Chapter 4: We Don't Call Anyone Tonight
The tape came off in my hand in one damp piece and Arthur made a sound I hadn't expected. Not words at first. Just air. He breathed through his mouth and it whistled a little, and his lips were cracked white at the corners. I was still kneeling half inside the torn portrait with my knees on the hard edge where the gray metal doors met the carpet, and Dad was right beside me with his hand on Arthur's shoulder.
Behind us, Vincent moved.
He didn't yell. He stepped forward and put his hand flat against the right metal door and pushed it inward like he was closing something that had never been supposed to open.
"We keep these closed," he said. His voice was low and even, like he was talking at a county meeting. "We handle this as family. You open this up to strangers and you don't get it back."
Susan was already by the hall table with her phone. She had Arthur's old flip phone in her hand too, and she set it down fast when she saw me looking. "We are not calling 911," she said. She looked at Dad, then at me. "We call Dr. Patel. Privately. He knows Arthur's history. You call an ambulance and they strap him down and take him to county and you won't see him for forty-eight hours. Is that what you want, Eli?"
I didn't answer her. Arthur's hands were still tied in front of him with a white zip tie and a loop of soft rope, and the skin underneath was red and dented. I slid the tape into the front pocket of my hoodie. It was warm and stuck to itself. I pressed it flat against the fabric inside so it wouldn't fall out.
Dad didn't look at either of them. He kept his hand on Arthur's back. Arthur was trying to sit up straighter and he couldn't.
"How long," Dad said. His voice caught. "Susan. How long has he been in there."
Susan's mouth tightened. She glanced at Vincent and then back at Dad, and her hand stayed on the back of the chair like she needed it to stand.
"He wanders, Marcus," she said. "You know he wanders. He gets confused. He left the stove on twice. Vincent found him on the sidewalk at midnight in his socks. We talked about this. We were keeping him safe until the new place had a bed. He hasn't been there straight. We let him out. We fed him."
"Don't," Dad said. "Don't do that."
Vincent kept his hand on the door. "Your wife made a hard call while you were traveling for work. We did what we had to do to keep this house from falling apart. You want to turn your mother-in-law's father into a police report because an eleven-year-old tore open a wall?"
I felt Arthur's fingers twitch against my sleeve. I looked down. His eyes were on me and they were wet but clear.
"Eli," he said, and his voice was hoarse and thin. "You heard me."
I nodded. I couldn't get words out at first. I put my hand over his tied hands. The rope was rough.
"I wasn't supposed to leave you there," I whispered.
Susan took a step toward us. "Eli, come out of there now. You're upsetting him. Let your grandfather breathe."
I didn't move. I shifted so my body was between her and Arthur. My pocket felt heavy where the tape was.
"I'm not leaving him," I said. I said it louder than I meant to, and my voice cracked.
Dad looked at me, then at Arthur's hands. He reached down and tried to work the rope with his fingers. The knot was tight and his hands were shaking.
"Where are the scissors," he said to no one in particular. "Where's a knife."
"In the kitchen," Susan said quickly. "Marcus, stop. You cut circulation off and you blame us."
"We are not cutting anything until we decide what we're doing," Vincent said. He finally let go of the door and it stayed half-closed, the torn canvas hanging down in two flaps. "We close this tonight. We move him out onto the couch, we call Patel in the morning, we tell people he had an episode. We don't call anyone tonight."
Dad stared at him. The daylight from the big windows was going gray at the edges. The floor lamp was the only warm light left.
"You're saying we lock down the house," Dad said.
"I'm saying we don't invite the county into our living room at eight o'clock at night because you want to feel like a hero," Vincent said.
Susan knelt, but not near Arthur. Near Dad. She put her hand on his arm. "One night, Marcus. Let us get him cleaned up. Let Patel see him first. That's more humane."
Arthur made a small sound and tried to lift his hands. He looked at Dad. "Marcus," he said.
Dad didn't answer Susan. He bent down and hooked his arms under Arthur's arms and pulled. Arthur was lighter than I expected, and he made a pained breath when his back moved. I helped from the other side, my hands under his elbow, and together we slid him forward just enough that his back was out of the dark space and his legs were on the living room carpet. He wasn't out of the house. He wasn't even to the couch yet. He was half in and half out, sitting on the floor with his feet still in the shadow of the doors, and the blue bucket and the blanket were still visible behind him.
Vincent stepped back and pulled the front door's deadbolt. It clicked loud.
"Nobody leaves tonight," he said. "We all sleep on this and talk like adults in the morning."
May you like
I kept my hand in my hoodie pocket, over the tape. Dad was breathing hard, kneeling next to Arthur, and he hadn't agreed, but he hadn't stopped Vincent either. Susan stood up and picked up the house phone, not to call, just to hold it.
Arthur leaned his weight against me a little, and I stayed right there on the floor with him.
