#theblindman

Chapter 2:

The morning had come bright and sunny with clear skies all across town. As I walked down the street closer to my destination, my nerves began to build up with tension worrying about my interview. Popping a few pills to help the migraine and a can of energy boost began to soften whatever buzzed in my head. Bella dropped me off. Mom believed I was still at work. Dad doesn’t know anything. Doing this alone felt terrifying. I stood in front of the house holding the piece of paper I printed out this morning. The address was correct. In each direction, there was nothing but silence, dead silence. Perhaps this place was a charming friendly neighborhood in the past, but nothing but memories and ghosts lived here now. I proceeded up the steps suddenly jumping at the sound of barking coming from behind the gate. Something large growled and clawed at the gate. It was a dog. A mean dog, too. This person (man or woman) must not like company. Or visitors too much. Gulping, I raised my hand to the doorbell when the door suddenly swung open. I was face to face with a brunette woman, maybe in her 50s, shuffling past me pushing my shoulder, and fixing her handbag.

“Son of a bitch! Rot in hell. Drop dead. Rip your guts out,” she grumbled stomping to her car parked on the curb. She threw her bag in through the window, crawled in, slammed the door, and drove down the block. A rooster tail of exhaust and screaming tires trailed after her speedy departure. It didn’t help with my confidence too much. Mentally I asked myself what I was getting into. I looked back at the open door and peeked in.

“Hello?” I whispered, stepping inside.

It was dark. My nose crinkled. The room felt tight, close, and unaired. My hand reached for a light switch against the wall but it failed to turn on. Pushing back my hair, the back of my nape prickled, and maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. There was no response. Maybe they were upstairs? Feeling uneasy, I began to step back towards the doorway giving the final decision to go home.

“Who’s there…” came a hoarse voice. “I do not want to be preached by the word of God I don’t care how many years you were a nurse. I do not need a missionary! Leave here with your bible now!”

Gulping, catching my breath, I stutter,” H-Hello? I’m not a missionary. That woman just left.”

It caught me off guard. Halting in my tracks, I faced the darkness peering into it failing to locate the owner of the voice. My footfall created a creaking noise in the wooden floorboards as I stepped closer into the living room. The house looked old but still had impeccable charm. Wooden floorboards, white walls, a high ceiling, and a staircase leading up to the second floor. All the windows were covered up by bed sheets allowing a dim glow through the sheets. Cobwebs had completely taken over this man’s house and he was on the verge of becoming a hoarder. Newspapers, plastic bags, picture frames, light bulbs, mason jars, clothes, and suitcases were piled up against the wall. Not to mention a big, green, and mossy stain covered the corner of the living room due to a leak from the ceiling. It looked like the entire house needed some repairs. Something moved in the dark. I blink rapidly, my eyelids matching my heart rate as I see something tall, dark, big, and brooding in the darkest corner of the room. The owner of the home approaches and I can’t believe how big he is. My hand clutches my bag while the other pushes a lock of my hair behind my ear.

“Who are you?” he croaked.

Trying to find the courage to speak was beginning to become hard and to be honest, intimidating. His voice sounded so dry and uneven, like a piece of toast in the desert. The dark figure moved across the wall, slowly, until I could see the outline of a man. I stepped closer feeling the pull of gravity become stronger as I can sense him coming closer.

“M-My name… is Evey Williams. It’s nice to meet you.” I reach out my hand. He doesn’t reach out. I wait a moment longer. Feeling embarrassed I withdraw my hand.

His voice seems to be full of suspicion and judgment. Curious. But suspicious.

“What do you want…”

Quickly I pulled my papers out,” I saw your ad online. We scheduled an interview today about the caregiver position. …”

For a long time, he’s quiet until I can hear his footsteps go across the room in loud thumps. He steps forward and takes a seat in the living room chair and he pushes a chair out toward me.

“Take a seat…”

It’s more of an order than a courteous gesture. Little streams of light poke through the open slits of the curtains and bed sheets illuminating little galaxies of lint flying in the air. I take nearly 3 steps through those galaxies and then I see him in a better light. My jaw almost drops when I see him up close. Intense wasn’t the right word. It didn’t seem close to describing him. Intimidating, yes. He had salt and pepper hair with a beard shadowing his chin and jawline. His whole face was mussed, unruly, and longish. There was a raw ruggedness that attached to him like fire attached to heat.

“W-What do you want to know?” I whispered, looking at him through my lashes.

He exhales, croaking, “You sound young…”

Well isn’t that obvious?

I moved my eyebrows before nodding my head. He moves his head looking at the ground and then up at the ceiling before reaching his hand out across the table towards me, suddenly choosing to look at the wall again. His hands are huge. My eyes run down his fingers with wide strong palms that could squeeze a watermelon into chunks or rip phone books in half. I look at his arms under my lashes and I can’t stop staring. 

“Your clearance card… copy of your ID... I need to make copies.”

Reaching for my bag, I do what he says. Everything is pushed forward. But for some reason, his hands reach across the table tapping his fingers everywhere before finding them. This is interesting because he touches each item with precise movements, investigating the thin plastic card in between his fingers. Maybe I should say something. Or would it be rude? Why would it be rude? My paper and card are completely authentic. My tongue runs across my teeth and before I could say something he gets up and walks into the other room (tracing his hand along the wall, I might add) and opens a drawer. In the dark, my eyes can see the silver glimmer of a cane firmly being held in his left hand. He’s limping too. A part of the puzzle pieces together. In heavy thumps, he reenters the room carrying a small book and a pair of keys.

“Write your name here, address, and written consent that you are under my employment of your own free will. The paperwork is very important. I need to know who will be working in my home.”

He pushed a pen toward me, looking at my shoulder, and I gave a face. He was certainly a very careful employer.

“I-I don’t understand,” looking at the papers. “You have my ID and fingerprint clearance card. They’re authentic I promise. You can read it. It’s in my handwriting I swear.”

He looks down to the ground, seemingly annoyed and most disgruntled, but he inhales a long breath regaining his patience, and looks at my shoulder again. The chair he sits in creaks as he crosses his legs.

“I wish I could believe you, but I have to be sure. I like to be %100 sure. I don’t like any loose ends. Have you ever done this kind of work before?” his head tilted to the side.

“Yes, I have. I used to live with my grandmother when I was 13 years old and she needed help around the house. She was diabetic and I helped her with medication and helped her shower. It was for one summer but I learned a lot. She passed away last year.”

“Here you’ll learn more from me. I’ll teach you. But, I hope my schedule won’t take too much time from your husband or children.”

“I don’t have children and I’m not married.”

“You sound young…”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh? May I ask how old you are?”

“I’m 17 years old. I may be young… b-but I can work hard. I can do anything you want me to. If you need me to go shopping I can. I… can try and attempt to cook. If you need me to remind you about medications I can do that, too. I may be young but I’m a fast learner.”

“Ah…” he realizes something, nodding his head. “Good. You’re in high school and you only need this as a summer job?”

Shit.

“Y-Yes, sir. But I can work hard for as long as needed. I can push myself to be whatever you need.”

“Don’t panic. All I need is someone to come in for 2 months. Maybe 4 months. I won’t need help all year. All I need are basic things. Newspaper, household chores, feeding, and walking Shadow. Among other things. I need someone young and strong and stable. Reliable. I need someone to come in every day on time. I need you to show up and be here. Do you understand?”

“Of course.”

“I was recently released from the hospital and I am in recovery.” He knocks his cane on the floor. “That is why I have this. I am weak and in constant pain. My home was broken into and I was attacked.”

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. That must’ve been so scary.”

“I need you… to be completely available. It’s very important that you’re here with me. I will double your pay if you’re here with me after hours.”

The dark features on his face seemed frozen in half light and half dark, as if he was purposely trying to hide from me. The intensity of his expression doesn’t seem to falter while I squirmed in my chair, pulled my locks behind my ear, and looked down at the middle of the table. It was rude of him to stare for so long.

What’s wrong with this guy?

By now I can feel the pills and energy drink from this morning battle together in the pit of my gut for room making it hard for me not to sweat and squirm in my chair.

“Of course, sir. I can guarantee you’ll be happy.”

“You have an accent…” he noticed, turning his head in another direction. “You’re not from around, here are you?”

I knew he was laughing at me for being so ignorant. My fingers slide my red headband from my head, unraveling my hair down my shoulders and touching my back and the world is suddenly better with the cool air wafting against the back of my neck. It’s not so hot anymore.

I bit my lip,” No, sir.” I pause, for too long, drinking him in. “I live across town.”

Placing my headband back in place I try to remember that this is just a summer job and it’ll be over soon. My hair swoops and falls behind my back as he seems to be dissatisfied with my answer but he looks away and seems to enjoy the color of his living room wallpaper. Something catches his interest.

“Hmmm” he croaked looking at my breasts and I didn’t feel so invited anymore. 

Pervert.

My arms twitch moving in sync as he seems to be studying something on my neck and then moving to my shoulder. With each tilt of the head or glance, he moves in a shark-like motion. I can’t quite put my finger on it. Suddenly he moves his upper body forward and it’s a chance to see his face closer. My heart rate flutters when he’s no longer in the shadows. He tilts his head to the side looking at the ceiling, smelling. His neck cranes down, slowly shutting his eyelids, turning his head to look at the floor, smelling, almost as if he’s trying to look for me. The lamplight illuminates his face in a soft yellow/gold hue. His ‘smelling’ chills me to the bone and my body stiffens, clenching my toes in an attempt to hold back my stifled breathing and give me away. It wasn’t too long when his nose caught something wafting in the air between us, stops, smells again, and unclenches his cane releasing the tension in his knuckles and I could’ve sworn I heard him breathe a soft,” Fuck.”

“Do we have a problem?” the words suddenly leave my mouth and I immediately regret saying anything when his head sharply turns to look directly at me. “Do you want me to leave?”

Then I understand.

His eyes.

Very slowly, he turns his head to the windows, smelling, curling his fingers around the head of his cane. His knuckles pop and turn white he’s clenching so tight. The air became more intense as I watch him use his other senses. The lamplight illuminates more of his face each time he turns his head. I’m breathless when I notice his eyes are two milky white pools. His left eye is scarred, almost burned with star-shaped scars, with a milky white scar across his brow and bridging into his iris reaching his cheekbone. The whole left side of his face is covered in scars reaching to his ear. The other side of his face is smooth and unharmed but the damage has cost him his sight completely. His entire facial feature almost seemed…undead. I had no idea. And that means I’ve been an asshole for the past 5 minutes into my interview.

“You will be working in a blind man’s home…” he croaks looking at the wall, turning his head slowly to the floor and he withdraws back into the shadows. “You’ll do.”

 “I-I didn’t mean to-“

“No, you did not,” his voice seemed distant this time. “Here are the keys.”

On a single silver circle were 3 keys and a red label tag on each. Front door. Back door. Bedroom door. I pocketed the keys into my bag, unable to tear my gaze away from him sitting in the dark, fascinated and intimidated all at once.

“That’s it? I’m hired?” I asked.

“The one important…thing…” he croaked, coughing, covering his mouth, and regained himself. “You must do for me… is to never lie to me.”

I look at him out of the corner of my eye and shiver, moving my shoulders. He’s serious. Dead serious. Being in his presence burned something in me. Suddenly the atmosphere of the room shifted from being dreadful and dipped into a peaceful hush between him and me. His head tilted waiting for an answer.

“Of course,” I whispered.

He seems satisfied with my answer, leaning back, taking his cane, and pushing forward the little black book before leaving the room. He limps, turns his head in my direction, then leaves without another word. I look at the empty door frame, the book, and back to the door frame. I reached out and opened the book. It was a chores list of everything that needed to be done and completed in his home in a certain timeframe starting in the morning and ending precisely 12 hours later. My excitement is hard to contain! I finally achieved my summer job duties for the next couple of weeks! I scan through each page as fast as I can before realizing that it’s gorgeous. His handwriting (surprisingly) is very neat, thin, long curved, and beautiful, sitting perfectly on each double-spaced line perfectly. He may have lost his sight but he’s not as beastly as I thought. Before I know it he’s back in the room with me.

“I’ll be here early tomorrow morning. Thank you. I’ll do my best to make your home a happy one,” I smiled, looking into the empty doorframe. “Thank you Mr….”

My face goes red.

I don’t even know his name.

“You do not start tomorrow morning. There are some things that I need to prepare my home for before you arrive. I can’t risk another break-in. You start next week.”

I grab my bag and walk down the hallway and I can hear him thump around in the kitchen opening cabinets and shaking pots and pans, silverware, and silverware falling into the sink.

“Excuse me?”

“I need to prepare my basement before you arrive. There are some things I must do. Then you may begin.”

He turns on the faucet listening to the water splash over the porcelain bowls and heavy mugs clattering at the bottom of the sink. I watch him closely. He stares at the wall while both of his hands scan over every bowl, fork, mug, and knife and turns off the sink water before it reaches the rim. Lathering his hands in bubbles he grabs a rag and begins to rub and finger old coffee stains from a mug. I shrug tucking the book under my arm. He keeps his head perfectly balanced and straight, never once looking down or in any other direction. He’s completely in control.

“I don’t know your name…” I murmur, watching his hands look for a brush. “I’m Evey.”

For a moment he stops, and both his hands grasp the metallic edges of the sink, lowering his head down, listening this time. He turns towards me slowly as if he’s about to say something important. His knee twitches and he tries to hide it, but I can see he’s having a hard time standing on both legs. Limping and half-walking he steps closer to me until he’s standing nearly 3 feet away from me, breathing hard, looking at the ground and to my shoulder. This time I take a better look at his face and his milky white eyes and I’m completely entranced. Complete silence comes between us both and I’m not exactly sure what to do at this moment. My nose catches whiffs of wood (maybe cedar) and a certain musty smell mixed with fresh-cut grass and soap coming off of him. He may be a little older but he certainly doesn’t act or smell old at all. Not like other elderly people I’ve met, which I decided I liked about him. This man, this large intimidating man, uncurtained himself from the darkness and slowly devoured my name one morsel at a time.

“Evey…” he whispers, rolling my name around on his tongue.

He says my name slowly, taking time for him to fully appreciate the sharp and strong ‘E’ and ‘V’ that pronounces my whole name. 

Even when he says my name it sounds delicious.

His eyes go to the window as he turns his head to the ground, tilting his head to the side, listening for my presence for as long as he can. In a second I see his hand reach out for mine and my gut suddenly ripples with butterflies looking at the scars across his knuckles and arms. This man has been through hell and high water and it shows. The scars completely covered his knuckles in little dashes and marks crisscrossing over each muscle with soft white tissue. His whole body was a canvas of scars and I wondered what kind of artist was responsible for it. Slowly my hand grasps his (the butterflies turn into sparkles of fire almost melting my insides) and we are finally introduced in a soft peaceful shake.

The next day…

@theblindman

Slouched at your desk, your day was dragging. You were leaning against one hand as you absently doodled on a pad of paper.

Suzy, popped up above your cubical divider. “Y/N! What are you doing?” She asked cheerily.

You jumped having been lost in your thoughts.

She giggled, “Did I get you?”

You pushed back from your desk. “You did. But you know how jumpy I can be.” You ran your finger through your hair. “What’s on your mind?”

“I brought you something.”

You rose an eyebrow. “Oh?”

She handed the little plaque over to you. “I was going to give this to you for yoir new office.” Her voice trailed off as she bit her bottom lip. “But it’s still nice and you deserve it.”

You looked at it and then back up at her smiling. “That’s sweet. Thank you.” You placed it where a framed picture of you and well him had sat.

“Aw.” She made an endearing sound. “That looks good there.”

“It does.” You sat a little straighter. “And hey, I will still get that window office. I just have to work harder.”

“That’s right.”

******

A couple hours later, behind the wheel you were drumming your fingers waiting for the light to change when the garden shop caught your eye. You remembered your new neighbor. Everyone, liked planets. Much better then any food platter. And you remembered what Suzy gave you. Be the reason someone smiles today. That is exactly what you would do.

Crossing over to the other side of the intersection, you found a space in the parking lot beside a large assortment of pumpkins. That Halloween vibe was starting early this year, you were very happy about that.

“Good news residents of Detroit.” Your ears pricked. “Police believe they found the body of the man responsible for stealing of organs across the county.”

You smiled. “Good. Hope he’s dead.” You muttered, as you cut the engine.

*****

The nip of autumn’s arrival circled you as you looked at the rows and rows of plants. Wrapping your scarf around your throat a little tighter, you really hoped you would find something.

You smiled when the fresh scent of lemon grass filled your nose. You remembered your mom growing it when you were little. You grabbed a planter of it.

******

Happily you glanced at it as you pulled into your neighbor’s drive. The gravel crunched under your boots as you took out the planter. With a swish, you closed the door with your hip. The house looked worse for wear close up. It made you grimace.

I know.... it's here. So this chapter gets a little juicy so I'm only going to post HALF of it. I am a writer on the website Fanfiction and I have a collection of other juicy fanfictions about my favorite slashers. Jason, Freddy, Michael Myers, When A Stranger Calls, and more Norman Nordstrom. My bubble is small here so PM me and ask me for my account reference. Go yell at me there. Toodles and happy reading!

Chapter 4:

I open the package grandpa sent and tear open the envelope inside. It’s a postcard with a picture of Route 66 highway in the desert with a picture of a drunken cowboy on his horse holding up a sign ‘Howdy’. I smile and find what he’s promised me. It’s a single silver key, with an address, along with a new cellphone, the newest iPhone 17 already set up and his number is my only contact. I look back at the house and no one is awake yet. It’s almost noon and everyone including Bella is still asleep. I couldn’t sleep at all. Not a wink. I leave my neighborhood and board the bus to the address he listed and I come to a storage facility. It’s located south of the city and the owner, a man named Mike, allows me into the gate. I show him the key and the address and Mike immediately knows it’s from my grandpa. I guess he owned a storage unit here for over 25 years. Number 886 is on the key and he walks me to the storage unit talking about how my grandpa was always a loyal customer. Keeping antiques, bikes, and vintage cars here. But the man always had his secrets. He had his treasures and his precious possessions. Mike escorts me into a building, keys in the code, and we walk down one single hallway of 20 identical storage units inside. We walk all the way to the end until we come to mine.

Unit 886

“Thanks,” I smile.

He leaves and I take out the key from my pocket and slip it into the lock. Like a magic trick, it pops and unlocks. I roll the garage door up and I see a scooter in the middle of the room attached to a note and a single black leather suitcase on the seat. It must’ve been here for a long time because there’s a thin layer of dust over the bike. But it’s not just any bike. It’s a 1972 Ducati motorcycle the 750 GT edition, with a leather jacket, and of course a helmet. I open the note.

Happy 18th Birthday, my sweet grandbaby!

Grandpa loves you very much!

I went and got this restored for you a couple of years back. You’re still a youngin’ right now but I hope you like it.

Now go out and see the world.

Grandpa must’ve planned this a long time ago for my upcoming 18th birthday next year. My heart grows full and I wish more than ever I could leave this place now and never come back. Get gas, pack nothing, and hit the highway. I’m so happy he could give this to me now but I can’t leave yet. I need to plan my escape a little more carefully. Like Bella, mom would try and find me and bring me back like a lost dog. Now I have a way to get to work and mom will never know. She can never, ever, ever know. I look at the suitcase. It’s a large leather suitcase from the 70s with his name engraved in long and beautiful cursive letters on the box. There’s a combination on the side and I immediately get a text message from the man himself.

The code is 0215

My birthday. I look around the room and see a security camera with a blinking red light and I wave. My screen vibrates again.

Happy early birthday grandbaby

I spin the numbers until it pops open and inside is a small tactical box. As soon as I see a gun inside the foam of this box it should’ve made me shiver. But I know from an early age that grandpa was always a man who loved his Andy Griffon show, no raisins in his cereal, and loved his guns. Inside is a Glock 19 9mm, a good gun for a beginner. I close it, lock it, and decide to leave the gun here for now because god forbid I get pulled over without having a license to carry in Michigan. I shrug on my new leather jacket and feel it hug my body perfectly. It still smells new. I check my watch and I suddenly get an idea.

Hey, you around?

I press send and wait anxiously for a reply. Then my phone buzzes again but it’s not Nathan. It’s Bella.

Hey, sis, where are you? Dad kicked me out today and I’m getting Randy and we’re both going to the airport. I saw your note. Where can I pick you up?

Don’t worry about me. Just tell me where we’re meeting.

?. The old bowling alley near the school on Main Street. 15 minutes ETA

Gotcha

I put on my helmet and bring the glass protector down over my eyes and clip the strap under my chin. I slip in the keys, turn, and my bike kicks to life and I’m out of there. The speed and torque feel incredible as soon as I hit that asphalt and I’m suddenly in control of everything. I can feel the wind and the feel of the road. The engine is the best part, even sitting at a red light I can feel the power beneath my body. In no time I see Bella and Randy waiting inside the bowling alley for a table.

“Holy shit, what the fuck is that!?” Bella’s face lights up.

“It’s a gift from grandpa for my 18th birthday.”

“You lucky girl!”

From where she was standing I could see the bruises on her face, a busted lip, and a black eye. But, in a strange way, she moves with grace and confidence with a big smile on her face like last night never happened. She still stood tall in her shapeless black coat and the baggy clothing she wore did nothing to accentuate her figure, she was still undefeatable Isabella. She moved to me with the grace of a beauty queen beneath her bulky clothing and had every man in the bowling alley and bar following her every move, hypnotizing them like the swing of a pendulum.

“Hey, sis! I got you a beer.”

“You know I’m still underage.”

“Don’t worry about it, I know a guy. Come on, we got a table in the bar’s lounge.”

We sit and Randy is the first to apologize to me. He feels awful and tells me that it was his fault everything happened, he may have been a handsome idiot but he was still sweet to my sister. He places his hand over hers and gives her a squeeze, still happy she’s wearing his engagement ring. Wait… where’s her engagement ring?

“Bells, you didn’t….! Tell me you didn’t!”

She smiled,” I fucked up, E. It’s literally the least I could do. I got the money for you and pay you back like I promised I would. Please, take it and don’t give me any shit. You deserve to get the hell out of here just as much as anyone else does.”

“Bells…”

“Stop trying to defend me, E. I know you don’t hate me but you definitely should be mad. I’m going to do everything I can to get you out of here.”

“No, I get it.”

“Isn’t that right, babe?”

“That’s right.”

Randy smiled, touching her shoulder.

“That’s one of the reasons we wanted to talk to you. Bella told me what happened and I feel absolutely awful. This is completely my fault no matter what your sister says. So that’s why we’re moving out of the loft and trying to buy a house that would be big enough for the three of us.”

“The three of us?”

“We talked about this all night.”

“Like moving in together?”

“Yea, together, together.”

“Yes, we want to move to Arizona and take you with us. We got a little money saved in the bank and my aunt lives in Sedona with all the other older spiritual women who wear long turquoise jewelry and flowy dresses and 50 cats. I’ll be planning in a couple of months and I’m going to try and secure a job in Phoenix and make sure we’re taken care of. Maybe after you finish high school and graduate you can come live with us.”

“Just like we planned…”

“Together?”

“Together, always.”

Years ago, Bella and I had dreamed about our escape. Just leave and never come back and travel all over the world. With everything we both faced and experienced inside our home, we couldn’t do it without each other. When Bella left and I missed her so much, I cried for days. My big sister had become my only security blanket when dad was drinking and my mom would be depressed. There was no such thing as a simple day at the house. On the days I wept, I’d try and stay in bed and think of what to do alone. Where I could go and imagine what my life would be like. A world without mom or dad and how beautiful it would be. It seemed like a pipedream for both of us. Bella told me more about their plan and she convinced me to keep working with my new employee. My escape cannot be possible without him. Norman was the only man who could help me. All my dreams lay in his hands. We drank our beers, ate pizza, and played two games of bowling before we stood out in the parking lot saying our goodbyes. She gave me an envelope containing $2,000.

The Next Week:

I tucked my shirt into my pants and made sure mom and dad were still sleeping. I adjusted the ponytail on my head and made sure to leave before they woke up. No breakfast today, I’d eat later. My lunch was tucked into a plastic bag in the kitchen. A bologna sandwich with mayonnaise along with a bottle of water. My head keeps tricking me into thinking my father is standing behind me, but no one is there. Or my mother is waiting in the living room smoking and waiting to lecture me about the importance of the family and our survival. Her kind of survival was all about how much money her husband raked in every month and her dedication to the growth of her two daughters. We would lead her legacy. I could understand her worrying about the financial troubles of the family, but it ashamed me to actually take pity on her. She’s my mom. I’m supposed to forgive her, right? I grabbed my coat before carefully stepping downstairs and opening the front door. They wake up every day at 11 am to watch the news, sleep, go to the supermarket, and scream at each other. It’s 6:00 am in the morning on a cold Monday. So why was I so nervous? Maybe it was him I was getting nervous about. I walk out of the house and down the block to where I’ve hidden my bike behind some bushes and I get on. I rip off the camouflage tarp and start it. When arriving at his house I notice a large pile of mail stuck and wedged into the slot of the door like it’s been there for days, even months.

I knock.

His dog, Shadow, already announced my arrival before I parked my bike because as soon as my knuckles even touch his door he swings it open wearing a white shirt and blue jeans like he’s doing them a favor. He’s still as intimidating as he was when I last saw him. He’s so tall and my eyes flit over his torso.

“Evey?”

“Yes, hello.”

His chin points inward.

“Come in,” he says stepping back. “You can hang your coat in the closet here.”

“Good morning Mr. Nordstrom,” I smile. “Thank you.”

Before I step in his hand catches my wrist and for a moment I watch him, with interest, as his large calloused hand finds my elbow, holds me there as if he’s checking I’m truly there, and I shrug out of my coat. He takes his time. The leather fabric of my coat is heavy and thick almost like his arms and chest. Jesus Christ, he’s fit for his age. His shoulders are broad, broader than Nathan’s, and thickly corded. Mr. Nordstrom places my leather jacket inside the closet on a hanger and I notice his head is tilted to the side as if he’s smelling again. I notice that his fingers linger on my leather jacket for a moment longer as if there are traces of my warmth that still linger deep within the material. His salt and pepper hair is thick at the sides and slightly long on top, all combed back from his cruel face that is completely riddled with mystery and scars. Streaks of silver hair only add to the sense of authority, maturity, and experience he carried about him.

“Follow me,” he orders.

I follow him down the hallway to the kitchen he walks with confidence, one hand tracing along the wall, and he pulls out a chair for me again. I sit and still watch him with interest. With fascination. He reaches for something on the stove and pulls two cups from the cupboard. Then pulls out a jar of sugar and a carton of milk from the fridge.

“Coffee.”

It’s not a question but more like a statement. Like, hey, I have this.

“Yes, please,” I say politely.

I can’t take my eyes off this man.

As he moves through his kitchen with such fluidity, I wonder if it’s his job to care for me than vice versa. Norman doesn’t have a coffee machine like 99% of households but he has a silver percolator that’s old, very old, and is decorated with little dents all over it. He must’ve prepared this before I arrived because the coffee is hot and ready to be served. And, holy shit, the smell of coffee wafts through the kitchen and my mouth immediately waters. Its dark and rich aroma is so incredible my whole body shivers.

Starbucks, eat your heart out.

My lips move and my tongue pushes to the roof of my mouth suddenly craving its dark, crisp, and pleasant taste. Norman places a porcelain cup in front of me and he pours me the first cup. The coffee is the same color as my leather jacket, jet black. His biceps stretch the material of his shirt a little as he pours and I can’t help but smell him. He smells clean like Irish soap, cedar wood, and earthy fresh cut grass completing his Lord of the Manor look, along with the snowy white shirt that is a stark contrast to his tanned features. I take one spoonful of sugar and little dribbles of milk into my coffee and stir as I watch him pour himself a cup and sit across from me. Even sitting down his large presence almost takes up half the table, half the room, and half my thoughts.

Jesus, Evey, get a hold of yourself.

This man is self-disciplined. He doesn’t add any sugar or milk to his cup and he doesn’t take his time sipping his coffee as I do. There’s just not enough time, I guess.

“Do you have the list I gave you?”

“Hmm? Oh, yea, I have it.”

“Good, take your bike and park in the garage and lock it up. I’ll give you the key. Sometimes people, kids, will steal.”

“O-Ok.”

He could hear I was riding a bike. I kept my gaze downcast to my cup, a question itching in the back of my mind.

“How did you—”

“I have good hearing.” He finished his cup, both his large hands gripping the mug, almost engulfing it. “Underestimate no one.”

My chest tightened,” Ok.”

“Do you have any more questions?”

“Umm…” my mind went through a million questions like a bullet bursting through the neck of a whiskey bottle. 

My cheeks flame when a little coffee drips down his strong taut neck and my self-restraint to stare became a meaningless rumble on the edges of my consciousness. He catches it with his thumb and licks it. Stop it. Be professional. Get a hold of yourself. My head lowers, clearing my throat, trying to stir my coffee and feeling afraid of what I would find in myself if I stared at him any longer.

“Yea, I do…” I blush even harder. There’s a nervous wobble to my voice. “I know you’ve been injured because you were attacked and you’re also… v-visually impaired.”

“Just say blind.”

“Ok.” I’m not sure why I get so tongue-tied around this man.

“It’s alright,” he assures. His tone is warm and I feel more comfortable. It almost catches me off guard.

“You wrote in your list that you would need personal help. So, my question is: How would you like me to help you?”

It’s a polite question and I watch him lean back in his chair. He’s hesitant but eventually reveals one big secret.

“I was shot.”

“Oh,” I almost gasp when he stands and turns to point at his ribcage and lifts his shirt.

It’s a gunshot wound that is still healing and by the looks of it— painful, still very painful.  It’s still bandaged and still red, almost purple. It’s like a dark purple-ish black bruise. He wasn’t just shot from the looks of his bruises and marks, he must’ve been in a fight. And won. Even when he lifts his shirt up, stretching his waist, he winces slightly, trying not to exude any weakness. Holy shit, he has a six-pack. He takes my reaction as a reply and sits down.

“I just need it cleaned every now and then.”

A big part of me wants to reach out and graze my hand at his wound and feel his side. Even from where he’s standing I can feel his body heat practically lick at the cool air. But you never touch a wounded animal, not even one as tame as he is.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.

“It’s not your fault.”

He drops his shirt down, seating himself.

“Another rule: don’t move any furniture around. Under any circumstances. When you leave this table put your chair back. When you take a broom put it precisely where you found it. Never rearrange anything without telling me. Not even a chair. Not even a spoon. I have a memory of everything in this house and things have a special place.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Nordstrom.”

“Norman,” he says with a slight chuckle. “You have nothing to worry about.”

“Ok.”

“Do you see the keys hanging on the wall by the door?”

I look over,” Yes.”

“You may take those keys and go to the garage. Today I will skip breakfast. I will be upstairs when you return.”

“Alright.”

Finishing my coffee, I escorted my bike inside the garage. I tapped the kickstand down next to an old broken-down Chevy truck that was halfway covered with an old tarp. Tools, work table, and dusty shelves. An old cedar box was also displayed containing an American flag, medals, and a plaque with his name on it. Norman was a Navy Seal, or he used to be. Another piece of the puzzle fell into place. Returning inside, I delve into my duties. Norman stayed upstairs the entire day. I fed and walked Shadow the Rottweiler around the block. The big bear was a big baby who was fond of head scratches, baby talk, and his tennis ball. As I completed my duties as a caregiver, I discovered little clues about my mysterious employer. His home wasn’t too close to downtown but it wasn’t far either. His nearest neighbor was about 5 blocks down and the nearest store was 15 minutes away. The living room is an exquisite room, full of personal artifacts sitting in a tidy clutter against the walls in boxes. Books, pictures, and family photo albums. Displayed together it looks beautiful and incomparable. I’m holding the vacuum nozzle in my hand pressing the button on the box activating the vacuum to suck the spider webs off the ceiling corners. I’m standing on my toes going along the ceiling walls. I push my foot on the tab and it shuts off slowly. I roll the hose and box back into the closet and grab the broom next. The living room curtains are draped back into neat knots revealing enough sunlight to bring some charm into this house. The walls look blue/green with white frames around the doors and windows. I take a look at the list making a mental note of what’s next. There still feels like there’s so much to do. Dust bunnies fly and bounce around my feet as I gather them in a dustpan and dump it in the trash. I check my time. It’s almost 4:30 and that means I have to duct tape the carpets to the floorboards. Kneeling down, slipping off my gloves, I grab the giant silver roll and tear off a sticky strip and apply it evenly to the edge of the carpets, pushing my thumb against it evenly.

Creeaakkk…

I lift my head up and expect to see Mr. Nordstrom standing in the hallway leaning against the wall but there’s no one there. The hallway lamps aren’t on so it’s too dark to see past the frame of the doorway. I stand up holding the duct tape in my hand looking down the hallway and trying to listen to another sound. Could it be my imagination? It must be nothing. Pressing my lips together, the suspicion vanishes from my head. I go into the kitchen and take out the mop and bucket and squeeze the handle twisting the braids until it’s damp and warm. I rotate the handle in a sliding motion across the floor until the smell of thick soap fills my nostrils and I squeeze the handle twisting the braids until it’s not dripping anymore. I move across the floorboards as efficiently as I can. I’m sure to generously use as much water and soap as possible before twisting the dirty water out of the braids and continuing into the hallway.

Creeaakkk…

Creeaakkk…

I stop and looked up at the ceiling. Little bits of dirt fell in strings from the ceiling with each thump and footfall coming from Mr. Nordstrom. He was coming downstairs. I mopped as fast as I could across the floorboards because it was nearing 5:00 and my laundry chore wasn’t done! I threw the mop and bucket into the closet, washed my hands, tied back my hair, and fiddled for a hairpin. I hurry and grab the laundry basket off the washer and hold it against my hip. My timing couldn’t be more perfect as the man walked into the kitchen. He’s wearing his white shirt and jeans from this morning with socks but no boots holding his cane, his leg still trembling. Why didn’t he ask for my help coming down the stairs? His hand holds the frame of the entryway into the kitchen and he couldn’t look any more rugged than he is now.

“Hello,” I said, so he’ll know I was located in the room.

He tilts his head to the side. As if he’s looking at the floors and suddenly I’m nervous. He tilts his head looking at the windows across the room and I understand what he’s doing. He begins to smell the room again, calculating my work. It must smell clean and it wins his approval. He steps forward and reaches for the chair. I stand there measuring his actions. It seems like he’s tired, weak, or friendly, but I could never be too sure.

“The cabinet. Bring me what’s in the cabinet…” his gravelly voice mumbled pointing across the kitchen.

I look at the cabinet, him, and back at the cabinet. Setting the basket down I open it and there’s only one box. It’s a box of canned goods. Some of these looked a couple of years old. Some of them had labels and trademarks I’d never seen before. The cans rumble and clink and clank together as I set them on the table in front of him. Slowly he reaches for the box looking straight ahead of him, his fingers feeling the soft smooth cardboard, and begins to take out the cans. One by one he takes them all out and makes sure it’s empty before counting them.

“Sit,” he orders.