“Listen,” he said, putting those issues aside. “You can stay. There’s certainly enough space. And wood,” he added, thinking of the scraps he was going to have to clean up before he tracked them everywhere.
“I don’t have any money,” the young man said, as if unable to imagine that Morgan would offer shelter for free.
“I won’t charge you,” Morgan said. “It’s just for a night or two anyway.”
He thought a moment about the dust and disarray in the apartment and how he’d pushed aside the neighborly attempts at assistance in order to avoid any additional intrusion into his life. Now here he was, inviting a perfect stranger to stay. But there was something about the way the young man stood, almost on his toes, as if he were about to bolt out the door in spite of the offer of shelter.
“You can earn your keep by taking these groceries upstairs.”
“Groceries?” the young man asked, his face brightening, as if the prospect of the small chore was welcome.
“Yeah, sure. I need help, as you can see.” Morgan lifted the purple cane and shook it, a self-deprecating gesture that he hoped conveyed his lack of desire for sympathy. “The furnace is going strong, and I’ve got plenty of groceries and wood, but it needs to be put away.” He laughed in spite of himself. “Young Tommy and all of them tried, but I didn’t want them going upstairs. You know?”
He couldn’t imagine this was making much sense to anyone but himself, but the young man nodded slowly, assaying Morgan with serious eyes.
The young man cast a glance over the bags of groceries and the bundles of wood. And lastly, he looked at the banks of windows running down the long sides of the store, where the snow was coming down in a thick white blanket that looked like it intended to bury them and very well could.
“Sure,” the young man said. “I could do that.”
“Okay,” Morgan said.
What the hell was he thinking? The young man could be dangerous. Hopping trains was a crime, and anyone who did it was not a law-abiding citizen.
Surely Morgan should be a little more wary. But there was something in the young man’s expression, as though Morgan had just rescued him from a rain-drenched alleyway and set outfood and water, a cardboard box lined with an old blanket for him to take shelter in.
Morgan shook himself. “I need you to lower the blinds and lock the doors, and carry this stuff upstairs.”
He ran a hand through his hair. He’d been foolish to refuse the geezers when they’d suggested they carry the supplies upstairs for him. They were old, but they were hardy, whereas he had the use of one good leg and half of a mending one.
The alternative was a stranger, but maybe the universe had decided to give him a break and sent him someone sturdy and young who was willing.
“The kitchen is on the left at the top of the stairs,” Morgan said, watching the young man watching him. “Through that doorway, there’s an office. The stairs are on the left. There’s sort of an apartment up there. I’ll show you.”
“Okay,” the young man said, grabbing two of the grocery bags.
Morgan led the way to the door next to the counter, glancing at the jumble of paraphernalia his aunt had left behind—the change plate, the small racks of chewing gum, the ratty notebooks and stubs of pencils—and stepped into the landing.
The landing was chilly, but through the open door to the office, the warmth and glow of the pot-bellied stove flooded out at him. He knew he couldn’t leave that burning when he went to bed. It would be a hazard, and the warmth wasted, but maybe he could get the young man to bank the fire later.
When Morgan had described these rooms assort of an apartment,he’d sold them short. His aunt and uncle had taken what had been storage rooms, back in the day when every bit of storage was needed, and hired a top-notch contractor to turn them into a place to live.
To the right of the stairs was a living room, which Morgan privately referred to as the parlor, with a small, square cast-ironstove. To the left of the stairs was a large open kitchen and, along the long shotgun hallway, a bathroom, and then a bedroom at the furthest end.
He navigated the stairs slowly, cane thumping, the young man behind him. As they neared the top, Morgan opened his mouth to apologize for the dust and disarray, and the fact that he’d not made himself at home yet and thus wouldn’t be able to offer much to a visitor.
But instead, perhaps tired of making excuses and berating himself for everything he’d not yet accomplished, he simply said, “My name is Morgan, and you are?—”
Thumpwent his cane as he mounted the final step and moved into the parlor, which was cold, the snow dashing against the sashed windows.
“Nimble,” the young man said.
It took Morgan a second to realize it wasn’t meant as a joke or a dig, that the young man was nimble and Morgan was not. He laughed anyway, low and hollow.
“Just along there, Nimble,” he said, pointing through the open doorway to the kitchen. “I’ll put away if you can get the rest of the bags.”
He felt bad asking a stranger to help him this way, but Nimble nodded, dark locks of hair falling across his cheeks, and flashed him a smile. “I’ve got it.”
Morgan followed Nimble into the kitchen, with its pale-yellow walls and white cabinets and sink and baseboards, and lowered himself into one of the four chairs around the square wooden table. “Thank you,” he said, exhaling as his body relaxed.
