I hear a thump from the kitchen.
(He's looking better.)
He’s looking better.
In fact, he’s up on one elbow for a second. When I come through the doorway, he lowers himself back to the floor.
“That’s a good idea. Save your strength,” I say. In the brief time that I was away, I missed the fan. Back at my uncle’s house, I have the modern equivalent, but it’s not nearly as good. With sharp metal blades and virtually no guard in front of it, Mr. Engel’s fan turns out a ton of cool air.
I glance around the kitchen with fresh eyes. There is nothing in the room that suggests the twenty-first century. There’s no microwave, coffee maker, or even a clock over the window that plays birdsong on the hour. Uncle Walt has one of those—that’s why I’m thinking about it. Everything in Mr. Engel’s house is from the sixties or earlier. They could film movies in here.
The ice cube is a few feet away from Mr. Engel’s hand. There’s already a decent puddle around it on the vinyl floor.
“You really stuck to your lane, huh?”
I pick up the ice cube and return to him. Settling down to my knees again, I remember the thump.
“Did you have a fall or something while I was in the other room?”
He offers no explanation.
I should get a new piece of ice, but I’m tired of getting up and down. He doesn’t seem to mind. He likes it when I put it against his lips.
“There you go.”
I whip around when I hear the thump again. It’s the cellar door, banging against the frame. The hook is dangling—no longer through the eye.
“Your fan is strong,” I say, but I’m doubting the idea even as the words leave my lips. There’s no way that the wind from the fan managed to bang the door enough to free the latch. That would be crazy. Either I imagined latching it, or someone undid it when I left the room. Who, though?
“You didn’t get up, did you?” I ask him.
He manages to shake his head.
I turn my body so I can hold the ice against his lips and also keep an eye on the door.
It’s just as unlikely that the latch was released by someone from the cellar. The door opens out. How would they get at the latch?
When I hear the bang from the front of the house, a little yelp escapes me.
I squeeze the ice cube so hard that it shoots up and out of my hand, skittering to a stop just in front of the cellar door.
“Paramedics,” a voice yells. “Did you call 9-1-1?”
I exhale.
“They’re here.”
(It's a relief.)
It’s a relief.
Even though they’re asking me lots of questions, I’m immediately relieved of all responsibility. My part in this story is insignificant. Everything I know about the situation can be conveyed in two sentences. “I came into check on him and found him on the floor of the kitchen. I rubbed ice on his lips.”
They ask him a lot of yes or no questions. Their voices are even louder than mine was. I guess they assume that a person is deaf until they are corrected. Mr. Engel never corrects them. He’s loaded onto a stretcher and whisked through the house.
I’m allowed to ride in the ambulance if want to.
“No, thank you, that’s my truck,” I say.
Only then, it occurs to me that I have no business accompanying him anyway. I’m not even confident that I know his real name.
“You know what, I’m going to see if he has an address book or something. I’ll see if I can find a relative who should be notified,” I say.
“That would be nice of you,” the man says.
They roll out fast, leaving me on the porch.
I watch the cloud of dust on the road. It just hangs in the air. There’s no wind to disperse it, so it remains frozen in time. That’s like Mr. Engel’s house, I suppose.
I pause at the doorway, having second thoughts. It was presumptuous to go into his house the first time, but the door had been open and I had heard a moan. It seems even more rude to go in a second time. What am I going to do, rifle through his possessions looking for a phone number?
“Yup,” I say.
I wish the paramedics had stuck around a little longer. Even better, I wish I had asked Mr. Engel who to call on his behalf.
“He’ll do that,” I say to myself.
As soon as he’s feeling a little better, I’m certain that they’ll ask him who to call. Old people know phone numbers, right? I would be hard pressed to come up with one, but I’m sure Mr. Engel has at least one phone number at his disposal. If not, the police will probably come over and do an official search for his address book, right? Who am I kidding, they won’t have to. They’ll be able to track down his next of kin.
I actually turn and start back towards my truck. The sun is searing.
The sun beats down on me as I slow to a stop. I’m running away. It’s that simple. The old man, delirious from the heat, has gotten into my head. It was a creepy situation. I shouldn’t be ashamed of that. However, I should be ashamed that I’m giving up before I notify his relatives that he is on the way to the hospital. It could be hours or days before he’s lucid enough to tell them who to call.
My shoulders slump and I turn back around.
I’m not going to let some childhood fear from twenty years ago stop me from doing the right thing, am I?
Then again, isn’t this how things always go wrong in the movies? You ignore a gut feeling and then you’re doomed.
