Cynthia Frazier
Tillie Apple was a live-in nurse to the dying Mr. Marmon, and lived downstairs, where she cooked all of his food and sent it up on a dumb-waiter. She also washed him, fed and clothed him, and answered the phone.
She was contented living down there. Her room on the basement floor was spacious, with long French windows opening onto a meadow which was the back yard. There was a brook out beyond the meadow, and the yard itself was lined with towering pine trees.
In the daytime, during his naps, Tillie enjoyed the motion outside her windows, clouds swept past by winds that bent the pines. The house had three cats, descendants of the late Mrs. Marmon's dead Siamese, and Tillie played with them or watched them play outside. They would romp in the wind, chasing leaves up and down the driveway.
Tillie would stand with her hands in her uniform pockets, hands freshly creamed with professional lotion, which she used after washing dishes or sterilizing syringes. She liked the smell of her hands. She perfumed the lotion herself, with natural oils that she bought from a health food store.
She was 35 years old, never married, and she sent half her earnings to her sister, who lived in a nearby state in their mother's old house, and who had also never married, but who had a child. Tillie was of medium height and had long, chestnut-brown hair that she put up on her head in what her grandmother would have called a psyche knot. It fell in a large, loose roll about her face and gave her thin features a pleasing softness and radiance. She knew that Mr. Marmon liked that style. She washed her hair every other night with a special herbal shampoo. She liked to think that she had a healing gift, and that was why she had never set up a home of her own. She was meant to move about from patient to patient, giving them the simple pleasures of cleanliness and order. She specialized in the terminally ill.
She had been with Mr. Marmon for five months now. He had run a hardware store, Marmon's Tool and Supply, in the local village for 60 years. He had been unusually healthy all his life; never had a heart attack or stroke, but was gradually fading. He was a good patient and very considerate of his nurse. Of course, it helped that he had undergone no violent changes, mental or physical, that damaged his self-esteem or his mind. He was soft-spoken and appreciative, and liked to be read to.
Since arriving at the house, she had read him the Romantic poets and the encyclopedia, in alphabetical order. He said he had always meant to go to school, but had to make a living instead. She even cultivated a mild British accent, which he enjoyed. Although just a merchant, he loved beautiful things and had a gift for collecting.
The house was cluttered with unusual items, which Tillie dusted every Monday afternoon. She didn't have to; there was a cleaning lady who came on Tuesdays, but Tillie enjoyed wandering about the house and tending to the collections. Mrs. Marmon had had a fondness for dolls of the world and old Willow china. Mr. Marmon collected antique tools and kitchen implements.
One of his prizes was a wood and tin potato chip maker, which she had brought to him one day, not knowing what it was.
"Traded it on the street from an old Indian gal for a jug of mead wine," he said, when she asked him what it was. "Still works. Best deal I ever made."
He also loved piggy banks, the kind that do tricks when you drop in a coin. Tillie learned soon after she came that he could be amused for a good hour if she brought one of the banks to his bed with a stack of coins. She collected change for that purpose and kept it in an old coffee can next to the stove.
His favorite was one in the shape of an organ grinder's monkey with a red satin jacket that would clash cymbals together for a penny.
"Greedy monkey," he would sing. "Greedy monkey! Always wants more."
The house was also a beautiful thing. It was a stately farmhouse with pillars and gables, and angel-wing shutters on the rounded windows. It had a large back porch which was raised off the ground, and underneath was where Tillie lived. Her room was on the ground level, the house having been built on a slope. Her employer was fastidious about his house and grounds, and paid a gardener to trim the lawn and a cleaning service to wash the rugs and windows twice a year.
He had lived a bachelor's existence for twenty years, after his wife died, and had no other close relatives. His will left his money to a distant cousin, as he had made clear to her when she first arrived. He told her he thought he paid her well enough not to owe her anything when he died.
For both of them his death was certainty, a thing to be lived with. Tillie had never cared for a dying patient who was quite as stable and serene as Mr. Marmon, and found herself beginning to think he might live a very long time.
"He might live to be a hundred, you know," she told herself as she emptied his bed pan one morning. "And I could be here for years to come."
This thought, which was more like a fervent wish, filled her with delight. But she warned herself to be sensible, and not give in to false hopes; they would come crashing down on her when she least expected. So she began to live in dread that her time in the beautiful house would end before she was ready to leave.
To Mr. Marmon, this period of dying was a pleasant one.
"The only time in my life I can sit around and think big," he said.
Tillie knew he was a little senile. "The thoughts I see, Miss Apple, should be written down. If only I could remember them."
"What are your thoughts then, Mr. Marmon?"Tillie asked. "Maybe I could write them for you."
"Well, Miss Apple, I start thinking when I first wake up, long before you do, when it's still dark. Usually it starts with the clock, the tick, I mean. Then there's the light, which starts up behind the curtains; that's a thought I get, too. And then the birds, in the trees, waking up each other, gossiping and giving each other the news. The squirrels don't wake up for a very long time, did you know that? They're lazy. At least, they keep their mouths shut, if they're up. And then I think, it's fall, fall, fall and those birds are late. And then I think about the grass. "He paused and looked down at his thin body under the blankets. "Read to me, will you?"
"What about the grass?" Tillie asked, sensing a story.
"Like I told you, I can't remember."
By the time the sixth month rolled around, November, he was beginning to visibly fade. She could barely tell the difference in his appearance, but her charts indicated his metabolism was slipping, now blood pressure high, now low. His skin lost its tone, and he began to be finicky about his meals, and especially about his intake of liquids. He would not eat meat; would not drink anything but water. He said the orange juice felt like lye in his stomach. She perceived that his sensitivity wasn't really physical; he was going deeper into himself. She suspected he was beginning to hallucinate.
"Miss Apple," he said one day, "I see rows and rows of red dots, like blood cells, streaming through the air around your face. You yourself are bright yellow, like the sun. And when you speak, your words smell. I can actually smell your words as they come out of your mouth."
"Do you really, Mr. Marmon?" Tillie said archly. ""How interesting! Do you think it might just be bad breath?
He shook his head. "It's not a bad smell, Miss Apple. But I couldn't possibly describe it."
"Well, then I won't ask you to, "said Tillie.
"Thank you," he replied. "That is a relief. But I do wish you would write them down."
"Well, I will if you ask, "she said.
"Because these thoughts must be remembered after me. They must be published, anthologized." He sat up, staring at her intently. "Write them down, Miss Apple. You never seem to believe them. Write them down and when I'm gone you'll have them to remember me by." He held up his hand, finger extended. Its tip was mottled blue.
"Well, all right. But its difficult to write when you don't know what you're writing down."
"You figure it out, Miss Apple. I'm paying for your services. Then read them back to me. That's what I want read to me now."
So she started a journal and called it Mr. Marmon. The first entry read: Nov. 11. Smells words. Blood dots in air; sees nurse's face as yellow. Requests that thoughts be written down. But she asked herself, are these really thoughts? Aren't they just the symptoms of a man dying? But she wrote them down and read them back and he seemed satisfied.
"Here is a thought, Miss Apple," he said. "Do you have it ready? There is a color which is the color of color. Got that? Color of color of color. And, there are rows and rows of perpendiculars to the sky. Is that clear? And what is the point of that?"
"Do I write that as well?" she asked, pen poised in the air.
"About the point? Yes. And the point is a point. That is simple and logical and moral. That's the end of this thought. Put the book away." Then he raised his hand. "No, wait. Here's another. It's about nuts. Nuts are like squirrels, they are alive and they save, they are within each other. A squirrel saves the nut and the nut saves the squirrel. Now read it back."
All of this began to wear on Tillie's nerves. He admonished her to write clearly and insisted that his words be read back to him countless times, from the very beginning. But he would also lapse into sleep during these sessions, without warning, and so she had respite from his demands, and was able to take some time to watch the approach of winter. By the time the first frost came, she had already begun to build fires in her fireplace, and to dry her hair before the flames, while reading a book or just sitting. She began to think about the end, when she would have to quit this place and return to the nurses' residence, the large, ominously gray building in the seaport city that was her only permanent home. The thought of the red-and-black linoleum floor in her room, which was the same as the hallway, made her ache. The windows all looked out onto other windows in other buildings just like hers. The only bright spot was her prized possession: a full-sized refrigerator which took up about a quarter of the room.
Her dorm-mates were all getting older, like herself. They worked too hard, and had nothing to show for it. They had all started out the same: thinking of themselves as competent professionals, angels of mercy, dispensing well-being into the world, a coven of secular nuns. But the world gave nothing back. In the end, where would they all go, those who had not snagged a husband along the line? Why, to the old nurses' home, that's where, to be recipients of the same care they had meted out for years. She used to think it had a kind of symmetry. But now it seemed grotesque. She felt like she had been digging her own grave for the past 15 years, bit by bit.
She did not want to, she simply could not leave this place. She decided to ask Mr. Marmon if she could have the house.
She put her hair up the way he liked, slipped on her nurse's shoes, and went softly up to his room. He appeared to be sleeping. She got her charts and prepared to check his breathing and blood pressure. When she approached him, he woke with a start, and said, "I feel better." His lips were dry and cracked, and he spoke in a high rasp.
"Very good," said Tillie, now let's have a look at those eyes. She bent down and lifted the lids a little. They were bright red and had a thin mucous film on the underlids. "Good," she said. "Take three deep breaths." She listened for any congestion in his lungs. There was none. Then she took his pulse. "Very good, "she concluded. "Now, we have a nice beef broth for lunch. What would you like to drink?" "Anything," he said, adding, "how about apple juice?" He regarded her with a weak eye as she left the room.
"He knows," thought Tillie, as she prepared the soup. "He knows I want the house." She walked back briskly with the tray and began to feed him. He took to being fed surprisingly well. She decided to mention her desire. "I'll sure hate to leave here," she began. "It's so beautiful and peaceful. Suits my mood, really my whole self. I've never felt at home anyplace else."
Mr. Marmon nodded, swallowing his soup.
"I was just wondering, who will be here," she blurted out.
"After me?" said Mr. Marmon. "It goes to whoever wants it. By auction. It's not my will, but I can't help it. Nobody will take it off my hands, except the town council. They want to make a museum of it. For nothing. Think of it. A big, beautiful house like this."
"Oh," said Tillie, ducking her head.
"The thought of what that town council would do to my house, and the collections, it makes me sick," he spat. "I'd rather just let it go to strangers." He waved his hand. "Just let it go."
Tillie stared at him. The words were on the tip of her tongue.
"If you want the house, say so," said Mr. Marmon. Tillie blushed. She could not believe what he had said.
"I do want it," she gushed, looking intently into his dying eyes.
"Impossible," he sputtered, turning away.
Tillie rushed out of the room, trying to hide embarrassed sobs. She crouched at the stair landing, holding onto the banister and trying to catch her breath. Never before had she allowed a patient to humiliate her. The old man was toying with her, and enjoying it! Then she stood up, braced her shoulders, and went back to Mr. Marmon, who was waiting for her with a mischievous smile on his face.
"I've decided to buy the house," she said breathlessly, wiping a strand of hair away from her damp forehead. "I'll write to my sister, Emily, and tell her to cash in the bonds we were left in our mother's will. It isn't much, but it's something."
"It'll cost you," said Mr. Marmon, raising his index finger. "Just because I'm an old man doesn't mean I don't know the value of things."
"We have $45,000. Don't you think that's enough?"
"Real estate prices have gone way up," Mr. Marmon said. "You'd be taking advantage of me."
Tillie arched her head. "You won't even know the difference, sir. You'll be dead."
She held her breath and nearly bit her tongue. But it had served him right.
"So much the worse!" he shrieked, then clutched at his chest.
She knelt by him. "I didn't mean it that way," she said soothingly. "Take all the time you want. I'm not pressuring you."
Mr. Marmon shook his head. "I'd think not." He pursed his lips and exhaled shakily. "After I'm gone I just don't care what happens, and that's the truth."
She put her hand on the top of his head, where there were still a few brittle hairs. "I'll probably feel the same way." She paused. "But if I knew I could bring happiness to someone, I'd do it."
He shrunk down in the bed. "Well, you're not me. Besides," he said, looking at her with sharp, bright eyes, "it won't be the same. Without me, this house will be nothing. And it's too big for you. You could never take care of it."
Tillie smiled. "I've thought it all out," she lied. "Emily and her daughter will come live here. We'll open it up as a bed and breakfast. We'll keep the collections, just as they are, for the guests to enjoy."
For the first time, Mr. Marmon's eyes softened. "You would? You would do that?"
Tillie knelt beside him and put her hand on her heart. "On my word."
He leaned back and looked at the ceiling. Then he closed his eyes and his mouth moved, as though he was counting silently. He began to speak, slowly and deliberately.
"If you want to buy the house, fine. But I want the money in cash. Forty-five thousand pennies. Delivered here, to this bed. With the monkey. We want that much before we die."
He opened his eyes and stared past her. They glistened like a child's.
"That's a deal."