by D R Lowrey
“Very well. What is the gentleman’s name?”
“The gentleman?”
“Abuelita’s fiancé?”
“Oh, him. For now, this ‘gentleman,’ as you call him, goes by At-Jakwad44. Abuelita can’t seem to dig up a real name. I do have a picture of him, though. Here, take it.”
Nigel looked at the picture up close, then far away, and turned it over to look for an annotation, like maybe a date. “You’ve noticed, I suppose, that the gentleman in this picture appears younger than our Abuelita by three or four decades?”
“I’ve noticed. I’ve also noticed the picture looks like a badly faded Polaroid. Out of date, I imagine.”
Still looking at the photo, Nigel replied, “We can only hope. May I presume that the gentleman, when he arrives, will be wearing a shirt?”
“I would think. That topless photo, as I understand it, was sent as part of a reciprocal agreement, but it’s all we’ve got. Or, I should say, it’s the only picture Abuelita will let us see.”
“Very well. When Mr. At-Jakwad44 arrives, whom shall I notify?”
“Get Abuelita down here. She’s prepped and ready.”
“Indeed. Leave it to me.”
“And,” said Mrs. Sandoval, punctuating her words with hand chops, “make sure you warn this guy about Abuelita’s wheelchair.”
“He doesn’t know she’s in a wheelchair?”
“I don’t know. But even if he does, he won’t know about her braking issues. Give the man a tutorial on how to sidestep a runaway wheelchair. Otherwise, he’ll be taking his vows on crutches.”
“Will do,” he said, taking his leave.
Nigel was not supposed to bound during butler’s hours, but bound he did, right up the grand staircase three steps at a time. The day was becoming busy, and he felt a need to keep up. Entering Gastrick’s old room, where he’d deposited his suitcase, he began to unpack. While he was in amongst the socks, the doorbell rang. The backbone stiffened, the waistcoat tightened, and the socks, those not on his feet, would have to fend for themselves. Work called.
Nigel shuffled down the stairs at butler’s battle speed and swung open the double doors to reveal a man wearing a shirt. Not a very fine shirt—not fine in any way—but a shirt nevertheless. That was but one difference between the man at the door and the man in the photo.
Indeed, photo-man seemed of an entirely different type and vintage than door-man. Photo-man was of the strapping variety—one of those athletic types who lived on a boat and only reluctantly put on a shirt when visited by a detective. If photo-man did wear a shirt, it’d be of the thin and tight variety to show off his muscles. If door-man wore a tight shirt, it’d be to keep his ribs in place. Photo-man had smooth, bronzed skin. Door-man appeared to be wrapped in beef jerky. Photo-man had a full head of hair. Door-man did not have a full head for hair to grow on.
Compassion precluded further comparisons as Nigel looked at the man and then the photo. The two visages suggested a separation of many years, and from the looks of it, very hard years they were, too. He wondered if a portion of those years might have been spent sealed in a sarcophagus or buried in a peat bog. The man had something of the mummy about him. And not those movie mummies, so full of zest, but more like the museum ones, admired for their staunch refusal to become dust.
“Guy Yeena?” said the man.
“No. The name is Nigel. I’m the butler. You are At-Jakwad44, I presume?”
“This is the Sandoval house?” said the man.
“Yes, you are at the Sandoval estate. Welcome, and come on in. You look as if you’ve been on a long journey.”
A long journey indeed. He looked as though he’d spent the last two decades dragged about by a mangy lion with gum disease. The man carried a heavily soiled laundry bag, and his clothes looked like something a kind-hearted hobo might donate to a bum.
The man shuffled forward, turned himself in a circle once inside, and ogled the surroundings as if he’d been transported into a Martian palace.
“I’ve been instructed to fetch Abuelita upon your arrival,” said Nigel. “I’m sure you’re eager to see her. Follow me, please. Can I get you anything to drink?”
“Water. Clear, clean water.”
“Very well. I’ll see what I can do,” said Nigel, thinking if that was his drink of choice, grounds for divorce had already been established. “Please have a seat here,” said Nigel, presenting a spot on the Louis XIV loveseat.
Returning with silver tray topped with a bottle of water and a glass, Nigel set the works on an end table and began to pour. The man leered into the glass as if a mermaid were splashing in it.
The man roiled his lips in preparation, then hoisted the container to the proper orifice and downed the contents with a series of gulps. The residual overflow was remedied with a swipe from the back of his hand, and then he nodded while gazing into the empty glass. “So good. Don’t have this where I came from,” he said.
“No? Where might that be? Michigan?”
The man cackled while Nigel chuckled. After a minute, they stopped, realizing simultaneously that they’d been laughing at different things.
“Had to get back,” said the man. “They whomped me, you know. Gave me this dent,” he said, waving a finger around the left side of his skull, which indeed housed a noticeable cavity. “Bit too. Ate bugs. Lost my clothes, but I came back. Need to find wife. Do you know Guy Yeena?”
“No. I’m sorry I don’t know a Guy Yeena, but maybe we can do something about that wife. If you’ll pardon me, I will notify Abuelita that you’re here.”
Nigel hurried to Abuelita’s room but was waylaid by Abuelita herself hiding at the top of the stairs behind some draperies. She was in her wheelchair, but her customary black granny dress had been ditched in favor of a blue satin number that must have contained some form of display-shelving infrastructure upon which had been hoisted Abuelita’s bosoms. Either that or they’d been pumped full of helium. Either way, raising the war-ravaged relics to such unlikely altitudes should have required a ‘For Display Only’ sign. Not to be outdone, Abuelita’s face had undergone major reconstruction, which involved serious quantities of spackle and multiple coats of paint.
“Abuelita, your fiancé has arrived.”
“That ain’t him. I’ve been watching,” she said, holding up a pair of opera glasses. “He’s old.”
Nigel had never been in Abuelita’s room, but her comment raised a suspicion that it must be devoid of mirrors. Several reasons why that might be came to mind. Aloud, he replied, “I’m sorry if you were expecting a college sophomore, but you’re not exactly a spring chicken yourself. He’s obviously come a long way to marry you.”
“Send him away. He’s not my type.”
“You should have typed him before you got engaged. I can’t send him away. He’s got a dent in his head, and he’s eaten bugs. You owe him the courtesy of an introduction at the very least.”
“No. Tell him I’ve disappeared without a trace, and I’m not expected back. Tell him I’ve eloped with the pool boy. Tell him I have one of those diseases where I live in a bubble. Tell him anything, just get him out of here.”
“Abuelita, I will not break off your engagement for you.”
“Why not? You’re the butler. Start acting like one.”
In Nigel’s butler training, Old Winpole had vividly described the consequences of butlers allowing themselves to be interjected in domestic disputes. He’d related a very personal tale of a family that had communicated their love, affection, and displeasure via slaps, which they would often compel the butler to administer. It wasn’t until Old Winpole was instructed to perform such services on a string of unsavory leather-clad house guests that he’d realized his services as a butler were being rudely abused. Nigel was not about to fall into that chasm.
“I will tell him you are currently indisposed,” said Nigel. “But breaking the engagement I will leave to you.”
Nigel returned to the stashed fiancé. �
�I am so sorry, but it will be a little while before Abuelita is available. Is there anything I can get you? A beverage? Air freshener? Fudgesicle?”
“Clean, clear water, please. We don’t have that where I came from.”
“Of course. You’ll be glad to know water flows here as if from a spigot.”
As Nigel produced the water, he noticed, for the first time, the man’s foot coverings. His “footwear,” to stretch the term, was noteworthy for its improvisational character. In amongst conventional shoe components were sizable portions consisting of cardboard, leather scraps, and straw. One foot was covered in large part by the repurposed shell of an armadillo, which, thankfully, was sufficiently weathered to be free of tire marks. He decided the man would at least receive a shoe upgrade for his troubles.
“Excuse me while I run an errand. Please make yourself at home,” said Nigel before heading upstairs.
CHAPTER FIVE
A Guest’s Welcome
Nigel ran upstairs to the butler’s quarters and flung open the closet. Apparently, an arrest for conspiring to commit murder doesn’t allow time for clearing out closets. Gastrick’s were positively stuffed with his effects. Far too many, in Nigel’s opinion. Having requisitioned the room for his own temporary stay, he saw a golden opportunity to set a course for Gastrick’s spiritual redemption with an act of charity. Perhaps in some future parole hearing, Gastrick could leverage the heartfelt gesture. That is, if he ever learned of it.
If anyone had clothes to spare, it was that incarcerated clotheshorse. His closet contained a week’s worth of official butler attire in one section, atrociously colorful leisure wear in another, and what appeared to be a shoe and boot museum in another. A special section of vintage footwear, each identified with a copper nameplate, beckoned from a mahogany display rack. To one side sat what appeared to be a pair of mini refrigerators with glass doors. Flicking a switch illuminated their interiors. One was empty, but the other contained a pair of desiccated old knee boots of the kind worn by desiccated old horsemen. A shiny silver placard described the contents as “Wellington Boots c. 1823. Once owned by Beau Brummell.”
Nigel wasn’t interested in boots requiring refrigeration. Instead, he found what he was looking for on a lower shelf in a cubby tagged, “US Army Issue Corcoran Paratrooper’s Boot, 1944.” These boots held a special significance in the darker regions of Nigel’s heart, as well as other areas not to be discussed in polite society. One might say that delicate parts of Nigel’s anatomy had recently shared an uncomfortable moment with the toe of one of those boots. And now that the misused boots were destined for a new owner, those insulted body parts could finally rest easy.
Next, Nigel selected from the closet two pairs of socks, some underwear, a pair of slacks, two shirts, and some aviator-style sunglasses. He loaded the loot into an overnight bag also from the closet and then raided the bathroom for a bottle of cologne, some mouthwash, and toothpaste. When he noticed a mannequin head sporting a rakish driving cap, he threw that in as well.
On his way out, Nigel noticed a heavy gold watch on the bureau. The sinister butler Gastrick, in his new captive life, might need a calendar but certainly not a watch. Into the bag it went.
Carrying the boots and the overnight bag, Nigel descended the sweeping main staircase until he saw that his visitor had a visitor. Thinking Abuelita had enlisted a mercenary to deliver her rebuke, he stepped behind a pillar and stretched an ear to its limit.
The guest’s visitor was that flaked-out woman-child, Esmerelda. Essie was a nice woman but also a disturbingly vivid example of the type of characters allowed to run loose in asylum Sandoval. She had a reputation around town as the crazy woman who read people’s auras. These auras, in her view, contained all manner of personal data that she disclosed loudly and without hesitation. Many people around New Antigua, however, considered their auras to be their own damn business and reacted to Essie’s pronouncements about as well as they’d react to someone reading out their credit card numbers.
This mysterious new guest was not, it appeared, one of those people. Not so surprising, considering the amount of loose wiring likely housed in his aura-factory. Essie and the visitor sat gazing into each other’s eyes. One might have thought they were lovers preparing for a first kiss, but with his deeper insight, Nigel reckoned they were engaged in a telepathic experiment.
He heard the man mumble, “If that mockingbird don’t sing….”
Esmerelda joined in on the next verse. “Mama’s going to buy you a diamond ring.” Then she put a hand to his cheek.
The doorbell interrupted their touching duet, prompting Nigel to drop the boots and bag and go answer it.
The sight of a distinguished, elderly gentleman standing at the door induced a flutter to Nigel’s innards. Not that the man appeared formidable in any way, but the large suitcase by his side portended trouble of the worst kind, the kind that makes itself at home. The man leaped forward with an extended hand and toothy grin. Though they’d not met before, a few synapses in the back of Nigel’s brain scratched their chins.
“Howdy. Jack Watt. Nice to meet you.”
“Jack Watt?” said Nigel as a few synapses raised their hands. “I’m Nigel, the butler.”
“The butler? And English too. Sweet! You probably know already. I’m here to meet my little sugar hen. If all goes well, we’ll be married within a week.” The man reached into his jacket and pulled out a photograph.
Nigel, not to be outdone, reached in his jacket to retrieve his photograph. “You’re forty-four?” he asked.
“I thank you for the compliment, but I’m seventy-four. You might want to have them peepers checked.”
“I mean, you’re JackWad44,” said Nigel, looking at photo, then at man, then at photo. The two images depicted disparate vintages of the same man, for sure. He just hoped Abuelita wasn’t intent on receiving an exact replica or, for that matter, a reasonable facsimile to the photo Nigel slipped back into his pocket.
“Oh? The Twitter thing,” said Jack Watt. “Yeah, that’s me.” He continued to ogle his photo the way the earlier guest had ogled the clean, clear water. After sweeping his tongue across the upper dentures, he exhaled with a “cha-cha-cha.”
Nigel invited the man in and craned his neck to get a look at his entrancing photo. The image alarmed him. In terms of sensuality, none of the current females of the Sandoval estate held a match to the “lady” in the picture. The only aspect of the image carrying any sense of familiarity was the middle third. There Nigel saw a resemblance to what he’d seen earlier in the day, extruding itself from a blue satin dress. But the goods in the vintage photo looked fine as they were. More than fine, actually. In contrast, the updated version of the genuine article desperately needed some Photoshop. A disturbing pattern was emerging with regards to photographs.
“Follow me, please,” said Nigel motioning him forward. “I trust your trip was okay? Nothing untoward? No subsisting on insects or receiving dents to the head?”
“Not hardly. The trip was grand. Couldn’t complain,” he said, hoisting his suitcase as if it were filled with feathers.
His attitude was refreshing. Nigel saw no way it would survive into the evening. Jack Watt was shown discreetly into Mrs. Sandoval’s office, located across the atrium from the other visitor. Best to keep Jack Watt separated from as many people as possible. He would soon have his own issues to deal with.
“I will let Abuelita know you are here,” said Nigel. He then turned and legged it toward Abuelita’s room.
With the real fiancé in captivity, Nigel had to wonder, who was that first guy? Maybe he just wanted a tall glass of clean, clear water, but he’d have come a long way just for that. With the groom-to-be waiting in the wings, Nigel had no time to consider the matter.
At her door, Nigel whispered, “Abuelita!” following three soft knocks. “Abuelita, are you there?”
“You got rid of him?” came the response from behind the door.
“No, he’s
with Esmerelda. They’re having a sing-along. Your fiancé is here now.”
“I told you to get rid of him.”
“There seems to have been a mix-up. The man you saw was not your fiancé.”
The door cracked open. “You said it was.”
“I was mistaken.”
“What kind of a butler are you? This wouldn’t happen with Gastrick.”
“No, it certainly wouldn’t. If Gastrick were here, you’d be supplying the worms their minimum daily requirement,” said Nigel. “Who is that man? Do you know?”
“How would I know? And why would I care? I want to see my Little Wadkins. I need to freshen up, then I’m coming down.”
“What about the other man? You can’t come down until we get rid of him.”
“Not we,” she corrected. “You. You get rid of him. You let him in. You’re the butler. If Gastrick were here, he wouldn’t have let him in.”
“No, of course not. Not unless he were peddling poisons.”
“Do what you want with that other guy. I’ll be down for my beau as soon as I touch up my face.”
“Very well. Your beau awaits in the office.”
Nigel returned downstairs. Guest #1 and Esmerelda were getting along like two old cellmates who had shared a padded room. When he arrived at Mrs. Sandoval’s office, Jack Watt was leaning back in the office chair and leering at the photo of his betrothed. Leer while you can, thought Nigel. Winter is coming.
Leering as he was with his back to the door, Jack failed to notice Nigel’s approach. “Man, oh, man,” growled the ogling Jack.
“Ahem,” interrupted Nigel. “Excuse me, sir. Abuelita shall be down shortly.” He refrained from mentioning that she would have aged some fifty years in the interim.
Looking up from the photo, Jack replied, “I hope by Abuelita, you mean my Sweet Little Hen.”
“I hope by Sweet Little Hen, you mean Abuelita.”
It occurred to Nigel that he didn’t know Abuelita’s actual name. Abuelita, meaning Lil’ Grandma in Spanish, probably wasn’t the name she used for suitors. Sweet Little Hen sounded more plausible, given her flexible truth-in-advertising policies.
