CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

This time it took Payne much longer to help Nick recover. He nearly had to carry the prostrate man into the bathroom and strip the soiled, stinking robe from his trembling shoulders. Payne tossed the robe into a corner and then helped Nick lay down on a couple of towels spread in the tub, his head propped on a folded towel. Payne dampened a face cloth and dabbed away the worst of the stuff from Nick’s lips and chin and chest. There were some splotches on his shorts, but that would have to wait. If he didn’t get that stuff off the bed, it might seep into the mattress and then they would never get the stench out. He would have to leave Nick there for a while, Payne decided. It was the only place where Nick could lay down, and maybe the coolness of the porcelain might help.

It must have, because even before Payne left to clean up the bedroom, Nick seemed to be breathing more easily. There were no further threats of vomiting. It took longer to change the bed this time, and it was a distinctly more distasteful task than it had been before. Payne wadded the fetid sheets up and threw them into the hallway, then checked the mattress for any seepage. He didn’t see any. He opened the window wide and turned on the fan, setting it in the doorway and hoping that the cross current would to blow the lingering stench outside. He stopped at the bathroom just long enough to ask if Nick had any air freshener.

“Kitchen,” Nick said weakly, not moving more than his lips. One hand hung over the edge of the tub like a corpse’s. It was as pale as a corpse’s, too. The fingertips were bluish gray.

“’Neath sink.”

“Gotcha.”

Payne rummaged under the sink and pulled out a can and went back into the bedroom. The air was already a bit better but it was still pretty rank. He sprayed the room, the corners, the mattress and pillow. The artificial pine fragrance was heavy and cloying but better than the other mess. Maybe when the freshener faded, the room would smell okay.

He stepped into the hall again and picked up the bedding, careful to fold it so that the damp parts were tucked well inside. He went to the bathroom and retrieved Nick’s robe as well. It smelled worse than the sheets.

“Where’s your washer?” he asked as he balanced the two lumps of sodden material as far from his body as he could.

“Back porch.” The last sound was little more than a sigh.

Payne looked over at Nick. The color was coming back again. His cheeks were something less than parchment white. The hand hanging over the edge of the tub twitched, and the nails were pink rather than blue-white.

“Feeling better?”

“Yeah. A little. Stink, though.”

He was right.

Payne tossed the robe and sheets into the hall and knelt by the edge of the tub. Nick still didn’t move. His eyes were closed, his lips barely open. Payne shuddered at the heavy, rancid breath each time Nick exhaled. Suddenly his own stomach seemed less than stable. He opened the window over the tub and drew in a deep breath of untainted air.

“Let’s get you cleaned up now. The wash can wait.”

He filled the sink with warm water and soaked another face cloth in it. Carefully he washed Nick’s face and arms and hands and chest, rinsing and wringing the cloth, draining the sink three times and re-filling it with fresh warm water. Whatever the stuff Nick vomited was, it was thick and sticky, more like mucous than anything Payne could think of...except maybe for lumpy, greenish, stinking library paste that had begun to separate into clots and a gluey scum. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t come off easily. Finally, though, Payne was finished.

“Can you stand up?”

“Think so.”

Nick tried, propping one arm on the tub and trying to lever himself up. He couldn’t.

“Let me help.”

Payne grabbed under Nick’s arm and pulled him up.

“Okay?” Payne asked.

“Yeah.”

“Let’s get you out of those,” Payne said.

“Huh?” Nick sounded drunk or drugged. His voice slurred. His throat must hurt like hell, too, Payne thought, and that made the sounds even more ragged.

“Your shorts. They’re stained.”

Nick looked down. There were three big splotches of vomit, venomously dark against the startling white. For a moment he tensed and looked like he would throw up again. He swallowed carefully.

“’Kay.”

Payne helped him strip, holding his arm and waist while Nick balanced first on one leg, then the other, his muscles quivering and the towels beneath his feet shifting on the smooth porcelain. Payne reached across to the towel cabinet, still holding onto Nick’s arm—thank god his bathroom’s as small as mine and everything’s in easy reach—and pulled out another towel, the last one on the stack, and wrapped it around Nick’s waist.

“Can you walk?”

Nick nodded mutely.

With Payne’s help, Nick made his way down the hall and into the living room. He sank gratefully onto the old couch, not minding for once the lumps and bent springs and upholstery stiff with decades of spilled drinks and ground-in cookies and crushed potato chips and who knew what else before Nick finally rescued it from the clutches of a yard sale.

“Be right back.” Payne disappeared into the hall, stopping at the bathroom and the bedroom. He continued on to the back porch. He must have been holding the stack of filthy clothing stiffly in front of him, Nick noted vaguely, because he walked with a stoop, one foot scuffing against the floor.

A few minutes later, Nick heard the thunk of the washer lid as it dropped against the machine, then the asthmatic whirr of the motor.

Payne reappeared a few moments later.

“Everything’s in. Towels, sheets, clothes. It’s a big load but the washer looked like it could handle it.”

“Yeah, it’s got an oversized tub.”

Nick suddenly giggled.

Here he was, shaking like a newborn colt after having puked his guts all over himself, and his landlord was running up and down the place cleaning up after him, and now he has to dither on about the washing machine! The giggle took on a slightly hysterical edge.

Payne looked confused. He put his hand against Nick’s forehead.

“No, no fever.”

“I’m okay,” Nick said, his voice still uneven. “It’s just...it just struck me funny...that...look, I’m sorry. I...it must be gross to....”

Payne shook his head. “Not a word. As long as you feel better.”

He crossed the living room and sat next to Nick.

“You hurt yourself?” Nick asked suddenly.

“No, why?”

“It looked like you were limping for a minute.”

“No,” Payne said. “Just tired all of a sudden.”

“Can’t figure why,” Nick said, then laughed again.

“You must be a whole lot better.”

“As a matter of fact,” Nick said, “I am. Little shaky, but otherwise...otherwise okay. Look, thanks a lot. I don’t know what I would have done….”

“I said, not a word. That goes for mushy ‘Thank-you’ scenes, too. I’m just glad that I was here. Something like that hits and you’re no good for shit. I had the flu once, and I couldn’t stand up for days. Lived on 7-Up and lost fifteen pounds. Vicious stuff.”

“I don’t think this is the flu,” Nick said. “It just came, and now it’s gone. Not that I’ll miss it.” He glanced down at himself. “Better get dressed now.”

He started to get up.

Payne’s hand rested warm on his shoulder, the fingers strong and curved around his shoulder joint, pushing him gently down.

“Rest a while. Don’t overdo.”

Nick relaxed into the couch. “Okay, Doc. Whatever you say.”

“Right. Whatever I say.” Payne’s hand rested for a little longer, then the fingers suddenly pressed tightly into Nick’s muscles, as if they had cramped.

Payne stood up and walked to the front door.

“I wish I could stay here and keep an eye on you,” he said, his hand on the door knob.

“I’ll be okay. If it gets worse, I’ll call my cousin. He only lives half an hour or so away. He can come if I really need anything.”

“Still, I wish I didn’t have to fly back East. It’s not as if I haven’t seen my folks in years or anything, but they insist. You know how it is. Take care.”

And he was gone. Nick leaned against the uneven cushions and closed his eyes. The day was warm but he felt cold. In a minute, when he felt a little steadier, he would get up and put on a robe, maybe even dress in his sweats and see if he couldn’t get rid of the bone-cold that he always felt after a bout with vomiting. Always, but never this much, this deep.

He shivered.

And after that, some more hot tea, maybe a slice of toast. His stomach stayed steady while he visualized the toast, so he figured that the worst must be over.

He stood up, supporting himself with the arm of the couch, then straightening. His stomach hurt, felt like he had pulled the muscles or something, but otherwise he was all right. No headache. No nausea. No cramps.

He walked slowly into his bedroom to change.

He didn’t think about the fact that at least twice that morning—maybe three times—Payne had bluntly lied to him.