Sweet
Arielle Nygard
When I open the front door to Sam’s French-style mansion, Munchkin is waiting for me on the welcome mat. As soon as I step inside, he winds himself around my ankles, his bushy gray tail standing straight up and tickling my knees. I bend down to pick him up, having discovered that this is the easiest way to avoid tripping over him. He rubs the top of his furry head under my chin. “Hi bud,” I say as I walk down the hall to our favorite spot. “What do you feel like doing today?” In answer, Munchkin lets out a great rumbling purr. “The brush? I suppose I could get the brush out,” I say with a laugh.
I walk to the kitchen and see a huge vase of flowers on the counter. My name is written, beautifully, on a large white envelope. “What’s this?” I say to Munchkin. I put the cat on the counter and open the envelope.
Dear Arielle,
Thank you so much for taking such good care of Munchkin. He means the world to me, and knowing that he’s receiving love and attention while I’m away makes this trip bearable.
Sam
“Your dad is a sweetie,” I tell Munchkin. The bouquet of soft pink roses and bold pink-and-white stargazer lilies is stunning, and the gesture is so unexpected, that I spend thirty seconds just staring at them. Munchkin doesn’t appreciate my shift in focus and taps a paw on my nose, none too gently. “Sorry bud, I’m back.”I pull out my phone. “I just need to thank Sam, and then I’m all yours.”
The flowers are beautiful! Thank you!
I retrieve the brush from a kitchen drawer and take my charge to the sunroom. We settle on the floor, in a beam of warm afternoon sunlight. Munchkin lies on his side between my legs and I run the brush along his soft fur. “A bit of pampering feels good, doesn’t it?” The cat practically vibrates his purring is so loud. “Don’t suppose you’d like to return the favor later?” He opens one eye just enough to glare at me. “I didn’t think so.”
I brush out what looks like a pound of loose fur, which I dispose of in the trash bin outside the kitchen. I make myself a cup of coffee in Sam’s very fancy espresso machine – the man does know good coffee – and return to Munchkin in the sunroom. “How come we always hang out here?” I ask him. “You’ve got a whole huge house to yourself, but we never sit anywhere else.” I don’t get any sort of response, but it gets me thinking. Why is this room Munchkin’s favorite?
I take a long look around the room. The overstuffed sofa faces a wood-burning fireplace with a large flatscreen TV hanging above the mantle. A baby grand piano sits in the corner of the room, next to the sitting area. Full length cottage-pane windows enclose the room and let in the sunlight as it tracks its way across the sky each day. On the wall opposite the fireplace is a large floor-to-ceiling bookcase filled with books on art, music, history, and novels from a diverse array of authors.
And it dawns on me. This is Munchkin’s favorite room because it’s Sam’s favorite room. This is the room that Sam spends his free time in, where he reads, watches TV, relaxes at the end of the day. I will confess to snooping around the rest of the house, but in my defense, it was mostly to get my bearings. I found an office, furnished with a beautiful dark wood desk and a high-end office chair. There’s a guest suite with a fully made-up bed, but it clearly isn’t Sam’s room. I was sure it would be, given that he’s in a wheelchair. The laundry room is off the kitchen – very practical. There’s also a formal lounge, a large dining room, and a guest bathroom. But none of them look lived in. Sam obviously values his privacy, living outside the suburbs on a huge lot, but he lives more like a bachelor than a socialite.
At the start of my employment, I had also peeked upstairs. There is a massive master suite with anen suitebathroom and a walk-in closet – I haven’t had the nerve to do more than poke my head around the door; it’s his private space after all. However, the strong masculine lines and rich scent of cologne give me a slight hint of the man who occupies the space. He’s manly, that’s for sure. I have no idea how he makes up to the second level, though. Maybe the chair isn’t a permanent feature. Perhaps he has some mobility. It’s not like I can ask him or anything. “Oh, by the way, are you cripple?” Yeah, that’s not going to fly. There are also three bedrooms, and two bathrooms. One of the rooms is locked and I suspect it’s being used as storage. The other rooms stand empty.
“Ah,” I say to the cat as I make myself comfortable on the couch, “I understand now.” Munchkin settles himself in my lap and I scratch his head. We sit like this for a long time, just the two us, in companionable silence.
Until I started caring for Munchkin, I didn’t know how much I enjoyed sitting still. If I ever had time like this before, I’d feel guilty for not doing something. When Steve was alive, I’d been a twenty-first-century wife and mother, with a half-day office job and a full-time home job. I cooked and cleaned and washed and ironed. I handled the school run and baked treats for Steve to take to work. And although I remember complaining about needing some ‘me time’, if I found five minutes with nothing to do, I’d fill the time with a chore. Now, I am literally being paid to sit on the couch and do nothing. And I love it.
At four ‘o clock Munchkin informs me that it’s dinner time. I check my watch. He’s right on time. “We’ve had a taxing few hours, haven’t we? It’s no wonder that you’re starving. Come on then, let’s see to dinner.” Munchkin usually hops off the couch and struts his way to the kitchen to wait for me to serve him, but after his visit to the vet, I’ve been pampering him. I pick him up, his little body warm and pliant, and carry him to the large scarred wooden kitchen table. “One serving of deluxe cat food coming right up,’ I say as I set him down. I take his bowl, give it a quick wash and then empty out a small can of food. Tonight it’s Salmon Delight. It must taste better than it smells because Munchkin wastes no time digging in, while I have to turn my head to avoid breathing in the odor.
I snap a quick pic and send it to Sam with a message.
Munchkin is enjoying a plate of Salmon Delight tonight. I brushed him this afternoon–removed so much fur I could knit him a sweater.
Sam’s reply comes almost immediately. Unless he’s occupied with one of his mysterious ‘functions’, he’s always quick to reply. I wish everyone was so responsive to my messages. It makes me feel like he’s always just a second away. I like it.
Thanks Arielle. And thanks for brushing him–he does shed a lot.And you deserve the flowers. This trip is hell on wheels, but I can manage it knowing that my boy is being taken care of.
His message leaves me with a strange, warm feeling. I refill Munchkin’s water bowl with fresh water and wait for him to finish his first course. When the bowl is empty, I wash it out again and drop in a scoop of kibble. “There you go, all set for the night.” He takes a quick bite and then follows me to the front door. I squat down to give him a quick pat. “I’ll see you first thing in the morning for breakfast and your medication,” I say before closing and locking the door.
Chapter 12
Oleg
Samuel Foster
I’m floating on air. Leaping through flames. Swirling in a cloud of smoke that becomes a flurry of butterfly wings and then a flock of doves. I’ve pulled out all the stops today and I’m sure my crew is sweating as much as I am. Perspiration gleams on my bare chest and arms. It might be freezing outside but I’m on fire in here. If nothing else, I’m giving the crowd their money’s worth.
And Oleg…Oleg’s getting the full VIP treatment. I can see him on a platform raised slightly above the others. He’s leaning back into a soft leather couch, arms stretched on the backrest either side of him. A woman I recognize as his mistress is feeding him a wafer laden with what is probably caviar. Cory’s refilling his champagne glass. Yeah, ol’ Oleg’s feeling like a king tonight.
As the last lights flitter across the stage, the thumping rock beat that accompanies my act reaches a crashing crescendo. I drop to my knees, arms out to my sides, and let my head drop forward. A shining, magical messiah on the stage before them. The lights blink out…and I vanish. Just a wisp of white smoke remains. The audience goes crazy. It’s a triumph of showmanship and I’ll admit, I’m pleased with my performance.
When I catch my breath after the act, I head to the penthouse and I’m greeted by a hush. Slick suited men and women in designer gowns are mingling over crystal flutes of champagne. They turn to stare at me and I pause for dramatic effect, running a hand through my thick hair as the applause swirls around me.
I haven’t changed out of the black leather pants and waistcoat from my show, and I know I’m easy on the eye. It’s not vanity; I’ve used it for years to further my career. You don’t make it big in show business if you don’t have ‘a look’. Mine is dark and dangerous. Women love it. Men are drawn to the hardcore image. I’ve never met a man who didn’t like to pretend he was the meanest motherfucker in the room. Around me, they can imagine it’s real, especially if I favor them with a gesture of friendship.
