Tegan

Bradley was big, and based on his size, I guessed that he was very muscular in his younger days. His gray hair was unlike his son’s, and cut short. He was a very handsome man with a face that appeared to be made of stone. His sharp appearance left me wondering what Pee Bee would look like without his beard.

His attitude, temper, and demanding personality tested every facet of my training, probed the depth of my knowledge of human nature, and offered all-day entertainment. It was day two of me caring for him, and my first full day alone.

“The bacon’s got to be crisp,” he said dryly.

Almost to the kitchen, I stopped and turned to face him. “You didn’t specify. That’s how I like it.”

“It’s not going to work for me.” Pinching the strip of bacon in the middle, he wagged it up and down a few times. “It’s all flimsy.”

He dropped it onto the plate. “I couldn’t swallow that half-cooked fucker if I had to. Bouncy meat makes my stomach churn.”

“You asked for two eggs over medium, four pieces of bacon, and two pieces of buttered toast. That’s how I cook my bacon. I’ll gladly prepare it however you like.”

He looked up as he reached for his fork. “Maybe leave it in the skillet a little longer tomorrow.”

As he pushed the tines through the side of one of his eggs, I pulled the plate from his tray.

I grinned. “Be back in a minute.”

His hand followed the plate as I lifted it. “The eggs were fine.”

“It’ll just take a minute.”

I set his food aside, cooked two more eggs, four crisp pieces of bacon, and two pieces of toast. After arranging everything on a clean plate, I carried them both to the living room.

I held the plate over his lap. “Here you go.”

He reached for his fork. “Set it down on the tray.”

I shook my head. “Reach for it.”

“Just in case you forgot.” He lifted his arm slightly. “My arm’s in a cast.”

“Your fingers aren’t,” I said. “Reach for it.”

He glared at me.

“Your bacon’s going to get cold.” I arched an eyebrow. “Does cold bacon make your stomach churn?”

He sighed and reached for the plate.

I sat down on the end of the couch. “It’s called therapy.”

He picked up a piece of bacon, snapped off the end, and grinned. “I’ll call it abuse.”

“You’ll thank me later.”

“Doubt it.”

I normally ate fast. Watching him out of the corner of my eye, I paced myself to finish my food at the same time he finished his. When we were done, I stood, picked up his plate, and carried them to the kitchen.

“If you don’t rinse them now, the yolk will turn to concrete on that plate,” he yelled.

I didn’t respond, but I felt the same way. A dirty sink, a pile of dishes, or any other type of clutter drove me insane. After rinsing the plates, I walked into the living room and sat down.

“So, what do you like to watch on T.V.?” I asked.

He reached for his tablet and then situated it in his lap. “Nothing. At least not until Vanna comes on.”

“Vanna?”

He looked up. “White. Vanna fuckin’ White. Wheel of god damned Fortune. Her and that little shit of a cohost, Pat Sajak. Ever heard of it?”

“I have.”

“Well, you were looking at me like I was an idiot, I couldn’t tell.”

“You don’t watch anything during the day?”

“Watching the boob tube during the day will turn your brains to mush.” He lifted his tablet. “I read.”

He’d spent the majority of the previous day talking to his son, complaining, and sleeping. I couldn’t help but wonder if he felt our personalities weren’t compatible for anything more than a caregiver-patient relationship.

“What are you reading?”

“Well, if you’d quiet down, I’d be reading…” He swiped his finger across the screen, lifted the tablet, and turned it to face me. “Dune.”

“Dune?”

He raised both eyebrows. “Dune.”

“What’s it about?”

“Right now, it’s about a boy who’s lost in the desert.”

“Which desert?”

“A desert on another fuckin’ planet.”

“Oh,” I said. “Science fiction, huh?”

“No,” he said sarcastically. “It’s a true story about a boy who used to live on the planet Krupsor, and escaped during the mutiny of Eposcus’s slaves in the year 2078 when they had the uprising against the king. He flew back in time in a capsule he fashioned out of pancake batter, scrap pieces of aluminum, Hershey bar wrappers, and a little Saran Wrap. When he crashed it in the Atlantic Ocean right off the coast of Rhode Island last year, they found him with nothing more than a few scratches on his hands; but they were from the sixteen-legged snakes he brought back with him. He called ‘em Weedots. They took ‘em to the San Diego zoo for research. You didn’t see it on T.V.? Read about it in the newspaper?”

I stood up. “You should try being a little less abrasive.”

His eyes fell to the tablet, and he started to read.

“Why?” he asked without looking up.

“We might get along better.”

“I get along with you just fine.”

“It’d just be nice if we talked more. But, suit yourself.”

He looked up. “After you leave here, you can talk all you want.”

“To who?”

“Whoever you want. Your husband.”

“I’m not married.”

“Boyfriend.”

“I don’t have one.”

“My apologies.” He cleared his throat. “Your partner.”

I laughed. “I don’t have one of those either.”

He sat up. “You’re single?”

“Uh huh.”

“Got AIDS?” he asked.

“What?” I gasped. “AIDS? No.”

“Other than the fact that your mouth goes ninety-to-nothing all damned day, you’re attractive. I was just wondering.”

I studied him until he met my gaze. “Do you have any sandpaper?” I asked.

His brow creased. “What? Sandpaper?”

“Do. You. Have. Any. Sandpaper?”

“There’s some in the garage, why?”

“I want to use it the next time I have to wipe your ass.”

He laughed. Out loud. After he caught his breath, he turned off his tablet, set it aside, and grinned.

“Sit down, kid. What do you want to talk about?”

And, just like that, I wedged my way into his life.