So Long, Chester Wheeler(12)

“Leave me alone, Ellie.”

“It’s not Ellie,” I said through the door. “It’s me. Lewis. Can I open the door?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Now how can I take care of you if I don’t open the door?”

“I don’t care. I don’t need you here. Just go away and leave me on my own. I’ll call you if I’m dying.”

“I’m going to open the door now, Chester.”

“No. Do not open that door.”

I opened the door.

The room was dusty and depressingly dim. Everything had such a dank feel, and the air was so heavy that it was almost too thick to breathe. It felt weirdly like being underwater.

He was sitting in his wheelchair by the window, as though looking out. But he couldn’t possibly have been looking out, because the shades were drawn. That seemed odd. Then again, it was Chester Wheeler. Did I expect anything non-odd?

He looked at me and I looked at him. And for a moment, that’s all we did. Just looked at each other.

“You know that’s not the way it’s going to be,” I said. “I have to do things like come into your room.”

I could see his jaw working as he ground his molars together.

“I told you not to take the job,” he said, his voice a sandpaper growl.

“Do you do what other people tell you to do?” I asked.

It was the right question. Because he had no answer for it. No way to argue the point.

I heard Ellie’s voice behind me, so I stepped back and closed the door.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she was saying. “I took the liberty of making an appointment for this afternoon for a man to come out and install the intercom. It’ll be on all the time, so you can hear if he falls or goes into coughing spasms or whatever. You can fix it so he can’t hear everything you say and do, but you’ll have to have the guy show you how to work it so you still have your privacy. You’ll need to let him in over here and also over at your house.”

“Sure,” I said. “Fine.”

But of course it wasn’t fine. It was a live, real-time feed of Chester Wheeler, twenty-four hours a day, in my home. It wasn’t remotely fine.

On the other hand, it was what I had agreed to tolerate.

She stood in front of the door with a suitcase on either side of her, their wheels buried in all that ridiculous shag carpeting. She offered me a nervous, unbalanced smile.

“Let me help you with your bags,” I said.

“No. It’s fine. I’ve got them. Just promise me . . .”

But then she seemed unwilling or unable to finish.

“What?” I finally asked. “Go ahead and say it.”

“He’s going to give you a hard time. He’ll try to drive you away. But I need you to stay for at least the time you committed to stay. Otherwise I’ll have no other options.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I promise. I’ll be miserable. We both will. But I’ll stay till you can get back.”

She sighed out a breath that sounded as though it might have been held for hours, if not days.

Then she ran over, gave me a brisk hug, and towed her suitcases out the door, leaving me alone with the most horrible man on the planet. At least, in my own fairly limited experience. Still, I expected I could have knocked around in a few more places for a few more decades without anybody evicting Chester Wheeler from the top spot of honor.



I rummaged through the prescription medication bottles for a few minutes, lining them up and comparing them with Ellie’s written instructions.

She was right. It was confusing.

Just as I was getting it all sorted out in my head, I realized I didn’t have the answer to the most obvious, most important question of all: Had he already had his pills that morning?

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and called Ellie’s number.

When she answered, it was clear from the background noise that she was still driving.

“Lewis,” she said. “Can I call you back when I get to the airport?”

“Yeah. Sure. But it’s a really quick question. I just want to know if he’s had his morning meds.”

“He has. Sorry. I should have told you.”

“No problem. Thanks. No need to call back. That’s all I wanted to know.”

I hung up the phone and immediately heard Chester call out to me from his bedroom.

“I want a drink!” he shouted.

I walked to his bedroom doorway.

“I’ll get you a glass of apple juice,” I said.

His face contorted into a mask of contempt.

“No, a drink,” he spat. “A real drink. A man’s drink. Typical pansy—you don’t even know what a real man drinks. There’s whiskey in the cupboard.”

I took a deep breath and let the insult move through me. Or anyway, I tried. It stuck here and there going through. But I tried to focus right past it.

“I’m not sure if you’re allowed to drink whiskey,” I said.

“Ellie lets me drink whiskey.”

“Ellie told me you would swear up and down that she lets you do all kinds of things that she would never let you do.”

“I’m not a child!” he shouted. “People don’t let me do things. I should get to be in charge of my own life.”