The Cavendish Enterprises logo is on a large sign beside the entry to the parking lot, which used to be the driveway to the farm. I drive past it the first time, which means I see the loading dock on the far side of the warehouse, and the line of tractor trailers waiting to be loaded. They also have the Cavendish logo on them. That greenhouse continues across the back, then there’s another one, even bigger, where the Cavendish farm used to have seemingly endless fields of tomatoes.
I make a U-turn and head back. It’s incredibly quiet and I don’t see anyone else around.
Mike’s truck is parked near the back of the house but thewindows are all dark. Is he even home? The house looks funny with the commercial property right beside it, but I guess every inch of land is valuable, too valuable to waste. I park beside his truck and it’s not until I’m standing on the pavement that I fully appreciate the height of that first greenhouse. I can see the shadowy shapes of the plants inside and hear fans running. There’s a line of lights on inside it, too.
I go to the kitchen door because that’s always how we went into the house. The place really needs a coat of paint. I knock on the door, but there’s no answer. I press the doorbell, but I don’t hear it ring. I look back at Mike’s truck, then I try the door.
Of course, it’s unlocked. This is Empire.
“Mike?” I call. “Are you home?”
After a minute, I hear a toilet flush and am relieved. There’s a sure sign of life.
The kitchen isn’t very different from what I remember, just that it’s empty, as if no one lives here. Back in the day, there were kids running in and out the door, jumping in the pool, grabbing treats from the freezer and drinks from the fridge. Any party in the summer was at the Cavendish place, because they had a pool. There were always snacks on the counter and usually dishes in the sink. The fridge was covered with drawings and notes and reminders and joke magnets. Now, every surface is bare. The only sign of life is a line of big plastic bottles from a sports drink, placed neatly on the counter.
Don’t people drink that stuff for the electrolytes?
I wait a minute, then I call again.
“Sylvia?” Mike’s voice is rough and when he appears in the kitchen doorway, he looks even rougher. I don’t think he’s wearing anything other than a pair of sweatpants. His chest is bare and so are his feet. His hair is rumpled and he looks pale. “Turn around and walk right out of here,” he says, pointing to the door.
“I just wanted to check that you were okay,” I say, feeling a little insulted by his gruff manner. “You’re not answering your phone.”
He blinks and looks around, and we both spot his phone on the counter. “I haven’t plugged it in since Tuesday,” he says as he picks it up. “Yup. Paperweight.” He reaches for the cord on the counter and plugs it in. “Now, go.”
“You look terrible,” I say, noticing the shadows under his eyes.
“Thanks. The plague got me. Run while you can.” He leans against the counter, as if he might not remain standing otherwise, and fixes me with a look.
“When?”
“Tuesday.”
Tuesday? He’s been here alone since then? “Symptoms?”
Mike takes a deep breath, then counts them off on his fingers. “Fever, nausea, vomiting, sweats, chills, aches and pains.” He gives me a very blue look. “It’s a party, no doubt about it. Zero stars. Do not recommend.”
The thing is that his eyes have brightened since we started talking. Maybe it’s good for him to have company. It’s not like I need an excuse to stand here and talk to half-naked Mike, but I’ll take it. In fact, I feel awful that I didn’t check in on him sooner. “Has your fever broken?”
“I don’t know. I don’t actually care.” He pushes a hand through his hair, leaving it standing on end. “I’ve been in bed the whole time, well, except for when I’ve been in the bathroom.”
I walk toward him, ignoring his protests and put my hand on his forehead. To my relief, it’s cool.
He steps back. “Sylvia, you shouldn’t get close…”
“I was closer Monday and didn’t catch it from you.” There’s nothing he can say to that.
He frowns. “Why aren’t you sick?”
“Merrie calls it subway immunity.”
“Excuse me?”
“When you ride the subway or wait tables in a busy restaurant or do anything that involves being in close contact with a whole lot of people every day, you get sick less often.”
“Okay.” He looks unconvinced.
“I don’t think you have a fever anymore.” I lift my hand from his forehead, fighting the urge to keep touching him. “When did you last eat?”
