by Tina Martin
“Wow. You’re something else.” I leave the room as he requested, jog downstairs, take my purse from the closet and drive back home.
I’m done.
He’s been unstable. I’ve just been trying to tolerate it. But, since most of my early teenage years was that way – unstable and clouded by dysfunction – I’m not going back. I need what little sanity I have left and I’m not about to let no man drive me into a nuthouse.
It’s the same thing I tell Sylvia when she calls to find out where I am. Said Naomi was looking for me because I hadn’t left the new menu for this week.
“Tell her to wing it, or maybe use one of the old menus, Sylvia. I can’t deal with your son. I tried. Just when I think we’re taking a step forward, he takes a million freakin’ steps backward. I failed.”
“What happened?”
“You heard what the doctor told him, right? He’s supposed to be in bed for like two weeks. Well, he decides to get up this morning, take a shower and I don’t know what happened in the shower to piss him off, but he was already back to his usual, grumpy self. I was trying to get him to get back in bed. He yelled at me and told me to leave the room. My goodness, that man…have you ever had him tested for bipolar disorder?”
“He doesn’t have bipolar disorder, Cherish.”
“He has something and if he needs some medication, we really need to find out like right now.”
“See, that statement right there proves you still care.”
I glare at my phone. Is she crazy, too? “Okay, well, tell Naomi what I said. I’m going to enjoy my day. Drama free. I’ll see you around, Sylvia.”
It’s seven o’clock in the morning now. Naomi tries to call me, but I don’t have it in me to answer. Today is the day I draw a line in the sand that separates me from The Hawthorne Estate. I’m free.
I use my newfound freedom to go grocery shopping, since I didn’t get a chance to do it this past weekend, being at the hospital with Montgomery and all. I take my time, get items I want, especially what I want to cook today. I’m excited to have the opportunity to do that on a weekday.
I pull up in my driveway around three, taking Food Lion bags from the trunk. My nosy neighbor stops doing her yard work to watch everything I’m doing.
“See you done went and got yaself some groceries.”
My eyes roll behind my shades. “Yep. Sure did, Ms. Kettleworth…”
“You home mighty early. I seent-chu pull up and I looked at my watch. I said to myself, I knows it ain’t six-thirty—quarter-‘til-seven already.”
“Yeah, I got off work early today.”
“Oh. I see. Lemme ask you sum…when you get off work early like-yat, do you still get paid for it?”
She doesn’t need to know I quit. She doesn’t need to know anything. “Yes, I still get paid. I’ll see you later,” I tell her so she can move along.
In the kitchen, I throw my bags up on the table and unpack them. Then I get started on dinner right away. I’m cooking smothered pork chops – haven’t had them in forever. I make homemade mashed potatoes and broccoli with cheese to go with it. It was one of my Aunt Jo’s favorite dishes. She taught me how to make it.
Aunt Jolene loved cooking. She would cook these elaborate meals every weekend and invite some of the neighbors over – anyone who wanted a plate. I miss those times. Miss her cooking. Her laughter. Her words of wisdom. She was my mother’s sister, but they were cut from a different cloth. That’s for sure.
* * *
As I sit down to eat dinner alone, I’m thinking about Montgomery in the aspect of being mad at myself for giving up on him so easily. He clearly needs help. My problem is, I don’t know how to help him. He’s so bent on being mad at the world, and I still don’t know why that is. He’s got it made. Why can’t he see that?
I sigh. Should I go back tomorrow?
No, I can’t go back. I put my foot down and told him I wouldn’t. He needs to know I’m a woman of my word, and that there are consequences to his actions. He needs to recognize when someone’s trying to help him. He needs to…
I digress. I’m hungry, this plate of food in front of me smells good and I’m ready to eat. I close my eyes to pray over the meal and I pray for Montgomery and his family. I pray he finds peace over what ails him and that he seeks help. I say Amen, open my eyes. Almost immediately after, the doorbell rings.
I don’t have time to be messin’ around with Ms. Kettleworth so I ignore it.
It rings twice more, back-to-back.
I get up from the table, take a quick peep out the window and see a black Mercedes parked behind my car.
No way. It can’t be. That’s Montgomery’s car.
I open the door, my heart is racing strictly out of anger and when I confirm it’s him standing at my door, I’m prepared to snap and go off. I want to yell, scream and give him a verbal beat down for driving all the way to my house in his condition. Before I can get a word out, he says, “I need your help.”
Chapter Sixteen
Monty
She takes me by the hand – I don’t snatch it away from her this time. With no questions asked, at least not yet, she shows me to a spare bedroom. I sit on the bed. She lowers herself to her knees to takes off my shoes. Then she tugs at my shirt, slowly moving my arms through each sleeve. She checks my bandages.
“This one is bleeding a little bit,” she says, gently touching me.
She hurries away, comes back with gauze, medical tape, cotton balls and alcohol pads. She removes the old bandage. I can officially add caretaker to her other talents and abilities. She dabs the scar with alcohol. I absorb the sting. Let her work. Watch her as she works. As she focuses on taking care of me. Once it’s clean to her satisfaction, she wraps it. I’m all bandaged up again.
“Have you completely lost your freakin’ mind? You’re not supposed to be driving.”
“At least I made it this time.”
She scowls. Her whole face knots up. “That’s not funny.”
“I didn’t mean for it to be funny. It’s just the truth. I’m here. This time.”
“You don’t need to be here. You need to be at your house lying in your acre-sized bed resting per doctor’s orders! You’re supposed to be drinking water, staying hydrated, eating and making sure you’re taking care of yourself. Making sure you change your bandages. You have to give yourself time to heal, Monty.”
Monty. It rolls off her tongue naturally like it’s what she’s always called me. Like, just a day ago, I wasn’t Mr. St. Claire to her. Her boss. The man she avoids eye contact with.
“Did you hear me?” she asks after she’s done reprimanding me. I find her little take-charge attitude comical but she’d never know that by looking at me.
“Yes. I heard you, Cherry,” I say since we’re on a nickname basis. “Heard you loud and clear.”
“Yeah, you heard me but you ain’t listening.”
“I heard every word you said.”
“Sure you did. Can I take a look at your legs?”
“Sure,” I tell her. My ribs have yet to heal, but I think I’ve made it worse today by moving around so much. I can barely stand up straight but I do the best I can, unzip my pants and let my slacks fall to the floor while she studies the area on my thigh where I had to get stitches. She doesn’t touch it. She’s only looking at the bandage.
“How is it?” I ask her.
“Better than the one on your chest. Did you bring some pain medication?”
“No. My assistant was supposed to pick it up, but she walked off the job this morning.”
“If you weren’t being so rude, I wouldn’t have left.”
“How was I being rude? I told you to get out of my room.”
“And that was rude.”
“What if that’s what you consider to be rudeness but not me? I’m a straightforward guy, Cherish. For that reason, people say I’m rude or hard to deal with.”
“Well, I don’t like it.”
“You will.”
She narrows her eyes.
“Once you get to know me,” I finish saying.
“How insane does that sound? I worked for you for two years and you come out your mouth with something like that. Once you get to know me. If I don’t know you by now, what’s the point?”
Sitting on the edge of the bed is getting uncomfortable, but I can’t resist this conversation. “Why don’t you know me?”
“I do know you but I don’t know you…if that makes any sense. You distance yourself from the people who serve you. You won’t say a word to us and if you do, it’s something cold and terse. The people who’ve known you the longest are the ones who gave me advice on how to deal with you. They said to stay out of your way and do my job. That’s what I did. Stayed out of your way. Did my job. I made it a point to know where you were at all times so I didn’t have to run into you.”
“That’s harsh.”
She shrugs. “It was my reality, but it didn’t hinder me from doing my job.” She fluffs some pillows then instructs me to ease back. She helps me get into a comfortable position. Then she walks over to the closet, grabs a blanket and spreads it over my legs. “There. Is that comfortable?”
“It’s fine,” I tell her, studying her as she takes care of me, remembering the deep bond I felt with her at the hospital. I wonder if she felt it too, or was it all one-sided – a figment of my imagination.
“I’ll pick up your prescription in the morning.”
“Don’t worry about it. I don’t need it.”
“You couldn’t stand up straight just now. You’re in pain. You do need it,” she says.
She’s right, of course, but I try to be a man and fight it. Bear it. I can handle pain. I’ve been doing it all my life.
She powers on the TV hands me the remote and says, “Just in case you’re up to watching something. I know you don’t watch much television, but you’ll need to do something to help pass the time.”
I’m watching her. Not the TV.
“What?” she asks, catching my gaze.
“Nothing,” I respond even though I want to say thank you, to express my gratitude for everything she’s doing for me. For letting me inside of her home after I was rude to her this morning. Just when I think I’ve mustered up enough courage to say it, she asks, “Have you had anything to eat?”
“No.”
“Naomi didn’t cook for you?”
“She cooked for somebody, but not me. She prepared some nachos.”
“Nachos?” She laughs. “You hate nachos.”
I watch her giggle herself silly, then ask, “How do you know that?”
“That you hate nachos?” she asks.
“Yes.”
She says, “I just know. I’ve studied you for a long time. I know everything there is to know about you except the things you keep tucked away in there,” she says, pointing to my chest. My heart.
“You put Naomi up to it, didn’t you?”
She grins. “I promise, I didn’t. I would never tell Naomi to cook nachos for you.”
“That smile on your face doesn’t convince me you’re telling the truth.”
“Only reason I’m smiling is because I told Naomi to use an old menu I made for you since I didn’t get around to making a new one. Apparently, she didn’t listen to me.”
“No, she didn’t. So, what’s for dinner?”
“I’ll bring you a plate.”
“You’re not going to tell me what you cooked, first?”
“No. Be right back.”
A sigh of relief escapes my mouth as I wait for her return. I feel comfortable here. Like this is home, but it’s not my home. It’s hers. Or maybe my idea of home, of comfort, is having her around.
“Okay, here you go,” she says bringing in a tray. There’s a glass of water, and a plate with meat, broccoli and mashed potatoes. “It’s smothered pork chops. I hope you like it.”
“Have you eaten?” I ask her, taking the tray.
“No. I was just about to when you rang the bell.”
“Bring your plate in here so you can eat with me.”
“Why? Don’t you prefer eating alone?”
“Usually, yes, but these are extenuating circumstances.”
“Hmm…okay. I’ll be right back.”
I start on my food while I’m waiting for her to return. The pork chops taste like something a top chef would make at a fancy restaurant. Even the broccoli is well seasoned and the mashed potatoes were made with just the right amount of butter. Everything is delicious.
“Do you like it?” she asks, walking in with her a plate. She sits at the foot of the bed, awaiting my response.
“Yes, it’s good. All this time, you should’ve been my cook instead of Naomi.”
“Don’t say that. Naomi works hard to prepare your meals.”
I eat more, faster than normal until I’m done. Then I drink water and watch her for a minute. I watch the way she chews. I watch how uncomfortable she is sitting on the edge of the bed when she’d be better situated at her dinette. But she’s here with me because I requested it. She doesn’t have to be here. Doesn’t have to agree to my requests, but she does. I wonder if she’s aware of the power I have over her. She quit this morning, walked out on me and yet still views me as her superior.
She must feel me watching. She looks at me. Narrows her eyes like she’s trying to figure out why.
She wipes her mouth with a piece of paper towel. “Can I ask you something?”
“Depends on what it is.”
“Okay. I guess I’ll take a stab at it, then. Why do you call your mother, Sylvia or Mrs. Hawthorne?”
“You can’t ask me that,” I tell her.
“I just did.”
“Well, it’s a family matter. It doesn’t concern you, and no, I’m not being rude right now. I’m simply telling you it’s none of your business.”
“Right.”
She gets up, takes my tray along with her plate and walks out of the room. She stays gone for a while. I figure she’s tending to other matters – her everyday routine. Maybe she’s getting ready for bed, or watching TV. I don’t know what her days are like. I don’t know much of anything about her. What I do know is, we are somehow connected. Even in her dislike of me, she makes an attempt at understanding.
* * *
Around nine, she returns.
Her hair is tied up in a black scarf. She has on a black robe. She walks over to the bed. I’m still propped up against the pillows, the way she left me two hours ago.
“Are you comfortable?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m about to go to bed, but I wanted to check to see if you needed anything.”
“No, I don’t. Thanks.”
“Oh, and I need to put some Neosporin on your scars, especially the ones on your face.”
“Why?”
“It’ll help them heal faster and you won’t be able to see the bruises long after they’ve healed. Is that okay?”
“Sure. Okay,” I tell her.
She sits next to me, opens the tube and squeezes some ointment on her fingertip. She carefully massages it on my face, on each scar. I have plenty of them but she takes her time, gives me careful attention.
“That should do it,” she whispers. “The bathroom is next to this room.”
“I found it already.”
“Good. And I left you some towels and a toothbrush.”
“Found those, too.”
“You’ve made yourself right at home, I see. Can I get you anything else before I go to bed?”
“It’s only nine o’clock. Why are you going to bed so early?”
“Because I always go to bed early.”
“My question was why?”
“Let’s see...I’ve been working at a job where my hours are 4:00 a.m. ‘til 6:00 p.m. Fourteen hours. By the time I get home, it’s close to seven. I usually have just enough time to grab something to eat and hit the sack by eight to give myself sev
en hours to sleep. I wake up at three and do it all over again. I have no life outside of work—outside of you. That’s why it felt like such a relief to quit—to walk away and leave it all behind. To know what it’s like to work a regular eight-hour shift and actually be appreciated for my hard work.”
“I appreciate everything you do for me, Cherish.”
“No, you don’t, because if you did, you wouldn’t complain when one little thing goes wrong, and you definitely wouldn’t dismiss me when I ask you a simple question.”
“How did I dismiss you?”
“I asked you a question about your mother, Montgomery, and you said it was none of my business. You drove all the way to my house with cracked ribs asking for help and you refuse to talk to me. What exactly is it you need help with? Your scars? Your bruises and bandages? Because the help you need is so much more than physical. You can lie, tell me otherwise, but I know you. I know this hard, rigid persona you display in your lil’ business meetings and the way you walk around your house like you’re going to fire the first person who looks at you wrong isn’t really who you are. People shouldn’t have to walk on eggshells around you. Is that what you like? To have people afraid of you? If so, more power to you, but I’m not putting up with it anymore. I’ll get your medicine in the morning and drive you back home.”
She heads for the door.
“You care about me, don’t you?” I ask when she’s close to exiting.
She stops turns around and says, “I care about a lot of people.”
“That may be true, but I’m talking specifically about me, and don’t deny it. If you didn’t care, you’d send me to get my own medicine and let me drive myself home, but you’re willing to inconvenience yourself to make sure I get there safely.”
“Yes, it’s called being responsible…like being the designated driver for one of my drunk friends.”
“It’s much more than that,” I tell her.
“How do you figure?”
“Come here,” I say in a demanding tone, daring her not to.
She rolls her eyes, caves and walks toward the bed.