Page 18 - WTP Vol. XI #2

Sugar (continued from preceding page)
“Could be the heat,” she says. “Not this kind of sun in Alaska last I heard. If Alaska’s where he’s comin’ from. Let him sleep a while.”
“On my floor I suppose?”
“What about the hideaway? Leave it closed. Don’t give him the idea he can stay. Either that or call the county for him. Let’s move him, then I got to go,” she says.
Then after she goes onto work, it’s just me.
Lord, I can just imagine the county ambulance at the door and the Partnership finding out all about it be- fore I even have a chance to explain. It’s not as easy as it sounds being in my position. Oh, some think you’re on Easy Street just sitting around all day watching TV shows and collecting rent checks easy as pie. That’s not the way it is at all.
Every day you got to balance the books and check in with the Partnership over the phone. You got to make sure the plumbers get here on time and don’t break more than they fix.
I’m the one who’s got to call the electric company to disconnect someone’s power, enforce parking zones even if that means a tow. Then there’s the Rec Center. I have to work out a schedule and check for damages above regular wear and tear. And how many times has the maintenance man quit without even giving notice? Just never shows up one day or shows up smelling like alcohol coming right through his pores. What’s worse? Tell me.
Now what do I do? It was different when it was the two of us. Lloyd took care of the repairs and such. I took care of the books. After he passed I had to talk the Partnership into letting me handle the whole court by myself. Lloyd died of a stroke and I never will forget the signs.
“Mister,” I say. “Sir, if you can hear me at all, please open your eyes.”
By miracle, Lord thank you Lord, his eyes open up with some effort. Now I have to get him off the prem- ises and move him in the direction he was originally intended.
“Do you remember how you got here?” I say. Very slowly he raises himself off the hideaway and with my help he makes it onto a kitchen chair. He has a perspi- ration smell about him, strong but not dirty like the vagrants who sometimes wander into the court.
He tells me he’s got a crook in his neck and asks me if he can sit a minute to work it out. I say sure, go ahead. I say I’m glad he’s feeling better. I offer him an ice pack for his neck.
“I’m sorry to inconvenience you, ma’am,” he says. He takes the ice pack. “If you don’t mind, I’ll call for that tow and be on my way.”
I remember that one twenty-dollar bill. As if he were afraid to break it. Without even thinking I say, “Better have some breakfast before you leave.”
He washes up as best as he can, having the one shirt and all. I recall Lloyd left some toiletries in one of the back drawers so I got them out and put them near the sink for him to use. All this time I was meaning to take them to church to help the poor and needy.
I fry eggs and bacon and my special potatoes. I bring fresh coffee to the table and its strong earth smell fills up the trailer. I put a plate of cinnamon rolls in the center of the table. That’s a hard part of living alone—eating alone. A person goes from cooking for two for thirty years and then one day—poof! You’re alone wondering how to cut recipes down to feed just one.
He has nice table manners. He’s hungry but keeps his pace slow to be polite.
“What’s your name if I may ask,” I say.
“Call me Hunter,” he says. He leaves out the E.M. part.
“I’m Mrs. Worley,” I say. “I’m the manager of this trailer court ever since my husband passed.”
Says he’s been driving for twenty hours straight. I don’t know his name yet, not directly from him any- ways, and I wait and ask myself what I’d do if I was him in this urgent situation.
When he finishes his meal, he thanks me and asks if he can use the facilities again.
“You’re welcome,” I say. I tidy up the kitchen and then go to the hideaway and fluff up the cushions. I still admire the fabric on it, poly-nylon that lasts a long time but is 100% impractical since I don’t get overnight guests. I bought it from Mrs. Sanchez who went on one of her shopping binges and was going to catch it from her husband if I didn’t step in and take over the payments from Sears. What’s worse? A man who hits you or the one who doesn’t even have to touch you to keep you in line? With him, Mrs.
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