I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so wretchedly pitiful in my life as poor Mack throwing up on himself. I guess I should have been angry about the good carpet, but I wasn’t.
Maggie and I sprang into action, our efforts efficient and coordinated, like parents with a sick child.
Maggie reached him first, somehow discarding her tupperware and throwing an arm around poor Mack’s frail, heaving shoulders and getting most of the rest of the vomit into the puke bowl. I flew into the kitchen for major spill equipment, quickly grabbing a roll of paper towels from under the sink, and the kitchen garbage pail. I handed Maggie a wad of towels from the roll, and she wiped Mack’s mouth and started on his clothes and the sofa. I went to the pantry for a fresh roll of towels, some rags, a bucket of water.
When I returned I put down the stuff, helped Mack up out of Maggie’s embrace, and, steadying him with an arm around his waist, led him to the nearest bathroom, the downstairs one.
“So sorry. I’m so sorry,” he repeated, but I cut him off.
“Doesn’t matter, Mack. Doesn’t matter at all. I clean up cat puke all the time, vomit is no big deal. Let’s just get you to the bathroom here, and you can wash up. I’ll get your bag.”
When I was sure Mack was okay in the bathroom, shakily running water and splashing his face, I went back for the duffel bag.
Maggie quickly rose to her feet when she saw me. “Is he all right?”
“Yeah. I’m just gonna get his clothes for him. He’s gonna need a shower.” As I picked up the duffel bag she tossed the towels in her hand into the garbage pail, and as I turned and went to the bathroom, she followed.
I felt like a doctor carrying an old fashioned medical bag. Mack had taken off his windbreaker and put it in the sink, and he was running water into the bowl.
“Here’s your bag, Mack. I’ll take you upstairs, and you can take a shower, and I’ll wash your clothes.”
Maggie was standing closely behind me, and as Mack obediently followed me upstairs, she was right behind. She quickly joined me in the doorway of the bathroom after Mack took the bag from my hand and went inside. He set the bag down on the floor, straightened, and then began to undo the top button of his red and black checked shirt.
That was our cue to turn away and close the door and let him get on with his shower. We would go back downstairs, and I would finish cleaning up. Maggie would probably leave.
None of those things happened.
We stood together, shoulders touching, in the bathroom doorway. We were rooted to the hall rug. Neither of us could move. Neither of us could tear our eyes away from the thin hands that were now on the third shirt button. I was watching a man undress. And I couldn’t stop.
Mack’s delicate fingers reached the last button. I was rigid, holding my breath – when, beside me, Maggie licked her lips and gave a small moan.
Mack heard the moan. He finished unbuttoning the last button as he turned to face us. His hands stilled. And he spoke.
“I know,” he said softly. He looked at us with compassion. “I understand. It’s okay. You’re not the only ones, you know. Everyone does it. Men and women. Everyone feels it. It’s okay. I understand.” A gentle click, closing the door in our faces. I heard the lock turn.
I closed my eyes, and turned my head and leaned heavily on the wall next to the door jamb. I let out a shaky breath, and took another, and another, because all I could do right then was try to breathe. That’s all I could do. I tried to regulate the breaths, struggling for a normal pattern. I felt Maggie somewhere nearby, but I still had no control, still was helpless, except to try to breathe. In, out. Try again. My heart was pounding. In, out. In, out. In, out.
I heard the shower curtain rings squeak on the rod as they were drawn back, and the water faucets creak open, and the spray of water come out of the shower head and hit Mack’s naked body. In, out. Try harder. In, out.
It took some time. Quite a bit of time. The shower ran long, and when the water shut off, and the curtain squeaked open again, we were still out there. But eventually I got control, and was able to turn and make my way down the stairs. Maggie shuffled slowly in my wake.
I walked into the sitting room, and stood. Maggie came up beside me. I didn’t look at her.
“He’s a very . . . he’s a . . .” She cleared her throat.
I nodded. “Yeah.”
Maggie cleared her throat again. “I’ll stay and help you clean up.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
“Okay.” I felt strange. I wanted her company. I didn’t want to be alone just then. And I wanted her with me. Because she knew. She had felt it, too. She had heard his words. We were in this together. We were the only ones. We had a shared secret. We had a bond.
We knelt together, and went back to cleaning. There wasn’t much left to do, since there wasn’t any food in the vomit because he hadn’t eaten, it was more watery stomach acid and water. I took the afghan to the laundry room to soak in cold water. I got some sponges, and we sponged the places that were soiled with white vinegar and water, like I do for cat puke. We didn’t say a word, but the silence was comfortable. We would finish this task together. And soon Mack would be down, clean and freshly dressed, and we would be here for him, ready to do whatever he needed. Ready to make him happy.
Sometime – probably when I was lying in bed tonight, tossing and turning, unable to sleep – I would think about what had happened in the bathroom doorway. I would try to figure it out. I would start to get very uncomfortable. And I would start to wonder, and worry, and question, and feel worse. Worse and worse and worse, until I felt terrible.
And there would be no sleep for me that night.
Maggie and I were drinking coffee at the kitchen table when Mack came in – a new Mack, a clean Mack, freshly shaved and dazzling us with his smile. He was wearing the denim work shirt which was soft and a light blue the way denim gets from many washings. Maggie and I fell all over ourselves getting him a chair and bringing coffee and swiftly popping bread into the toaster.
Mack seemed used to the attention, to the service, and he only smiled sweetly at our earnest efforts. He graciously accepted a piece of toast that Maggie had buttered for him. He didn’t seem to mind us watching him eat, didn’t seem bothered that we were entranced by every bite he took, every sip, every motion of freshly shaven jaw as he chewed. He managed half a piece of the toast and a cup of coffee with sugar, no cream. After he wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, he thanked us for all we had done, and then added, “And now I must be moving on.”
Pandemonium broke out. Maggie and I both began to talk at once, voicing every possible argument we could think of that he should stay. Some were half-baked and completely ludicrous, but they came out anyway. The most brilliant one, which I modestly claim credit for, was the fact that his dirty windbreaker was still soaking in the sink. I don’t know what he’d done with the clothes he was wearing before he took a shower, but those would need to be washed, too, before he could go anywhere. I had a washer and dryer. So it made perfect sense for him to stay longer. At least till I’d washed and dried his clothes.
My protest was innocently and righteously delivered, though I could see at a glance that he was not fooled. He saw right through me, knew it was a ploy. But, it was also true. I knew how few clothes he had – one change, basically, except for socks and underwear – and it really did make sense to stay till his other things were clean and dry. We watched him expectantly, children who’ve tried to convince dad to take them to the amusement park. Will he succumb to their pleas?
Mack sat still. He had withdrawn into himself. I could see his mind whirling in a small, closed room, bouncing off the walls, rattling the door. Running hot and cold, yes and no, should I, shouldn’t I.
We waited in silence, until finally he came back to the planet, the room, the chair.
“I shouldn’t,” he said, looking at us in turn, his face a mixed bag of emotions. “I know I shouldn’t, I know exactly what you’re doing. But you don’t. I should go. It would be best for all of us.” He paused and his face sunk a little into the oldness and frailness that I had seen the previous day. “But I’m tired,” he said. “I’m exhausted. So I’ll stay. Stay and rest a little.”
We nodded. He shook his head in response. “But only a little. Only a little while. Then I’ll leave.”
“Sure, Mack. Sure. Whatever you say.” He sighed heavily, and shook his head again. He obviously believed he was making a mistake. A big mistake.