"He should care. He does what I tell him."
"Can I come back tomorrow and see the damage?"
"With or without?" asked Mirelle coyly.
"What? Tears? Or laughter?" Sylvia grinned back, the shadows lifted from her fine eyes. "Thanks, Mirelle."
"Ha! If you hadn't come when you did… "
Sylvia's hand closed tightly on her arm for a moment and then she whirled off, striding up the stairs. Mirelle followed her to the door, waving as she drove off in her usual gear-grinding hurry.
She caught sight of her reflection in the hall mirror. With no make-up, she looked totally washed out. She was reaching for her purse to get her lipstick when the phone rang.
"Mirelle?" a very hoarse voice queried as she answered.
"Yes?"
"What is the name… hmmmm… of your doctor? Ahhhheemmm. I don't know one in this goddamned town."
"Jamie? You're sick?"
"As nearly as I can… ahhemm… decide, I died last night only no one knows there's a corpse in my bed. I need a doctor!"
"I'll call Dr. Martin immediately."
"Nepotism?"
"What? No, he's not a relative."
"That's reassuring."
"Jamie, you'd joke on your death bed."
"And where do you think I am?"
"Oh, hang up so I can call the doctor. He's very good about coming on house calls."
"He'd better be." With that acid comment, Jamie hung up.
Will Martin actually answered her call. He couldn't make a house call to Jamie until mid-afternoon but he gave her the scant assurance that if the man were able to make a phone call, he'd be able to last until afternoon. He did promise to make Howell his first stop.
It was now 10:45 and Mirelle decided that Howell ought not to have to wait that long for succour. The hell with propriety. The man had no one else in town and Margaret's college was way up in Massachusetts.
She took eggs, milk, bread and some consomme, and made it to his development by 11:02. The front door was locked. She hesitated but she didn't want to rouse him out of bed if she could avoid it. She went around to the back door, which was also bolted tight. She stood by her car, trying to remember the layout of the house, and with sudden inspiration, raised the garage door. The kitchen door was unlocked, although the kitchen was a shambles of unwashed dishes and used pans. She walked through to the hall, which was neat except for the suitcase, hat and coat dumped in the middle of the entrance way. Several days' accumulation of mail had fallen through the door slot. She went upstairs. The first room she peered into had a rumpled bed but no occupant. The second room also had a used bed. The third bedroom, the smallest, was darkened and she didn't at first discern the figure in bed. She walked over, for one moment convinced that Jamie was motionless in death.
"I thought… ahhemm… you were the garbage man," he said in a painful rasp.
"They collect garbage on Thursday on this side of town."
"For all I know it is Thursday and has been… ahhhem… for five mortal long days. Did you call that doctor of yours? Or are you considering me for a death mask? Sorry. I'm indestructible. I've never had a sick day in my life."
Forgetting any lingering shyness, she put a hand on his forehead: he was burning with fever and his skin parched dry. She snapped on the bedside light and he waved irritably at her to turn it off. She saw enough in the brief instant: his eyes were bloodshot with fever, his face white and drawn, with several days' beard. She could hear the rales in his chest as he gathered wind in his lungs to speak.
"I absolutely detest women…"
"At this moment, James Howell, your likes are immaterial. I don't need Dr. Martin to tell me you are very sick. At the least, bronchitis; at the worst, lumbar pneumonia."
She automatically set about smoothing the untucked, disordered blankets and felt the dampness of the sheet. He'd been sweating profusely, which explained the musical beds.
"I'm going to change the bed in your own room. I'm going to get you clean pajamas," she said, walking back to the big room by the stairs. She opened dresser drawers until she found clean, laundry-packaged nightclothes. She scooped up the bathrobe that was crumpled on the floor, and returned to him. "You will get up and change. Quickly. And wash your face. By then, I'll have finished making your bed. If you haven't moved, I'll change and wash you myself."
She said the last as she was searching the linen closet for sheets and pillowcases. She heard him cursing as he lurched out of the bed, the exertion caused him to cough in tight barks that must have hurt his throat dreadfully from the sound of them. She heard further curses over the sound of running water as she stripped the bed and changed it quickly. She lowered the blinds against the brilliant morning sun and cleared the debris on the bedside table.
"Your bed's ready. I'm going to get you some hot soup," she called.
"You're a managing female," he said in a hoarse voice from the bathroom but, as she descended the stairs, he walked unsteadily down the hall.
While the soup was heating, she gathered up the dishes with congealed and hardened food and put them to soak in the sink. She made a pile of the first class mail, hung up his hat and coat and then carried the consomme and mail up to him.
He scowled at her when she entered the room, but it was a half-hearted attempt at disguising weakness.
"What's your daughter's college address?"
He put down the spoon half way to his mouth.
"That is enough meddling," he said with genuine anger.
"James Howell, you are very sick."
"Thank you, I'll wait for the doctor's diagnosis. I appreciate your phoning him and all this," he said, indicating the fresh linen and the soup, "but that is quite enough. Thank you!"
At that unqualified dismissal, he went back to his soup.
"You are insufferable, James Howell. How long have you been feverish? From the amount of dishes, I'd say you'd been able to feed yourself for at least four days of eggs and toast. The milk in your refrigerator is soured so it's at least a week old. You haven't picked up a newspaper from your front door for five days. And I don't see even aspirin in your medicine cabinet."
"You are also a prying woman."
But Mirelle could see that he was more sound than fury.
"Eat!"
"It's a liquid," he said with precise enunciation. "I'm drinking it."
"When did the fever start?" she asked, lowering her voice at his tacit capitulation.
He grimaced over the heat of the consomme.
"I started feeling lousy in Atlanta but we still had the Camellia circuit to do. I got off the plane Saturday at Philly and came straight home. Oh, look, call my agent. The number's in the red address book on my dresser. Dave'll have to get Heinrich to play at the Tuesday affair. He knows the repertoire. Ohh, hell!"
His hand was shaking enough to spill the soup from the spoon. Mirelle got a towel from the bathroom.
"You are not going to feed me," he said in an unequivocal tone.
"You're quite right. I might lose a finger. But I am going to put a towel where you can spill without drenching your last clean pair of pajamas."
She made the call to his agent, while he glowered at her, relaying the message.
"I'd wondered why I hadn't heard from Jamie," Dave Andorri said. "He's never sick. How sick is he?"
"The doctor's coming this afternoon but I'd say that he has bronchitis. Severely."
"I didn't give you permission to bandy my condition about," said Howell. "Tell Dave I'll be able to play for whosiwhatsis on the 18th as promised."
" 'Tell Dave that I'll be able to play for whosiwhatsis on the 18th as promised'," Mirelle dutifully quoted and was rewarded by a bark of protest from Howell who made an ineffectual grab for the telephone. Dave heard the protest and laughed, remarking that he sounded like he would recover.