His father’s eyes opened wide and his mother’s jaw dropped.
“Butler?” she asked. “Did you say butler?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You couldn’t keep your room clean for more than twenty seconds as a boy and now you’re a butler?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Where?” his father asked.
“Here. In the city. Shackleford House. Over on the North Side.” Roger sipped his coffee and waited.
His parents shared a look—half confusion, half concern.
“How in the world did that happen?” his mother asked, leaning forward over the table. “Was it something you wanted?”
Roger shrugged. “You know I was having trouble after the EMT thing.”
They both nodded.
“I signed up with an employment agency and they matched me with this job. Well, a bunch of jobs, really, but none of them worked out. A couple of months ago they sent me out to this job and I got it.”
“You don’t have any qualifications to be a butler, Rog,” his father said.
“Well, it seems that I had the qualifications they wanted. The old man lives in the house alone. His niece and nephew have him on a waiting list for assisted living in Colorado but needed somebody to look after him and the house until his name comes up on the list. They didn’t need a butler as much as somebody who could look out for him and make sure he ate and stuff.” Roger shrugged.
“Assisted living?” his father asked, one eyebrow raised. “What exactly are you doing for this guy?”
“Mostly just making sure the house stays in order, laundry, making meals.”
“Why does he need assisted living?” his mother asked.
“Dementia. He’s sometimes confused about where or when he is.” Roger shrugged. “He sometimes calls me Perkins. That was his last butler.”
His mother smiled. “That’s not dementia. Half the time I called you Ed and him Roger.”
Roger smiled. “He’s a nice guy. I met him before I signed the contract. It’s only for a year, and the pay is good.” He shrugged. “That’s why I’m here, actually.”
“Oh?” his mother asked.
“I need to learn to cook.”
His father gave a short bark of laughter while his mother’s eyes shot open wide.
“You can cook,” she said.
“No, I mean I need to know how to cook better.”
She shook her head and looked to his father for a moment. “What do you mean by better?”
“I can make the few things I learned here, but I need to expand my menu a little. I’ve been reading books and watching videos but it seems all disjointed.”
She pursed her lips and frowned. “You want to be what? A chef?”
“Maybe,” Roger said, glancing at his father.
“What do you need to know?” she asked.
“That’s the thing,” he said, leaning over his mug. “I don’t know what I need to know. I need some fundamental kind of text or instruction or something.” He shook his head.
“What about this butler thing?” his father asked. “I didn’t think butlers cooked.”
Roger shrugged. “It’s just the two of us. A big house would have a full staff and the butler’s job would be to oversee it. I get to do all of the jobs.”
“All of them?” his mother asked. “That’s a lot of work even if you’re the only one there.”
“Well, we have help with the routine dusting and such. A yard crew.” He swallowed back the temptation to explain exactly what that help consisted of. “I don’t have much to do with them or them with me. Long as the job’s done.”
His father nodded. “So you’re more like cook and bottle washer?”
“Mostly. I have a uniform. I tend to Mr. Shackleford’s clothing. Make sure his suits get cleaned. He dresses himself.” He addressed that last to his mother. “I handle the pantry and the cooking. I have a schedule of chores to do every day. It took me a while to get up to speed on the how and why of it, but I kinda like it.”
His father smiled at him. “You seem a lot less frazzled than the last time we saw you.”
Roger nodded. “It’s been a while.”
“But you want to know how to cook, now?” his mother asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“There are whole schools for that, you know,” his father said.
“I know, and I might look into one of them when Mr. Shackleford no longer needs me.”
His father sat back in his chair and tilted his head to one side. “Good for you. It makes me happy that you’re thinking of the future again.” The tone of approval warmed him.
“On Cooking,” his mother said. “That’s the text you want.”
“That’s the title?” Roger asked. “On Cooking?”
“Yeah. That was the text I had in school,” she said.
“You studied cooking in school?” he asked.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she said. “I studied a lot of things in school.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Roger said, grinning. “I just thought you studied mostly business and economics.”
“That, too, but I had to have some non-core credits. You know how that works.”
Roger didn’t. He’d enlisted a year after high school, anxious to leave the nest and at a loss as to what to do. It wasn’t the worst decision he’d ever made, but in hindsight, he’d probably have been better off doing almost anything besides learning how to kill people at long distance.
“Hey,” his mother said, staring into his face. “None of that.”
“What?” he asked.
“That staring off at nothing stuff. Focus. You need that book.” She slapped the table beside her cup.
Roger pulled out his phone and opened the search function. He thumbed in the title and found a text with that title online. He turned the phone to his mother. “That one?”
She leaned in to look at his screen. “Yeah. That’s the one. Different cover, it’s a new edition. Publishers have to make their money somehow.”
He flipped the phone around and ordered it, choosing the expedited delivery. “Done. I’ll have it Tuesday.”
“You could probably have found it locally,” his father said.
“Yeah, but I don’t have another day off to look until next week.”
“That’s a lot of hours. They paying you for them?” he asked, not suspicious, exactly.
“Room, board, five thousand a month, and a stipend for expenses.” Roger felt uncomfortable mentioning the bonus at the end. He wasn’t convinced he’d ever see that money.
“So, you live free and they pay you besides?” his mother asked.
“And the pay’s a lot better than the army,” Roger said.
“You like it,” his father said.
“I do.”
“You like it and can afford it? Nothing wrong with that,” he said, settling the matter.
“Who’s ready for dinner?” his mother asked. “That pot roast has to be done by now.”
“Smells heavenly,” Roger said. “Can I help set the table?”
His mother’s eyebrows shot up. “Yeah. I suppose.”
His father grinned. “Show off.”
Roger shrugged and stood. “I don’t get to set many tables. Mr. Shackleford takes his meals on a tray.”
“Don’t be making fun of him, Ed,” his mother said. “I’m not one to turn down help in the kitchen. Or the dining room.”
His father held up his hands, palms out. “Nothing of the kind,” he said but he grinned and winked at Roger.
Roger picked up the now-empty mugs and took them to the sink, rinsing them and stacking them in the dishwasher before washing his hands and heading for the cupboards.
“When you’re done with that, come over here and I’ll show you how I make gravy,” his mother said.
Roger grinned and started dealing out plates and water glasses, the pictures from his butler book playing like a slideshow in his
mind. “It’ll be just a moment.” His parents didn’t have the range of cutlery or china that Shackleford House used, but that didn’t stop him from laying them out as neatly as if they were Wallace Silversmiths and Noritake.
* * *
Replete with his mother’s cooking, he waved good-bye from the sidewalk as his Uber pulled to a stop. His parents waved back from the door and he slipped into the car. The ride back to Shackleford House went without incident. Roger took the time to review his book order. The cost would have made him balk before. Nearly $150 for a single book. It included the expedited shipping, but still, it would have been an unconscionable amount. He smiled and looked at the nighttime streets scrolling past his window. He keyed a generous tip and left a positive feedback in the app when the driver turned onto his block.
He directed the driver to the alley and driveway at the back. The guy gave him an odd look but followed the directions. Roger got out and walked up the tarmac toward the darkened house, the only light in the upper window that marked the library.
Roger let himself into the house and strolled through the kitchen to his quarters. Without giving it much thought, he changed into his uniform and hung up his civvies. The jacket and tie had become second nature to him; the jeans and polo were now something odd. His trainers went into the base of the wardrobe and he tied on his oxfords. He felt the calm settle on him as he checked his tie and the drape of his jacket in the mirror. He removed his wristwatch, replacing it in the dresser drawer when he got out the pocket watch.
He checked the time and picked up the debit card from where he’d dropped it on the dresser. There was time to see if Mr. Shackleford needed anything.
He knocked twice before entering. Shackleford looked back over his shoulder from the computer chair.
“Ah, Mulligan. Excellent, but this is your day off.”
“Thank you, sir. I visited my parents for dinner.” He held up the card. “I also got this for you and delivered the message to Mrs. Pettigrew.”
“You did, did you? What did she say?”
“I’m embarrassed to say that she advised me to look in the book she provided for me. That I would find the information there.”
Shackleford nodded and took the card from Roger’s hand. “Don’t let that bother you,” he said. “She’s a remarkable woman.” He looked up at Roger from under lowered brows. “I suspect you knew that already.”
“I found her to be so, yes, sir.”
“Thank you for this, Mulligan.” He waved the card. “I’ve been doing some more research. This internet is a marvel.”
“I’m happy you’re finding it useful, sir. Is there anything I can get you, since I’m back?”
“No, thank you, Mulligan. I had a light dinner earlier and stashed the dishes in the washing machine. I’ll have a nightcap shortly and call it a night.”
“Pardon my saying so, sir, but you seem quite focused tonight.”
Shackleford looked up at him, nodding. “Tomorrow you may find me swinging from the chandelier in the foyer wearing nothing but my boxers and a towel around my neck as a cape, Mulligan.” He shrugged. “I’m always better during a new moon. Worse during the full. None of my research has come up with any rationale for either.”
“If you’re sure, sir.”
“Quite sure, Mulligan. If something changes, I’ll ring you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Roger turned to go but Shackleford spoke again. “Your parents, you say?”
“Yes, sir. I have been neglecting them of late.”
“Did they have a comment on your new position?”
“They seemed rather surprised by it, sir. My father’s opinion was that if I liked it and could afford it, then it was good enough for him.”
“And do you, Mulligan? Like it?”
“I do, sir. Much more than I expected I would.”
Shackleford smiled. “Applies to much of life, I’ve found. Sometimes the things you like the most start out as things you’d never imagine actually doing.” He nodded. “Thank you, Mulligan. Good night.”
“Good night, sir.”
Roger left the library and pulled the door closed behind himself. The latch clicked and he wondered for a moment if he should practice the silent door trick he’d read about in the butler book. He shook his head and went to the kitchen, helping himself to a cup of tea and a cookie before retiring to his quarters. Settling in at his desk, he picked up his Bible and scanned the table of contents for “medical.” It was halfway down the second page. “Page 699,” he said and flipped to page 699 on the first try.
He frowned. He’d never had to search for a page when using the Bible.
He closed the book, reopening to the table of contents. He ran his finger down the column of entries to “Banquets and Parties” on the list. “Page 271,” he said and flipped the book open to page 271 without trying. He sat back in his chair, a little thrill running up his spine, his suspicion about the woman confirmed. Mrs. Pettigrew was a powerful wizard in her own right. For a moment or two, he wondered how many other wizards might exist in the city alone. He shook the thought out of his head. Did no good to speculate.
Back in the section on medical assistance, he noted that Mr. Shackleford’s previous doctor had a notation beside his name saying “deceased.” Several names and addresses were printed below as possible replacements. He wasn’t sure what the order indicated—they were not alphabetical—but he made a note to call on Monday to find a new physician for the old man. He’d bet dollars to donuts that all of them were wizards. He closed the book with a snap, placing it on his desk.
He settled back in his chair and fired up the laptop. He had a new video about sauté work to watch before calling it a night himself and there was nothing else left for him to do for the day.
* * *
A woman joined Roger on his morning run, the next morning, a situation that surprised him. She came up from behind and started pacing alongside. “Hi,” she said.
“Morning,” Roger said, glancing over. Her chestnut hair pulled back in a pony tail, she wore a purple, sports bra top and matching shorts with a pair of Asics running shoes. Also purple. She looked to be about Roger’s age, maybe a little younger.
“I see you out here every morning,” she said, running easily on his left. “Clockwork.”
“I try to run before work,” he said.
“Me, too. Mind if I run with you?” she asked.
“Free country,” he said.
“So I’ve heard,” she said. “You’re at Shackleford House, right?”
“Yes,” Roger said, his security buttons beginning to light up.
“I have the condo next door. I’m Molly. Molly Flint.” She held up a hand for an awkward handshake.
“Roger Mulligan.”
She nodded. “Nice to meet you, Roger.”
He focused on his breathing and kept his pace even, letting the morning and the zen of running carry him forward. Sure, she was pretty and in good shape, but she probably had a jealous husband waiting at home.
They ran his usual loop, down a block and across to the running path through the park. Roger always saw a lot of joggers, nodded to those he recognized. Some of them nodded back. Most said nothing because they had ear buds in or just looked too focused, barely acknowledging his existence. As they came around to the alley again, Roger slowed to a cool-down walk, Molly following suit.
She’d worked up a sweat, but neither of them had to pant. “Good run,” she said. “Thanks.”
He shrugged. “No problem.”
She stopped at the back gate by the condo next to Shackleford House. “Seriously. Thanks. I hate running alone.”
“Well, you’re welcome to join me. I go out at the same time, almost every day.”
She nodded. “Yes. Clockwork. I’ve noticed.”
“I haven’t see you running.”
She shook her head. “I’ve been using the treadmill for the last few weeks. I had a ...” She paused and shrugge
d. “A situation. With another runner.”
“A guy?” Roger asked.
“Yeah.” She shrugged again. “Treadmill just isn’t the same.”
Roger nodded. “I know the feeling.” He left her standing at the gate. A few moments later he heard it open and close.
* * *
Monday morning, after breakfast service, Roger called the four doctors on the list. He got through to none of them directly, but left a name and number and short message with each service.
He all but forgot about it until right after lunch when the first one called back.
“Shackleford House,” he said.
“Dr. Jane Littlefield’s office calling for Roger Mulligan.” A woman’s voice.
“Speaking.”
“One moment, sir.”
Less than a moment later another woman’s voice came on the line. “Mr. Mulligan, Dr. Littlefield. How is Mr. Shackleford?”
“That’s what we’d like to know, Doctor,” Roger said. “He’s probably overdue for a checkup.”
The pause lasted so long Roger started to think the connection had dropped before the woman spoke again. “I see,” she said. “I need to put you on hold for one moment.”
The line clicked and a rather uninspiring string quartet started playing, somewhere in the middle of the tune. Roger waited, imagining some kind of hurried conversation behind the scenes.
The line clicked again. “Mr. Mulligan, would you be able to bring Mr. Shackleford in for a new patient interview tomorrow?” The first woman’s voice.
“Mr. Shackleford was hoping for a house call,” Roger said.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Mulligan. That’s quite impossible.”
“What time tomorrow?” Roger asked.
“Dr. Littlefield has an opening at 2:30.”
Roger made a note in his notebook. “I’ll have to check with Mr. Shackleford and get back to you.”
After a short pause, the woman asked, “Would it be possible to speak with Mr. Shackleford directly?”
Roger frowned, trying to remember if he’d seen a phone extension on the upper floor. “I need to see if he’s available. Can you hold?”
“Yes.”
“One moment.” Roger laid the receiver down beside the phone and headed up the stairs. He knocked at the door and entered to find Shackleford in his usual chair.
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