Chapter 11 #2
Morgan tried to keep up but couldn’t, though he did finish his own roll, which he used to sop up the remains of his stew.
“I should wash the dishes,” Morgan said, pushing back from the table and grabbing his cane.
“I got ’em, you gimp,” Nimble said. “Made you a fire. You should go and sit.”
“What?”
“Made you a fire.” Nimble stood up with a shrug, gathering bowls and plates to take them over to the sink. “I brought up all that wood, so why not.”
His back was to Morgan, busy with the industry of cleaning up, and beyond his shoulders, the window had grown dark as night had fallen. The blizzard had eased for a while, but it seemed bolder now, as if it had been waiting for its next chance.
“Go on,” Nimble said, turning on the hot water and reaching for the sink plug. “Don’t stare. It’s like you’ve never seen a guy do dishes.”
“Never seen one who enjoyed it so much,” Morgan said before he could stop himself.
In response, Nimble shimmied his hips as though showing off to an imaginary audience beyond the window, and then the humming began.
“Go, I got this,” he said in a friendly, scolding way, again making Morgan feel as though they’d known each other forever, though in truth he knew little about Nimble, only that he’d traveled like a hobo and had two friends, Blue and Star, whom he didn’t want to talk about.
“Okay,” Morgan said, moving out of the kitchen and across the landing to the parlor.
He wasn’t uneasy about leaving the chores to Nimble, but he was uneasy about how willingly he did it. Uneasy with the feeling that he could just go sit, because he had someone looking after him.
Bradley had never wanted to look after him.
Not in the hospital, and certainly not in those first few days after Morgan had arrived home.
Helping Morgan to the bathroom, let alone waiting outside of it to make sure Morgan didn’t fall over, had been too much of an inconvenience for him.
Bringing Morgan his meds was also too much work.
Bradley had mentioned more than once that Morgan simply needed to push past the pain and get used to hopping around until his knee got better.
The home care nurse had come by a few times and had seemed a tad shocked at Bradley’s tone and the lack of setup for Morgan’s ease of movement.
She seemed unhappy that Morgan had been mostly managing on his own, and the pity in her eyes had struck him so deeply that an uncomfortable sensation at being a burden to anyone had settled over him.
After that, he’d done his best to manage on his own. Had managed on his own, to the point where he’d been refusing any offers of assistance. Until now, it seemed.
He entered the parlor, where the quilt and borrowed sweatpants and T-shirt had been folded and were now tucked beneath the side table between the couch and the easy chair at the far end of the room.
Outside, the wind howled. Inside, the square cast-iron stove, which looked new enough to have been recently installed, was sending out waves of warmth.
Cheery orange flames were jumping merrily behind the small grill. Building the fire might have left behind flakes of wood and bark, but Morgan couldn’t see a single one. Nimble must have swept them up and added them to the fuel now heating the room.
Morgan sank onto the couch in the spot nearest the fire.
He tucked his cane between two seat cushions and set his forearms on his knees, the left one gingerly.
He had food inside him and meds making their way to his nerve endings, and he could lean forward in a way he’d not been able to for a while and enjoy the moment he’d longed for all day.
With that one simple addition—the welcoming fire—the once dark, unused parlor was now cozy and snug.
The spines of books on the wooden shelves along the wall added character, and the large map of the world that he’d never noticed before hung above and behind the easy chair as if inviting him to look and imagine all the places he would go.
He didn’t have anywhere he needed to go, though he’d spent the past week wanting to run screaming to anywhere that wasn't Hysham. For now he would enjoy the warmth of the fire and the quiet that stood firmly against the storm outside as the softness of the room sank into his bones.
All of which was only slightly disturbed by the sight of Nimble rollicking into the room, sock-footed, carrying a plate laden with four brown, glistening mounds.
“What are those?” Morgan asked as Nimble plopped the plate down on the coffee table in front of him.
“I’ve got a treat for us,” Nimble said, groaning as he picked up one of the mounds and bit into it, sitting on the couch next to Morgan. “Frozen jelly donuts. Jelly. Donuts.”
“Oh,” Morgan said, scooting over to make more room and turning to watch Nimble eat, as though he’d been invited to observe a gastronomical feast rather than a train bum chowing down on a defrosted pastry that must have been months old, at the very least.
“Try one,” Nimble said. “Or I’ll eat them all.”
Morgan was on the verge of saying Help yourself, adding as much disdain as he could, or maybe even a tart What are you doing digging around in the freezer? But he didn’t. He’d given Nimble the run of the kitchen, after all. Besides, Nimble’s pleasure in the simple treat was impossible to resist.
He picked up one of the donuts and bit into it. Barely thawed, it sprung his mouth to life, the pure sweetness of melting glaze on his tongue mixing with the fried dough and tangy raspberry jam.
“Amazing, right?” Nimble asked, his smile wide, mouth full.
Morgan could only nod as he swallowed, studiously ignoring the flakes of glaze that tumbled from Nimble’s red lips to litter his lap and the curve of his jean-clad thighs before landing on the carpet that covered the narrow planks of old wooden floor.
“I’ll clean that up later,” Nimble said. He grabbed a second donut and polished it off as swiftly as the first. Then he watched as Morgan ate his own donut more slowly. When Morgan finished, Nimble looked sadly at the last donut, sitting alone on the china plate.
“You take that one,” Morgan said. “I’m full already.”
Truth was, he could have eaten a second one . But Nimble’s wistful expression was enough to make him give up the treat just so Nimble could have it. So he could watch Nimble enjoy it.
“Really.” He pointed at the donut with his chin. “They’ll make more.”
Who they were, he didn’t know, but watching Nimble polish off a third donut was its own kind of pleasure, complete with Nimble’s sounds of dismay at the amount of glaze that crumbled to the carpet and the smear of raspberry that he swiped from his lip and then licked from the heel of his hand, gazing at Morgan all the while.
“Man, that was good,” Nimble said, groaning as he flopped back on the couch, moving closer as though he had no idea of personal space at all, like a puppy in a pile. “Haven’t been this full in a while,” he murmured.
And there he sprawled, legs out, hands on his belly, which was softly round beneath his once-white T-shirt. Licorice-dark hair glinting in the firelight. Casual and comfortable, like he didn’t have a care in the world.
Compared to riding trains without a ticket in all kinds of weather, maybe he didn’t. He was living in the moment, happy for now, though in a few days he’d be on his way.
Morgan would make sure to send him on his way, because he couldn’t go on having his life disturbed at every turn like this. Interrupted by a lithe and happy stranger who seemed to enjoy having Morgan watch him eat. Who seemed to like being with him, though why Morgan hadn’t any idea.
It would be lonely when Nimble left, though.