by J. L. Salter
“Hold on, Mister Germs! Not in my bed!”
“Huh?”
“These are my Hell Weeks. I can’t get sick with all those grant apps stacked on my desk. The boss would bring files to my hospital room.” Amanda ground her teeth slightly. Why can’t you wait ’til after Labor Day to get sick?
“So where do I sleep?”
“Your own apartment.”
No reply from Jason.
Amanda shrugged and pointed to the guestroom.
“All the way over there?”
“It’s forty-two inches across this hallway.”
Jason peered in. “That’s not enough room for a five-year-old.”
“Well, stop acting like a five-year-old.” Amanda sighed. “You’ll be safe enough if you stay on that path.”
Supper was a few hours later. As per Christine’s instructions, Jason’s complete meal was a small mug of chicken-flavored consommé with one stale, generic rye crisp cracker.
It was a long night for Jason. Highlights included: loud groaning, coughing fits, sneezes like backfires from a rusted exhaust manifold, and snoring which rattled the inside wind chimes. On numerous trips to the bathroom he even managed to click the light switch with amplified noise. Beginning around 2:00 a.m., he spent another hour flipping through TV channels.
Amanda netted about three hours of sleep.
Chapter 2
August 11 (Tuesday)
An exhausted Amanda watched from the kitchen as Jason approached from the short hallway around 7:00 a.m. The patient’s minor cold symptoms had already improved significantly but Jason looked worse: hair not combed, face unwashed. It was a matter of slight scientific curiosity as to how long his saggy pajama bottoms could stay up with so little spring left in their ancient elastic.
Jason’s complete breakfast was a small glass of unsweetened prune juice and two more generic rye crisps. “I think British press-gang prisoners ate better back in the 1700s.” Jason groaned. “Tell me again why I can’t have real food?”
“Christine is pulling together a special diet. Something from NASA, for astronauts and deep-sea laboratory people.”
“Do they work with sea labs? I thought NOAA did that.”
“Whatever. Our connection was futzy.” Her fingers wiggled to illustrate. “Anyhow, she gave strict instructions for you to stay on liquids and crackers until we get the complete menu in place.”
“How well do you know Christine?” Jason’s voice lowered. “I mean really know her?”
“Oh, we’ve been best friends about five years. Since before her divorce. Why?”
“She hates me, you know.”
“Why do you say that?” Amanda’s mouth was about to smile without permission.
“The way she looked at me, yesterday when I arrived. I think she put a spell on me. Looked like she wanted to cut the brake lines on my car or something.”
“That’s silly. Christine wouldn’t know brake lines from wiper blades. You’re just a little paranoid — light-headed because of your illness.”
“Light-headed because I’ve only consumed thirty-seven calories since I got here.”
“Look, you’re not at work because you’re sick. I told you to stay at your place, but you insisted on coming here. Okay, so I’m taking care of you. But I need lots of help and Christine’s helping me.”
“But I don’t want Christine around. Just you and me.” Jason resumed his pitiful expression. “You know, my private nurse…”
“Yeah, I know. But we have to focus on getting you healthy again. You can never tell when colds might relapse and turn really nasty.”
* * * *
Comfortable on the couch, Jason flipped though channels and scratched his lower belly.
Amanda stopped on her way out the door for work. “Did you call in?”
He nodded. Jason was good at his job, handling the electric co-op’s phone customers, but he sometimes viewed himself as the anonymous Press Six for Billing Complaints rather than an individual with actual identity.
“So what are your plans today?”
“Plans? Uh, no big plans. Just—” cough, cough “—try to get better.”
“Well, if you burn up that remote, you’re outta luck.” She pointed. “No more batteries.”
Jason shrugged. “Do you have anything at all I can eat without Christine hexing me?”
“I’m out of almost everything. I’d originally planned to do groceries tomorrow.” Amanda frowned. “But since Christine’s bringing over that special food soon, we’d best wait.”
“I’m—” cough “—recuperating. You know, vitamin C and bed rest—” cough “—but I need to keep my strength up.”
“Well, I’ll check with Christine about supper possibilities.”
“Oooh. Maybe pizza!” He felt a flicker of hope.
“No dairy for Mister Sicko. Messes with your mucous.”
Jason was crushed.
Amanda touched the side of his face.
“Have I still got fever?” He hadn’t intended to sound so eager. His skin was probably 98.7 degrees.
“No. I was measuring your stubble. See if you can find a razor that hasn’t been up and down my legs thirty times. Bye.”
———
Mister Sicko’s sumptuous lunch was a single soy faux hotdog, minus the bun. His mouth watering, Jason spent five minutes painting mustard from tip to tip and then sliced it into twelve equal pieces. He ate them with a fork, slowly. He tried drinking more prune juice, but it clashed with the mustard.
* * * *
Among Amanda’s normal work interruptions — including several from Louis Erie, her supervisor — Christine called Amanda’s cell phone, shortly before lunch. “Hello?”
“You sound awful. Bad night with the desperately ill?”
“I’m dying.” Amanda groaned. “He kept me up all night long with his noises.”
“I thought he was in your guestroom across the hall.”
“He is. But I could’ve heard him from across the river. I’m so tired I need help holding my coffee cup.”
“I’m thinking this will be lovely.” Christine sounded like she was smiling into the phone. “Sweet, sweet revenge.”
“Uh, who’s getting revenge here? Me, for Jason’s intrusion? Or you, on your ex?”
“Oh, I’d say revenge is a big enough platter to share, maybe with some left over.”
“Huh?” Amanda’s antennae went up. “What have you got in mind with this cure-scare?”
“Scare-Cure. Top secret… I’m thinking about getting it copyrighted. I’m starting up a blog, too.”
Amanda ignored the blog topic and waited for an answer.
“Well, everything’s not fully in place yet, but I think we’ve got Jason right where we want him. Except in the wrong apartment, of course.”
Amanda heard somebody walk past her office doorway. “Look, I’ve got to go. They’re not paying me to chat with a mad scientist.”
“Quick question — what time do you get home from work?” Over the years they’d known each other, Christine had asked that question about a thousand times.
“By 5:20 if I hustle.”
“Well, hustle tonight and give Jason a triple dose of that special cough syrup I left with you in January. Bury him in that little bed and shut the door. I’ll meet you at 6:00.”
“Okay, but I’m dead on my feet and it’s only been one night. I hope you’ve got some really powerful magic.”
“Magic! Hey, that’s an angle I hadn’t thought of.” The wheels inside Christine’s brain clicked almost audibly. “See you this evening. Do not feed that patient! Okay? Make sure he’s out of it. Bye.”
Amanda briefly stared at her phone as though further information might remain inside. Nope. She flipped it shut, closed her eyes, and mulled the bizarre possibilities for the days ahead. She realized Christine was in a turbo-charged manic phase. They were headed together into uncharted territory with this complicated campaign, but Amanda was not terribly frightened as l
ong as Christine’s throttle had some sort of override. Right now, Amanda was the only governor; otherwise, Christine’s engine ran at flank speed. With such momentum, it was usually best to stay out of her way if possible.
Amanda’s eyes were still closed as her ungainly boss entered and plopped down on the chair in front of her desk.
“Late night?” He sniggered.
“Hi, Louis.” She was unable to disguise her dismay.
Louis Erie was roughly average height but nearly double normal weight and wore an awful toupee. No one knew exactly what part of New York State Louis hailed from but many assumed it was near the historic lake that matched his surname. His Yankee accent was quite grating to middle Tennessee natives. “You making good progress on those grant apps?”
“Yeah. Pretty much on schedule. But I could use some clerical help.”
As usual, Louis ignored the request and just stared.
Grizzled gonads. Amanda stared back as long as she could stand it. Then she shuffled the unread grant applications until her boss seemingly lost interest.
After Louis finally left, Amanda looked at her office clock: 11:55 a.m. She was barely functioning and still had four hours at work. If she skipped lunch and took a nap she might narrowly survive Day Two of her Hell Weeks.
* * * *
“Shoo, cat!” Amanda waved her hand at the mature nineteen-pound black cat on her doorstep. “You don’t live here any more. Go away!” The feline glared disdainfully for a moment and then hopped, nearly sideways, into the grass bordering the short walkway.
Amanda had just hurried home from work and found Jason napping in the guestroom. Good. She’d been prepared to dose him with Christine’s heavy-duty cough syrup from who-knows-where, but it wouldn’t be necessary. That was a relief; she didn’t really want to poison Jason. Not yet, anyway.
Her apartment was a mess — newspaper pages all over the place. Tissues were on the floor, tucked between couch cushions, and even in the potted plants on either side of the television. A water glass had formed a ring on top of a low bookcase. On the table: a half-empty bag of chips and an open box of cereal. It even looked like Jason had drunk prune juice from the container. Yuck! There was a huge wad of mucous in the bathroom sink — she’d probably need a putty knife to scrape it up.
Shortly after six, Christine bustled in with two large empty trash bags. “Is he down?”
“Sound asleep in the guestroom. I’m surprised you didn’t hear him snoring from the parking lot.”
Christine noticed the chips and cereal on the table. “He’s been snacking all day?”
“Afraid so. I thought I’d hidden everything last night. Must’ve been up on a top shelf.” Amanda hugged her friend. “You came back! I was afraid you’d abandoned me.”
“Not only back, but I’m launching Phase One of our Scare-Cure. Armed… and… dangerous.” Christine held up a tube of Super Glue.
“What are you going to do to him?”
“This doesn’t go on him. It’s to glue down the toilet seat. We’re going to make him sit to pee, like normal humans.”
Amanda frowned. “I’m going to lose my deposit if you cement all the fixtures.”
Christine dismissed that concern with a wave of her hand. “We’re going to fill this place with estrogen ’til it’s oozing from the walls. We’re cutting him off from everything male.” She held up one empty plastic bag.
“What’s that for?”
“Food, to start with. Everything but staples. What all have you got?”
“Other than these chips and cereal, hardly anything. I don’t really cook, you know. And I haven’t been to the store in a week.”
Christine had already shifted focus. “Whatever. Edibles in one bag. In the other bag, we gather up every magazine with a sexy girl on the cover. Cosmo, Vogue, Oprah, whatever.”
“Oprah?”
Christine ignored the interrogatory. “Catalogs, too. Got any lingerie mailers?”
“Uh, just Victoria’s Secret, as far as I know.”
“Ah ha!” Christine sounded like Sherlockella Holmes solving a dastardly crime. “Prime example. Get it.” As she looked around, her eyes were wild with the excitement of a case. “Does Jason keep any girlie mags here?”
“Here?” Amanda held out her hands, palms up, like they might hold some clues. “I don’t think so. Why would he keep nudes in my apartment?”
“He’s a man. Check the garage.”
Of the fourteen apartments in the complex of duplexes, only six units had private garages… for thirty dollars more each month. Amanda needed that space for things left by her downsized parents, so her car stayed outside in the parking lot. “Why the garage?”
“Prime hiding places: toolboxes, high shelves, places you wouldn’t normally look.”
“I don’t have any toolboxes.” Amanda sighed heavily. “Tell you what, I’ll collect what little food’s in the place. You go look for dirty pictures.”
Christine rubbed her hands together. “Thought you’d never ask. I’m an expert at this.”
Amanda could tell. And it scared her a little.
Both searched for nearly fifteen minutes.
Christine came back empty-handed except for a small notepad with a Gil Elvgren pin-up on the cover.
“One of my dad’s old tablets, from a tool supply company. This thing’s over fifty years old.” Amanda checked the calendar inside.
“Can’t be too careful. We’re confiscating all of Jason’s visual stimuli.”
“He’ll just turn on TV.”
“Not after 7:00.” Christine checked her watch. “In about thirty minutes I’ve got a cable guy coming to disconnect.”
“Disconnect my cable?”
“Relax. It’s only my sister’s husband.”
Amanda clutched her friend’s forearm. “Do your sister and her husband know about our secret cure project?”
Christine shrugged. “Just enough for them to cooperate with this particular phase.”
“That’s way too much for anybody else to know! This was supposed to be just between us. But now twice as many people are in on it!”
“Not a problem. My brother-in-law only talks about sports. And my sister doesn’t even know you. Besides, who’s she going to tell?”
Amanda tried to recall the statistical maxim about how fast information spreads when each person learning a secret tells just one other person. It was roughly equivalent to the bubonic plague epidemics in the Middle Ages. Then she realized her friend had already moved on, so Amanda shifted to more mundane matters. “But there’s a big fee to get my cable service back!”
“He won’t really disconnect anything… just disable it.”
“How?” Amanda looked puzzled.
“Never mind. Check our blog later this evening and I’ll try to post our Phase One efforts.” Christine snapped her fingers. “Oh, your laptop. Keep it with you at all times. Lock it in the trunk of your car while Jason’s awake. Never let him near it.”
“Okay, I’m ahead of you on this part: no Internet or video games. But how do I explain where my laptop is?”
“In the shop. Tell Jason he spilled coffee on the keyboard and it stopped working. That way it’s his fault.”
“But he didn’t spill anything.” Amanda shook her head. “He won’t believe that.”
“What he won’t do is remember… either way. Men are always guilty of something, so it feels pretty natural to be accused of just about anything. You watch. If it’s necessary to tell him about the bogus coffee spill, he’ll look like a third-grade boy caught putting tadpoles down a pretty girl’s blouse.”
Amanda sat at the table with a loud sigh. It was like hunkering down in the middle of a whirlwind. She wondered what else was involved in Phase One but was too frightened to ask.
No matter. Christine was bubbling over to tell. “I’m taking all the booze in the apartment. Hot, cold… open or not. No alcohol whatsoever. Not a drop.” She also produced a handwritten list of her
strategies, arranged by category. “It’s still a work in progress.”
Amanda scanned the page and smiled. She was beginning to see the kinky wisdom in her friend’s manic plan — take away all Jason’s creature comforts. “You know he’s going to freak without his beer.”
Christine nodded with a cheesy grin.
Amanda retrieved four bottles from behind the microwave. “Hid these last night.”
“Are you sure that’s all the booze? Just four beers?”
“Jason drank the other eight this past weekend, shortly before he was struck ill.” Amanda felt a bit defensive. “It was on my shopping list.”
“Let me see that list.”
Amanda reached for the magnet-backed tablet on the refrigerator door. It wasn’t really much of a list because Amanda didn’t bake, either.
“Okay, scratch this, this, this… and definitely that.” Christine made those motions with her finger. Then she eyed her friend narrowly. “I can see why Jason gravitates to your place when he seeks primal comforts. His momma wouldn’t buy all this junk. You’ve been catering to his cravings: sweets, chips, beer, ice cream. If I was a lovesick man with a big appetite, I wouldn’t go home, either.”
It felt like Amanda was being chewed out by her fifth-grade teacher.
Christine obviously noticed. “Hey, after we cure Jason of this syndrome, you can buy him some treats, if you want.” It sounded like Jason was a recalcitrant Yorkie. “But maybe you should think about scaling down the magnitude. Looks like half your grocery budget goes to Jason’s sweet tooth and his spare tire.”
Amanda shrugged. “I didn’t realize it had gotten that bad. Jason would look around like something was missing, so I’d buy it. That way he didn’t have that lost expression on his face.”
“He pretty much always looks lost to me. Don’t focus so much on his face and stop feeding it so much.” Christine sounded too stern. “I’m not trying to meddle, Amanda. I mean not beyond this experiment and quest for a cure. But I am concerned. It’s easy for some women to become doormats under men’s feet. In a relationship, the position you want is on top.”
Amanda pondered that image, but didn’t inquire how literally her friend intended it.
