Unu; it had never occurred to her to share these duties.
“I’ll carry the stuff home, and you can go straight to—work,” he said, folding his newspaper. “And I’ll get to spend more time with you.”
“Thank you,” she said, surprised by his offer, not because he wasn’t normally thoughtful—Unu was by nature a considerate man—but because it struck her as odd that she’d viewed marketing as woman’s work. In romance, Virginia used to call Casey old-fashioned because she liked men to do the pursuing. Casey realized that Virginia’s label wasn’t too wrong for other things, too. It was the way she’d grown up, witnessing the things only her mother did at home. Casey felt backward; was that why it was so hard for her to accept that Unu didn’t have a job?
When Unu and Casey got to the street, she reached for his hand and held it as they walked toward the market on Lexington. Unu talked about Ella and baby Irene living with Ella’s dad. He thought it made sense for her to stay with Dr. Shim until she felt a little stronger. Casey couldn’t imagine going back to her parents. Unu seemed happy just to be walking down the street. With few worries.
At the cleaning products aisle, Casey picked up the jug of store-brand bleach. It was sixty cents less than Clorox.
“I didn’t know there was a store-brand version,” Unu remarked.
“Makes no difference,” she said a little defensively. Unu was staring at the Clorox.
“I’m sure you’re right. I just didn’t know.” He laughed.
“Do you prefer Clorox?” Ever since Casey had left home, she’d bought Clorox herself.
Unu shook his head no. He’d never given any thought to it. He pushed the cart and followed her.
Casey pretended to be occupied by the grocery list. He’d caught her trying to save money, and she didn’t want him to feel ashamed.
“I mean, I’m the daughter of people who do laundry for a living. You should leave the wash to me.” Casey thrust out her neck in mock defiance.
“Okay, Casey.” He laughed. “I trust you.”
They turned the corner to canned goods. They needed soup. Casey picked up six cans. Three for a dollar ninety-eight.
“I’ve never tried that one before,” Unu said. “Do you like Manhattan clam chowder?” he asked. Casey didn’t like tomatoes. The soup was meant for him.
“This company is fine. I’ve had it before.” She put back the chowder and picked up three cans of sale-brand chicken noodle.
“I like Progresso better.” He deliberately mentioned the one that wasn’t on sale. He watched her. She was trying to shave off a few cents, and there was no need to do this.
Casey kept three sale cans of chicken noodle in the cart. She handed him two cans of Progresso clam chowder. “Thank you,” he said. She walked ahead, studying her list.
Unu stopped pushing the cart and waited for her to notice.
When she reached the end of the aisle, she turned around. He wasn’t moving. She waved at him to come to her, but he didn’t budge. Casey walked back to him.
“What’s the matter?” She was trying not to sound caustic.
“I don’t want you to worry about money, Casey,” he said. “There’s enough money for Clorox and Progresso soup. You shouldn’t skimp on these things. I told you I’d take care of you while you were staying with me.” He felt desperate, wanting her not to doubt him.
She opened her mouth to say something but didn’t know how to begin. On Unu’s desk in the living room, near the bank of double-hung windows, he kept a deep rattan basket filled with unpaid bills. Many of them were marked “Second Notice” or “Third Notice.” Occasionally, there were messages left on his answering machine—the speaker’s tone of voice ominous and entitled: “We are calling to inquire about the January payment for the loan in connection with your automobile.” When they heard the messages together, Unu would dismiss it: “I’ve just been too busy to take care of them.” Jay Currie used to hand her a book of signed checks to pay his bills, so when Casey had mentioned this method without attributing its source, Unu replied, his voice quiet and vaguely annoyed, “No need. I’ll take care of it.” And in the past two months, he did occasionally empty the basket and pay them. She had no idea how much money he had or how much of it came from his severance or from blackjack winnings. For her, hell would look like a room lined with laundry baskets overflowing with unpaid bills, message machines blaring with the voices of creditors, and she their sole debtor.