Rescued by that New Guy in Town

by J. L. Salter

  "I'll be right there. We're kissing cousins."

  The doctor gave me a funny look but didn't ask.

  "Can I see him now?"

  "Yeah, go… Well, actually, I think they're bringing him this way pretty soon. He's alert now and knows who he is, plus the day, date. You know, usual stuff."

  "Any special instructions?"

  "He ought to stay in bed most of tomorrow, even if he says he feels okay. Needs some time without much excess motion." The doctor signed a note on his metal clipboard. "This is for his workplace, in case he needs it." He flipped over a page. "I saw an entry that his ID doesn't match the address you gave. He'd better get a local license. They look for that here." He handed me an information sheet and some typed instructions. "Your cousin's not walking so great right now, so you may need to help the orderly get him to your vehicle."

  "How about food?" I was still hungry even if Ryan might not be.

  "If he wants anything, start with soups or something soft. No dairy yet. By tomorrow, if he's shown no other symptoms, regular diet. Okay?"

  "Yeah. Thanks Doctor."

  "He should be coming out. You might go ahead and bring your car around."

  So I did, despite having to maneuver around somebody in a wheelchair smoking right next to the entrance.

  It was a good thing the orderly was a big dude, because it took everything I had to hold up my side of Ryan Rubber Legs. With his long arm draped over my shoulder, his hand kept brushing against my torso. I was suspicious, but he looked a bit too out-of-it for me to know whether it even registered with him.

  Once we got him situated and belted into my tiny vehicle, I had a dilemma. Although I'd heard the general address of his apartment building, I didn't really know which unit he lived in. And even if I could find the correct number, it might be an upper floor. No way for him to climb any stairs.

  Only one choice: take him home with me.

  I felt like calling ahead to alert Elvis that I was bringing someone home. But I didn't figure he'd answer.

  ****

  Getting Ryan from my car to the front door was a tricky prospect. I was finally able to pull him up out of the low seat and — with very little help from the patient — I got him on his feet. But he teetered. So I leaned him over the hood and went around to the other door to get my purse. By the time I got back, he was sliding down like a melted cartoon character.

  "Oh, Ryan, Ryan." It was after nine o'clock. I didn't feel confident enough to knock on someone's door and ask them to help me haul this man inside. What would the neighbors imagine? That I was rolling a drunk, probably.

  Think, Kristen! I remembered seeing a garden wagon that my southerly neighbor kept between his house and my rental. He'd bragged about it one day, claiming it could carry something like four hundred pounds. Maybe it was still there. "You wait here, Ryan, I'll get a taxi."

  Ryan nodded slowly. He probably expected a Verdeville City Cab.

  I dashed over to check on the wagon. Still here. In the darkness, I could barely see several large pots on it, so I removed them and hauled the conveyance over to Ryan. I maneuvered the cart behind him and took a minute to calculate height, weight, angle, et cetera. Nothing computed. But I did figure I should let down the short tailgate.

  With the wagon pushed right up to the backs of Ryan's legs, I went around to his side and explained I'd help him sit down. He probably looked around for a chair. "Here, on this wagon. Sit."

  Ryan looked at me with a slightly dopey expression and repeated the word "wagon".

  "Yeah. Sit on the wagon. I can't carry you, but maybe I can pull you."

  He repeated "sit".

  He was staying a few words behind me. "Yeah, sit. Just lower your booty onto the wagon."

  Ryan repeated "booty". Then he patted mine.

  I didn't give it a second thought. Well, maybe a short second.

  Finally, he sat back with a loud whoof of air and then a groan. Evidently there was something else still in the wagon.

  "Now, hold your hands on the sides and I'll start pulling."

  He repeated the word "hands".

  I'm not sure why I imagined I could pull a two-hundred-pound man — mostly dead weight — in a garden cart, up my slightly inclined sidewalk, in the dark. But with many grunts and a few cuss words I don't often utilize, I finally reached my front door.

  The wagon was out of the game by then because of the single step up to my stoop. So I basically pulled Ryan out of the cart and left him in a heap on my tiny porch. While doing so, I discovered what he'd previously moaned about — a disorderly stack of gnarly thorns in the bottom. "Oh, Ryan, Ryan."

  About that time I wondered why on earth the E.R. doctor had even released a patient in such a condition. With Ryan in a heap on my porch, I was about five seconds from calling 9-1-1 again and just letting them haul him away somewhere.

  "Ryan, if I can't get you inside, you're gonna spend this cold November night on my porch." I yanked a couple of coarse hairs from the back of his wrist.

  "Ow!" His eyes opened wide. Maybe whichever meds he'd been given had worn off, or his concussion was finally concussed… or perhaps he'd been faking a little. But he seemed to shake off some of the cobwebs and re-enter the Verdeville Zone.

  "What the…?" His question might have covered the entire recent four hours or maybe he wondered where he was right then.

  I gave him the short version. "You slipped, fell, and hurt yourself. E.R. released you but said somebody needed to watch over you. Since I was pretending to be your cousin, the Doc evidently figured that was me."

  "Cousin?" He grinned, still just a bit loopy.

  At that point, I figured Ryan was mostly back from la-la land. "Yeah. You know, with all the HIPAA stuff, they wouldn't tell me anything, and I already had investment in the outcome since I'd cradled your head in my lap after your skull got cracked."

  "Your lap?"

  "Yeah, and your hands have been all over me too. So, you'd better watch it while we make our way inside."

  He evidently started to nod, but it stopped about halfway. "Ow. Yeah, no hands."

  I let that sink in. "You ready to stand up?"

  "Think I can… might need help up." Finally he was reasonably articulate again.

  "I'll pull your arms and you push with your legs. On three: one, two, up." I tugged and groaned, but he didn't move. "Hey!"

  "You never said 'three'." He was serious.

  So the patient is a literalist. "All right. No counting. Just 'ready' and 'up'. Now."

  That was successful. Ryan was vertical, leaning against the same wall where I'd been on the night of the spider and key episode.

  With considerable difficulty, we made it inside. Somehow his hands still managed to brush against some of my body parts usually kept in reserve.

  Elvis trotted into the small front room and stopped short when he saw the intruder. His tail stiffened and his ears lowered. I was in trouble — my persnickety cat was accustomed to eating around seven o'clock. "Well, your supper will just have to wait, Elvis." Then I turned. "Ryan, meet Elvis. Elvis, it's Ryan. Get over it."

  I left Ryan leaning against the back of the couch while I got a sheet, folded it, and spread it over the seat cushions. Ryan was considerably taller than the couch was long, so I arranged him with his head over one of the fortunately low arms.

  "What now?"

  His question was so ambiguous that I wasn't sure where to begin. "I'm supposed to watch you in case you suddenly go wacko or something." Though I'd need to re-read all those papers the doctor sent home with us to determine what constituted an abnormal reaction to a concussion.

  "Did you get any supper?" He'd probably heard my stomach screaming.

  "Uh, no. Matter of fact, all I had was a candy bar in the waiting room. You hungry yet?"

  "I think so. But I've got a headache, my tailbone hurts, and something feels funny in my back."

  "I can explain your back. There were thorns in the wagon."

 
; Ryan didn't seem to remember that conveyance.

  "Your butt hit the floor before your skull did." That covered pretty much everything.

  "So you really held my head in your lap?" He had no trouble recalling that image.

  "Yeah. Only because I thought you were dying. Now that I know you're alive, my lap is off limits."

  Ryan couldn't keep the drowsy disappointment off his face.

  I had to chuckle when I realized how that sounded. "Let's get back to food. What do you think you can eat?"

  He thought for a moment. "Barbecue?"

  I shook my head. "I don't remember what the Doc said specifically, but I know it didn't include heavy and spicy stuff. Let's stick with soup for the time being."

  More disappointment was evident. "Well, I also need to take a whiz."

  Why didn't Ryan think of that before I got him all laid out? "Okay." I sighed heavily. "Let's get you back up."

  I assisted him halfway down the hall to the guest bath, between the two storage bedrooms I had no access to. Once there, I was uncertain whether he needed help holding anything. Was I supposed to remain and observe, or discreetly retire and close the door?

  Ryan assumed the general position to urinate, then looked over his shoulder. "I think I can handle this part unless you hear a body hit the floor."

  Oh, modesty. Endearing. I waited outside until he flushed and washed his hands.

  "Lemme see if I can make it on my own." There was no tone with his words, but I found myself slightly disappointed that he might not need my help anymore. Must have been some inner nurse instinct I didn't even know I had.

  Bracing against one wall, he could walk okay, but halfway there, he wavered. So I reached around his waist, he put his arm over my shoulder, and we made the rest of the journey to the couch. It felt good to help him. Good? Well, fulfilling. Or some other word I'd look up later. Anyhow, I liked the feeling.

  With Ryan horizontal again, I fed Elvis his regular kibble.

  Next, to feed the starving humans. I partly burned some cheese toast, heated the soup, and poured him a cola. Ryan sat up on the couch and consumed a little of each, with no complaint.

  Not long after we dined, Ryan fell asleep. It was a bit past ten o'clock and I was totally zonked. Saturday had been long and stressful hours at the shelter. That night had been nice. Sunday was a nightmare. I thought back over those first moments when Ryan was down and I seriously feared he was terminal. Oh, Ryan, Ryan.

  Yet he was on my rented couch spending the night with me. Well, not with me, but proximate. I liked him being near. I didn't know what I'd do with him now that I had him so close, but I realized I needed a man near. Was he the right man? Couldn't tell. So many rumors, so much mystery. How can you trust a man with so few answers?

  Oh well, time for a long hot shower and, hopefully, a sound sleep. Though, with a pirate in your house, you sleep with one eye open.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  At six-thirty Monday morning, I needed to ascertain if Ryan had recovered enough to get going, since I had to leave for work and he required a ride to his truck, still out at the shelter. I hoped he was okay enough to drive back to his place and spend the day there, as the doctor had specified.

  Ryan might have been a little embarrassed to find himself on my couch, but mainly seemed disoriented — probably the shock of his surroundings. Elvis had curled up between Ryan's knees during the night since that was the cat's regular cushion.

  "Are you awake?" I shook his shoulder lightly. "You okay? Medically, I mean."

  "Huh? Yeah. I'm sore in two places." He pointed to his head and low back. "But okay, I guess." He tried to focus on his watch. "What time is it? Crud! I can't hang around here all day. I gotta go to work!" Men tend to overstate the obvious.

  "Yeah, me too. But the Doc said you're supposed to stay home today. He even wrote you an excuse slip."

  "We're finalizing the new property values being added to the tax rolls. I got to be there."

  I wasn't going to waste time arguing with a man about whether he does what he's going to do anyway. "Okay. Your call. I'm not your doctor and I sure ain't yer momma."

  Ryan just rubbed the back of his head gently.

  I was generally a sympathetic kind of gal, but not so much during early workday mornings. "Hey, I've got to go. But I'll run you out to your truck first." I waited a full thirty seconds for Ryan to jump up and start moving. Then I figured he needed instructions. "Bathroom. Jacket. Keys. Hurry. I'm out in the car."

  Ryan stumbled out a couple of minutes after me. At that time of morning, there was little traffic to worry about. It was barely dawn as far as the sun was concerned, since we were back on standard time.

  Still in Sunday's filthy work clothes, Ryan looked a mess. I didn't have any spare toothbrushes, so his breath was atrocious too.

  When we reached the shelter, I wondered what Ryan would say. After all, he'd spent the night with me. Well, under the same roof. Was that worth an expression of undying gratitude? How about a peck on my cheek? Or maybe simply, "Thanks, Babe"?

  No. He barely spoke. Right before he lurched out of my car, he turned and mumbled. "I'm sorry." Then he tried to hustle away to his truck, though it was obvious his tailbone hurt. It was close to seven — barely time to for him to go home and change clothes. I wondered if he would shower and shave.

  He surely didn't seem very grateful. And what, specifically, was he apologizing for? Getting injured? Sleeping on my couch? Sharing his awful morning breath? Allowing his hands to make contact with certain special places on my person?

  Why was he so abrupt… so rude?

  Well, I had my own morning schedule to tend to and scant little time. I peeled out of the shelter parking lot and drove away, fast enough to get another ticket if any official had been watching.

  Back home, I got dressed and ran a brush through my hair. I had showered Sunday night.

  No time for breakfast.

  ****

  I barely got to work on time and was still breathing heavily from all my rushing around when I counted and signed for my drawer from Miss Zachery. She had a way of expressing disapproval even though I hadn't actually done anything wrong. I was merely close to deserving a tardiness reminder.

  Not one to let a lurking reproof reside within, Miss Z restated the bank's personnel policy on business-like appearance. It took a moment to register — I hadn't done my hair! Oh, it was clean and brushed, but that was all. In my haste to get Ryan out, I had barely managed to dress myself!

  A moment later Aynette clutched my elbow. "What'd she say about your hair?" My coworker never missed anything.

  "Nothing specific." I tried to glimpse my reflection in the glass over the framed portrait of our bank's homely founder. Didn't quite work. "She just fussed about the policy in general. I mean, it's not like I showed up in house slippers." I quickly checked to be certain.

  "So, how come your hair is such a mess?" asked Aynette the diplomat.

  "Long story." I was too frazzled to explain. "I almost wish I'd had the concussion and was told to stay in bed."

  Aynette looked puzzled. "So, your court weekend — feeding animals — how'd it turn out?"

  Another long story. "You won't believe it but I'll have to tell you later."

  The morning was slow — very few customers. Thankfully, no sign of the money order lowlife. But I kept expecting him to pop up whenever I might let down my guard.

  While Miss Z took her lunch break, I was able to brief Aynette on the ups and downs of my community service weekend. She was properly impressed with my handling of Ryan's head after the injury, but chastised me for taking him home.

  "What could I do? Let him roam the streets with an elastic bandage wrapped around his noggin?"

  "I think I would've left him on the doorstep of that person in the D.A.'s office." Aynette so disapproved of fakery, she wouldn't even wear a padded brassiere.

  I lowered my voice slightly. "I've been told — reliable source — their
thing is over."

  "Which thing? The three-way or the two-way?"

  It took me a moment to catch her drift; the unspecified weirdness with Vanessa Karlov and her ex-boyfriend. "Completely over with Ryan, according to Reda."

  "Ahh." Aynette was obviously impressed by my source's reliability. "Well, I still think it was a mistake to take him home. You never know what a man thinks when you let him inside, and he thinks it even more when you let him stay."

  My coworker acted like she knew what she was talking about. But her only experience with a male over age fourteen featured Dellun the Dullard. I just shrugged off her counsel.

  "Look, Kris. From what I've seen of Ryan, I like him. I mean, for a mystery man, new in town, and nobody knows a thing about him except rumors — which I mostly don't believe because they're rumors — well, what I'm saying is…"

  "Spit it out, Aynette!" I looked quickly over my shoulder to see if Miss Z was back from lunch. She wasn't.

  "You can't offer your couch to a man some people say is a killer and others say…"

  "Those were fence posts, not dead bodies." There, I'd put one rumor to rest. "Besides, you should have seen him with the animals. Before he knocked himself out, anyway. Nobody who relates that well to critters could be a murderer."

  "Kris, I've got three words for you: Hitler loved his stinkin' dogs. Need I say more?"

  It was always more than three words, but I got her point. Sometimes Aynette manifested uncommonly sophisticated perception.

  After Miss Z returned, I dared not speak about personal matters even though my mind was working them over. I'd kind of figured Ryan might call sometime that morning. We weren't allowed to keep our cell phones on during the shift, but I checked for messages at morning break and lunch. Nada.

  I felt a little peeved. I mean, if I had spent the night on his couch after being knocked out, surely I'd have enough grace to phone him the next day and… Hmm. What would that conversation have been about?

  I checked again during afternoon break. No messages.

  ****