Percival Everett - Damned If I Do

“Okay,” Sherman said.

Douglas took the man up the back stairs and showed him the little room. The single bulb hung from a cord in the middle of the ceiling and its dim light revealed the single bed made up with a yellow chenille spread. Douglas had taken many naps there.

‘This is it,” Douglas said.

“It’s perfect.” Sherman stepped fully into the room and looked around.

“The bathroom is down the hall. There’s a narrow shower stall in it.”

“I’m sure I’ll be comfortable.”

“There’s food downstairs. Help yourself.”

“Thank you.”

Douglas stood in awkward silence for a while wondering what else there was to say. Then he said, “Well, I guess I should go on home to my wife.”

“And I should get some sleep.”

Douglas nodded and left the shop.

Douglas’s wife said, “Are you crazy?”

Douglas sat at the kitchen table and held his face in his hands. He could smell the ham, salami, turkey, Muenster, cheddar, and Swiss from his day’s work. He peeked through his fingers and watched his short, plump wife reach over and turn down the volume of the television on the counter. The muted mouths of the news anchors were still moving.

“I asked you a question,” she said.

“It sounded more like an assertion.” He looked at her eyes, which were narrowed and burning into him. “He’s a fine fellow. Just a little down on his luck, Sheila.”

Sheila laughed, then stopped cold. “And he’s in the shop all alone.” She shook her head, her lips tightening across her teeth. “You have lost your mind. Now, you go right back down there and you get rid of that guy.”

“I don’t feel like driving,” Douglas said.

“I’ll drive you.”

He sighed. Sheila was obviously right. Even he hadn’t understood his impulse to offer the man a job and invite him to use the room above the shop. So, he would let her drive him back down there and he’d tell Sherman Olney he’d have to go.

They got into the old, forest green Buick LeSabre, Sheila behind the wheel and Douglas sunk down into the passenger seat that Sheila’s concentrated weight had through the years mashed so flat. He usually hated when she drove, but especially right at that moment, as she was angry and with a mission. She took their corner at Underwood on two wheels and sped through the city and moderately heavy traffic back toward the shop.

“You really should slow down,” Douglas said. He watched a man in a blue suit toss his briefcase between two parked cars and dive after it out of the way.

“You’re one to give advice. You? An old fool who takes in a stray human being and leaves him alone in your place of business is giving advice? He’s probably cleaned us out already.”

Douglas considered the situation and felt incredibly stupid. He could not, in fact, assure Sheila that she was wrong. Sherman might be halfway to Philadelphia with twelve pounds of Genoa salami. For all he knew Sherman Olney had turned on the gas of the oven, grilled his dinner, and blown the restaurant to smithereens. He rolled down his window just a crack and listened for sirens.

“If anything bad has happened, I’m having you committed,” Sheila said. She let out a brief scream and rattled the steering wheel. “Then I’ll sell what little we have left and spend the rest of my life in Bermuda. That’s what I’ll do.”

When Sheila made marks on the street braking to a stop, the store was still there and not ablaze. All the lights were off and the only people on the street were a couple of hookers on the far corner. Douglas unlocked and opened the front door of the shop, then followed Sheila inside. They walked past the tables and counter and into the kitchen where Douglas switched on the bright overhead lights. The fluorescent tubes flickered, then filled the place with a steady buzz.

“Go check the safe,” Sheila said.

“There was no money in it,” Douglas said. “There never is.” She knew that. He had taken the money home and was going to drop it at the bank on his way to work the next day. He always did that.

“Check it anyway.”

He walked into his business office and switched on the standing lamp by the door. He looked across the room to see that the safe was still closed and that the stack of newspapers was still in front of it. “Hasn’t been touched,” he said.

“What’s his name?” Sheila asked.

“Sherman.”

“Sherman!” she called up the stairs. “Sherman!”

In short order, Sherman came walking down the stairs in his trousers and sleeveless undershirt. He was rubbing his eyes, trying to adjust to the bright light.

“Sherman,” Douglas said, “it’s me, Douglas.”

“Douglas? What are you doing back?” He stood in front of them in his stocking feet. “By the way, I fixed the toilet and also that funny massager thing.”

“You mean, my foot massager?” Sheila asked.

“If you say so.”

“I told you, Sherman can fix things,” Douglas said to Sheila. “That’s why I hired him.” Sheila had purchased the foot massager from a fancy store in Georgetown. On the days when she worked in the shop she used to disappear every couple of hours for about fifteen minutes and then return happy and refreshed. She would be upstairs in the bathroom, sitting on the closed toilet with her feet stationed on her machine. Then the thing stopped working. Sheila loved that machine.

“The man at the store said my foot massager couldn’t be repaired,” Sheila said.

Sherman shrugged. “Well, it works now.”

“I’ll be right back,” Sheila said and she walked away from the men and up the stairs.

Sherman watched her, then turned to Douglas. “Why did you come back?”

“Well, you see, Sheila doesn’t think it’s a good idea that you stay here. You know, alone and everything. Since we don’t know you or anything about you.” Douglas blew out a long slow breath. “I’m really sorry.”

Upstairs, Sheila screamed, then came running back to the top of the stairs. “It works! It works! He did fix it.” She came down, smiling at Sherman. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome,” Sherman said.

“I was just telling Sherman that we’re sorry but he’s going to have to leave.”

“Don’t be silly,” Sheila said.

Douglas stared at her and rubbed a hand over his face. He gave Sheila a baffled look.

“No, no, it’s certainly all right if Sherman sleeps here. And tomorrow, he can get to work.” She grabbed Sherman’s arm and turned him toward the stairs. “Now, you get on back up there and get some rest.”

Sherman said nothing, but followed her directions. Douglas and Sheila watched him disappear upstairs.

Douglas looked at his wife. “What happened to you?”

“He fixed my foot rubber.”

“So, that makes him a good guy? Just like that?”

“I don’t know,” she said, uncertainly. She seemed to reconsider for a second. “I guess. Come on, let’s go home.”

Two weeks later, Sherman had said nothing more about himself, responding only to trivial questions put to him. He did however repair or make better every machine in the restaurant. He had fixed the toaster oven, the gas lines of the big griddle, the dishwasher, the phone, the neon OPEN sign, the electric-eye buzzer on the front door, the meat slicer, the coffee machine, the manual mustard dispenser, and the cash register. Douglas found the man’s skills invaluable and wondered how he had ever managed without him. Still, his presence was disconcerting as he never spoke of his past or family or friends and he never went out, not even to the store, his food being already there, and so Douglas began to worry that he might be a fugitive from the law.