Home Visit
by Meg Tuite
Roscoe peeked out his dust-streaked window and saw the lady’s car pull up. He watched her pull down her visor and spread some lipstick on lips. “Oh yeah, this one’s a fornicator, if ever I saw the sweet backside of a peacock,” Roscoe grabbed his package and howled, jumping around the kitchen. He smiled and watched her.
The lady got out of the car. Her beige-tinged hair-do picked up with the breeze like two drapes on either side of her head. She was plump as an elephant carrying twins all stuffed inside a suit with a skirt that would have cursed if it could. He could hear her nylons scraping together as she mounted the stairs to the trailer. He let her knock first, smoothing his hair back and smiling at his reflection in the toaster before he opened the door.
“Well, hello there,” he said. The lady nodded and asked if this was the Klasky residence. “Yes, ma’am, you have come to the right place.” He held open the screen door and the lady walked in. He watched her eyeballing the pile of dishes wading in a week or two of grayish water, the clothes and other crap layered over the carpet and the wood shavings from his woodworking table set up in the middle of the living room. He grinned.
“Yes, ma’am, I’m a builder. And not to rattle your tail all at once, but yeah, I’m also an inventor, sure as I’m standing here.” He raised his eyebrows and continued, “I can guarantee you don’t come across that every day, now do you?”
“Does Millicent Klasky reside here?” she asked. “I’m the social worker. I’ve come to talk with her.”
Roscoe rolled his eyes. “She’s over there, sleeping her whole goddamn life away,” he said, pointing past the living room.
The lady shuffled forward with her huge boobs plastered beneath some sweaty white blouse and dark jacket that matched her skirt. He could tell she was just waiting for someone to unleash her from her costume, but he knew she had to follow the protocol and go and see the missus before he could intervene.
The lady walked into a darkened room large enough for the bed that held it. A small, cough of a woman lay underneath a blanket. “Mrs. Klasky?” she asked. The woman opened her eyes into slits and stared forward. She didn’t see the social worker.
“Mrs. Klasky? Hi, I’m Ellen. I’m here from Presbyterian hospice.” She grabbed a chair in the corner and pulled it over, next to the bed. “How are you doing?” Ellen asked.
The woman, small as a pea, gave a slight smile. Her lips were cracked and there was no water, nor a table near her. The woman closed her eyes again.
Ellen set down her briefcase, heaved herself up off the chair and huffed past Mr. Klasky, mumbling to herself.
“What can I get for you, Miss?” Roscoe smiled, following Ellen into the kitchen.
“Mr. Klansky,” she stopped and turned to face him. “Your wife has no water or food. And where is her medicine? All of those things should be set up on a table next to her bed. Do I need to call in some homecare to take care of your wife? I detected the distinct odor of excrement coming from her bed. Is anyone else here to help your wife?”
Roscoe liked her tough narrow eyes. She was a wild one. He could see she was more than ready for a good tumble. “Now, miss, I’ve been a bit busy with my latest invention and my wife has been helping me out. She’s always been my guinea pig to try out new contraptions and this one’s a doozy!”
“Mr. Klansky, let’s start with the basics. Any clean glasses for water?” He pointed to the greasy cabinet. The lady pulled out a plastic cup and cringed when she turned on the kitchen faucet.
“When was her last meal and what was it?” She eyed the multi-colored sludge molded on to the dishes poking out of the watery muck.
“I make a damn good macaroni and cheese dish, not to brag or anything. Why she sat up in a chair right here at the table and ate with me just last night.”
Ellen let out a deep sigh. “Mr. Klansky could you excuse your wife and I for a moment. I need to ask her a few questions.”
“No, miss, no problem at all. I’ll just go outside for a smoke. Don’t be long now,” he winked at her.
Ellen shuddered, turned and waddled back toward the soiled, emaciated body in the bedroom. She got a pack of straws out of her bag and a yogurt that would have been her snack and a plastic spoon. “Millicent? Hi. I’m Ellen. I’m just going to give you some yogurt and water. Are you thirsty?”
The crinkled yellow face opened up one eye, “Is he gone?” she asked.
Ellen’s eyebrows raised, didn’t think there was this much life left in the woman. “Yes, he stepped outside for a smoke. Is there something you want to tell me?”
“You got to get me away from that freak,” she hissed as she pulled herself up in bed and grabbed the yogurt and spoon out of Ellen’s hands, started shoveling it into her mouth as fast as she could get it there. “You know what he’s up too, that hellhound to Satan?” She licked her lips. “You got any more food in there, lady?” Ellen rustled around until she found a granola bar. She was no longer blinking, wondering if she should lock him out now. Millicent snatched the bar from her, tore it open and shoved it in while she kept talking. “I thought playing a dying sack of bones would keep the bastard off of me, but he gets me up, day or night, don’t matter to him, the beast.”
“What does he do to you?” Ellen asked, now turning as pale as the old woman.
“He’s made himself what he calls a sex board. Heard him out there sawing and nailing for days and one day I was strapped in to it like a damn rodeo rider. He loves his sex.”
“What the hell is a sex board?” Ellen started to hyperventilate, afraid to hear the answer.
“I can show you if you’d like,” Roscoe answered.
Ellen looked up at him and gasped. This was some kind of horror film. She knew she had to think like one of the stars in the movies she’d seen to get out.
“Might have to do some readjusting to get you to fit on it, but that won’t be no problem. I told you I was an inventor. So happy to have someone with some beef on her to work it out on. I’m getting tired of humping bones.”
“Hey, bastard, you’ve been pounding these bones for a lifetime. Don’t tell me you are all about the Big Mac now? You used to like my chicken McNuggets.”
Roscoe looked over at Millicent and beamed. “What if I want an order of McNuggets and a Big Mac?”
“Well, then you’re going to have to make one large ass sex board, aren’t you, you wild ass inventor, you. This lady here might be a damn triple Big Mac with bacon, for all you know.”
Ellen slipped her hand in her bag for her cell phone.
“I’ve been trying to get those phone people out here.” Roscoe shook his head. “Those damn cell phones are just as worthless as a kid’s toy.”
Roscoe and Millicent both looked at Ellen and laughed.
“Oh, don’t look so worried, honey. You’re from the government, right sweetie?” Asked Mrs. Klansky. “We just need some of that assistance of your’s? We’re behind in our rent at least six months, right Roscoe?”
He nodded.
“And Roscoe makes a mean mac and cheese if you can leave us some money for groceries and talk to the bastard who owns this shit hole and let him know I’m sick?”
Roscoe walked over to his work bench and pulled out what looked like a one-seater child’s car seat made out of wood with straps for the shoulders, except this one had a deep bowl to sit in and long leg rests with straps to straddle the legs outward and hold them in place. Roscoe shook his head again. “I may just have to start over and make a two-seater, so I can go back and forth between McNuggets and the Big Mac, what do you two think?” Roscoe asked.
Ellen heard the wind howling outside the trailer. She felt some pee slide its way down the inside of her nylons. “I have some papers you can fill out,” she said.
Roscoe put down his saw and wiped his hands while Millicent pushed herself up in the bed.
Meg Tuite's writing has appeared in 34th Parallel, Calliope, San Francisco Bay Press, The Santa Fe Literary Review, Fast Forward Press, Monkeybicycle, Sententia Magazine, SLAB Magazine, Molotov Cocktail, Gloom Cupboard, Boston Literary Magazine and many others. She is the fiction editor of The Santa Fe Literary Review. Her collection Domestic Apparition is out now through San Francisco Bay Press.
by Meg Tuite
Roscoe peeked out his dust-streaked window and saw the lady’s car pull up. He watched her pull down her visor and spread some lipstick on lips. “Oh yeah, this one’s a fornicator, if ever I saw the sweet backside of a peacock,” Roscoe grabbed his package and howled, jumping around the kitchen. He smiled and watched her.
The lady got out of the car. Her beige-tinged hair-do picked up with the breeze like two drapes on either side of her head. She was plump as an elephant carrying twins all stuffed inside a suit with a skirt that would have cursed if it could. He could hear her nylons scraping together as she mounted the stairs to the trailer. He let her knock first, smoothing his hair back and smiling at his reflection in the toaster before he opened the door.
“Well, hello there,” he said. The lady nodded and asked if this was the Klasky residence. “Yes, ma’am, you have come to the right place.” He held open the screen door and the lady walked in. He watched her eyeballing the pile of dishes wading in a week or two of grayish water, the clothes and other crap layered over the carpet and the wood shavings from his woodworking table set up in the middle of the living room. He grinned.
“Yes, ma’am, I’m a builder. And not to rattle your tail all at once, but yeah, I’m also an inventor, sure as I’m standing here.” He raised his eyebrows and continued, “I can guarantee you don’t come across that every day, now do you?”
“Does Millicent Klasky reside here?” she asked. “I’m the social worker. I’ve come to talk with her.”
Roscoe rolled his eyes. “She’s over there, sleeping her whole goddamn life away,” he said, pointing past the living room.
The lady shuffled forward with her huge boobs plastered beneath some sweaty white blouse and dark jacket that matched her skirt. He could tell she was just waiting for someone to unleash her from her costume, but he knew she had to follow the protocol and go and see the missus before he could intervene.
The lady walked into a darkened room large enough for the bed that held it. A small, cough of a woman lay underneath a blanket. “Mrs. Klasky?” she asked. The woman opened her eyes into slits and stared forward. She didn’t see the social worker.
“Mrs. Klasky? Hi, I’m Ellen. I’m here from Presbyterian hospice.” She grabbed a chair in the corner and pulled it over, next to the bed. “How are you doing?” Ellen asked.
The woman, small as a pea, gave a slight smile. Her lips were cracked and there was no water, nor a table near her. The woman closed her eyes again.
Ellen set down her briefcase, heaved herself up off the chair and huffed past Mr. Klasky, mumbling to herself.
“What can I get for you, Miss?” Roscoe smiled, following Ellen into the kitchen.
“Mr. Klansky,” she stopped and turned to face him. “Your wife has no water or food. And where is her medicine? All of those things should be set up on a table next to her bed. Do I need to call in some homecare to take care of your wife? I detected the distinct odor of excrement coming from her bed. Is anyone else here to help your wife?”
Roscoe liked her tough narrow eyes. She was a wild one. He could see she was more than ready for a good tumble. “Now, miss, I’ve been a bit busy with my latest invention and my wife has been helping me out. She’s always been my guinea pig to try out new contraptions and this one’s a doozy!”
“Mr. Klansky, let’s start with the basics. Any clean glasses for water?” He pointed to the greasy cabinet. The lady pulled out a plastic cup and cringed when she turned on the kitchen faucet.
“When was her last meal and what was it?” She eyed the multi-colored sludge molded on to the dishes poking out of the watery muck.
“I make a damn good macaroni and cheese dish, not to brag or anything. Why she sat up in a chair right here at the table and ate with me just last night.”
Ellen let out a deep sigh. “Mr. Klansky could you excuse your wife and I for a moment. I need to ask her a few questions.”
“No, miss, no problem at all. I’ll just go outside for a smoke. Don’t be long now,” he winked at her.
Ellen shuddered, turned and waddled back toward the soiled, emaciated body in the bedroom. She got a pack of straws out of her bag and a yogurt that would have been her snack and a plastic spoon. “Millicent? Hi. I’m Ellen. I’m just going to give you some yogurt and water. Are you thirsty?”
The crinkled yellow face opened up one eye, “Is he gone?” she asked.
Ellen’s eyebrows raised, didn’t think there was this much life left in the woman. “Yes, he stepped outside for a smoke. Is there something you want to tell me?”
“You got to get me away from that freak,” she hissed as she pulled herself up in bed and grabbed the yogurt and spoon out of Ellen’s hands, started shoveling it into her mouth as fast as she could get it there. “You know what he’s up too, that hellhound to Satan?” She licked her lips. “You got any more food in there, lady?” Ellen rustled around until she found a granola bar. She was no longer blinking, wondering if she should lock him out now. Millicent snatched the bar from her, tore it open and shoved it in while she kept talking. “I thought playing a dying sack of bones would keep the bastard off of me, but he gets me up, day or night, don’t matter to him, the beast.”
“What does he do to you?” Ellen asked, now turning as pale as the old woman.
“He’s made himself what he calls a sex board. Heard him out there sawing and nailing for days and one day I was strapped in to it like a damn rodeo rider. He loves his sex.”
“What the hell is a sex board?” Ellen started to hyperventilate, afraid to hear the answer.
“I can show you if you’d like,” Roscoe answered.
Ellen looked up at him and gasped. This was some kind of horror film. She knew she had to think like one of the stars in the movies she’d seen to get out.
“Might have to do some readjusting to get you to fit on it, but that won’t be no problem. I told you I was an inventor. So happy to have someone with some beef on her to work it out on. I’m getting tired of humping bones.”
“Hey, bastard, you’ve been pounding these bones for a lifetime. Don’t tell me you are all about the Big Mac now? You used to like my chicken McNuggets.”
Roscoe looked over at Millicent and beamed. “What if I want an order of McNuggets and a Big Mac?”
“Well, then you’re going to have to make one large ass sex board, aren’t you, you wild ass inventor, you. This lady here might be a damn triple Big Mac with bacon, for all you know.”
Ellen slipped her hand in her bag for her cell phone.
“I’ve been trying to get those phone people out here.” Roscoe shook his head. “Those damn cell phones are just as worthless as a kid’s toy.”
Roscoe and Millicent both looked at Ellen and laughed.
“Oh, don’t look so worried, honey. You’re from the government, right sweetie?” Asked Mrs. Klansky. “We just need some of that assistance of your’s? We’re behind in our rent at least six months, right Roscoe?”
He nodded.
“And Roscoe makes a mean mac and cheese if you can leave us some money for groceries and talk to the bastard who owns this shit hole and let him know I’m sick?”
Roscoe walked over to his work bench and pulled out what looked like a one-seater child’s car seat made out of wood with straps for the shoulders, except this one had a deep bowl to sit in and long leg rests with straps to straddle the legs outward and hold them in place. Roscoe shook his head again. “I may just have to start over and make a two-seater, so I can go back and forth between McNuggets and the Big Mac, what do you two think?” Roscoe asked.
Ellen heard the wind howling outside the trailer. She felt some pee slide its way down the inside of her nylons. “I have some papers you can fill out,” she said.
Roscoe put down his saw and wiped his hands while Millicent pushed herself up in the bed.
Meg Tuite's writing has appeared in 34th Parallel, Calliope, San Francisco Bay Press, The Santa Fe Literary Review, Fast Forward Press, Monkeybicycle, Sententia Magazine, SLAB Magazine, Molotov Cocktail, Gloom Cupboard, Boston Literary Magazine and many others. She is the fiction editor of The Santa Fe Literary Review. Her collection Domestic Apparition is out now through San Francisco Bay Press.
