Chapter 50

"Warming the House"

I'M SITTING IN MY LITTERED LIVING ROOM IN THE "SYLVESTER HOUSE".

IT'S BEEN A FEW DAYS SINCE MY FURNITURE WAS DELIVERED, AND THE PAINTING CREW ARRIVED, BUT I'M STILL IN RESIDENCE AT THE WATSON INN. THERE'S NOT ENOUGH STUFF PUT AWAY OVER HERE YET TO LET ME FEEL SAFE OR COMFORTABLE LIVING ON MY OWN. THE BEDROOM IS SET UP THE WAY I WANT IT, BUT THAT'S ALL. AND THAT'S ONLY BECAUSE THE GUYS IN THE DELIVERY VAN SET IT UP FOR ME. THE BED IS MADE, AND I GOT SOME OF MY CLOTHING STASHED AWAY IN THE CLOSET AND DRESSERS. MY CRUTCHES ARE LEANING AGAINST THE WALL BESIDE THE BED, BECAUSE I'VE BEEN USING THE WHEELCHAIR TO MANEUVER THROUGH THE ROOMS WHILE I DECIDE HOW I WANT TO ARRANGE EVERYTHING THEY DIDN'T HAVE TIME FOR.

WHEN THE PAINTERS FINISHED WITH THE OUTSIDE OF THE BUILDING, THEY TOLD ME THEY WOULD COME INSIDE TO DO MY LIVING ROOM, BEDROOM, HALLWAY AND KITCHEN. ALL I HAD TO DO WAS LET THEM KNOW WHAT COLORS I PREFERRED. COOL! I CHOSE SAGE GREEN FOR THE LIVING ROOM (BETTER THAN THE BABY-VOMIT SHADE THAT WAS IN IT WHEN I FIRST GOT HERE.) YELLOW FOR THE KITCHEN; SOMETHING UP BEAT. AND FOR MY BEDROOM, I CHOSE LIGHT GREY WITH WHITE TRIM … RESTFUL AND SOOTHING. WHEN MY LEG GOT LOPPED OFF, I WOULD NEED SOMETHING CALMING. I ASKED THAT THEY PAINT ALL THE INTERIOR WOODWORK BRIGHT WHITE ENAMEL, JUST LIKE THE WINDOW CASINGS OUTSIDE. I'D SEEN THE WORK THEY DID OUT THERE, AND IT LOOKS GREAT.

WHEN THEY FINISHED MY APARTMENT, I WOULD HIRE THEM AGAIN AND ASK THE OTHER TENANTS IF THEY WOULD LIKE THEIR PLACES PAINTED AS WELL. (I WOULD TELL THEM I WAS ASKING ON BEHALF OF MISTER PERRY FROM THE BANK ...)

I SIT IN THE WHEELCHAIR WITH A NOTEBOOK FULL OF LISTS IN MY LAP. IF I WANT TO REMEMBER WHAT NEEDS TO BE DONE AROUND THIS PLACE, I MAKE SURE TO WRITE IT DOWN. OTHERWISE I FORGET STUFF TEN MINUTES AFTER I THINK OF IT. ADVANCING AGE IS A PAIN IN THE ASS. WHEN I USE THE CRUTCHES, I CAN'T CARRY STUFF AROUND WITH ME, AND THE LISTS GET MISPLACED. WITH THE WHEELCHAIR I CAN PUT STUFF IN MY LAP AND KEEP TRACK OF IT. WORKS FOR ME. MAYBE WHEN I HAVE ONE OF THE TEAM'S HI-TECH PROSTHESES AND LEARN TO USE IT, I WILL BE ABLE TO WALK ALMOST LIKE A NORMAL HUMAN BEING AND CARRY STUFF IN BOTH HANDS. I SURE HOPE SO.

I'm slowly becoming used to the layout of this place, and I want it to be exactly right for my unique circumstances: easy to maneuver through. No crutch tips or wheelchair wheels catching on doorframes or anything else to toss me on my ass or into the wall. I need it to be super-convenient, whether I'm using crutches or wheelchair. I can't limp around in my bare feet, minus the cane, like I used to do on Baker Street. Those days are long gone.

I'm still without a couch and haven't taken time to visit someplace where they sell them. I wish sometimes that I hadn't got rid of the old leather monstrosity I had before, but it was really shot. I remember the time I dunked Wilson's hand into a pot of lukewarm water and stood back to watch the leakage. Nope, it had been high time for the old junker to bite the dust.

I miss flopping down with a bag of Bar-B-Q chips and a beer, with the remote in my hand … channel surfing as a distraction. I'm a creature of habit, and when I'm not in rhythm with familiar surroundings; all the missing details throw things out of perspective. I've been without that too long, and I need to get it back.

Which brings me to the point that I don't have a TV either. Can't let that one go much longer, 'cause me without a TV is like a frog with no hopper. I always used my TV as a focus point when I'm trying to take my mind off my damn leg.

So here I sit, on the Eames chair, in the living room near the spot where I want the couch to be. I'm between chores now, and getting hungry. It's past noon and my leg hurts as it usually does when the machinery in my head is running on 'idle'. I look around me, thinking about the exact spot where I'll place the couch, once I find one that suits.

The black woven-leather lounge is beside the window, flanked by a floor lamp. I'm not sure if it will work in here at all. I can see myself tripping over the lamp, and the ugly damn chair sticks out into the room too far and doesn't look right anyplace else. I don't know what the hell I was thinking when I kept it. I'm also thinking that a recliner would work a lot better … one of the electric ones … push the button and down she goes. Push it again, and you ride it back to the top. The couch will be across from the front door; same spot as the one in Princeton. Might as well stay with what works. Maybe I'll find an electric one of those too ... might as well invest in the good stuff. I'm going to put the Eames chair in my bedroom eventually. It's kind of an odd design and of an age that reminds me of the era when I was born. My big bed won't mind sharing space with that chair.

I can't do any cooking until I get the pots and pans and dishes and silverware and other shit unpacked, and take a trip to the grocery store. The moving guys put away all the jars and bottles and canned stuff, but I still haven't found the coffee pot. Or the can opener. Or the toaster. I don't know if I even have any coffee. Right now the kitchen is stacked with boxes from Baker Street, and I can't even get in there because the damn butcher block table is in the way and the wheelchair won't fit through. Putting stuff where it belongs out there is going to be a three-ring circus. I'd break my fucking neck if I tried moving it on crutches …

I switched from wheelchair to crutches to walk across the street. I locked my door and turned off the lights. I wasn't sure if I had the stamina to get anymore scut-work done today. Probably not.

Vern saw me coming from his perch behind the front desk, and when I heaved across the veranda, he held the door open for me. I swung into the lobby and thanked him for the assist. Two seconds later, Lily approached from the kitchen and walked up beside me, accompanying me to my usual booth. I stole a glance over to Vern and rolled my eyes. He grinned and shrugged, and I followed Lily … no use trying to fight the advance of the little army of one …

She had dug an old milking stool out of the back room when I first arrived here; cleaned it and shined it up until it looked almost new. She found a small round pillow at a flea market somewhere, and made a cover for it that she Velcroed fast to the wooden seat. I now had a place to prop up my leg when I ate meals in the restaurant. When she gave it to me with a smile and a wink, I had been appropriately self conscious. When I thanked her and planted a smooch on the top of her head, I knew my face was burning with embarrassment … which in turn made her giggle. I've used that stool ever since, though, and I do have to admit, it helps keep my foot from hanging down and thumping with pain.

It has become kind of a tradition that when I stop by Lily's restaurant for lunch, she chooses from the menu for me. Once I learned that she always got things just right, I let the ritual go on and did not protest. Today she brought me clam chowder and a hot meatloaf sandwich with horseradish sauce, and a side of chunky cinnamon applesauce. The coffee, as usual, was hot and delicious, and I scarfed it up as soon as it was cooled enough that it didn't burn holes in my esophagus.

When I finished, I refused dessert, because I was 'full to slopping over'. (Lily's definition ...)

I went back to my room and sprawled on the bed. I ignored all the other pills in my cache and quickly swallowed a Vicodin dry. Like the old days. I slipped a pillow beneath my knee and waited for sleep to claim me.

I have an appointment with Ed Thoreau Monday morning, and I'm supposed to meet the other two members of his surgical team. I know what that means. I'm going to be evaluated exhaustively for the final fate of my leg.

I'm scared out of my mind and not looking forward to hearing the final diagnosis. Staying on the move and keeping active helps keep my mind off it. At least sometimes. Admitting that I'm scared is not a thing I would ever say out loud to another human being. Not even Wilson. Not Thoreau; not anybody. If I say I'm scared out loud, it will make it true, and I'm not ready.

As a doctor, I'm not much use anymore. I know that. But my pain keeps me centered in reality. As long as I have two legs, I remain a whole man. Stupid way to think, I know. To be defined only by my disability is an indication there is something really wrong inside my head. But what is … is.

There's only one thing I know of that might open up other avenues. But I threw that one away when I needed it most. He hasn't shown up yet. I have to admit to the possibility that he never will …

I lay here wandering through all the crap that churns around inside my mind; deducing and denying, speculating and self-diagnosing and contemplating. Sleep finally crept up and carried me away. The room is warm; the bed, comfortable.

It was early evening when I finally woke up and took notice of my surroundings again.

I went into the bathroom and sat in a tub of very hot water. Then I used the overhead bar to pull myself up. I toweled off and stood at the sink naked. I shaved and clipped and trimmed until I was satisfied with the small Van Dyke that shaded the lower part of my face. I fashioned a thin mustache with the new beard trimmer.

When it was finished, I turned left and right, surveying the finished product. It would do. Nothing to write home about. It showed all the shadowy lines on my face that ended in sharp angles, attesting to the huge amount of weight I had lost since my leg went south. My hair was grayer. Kind of shaggy … covering the tips of my ears. If I were a Vulcan or a Romulan, nobody would know.

*C'est la vie ...*

I crutched back into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. My leg still ached from hip to toes, and I reached for the meds again.

I got dressed in soft clothing. Gray sweatshirt, gray sweatpants, gray socks and my sneaker on the left foot. I maneuvered to 'my' booth in the restaurant and slid into it. Lily's shift was over and she had gone home. Jake was in charge of the kitchen and it wasn't long before he strode out the doorway and arrived beside my table. In his hand was the milking stool with its cushion. He knelt beside me and gently lifted my foot onto it. He hung my crutches on the hook Lily had had installed on the outside of my booth and sat down across from me.

"What'll it be, Kyle? There's ham loaf, pork and sauerkraut, or sirloin tips on the menu tonight. What can I get you besides your usual coffee?"

"Sirloin tips sounds great, Jake. Medium rare. Surprise me with the sides. I'm not picky."

He nodded. "Comin' right up. How's it going with the apartment? Do you need any help?"

I looked at him and knew right away that what he wanted to know was 'how is the crippled guy going to be able to get all the grunt work done in a new apartment?'

"It's slow," I answered truthfully. "But if I do it a little at a time and don't try to rush it, it'll get there sooner or later. Most of it is emptying boxes and putting stuff away. Thanks for asking."

"Okay," he said. "Just wondered. If you need help, holler."

"I'll do that. Thank you."

He nodded. "Your dinner will be out directly …" He got up and hurried back toward the kitchen.

I sat at the table and stared out the window. Street lights were on and for the most part the little town was empty of traffic. Residents were heading home from whatever adventures had engaged them earlier this evening.

Nights were colder now, and I was becoming aware that I would soon find out what it was like to winter in New England. Also, I was going to be the person responsible for the comfort and well-being of my tenants … how weird to call people I had never met: "my tenants". Would I need to go to them one at a time and knock on their doors … introduce myself? Probably not. I'd told Bill Perry to let them continue to pay their rents to the bank. I would just be another tenant, Bill had said, unless at some point I decided otherwise. It would require further thought.

I had never done anything so completely out of my milieu as this before. How many doctors are also landlords? Some, I supposed. I was allowing second thoughts to cloud my vision of buying the Sylvester House and renovating it and maybe making a difference in the neighborhood.

*C'mon House … don't be getting cold feet now. You wanted to be a better person, so BE one!"

One of the teeny bopper waitresses who worked evenings and weekends arrived with my dinner, and I interrupted my woolgathering to smile at her. Her name tag said "Jennifer", and she took great pains to arrange my plates, silver, water glass and coffee mug just right. "How are you doing tonight, Mr. Calloway?"

I was tempted to growl, "I'm fine". But I didn't. Instead I said: "I'm good. How are you?"

"Been a long day; otherwise okay. Enjoy your dinner. I'll check back with you later."

I nodded and picked up my silverware. She smiled and left. Later, I saw her talking to Jake, and twice they glanced in my direction. I pretended not to notice, but couldn't help wondering ... *What-the-hell now?*

The sirloin tips were melt-in-your-mouth delicious; smothered in gravy and mushrooms and onions, and a pile of mashed potatoes. There was broccoli, chewy but tender, and dinner rolls, warm and soft and yummy. And cole slaw, one of my favorites.

When I finished, I paid Jake with a couple of twenties and left a ten beneath my plate for Jennifer. Jake removed the stool after lifting my foot off it, and Jennifer handed me my crutches. I bid them a good night and went back to my room. The bed was freshly made; there was a laundry basket with my clean clothes, and the dirty stuff I'd left strewn on the floor and furniture, was all gone.

There was a glass of brandy on the table by the window. I smiled and shook my head. Vern's orders, no doubt.

Somehow I seemed to be attracting friends around here without knowing how I'd done it. Did they just feel sorry for the cripple? Or had I actually been doing something right? I honest-to-god didn't know and couldn't seem to figure it out … but it felt damn nice.

I went to bed in the sweat suit and laid there staring at the ceiling awhile, wondering where in hell my life might possibly be heading in this magical place. Had I made a wise choice, or was I just kidding myself by walking along a path of mystery among strangers? Nothing came to mind, but at least the ghosts that haunted me at first, were no longer there.

At times like this, in the painful moments of doubt, I always think of Wilson and wish he was here to talk to … bounce my doubts and ideas and questions off his agile, caring mind. But he wasn't … and I really needed to get my head around that.

My leg began to hurt. I took another pill and tried to settle down.

I was up at 8:00 a.m. I sat on the edge of the bed rubbing my damn leg for ten minutes before I dared get up and attempt to walk. I hit the head then; washed my hands and brushed my teeth. I came back and carefully changed into jeans.

When I put on my jacket and walked out front, Lily was waiting. I told her I didn't want breakfast because I'd made a pig of myself last night, and it was all Jake's fault.

She looked at me a little funny, but didn't comment at first. When I waved to Vern and headed toward the front door, she held it open for me, and asked very softly: "Kyle … does your leg hurt you?"

*Yes, Lily dear, it always hurts.*

"It's fine, Lily. Thank you. I'll be over at the apartment putting some things away."

She nodded and retreated. "Be careful, Kyle …"

I was sitting in the wheelchair, in the doorway between kitchen and living room, wracking my brain trying to figure a way to move the damn butcher-block table out of the way so I could maneuver enough to finish stocking the kitchen. The damned thing must weigh two-hundred pounds, and there was no way I could swing it around to position it in the middle of the floor where it would be useful rather than a pain in the ass. I also needed the ugly back lounge chair to disappear somewhere. It didn't fit in, and the bottom of it stuck out into the area where I needed to maneuver the crutches and wheelchair. It was a safety hazard where it was.

I had pretty much of the stuff in boxes put away and placed on shelves and in drawers. But I needed to do the kitchen, dammit. I wanted to find my coffee pot and brew some coffee … if I could find some coffee.

I stared at the impenetrable barrier, feeling frustrated and pissed off.

*Why didn't somebody move the damn table out of the way of the door? The delivery guys were in here, and a crew of painters, and nobody shoved the freaking table out of the way. They just didn't think about it, I guess. All they had to do was pull their bellies in and slide through the opening. No thought that somebody in a wheelchair or on crutches couldn't do that …*

I said "SHIT!" out loud.

Then somebody hammered loudly at the front door.

"Just a minute!" I whirled the chair around angrily and went to answer it.

Bill Perry stood there in sweatshirt and jeans. Jake and Jerry crowded close behind him, and Jake was carrying a shop vac. Lily, in yellow pants and sweater, had buckets and sponges. A man whose name I didn't even know had a broom and a mop. Ed Thoreau's dad and his wife Nora were smiling at me over a carton of shelf paper. Two of the teeny bopper part-time waitresses from the restaurant were there in jeans and sweatshirts, and Vern stood in the middle of them all, looking stuffy and smug.

I rolled backwards, my jaw dropping to my chest.

"Welcome to the neighborhood, stranger," Art Thoreau said with a huge grin on his face. "We understand you could use some help getting this place in order …"

All my doubts disappeared. I smiled, shook my head and invited them in.

I'd come home.

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