Caretakers (Tyler Cunningham) by Jamie Sheffield Read Free Book Online

in my direction and/or to loft a conversational slow-pitch my way, but I am horrible at polite conversation, and was able/destined to avoid getting caught up in whatever they were talking about. I took in the old and dark wood all around me, the fancy but well used silver at the table ( and in Deirdre’s hands and mouth ), the birchbark placemats around the table decoratively stitched with porcupine quills, the smells of old wood and dust and moth balls and pitch and Murphy’s Oil Soap and coffee and lake and pine needles, the sound of a loon out on the lake yelling at a jetskier and the help rattling around in the kitchen while ‘the wealthy Spanish landowners’ ( a phrase my father had always used to describe America’s old money, a Zorro reference I believe ) debated the merits of various pastors in their log-built summer church and canoe trips they had all done dozens of times over the years. I took it all in, taking advantage of the chance to be a fly on the wall.
    The mood, and my reverent study of the great camp environment, was broken when Anthony came into the room, followed, noisily, by Kitty Crocker. She rattled through the door, propelled and held aloft by an incongruent ( both in this setting, and apparently, by design ) aluminum walker with bright/new/glowing tennis balls on its feet. The walker seemed to bang into everything, establishing its territory like an aggressive dog, and fit into the calm ( and calming ) room like poop in a punchbowl ( a saying that popped unbidden into my head, my mother’s, from my childhood … this place seemed to evoke memories of long ago times ). Kitty scowled at attempts to help her, at her walker, at Anthony for suggesting that they should pull up the old Persian carpet to allow her easier access to the room, at Mike’s too-large/too-early bourbon, and to a lesser degree, at my presence ( I know that she wanted me to do what I do, but I had complicated her day in a number of ways, and so had certainly earned the scowl ); little Deirdre was our saviour.
    As if scripted, she reached for the walker as Kitty hunched and shuffled past her, grabbing one of the brightly colored balls, and nearly making the old woman fall. Everyone drew breath at the same moment, anticipating disaster/anger/shouting/crying ( except me, I like to watch crises not of my creation unfold, to log/learn about human emotions under stress ), then Kitty turned to me, and said, “Tyler, get one of these balls for her so she doesn’t kill me.”
    It broke the ice, made the kid happy, let the family know where I stood ( somewhere between acquaintance and hired help ), and helped Kitty get past her awkwardness about being old and cranky and dying and difficult. I pulled a ball off the walker, gave it to Deirdre, and helped Kitty negotiate her way into the seat at the head of the table. Anthony hustled in with a drink for her, which smelled like rum and tonic ( which seemed horrific to me, but I find alcohol nasty and stupid stuff to consume in the best case, so I should not be trusted to judge other people’s drink choices ).
    As soon as Kitty was settled comfortably, the food started coming in, and the au pair ( too attractive ‘Tessa from Odessa’, who did, it was only fair to say, get watched more closely than seemed warranted by three of the four male humans in the room ) got Deirdre into a strikingly modern-looking highchair. Talk shifted to news, and eager anticipation of reading ‘The Times’ ( which isn’t available in the Adirondacks until after church on Sundays, apparently a hardship on par with plague or famine ), with opinions sought and offered about current events among the adults, as food was being passed and served and eaten. Sunday lunch was cold and casual and yummy, although surprisingly it came with both salad and dessert.
    I resumed my imitation of a fly on the wall, interrupted only once by Deirdre’s au pair, who was seated to my left, when she asked what I did. Everyone but