The doorbell rang, probably for the third time. Cameron Smiley didn’t hear it right away because he had dozed off. Begrudgingly, he climbed out of his recliner to answer the door. He didn’t know who would be there, but he had no doubt that whoever it was would be holding a casserole.

His refrigerator and his freezer were full of casseroles, some of them half-eaten; others kept in storage until he could find the will to dispose of them.

“Oh, hello, Cameron, I hope I’m not disturbing you.” It was Mrs. Moxley, Harrison Moxley’s widow. “I brought you my pork belly-carrot casserole,” she said.

This was the moment when Mr. Smiley always felt quite uncomfortable. He wanted to take the casserole, say thank you and shut the door. But he didn’t want to be ignorant. Southerners were raised better than that. Still, letting June Moxley come in might be misinterpreted. So far, since his wife, Dolores, passed two weeks ago, he must have had fourteen visits and fourteen casseroles thrust upon him, one each day on average.

Actually, for the first three days after the services for Mrs. Smiley, he didn’t answer the door. So, on some days he got more than one casserole. They were nearly always elaborate affairs, cooked, not by accident, in casserole dishes he would have to return. Why, he wondered, didn’t any of these women ever think to bring a pizza? He had taken to calling the women who toted these things to his home the casserole brigade. “Thank you, June. I appreciate it. Pork belly carrot, huh? I don’t believe anyone thought to give me one of these yet.” The woman’s face fell a little and he felt sorry for what he said.

“Well, at least you are being well fed, a poor compensation for the loss of your dear wife, I’m sure.”

Smiley nodded, a somber (practiced by now) look on his face. “I’d invite you in June, but my place is a sight. Esther, our cleaning woman, has been ill. She’s behind schedule.”

“Cameron, I wouldn’t mind helping you tidy the place. I always say, a home can be comfortable and clean.” The woman took a cautious step toward the door, hoping by being a tiny bit bold, Cameron would acquiesce.

But the man stood his ground. “Thank you, no. Esther should be by in a few days.”

He and Dolores used to joke about the way widowed and divorced women wasted no time trying to capture the heart of a suddenly eligible widower. Only 65 years old, a recently retired insurance executive, Mr. Smiley would be a fabulous catch. Thanks to a stupendous annual salary, breathtaking bonuses and many shares of stock, the man was quite wealthy. 

Notwithstanding their well to do status, the Smiley’s lived frugally in their modest three bedroom home in Lake Wylie, South Carolina not far from Charlotte. The couple had planned a worldwide cruise to celebrate his retirement, which was to be followed by extended trips to Africa and the Orient. The couple happily made plans to finally build something better in Charleston where Mrs. Smiley was born. The poor woman’s sudden death put an end to all their plans.

Mr Smiley said goodbye to Mrs. Moxley, taking care not to shut the door in her face. He walked into the kitchen, took a peek at the casserole and frowned. He placed it in the freezer, swapping it for what was left of a spinach quiche. He was lonely, but he preferred it that way. He wasn’t even remotely ready to move on.

The doorbell rang again just as he was taking the quiche out of the oven. “Damn it.” He slammed the potholders onto the counter. “No more casseroles, not tonight anyway,” he said as if Dolores was there listening to him.

The bell rang again, followed quickly by a loud knock. This one must be desperate, he thought. Then it was quiet. Mr. Tulifinny gave up. He took his pizza and a six-pack of Coors home with him.