So Long, Chester Wheeler(8)

Underneath that magic figure she had written her cell phone number.

I felt my resolve waver. I needed the money. Soon. Badly. A simple “yes” would solve everything.

Then I remembered Wheeler’s rude phone call earlier that morning. It snapped my resolve firmly back into position.

“He called me on the phone and told me not to take the job,” I said.

We stood a minute, and I watched her face fall.

“With all due respect,” she said, “it’s really not his decision. Not anymore.”

I shifted uncomfortably on my feet. My bare soles felt uncomfortable on the chilly concrete of my front stoop. It was uncomfortable to be wearing only a robe while talking to a clothed person. Every aspect of my life chafed in that moment. I was living in a sandpaper reality.

“Here’s what I don’t get,” I said. “You told me it was pretty much any sentient human being at this point. So why do you need me? I realize he’s alienated every professional in this town, but he couldn’t possibly have alienated every single job seeker in Buffalo. Somebody else out there will be desperate enough to take this on.”

“But we can’t afford to pay someone to live in,” she said. “You’re right next door.”

“Right. Come to think of it, I guess you mentioned that. But—”

“You could work ten hours doing what he needs and then go home, but if there was an emergency, you could get over as fast as if you were living in the spare bedroom. We could put in an intercom, or get him one of those alert things you hang around his neck that’s set to dial a certain number.”

“An intercom,” I said. “So that way he could tell me what he thinks of me in my own home at any hour of the day or night. As appealing as that sounds, I’m still going to pass. My sanity is still worth something to me.”

“I could go a little higher than the figure I just gave you. Please think it over for a day or two. That’s all I’m asking.”

I sighed. Which was too bad. It meant I was conceding at least that one small point to her.

“All right,” I said. “I’ll think about it. But I wouldn’t get your hopes up. I doubt my answer is going to change.”

She waved expansively, and, without further words, retreated from my front porch.

I went back inside and did not even attempt to get back to sleep.





Chapter Three:




* * *





What’s Wrong with That Man?

The following morning I sat at the breakfast table and drank two coffees with that fancy, sweet toffee-flavored creamer. All the while, as I drank them, I stared at that paper with the numbers on it.

I could feel myself going back and forth in my brain as to whether I should even think more about it. Whether I even wanted to ask more questions.

When I had rinsed my mug in the sink, I decided questions couldn’t hurt me. Chester Wheeler could, but asking about him was safe enough.

I had planned to get dressed and walk over, but then I decided I wanted to minimize my chances of seeing or hearing from the man in any way. Which, really, when you think about it, should have been my answer right there.

I carried my phone to the window and stood there, pulling back the curtain slightly and staring at the dreaded Wheeler household. Then I dialed the number I’d been given.

She picked up on the first ring, which was a bit startling.

“Mr. Madigan?” She sounded breathless, as if she’d been waiting for a call about a missing loved one while the sheriff dragged the river for bodies.

“Calling me Lewis is fine,” I said. “I’m sorry. I never got your name.”

“It’s Ellie. Don’t worry about that. I’m just so happy you called. You must have thought more about it.”

“Don’t be too happy,” I said. “Don’t read too much into it. I just wanted to ask a question.”

“I’m just happy you even have a question. Go right ahead.”

“What’s wrong with him, anyway?”

A little blunt, granted. But it needed to be asked.

She sighed out a bit of irritation that I hadn’t expected.

“Now how can I answer a question like that? Who can ever answer a question like that one about anybody? He just . . . is what he is. He’s what he’s been as long as I’ve known him. Everybody is—”

I interrupted as gently as possible.

“Wait. Please. You misunderstood the question. Maybe I wasn’t clear. I meant what’s wrong with him physically? What’s happening with his health that he’s in a wheelchair and needs nearly full-time care?”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I thought you knew. Cancer.”

“Of . . . ?”

“I’m not sure I understand the question,” she said.

I was startled to see her face appear in the window next door. She had come to the window on the side facing my house and pulled back the curtain. Suddenly we were looking right at each other, albeit from some distance. It felt like we were bookends, or some kind of mirror image of each other. I had not been expecting that feeling.

She waved with mostly just her fingers, and I awkwardly returned the gesture.

“I guess what I meant to say,” I began, “is that cancer tends to choose a part of the body. So I was just asking . . . you know . . . cancer of the what?”