The Handyman: Comfort Measures

The man on my porch asks for the police before he tells me his name.

He is holding himself up against the doorframe. Bare legs. Dirty feet. His eyes keep moving past me into the house, looking for someone better equipped.

“Charles?”

He stares at me. “How do you know my name?”

“Your wife lives across the road, dear.”

“She’s not my wife.”

Oh, Marin.

I think of her in Foster’s, trying to get through her shopping without crying. She warned me about this. Still, hearing it is different. All those meals. All that washing. And the man you married doesn’t even recognize what you are to him.

He grips my arm.

“She locked me in the basement.”

“I know you’ve been down there.”

“You know?”

“The light. Your headaches.”

“No. Listen to me.” His fingers tighten. “Please listen.”

“I am.”

He is so relieved that for a moment I think we’ve made some progress.

Then he starts talking about chains.

I get him inside before he falls. He catches his foot on the rug, swears, apologizes. Even like this, some part of him remembers how to behave in someone’s home. That nearly undoes me.

I settle him on the couch. Pull the quilt over his legs. He throws it off.

“The young guy. The handyman. He’s helping her.”

“Luke?”

“You know him too?”

“He fixes things for me.”

Charles looks toward the door. I follow his eyes, wondering what he’s seen there that I haven’t.

“I need a phone,” Charles says.

“I’ll make a call.”

I bring him water first. Both hands around the glass, and still he spills it. I put a towel on his lap. He looks at it as if I’ve handed him an insult.

Poor man. There must have been a time when someone else spilled things and he was allowed to be impatient.

In the kitchen, I call Patricia.

“Marin’s husband is here.”

“Here where?”

“My couch.”

I tell her about the wandering. The accusations. How thin he looks beneath what little he’s wearing. Across the room, he is watching me so hard it seems to hurt him.

Patricia’s voice softens. She says they can become terribly confused near the end. They lose themselves. We’ve been praying for him all these weeks, and hearing her say it makes me press the phone harder against my ear.

“I thought there might be more time,” I say.

“So did I.”

When I hang up, Charles holds out his hand.

“Give it to me.”

“Let’s have something to eat first.”

“Who was that?”

“A friend.”

“Did you call the police?”

I cut the banana bread thick. The knife goes through the crust with a small, satisfying scrape.

“Eat while I put the kettle on.”

He says he doesn’t want anything.

Then he eats so quickly I have to tell him to slow down.

I keep the plate within reach and pretend to occupy myself with the curtains. Marin said even a little light could hurt. I close them completely. When I turn back, he has crumbs down his front and his eyes are wet.

“Good?” I ask.

He nods.

I’m glad I didn’t put walnuts in it. People say they like walnuts until they’re leaving them around the rim of your good plates.

For a little while, we manage.

He eats. I make tea. He tells me, more quietly now, that he isn’t sick. I remember Marin saying some days were better than others. I wish she could see him enjoying something. A whole slice gone, then another. She’s probably forgotten what it feels like to watch him eat without worrying.

“Don’t send me back,” he says.

I sit beside the couch.

“You can stay here.”

He closes his eyes. His shoulders drop.

I ought to call Marin. She’ll be worried. But then he opens his eyes and asks whether I believe him, and I can’t get up. He has hold of my sleeve.

“I believe you’re frightened.”

His mouth changes.

I wish I’d said it better.

By evening, he has explained the basement so many times he can barely get through it. He watches my face between sentences. When I bring his tea, he asks whether I’m going to help him.

“Yes, dear.”

I mean it. I need him to understand that I mean it.

I bring my Bible from the side table. He says something sharp about God. I let it pass. Pain makes people ungracious. The Lord can survive a few bad words in my living room.

I read Psalms. I have to begin again twice because he keeps talking.

After a while, he listens.

I look at his hands. At the way he keeps lifting his head whenever a car passes. Each time, that awful hope. Each time, the car goes on.

Marin has done everything she can. I’ve seen what it costs her. I’ve held her hand while she tried to pray.

She shouldn’t have to do this part too.

I set the Bible aside.

He is looking at me.

“Please,” he says.

“I’m here.”

I could leave him like this until morning. Let Marin come and sit where I’m sitting. Make her watch him fight for another hour, another day, whatever the tumor has left to take.

I decide he has given it enough.

I stay close while I help him die. I speak to him. I keep my voice steady, even when his eyes make that difficult.

Around midnight, he goes quiet.

I wait beside him until I’m certain.

Then I cry. Briefly. There’s no one here to mind, but his wife will come, and she has enough to bear without comforting me.

I close his eyes. Fold his hands. Pull the quilt up to his chest. The slippers are beside the couch, where I put them earlier, ready for him to get up.

I straighten them.

For the next few hours, I let Marin sleep. I sit with Charles. Mark my place in the Bible. Wash my face and pin my hair back.

His tea is cold. Half the loaf is gone.

He ate well. He had someone beside him. I’ll make sure she knows those things.

When I finally call, the phone rings out.

I try again.

“Hello?”

“Dear, it’s Helen. Your husband is here.”