An Axis Oblique - Chapter Two

Okay, without further adieu, here's chapter two...

–– Two ––

Cynthia was all out of Bisquick.
She tore that whole kitchen apart before accepting it, but standing there, defeated inside the buzzing McAllister’s refrigerator, the hard truth loomed plain as day. Strike one. Perhaps she could have attempted something more elaborate, like eggs benedict, or those stroodle-pastries pushed way back in the freezer, but her heart had been set on them finding their breakfast prepared, a-la Mary Poppins, as they fumbled downstairs on robust little legs. So she settled for two overflowing bowls of ‘Choco-Nutems’ instead.
It was seven forty-three on Friday morning and she expected them down any minute. First would be Nicholas, the rambunctious elder at ten, followed closely by Patrick, younger brother, who would be seven come September. Ever since she began this pathetic little job looking after the two McAllister boys every other afternoon, she couldn’t help but ignore her redundancy. She was not, as a general rule, particularly fond of children; perhaps the result of being the eldest of three herself––and surrogate mother, as her own mother never grew tired of drilling in.
She was twenty-six now, and until accepting Henry’s somewhat out of the blue offer almost three months ago to the day, had never felt less like a responsible adult in her life. Four years after flunking out of journalism at NYU, she found herself on her own for the first time; her mother, the doormat, Rebecca Caldwell and step-father Gary proclaiming hands washed. Whatever remained of their token mother-daughter relationship dissolved slowly thereafter. But the real erosion started some years before, the day they lost the one true peace-keeper between them; her father, the only man she completely trusted.
When she met Henry McAllister, he seemed just like all the rest; though her jaw hurt like Hell. It was on an emergency trip to the orthodontist’s; the closest she could find in the yellow pages that day.
_____
“So how exactly did this happen, Miss…?”
“Rogers.” A fake name. She had no reason to lie but the word somehow slipped out. “I ah…tripped on the vacuum chord. Fell head first into the bedroom door.”
“Uh huh. I don’t recall seeing you around here. Are you new in town?”
“Sort of. I go to school up here. Journalism.”
“Is that right?” he said, reaching for something cold and pointy. “You know, I’ve got a niece who went to Columbia for journalism; works as a fact researcher for the New York Times.” Yes sir, Henry had an anecdote for every occasion. “And, open…”
_____
Right from the moment she sat in his chair, he saw through her façade.
_____
“Here’s an idea. How bout you come work for me?” The impromptu proposal came somewhere between the needle and that mirror do-hickey.
At first, she couldn’t tell whether he was serious or just teasing...what with the surgical mask. “You mean here?”
“Well, no, not––I meant at my home…” She kept her open mouth shut. “Seriously, my wife and I both work and our nanny just quit, which is a burden, yes, but the boys never really took to her anyway.” The man sounded dead serious. “I could start you off this afternoon, if you want; meet them as soon as they get home from school. You did say you were looking for something flexible, right?”
“Well…”
“Sorry,” he rapidly retracted, (the instrument and the suggestion). “Tell you what, why don’t you think it over…get back to me by say, the end of the week, sound good?”
_____
The next day she said yes.
What better place, she considered, to fall off the face of the earth.

Her first week of gameful employment, she mistook his good nature for something more––and one night in his driveway, tested the waters…
_____
“Believe me, honey, I couldn’t be more flattered…” he’d said, taking her hand in his firm, manly grip. “I just so happen to love my wife…” She couldn’t imagine why. The woman brought out the warmth in a block of ice. “Plus you’re probably much too good for me…” That got her to smile. She didn’t have the best luck with men. Not since a malignant tumor took away her hero––and Henry gave hope to the rest.
_____
It was ‘Dr. McAllister’ on most formal occasions, around his wife especially. Cynthia had come to suspect resentment on her behalf, and perhaps even a little jealousy, (which she sort of enjoyed). She knew the emotion well, after all. It’s what got her that chipped crown in the first place.
“I thought you said pancakes.” A tiny voice spoke.
Cynthia turned to the disappointed face of young Nicky McAllister.
“Good morning,” she said, cheerful. “We were. Guess your mom forgot to pick up more pancake mix. Maybe tomorrow, okay?” He continued to look on with disenchantment, as though he could tell it was just something to say.
“You’re not going to be here tomorrow. You think I don’t know that?”
“Listen,” she leveled. “I can’t make pancakes without the pancake mix, Nicky. I promise, we’ll do it the very next time I get the chance, okay? Can you forgive me?”
“Yeah, sure, whatever…” he grumbled, slinking in behind his bowl of unwanted cereal. She noticed he was getting very snippy lately and hoped it wasn’t due to her influence. Sarcasm got her into more than enough trouble already. “So where’s your brother? Doesn’t he usually come down with you?”
“Don’t think he’s feeling too well.” He shrugged. “You might wanna go check on him,” crunching down a spoonful of pure concentrated sugar. Strike two.
Halfway up the stairs, she considered he could well be lying. She wouldn’t put it past him. With Nick, it was never so easy to tell.
Standing before Patrick’s closed door, she pushed it, and her anxiety aside.
The boy rested undisturbed beneath the blanket. “Patrick…? Patrick, honey. It’s me, Cynthia...” Nothing. She quietly approached. “Your brother says you’re not feeling well...” The boy’s eyes crept open, as though drained of their strength. “Do you want to tell me what’s wrong, sweetie?” she began, stroking his sweaty forehead. A quiet cough escaped before he managed to mouth the words,
“my tummy hurts…”
“Oh. Well, I’m sure we can fix that. Why don’t you try sitting up, okay?” She lifted the heavy covers off his forty-eight pound frame and noted the gaping stains in his bedsheets and pj’s. It wasn’t until she reached down and touched his soaking wet t-shirt that she realized it was sweat.
“Mommy...”
“No sweetie, it’s me, Cynthia. Do you want a glass of water?”
“I want…Mommy…” He strained not to cry. She was worried.
“Do you feel like you want to throw up?”
“No...”
“How bout we go into the bathroom just in case?” she said, and carried him.
In the bathroom, she sat him down gently on the toilet seat and began searching. “I’m cold...” he whimpered. At last she came across a box with a doting mom sticking a thermometer into the mouth of a healthy-looking little girl, and ripped it open.
“I know you are, honey. I’m just gonna check your temperature, then we’ll get you another blanket, okay?”
“Okay…” The little guy was remarkably agreeable; (a stark contrast to his brother). Sliding the thermometer gently under his tongue, she retreated back into the hallway to find him a clean blanket.
He did not move an inch till she returned, and then, only to look vaguely up at her. He looked so pale; the heavy thermometer pulling his lower lip down past his chin. Wrapping the blanket around his shoulders, she removed it from his mouth. One hundred fourteen. Not good. The phone rang, startling her into nearly dropping it altogether. Please be Henry, she thought, as it stopped in mid-ring––
Nick must have got it.
“You know what I think I’m going to do for you today, Patrick? I’m gonna make you a big cup of my world famous hot chocolate…” Her voice rose an octave and she realized she was channeling her mother. Strike three.
“kay…” he barely replied. It seemed like the last thing he wanted.
“Cynthia!” Nick shouted. “Phone!” Henry, she hoped, looking back to Patrick.
“I’ll be right back.” The boy remained silent, only shivering. The sight made her question the decision to leave him, but she thought she saw a cordless phone in the master bedroom.
“Cynthia!” Nick again, having the nerve to sound impatient.
“I’m coming!” she belted, reaching the McAllister bedroom and switching on the black cordless phone on the nightstand.
“Hello...”
“What took you so long?” Immediately she recognized the cold condition of––
“Mrs. McAllister. Good morning. I was, um…” Cynthia swallowed, bracing. “…just checking on Patrick, who’s apparently…a bit…under the weather…”
“What? What’s wrong?” she erupted, losing her mind. “Oh I can’t believe he would just…so typical... Where’s Henry?”
“Mrs. McAllister, calm down, please, everything’s fine. Hen––Mr. McAllister––Doctor––had to see an early patient. He said he’d be back by around noon…”
“Early patient…” she scoffed… “What’s his temperature?”
Cynthia braced again. “About…one fourteen...”
“Oh my poor baby…” A short pause–– “Alright, listen carefully; I assume you’ve been instructed to take the boys to school, correct?”
“Um, yes but––”
“Good. You’re to drop off Nick, as planned, but I want you to take Patrick to The Community Medical Centre…it’s a corner building at Rodan and Drury, you can’t miss it. With me so far…?”
“Yes, but––”
“I’ll call ahead so they don’t blow a gasket when he doesn’t show up for roll call and meet you in the waiting room at quarter to nine, okay?” This time it was Cynthia’s turn to pause, not much caring for her tone…and to make sure she was finished…
“Cynthia, are you there?”
“And what about…Mr. McAllister…? Would you like me to, um, try to––”
“No, dear, don’t bother. Just make sure Nick has his homework finished before he tries to weasel out of it later. And keep Patrick as comfortable as possible. Aspirin’s alright but nothing stronger, do you hear me…?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” She was holding her tongue.
“Tell him Mommy will see him very soon.” She hung up without even goodbye.
Cynthia hung up very soon after.
There was a name for people like Mary-Ann McAllister. In fact, there were several. Standing up off the rock-hard mattress, she started back toward the hallway. The weather called for freezing rain and she hoped there was enough gas in the car because she hated to pump gas in the rain. She would have to go check.


I'll try to do some, you know, traditional blogging next time, before I post Chapter Three. I'm not promising anything, of course. I actually kind of enjoy posting this stuff. At least someone can read it.

Cheers,

D.A.