So Long, Chester Wheeler(10)

I opened my mouth to say, “Okay, I’ll think about it.” I swear I almost said it.

Then I closed my mouth again and said nothing at all.

We ate in relative silence for the rest of the meal.



When I got home, Ellie was sitting on my front porch steps. I had left the outside lights on for myself, and my headlights shone on her as I pulled into the driveway, so I was able to see her clearly. She looked frazzled. Harried. All the words one might use to describe an overworked housewife in a black-and-white 1950s television commercial. She looked like that exhausted mother with the strand of hair hanging down over her eyes, who you just knew would blow it upward and out of the way in an exaggerated and slightly cross-eyed gesture.

I didn’t bother putting my car in the garage. I just stepped out.

I looked down at her and she looked up at me, and I had this mental image of looking for a life preserver to throw to her.

“You look . . . ,” I began. But it was a hard sentence to finish while still being polite.

“My daughter is going into labor,” she said.

“Oh. I thought that was still a few days off.”

“Didn’t we all.”

“I guess it only matters what the baby thinks.”

“I guess.”

“How long will it take to get back to her? Can you drive?”

“Oh, no. I have to take a plane. And I couldn’t get a flight out until midmorning tomorrow. I still have no idea what to do about my dad. I was thinking, if you could just cover me for a handful of days. Just so I can be there with her. When the baby comes home from the hospital, and she’s a little more settled in, I’ll come back and look for somebody permanent.” She stuck on that final word. It felt as though we both did. “Long range, I guess I should say. Or at least a little more long range. I would double what I already offered you if you could cover him for a week. Any chance you could help me out?”

“Sure,” I said.

You know the old saying “You could have knocked me over with a feather”? You could have. But her, not me. Okay, maybe a little bit me, too.

Trouble was, I liked her. I liked her almost as much as I didn’t like her father.

She was still stumbling for words, so I added, “You don’t have to double anything. Just what you wrote down on the paper was fair.”

She leaped to her feet surprisingly fast, and without warning.

Next thing I knew she had me in her grasp. Her arms around my waist felt strong for such a small person. It was almost hard to draw a full breath. The top of her head barely came up to my shoulder.

“I don’t know what to say. Just . . . thank you. You won’t be sorry.”

Then we backed apart, and caught each other’s gaze—and both burst out laughing at exactly the same time. It was an odd moment for mirth, but what can I tell you? Life is odd.

“Oh, I think we both know I’ll be sorry,” I said.

“Okay, true. But . . . I promise I’ll pay you. What else can I say?”

“That’s all I really ask. What time do you leave for the airport?”

“About seven thirty. Any chance you can come by about seven? I know you’re not an early riser, but I need to show you everything. Well. I can’t show you everything. I’ll show you as much as I can. You’ll have to call me on my cell phone a lot at first. He’ll tell you things, and you need to check them with me. He’ll tell you, ‘Ellie lets me do this.’ But probably I don’t.”

“So he lies,” I said, and then wished I had phrased it more diplomatically.

“He likes things his own way.” She paused there in my driveway, staring down. As though she had lost something important in the half dark. Then she looked up, and I saw shame on her face. “Yes,” she said. “He lies.”

“Okay,” I said. “Thank you for the candor. I’ll see you at seven o’clock sharp.”

I watched her walk away in the dark for a moment.

Then I called out to her. “First grandchild?”

She stopped and turned, and in my porch light I could see her beaming.

“Why, yes!”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” she said. “You’re very kind.”

Then she walked back to Chester’s house, leaving me with a feeling that I had made someone very happy, even if I had made myself very unhappy in the process.





Chapter Four:




* * *





I Want a Drink

Chester Wheeler’s house was . . . how to say this kindly . . . frozen in time. That’s probably the highest compliment I could pay the place. It looked like a dim den used by someone who had given up on life decades ago. The more I followed Ellie around, glancing at everything in my peripheral vision, the more I came to accept that this was probably exactly the case.

The couch was this overstuffed royal blue affair with tufts of stuffing poking out near the seams at the edges of the cushions. It looked like something you’d see dragged out to the curb to sit beside the garbage cans on trash day. You might go over to take a look, because after all it was free, but when you got closer, you’d just keep walking. The carpet was 1970s shag. Yes, shag. No, I’m not kidding. I can’t say for a fact that it had been installed in the 1970s, but judging by its condition it was not out of the question.