So Long, Chester Wheeler(14)

He reached out to take it, but as soon as I let go I could tell it was too heavy for him. I grabbed at it again and helped him settle it onto his lap.

“I can do it,” he said.

“Fine. Knock yourself out.”

Somewhat nervously, I left him alone with the task.

I retreated to the cool living room, where I dialed Ellie a second time.

“Sorry to do this to you again,” I said. “Are you still driving?”

“No, I’m wheeling my bags over from the rental car desk.”

“Do you let him have a drink of whiskey?”

“One,” she said, her voice quite firm. “He can have one drink. He’s already a fall risk, and if he has much more than that it can open up a world of problems.”

“Got it,” I said. “Thanks.”

“So . . . ,” she began, “. . . is it . . . going okay so far?”

“I guess. I opened the curtains and I’m airing the house out a bit.”

“And he didn’t pitch a fit about that?”

“I told him if he’d stop complaining, I’d ask you about that drink.”

A brief silence, which I instinctively took as a bad sign.

“I think you’re better at this than you realize,” she said. “I think you’re going to do just fine.”

“One more question. Can I have a drink? I could use one right about now.”

“If he can have one, you can have one,” she said. “By the end of the day it might be all that’s keeping you sane.”



I made the glasses of whiskey stiff and tall, and wheeled him back into the living room. He looked more human and more comfortable now that he was clean shaven.

I parked his wheelchair next to the couch and handed him one of the glasses. I sat down on the ridiculous couch with the other.

“Now doesn’t that feel better?” I asked him, taking a long sip.

“Doesn’t what feel better?”

“A good shave.”

“What do I care if I’m shaved or not?”

I decided that my attempts at talking to him were not going to make things better for anybody. Then I wondered why I hadn’t known that all along.

He slammed down his whiskey in just a few long gulps. He belched, and held out the glass to me. I took it from him.

“I have to take a pee,” he said.

My heart fell.

“I’m not sure how we—”

“I don’t want you anywhere near me. I don’t want you looking or touching. I can do it. Just bring me the bedpan and go away. But when I have to take a dump, you’ll need to help me onto the can, and I’m not looking forward to that, believe me.”

“Neither am I,” I said. “Believe me.”



The intercom installer guy showed up around one o’clock.

Chester had closed himself into his bedroom as the result of an altercation we’d had regarding apple juice. You wouldn’t think two people could really get into it in any serious way over apple juice, but Chester and I had managed.

The short version goes a little something like this: Chester said I watered down his apple juice with water from the tap so it hardly tasted like anything at all. I said he was delusional. Spoiler alert: I knew who was right. I was. I was there when the apple juice was poured. I poured it right out of the bottle. Nothing was added. Case closed.

The installer guy had short-cropped hair and a blue work shirt with the name “Dean” embroidered over the pocket. He looked me up and down, apparently to see why I wasn’t Ellie. Then he asked straight out why I wasn’t. Not in so many words, but that was the gist of it.

I sighed and invited him in.

“She had to go home,” I said. “Her daughter is in labor. The bedroom is this way. You have to install one in Chester’s room. Then another in my house, next door.”

He followed me down the hall and I rapped on Chester’s closed door.

“I told you to go away and leave me alone!” he bellowed.

Dean jumped back a step.

“Gladly,” I said. “But this guy who installs intercoms needs to come in and do . . . you know. What he does.”

I opened the door.

Chester was sitting by the window, and he had managed to get the curtains closed again.

“I don’t want an intercom,” he said.

“It’s not really up for debate. Ellie’s orders.”

“I’ll tear it right back out of the wall.”

I looked at Dean and he returned a questioning gaze.

“Put it up nice and high,” I said.

“I don’t want that damn thing. I don’t want people snooping and spying on every word I say.”

“That makes no sense,” I told him.

“It makes perfect sense to want your privacy.”

“But during the day I’ll hear what you say anyway. This is for the night, when you’re here all alone. Unless you call for help or fall out of your wheelchair, there won’t be anything to hear. Why would you say any words at all if you’re home alone?”

Oddly, Chester never answered the question.

When Dean grew tired of waiting, he said, “I’ll put it up nice and high.”