The Wizard's Butler

by Nathan Lowell

  “You’ve changed,” she said again. “You actually like waiting on the old guy.”

  He shrugged and looked away. “It’s ... complicated.”

  “Tell me,” she said, leaning forward on the work table.

  “It’s the house,” he said.

  “You know this place has a pretty checkered past, right?” she asked. “I checked it out.”

  “Like how checkered?”

  “Orphanage until it burned down. Half the kids died,” she said.

  Roger felt a jolt like a punch in the gut. “I knew it had been an orphanage. I didn’t know the kids died.”

  Sam shrugged. “The wonder was that more of them didn’t, I suppose. Not like the city had fire codes then.” She paused. “Did you know it was a boarding school for rich people’s kids?”

  “Yeah, closed down after the First World War.” He looked at her. “Some scandal there, too?”

  “Not that I know of,” she said. “Just felt kinda squicky when I found out.”

  “Now?” he asked.

  She looked around as if weighing the house. “I have to admit the pixies and fairies thing is a biasing factor.”

  “Because you believe they’re real or because you believe they’re not?” Roger asked.

  She shrugged. “The old man certainly seems to believe in them.”

  “He does.” Roger bit back a further comment. No need to get Sam biased against him, too.

  Sam glanced at her watch again and straightened up. “I need to get going. I want to see a man about a computer before he closes up shop for the day.”

  “Mine?” he asked.

  She gave him a sour look. “Yours is coming from a big box catalog.” She nodded toward the library. “His will take some finesse.”

  Roger led her to the front door. “Thanks for this, Sam. It’ll be nice to be connected to the world again.”

  “You know there are people who use their smart phones for this stuff, right?”

  He shrugged. “I need the bigger screen.”

  She gave him a side-eyed look. “What kind of videos are you planning on watching, again?”

  He laughed.

  “Can he get that desk built?” she asked.

  “Money opens many doors,” Roger said. “He probably has some ancient friend who did cabinet work for Nixon in the 70s or something.”

  “Holler if you need a referral. I know a few people who do that kind of work.”

  “Thanks. I’ll do that.” Roger held the door for her. “Any idea when the outside work will get done?”

  “Cable company,” she shrugged. “I’ll call and get a date and time for you. Whether they make it in that window? Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “Not like I won’t be at home,” Roger said.

  “Do you get any time off?” she asked.

  “I do. One day a week. I picked Saturday. Why? You interested?”

  She laughed. “Just curious. Nothing personal.”

  “I don’t usually stray very far from the house,” he said. “It’s funny. I have almost no interaction with the outside world. Not a single TV in the place. Not even a radio. We get a newspaper delivered in the morning. That’s it.”

  “What’d you do with your record collection?” she asked. “You were a big stereo nut when you got out.”

  He shrugged. “Sold the gear. Boxed the records. They’re in my mother’s attic.”

  “CDs would have been easier to store,” she said.

  He shrugged again. “Not the same.”

  She gave him a long look. “You’ve changed.”

  “You keep saying that.”

  “You seem calmer. More centered.”

  He snorted. “No, I’m not taking up yoga or meditation or anything woo-woo.”

  “It’s the pixies,” she said. “Must be.”

  He laughed as she sashayed out the door and down the walk.

  “I’ll call you when I have the install date,” she said over her shoulder.

  He swung the door closed behind her and threw the bolt. Had he changed so much? He checked the time and reviewed the tasks he’d not accomplished yet. His schedule had gotten off track with all the visitors. Time to fix it.

  * * *

  The carpenter came to the back door. Roger had expected an old man in overalls and a tool box. He got a guy that looked to be around his own age with a walrus mustache, cargo pants, and a T-shirt with a breast pocket. His work boots had sawdust caught in the seams. A late-model cargo van stood parked in front of the garage.

  “Afta-noon,” the guy said. “You the new butlah?”

  “Yes. You are?”

  “Enoch. Enoch Cahtwright. The old man’s expecting me?”

  Roger stood back from the doorway, holding the door for him. “He is. Thank you, Mr. Cartwright.”

  “I love workin’ on this ole place.” He clomped in and waited for Roger to close and lock the door behind him. “Not another like it in a hundred miles.”

  “This way, sir,” Roger said, leading the way through the kitchen and up to the library. He knocked before entering.

  Shackleford looked up from his book.

  “Mr. Cartwright, sir.” Roger stepped into the library and off to the side.

  Enoch clomped in and grinned at the old man, holding out his hand. “Mr. Shacklefud. What kinda mess you need me to make today?”

  “Enoch, my boy. Thank you for coming on short notice.” Shackleford stood and shook Enoch’s hand. “I need a little remodeling done.”

  Enoch nodded. “Fig-yud. What’s the what?”

  Shackleford pointed to the dictionary stand. “That needs to be a computer desk.”

  Enoch’s eyebrows shot up. “Seriously? Ya bringing the old barn up to this century?”

  Shackleford laughed and shrugged. “I don’t know about that, but Mulligan here needs it and I thought I might be able to use it for some of my research.”

  Enoch nodded, his gaze on the niche. “You want me to take that out or will you do it?”

  “I can get it out. I need you to put in the desk so it matches the rest of the woodwork.”

  Enoch nodded again. “Yeah. I can handle that. You want it today?”

  “If you can,” Shackleford said. “A man with your talents probably has work lined up around the block.”

  Enoch chuckled. “Happens I’m between right now. Finished a big job yestahday. New one tomorrow. If you can clear that space I can do it right now.” He paused and wrinkled his nose. “You know what you want?”

  Shackleford shook his head. “Not my area of expertise. Mulligan?”

  Enoch looked at Roger. “Any pref’rences?”

  Roger shrugged and looked around the room. “Can you do a rolltop to hide the computer when it’s not in use? Maybe a keyboard tray that tucks out of sight?”

  Enoch squinted at the dictionary stand and nodded slowly. “Yeah. I can see that. Cable run down the back?”

  “Yes,” Roger said.

  “You gonna put a printer in here?”

  “Hadn’t thought of that,” Roger said. “We’ve got a color laser coming for the house. Is there room?”

  “Oh, yah. Cabinet underneath. Probably room for an inkjet or a small laser.” He glanced at Shackleford. “You okay with that?”

  “I leave it in your capable hands, Enoch.”

  Enoch nodded. “All right.” He fished in one of the cargo pockets and pulled out a steel tape, took a few measurements, and nodded. “Nice size.” He stepped back. “If you’ll get that moved, I’ll have the new desk ready by this afternoon.”

  Shackleford smiled. “Thank you, Enoch. That would be splendid.”

  Enoch gave the old man a salute with his index finger. “My pleasure, as always, Mr. Shackleford.”

  Enoch took his leave, and Roger led him to the back door.

  “You can get that done today?” Roger asked.

  “Oh, yah. Most uv it anyway. Rolltop’s the tricky part. I’ll have ta go back ta the shop f
or that.” He shrugged. “Shouldn’t be any problem.”

  Roger had his doubts that Enoch could get the stain dry in that amount of time, but he’d worked on the house before. He must know what he was doing.

  “Should be back around three,” Enoch said, nodding as he strode across the tarmac. The van rumbled to life and backed around before driving out into the alley.

  Roger closed the door and sighed. “Stranger and stranger,” he said, before climbing the stairs to the library. That dictionary and pedestal needed to be out of the way before Enoch returned. The library door opened as he approached it. He entered to find Shackleford standing in the gap where the dictionary had been.

  “Ah, come in, Mulligan. I need your help.”

  Roger looked around the room but saw no sign of the dictionary or its pedestal. “Yes, sir?”

  “How many outlets? Two? Four?”

  “I don’t understand, sir.”

  “For the computer,” Shackleford said. “How many plugs need to get plugged in?”

  “Generally, one, sir. Best practice calls for a surge suppressor. That plugs into the wall and the gear plugs into that.”

  Shackleford pursed his lips and bent over to look at the baseboard. “Like that?”

  Roger crossed the room to see whatever the old man was looking at. “Yes, sir. Looks like a standard outlet.” He frowned. “I didn’t think there was one there before.”

  Shackleford shrugged. “Pixies.”

  “Do I want to know where the dictionary went?”

  “Storage in the basement,” the old man said. “We may find a use for it.” He looked at Roger, as if waiting for him to ask.

  “I see, sir.”

  “You see what, Mulligan?”

  “I see that you can do a great deal more than turn straight chairs into wheelchairs.”

  Shackleford nodded, a sad smile on his lips. “I used to be able to do more, but I’ve forgotten.”

  “Why didn’t you just build the desk yourself?”

  “Oddly enough, I never had any affinity for it,” Shackleford said. “This way is better. Enoch’s a true craftsman.”

  “He seemed to know the place pretty well.”

  “He’s done work for me before, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Roger nodded. “Is there anything else, sir?”

  “Do you think I’ll be able to figure it out, Mulligan?” he asked, staring into the empty space.

  “The computer, sir? Yes, sir.”

  Shackleford looked at Roger. “Even with my memories being scooped out?”

  “It’s not a memory yet, sir.”

  Shackleford snorted. “Pragmatic view as always, Mulligan. You give me hope.”

  “Hope, sir?”

  “Hope that I’ll find a solution.” He paused. “Or an heir.”

  “I hope so, too, sir.”

  The old man nodded and waved a hand, settling himself in his chair and taking up the book. “Carry on, Mulligan.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Roger left the room and allowed his inner child to celebrate for a few minutes. He struggled with conflicting beliefs about magic. It couldn’t exist and yet he’d seen more than one instance with no other explanation. That electrical outlet had not existed before. The dictionary had. He toyed with the idea of exploring the storage room in the basement, just to see if it was really there, but his morning schedule called for changing the linens in the master suite. Not a big job, but one that needed doing before he satisfied his curiosity. “Pixies,” he said, shaking his head.

  * * *

  Enoch returned at the stroke of three. He’d parked his van at the back door and swung the doors wide. “Mulligan, en it?”

  Roger nodded. “Or Roger. Mr. Shackleford calls me Mulligan, among other things.” He grinned.

  “It’s probably not in your job description, but if you’d give me a hand lugging this stuff?”

  “Of course,” Roger said. “Glad to help.”

  The first piece—a base unit—went up easily. The smooth finish surprised Roger. Enoch had only been gone a few hours, yet the rich wood tone matched as if he’d spent days staining and sealing the wood. When they slotted it into place, not only did it fit perfectly, but Roger wouldn’t have suspected it was new construction.

  The second piece—the rolltop—went up a little harder. “It’s heavy,” Enoch warned. “An’ awkward as a pregnant cow climbing a ladder.”

  Roger snickered at the image, but the carpenter had been right. The bulky piece kept trying to twist out of Roger’s hands as they maneuvered it down the halls, up the stairs, and into the library. Once there, it fit solidly into its designated place. Enoch fiddled with some pieces under the desk’s surface before stepping back and shaking the top. It didn’t budge.

  “Locked tight,” he said. “Doors and shelves and that’s it.”

  One more trip had the various components in the library. Enoch hung the doors on the front and showed Roger and Shackleford how to adjust the shelving units using a handful of pegs and the corresponding holes in the unit. The keyboard tray had its own flat shelf that pulled out, similar to the writing desk in Roger’s quarters.

  “Once you’ve got the parts,” Enoch said, “you can adjust the shelves to where you want ’em. The keyboard should be in the right place.” He pulled the rolltop down. “When you’re done, this’ll hide the beast away.”

  Shackleford nodded. “Excellent work, Enoch. Thank you. Send me the bill?”

  “Of course,” Enoch said. “Labor and materials. Installation’s free.” He grinned.

  Shackleford nodded and Roger showed Enoch back out to the tarmac.

  “Thank you, Mr. Cartwright. That was astonishing work.”

  Enoch closed the loading doors on his van and shrugged. “Been doin’ it since I was a lad and I’m olda than I look.” He squinted at Roger. “You’re new. How’re you and Shackleford getting along?”

  “I find the position both challenging and rewarding.”

  Enoch gave him a lopsided grin. “He’s the real deal, that one.”

  “So I’m learning.”

  “His last butlah, Perkins. Good man. Been with the old guy for decades. Shackleford took it hard. I wonder’d if he’d ever get a new fella.”

  “I was hired by his niece.”

  Enoch frowned. “Naomi? She’s a piece o’ work, that one. Watch your back with her.”

  “So I’m learning.”

  Enoch held out his hand. “Nice to meetcha, Roger. Hope ya stay around for a while. He needs somebody stable.”

  Roger shook, noting the calluses and strength in Enoch’s grip. “Thank you for the work. It’s much appreciated.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t sent the bill.” He laughed and clambered into the van, cranking it over before the door slammed shut.

  * * *

  The routine fell into place once more. The morning schedule, the weekly tasks in the afternoons. On a Saturday in August, Roger grabbed a library card from the local branch—which happened to be only a few blocks from Shackleford House, just in a direction he didn’t normally frequent. He intended to read up on cooking but stumbled on The Butler’s Guide, written by a real butler. He started reading it and soon became engrossed. There wasn’t much time to read during the day, but over the course of a week he worked through the slim volume and ordered a hardcover for his personal library as a reference work. It was just a handbook on how to do things, but he glimpsed a fascinating history between the lines. While Shackleford House wasn’t exactly a castle, he found the writing style comforting and the content intriguing.

  He also picked up a few cooking books from names he didn’t recognize but which the librarian recommended, chief among them Julia Child—who he vaguely remembered for being a comedic personality in his childhood. Who knew?

  Thus armed, he settled in after dinner most evenings with the Pettigrew Bible and his other books. He lost himself in the stories and the food. He often padded thro
ugh the kitchen in the night, looking at the equipment and examining the larders. The spice rack—which had seemed overwhelming in the beginning—proved to be almost as enchanting as the freezers full of meats and fish. Game hens became his favorite poultry because they were essentially little single-serving chickens—each a delightful portion alongside a brown rice pilaf and a side of steamed vegetables.

  He practiced his sauté work with dried beans in a skillet. Getting the pan-shake just right meant he didn’t spill navy beans all over the work table. The effort took several evenings. He almost gave up before he found the right combination of shake and flip to roll the beans around and around. For several minutes he grinned and flipped steadily, before he lost it all and beans went everywhere.

  The cable company hooked up the router in the garage near the end of August, one of the hottest days of the year.

  Noon in the city wasn’t usually too bad, but in August it could feel like a steam bath. Of course, that was when the cable company showed up and rang the back doorbell.

  Roger found the guy with a computer tablet in his hand, a smile on his face, and a lanyard around his neck with an ID photo facing the wrong way.

  “You’re the butler?” the guy asked, more out of surprise than a need to confirm Roger’s identity.

  “Yes, sir. How can I help you?”

  The guy lifted the lanyard to flash the ID card at Roger before looking down at his clipboard. “Says you want cable installed in the garage?” He glanced at the garage.

  “Internet service, yes,” Roger said. “No drilling.”

  The guy frowned. “I saw that on the work order. What do you mean ‘no drilling?’”

  “When you run the cable into the garage, route it under one of the doors, sir.”

  “You realize that’s crazy, right?”

  “I realize that the request sounds odd to you, yes, sir.”

  “The cable will be exposed to the elements. Weather. The door opening and closing on it.”

  “The same cable that will be buried approximately six inches underground from the nearest hub?” Roger asked.

  The guy gave a short laugh. “Well. Of course.”

  “And it survives just fine there? All through the seasons? Rain? Snow? Ground freezing and thawing?”