Cynthia had the house in good order now. The rooms were all cleaned, polished, floors mopped or vacuumed. She was folding the last load of laundry when the phone rang.
"Mr. McMahon's residence."
"Cynthia?" said the cheery voice.
"Good morning, Ms. Cuthbert."
"Emily," she reminded. "Please call me Emily."
"Of course. Emily it is."
"How's he doing?"
"He's sleeping." He head turned to the doorway to his bedroom. "Been sleeping almost nonstop for a day."
"Oh yes, he does that. Works himself into total exhaustion painting and painting. Doesn't stop 'til he's done with whatever project's caught his fancy. Then, when he's done, he sleeps. Sometimes for days, it seems. Then it starts all over again."
"Well, he must be done."
"Good, he'll need to be rested," said Emily. "For tonight."
"What's tonight?"
"He's getting a visitor. To take care of his other . . . you know . . . needs."
Cynthia hear the embarrassment in her voice, and she knew Emily was blushing. She smiled and pushed the point.
"His needs?"
"You know, his . . . ." She cleared her throat. "He's a man, right? With needs?"
Cynthia's smile got wider. She was enjoying this, enjoying Emily's discomfort.
"So how do you take care of these? These needs, as you call them."
The voice was cheery again. "Oh, that's simple. We contact this company, an escort agency, and we retain their services. Kind of like a . . . ." Emily stopped. "Like a prostitute?" "Oh no, it's nothing like that. More like . . . I don't know . . . companionship?"
"And what time will this companionship be arriving?"
"Seven o'clock."
"And you need me to do what exactly?"
"Well, if you could stay somewhere for the weekend, that would probably help. Give them some time . . . uh . . . well, some time alone."
Cynthia paused. She didn't know where she'd stay.
"And you need to have him awake, of course. Shaved up, cleaned up. You know, ready to meet visitors."
"I suppose I could do that," she said. A thought occurred to her. "Emily?"
"Yes."
"How long have you been doing this for him? For Sean. How long have you been arranging for his companionship?"
"Oh, this is the first time."
"Then why now?"
Emily paused before answering. "Truth be told, dearie, he probably hasn't been intimate with a woman in ages. Since before his Holly got sick. Roger thought he'd need it, and we know he won't leave the house anytime soon to get it on his own." The conversation ended on that note, and they said their goodbyes.
Cynthia thought back to yesterday, to the bathtub. Now she understood the look in his eyes, the curiosity and the need. Holy shit, she thought, I couldn't live without sex for a year or more.
This led to two more thoughts. First, he had lived without sex for more than a year. Instead, he had thrown his obvious obsession for painting into caring for his wife and ignored all of his own needs. Second, she didn't know if she'd ever be able to sacrifice so much for another person. Sure, she'd loved David, but when he wasn't enough, she'd sought what she needed elsewhere. Without a thought of anyone but herself, she'd gone out and taken what she wanted without regard to the man she thought she loved.
What the hell was wrong with her?
* * *
"Get up, Timmy," he heard his mother say. He opened his eyes and looked around. He was back in his bedroom, the bedroom he'd grown up in.
Little had changed, he noticed. Pearl Jam and Smashing Pumpkin posters still covered the walls. His bedspread and comforter were the same striped bedding bought years ago at Sears Roebuck. And his mother still woke him up when she'd decided he'd slept long enough.
"Morning, Mom," he said.
"Get up," she said again. "I've got your lunch ready. It'll get cold if you don't hurry." She turned and left. He got out of bed, swinging his long legs to the floor and kneading the cramped muscles of his back. He looked around again. Welcome to it, he thought. He pulled on a pair of pants and a t-shirt and went down to the kitchen.
He sat at the table and his mother placed a plate in front of him. Grilled cheese sandwich and a bowl of tomato soup, just like when he was a kid.
"So what's the problem?" she said, sitting across from him and dunking her sandwich in the soup.
He didn't want to talk about it, so he ate instead.
After a few more minutes of silence, she repeated the question. When he again didn't answer, staring instead into his soup, she said, "I called her this morning. Aimee. I called her."
He looked at his mother. "What did she tell you?"
"She didn't," his mother replied. She fixed him with a glare. "She said to ask you." He looked back into his soup. "What did you do, Tim."
"Messed up," he murmured.
"Messed up missed a birthday? Messed up spending too much time with the guys?"
He looked back at her, saw her eyes narrow as she took in the look of shame on his face. "Messed up with another woman and got caught." When he said nothing, she continued.
"Who was the other woman?"
"No one."
"Is it serious? This other woman? You in love with her?"
"No."
"Did you tell Aimee that?" He shook his head. "You need to tell her then. Tell her it's over and beg her to forgive you."
"You don't understand."
