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Drifting in the tub as hot water poured in, Simon half-floated as he drifted back to...
A quiet day in the book store. The shelves neat. No bickering between the manager and owner. The mall just beginning to consider the mad rush to Thanksgiving and Christmas. All so lovely until...
Yolanda called, her voice tight with fury. She was Alain's day nurse.
“I will accept much abuse from sick men, Mr. Halloran,” she gasped out, “but to have shit thrown at me? No. No. Never.”
Simon merely sighed and told her he’d be straight there. He let the manager know he needed to leave early, and she was fine with it. She understood the situation, having a nephew caught by the disease. Then he went to the hotel attached to the mall, hopped a taxi, and arrived at Alain’s duplex barely fifteen minutes after Yolanda’s call.
She was still packing the last of her equipment in her little Plymouth wagon. “You come fast,” she said, the moment she saw him exit the taxi. “I thought I would be away.”
“Was it just the shit?” Simon asked.
“That was the last of the straw. It was words...evil words as I only try to clean him.”
“Being his usual asshole self...”
"I know his mind is not good but..." She hesitated then quietly said, “Never do I pray people die. Him? I make exception.”
Simon actually chuckled. “He will, eventually.”
“Not eventually enough. I am sorry, Mr. Halloran, I hate to leave him with you only, but I see why I am told he should die alone...” She bit her lip, suddenly ashamed. “I should not have told you that.”
Simon shrugged. “I won’t let that happen.”
Confusion crossed her face. “Is he so much better for you? With you?”
He smiled and said, “I’m used to him.”
“You are good man. I pray for you.” Then she hugged him, got in her car and all but peeled away. Which was impressive for that little Reliant.
Simon watched her go then went inside. It stank of shit, but he was used to that. He stopped in the kitchenette for a roll of paper towels and Lysol, ran water in a pail, then carried it all into the bedroom to find...
Alain half-sitting on his bed, shaking, his right arm outstretched and his hand dripping from a fresh explosion of the filthy stuff.
He glared at Simon. “You took your fuckin’ time.”
First, Simon set his things on a chair, pulled on his rubber gloves, took a length of paper towels and wiped Alain’s hand clean. Well...as clean as he could, right then. The sheets were stained from it, as were the pillows. This had been a bad one, despite the covers and pajama bottoms.
“Get these fuckin’ things off me,” Alain snapped, pulling at the drawstring with weak fingers.
Simon shoved the covers to the floor and pulled the bottoms off by gripping the few spots as yet untouched. Then he helped Alain rise to his feet and guided him into the bathroom. Lifted him into the tub one leg at a time. Finally leaned him against the step-stool to keep him standing and set the water to running.
“I want to sit...” Alain growled.
“In a moment.”
“I told you...!”
But the water was now warm and Simon was using the shower hose to spray him, which removed much of the fecal matter. And obviously felt good. Something even Alain could not complain about. The man actually seemed to sigh.
For a moment. Then he snapped, "I'm standing in shit, you son-of-a-bitch."
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