“Edna has a dentist’s appointment. I’m tied up with my accountant this afternoon, but in the meantime, I volunteered to ferry her to and from. Someone was supposed to stay with Joseph, but the woman called just now and said she was coming down with a cold and didn’t think she should expose either one of them. Could you keep an eye on him?”
I flicked a look at Edna, whose interest in our conversation was sufficient to persuade me the plan was hers. No one had agreed to “mind” Joseph. Edna was making that up. She’d left arrangements until the last minute, counting on Henry to press me into service. She knew for a fact I wouldn’t have stepped in on her account. She also knew I couldn’t refuse Henry’s asking me to do anything. We exchanged a look. A sly smile lifted the corners of her mouth.
“My alarm system goes in today and I have to be there. How long will this take?”
“An hour and a half. Mr. McClaskey’s due shortly to inspect for leaks, so I’d appreciate your leaving your studio unlocked.”
“I can do that.”
Next thing I knew, Henry was pulling out of the drive with Edna seated placidly beside him and I had no choice but to trot next door as agreed. I knocked twice as a courtesy, then opened the door a crack and put my head in. With Joseph in a wheelchair, it seemed inconsiderate to make him push himself through the house to let me in.
“Hello?” I stepped into the living room and closed the door behind me. “Mr. Shallenbarger?”
A massive television set dominated one end of the living room, currently tuned to a vintage Western filled with cowboys who looked like they were wearing lipstick. Sound thundered—blazing guns and horses’ hooves. I could hear water running in the next room.
I raised my voice. “Mr. Shallenbarger? It’s Kinsey from next door.”
“In here,” he called.
This was the first time I’d been in the house. The Adelsons owned the property long before I moved into Henry’s studio. For years, Dale Adelson taught English literature at UCST. The previous summer, he’d taken a job at the University of Virginia in Richmond. The move had delighted the couple because her family lived in the area and they looked forward to the proximity. Meanwhile, the house had been on the market and sitting empty until the Shallenbargers bought it and moved in.
The place looked cluttered despite the fact that the furnishings were sparse. Sealed U-Haul boxes were still lined up along the walls. A big rag rug sat in the middle of the room, one of those soiled flat braided ovals you sometimes see abandoned at the curb. I’d always heard that for those in wheelchairs, carpeting and stairs were frustrating obstacles, best avoided where possible. I crossed to the kitchen and peered in.
Joseph had his back to me. It was the first time I understood how heavy he was. He’d pulled his wheelchair close to the sink, where he was washing dishes by hand. The faucet gushed noisily. Henry would have flinched to see water run at that rate, but Joseph seemed oblivious. A small plastic wash bin had been placed in the sink and it was piled high with dirty pots and pans on top of glasses and plates. The counters and sink were at an appropriate height for most adults, but at a level that created difficulties for him since his chair was uncomfortably low. He looked like a little kid seated at a dinner table. He could barely see what he was doing, and in the process of moving dishes from the rinse water to the rack, he’d trailed water on the floor and across his lap.
“Why don’t you let me do that?” I said.
“I can manage.”
I moved to the sink and turned the water off. “I’ll just take a quick turn as long as I’m here,” I said. “You go watch the movie. The good part’s coming up.”
“Well. You sure you don’t mind?”
“Not at all. It won’t take me long.”
He rolled himself away from the sink and did a three-point turn. Over his shoulder, he said, “That too loud for you?”
“A bit.”
He wheeled himself toward the door to the living room. The frame was narrow and the wooden threshold between the two rooms was another impediment. I crossed, took the wheelchair handles, and gave him a sufficient push to bump him over it. I waited to see what he’d do about the rag rug and noted that he rolled right over it.
He’d left the remote control on a small table near the end of the couch. He picked it up and aimed it at the set. He pushed the volume button repeatedly to no effect. He banged the remote against his palm without persuading it to work. “Batteries is wearing down,” he said irritably.
“You have fresh ones?”
“Maybe in the bedroom. Edna would know. You can turn the volume down at the set if you want.”