by Francis Ray
He’d yet to get the hang of adjusting the water temperature in the shower. Unlike the one-knob head shower at his house in Sausalito, this shower had two. Then there was the soap that he’d carefully put in the dish, then knocked out when he reached for it again. Down on hands and knees he’d go until he found it again. He’d chased his last soap!
He paused and scratched the stubbled beard on his face. He’d always been clean-shaven and preferred a regular razor to stay that way. After he’d come out of the hospital, he’d switched to an electric shaver when he kept nicking himself with the razor. It hadn’t given him as close a shave, but now he didn’t even have that. He’d packed in such a hurry he’d forgotten it, along with half of his other things.
All for nothing. His mother, Kristen, and Nicole had been on the plane. Of course, no one had said anything until it had taken off. Afterward none of them could understand how stupid or betrayed that had made him feel or how angry and worthless it felt to control so little of his life anymore.
He had thought once he reached the estate he’d be in control again. That had been his biggest mistake so far.
He hadn’t calculated that he had been here only five times in the last five years, whereas he had lived in his home in Marin County outside San Francisco for six years. Since he was fairly neat, in his mind’s eye he already knew the placement of furniture and his possessions there. Here he had to become acclimated with his family and Nicole hovering. In his anger, he had made things worse by barging in and overturning furniture. He should have planned better.
The sudden ringing of the phone startled, then annoyed him. It could only be one of four people. One of the four people he had sent hastily from here yesterday. He could almost detect who the caller was from the persistent ringing of the phone. Nicole. His mother or Kristen might have wished he’d answered the phone, but after eight rings they would have respected his desire for privacy.
Not Nicole.
Her aggressiveness was what had taken her from an unsatisfying career as an accountant to president and CEO of her own temporary agency. That trait was what had attracted him to her in the first place.
In his profession he didn’t have time for needy, clingy women. Nicole’s assertiveness meant she wouldn’t be dependent on him to make her happy, that she understood that there would be many times when his work would make him unavailable. When time permitted, they had enjoyed each other’s company in and out of bed. Now he couldn’t even give her that.
His mouth flattened as the phone continued to ring. “Let it go, Nicole. Just move on. Please, for both our sakes.” Blessedly the phone stopped.
His pacing continued. How he wished he could be left alone. At the same time, he wished he could clutter his mind with so many thoughts that he couldn’t think. His laughter was rough and rusty. Perhaps Jonathan hadn’t been far off in wanting to declare him incompetent.
His stomach growled. In the midst of the turmoil his life was in, it seemed incongruent that he could be hungry, yet he was. Perhaps he should have eaten. Only the woman would see what a horrendous mess he had made. Food invariably ended up on his shirt or in his lap. He’d lost count of the number of times he had put an empty spoon or fork into his mouth.
He abruptly halted on step three, pivoted, sniffed. He recognized that smell. Fried chicken. An artery clogger if ever there was one. His stomach didn’t seem to care, nor his salivary glands. His stomach growled. His mouth watered.
He’d never realized his sense of smell was so acute. If anyone suggested that it was because his other senses were heightened due to his loss of sight, he’d tell him that was a crock. There was nothing scientific to back up such a claim. Still…he smelled fried chicken.
She’d knock on his door soon, he was sure. Maybe he’d accept the tray this time. He’d already shown he was in charge by locking her out. Carefully, his hands outstretched, step by humiliating step, he made his way to the door, a straight twenty-one-step path from the foot of his bed.
Time passed. How much he couldn’t tell.
Another irritating thing about his blindness was the complete lack of comprehension of the passage of time. The cuckoo clock Nicole had given him a week after he came home from the hospital had driven him crazy. He really had accidentally knocked it off his bedside table and broken it, just as he’d told her. He just wasn’t sorry he had.
Becoming annoyed with the woman’s tardiness, he pressed his ear against the door. The two-story house was built solid, but he was positive he heard some kind of droning sound. His stomach growled. Where was his dinner?
A thought struck. What if she didn’t come back? What if she was downstairs taking it easy, watching the soaps, eating his fried chicken? What if she planned to do nothing, just pocket the money? What was the going rate to take care of a helpless man? Two hundred, three hundred dollars a week? Whatever it was, there was no one in the house to report her if she didn’t do her job.
Except him!
Incensed, he jerked open the door. She wasn’t getting away with it. “If you don’t bring my lunch, you’re fired!”
Lilly barely kept from clapping hands together. She did grin and turned over a drumstick in the electric fryer she’d been tending in the hallway. “You’re sure you’re ready to eat?”
His attention shifted downward. “What are you doing on the floor?”
She scrambled to her feet, almost knocking over the small electric fan positioned on the other side of the skillet to blow the aroma of frying chicken to Adam’s room. “Your tray took all the space on the side table and I–I set mine on the floor.”
“Well, bring mine inside. Now.”
Lilly picked up the tray. “Certainly, Dr. Wakefield.” Entering his room, she was prepared for a bigger mess than the day before. She felt a small measure of relief that it wasn’t. The chairs and tables were upright; so were the lamps, their bulbs burning, their shades slightly bent. “I’ll get the table from the hall and put it by the window. The sun is shining and you can hear the blue jays in the oak trees outside.”
His mouth tightened a fraction. He hadn’t moved from the door. “No, just put it on the bed. Then you can leave.”
“I need to clean up your room.” She paused, her hands firmly on the tray.
“Later. Now leave.”
Somehow she didn’t trust him. “You give me your word.”
“Don’t question me!” he bit out, but his growling stomach negated the force of his stern order.
Lilly caught back a chuckle. He was human.
His head jerked sharply toward her. “What was that?”
“Nothing, Dr. Wakefield. I’ll be back later for the tray and to clean the room.” Setting the tray on the rumpled bed, she started from the room, then made a quick detour. “I’ll just grab your laundry from the bathroom.”
A cursory glance in the room that was bigger than her bath told her she had her work cut out for her. Towels were strewn everywhere. The black tile in the shower could use a good scrub, and so could the tub.
His clothes in her hands, she edged past him. “Meat at twelve, potato salad at three, green beans at six, roll at nine, brow—”
The door closed firmly in her face.
Lilly jerked back, then went down the hall smiling. She had done something right. Gotten Dr. Wakefield to open his door.
Adam caught himself sucking on the chicken bone and tossed it in the direction of his plate. Since he heard a thump instead of a clatter, he set the tray on the floor beside him and felt around on the Persian rug until he found the discarded bone. This time he made sure it reached the tray.
With his back pressed against the footboard of the bed, he sipped his lemonade from the thermos spout. It wasn’t one of the reds he would have chosen to complement his meal, but fried chicken wasn’t his usual meal, either. However, he had to admit the food was good and so was the lemonade.
Ice cubes clinked as he lowered the thermos. Lots of ice, just the way he liked his beverages. This time
he hadn’t had to worry about knocking the glass over or ice sliding down into the glass and splashing the liquid up his nose as had happened in the past. Maybe she had possibilities. If she kept out of his way.
“Dr. Wakefield. It’s me, Lilly.”
Speak of the devil. He found his brownie again and took another generous bite. “I haven’t finished.”
“Did you have enough?”
Adam grunted. Four drumsticks, potato salad and green beans in little bowls so that he didn’t have to chase the food over his plate, and three gooey but delicious brownies. She must be used to feeding truck drivers. “Yes.”
“What would you like for dinner? I was thinking chicken-fried steak?”
Apparently she hadn’t heard of the dangers of too much cholesterol. He took another bite of his brownie. “Whatever.”
Outside the door, Lilly wrung her hands. Maybe she had celebrated too early. Although Mrs. Wakefield had been just as excited and had actually congratulated Lilly on her scheme. “I washed and ironed some of your clothes.”
“What?” He scrambled to his feet. “Those shirts were silk and the pants linen.”
“Not the ones I washed. I–I checked the labels in the shirts and washed them on Delicate. It’s all right.”
“Bring one to me now,” he ordered. He didn’t have any clothes to waste. He wasn’t about to ask that traitor Jonathan to bring him more or admit that he wasn’t prepared to care for himself. Getting his bearings, Adam went to the door and jerked it open. “Incompetent—”
“Here it is.”
He jerked back. “I thought you went to get the shirt.”
“I brought it with me. Here it is.”
Adam extended his hand, hoping he wouldn’t have to grope. He didn’t. His fingers closed around soft-cotton material that smelled like sunshine. He barely refrained from lifting the clean shirt to his face. At the moment a too-small shirt was a small price to pay for clean clothes.
“Is it all right?” the woman asked anxiously.
“I suppose,” he said, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice.
“I washed your jeans as well.” She touched his hand with the denim.
Adam’s fingers closed around the pants. “Is this all my laundry?”
“Er—”
“Well?”
He felt the additional weight and pressure of more clothes being added to his pile. He had a pretty good idea what. His cotton briefs. For some reason he felt oddly embarrassed by the situation, as she did. “You can take the tray now.”
“You sure you don’t want anything else?”
“Positive.”
Crossing the room, she started to pick up the tray; then she saw the bed. The sheets were twisted. The geometric black-and-brown comforter hung halfway off the bed. “I’ll just straighten up the bed a bit.”
“That isn’t necessary.”
“It’s part of my job.” She quickly straightened the sheet on one side, then went to the other. “I’ll just tuck in this sheet, put your comforter back on, and then I’ll be out of your way and you can take a nap.” A few more efficient movements and she was finished. “There.”
Picking up the tray, she went to the door. As usual, Dr. Wakefield hadn’t moved. He certainly guarded his domain. “I’ll go start dinner.”
This time when the door closed she didn’t feel quite so shut out. But she still needed to clean his room.
Lilly expected Dr. Wakefield to open the door soon after she knocked with his dinner. What she didn’t expect was to see him wearing the same soiled clothes.
“You can put the food on the bed,” he instructed.
Unsure of how to delicately suggest he take a bath, Lilly did as instructed. “You said I could clean the room later.”
“After I’ve eaten.”
“But—”
“Later,” he interrupted.
“Yes, sir.” The door shut her out as soon as she stepped past him. Deep in thought, she stared at the closed door. Why hadn’t he changed clothes?
She was still puzzled when she went back and found the empty tray outside his door. Somehow she knew if she tried the knob it would be locked.
Sitting on the side of the tub Saturday night, Lilly watched the water gush from the solid brass spout that gleamed like gold. Absently she sprinkled bath salts beneath the spout and watched the bubbles form and rise higher until they threatened to overflow. Time was running out. She had been on the job two days, and she still was no closer to getting Dr. Wakefield or his room cleaned.
Mrs. Wakefield, although pleased that Dr. Wakefield was eating, wanted her son and the room cleaned as well. She informed Lilly that Dr. Delacroix was already making inquiries.
If that weren’t enough, the housekeeper and her husband were to return on Monday. If by some remote chance they could take care of Dr. Wakefield’s needs, there would be no need for Lilly to remain.
She wanted to stay. The desire now wasn’t so much because she had no place else to go but because of a sense of growing accomplishments. It had felt good to see the empty tray, to know that she had accomplished something others hadn’t been able to do. Then, too, she had finally figured out why Dr. Wakefield made her uneasy.
She looked at him and saw herself. He was a victim just as she had been and, like her, unwilling to fight back. According to those who loved him, he hadn’t been that kind of man in the past. There had to be a way to get him to be the man he used to be.
From all accounts, he had been a neat, clean-shaven man before his blindness. She didn’t know if his sloppiness was because he couldn’t see himself or because he just didn’t care anymore. His mother and Dr. Delacroix were just as puzzled.
Cutting off the water, Lilly slipped off the white terry cloth robe she’d found in the bathroom and stepped into the tub. As soon as she sat down and took her hands from the side of the tub she felt the water lift her. Used to it, she didn’t grab for the side of the tub. Instead, she stretched out her legs, leaned back, and reached for her soap, only to knock it out of the holder.
“Gracious, I’ll never find—” Her eyes widened. “That’s it.” Standing, she stepped out of the tub. Without bothering to dry herself, she pulled on her robe, belting it as she went.
She found a ball of twine and a paring knife in the kitchen and raced back to her bathroom. Unwrapping a new bar of soap, she made a hole in the center, then looped the twine through and knotted the ends.
“Please, Lord, let this work.”
Before she could let doubts creep in, she went next door and knocked on the door. “Dr. Wakefield. It’s me. Please open up. Please.”
Adam heard Lilly, then just as quickly dismissed her. He had few pleasures anymore. One of them was listening to baseball games, and he didn’t want to be disturbed.
With radio, the great equalizer, every listener was on the same playing field, and the announcer recognized that. With television, the aptly named “boob tube,” the announcer’s comments were littered with visual expectations. Did you see that? What a great catch. Let’s watch a rerun.
“Dr. Wakefield, please. It’s important.”
His inclination was to continue to ignore her; then he decided to see what had happened. Tonight her soft, southern-accented voice sounded breathless instead of filled with its usual uncertainty. In that, she reminded him of Kris-ten. Maybe she’d heard something downstairs and it had frightened her. Probably a tree brushing against a window. Kristen certainly hadn’t liked being away from the bright lights of the big city her first trip here.
“Dr. Wakefield, please.”
“I’m coming.” Wishing Monday would hurry so he could send her away, he pushed to his feet and went to the door. He twisted the knob, then cursed under his breath when he realized he had locked it against the same annoying person who continued to annoy him. Unlocking the door, he jerked it open. “What is it?”
“I brought you a present.”
“A present?” Had his mother hired an escapee fro
m an insane asylum?
“Here.” She grabbed his hand and put the bar of soap in it. “I made it. I was taking a bath and lost my soap in the bubbles and I thought how slippery soap can be. I saw this on television once.”
He fingered the soap, then the cord. He honestly didn’t know what to say.
“Your tub is bigger than mine, and the first time I got in mine I felt like I was going to float off. I still feel like it sometimes.”
He heard the girlish, unself-conscious laughter in her voice, then felt her brush past him. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“To run your bath. Now you won’t have to worry about finding the soap. While you’re bathing, I can change your sheets.”
“Come back here!”
“Or do you want me to adjust the water in the shower? I forgot men like showers.”
She was talking too fast and confusing him. He wanted her to take her soap and get out of his room. He lifted his arm to fling the soap in her direction, but as his arm came up he gripped it instead. His nose wrinkled at his own odor. He needed a bath.
“Dr. Wakefield?”
“The shower.”
A grinning Lilly turned toward the dresser. “I’ll get your pajamas.”
“I don’t wear pajamas.”
She stopped midway across the room, then slowly turned to gape at him. His mouth was curved slightly as if he had enjoyed the prospect of shocking her. She cleared her throat. “I’ll just take your clean clothes from the foot of the bed and put them on the far right-hand side of the marble vanity.”
Without waiting, she went into the bathroom, put his clothes on the counter, then stepped into the immense shower stall. Adjusting the shower-heads away from her, she turned on the water. She laughed as it shot out, glad she didn’t have any shoes on when water circled her bare feet.
Stepping out, she dried her feet, then went to the linen closet for fresh towels and bed linen. Placing the fluffy oversize gray towels on the warming rack, she took the maroon-and-gray-striped cotton sheets from the linen closet and left the bathroom.
