Cheapskate in Love

chapter 11





Later on that evening around seven, after Helen had neatly stored away Bill’s now clean clothes in his closets and dresser, she brought bags of food supplies and the necessary cooking utensils to his apartment from hers to make chicken soup. She thought the soup would do him some good, when he woke up. While she chopped vegetables and cooked the meal, he continued to sleep and snore and didn’t appear to be any nearer to rising. She had worked hard cleaning his apartment and couldn’t postpone her dinner, so when the soup was ready, she sat down at the dining table and ate. It had been many, many years since a dinner had been eaten at that table.

The aroma of well-made chicken soup filled the apartment. It was the finest smell of food to ever originate in that space since Bill had lived there, and he was drawn from unconsciousness by the delicious odor. His raucous snoring subsided to the quiet rise and fall of normal breathing. He was no longer sleeping, but he lay still with his eyes shut, sniffing like someone who lies in a meadow during spring, when wildflowers are blooming, and the air is rich with the scent of life and growing things. In his semi-conscious state, he associated the smell with Linda, who was an excellent cook, although she mostly made stir-fries. He could distinguish the sounds of someone in his apartment, and in his drowsiness he could not think of who else might be there. He opened his eyes. That was one of the few parts of his body that he could move easily and the only part he dared to move at the moment, so he lay looking blearily at the ceiling.

“Linda, is that you?” he asked, in the smoothest voice his injured state allowed, hoping without any justification that she had come to look after him. In his poorly functioning brain, he thought that maybe his injury had triggered a delayed compassion on her part.

“Bill, you’re awake,” Helen said in surprise. She quickly left the table and went to him. “How are you feeling?”

He did not feel grateful. Immediately, he knew who was talking to him. He now became fully alert. “You’re still here?” he grumbled nastily. “I said you could go.”

“How could I leave you all alone, when you’re paralyzed? I couldn’t leave a dog or cat alone in your condition.” Helen spoke to him firmly yet gently, like a nurse tending to a crotchety, old man, which Bill was well on his way to becoming.

“I’m not paralyzed,” he argued. “I can get up. There’s nothing wrong with me. I don’t need any babysitter. I’ll show you.” With an abundance of grunting, groaning, and gritting his teeth, Bill slowly succeeded in raising himself into a sitting position in bed. The codeine had made it possible for him to sit up, but movement was still painful, and he was sweating in agony from the exertion. “See. I’m fine,” he rasped.

Helen could contain her laughter, but not her smiling. “Would you like to join me for dinner then?” she asked. “I’ll set a place on the table for you. While you were sleeping, I did a little cleaning, and there’s room now to eat.”

She went to the kitchen to fetch another place setting for Bill, and he looked at the table. He couldn’t believe it was empty of everything except Helen’s dishes. It appeared to be a mirage to him. He had to confirm with his hands that the mound of clutter had been removed.

With a vigorous sweep of his left arm, he threw off the bedspread and top sheet, and swung his legs over the side of the bed, as quickly as he could. He was about to push himself into a standing position, when Helen came from the kitchen, which was an enclosed space near the entrance to the apartment, and he realized he was not wearing any shoes, socks, or pants. Rapidly, he whipped the bed sheet back over his lower half. “What happened to my pants?” he exclaimed in surprise. He knew he had been wearing pants.

“Oh, I washed them,” she said, as she set a place for him on the table. She didn’t think a man without pants, especially a man her age, a shocking novelty. She barely glanced at Bill in his boxer shorts and didn’t understand why he appeared to be so agitated. A long, happy married life does away with such prudery.

“How did you do that?” he asked in exasperation.

“With a washing machine,” she said matter-of-factly, “although I had to pre-scrub the dirt stains first. You went for some hike yesterday.”

“How did my pants come off?” he insisted.

“Oh, I took them off. Give me that shirt now. I wanted to cut it off while you slept. It’s so filthy. But I thought you would complain if I did that. I’ll take your underwear now, too.” Helen walked toward Bill to help him take off the last of his clothes.

“No! Stay away!” he yelled. “You will not take my underwear. Don’t come near me. How can you barge into my apartment and take off my pants? Just like that? Without asking?”

“How else could I wash them? You were asleep.”

“Who asked you to wash them?” he replied. “Who asked you clean off the dining table?”

“I cleaned the kitchen, the bathroom, every part of your apartment. The floor in this place was black with grime. It must have been years since this place was totally cleaned.”

“Who asked you to?” he huffed accusingly. “Who wanted you to come in here and do anything? Did I ask you? Did I tell you to make dinner?”

“Is somebody else going to do it?”

“That’s none of your business,” Bill spluttered with as much force as he could. “You have no right to be here, acting as if you own the place. You don’t own the place. I do.”

“You’re a renter.”

“I pay the rent,” he snapped.

Helen thought that this conversation was ridiculous, but she smothered her smiles. She could see that he was obviously in a bad mood, because of the pain he suffered. She thought that the quickest way to bring him around to some common sense was to ask, “Would you like me to leave?”

“Yes,” he affirmed loudly without hesitation.

She went to collect her belongings, including the soup. While she was making preparations to go, Bill thought about what her leaving meant. The sound of the lid being slammed on the soup kettle helped facilitate his reflections, as she intended. In a more ingratiating voice than he had previously used, he said, “Wait a minute. You can go as soon as you bring me my food. Since I don’t have any pants on, I have to stay here.”

She could have replied it wouldn’t matter what he had on or off, once she left, and he could eat whatever he pleased, except for her soup, but she was not a spiteful person. She had come to help him, and even if he was irritable and selfish, she would do what she could for him. However, she was going to have her way a little, too. “Certainly,” she replied. “And if you don’t mind, I’d like to eat dinner here, too, while it’s still warm. Is that all right with you?”

As much as he didn’t want to, he saw that he had to agree, if he wanted dinner. “This time. Never again.”

“I don’t know how you’re going to eat after tonight, you can barely move,” she answered. She pulled out a tray from a kitchen cabinet to put his dinner on.

“Don’t worry about me,” he grumbled. “I can manage.” From the kitchen, she heard him moaning and groaning, as he moved to sit in the bed with his back against the headboard.

“Are you OK?” she asked, coming out of the kitchen. “You sound as if you were in a serious car accident. I think you should see a doctor.”

“All I want is my dinner,” he shot back. “Then you can go. I’m fine. I don’t want any more medical advice.”

You need more than advice, she thought to herself, going back into the kitchen. You need a good kick in the rear. But she said nothing to him. He had put her in a bad mood, too.

Soon she brought him a tray of food. They ate in silence, she at the table and he in bed. They were so annoyed with each other that they tried to look anywhere in the apartment, except at each other. Still, from time to time, despite how angry they were, they glanced in the other’s direction, immediately looking away, if the other one noticed. Stealing such glances was the natural thing to do, and it probably meant nothing. After all, they were the only two people in the room.