Nora by Charles J Harwood Chapter 29.1
THE GATES opened for Millie.
Nancy’s
right foot slid from the gas pedal to let the Punto sit. Henry wasn’t here this
morning. Henry had gone AWOL with his strop and no vehicle now encumbered
Vince’s driveway. Upper left was receiving her Punto image in the surveillance
room. She guessed Vince had used the security app on his phone to work the
gates. Nancy’s fists solidified over the steering wheel. She engaged the clutch
and let the Punto roll forward. The elms filed past, the porchway beckoned.
She
killed the engine and boarded the slabs. Without Vince’s keys she would have to
resort to knocking. She raised her fist to do so and sensed the presence of a
black bulk behind. Beside her Punto, the tortured limo would appear to have
nothing in common but what defined a car. Nancy didn’t turn.
She
made her way round the side of the house to the back entrance. She spotted
Vince lurching from the garages towards the back door. He paused on sensing her
presence. Never had she seen him manoeuvre his crutches more deftly. He faced
her, looking fresh and well-rested in an open-necked shirt and slacks. Her heel
boarded the patio; her coat caressed her knees. No knuckles to be seen, the
crossbars of his crutches took an airing as his wrists came to rest upon the
padding on the top.
Her
heels drew level opposite. ‘Good to see you get some fresh air, Mr. Jonas,’ she
said. She relived Marcus’ chuckles last night, his jape about the wheelchair
and floundered for the Nora within.
Vince
lifted his chin and brought his wrists down. The tip of Nancy’s foot hoofed the
base of Vince’s crutch. The tread shot backwards. Stones showered the door and
the crutch ricocheted against the slabs. His arm floundered in midair, his hip
twisted. The other crutch fell. Teeth gritted, he wrestled for equilibrium as a
tightrope walker. Arms came out from his sides; a string of grunts. His
nostrils fluttered. The breeze teased his collar. His heels slipped.
Nancy
buried the shame of what she’d done within a formal tone. ‘You’re progressing
well, Mr. Jonas.’
Vince
returned with a sneer she found reassuring. She strode into the house.
The
four-image composite appeared static but she sensed something waiting for her
out of shot. The soft clack of Vince’s crutches timed-in with the pulse at her
throat. She knew he’d make it to the door in the end. In silence, she prepared
Vince’s trolley and wheeled it into the drawing room. Vince had already removed
his slacks and awaited her in his dressing gown. The question gathered the mass
of a neutron star; she cut, cleansed and applied. Her tongue would make a
mockery of her anyway, the words would stumble out. Why have you let me in today, Mr. Jonas? Why am I still here? She
feared the disappointment of his answer more than asking. The soap slipped from
her fingers. The towel bound her hands together. She tossed it aside.
Now
was the time. The silence bricked her in. The words wouldn’t come. Vince
remained supine on the sofa, his head at rest upon the cushion. Each breath
caused his dressing gown to shift. Was he asleep? Nancy slid onto her knees to
face him. His eyelids twitched. Air caressed her cheek. Soap and disinfectant
tinged the air. Sensing her scrutiny, his lashes stirred and made a blink. His
lips drew together. The dressing at this throat bobbed a noisy swallow and her eyes
flicked down. The question weighed like boulders, the words would never come.
But her fingers would move to her command. The mid-button of her blouse
twitched against her heart as she raised her hand and brought a finger to the
dressing at his throat. In mid-breath, Vince’s lips opened as though to say
something and instead sipped air. The tip of her finger tweezed the surgical
tape. Low tack permitted ease of lifting. A small ridge of skin migrated across
as the tape peeled away. A soft whisper.
Vince
watched her.
The
cotton pad concealing the wound now hinged on one side. Finger and thumb opened
the padding to gently peel away the other side.
She
looked at it.
Vince’s
chest stilled.
A
maroon stain nestled within the shadow of his voice box, smaller than she
imagined. Upper edge delineated sharply, lower blurred out. One side appeared
darker than the other. Tip of index followed the wound from pale to dark. The
gristle rolled beneath. Vince’s eyelids fluttered closed to expose a slither of
white. His breaths resumed shakily.
