Synopsis: Willie meets the other house guest at Collinwood. Maybe Roger was right; they should install a revolving door.


Christmas was last Tuesday, which meant Willie had missed a Collinwood visit—and laundry day. As a result, he eagerly anticipated his Friday appointment. As he drove down to the fork in the road and up the other side, the servant wondered what was shaking at the Great House. Had Barnabas really killed the annoying lady last night, and would the cops be there now? Willie hoped not, because last time there was trouble brewing, Mrs. Johnson had shooed him away without his shower or hot meal.

There was no sign of the law when the young man passed the front entrance and rounded the driveway to the service area; everything seemed typical of a quiet winter day. The only thing amiss was that Mrs. Johnson didn't answer the door; it was her son, the errant parolee.

"What do you want?" the sullen man snapped when he realized that Willie was not the delivery boy.

"Is Mrs. Johnson around? I d-do work for her sometimes." Willie wasn't sure how else to describe their arrangement.

"Oh, you're the handyman," Harry sneered. "Yeah, well, they don't need you anymore, so shove off." He shut the door in Willie's face.

The young man stood on the steps, crestfallen. He suspected this was going to happen when he spotted the housekeeper's son at the church service on Christmas Eve. Harry must have recently been released from prison, and needed gainful employment. The displaced worker turned to leave.

The door opened a second time and Mrs. Johnson appeared. "Don't you mind him now. Come on in and have lunch with us."

Willie wasn't sure which he wanted more: to enter and eat, or say screw you and leave. Hunger triumphed and he acquiesced. The housekeeper motioned him to sit in the kitchen and introduced her son, who was slouched over the table, his head buried in a newspaper. He was a rat-faced man in his early thirties with hair the color of dishwater and a personality only a mother could love.

Mrs. Johnson served her visitor a bowl of homemade navy bean and ham soup with a glass of milk. He said nothing, but was somewhat disappointed; after all, beans and soup were his mainstays at home—anything that came in a can, really. Foodstuffs in soft packages were always subject to rodent invasion. Nevertheless, the soup was hot, and served with fresh bread and butter, and that was definitely a treat.

"Don't you worry, there's still plenty of work to do around here," Mrs. Johnson said, then looked at the handyman dubiously. "Although I don't know what you think you can do 'till that mends." Willie filled his mouth with bread to avoid answering the question. "You're certainly not operating a chainsaw with a cast on your arm, and we could use some firewood. I've asked Harry—Harry, I asked you yesterday and today, to help out a little. Since Mrs. Stoddard is letting you stay here, the least—"

"I told you, Ma, there's no way I'm workin' outside in this weather, and I don't know how to chop wood. I'm lookin' for a real job, can't ya see?" He pointed to the classified ad section of his Collinsport Star.

"I'd just as soon have you here, where I can keep an eye on you." She returned to her food preparation. "You shouldn't be so fussy. Look at Willie; he's happy to do all the chores I give him; when he's able, that is. Maybe he can teach you how to use the saw and some other tools."

Harry looked arrogantly over the top of his periodical at the younger man. "I don't think so."

"There's other stuff I can do 'till my hand gets better," Willie piped up. He realized that sounded like a suck up, but he had such a sweet deal here, and was desperate to keep it going.

"I can't imagine what." Mrs. Johnson shook her head. "You're not about to wash dishes, or polish silver, or peel potatoes or even fold laundry; and there's no letting you into the main part of the house. After that to-do with Mr. McGuire, you would not be a welcome sight, I can tell you that."

Old Jason would have been laughing his ass off right now, at the thought of Willie Loomis begging for work—and not even for cold cash, just a little food, some hot water and clean clothes. The servant scanned the room; there had to be something he could do. It was only one stupid little finger. Then his face lit up. "I can wash the floor—maybe not with a mop, but what about a bucket and scrub brush? That's how I do it at the Old House."

"Are you saying my floor doesn't look clean?" Mrs. Johnson retorted. Harry barked a plosive laugh behind his newspaper.

"No, ma'am," replied Willie, deflated.

"Useless, both of you," The housekeeper tutted as she continued to fix lunch for her employers. Willie kept his head down but Mrs. Johnson's irritation quickly passed.

"I'm hoping my Harry will be the chauffeur for Mrs. Stoddard. You know the missus doesn't drive—well, she hardly needed to before now. Funny how the woman never took a step off this property in all those years, and now she goes everywhere. And I don't mean shopping and tea parties; in one week Mrs. Stoddard is heading more committees and charities than anybody I know; plus she goes in to the office at the cannery almost every day. And it all happened because of your Mr. McGuire." Mrs. Johnson had hit her stride now. When it came to gossip, she was a champion racehorse.

"Do you know what that scoundrel did? Threatened to tell the authorities that she killed her husband eighteen years ago, and that he had buried the man in our basement. And this is a doozy: it was all a big lie. All that time she was innocent—Paul Stoddard, still very much alive, is off gallivanting somewhere, and here this criminal is taking her money, almost got her to marry him! I can't imagine how the poor lady survived it." She snorted derisively. "Well, he got his comeuppance, I'm glad to say. I bet that's the last we see of him; good riddance to bad rubbish."

"Ma, shut up," Harry groaned.

Willie was stunned. He knew his former partner had been blackmailing the mistress of Collinwood, but Jason would never divulge details. Four months ago, he would have slapped the Irishman on the back and commended his ingenuity. Now he felt oddly troubled for Mrs. Stoddard and her whole family, whose lives had been ruined by the man he had once admired.

And that wasn't like Willie. He and McGuire, in their day, had ripped off and scammed more suckers than he could count. He never once gave a thought to the victims of those crimes or the repercussions of his actions; Stupid, rich sons of bitches deserved what they got.

As it turned out, Willie had gotten his comeuppance too, but not like Jason. Now Mr. McGuire was buried in a basement, instead of Paul Stoddard. That was (another dictionary word) ironic.

"You're quiet today, Willie."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Once again, I had to prepare a whole separate lunch for Ms. Hoffman, because she doesn't eat pork products. I don't see why not, this is perfectly good ham. Well, if you ask me, that's why she's so skinny; a person should have some meat on their bones, I say."

So Ms. Hoffman was still alive. Of course, Willie had surmised this because, had the woman been found dead in her bed that morning, the subject certainly would have come up in conversation.

Mrs. Johnson loaded her tea cart. "Well, luncheon is served in the main dining room. I'll be back in a few minutes; now, you boys behave."

"Yes, ma'am." Willie held the door open as she pushed the trolley through.

"Yes, ma'am. No, ma'am. Gimme a fuckin' break." Willie had a feeling that he and Harry were not going to be good pals. "Listen up, you little punk. I'm livin' in the men's servant quarters now, and if you think I'm sharin' the bathroom with you, faggot, you are dead wrong."

Willie sighed. He had just been called a punk and a faggot in the same breath; both were prison talk for an invitation to battle. He remained standing near the door, silently evaluating the other man.

"So you work for the other Collins, the crazy one," Harry continued. "I bet you make him a fine bitch."

Again Willie did not take the bait. Being in the Collinwood kitchen, and with one arm in a sling, he had little choice. "His name is Barnabas," the young man responded with a polite smile. "I hope you meet him soon."

"Looks like he got rough with you," the other smirked, looking at Willie's cast. "I bet you like that."

"Nah, got this in a fight." The handyman shook his head. "I gotta watch my temper. Ya see, I punched the guy's teeth in, that was fine, but then I broke my finger when I smashed his nose. I feel real bad about that; his jaw's all wired shut now."

Willie observed as a look of uncertainty crossed Harry's face; he was sizing up the hoodlum.

So, Harry, you wanna know if I'm tough? This one-handed, shanty Irish bastard will kick you in the nuts so hard you won't be able to walk straight for a week.

"Heard you did a stretch," Willie changed the subject, reseating himself at the kitchen table. "Where was that?"

"Maine State at Thomaston—breaking and entering." The ex-con sounded proud.

"I was at Sampson, North Carolina."

"Yeah? What for?"

"Second degree murder." Willie shook his head and looked embarrassed. "It was all a mistake—my goddamn temper again…"

Willie was still a con man when he wanted to be. The grifter could still look someone directly in the eye and tell a bald-faced lie without even blinking—to anyone except Barnabas. And he felt no compunctions about bullshitting this thug. After all, being sent up for credit card fraud wasn't going to impress him, nor was being bullied with a hammer by his former friend.

"So…" Now it was Harry's turn to change the subject. "Wanna buy some weed? Crank? Ludes?"

"No, thanks, I'm good for now." Willie thoughtfully scratched his head. "You're new in town, so I'll tell ya, I'm tight with the local dealer here, and if that badass finds out you're posin' in his territory, he will rip off your dick and shove it down your throat; thought you should know."

Harry swallowed. "Why would he find out?" he asked warily.

"I dunno," Willie shrugged. "I got no reason to tell him, right?" He rose and put his dishes in the sink. "Wish I could sit here and chat all day, but there's work to do, so listen: I'm gonna go take a long, hot shower, which, by the way, I do ev'ry Tuesday and Friday. I really look forward to those showers and a little me time, know what I mean? So, I'd appreciate it if you were somewhere else when that happens…I know, you could do some stuff to help out your mom. I'd like that."

With that, Willie retired to the men's servant quarters.