Jack stung my ears the first time your mother said his name. The wind carried particular venom that day, as it usually does in March, but no, I’m certain it was the name. Fingers buried deep into the slushing, icy soil of the garden, I jumped at the sound of your mother squishing across the grass behind me.
But before she said that name, she said, “What do you think you’re doing?” as if she had just ripped open the door to the stables and caught a raccoon in the feed.
I leaned back to look at her. When before I was a dog, now I was a student of prayer, the chill soaking even further into the knees of my pants. The metal frame of the wheelchair caught my back, sitting me at attention before your mother.
Her dyed hair brushed the gray sky like grain before the harvest. But it is spring, and beyond the hair, her buttoned wool coat and matching heels looked out of place in the garden. I suppose she always has.
“Well?” She said. You and I both know what that means. Her right hand on her hip said, “I thought Dr. Addams told you gardening was out of the question,” as her left, keys clicking against her ring, said, “You’d be lucky if I helped you up.”
“I got it,” I told her. I don’t lie to your mother, except in the rare instance where pride is at stake.
I will be dead by the time you read this, so as I write, I make a commitment to be candid. Like any writer or documentarian long gone, forgive me my mistakes of action and opinion in exchange for my experiences.
I pushed up on the plastic handle, raising myself back into the hospital leather of the seat. The wheels sunk further into the grass, and next to her heels, we found ourselves temporarily stuck.
In my experience, your mother and I have succumbed to gravity. We push the unsaid and unnecessary under the ground beneath our feet, but it has followed us through the years, strong magnets under a schoolroom table. When she scowls at me, the lines in her face attempt a smile, attempt to say, “But haven’t we been through worse than this?” And I suppose the crease of my jowls and my crow’s feet offer a quiet response: “I love you enough to let you see me crumble like this.”
She sighed and walked behind me, dragging the wheelchair along the two tracks I made in the soaked turf. Her coat brushed against the back of my head and neck, and I let her take me to the gravel.
“I’ve found him,” she said.
“Who?”
“I met him at Betty’s today. He describes himself as a ‘universal,’ an everyman. You hire him, and he has the skills for any task. Escort, chef, trainer, gardener-“
“Sarah, I told you I’m not going over this.”
“But Dr. Addams said you can’t garden anymore. We need someone to hold things up around here.”
As she pushed me up the path, the house towered over me, even this far away. The Herald says it’s beautiful, but beauty doesn’t push itself in someone’s face. But here, the estate designed ages ago burned itself into my eyes. The Roman pillars. The gothic arches. The house knows beauty, knows it took the best features from other marvels built better, crafted by a more caring hand, and stands tall in spite.
Your mother kept talking, breath hot on the back of my neck as she strained to push me down the path. “He left an immediate impression on me. More than anyone we’ve interviewed so far.”
“We?” The wheelchair bumped over a rut.
She ignored me, “Sandra hired him. He was there with her. He stood at her side with his arms crossed behind his back like he was her bodyguard. But guess what Betty said.”
“What did Betty say?”
“Betty- she had at least three glasses of wine at this point- she said, ‘Why don’t you sit down, Mr. Big, you aren’t going to lose it if you sit on it!’
“And he smiled, only giving her so much as a small chuckle, and he sat down on the couch next to Sandra. And he sat as upright as he stood. It was incredible, really.
“I don’t know why Sandra hired him, really. He brought a casserole, but I think it must have been for appearances. She has been divorced recently, you know. And it was a smart choice on her part. He’s chiseled. That if you didn’t know, or didn’t remind yourself, you would forget he was human and mistake him for a statue. His name is Jack.”
And it stung my ears. The way she spoke of him. The way the house loomed. The way the wind screamed through the breezeways. I said, “Get to the point.” I’m not proud of this.
“Well, hold on,” She stopped pushing me and rounded to face me. Her cheeks flushed. I told myself it was just that she had been pushing me. But the blood in her face was young, and the sight settled in me, dragging me further into the seat of the wheelchair.
“The party went on, and I don’t know if I ever want to go back,” She said.
“Well, of course. It’s nothing but a bunch of debutantes, honey. You aren’t supposed to fit in. You’re above that.”
“I’ve grown up with them. They’re my friends. But the way they handled him. Debby stood up at one point and took his hand and pulled him off the couch.
“’I apologize, but I don't dance,’ he said. It must have been the first thing I heard him say. He offered it to Debby like an olive branch, and she just took it-“
“And ate the olives.”
“Exactly!”
“I know Debby. Never been told no.”
“But it wasn’t just her,” she said, “It was the rest of the ladies, too. They all stood up and crowded him, except me, of course. And they each went at him, not even one at a time, each of them reaching for him like he was something different to every lady. I don’t think I’ve ever seen them caught in such a trance like that. There wasn’t even any music. At a jewelry party, no less.
“And he just looked so out of place there. Like a suited centerpiece in the middle of this pink room. Debby has too much furniture, you’ve seen it. And Jack looks over to me in the middle of all this and doesn’t say anything, because he’s too polite, I think. But I could tell what he wanted, so I told them to back off, and I asked him if he would help me carry the china into the kitchen.”
“Can we finish inside?”
She put her hand on her hip again. But this time it said, “Why are you so bothered by this?” She spun the ring with her thumb on the other hand. It knew why.
So she said, “Sure,” and she grabbed me again and heaved.
“I offered him an out in the kitchen,” she breathed. “I asked how many people he was working for, and he said eight and I said I would compensate equally and he could come work for us full time. I told him about you.”
“What about me?”
“That you can’t walk, and that you can’t maintain the grounds anymore, and that’s someone’s going to have to help out around here-“
“I can’t walk? I’ve been told not to walk. It’s different.” Another lie, and another instance of pride. I pulled the brakes on the chair and forced myself up on the plastic handles.
Your mother put her hands on my shoulders, but I wouldn’t let her hold me there. I stood up with great difficulty, and I stood taller than her again. The wheelchair had kept my breath, and I found myself huffing. I looked her in the eye. When you really love someone, you have to hate them, too.
“I don’t need a replacement,” I said.
“He’s not a replacement,” She crossed her arms. The wind ripped at her hair. “He’s a different person.”
“You know what I mean. Whatever you offered him, call him and tell him thanks, but no thanks.”
“But-“
“Sarah, I can do it if I have to.”
But off and away from us, curling around the other side of the house, came the sound of crunching gravel. Sarah looked up at me. I sucked in breaths. Deep, angry breaths.
“I already invited him,” she said, pointing to my chair, “But go ahead. Show me you don’t need him.”
She turned and stabbed her way across the lawn. She waved as the car door opened.
A hand waved back, followed by a man who pulled himself out in one smooth motion. With a flick of his hand, he suggested the door shut. It complied quietly. He walked to the front, framed by the headlights, and stood at attention. I couldn’t make out much of his face, save for the shadows carved around his cheeks and jaw. Sarah called something out, but I couldn’t hear her over the wind. She pointed to me, and he adjusted his head in my direction. He nodded. And I don’t know if I’ve ever hated the sight of someone as much as when he looked at me then.
He challenged me. I’m sure he could see me gasping for air, shaking on the stilts of my legs.
This is aging: when there is a will but no way. And there was no way I could stay standing. So I sat. And he stood. And then he extended a hand to Sarah, who shook it like when we first met. And then he made his way toward my garden and me, in measured steps over our weathered lawn.