I worried that Kate might say I was incautious, but her face lit up at the chance to help someone in need. She scurried about, first getting ice for the swollen ankle and the forehead bump. While she tended to our visitor, I made up a bed on the couch for him. The man couldn’t tell us his name. He spoke slowly, but incoherently.
“What should we do?” I asked Kate. Call the hospital to see if a patient is missing? The nursing home?”
“Let’s do what needs to be done. Maybe by morning, our visitor will be able to talk to us.”
Kate heated some soup for the man. He picked up the bowl and drank, slurping the noodles after the broth was gone. Kate ran a bath and handed him soap and a washcloth. He dropped his robe and hobbled toward the tub, so Kate went out and closed the door.
While the man bathed, Kate and I searched through the closet that held Hank’s clothes. Kate found briefs, an undershirt, some khakis, and a cotton pullover. Our visitor wasn’t as tall as Hank, but he looked about the same size around.
“Pajamas. Do we still have some here?” Kate wondered aloud.
We found pajamas and a pair of scuffed slippers. Kate folded the clothes, opened the bathroom door a few inches, and set the clothes inside.
When the man came limping from the bathroom, he was wearing the shirt and khakis. The shirtsleeves hung past his hands and the pants covered his feet. His face did look cleaner, but he hadn’t washed his matted gray hair and it still bore an odor of mildew.
The man looked dazed and still said nothing, so Kate and I rolled up his sleeves and pant legs. Kate smiled and asked, “Is this better?”
Kate offered the man a sandwich and he ate it quickly. Despite the bath, our visitor’s fingernails, long and beginning to spiral, were dirty.
I went to clean the tub and saw that he hadn’t emptied it. Maybe he didn’t know how to open the drain. There was urine on the toilet seat and phlegm in the sink. Our guest is a little rough around the edges, I decided while cleaning the toilet, tub, and sink. If he is to stay more than one day, we’ll have to teach him some household manners.
Our nameless guest yawned several times, so Kate handed him the pajamas and directed him to the bathroom. Once he had changed, he climbed gingerly into the couch-bed I had made for him. Kate turned out the lights and we went upstairs to the sewing room. She opened her sewing machine, and taking out the scissors, removed the cuffs from the khakis.
“You’re shortening Hank’s pants?” I asked.
“Hank doesn’t need them.”
Kate pinned up a narrow hem on each pant leg and machine stitched them.
“Where do you think he came from? We need to find out. What if his family is searching for him? Maybe he’s a missing person.”
“He doesn’t look like he’s had anyone caring for him recently”
“Do you think he wandered from the nursing home?”
“Possibly.”
Kate finished hemming the pants and cut the shirt sleeves.
“He’ll probably leave tomorrow,” I said. “Why are you fixing clothes for him?”
“It’s better than sending him back in his bathrobe.”
“Sending him where?”
“I don’t know. We could see if there’s a missing person report on TV. And we can make some inquiries. Let’s help him. It would be nice if we could return him in better condition than we found him.”
“Should we lock the front door?” I asked.
Kate laughed. “To keep him here? I don’t think anyone will steal him. And I don’t think he’ll try to walk up our trail with a sore ankle. Let’s see how he is in the morning and make some calls.”
The next morning, we found our guest sitting on the couch, head in his hands.
“Good morning,” said Kate.
The man didn’t look up.
“Would you like some breakfast?”
The man groaned.
“Breakfast?” Kate repeated.
“Need a... drink.”
“Water or tomato juice?”
“A beer.”
“What is your name?”
The man looked at the floor.
“Can you tell me your name?”
Even after all of these years, my sister’s patience amazes me.
“I do have some home-made blackberry wine.”
“Okay.”
“Tell me your name and I will bring you a glass.”
“Hal.”
“Just Hal? Do you have a surname?”
“Uh, Smith.”
“Where do you normally live?”
“Not around here.”
“Hal,” Kate gently asked, “Do you remember where you came from yesterday?”
“Not a good place. Can I have more wine?”
“No, you may not. One glass per day, and you’ve just had it. Would you like tomato juice? Orange juice?”
I watched TV to see if any missing persons were reported. Kate called the nursing home and hospital. No one missed Hal, so we made him our project. His appetite was always good, and with care and attention, Hal began to talk more and to relax his guard.
He consented to having his fingernails cut and his hair shampooed, so I helped him with these tasks. I gave him a safety razor to cut his whiskers, but he said he didn’t know how to use it. I gave him the safety razor with a blade in it, gave myself a safety razor with no blade and we played ‘follow the leader’ in front of the bathroom mirror.
This was the first time I heard Hal laugh. He laughed at seeing my face with shaving cream on it, and he laughed at the paths through the shaving cream that my empty razor made. When we finished, Hal was clean-shaven.
Hal stayed off his sore foot until the ankle could support his weight—then Kate gave him strengthening exercises and we walked with him. The first time we went down from the bulkhead to the beach, Hal grew so tired that he could barely climb the few steps to the house.
Kate suggested an exercise. “Practice going up and down stairs indoors,” she told him. “Try to do a little more each day.”
For several weeks, we provided nourishing food, prescribed exercise, and taught Hal some of the niceties of housekeeping. Hal’s stair climbing progressed and soon he could easily walk to the beach and back. When Hal said he would like his hair cut, Kate cut it to the length he described. When she finished, she playfully rubbed his head with a towel. Once again, Hal laughed. He had such a natural laugh; it was a pleasure to hear it.
As Hal grew in strength and health, he told us stories and shared his talents with us: How to build an efficient beach fire and cook in it.
“Bring your stew meat and onions, carrots, whatnot, and the heavy pot with a cup of water in it. When this fire burns down to coals, we will bury the pot. The best stew is outdoor stew.”
“Where did you learn this? I asked.
“I’m a traveler,” said Hal.
So he’s homeless. I like him, but he doesn’t tell us much about himself. Maybe he is still learning to trust us.
One day, Kate and Hal stepped down to the beach and I went up the hill for groceries. When I returned two hours later, Kate and Hal were not on the beach. Nor were they in the kitchen or sitting room. I looked into the bathroom and laundry room. I wondered if they had gone for a stroll along the beach or up the hill.
I put the groceries away and went up to my bedroom to rest. As I passed Kate’s room, the door was open. The curtains were closed so the light was dim, yet I could see that Kate was asleep on her bed, and so was Hal. The sheet covered only their feet. They were asleep, all snuggled, and they were naked.
I closed Kate’s door and hurried to my room. What should I do? What could I say to them? There was a pit in my stomach and tightness in my throat.
I went down to the kitchen and started making some quick bread. As I took it out of the oven I heard Kate and Hal coming down the stairs. I wanted to stay quiet about what I had seen and talk to Kate privately later. Yet, seeing them come down the stairs, relaxed and smiling, I burst
into tears.
“How could you, Kate? What were you thinking? Life was simple before Hal came here. Can’t we just send him away?”
I could hear the stridency in my voice, but I didn’t care. Kate put her arm around my shoulder. I brushed it away.
“Maudie, dear, it’s not what you think,” Kate’s voice, as always, was gentle.
“What am I supposed to think?” I countered. “There you were—you two—naked in bed. In Hank’s bed! And Hank not gone four months.”
“It’s therapy,” Kate said.
“Therapy, my ass!” I had learned some new expressions from the irrepressible Hal. “Therapists have lost their licenses for performing that kind of therapy!”
“No, please let me tell you. This afternoon, we saw a TV program that explained ‘kangaroo care’. It told how newborn infants fail to thrive if they don’t have skin contact with their parents or caregivers. It also said that older people often lose the opportunity for skin contact. They have no children to cuddle and often their spouses have died. So there is no touching, no warmth of skin available to them.”
“Now you listen,” I said, “We don’t know Hal. We don’t know where he came from. We don’t even know if ‘Hal’ is his real name. He could be a felon. I’ll bet he conned you into this.”
These words came from my mouth unbidden. I had grown to like Hal and to trust him, so I suddenly felt ashamed of what I was saying.
“No, Hal didn’t con me into anything”, Kate said. “Hal has tolerated our managing his current life. He’s been very patient with our ‘one glass of wine per day’ and with our insistence on a health regime. The kangaroo therapy for elders was my idea. Hal agreed it was worth a try. Sharing a cuddle is comforting. It’s encouraging. And it motivates an old lady like me to go on.”
“So is the therapy for him or for you?”
“I meant it for him, but...’’
“But...the sexuality of it,” I broke in...”I...I wasn’t expecting this.”
“Skin contact therapy is usually not sexual. If it becomes sexual, then we might want to see what we can do.” Kate smiled, but I was not in the mood for humor. “But for now,” she continued, “it is kangaroo care. It’s ‘cuddle time for grandparents’. You could join us. I imagine Hal would be willing.”
“Oh, we would just pile into bed like a bunch of puppies? No thanks. Please excuse my old-fashioned ideas, but I think cuddling, with all of its unproven benefits, is a private affair.”
While Kate and I talked, Hal left the kitchen. I heard his voice in the sitting room, but I couldn’t hear what he said. Was he talking to himself? Was he on the telephone? Had he remembered a friend or a relative who could come take him away? In my anger, I wished him to leave; yet I feared my wish might come true.
Anger exhausted me, wore out my spirit. We ate a quiet meal. After supper, we went to our individual rooms to sleep and to dream alone.
353 The next morning, I apologized to Kate and Hal. “I was taken by surprise. I’m not trying to manage your lives. Please...I didn’t mean what I said. I was tired and upset. I hope that Hal will stay with you,” I said to Kate, “despite your cranky sister.”
“It’s okay, sister,” said Hal. “It’s really okay,” and he hugged us both. It felt good.
We spent a pleasant day cooking and beachcombing. We picked blueberries from the garden and made a pie. Kate smiled often, and when she smiled, the deep lines of age disappeared. There was life in her eyes and pink in her complexion that I hadn’t seen since Hank passed.
The wind came up in the afternoon, and we knew rain would follow. Kate dressed a chicken and put it into the oven for an indoor supper. I picked lettuce and a cucumber from the garden, and pulled a few carrots and radishes.
The sun dropped into the sea and the dark crept up the hill behind us as we went inside to finish cooking.
I was tossing the salad when there was a knock at the door. My heart nearly stopped. Someone has found their way here in the dark. Maybe Hal is leaving after all. If he goes, it’ll be my fault... and my loss, as well as Kate’s.
I opened the door and there stood a man—about my age, about my height, his white hair windswept, as though his ship had just been blown to this shore. He carried a walking stick and a small knapsack.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you. I’m a friend of Hal’s. He telephoned me yesterday, but he didn’t leave a number. Is he in?”
“Uh, yes, he is. I’m surprised that you found your way down here in the dark.”
“My feet led me here… They can see in the dark. I’m Peder. And you...?”
Peder’s remark made me smile, and he returned my smile. The light from the kitchen sparkled in his blue eyes.
“I’m Maude. We’re just sitting down to supper. Will you join us?”
RITA J. WEBB
Throughout her childhood, Rita J. Webb travelled around the country with a book always in hand. Rita finally settled in Ohio where she attended college to study Computer Science and then began a career as a Software Test Analyst, a beautiful title for an empty position.
Rita’s love for books and great stories pushed her to start writing when impending layoffs forced her to reconsider her dreams and goals. Having tested software for ten years, she wanted to create something more meaningful than a test manual, something that would move hearts.
With her husband T.J., Rita home-schools her three girls, who keep her busy with art, science projects, books to read, and walks about the park.
P EERING IN THE WINDOW. Virginia Hamilton wants nothing more than to fit in, to find romance, to make friends, but when Bryan asks her out for dinner, she’s clueless on how to respond. Can she overcome her shyness to learn how to love?
W RITER’S DREAM. Jason and his wife Trixie move to the country to escape the painful memories of their lost son. Trixie is soon pregnant, and the promise of new life gives her hope. But, Jason can’t shake the guilt, grief, and anger that consume him.
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http://afantasyfiction.blogspot.com
Peering in the Window
Rita J. Webb
Copyright © Rita J. Webb 2009 I sat typing at my desk. I loved being efficient. My fingers would fly over the keys, making quick tapping noises as the neat little letters marched like tiny ants across the screen. I always worked through my pile of typing faster than the other girls, and they hated me for it.
Mr. Appleton made it worse by giving me all the special assignments. Not only was I fast, I was perfect, and he made sure the whole office floor knew how special Virginia Hamilton was.
“Why can’t you type as fast as Virginia?” Mr. Appleton badgered them. “Look at all these mistakes. Maybe if you focused on your work like Virginia does, rather than gabbing all morning, you’d actually make some decent progress.”
All those eyes were on me—hateful, angry, and jealous— wishing and plotting my demise, I was sure. My face burned hot, and I hung my head to hide my embarrassment. I hated being the focus of attention and just wished that the ground would open up and swallow me.
Oh, I had tried to fit in, attempting to slow down, but once I got started, I couldn’t help myself. My fingers just wouldn’t listen. That’s why I always ate my lunch alone and watched the other girls laugh and gossip and carry on like schoolgirls. I wished to hate them for it, but I didn’t. Instead, I was an outsider staring with envy through the open window.
“Virginia.” I looked up from my work to big blue eyes staring at me. The entire room was quiet. The clicking of keyboards, the chatter of the secretaries, the beeping of computers; it all stopped to watch him. I could just about hear the heartbeat of every girl in the room, clamoring loudly for his attention, the one man all the girls seemed to melt over, and here he was, at my desk.
If I was hated before, they would loathe me now. “Mr. Johnson—” I started.
“Bryan. There’s no need to be formal.”
“Um. Yes. Bryan.” My heart hammered and my hands shoo
k. “Um. How may I help you?”
He laughed; good-natured, but most definitely triggered by my bright red face and clumsy manners. Hadn’t he said there was no need to be formal? How may I help you? As if I addressed a stranger.
“Mr. Appleton,” Mr. Johnson—er, Bryan—said, “has assigned you to the project I will be starting next week. I would like you to come to my office within the hour to take some dictation.”
“Yes, sir, I mean, Bryan.” Bryan. Bryan. I need to remember that.
He opened his mouth as if to say something else and then smiled. “Thank you,” he said and walked away.
I put my head on the desk. How could I be such a dolt? I could hear the girls’ buzz behind me, whispering about me, no doubt, and probably remarking about how fine Bryan’s anatomy was as he walked away. Anatomy. That’s not likely the word they would use, but I couldn’t bring myself to use such words. Slang. I tried sometimes, but the words wouldn’t come out. Rather than sounding relaxed and natural, slang just made me even more awkward; just as I had been in high school; just as I had been in college; just as I was now.
Twenty-seven years old. Never been on a date. I lived alone without even a cat to keep me company. I did have a plant though. I watered it every morning at six fifty-seven, just before I went out the door. Precision and good books took the place of companionship and love. I was pretty sure that I was better off, based on the tales I overheard from the chatter of those little birds.
I entered my last data set, collected my pens and notepads, and headed toward Bryan’s office. He pored over some documents when I rapped on the door.
“Come in,” he said, gesturing toward a seat. “Let me give you some idea what this project is about.” I sat down nervously, and he stood and walked over to the whiteboard. With the help of pictures, he explained about databases and servers and network connections.
I stared at him. It wasn’t that he didn’t make sense. I understood every word. Rather, nobody ever bothered to explain things to secretaries. We were there to take notes and type things up and enter data into the computers. We weren’t required to think or understand or know anything.
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