“You notice how doctors and dentists scrub up?”
“I don’t know”
“They wash their hands a lot,” she explained. “Very carefully. I do, too. In fact, I must wash my hands at least a dozen times a day when I’m working.”
“Oh,” he said.
“To kill germs and so forth.”
“Mom says germs are teeny little worms you can’t see. They crawl inside you if you don’t take a bath or brush your teeth.”
“In a way she’s right.” Scarpetta moved a step stool close to the sink. “Stand on this,” she directed.
He was uncertain as he stepped up, but it felt fine to be as tall as she was. “Here we go,” she said. “I used to have to do the same thing for Lucy. No matter what she did, somehow she got dirty.”
Scarpetta began washing Jimmy’s hands. It felt very good, but he would never tell her such a thing. When she finished, she dried them with a clean dishtowel. He stepped down and looked up at her, wondering what to expect next.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am, a little.” His stomach had retreated into its empty place, and the sights and smells in Scarpetta’s kitchen were unbearably wonderful. “But I can wait,” he added.
Scarpetta poured him a glass of milk, sat him at the kitchen table, and draped a cloth napkin over his lap. He watched her stir the stew and grate hard yellow cheese. Then she unwrapped the bread and cut off an end piece-his favorite part-and slathered it with butter. She fetched shakers from a cupboard and coated the hot, buttered bread with cinnamon sugar and a dash of cocoa powdeL
“I call this cap puccino bread.” She winked at him and smiled.
She placed his treat under the broiler for a minute and served it to him crusty and bubbling hot.
“Of course, this is against all my rules. It will probably ruin your dinner.”
“Oh no, ma’am.”
“It will be our secret.” She sat at the table with him.
“I won’t tell,” he said.
Jimmy wanted to be polite and eat slowly, chewing small bites, as his mother had taught him. But in seconds the bread was gone and warming his stomach. He wiped his hands on his jeans.
“I’m not giving you any more,” she told him.
“That’s all right.” He felt very shy and didn’t want her to think it would ever occur to him to want more, even though he did.
“Because you need to eat your stew And a salad, too.”
“Yes, ma’am, I will,” he assured her. “I can eat a lot. A whole lot.”
“You ever seen a microscope?” Scarpetta asked him, as they got up from the table.
“What’s a microscope?” he asked.
“Something that makes small things very big,” she said, taking his hand. They walked out of the kitchen together.
Since the fun of this is that no concoction will ever be the same, you are encouraged to take notes.
Kay Scarpetta M.D.