That Man

by Bill Tope

Trish spotted that man again, out in the front yard this time. What was he up to now? she wondered. She peered closer. He was trimming the hedges with an electric gizmo. Was he the guy that David was going to hire to help around the house? He seemed awfully old for a handyman, and his red hair appeared to be dyed. He seemed to always be around; whenever she looked up, there he was, with his goofy smile and dark blue eyes. He had nice eyes, she thought, but the grin she could live without. She raised the window an inch and fresh air streamed through the aperture. It felt divine.

Image credit: Wix stock photo

Trish put the kettle on to make tea. She turned it up high, then quite forgot about it. She sat down to read the newspaper, but none of the words made sense, like it was written in a foreign language. She sighed, closed her eyes and was soon asleep.

She awoke with a start. The sound of an urgent voice. "Trish," the voice said, "you left the burner on again. Babe, I told you, if you want tea, just tell me, I'll make it for you." It was that man, and he was inside her home now. David would never stand for that! The fellow was standing by the stove with the kettle, now destroyed from the high heat of the burner. He said she had  left it on again and the water all evaporated. Again? Had she done this before? She thought, maybe yes.

Slowly, she came to her feet, cautiously approached the interloper. "What are you doing inside my house?" she hissed. "David will..."

"David won't mind," said the man. "We're all friends. David had to be away, and he asked me to look in on you, Trish."

Trish blinked in bewilderment. Did she really know this man? She thought hard but couldn't recall his name.

As if reading her mind, he smiled and said, "I'm Eliot."

"How do I know you?" she asked uncertainly.

"We've met many times. We've known each other for many years," he assured her.

"Where...is David?" she asked.

"He had to go away; business."

"How long will he be away?" she asked next.

Eliot shook his head. Sadly, thought Trish. "We don't know. It could be for some time."

"Do you...stay here?" she asked fearfully. Certainly David wouldn't allow that.

"I bunk in the guest room," he replied.

"Why don't I remember any of this?" she asked despairingly. "Because I can't, any of it!" She felt as if she were losing her mind. There was an odd familiarity to that feeling, which set her on edge as well.

"You've been ill, Trish," responded Eliot, reaching out and rubbing her shoulder.

Mm, she thought, that feels good!

*

A couple of hours later, Eliot approached Trish in the living room, where she was sitting on the sofa, staring into nothingness. "What do you want for dinner, Trish?" he asked.

She started out of her reverie. "Shouldn't I cook for you?" she asked. "You've been working all day, on the lawn and the laundry and all..."

"I like to cook," he replied. "It relaxes me." She nodded. "Would an omelet be alright?" he asked.

The idea appealed to her. "Breakfast for dinner," she said. "Perfect! David likes omelets for dinner too," she said.

Eliot smiled. "Yes, I know."

Over dinner, Trish asked Eliot, "How long have you known...how long have you been friends with David and me?"

"More than 30 years," said Eliot. "I knew you when you were first married," he went on. "In fact, I've known you since school."

"Really! I can't remember any of it. You said I've been ill. What's the matter with me?"

Eliot hesitated for just a moment before he said, "You were in a driving accident, and you hit your head."

"Oh my!" said Trish. She tentatively felt her skull. "Was anyone badly injured?"

Eliot smiled and shook his head. "No. No one."

"What did the doctor say, Eliot?" using his name for the first time. "How long do they think my amnesia will last?"

"They don't know, dear," he said softly, reaching out and placing his hand atop Trish's on the table. Surprising herself, she didn't withdraw her fingers.

"Let me ask you this," she said, "how long has my husband been gone?"

"Been gone?" he repeated thoughtfully.

"On his business trip," said Trish. "When did he leave? And where did he go?"

"He left several weeks ago," said Eliot. "Where he went is a secret."

"A secret?" she said. "From his own wife?"

"David works for the government, Trish. What he does is confidential, hush-hush, need to know and all that. I'm sorry."

"Do you know where he is, Eliot?" she asked.

Eliot shook his head no. "I really don't."

*

Image credit: Alexis Antoine on Unsplash

Later that evening, after supper dishes had been done, Eliot and Trish sat on the sofa, watching TV. Trish once again attempted to read the newspaper but without success. "Why can't I read, Eliot?" she asked unhappily. "Is that because of the accident, too?"

"Yes." He stared closely at her. "You aren't in any pain, are you, dear?"

Trish shook her head.

"You'd tell me if you were, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, Eliot," she said simply, and he believed her.

"I think I'll turn in," said Trish, turning to find Eliot asleep at his end of the sofa. She smiled. Poor man, she thought, he must be exhausted. She pushed to her feet and then just stood there. She didn't know which way to go. Suddenly she began to whimper.

Eliot, coming awake, saw Trish standing there, nervously folding and unfolding her fists. "Trish?" he said.

"Eliot," she wailed, "I don't know where my bedroom is!" She began to sob.

Eliot came promptly to his feet, put an arm around Trish and steered her to her bedroom. Recognizing her surroundings, she breathed deeply and relaxed once more. "What kind of amnesia is this that I've got?" she wondered aloud.

"They have a name for it," said Eliot, "but I can't pronounce it." They both laughed.

After Eliot left and Trish got dressed in her pajamas, she walked back into the living room and said to Eliot in a sultry voice, "I'm ready, dear." Eliot looked up with a start and watched as Trish undressed him with her eyes. Nervously, he licked his lips. "I remember, Eliot," she murmured softly, approaching him.

"You remember?" he asked. "Really?" She nodded and led him back to the bedroom.

The next morning, Trish awoke and stretched luxuriously, then sat contemplating the evening before. She smiled. She hadn't felt this good in a month of Sundays.

She wrapped her robe around herself and walked through the house, recognizing things that she couldn't the day before. It was, she felt, as if a veil had been lifted from her eyes. Arriving in the kitchen, her attention was seized by the glorious aroma of fresh coffee and sizzling bacon and eggs. Then she halted.

Who was that red-haired man standing by the stove? she wondered.

***

Bill Tope is a retired public assistance caseworker; construction laborer; line cook at Hilton Hotels; and one-time nude model for university art classes. He lives in the American Midwest with his mean little cat Baby.