No-Accounts: Dare Mighty Things. Tom Glenn
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Almost nine.
He tapped at 736. Silence. He went in. No lights. The stench stopped him.
“Martin.” Peter’s voice.
“I’m here.”
Martin dropped his briefcase on the chair by the desk and snapped on the lamp. Peter lay in the same damp pajamas.
“I was such a queen yesterday.”
Martin’s nostrils twitched. Most of the stink was coming from Peter himself. “Let me get you cleaned up.” He turned toward his briefcase.
“Would you fix something to eat first? There isn’t much.”
“Let me take a look.”
Martin turned on the floor lamp by the wing chair to make the room less ghostly. On the kitchen floor, in a pool of thick liquid, lay a half-eaten chunk of cheese. He sniffed. Vomit. He breathed through his mouth. The refrigerator was open. Yellow slime clung in strings to the chrome racks. He donned latex gloves and found half a loaf of bread on the second shelf. Moldy. The orange juice in a glass pitcher on the top shelf had separated. He closed the refrigerator. He’d get to it later. Prowling through the cabinets, he found a package of saltines, an unopened jar of pickles, and a box of salt. He went back to the living room. “Is there a grocery near here?”
“Safeway block and a half down Connecticut.”
“What’s your favorite dish?”
“Lobster with drawn butter. And a carton of Marlboros.”
“Try again,” Martin laughed. “Can’t afford lobster.”
“Hamburger patty on rice and a vegetable.”
“Is there any rice anywhere? Any frozen vegetables?”
Peter shook his head.
“I’m going to the Safeway,” Martin said.
He bought ground beef, frozen peas, and instant rice for tonight’s dinner; eggs, bacon, bread, orange juice, milk, and coffee for Peter’s breakfast; fresh carrots and apples for snacks; a room deodorant, bleach, germicide, and detergent. And a carton of Marlboros. He hurried back to the apartment. Peter hadn’t moved.
While Martin was putting away the groceries, Peter called from the living room. “Hope you’re going to fix something to eat.”
“As soon as I clean up and make room to cook.”
Martin refused to think about what he was facing. He put on fresh gloves and scrubbed vomit from the floor and refrigerator, cleared the sink and the stove, put water on to boil, and took the first load of garbage to the basement. When he came back, he poured rice into the boiling water, fried hamburger patties, and brought the peas to a boil.
As Peter sat in bed and wolfed down his dinner, Martin, praying Peter wouldn’t throw up again, washed dishes in steaming water spiked with bleach, cleaned out the refrigerator, and scoured its walls and shelves. He used disinfectant on the floor and counter tops. The astringent vapors defeated the putrid odor. Martin’s eyes watered, and his lungs smarted from the fumes. As he was finishing, Peter called from the living room.
“Martin, you mad at me?”
Martin stripped off the gloves. Poor Peter. Martin had been so intent on disinfecting that he’d barely spoken. He went to the living room. “No. Why?”
“You look mad.”
Martin laughed. “Guess I do. So much to do all at once. Tell you what. You need a shave. I’ll talk to you while I shave you.”
“Better wear gloves.”
Martin put on gloves, took off Peter’s pajama top, laid him on his back, and shaved him. He’d never shaved another man. He learned as he went. Peter kept up a stream of chatter. “There’s someone I want to visit. The mother of a friend of mine.”
“Hold your face still.”
“He died. I haven’t seen her or anything.”
“Stop talking.”
“I don’t even know where she lives.”
“Zip it, Peter. I can’t shave you when your face is moving.”
Peter frowned but shut up.
“Open your mouth,” Martin said. “Pull your chin way down. That’s right.” When he finished, he leaned back and folded his arms. “You look like a prince. Now we need to cut your hair.”
“Don’t you dare touch my hair.”
“I won’t, but you need a haircut.”
“I’m too sick to go to a hair salon.”
“Let’s get you into the tub.”
When Peter peeled off his wet pajamas and faltered into the bathroom, his naked body again brought memories of David to Martin’s mind—except that Peter’s bones were visible through his skin. He had little muscle left in his chest and arms. And unlike David, Peter’s body was etched with hair. It started at the base of his throat and ran like a long, sculpted shadow to his toes.
Martin lathered and rinsed him, drained the water, and refilled the tub. For good measure, he added bath salts from the medicine chest and left Peter to soak while he carried the rank pajamas, towels, and sheets to the laundry in the basement.
By midnight, Peter was in a clean bed drinking coffee and watching “The Dance Theater of Harlem” on television. Most of the laundry was done, the dishes were washed, the worst part of the cleaning in the kitchen was finished, and Martin could walk through the living room without stepping in something. The place reeked of bleach and air freshener. Martin poured himself a cup of coffee and dropped into the desk chair next to Peter’s bed.
“You’re a good man, Charlie Brown,” Peter said. “I’m ashamed.”
“Why, for God’s sake?”
“Because everything was such a mess. Including me.”
“You didn’t do it on purpose,” Martin said.
“I made it worse than it had to be. I didn’t call the clinic until I was desperate. Then I was embarrassed to call you after I acted like such a shit.”
“Forget it.”
Peter leaned forward. “There’s a cigar box in the top right drawer of the desk. It’s where I keep my money. How much is in it?”
In the box, Martin found a gold key, a hundred dollars in bills, a fistful of change, and an uncashed paycheck for seventy-eight dollars and forty-seven cents. “What are you living on, Peter?”
“I have a few weeks of sick pay left. Savings.” He laughed with a bitterness that took Martin off-guard. “I was saving to buy a subscription to the Kennedy Center dance series. Take whatever you spent for groceries. Go ahead. I’m not a charity case. Yet.”
“I didn’t consult you about what I bought. Didn’t pay much attention to what things cost. Besides, I ate dinner here.”
“Let me pay for your dinner. How much did you spend?”
“About twenty dollars,” Martin lied.
Peter grunted. “That was all?”
“I’d like to get you to the doctor, Peter.”
Peter grimaced and shrugged.
“Want me to make the appointment?” Martin said.
“I’ll do it.”
Martin rose. “I’ll be back in the morning to fix breakfast. Sleep late. You need the rest.”
Peter’s eyes were round. “I don’t know how to thank you, Martin.”
Martin checked him over one last time. He was clean