The Womanless Man
Continued, 7
L. Stewart Marsden
Go to previous installment . . .
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Mrs. McGuilicutty fluffed the pillows behind Stew’s back, then straightened the sheets that covered him. She reminded him of his grandmother — and even smelled of talc.
“Is that better? Do you want anything? Water? Crackers? It’s stuffy in here — I can crack the window a bit for you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. McGuilicutty, I’m fine.”
“Oh do call me Ida, dear. Everyone calls me Ida. Ida sooner you did too!” and laughed at her well-worn pun.
Stew wasn’t sure where the home care agency had found Ida, and while he was glad to have the occasional help in recovering, a few more days of this and he might end up committing either murder or suicide.
She started for the door of the guest room, then stopped. “You’re sure there’s nothing else?”
“I’m sure — I-Ida,” he stammered.
“Alright then! I’ll go and start a stew in your crock pot that you can have for dinner tonight.”
“Thank you. Would you shut the door, please Ida?” The door closed softly behind her.
Stew’s cellphone rang.
“Hi, Brent.”
“Stubie! How’s the new home care gal? Is she hot?”
“She’s like a grandmother.”
“That old, huh?”
“Actually, she’s younger than me . . .”
“Well there you go, Sport!”
“. . . But she feels thirty years older. You know, pink hair in tight curls and droopy hose.”
“Ah! I’m sorry, Buddy. Martha and me are going to the Peddlin’ Pig tonight. Prime rib Wednesday! Wish you could limp along.”
“Ida is making a crock pot stew for me.”
“Ida? Oh, the grandmother. Nothin’ says lovin’, I always say. We can bring you some prime rib if you like.”
“I’m fine.”
“You hear anything from Simone?”
“Why would I hear from her?”
“I think she has a crush on you. Plus she won’t answer any of my calls, so I figured she likes you better.”
“God, Brent! No! She’s a lot younger than me — and anyway, I am definitely not in the market for another failed relationship. Don’t you get that?”
“I dunno. Simone was hot.”
“Anything with a temperature is hot to you.”
“You can’t tell me she didn’t interest you any. You loved her hovering all around you.”
“She’s a nurse. Nurses hover. She was only doing her job, for chrissake, nothing more!”
“I’ve got pretty good intuition about these kinds of things. Plus you’re a bit rusty. How long’s it been again?”
“I’m not rusty. I like my life as it is. No complications. Get up in the morning, read, write, watch TV, feed and walk the dog … couldn’t be simpler. And once I’ve recuperated I’ll be my normal self again.”
“Okay. If you want to put the kibosh on the rest of your life …” his voice lifted up, as though he was mimicking a Valley Girl.
“You and Martha go have a great meal. I wouldn’t refuse leftover prime rib — but don’t go to any trouble.”
“No trouble at all, Stubie! I owe you my life, remember?”
“And that’s got to stop, too.”
“What, my gratitude? Not just me. Martha is grateful as well! Hey, gotta go! Pinch Ida on her fanny pack for me!”
Stew put his phone on the bedside table. He was mending in the guest room of his condo, which was located on the main floor. His bedroom, with more room and a larger bed and private bath, was up a flight of stairs. It was too much for him to even think about navigating the ascent — and he didn’t want his home care giver to have to climb up and down them either. It would be only until the cast came off his leg. He figured climbing the stairs would actually be therapeutic.
The guest room contained two twin beds with rustic headboards, and matching lamp table and dresser. A large Bob Timberlake of an old woman working on a quilt in her attic hung on the wall. She looked like Ida. It wasn’t one of Timberlake’s usual scenarios, nor one of his best — but it was signed and it was cheaper than most of his work.
Stew’s IPad was plugged in and on the lamp table. It was loaded with a number of manuscripts he was reading. Over the years he managed to parlay himself into editing work of others. He launched that venture in frustration over not being able to get his own work noticed by traditional publishers. So he advertised himself online as an editor and critic to the infinite number of writer wannabes in the world at a penny a word. Get your writing edited and critiqued, his self-design website advertised. And it worked.
Ironic. Charles Dickens, in order to make any money from his work, originally published in newspapers and was paid by the word. What might have ordinarily been shorter stories became drawn out newspaper series so he could maintain his household. He was deathly afraid of poverty, having grown up in it.
Similarly, Stew abhorred even the thought of poverty, but was realistic enough to know the odds of his work striking some publishing guru’s fancy were mathematically slim, and so he pursued what he called his “day job.” And with every day job comes the overwhelming sameness of the mundane. While his clients were hopeful and dedicated to the craft, most lacked one essential element: talent. Stew gritted his teeth and plowed through manuscript after manuscript, correcting spelling and grammar errors (over there, not over their) due either to spellcheck or the writer’s ignorance.
He had to carefully balance the terrible swiftness of his iPad pencil with encouragement that the author did, indeed, have a measure of talent, which if tended to and worked at, could — possibly — end in success. The fact of the matter was he didn’t want to piss off someone who was willing to pay him up front for his edits and suggestions, even if that someone didn’t have the remotest chance in hell of getting published.
Since the bear attack, his work had piled up, and he was not only behind, but in danger of losing clients willing to pay him for his “expertise.” He figured he should make the most of being bedridden to concentrate on the several submissions that had lagged, and since Ida could cook and clean up, and was covered by his insurance (ah, Medicare), he may as well make the most of it.
He opened his iPad and tapped his way to a folder containing the various manuscripts. Which one should he work on? He chose “My Mother-in-Law, the Alien From Hell” to dig into, and was several pages into the tripe when the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it!” said Ida, clunking from the kitchen to the foyer in her square-toed therapeutic shoes. He heard the door open, followed by indiscernible voices speaking. Then a knock on his bedroom door. He lowered his glasses to the tip of his nose and responded.
“Yes? Come in, please.”
The door cracked open.
“Simone!” he said in surprise.
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Writing Odds n Ends 