The moment Loretta opens her front door, I can tell something is up. Her rosy complexion is gone. Her long white hair looks like it hasn’t been washed in a week.
She frowns at the plate of chocolate chip cookies I am holding. “I’m sick,” she says.
“Oh no!” I say. “What kind of sick?”
She says, “I can’t do cookies tonight, Jimmy.”
“That’s alright,” I say. “How sick are you? What are your symptoms? Anything I can do?”
“No,” she says.
“Is it some kind of bug?” I say.
“Some kind of bug,” she says. “I need to go lay down. Excuse me.”
“Let me know if I can do anything!” I say as she closes the door. “Feel better!”
I hurry across the yard, back to my house. In the kitchen, I dump the unclaimed cookies into the EAT jar. I open Priscilla’s jar and fish her out. I place her on the talking plate.
“Priscilla!” I say. “Our tenant is sick!”
Priscilla says, How sick?
“I don’t know,” I say. “She answered the door.”
Not bedridden then, Priscilla says.
“I’m scared,” I say. “Loretta is old! What if she dies?”
If she answered the door she’s probably fine, Priscilla says.
“What do I do??” I say.
Nothing for now, Priscilla says. She’s safe in the cottage. You can always check up on her.
The next day, Loretta’s son Brandon comes by in the early afternoon. This is cause for concern because Brandon never comes by—Loretta always goes to his. I watch from behind my easel as he comes through the back gate, unlocks the cottage door, and goes inside.
I turn back to my painting, a portrait of Priscilla on her plate. I add depth based on suggestions Loretta gave me. To every chocolate chip in Priscilla’s smile, I add a little white. To her golden cheeks, I add brown. Brandon leaves the cottage. I put down my brush and run through the kitchen to the back door.
“Brandon!” I call. “Oh Brandon!”
He turns and takes a breath. “Hi, Jimmy.”
“How’s your mom doing?” I say.
“She’s sleeping,” he says.
“I know she’s sick.,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says.
“What kind of sick?” I say.
He shrugs. “Sick.”
“What are her symptoms?”
“She’s got a bit of a fever.”
“She does??”
“A slight one.”
“Is she able to get out of bed on her own?”
“Of course,” he says. “She’s taking ibuprofen. I’ve gotta go…”
I wave him off. “See you.”
I go back in the house. I return to my painting. I think about Loretta, suffering across the yard. I hope Brandon comes back.
Hours go by. I overdo it on Priscilla’s cheeks. I stop painting and pull up a chair.
“Isn’t it irresponsible,” I say. “To leave your elderly mother with a fever?”
Maybe the fever’s low, Priscilla says.
“He said it’s slight,” I say. “But what if it goes up? From what we know, this sickness just started yesterday.”
If it’s a slight fever she’s probably fine, Priscilla says.
“But there’s a possibility it could go up, right?” I say.
Yes, Priscilla says.
“So what should I do?” I say.
Priscilla says, Call Brandon?
“I don’t know,” I say.
What if you call Loretta? Priscilla says.
“You know P,” I say. “I had not even thought of that.”
Old people are people too, Priscilla says. They can tell us what they need.
“Too right you are,” I say.
I pull out my phone and call Loretta. But Loretta doesn’t pick up.
Evening arrives. It is getting dark. I give Loretta two more calls. She doesn’t answer. I think about calling Brandon. I really think about it.
Instead, I go across the yard and knock on the cottage door. I wait. I knock again. It is normal to wait up to ten minutes for Loretta to answer the door. I wait fifteen, and when she doesn’t come, I insert my key into the lock and slowly push the door open.
Inside it is pitch-black. I turn on the flashlight on my phone and make my way through the dining area to the bedroom. The bedroom door is ajar. I can hear Loretta breathing: sharp, rattling breaths. Clearly, she has mucus in her throat. I hold the light low to the ground as I step into the bedroom. I look at her silhouette. She’s lying on her back! She needs to be turned on her side; we can’t have her choking on the mucus.
I turn off my flashlight as I step up to the edge of the bed. In my very softest whisper, I say her name.
“Loretta.”
The mucus rattles. I say her name again. Then again, the tiniest bit louder. I keep saying it—Loretta, Loretta, Loretta—over and over, ramping up the volume by a hair each time until…
She snorts. “Huh?”
I steel my nerves. I do my best impression of a thought: “Tuuurrrn ooon yooour siiide.”
I hear no movement in the darkness below me.
“Tuuurrrn ooon yooour siiide,” I whisper again.
Just her breathing, shallow now.
“Tuuurrrn—”
Her sheets rustle. There is a shifting sound, and she emits a satisfied grunt.
She’s safe. She’s alive. I can find out more tomorrow. I turn and tiptoe back the way I came.
In the morning, Brandon returns. I sip coffee and watch through the kitchen window as he enters the cottage. When he comes out twenty minutes later, I step outside.
“Hey Brandon!” I give a big wave. “How is she?”
Brandon doesn’t stop walking. “Hanging in there,” he says.
“Doing better?” I say.
“About the same.”
He goes through the gate, gets into his little white car, and rolls off.
I go back in the house. I pace around the living room in my robe. I need to know more. Again, I call Loretta. Again, she doesn’t pick up. Out comes Priscilla, onto the plate.
“Priscilla!” I say. “This will not do! Brandon is saying nothing! Loretta isn’t picking up!”
Priscilla says, If Brandon came and left, surely Loretta is fine. Plus, you just saw her last night.
“He said she’s hanging in there!” I say. “That tells us nothing! I have to go back over there.”
This time I wait five minutes after knocking. The cottage is still dark, but it is navigable now. Daylight pours out of Loretta’s bedroom. I creep to the edge of the door and peer in. In the light of the window, she lies with her eyes open, blanket pulled to her chin, staring at the ceiling. I don’t hear her breathing! My heart leaps into my throat, I go weak at the knees, but then she blinks. I regain my composure.
She calls, hoarsely, “Brandon?”
She heard me come in. I take four steps back and call, “Loretta? It’s Jimmy.”
“What the hell??” she says. She explodes into a violent coughing fit. I don’t know what to do.
“Jimmy,” she wheezes. “Water!”
Water! I run into the bedroom. Loretta is sitting up, pitching back and forth. There’s an empty glass on the nightstand. I grab it. I run to the kitchen, turn on the tap, fill the glass, and run back to Loretta, spilling all over my arms. She gulps greedily. When she has drained the glass, she holds it out to me and I take it. She collapses backward onto her pillow and pulls the covers tight.
I set the glass on the nightstand. As I do, I notice something. Also on the nightstand, behind the almost-empty tissue box, is an ear thermometer. I look at Loretta. She’s looking at me.
“Why are you here?” she whispers.
“Um,” I say. “Brandon said I should come check up on you. To see if you need anything.”
“Hm,” she says.
“Loretta,” I say. “Brandon said you have a fever.”
“Yes,” she says.
“So,” I say. “One of the things he asked me to do is take your temperature.”
“What?” she says.
“Can I?” I say.
“You want to take my temperature?” she says.
“Yes,” I say.
She looks at me for a long moment, eyes narrowed. At last, she says, “Fine.”
“Great,” I say.
I grab the thermometer and turn it on. Zeros appear on the little screen. I look for Loretta’s ears, but both are covered by her hair.
“Do you want to move your hair?” I say.
“No,” she says.
“Can I move your hair?” I say.
She closes her eyes. “Fine.”
I bend and gently take her hair in my fingers. I tuck it behind her ear. Slowly, gently, I insert the thermometer into her ear canal. I push the trigger button and it beeps. I pull it out.
99.8, the little screen reads. I breathe a sigh of relief. My breath moves a few hairs on her forehead.
“Sorry,” I say. I stand up straight. “It’s ninety-nine point eight. Slight fever, but that’s not too bad.”
She doesn’t respond.
“Do you need anything?” I say. “Water? Food? I can keep you company?”
“Water,” she says. “And please draw the blinds on your way out.”
I fill her glass and place it on the nightstand. I draw the blinds.
“Are you just gonna sleep now?” I say.
“Yes,” she whispers.
I let myself out. I do a dance in the yard.
The next day, I go to work. After work, driving up to my house, I notice Brandon sitting on my front steps with his head in his hands. When I pull to the curb, he gets up. I get out of the car immediately.
“Brandon,” I say. “Oh no, Brandon. Is she…”
He walks rapidly toward me. “What the fuck?” he says.
“What?” I say. Then I realize.
“Creepy motherfucker.” He grabs for my shirt and I dodge him.
“I just wanted to make sure she was alright!” I say.
He lunges for me again and I run toward the house, fumbling with my keys. He is hot on my heels.
“I didn’t do anything wrong!” I say. “You were just not there and I was worried about her!”
I run up the steps. I throw the screen door into him as I shove the key into the lock and turn the handle. He snatches at me as I enter, tries to come in after me, but I push him out with the heavy wooden door. I lock it. On the other side, the screen door has not shut.
“Brandon,” I say.
“You know you broke the law?” he says.
“Yes,” I say. “And I’m sorry.” I haven’t actually thought about the law at all. Have I broken it?
He shouts, “An utter, fucked-up violation of personal space and privacy!!”
He thumps the door with his fist and the screen bangs shut. I hear the scuffing of his shoes as he goes down the steps. I back up and look toward the window on the side of the house. The top of his head passes as he goes to the back yard.
Suddenly my phone starts vibrating in my pocket. I pull it out. The screen says Loretta.
I answer.
“Jimmy,” she rasps. “I want you to come over here and see me.”
“Loretta,” I say. “I would like nothing more, but your son is in the back yard, and he wants to hurt me, apparently.”
“I’ll call him off,” she says.
She hangs up. I run to the kitchen. Through the window, I see Brandon pacing. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He holds it to his ear. His mouth moves rapidly. He nods. His mouth slows down. He turns and walks out the gate and gets into his car.
I open the back door and step out. For a moment all is quiet. Then hard rock music blares from Brandon’s car.
I cross the yard to the cottage. The door is unlocked. The light coming from the bedroom is yellow now—a lamp is on. I find Loretta sitting on the edge of her bed, folded over her sweatpant-clad legs. She sits up.
She says, “I know you mean well.”
“Yes!” I say. “I mean well!”
“But,” she says. “That doesn’t make it right, what you did.”
“Right,” I say. “Doesn’t make it right.”
“I’m moving out,” she says.
“What?” I say.
“I can’t trust you,” she says. “So I have to move out.”
“Oh,” I say.
“Hand me my cane,” she says.
I do. She presses it into the ground and stands.
“Promise me,” she says. “You will never enter the home of a tenant again.”
“I promise,” I say.
“Good,” she says. “You can go now. I’ll be going too.”
“Do you need a hand?” I say.
“No,” she says. “Go.”
I walk through the dining area and stop just outside the door. Loretta passes me. She reaches the gate and goes through it. Brandon switches off the music. In the silence I walk back to my house, then turn around. Brandon, out of the car now, helps Loretta into the passenger seat. He walks back around to the driver’s side and gets in himself. Off they go.
Joseph Allegro resides in Tacoma, Washington, where he was born and raised. He has lived in Massachusetts and Rhode Island and has had many landlords.
