MUCH ADO
By Aeiu
Mark McCormick stunk. It was a deep foul stench which had soaked through his clothes and now permeated into the pores of his skin. It had all started innocently enough. It was spring and while McCormick's mind was firmly turned towards the fairer sex, ex-judge Milton C. Hardcastle's mind had turned toward the roses.
During breakfast, Hardcastle had lectured him on the proper care of the fair flowers which including replacing the plants that had failed and feeding the survivors. The food of choice was prime fertilizer which the ex-jurist chose to call manure. McCormick had another word for it but a stern look from the granite-faced housekeeper had caused the it to die, unspoken, in his throat.
It had seemed simple enough in the planning stage but was tough in implementation. First off, there were a lot of rose bushes which called for a virtual mountain of fertilizer. McCormick had only been able to shake his head, in awe, as he imagined the battalion of horses required to keep the roses of Gull's Way in bloom.
He had worked long hours through the early heat of the morning and afternoon with only a short break for lunch which Sarah Wicks, the stone-faced housekeeper, had insisted he eat outside.
As McCormick spread the last bag of fertilizer, he knew he couldn't blame her for wanting to keep him out of the main house. He was soaked in mud and manure until his skin was discolored and his clothes could be declared unsalvageable. He put away his tools and headed into the gatehouse.
His new home, he thought as he entered the building. It wasn't as grand as the main house but it was better than any place he had been in for a long time. And definitely better than the small gardener's trailer that Mrs. Wicks had wanted him to stay in. It had only been a couple of weeks since he and the judge had bought Flip Johnson's killer to justice and he was determined to make this unorthodox arrangement work.
The cool air in the gatehouse caused the sweat which had dried on his skin under the hot sun to begin anew. It quickly drenched his body mixing with the dried crud and reawakening the rank odor. He looked longingly at the stairs which led up to the bathroom but paused when he considered the beautiful hardwood floor and expensive furnishings which stood between him and his objective. He hated the idea of soiling the home; particularly if he would have to pay for the cleaning out of the pittance of his allowance or worse receiving another lecture from the housekeeper that the gatehouse was too good for him.
McCormick decided he could mitigate the mess with less accessories before he started up the stairs. He carefully began to peel off his shoes and clothes. As he placed them on a pile of nearby newspapers, he realized the muck had soaked through to his innermost level of attire. As he pulled his briefs off and added them to the pile, he heard the familiar creak of the door and a small gasp of surprise.
McCormick was unable to stop himself as he turned to face the interloper. It was one of those awful moments when time seemed to actually stand still. Sarah Wicks stood just inside the door clutching a small pile of folded laundry; her eyes and mouth opened wide in shock.
"Why are you just standing there?" they both shouted in unison.
Finally unfrozen, McCormick reached over, grabbed his recently discarded underwear and attempted to cover his dignity. "Get the hell out of here!" he ordered.
Without a word, Sarah closed her mouth, turned on her heels, and stiffly marched back to the inner sanctum of her kitchen. McCormick raced up into the bathroom unaware and uncaring of the stains he left in his wake.
Hardcastle was enjoying the privacy of his den as he pored through the case files. It had been a quiet afternoon. Sarah had been working silently through the many tasks of the household while McCormick toiled outside. All was perfect in his world.
He nearly jumped from his seat when he heard the door slam with a bang which reverberated through the entire house. He watched as the most recent addition to the household stomped into the den and threw himself into a chair.
"Hardcase, we need to talk," demanded McCormick as he sat in the chair with his arms crossed defensively in front of his chest as his recently washed riotous curls laid plastered to his head.
Hardcastle figured the young parolee was upset about the recent chore. He remembered what a dirty job it was to fertilize the vast number of roses bushes on the estate from the years that he had completed the task. It required the use of only your oldest set of clothes. He knew McCormick didn't have much following his recent release from jail and the replacement of a set of clothes would put a dent in his wages.
"If this is about your clothes, have Sarah take a look at them. If they can't be cleaned, I'll replace them."
"It's not about my clothes, but it is about her."
"Who, Sarah?"
"Yeah, I want you to tell her she can't go barging into my hom-, the gatehouse anytime she feels like it. I want you to tell her that she has to knock."
"You mean you don't want her barging in the gatehouse like you just came barging into here?" asked Hardcastle as he attempted to calm the situation.
McCormick mentally reviewed his recent entrance into the house. "That's different," he muttered.
"Different from every other time you've barged in here."
"Yes, because you're dressed."
"Oh," said Hardcastle as he began to understand what had happened to agitate the parolee. "She caught you in your birthday suit." He forced his face to remain impassive as he was sure any sign of amusement would reignite the McCormick's anger which he sensed was dying.
"Yeah," admitted McCormick as a faint blush began to creep across his face.
"Well, she probably didn't know you were in the shower."
"I wasn't exactly in the shower."
"The bathroom, then."
"I was downstairs in the entry way," McCormick admitted.
"You were standing naked in the entry way?"
"Yeah, my clothes were filthy and I wanted to get out of them as quickly as possible. I was just about to go upstairs when she walked in."
"What do you think she was doing there?"
McCormick remembered the scene. "She had a pile of my clothes."
"You mean your laundry. You don't honestly think she went in there to try to take a gander at you, do you?"
"No, but it was embarrassing," McCormick offered as the last ember of resentment began to die.
"It was a fluke. She was probably more upset than you," said Hardcastle as he turned back to the open case file. "I can't understand why a guy like you would be so sensitive about it, anyway?"
He regretted the words before they had fully left his mouth. They had just popped out without thought. He knew McCormick was trying to put his penal past behind him and he hated to be reminded of it. Hardcastle looked up and inwardly cringed at frozen sardonic grin on the young man's face.
"A guy like me?" McCormick asked in a tightly forced voice as his temper began to burn once more. "You mean a con like me doesn't have the right to expect a little privacy in the place he has to live. Even when he's no longer in prison."
"Don't be putting words in my mouth, McCormick. That's not what I meant."
"What did you mean?" That after years of being eyed over by every guard and felon in that little vacation paradise you sent me to that I should be used to it."
"I just meant…"
"I know what you meant, Hardcase!" McCormick said as he jumped up and thrust out his finger towards the judge's chest. "I agreed to a lot of stuff when I came out here. I agreed to be your yardman, your driver, your Tonto, and the target of every two-bit crook that ever got under your skin. But I did not agree to gaped over by every old biddy that wants a peep show. Tell her to stay out or I will!" McCormick turned and stormed out of the den. He slammed the door with enough force to knock several of the judge's law book from the shelf.
"Well that didn't go so good," Hardcastle muttered resignedly. He decided it'd be better to give McCormick a chance to cool down. Experience had taught him that, if left alone, most problems worked themselves out.
While McCormick's arrival was a maelstrom of movement and emotions, Sarah Wick's arrival was more like the winter frost. It's rigid presence heavily blanketed the room with frigid moral indignation. Hardcastle did not need to look up from his files to know she was standing stiffly in front of his desk ready to explode in righteous anger.
"You overheard what McCormick said," guessed Hardcastle as he looked up at the incensed housekeeper still flush with embarrassment.
"I can assure you, Judge, it has never been my intentions to gawk at Mr. McCormick or any of his shortcomings."
"You know, he was pretty upset when he left," explained Hardcastle. "I don't think he meant any of that."
Sarah continued as if the judge hadn't spoken. "I wouldn't even have to go in there if he could manage to keep the place half-way decent. I was only bring in his laundry. He was the one who was standing in the living room in the altogether."
"Yeah, he's a little sensitive about that."
"Sensitive! He stood there like a statue then cursed at me. When I went to back to return his laundry, I saw that he's stained the floor and the rug all the way up the stairs. We'll probably have to call a service to get that cleaned."
"That won't be a problem. He just wants a little privacy in his home."
"His home!" Sarah exclaimed incredulously. "It is not his home. It your home. He is just another of those men that you insist on bringing to the estate. And if he wants to live in that Bohemian lifestyle than the gardener's trailer should be good enough for him."
"He's still new here and we're all going to have to make adjustments."
"Well, you can tell Mr. McCormick that he doesn't have to worry about me anymore. As far as I'm concerned the gatehouse is his problem and he can do his own laundry from now on." With that Sarah turned and marched from the den.
Hardcastle sighed again as he returned his attention to his files. The problem had gotten worse but he still believed that, given time, the two would be able to work things out on their own.
Hardcastle was glad that the rest of the afternoon passed quietly. Evidentially a truce had been called or they were simply were staying out of each other's way. But as the afternoon turned into early evening and the smell of supper began to inch it's way throughout the household, he knew all was still not well in the home.
There is a distinctive smell to liver and onions. Definitely different from the scent of baked chicken which had been the planned meal for the evening. It was one of his favorite meals but McCormick had been less than thrilled with it when they had eaten it a few days ago. While the parolee hadn't said anything, he hadn't been unable to hide the brief look of disgust as he tried a small bite of the meat. He had loaded up on the vegetables and salad while Sarah rolled her eyes at what she considered his finicky tastes.
"No chicken tonight?" asked Hardcastle as he sat down in front of one of the three plates at the table.
"I wanted to use the rest of the liver before it went bad," explained Sarah.
"It looks good. Let's eat."
"I wonder if Mr. McCormick is coming to supper?" Sarah inquired feeling a little guilty at her impromptu menu change.
At that moment there was a knock on the kitchen door followed by McCormick's entrance into the house. As he walked through the kitchen and into the dinning room, Hardcastle could smell the familiar aroma of fried hamburgers as it fought for air dominance against the odor of the liver. The still new resident to Gull's Way placed a greasy bag emblazed with the logo of 'Fat Boy Burgers' on the table next to his plate. He ignored the glare of the housekeeper as he carefully unwrapped two burgers and placed them on his plate followed by dumping a large bag of fries and another of onion rings near the sandwiches.
"No ketchup?" he asked with a faux innocent air. "Don't worry. I'll get it."
"Oh God," muttered Hardcastle as he concentrated his eyes on his own plate. He peeked over to Sarah who had turned her attention back to her own meal which she ate with an intensity that attempted to hide her incensed outrage.
McCormick returned to the table and ate his meal with a relish that had been absent the other times he had eaten at the 'Fat Boy Burger Drive-In'. He attempted to engage the judge in animate conversation. Hardcastle, unwilling to appear to be taking sides in the dispute, answered in a detached manner. He answered in the same manner when Sarah wanted to talk about the cost of professionally cleaning the gatehouse.
As Sarah finished her plate, she was glad that she had given in to the guilt she had felt earlier over the liver and onions. She had known that Mr. McCormick was less than fond of the healthy meal. But as it had fried in the pan, she had felt bad about using it as a weapon against someone who had obviously been embarrassed by their earlier encounter. So she had compromised by making one of his favorite desserts. But now that he had brought those things to her table, she saw it could have another use.
"I hope you saved room for dessert, Your Honor. We have apple pie," she said as she looked over to the young man who sat across from her. "I'm sure that Mr. McCormick is too full from that meal to be interested in any apple pie."
"Don't worry, Mrs. Wicks," Mark said with a sweet smile as he reached into the large bag and pulled out two fried pies. "If I get hungry, I've got apple and cherry."
Sarah glowered at the offending pastries as she grabbed the empty plates and went into the kitchen muttering under her breath. McCormick watched her go with mixed feelings. Prison had taught him that you don't back down from a challenge. While he wouldn't put the housekeeper in the same category as Lucas 'The Bone Crusher' McGoggle; when he caught a whiff of the evening meal, he knew it was a challenge that he couldn't let go unanswered. He decided to best the elderly woman at her own game. He thought it would make him feel better but instead he felt childish. He realized that she had not meant to walk in on him while he was undressed but he was tired of her unspoken hostility.
He looked over to the Judge, half-expecting a long lecture about his unacceptable behavior. Instead he was greeted by an unfathomable stare. McCormick tried to give a nonchalant grin but his heart wasn't in it.
"The truck has been making a funny sound, McCormick," said Hardcastle. "Instead of helping with the dishes, I want you to check it out while there's still light."
"Okay," agreed Mark meekly. He had driven the truck less than twenty-four hours earlier and knew there wasn't anything wrong with the vehicle. He understood the judge was trying to keep the two warring fraction separate. McCormick admitted that given his conflicted emotions, it was probably for the best. He really did want things to work out but he refused to surrender to the woman
The next morning Sarah was working her way through the many tasks she had scheduled for the day. She was trying to hold onto her anger at McCormick but was finding it difficult. She was still displeased about the language he had used to describe her to the judge and offended about the so-called food that he had brought to her table but her attitude was softening.
Judge Hardcastle had left for an early breakfast meeting leaving her and the young parolee alone at the estate. She had debated whether her on-going strike against household duties at the gatehouse should include feeding the man. However when she went to the kitchen, she discovered he had already had breakfast. In fact, he had eaten, put away the food, rinsed the dishes and placed them into the dishwasher. While the kitchen hadn't been cleaned to her standard, he had obviously made an effort.
While she didn't wholly approve of the people the judge had brought to the estate for his private rehabilitation program; she had to admit that the boy was certainly better than some of the others that had come before him. She thought back on a particularly horrid man from a year ago. When she had discovered him tanning in the buff, he had lewdly displayed himself and asked her if she saw anything that she liked. She hadn't been surprised when he had been sent back after returning to his criminal ways.
She didn't want to be at war with McCormick but she refused to back down. She didn't want to let herself be tricked by a boyish exterior and a blackened heart. As she tried to sort through her feelings she grabbed a large load of dirty laundry and started down the stairs.
Mark McCormick tentatively knocked on the kitchen door before entering the room. He had been working hard on the lawn and wanted to get a cool drink. In the past, Sarah had brought the icy respites to him but given their current state of affairs, he doubted she planned on making any lemonade for him in the near future. He had just finished drinking the cold water when he heard the crash.
He raced into the living room and paused at the sight before him. Sarah lay sprawled at the bottom of the stairs. She was partially sitting up with one leg bent awkwardly behind her as she stared disgustedly at the laundry strewn around her.
"Don't panic!" said McCormick as his voice began to raise in panic. He threw himself on his knees by the fallen housekeeper and cautiously reached out to examine her swelling ankle.
"Stop fussing," said Sarah as she pushed his hands away, "and help me up." She pulled on McCormick's arm and got herself onto her feet. She bit back a gasp of pain as her leg folded underneath her and she felt herself falling to the floor.
In a wink, she was scooped up in strong arms and gently deposited in a nearby sofa. Before she could voice any protest, she watched the curly-haired man disappear in the kitchen and return with a bag of ice wrapped in a dish towel. He handed it to her and watched with worried eyes as she placed it on her injured ankle.
"How do you feel?" he asked anxiously.
"It hurts," she admitted, "but I'll live."
"It looks bad." McCormick bit his lip as he came to a decision. "I'm going to bring the car up front and get you to the hospital so you can have it checked out."
"Don't be silly. I hardly need a hospital. I'll be fine."
McCormick softly chuckled as he shook his head. "Don't tell me you got the John Wayne Syndrome, too. You never show pain and never admit you need a doctor."
"No. But I'm not some old biddy that runs to the doctor with every ache or pains either."
McCormick looked abashed. "I didn't mean that yesterday. I was just upset. But you are older and you should have that looked at. I can help you to the car or I can carry you but you really should go to the emergency room."
"You certainly are not going to carry me out to the car!" Sarah said indigently.
"Okay," McCormick said taking it as a partial agreement, "I'll bring the car around and help you in." He stood up and ran out of the house.
Sarah was surprised at the parolee's attitude. Given all that had happened in the past, she thought if he didn't dislike her than he certainly resented her. She couldn't imagine any of the others treating her so considerately.
When he returned she allowed herself to lean heavily against him as she hobbled out of the house. When they got into the front yard, she got another surprise.
"We're taking the Corvette!" she exclaimed.
"Well, it'll be easier for you to get in and out of and it has more leg room," he defended.
"The judge gave you the keys to the Corvette?"
"Something like that," he hedged as he got her settled into the passenger seat. He climbed into the driver's seat , leaned over to her, and whispered conspiratorially, "You know I'd appreciate it if you leave this part out when you tell the judge what happened."
Sarah smiled inwardly as they left the estate and headed down the road. She knew he was knowingly risking the judge's wrath by using his prized Corvette. But the young man seemed to think she was worth the risk.
Sarah stared irately at the partially wrapped ankle as they drove back to the house. It had taken a little over two hours of waiting, filling out forms, and arguing with the doctor before she had been released with strict instructions to use her leg as little as possible for the next twenty-four hours.
"The doctor wouldn't have told you to stay off of your leg if he didn't think it was important," McCormick said cautiously.
"He doesn't have an entire estate to take care of," fumed Sarah. "The entire morning has been wasted. I don't have anything done. Who does he think is going to do it?"
"I could do it," offered McCormick.
"You? What do you know about laundry and house cleaning?"
"Nothing. But I didn't know anything about gardening or mowing when I got here. That didn't stop anyone from having me do it."
"I don't know."
"We can get you settled in the living room and you can tell me what to do. I'm really good at taking directions." McCormick grinned when he saw Sarah roll her eyes and snort loudly. "I really can take directions."
"What about your chores?"
"So the grass gets a little longer and the bushes a little shabbier. I can do them later."
"The Judge might be upset."
"I'll wear your apron. Who can get mad at a man in an apron."
They both smiled at the image that formed in their mind as they finished the drive home and Sarah began explaining the secrets of laundry day.
It was late afternoon by the time Hardcastle returned home. He had taken a couple of meeting and a few errands and managed to stretch them into a full day of activities. He hoped that Sarah and McCormick had used the time to settle their differences.
As he neared the house, he saw the partial completed lawn. It appeared that Sarah's strike against the gatehouse had expanded to McCormick refusing to do the yard work. The absence of lights in the gatehouse and the Coyote parked in it's usual place suggested that the parolee was in the main house. Hardcastle decided that this nonsense was going to stop right now.
"McCormick!" Hardcastle shouted as he slammed the door and stormed into the house. "Where the heck are ya?"
"Well, you're finally home," McCormick scolded as he exited the kitchen wearing a simple white apron and carrying a plate of cut celery. "You know you knew you were going to be late, you should call. It's called simple consideration."
"What's this?" Hardcastle asked flabbergasted at the domestic sight. "Where's Sarah?"
"They're appetizers. Have one," McCormick said as he handed over the plate to his employer/parole officer. "Sarah's in the living room and supper will be ready in a few minutes."
Confused, Hardcastle munched one of the peanut butter stuffed celery sticks as he walked into the living room and spotted Sarah sitting on the couch with her wrapped ankle elevated.
"What happened?" Hardcastle asked as he walked over to the injured housekeeper. "He didn't do anything, did he?"
"Don't be silly. I fell early this morning. Mark took me to the hospital and has been nothing but helpful all day. He said he was going to finish the lawn after supper. But he's been working so hard, I told him that it could wait until tomorrow.
"I see" said Hardcastle as Sarah smiled fondly toward the kitchen.
"Supper's ready," McCormick shouted from the dining room. "Do you need any help, Sarah?"
"I'll help her," Hardcastle said as he offered his arm to her.
"I'm hardly helpless," she answered but she allowed the judge to assist her to her feet. She carefully limped to the dining room while Hardcastle followed a step behind ready to offer aid if needed.
Hardcastle grinned as they entered the dining room. McCormick had draped one of the good table cloth across the dining room table and laid out a formal setting including cloth napkins, salad bowls and bread plates. A basket of dinner rolls, a bowl of mixed salad, a plate of foil-covered baked potatoes, steamed vegetables, and various condiment covered the table.
"What no lighted candles?" Hardcastle whispered over to Sarah as they sat at the table.
"I told him that I couldn't find them," answered Sarah. "It's the first real meal that he's ever made."
"Ta-da," said McCormick as he brought out meatloaf on a platter grinning like a proud father holding up his first born. He placed a large slice onto everyone's plate then joined them at the table.
"How is it?" he asked anxiously as he watched them chew the meatloaf.
As he chewed into the dry loaf, Hardcastle considered his response.
"It's delicious, Mark," Sarah said as she shot a look at Hardcastle and dared him to contradict her.
Hardcastle forcibly swallowed the meat and agreed. "Yeah. Not too bad, McCormick."
"Good," said the first time cook. "I was afraid it would be too dry."
"No, I like it like this," said the jurist.
As Sarah and McCormick described their day's adventure, for a moment domestic tranquility reigned throughout Gull's Way.
"There's just one thing I don't understand," said Hardcastle as McCormick and Sarah turned to him questioningly. "Who pulled my Corvette into the garage because I distinctly remember backing it in there last night?"
Forgetting how to chew, McCormick began to choke on the dry meatloaf.
THE END