Curiosity

When Stephen pushed open the front door he had to fight a drift of mail that had accumulated on the other side.

Stephen Sheldon, eight years old, was a curious child. Curious in every sense of the word: he was interested in finding many things out, and he was difficult to figure out himself. It was the first definition that brought him 1217 Charleston Street that day.

It had always been known as "The House On The Corner" to the children in the neighborhood, but, then again, Stephen didn't play that often with the children in the neighborhood. Nonetheless, he was greatly aware of the mystery surrounding the house.

It would be easy to describe the house as abandoned. The grass hadn't been cut in years, and weeds grew wild in the yard. There were a few shutters that had fallen from its windows, and the paint was peeling on all sides. Yet, everybody knew the house wasn't abandoned. There was life coming from that house. There was something that let everybody knew that The House On The Corner was occupied, but nobody knew by whom.

Which is why Stephen, the curious and curious lad of eight years old, did what no person in the neighborhood, regardless of age, dared to do. He opened the front door and walked in.

The House on the Corner was, inside, just as bad as it was outside. Dust lay on every surface, as if a fine layer of snow fell inside the old house. Stephen bent for a minute to look at the mail that lay on the floor.

Stephen's gaze had been the subject of much discussion in the Teacher's Lounge at his elementary school. His eyes were wide and wet; his face fell loose underneath them. The teachers agreed, though, that it was not a blank stare. It was a look that was taking things in, and sometimes it felt like it was taking in things you would rather it didn't.

More than a few girls had run to the recess leader, crying, "Stephen's looking at me again!". And while there was no rule against looking at somebody, the recess leader had no trouble sympathizing with the young ladies. His gaze might not be able to be called creepy or scary, but you would not want to be the one being looked at. It made you feel guilty for something you weren't even sure you did.

Stephen's gaze was now taking in the accumulation of mail that lay on the floor. Most of them were for Occupant, or Current Resident, but towards the bottom of the pile he found one addressed to Dr. Abraham Gillian. It was from Ed McMahon. Apparently, Mr. Gillian could already be a winner.

Stephen put the mail back on floor and began to walk through the house. The front hall had several doors and a stairway going upwards, and almost as if he knew exactly where he was going Stephen marched forward through the first archway.

He found, behind it, a living room. He wasn't quite sure what it was, but there was sometime strange about this room. Stephen paused for a moment and looked around calmly. There was something missing. It was another few moments before he realized what seemed so strange; the furniture all faced one another. In the houses of his parents and relatives, the couches and chairs all faced the television.

He continued past the living room into the dining room. A large, elegant table was there, and it seemed like it could fit a dozen people easily, yet it was only set for one. Stephen walked to the head of the table where the setting way. He was a very intelligent 8 year old boy, but still had no way of knowing that the china and flatware was of the finest variety. He did notice that the layers of dust covered all of this, too. It had been here for a while.

The kitchen was a neatly organized jumble of every variety of pot and pan Stephen had ever seen. He was not sure how anybody could ever need each one of these pieces of cookware at once. His hand reached up and clanged each skillet and pan that was hanging from hooks near the ceiling.

Another door took him back to the front hall. He had discovered very little, so far, about the House on the Corner, excepting perhaps that the owner didn't seem to believe in dusting. He peered up the stairs just a voice floated down.

"Hello? Is somebody there? Please, come up. I need help."

Stephen blinked twice. This was the closest he came to surprise. He merely blinked twice and, wordlessly, began to climb the stairs.

Abraham Gillian could not get out of bed. This seemed obvious to Stephen even before the old man struggled to move. This was a man who couldn't leave where he was, in a four-posted bed. The sheets were a mess, blankets twisted around his frail body, and a glimpse of pale white skin showed through here and there.

"Thank god you're here," breathed the old man. "I need your help."

"Would you like a glass of water?" asked Stephen.

"What? No, no, I need you to go get some help. I need you to find a doctor!"

Stephen paused for a moment. "I'll get you a glass of water," he said, decidedly. He picked up the empty glass from the bedside table. "Is there a faucet up here or do I have to go downstairs to the kitchen?"

"Little boy, you don't seem to understand, I don't need water. I need a doctor. Please, go tell your mommy and daddy that there's a sick man who needs a doctor."

"I'm not a little boy," said Stephen. He wasn't being defensive; he stated it as a fact. "I'm almost nine."

"And a big boy like yourself knows how to get help, right?" asked the man, desperate.

Stephen looked at him and the man found himself shutting up. "Is there a faucet up here or should I go downstairs to the kitchen?" the boy repeated.

Abraham Gillian swallowed hard. His throat was very dry. He motioned past Stephen to the bathroom, and the boy walked assuredly in to get the water..

"Why are you here?" Stephen asked, on his tiptoes, filling up his glass.

"What?" asked Abraham.

Stephen turned off the tap. "Why are you here?" he asked, pronouncing each word clearly as if Abraham was the child.

"This is my home," answered the old man, defensively.

Stephen walked to the old man and put the water on the bedside table. "Do you need help drinking it?"

"I need medical help!" exploded Abraham, "I need you to get a doctor!"

Stephen blinked twice.

There was silence as Stephen looked at Abraham. Abraham trembled with anger and disease. Stephen was very still. Abraham, through is anger, couldn't help noting to himself how odd this child's eyes were.

After so long in bed, Abraham was no longer a good judge of time. He wasn't sure if he had been stuck here a few hours or a few weeks. It seemed like an equal amount of time that he and the child had locked gazes. He grew aware that this small, determined person wasn't going to make the next move. Abraham sighed.

"Help me sit up," creaked the old man, "I can't drink laying down."

Stephen knew quite a bit about being home by himself. His parents both worked, his father in an insurance company and his mother as a social worker. Neither got home before 7, at the earliest. They kept the fridge packed with microwaveable meals and took Stephen to the bookstore at the first weekend of every month. They felt it was the best they could do.

Stephen climbed up on the bed with Abraham and gently helped him tip the water back into his mouth. "Is it good?" they young boy asked. The old man stared back at him. "Yes," Abraham said, unable to think of anything else, "thank you."

"You're very old," said Stephen. Everything this boy said didn't seem up for debate at all. He spoke in small proclamations.

"I'm actually only 65," said Abraham.

Stephen gave him a look that seemed to say, exactly.

"Many people seem to think I look older," Abraham explained. "Or, used to, that is. When I used to go out."

There was silence again, and Stephen helped Abraham lift the glass to his mouth. Stephen put the glass on the table and hopped down to floor again. He walked decidedly into the bathroom. A few moments later, he emerged with a few tissues. He struggled back onto the bed and reached over to wipe the few drops of water that had spilled around Abraham's lips.

"What's your name?" asked Abraham.

Stephen looked at him for a moment.

"My name is Abraham Gillian" said the man.

"I know," said Stephen.

"How did you know that?"

"You have mail," said the boy.

"Ah." said the old man, "I suppose I do."

Stephen lifted the water to the old man's mouth again. Abraham drank. He had to admit, it was good. It had been too long since he drank anything. He wanted to glup it up but his throat felt rusty and dry and swallowing was painful. It was best to let it slide down, easy.

"What is your name?" asked Abraham, since the boy didn't offer it up.

Stephen settled back on the bed for a moment. "Do you need any food?" he asked.

"I haven't eaten in a long time," admitted the old man. "It would be very nice to be able to have some food."

Stephen turned back to the old man and held out a hand, "My name's Stephen," said the boy. Abraham struggled to bring one hand from under the covers. Stephen's hand was pink and plump and fit in Abraham's like a baseball fits in the leathery folds of a baseball glove.

"Pleased to meet you, Stephen," said Abraham, and meant it.

Stephen found an ancient box of macaroni in the kitchen and cooked it for the old man. Stephen had made himself dinner enough times that he had become pretty good at it.

Between anxious bites, Abraham tried to explain that he was stuck in his house, that he needed to get out, that he needed to see a doctor, go to a hospital. Stephen would scoop another spoonful of macaroni and blow on it gently before bringing it to Abraham's mouth. "Open," Stephen said, and slip the spoon into Abraham's opening mouth.

When Stephen left the house several hours later, Abraham wasn't sure exactly what had happened. Part of him wanted to believe that it was some sort of fevered dream brought on by his final days. He had hoped, however, his dying delusions would be a little nicer than a 8 year old with a penchant for homemaking.

Abraham Gillian was old, and weak, and sleep came as natural to him as breathing. Yet drifting off that night, he wondered if his only chance for living had visited him that day, and if Stephen Sheldon would ever come back.

Stephen Sheldon most certainly came back. And he was bearing gifts.

"I brought you a present" Stephen said, putting his backpack down on the floor. "I stopped by the drug store after school."

"Was there a doctor there, Stephen? Did you talk to a Doctor? Is somebody coming to see me?"

Ignoring the invalid's queries, Stephen dug in his backpack. "I got you this!" he announced, brandishing a bright pink plastic tube bent in loops and spirals. After a moment, Stephen explained, "It's a silly straw. To help you drink you water," and marched into the bathroom to fill up a test glass.

"About the water, Stephen..." Abraham began.

Stephen looked at him with his curious eyes. His little nose began to twitch. There was a smell in the air that reminded Stephen of his little newborn cousin.

"Oh. You can't get up to go to the bathroom, can you?" Stephen asked.

"Um..."

"Do you have a washing machine?"

"Well, yes. There's one in the pantry downstairs."

"We'll have to clean this sheets then." Stephen said matter of faculty. He set the glass and silly straw on the bedside table and began to begin to take the sheets off the bed.

The half-hour that followed was a macabre slapstick as Abraham was rolled this way and that in an attempt to free the sheets. The man tried his best, through the whole thing, to remain dignified and adult, but it's hard when a little boy is rolling you on your side so as to get at your urine-soaked sheets.

Finally Stephen walked decidedly out of the room, with a ball of bedding and pajamas in his arms, leaving Abraham as bare as the mattress he lay on. Abraham was in no position to argue, considering he couldn't have fought back if he tried. And Stephen was at an age where plenty of people had told him that nakedness was wrong and bad an immoral, but he frankly had yet to see why. To Stephen, being naked was the logical state a human was left in between clothes.

Abraham lay, in his between-clothes state, for quite a while. He began to wonder if the boy hadn't taken his clothing and run off somewhere. Is this how he was supposed to die? Naked on a bare bed? He turned his head to the side and caught sight of the glass on the table. At least the police will be able to lift fingerprints from that, he thought. They'll find out the little guy killed me. Or at least stripped me and left me to die.

"I brought more Macaroni and Cheese," said Stephen, walking into the room with a pot in his hand. "These ones are shaped like spirals."

"Stephen, do you think you could cover me up a little?"

Stephen looked at him for a moment, as if the request were some sort of trick.

"There's some spare sheets in the trunk at the foot of the bed," said Abraham with a small nod of his head. Stephen appeared to think it over , then finally opened the old wooden case. He threw a ivory sheet over the old man and sat down to gently feed him the macaroni and cheese.

It was the third day. Abraham's grasp of time was getting a little better. Abraham wanted to take another turn at talking to Stephen, another turn at getting some help.

"Stephen," he asked pointedly, "Why won't you find me a doctor?"

Stephen looked up from his newspaper. The boy had decided that Abraham needed to know the current events and so purchased a paper on the way home from school. Stephen was in the process of reading the major stories aloud. Although he got hung up on some of the bigger words, he was a very speedy reader.

"You don't need a doctor," said Stephen.

"I do need a doctor, Stephen. I'm very old and I'm very sick."

Stephen put down the paper and reached a small hand up to the man's wrinkled forehead. "You're don't have a fever," he said, plainly, and picked up the paper again.

"But I am sick, Stephen, I can't walk."

"What do you need? I'll get it for you." Stephen said.

"I need a doctor. You know I need a doctor."

Stephen's round face grew suddenly red. "I'll take care of you! I'm here to take care of you! You don't need a doctor!" Stephen raced from the room and slammed the door.

Abraham waited in his bed. It was all he could do. Surely, the boy would return. But as the light streaming through dusty window faded slowly, Abraham realized that Stephen had left. And the old man wasn't sure if the boy would ever return.

"If you can't walk, how did you get upstairs?" asked Stephen, walking into the room.

Abraham Gillian's eyes shot open. He had been sound asleep and hadn't heard the boy enter.

"If you can't walk, how did you get upstairs?" asked Stephen again, plainly.

"I... I used to be able to walk. I used to be able to do a lot of things. But as I got older, I got worse. I didn't want to admit it to myself. I kept telling myself that I would call and get a nurse to come check in with me. But I was stubborn, and I wanted to live by myself. I was afraid that if a nurse came and saw me, they'd decide I wasn't fit to live in my own home anymore, that they'd cart me away to some old person's home."

"I won't cart you away anywhere." Stephen said, seriously.

Abraham laughed. "I know you won't, Stephen." Abraham struggled to raise his head. "My god, boy, it's very early. Shouldn't you be in school?"

"It's Saturday," Stephen said, sitting in the chair next to the bed.

"Oh, is it? How time flies," said Abraham wryly. Stephen stared at the man. He was certain a joke was made, but he wasn't clear if he was the butt of it. Abraham realized his sarcasm was going over the head of his young companion. "What do we have planned for today" he asked, changing the subject.

"Do you like Chutes and Ladders?" Stephen asked, opening his backpack.

"I'm sure I'll learn to," said Abraham, quietly.

Abraham Gillian felt himself dying.

It was later that day, and Stephen had gone out to purchase a newspaper to read to the old man. Abraham felt a slow shift inside of his body, as if an hidden gear had slipped for a moment.

Stephen walked in an hour later, a minute later, Abraham wasn't sure.

"Stephen, listen to me, you have to help me. I really need help."

"I can get you water," said Stephen.

"Dammitt, I don't need water! I need a doctor!"

Stephen stared at the frail man, "I told you I didn't want to talk about that!"

"It doesn't matter, you little shit! It doesn't matter what you want to talk about! I need a doctor or I'm going to die! I'm going to die!" Tears squeezed out of Abraham's dry, wrinkled eyes. "I don't want to die!"

Abraham's body began to shake. Stephen climbed onto the bed and held the man's spotted head to his chest. Stroking what was left of Abarham's hair, Stephen said softly, "It's okay... it's okay..."

Abraham sobbed and fought off the sleep as long as he could, but soon it enveloped him, and he wondered why he resisted for so long.

Stephen had put all of the blankets he could find on top of Abraham Gillian, but he wasn't getting any warmer. Stephen knew he was dead. Stephen spent a few hours looking at him. He looked the same, mostly. He never had much color in him as long as Stephen had been visiting. But there was something missing. Stephen couldn't tell.

Stephen didn't like that. He wanted to have any answer from the experience. He didn't have any answers at all at this point. Stephen narrowed his eyes.

Stephen Sheldon cleaned up carefully, washed the dishes he had used and put them all away, and put the silly straw back in his backpack. He closed the door to Abraham Gillian's room at last and went downstairs.

As Stephen walked back into the outside world, he blinked as the harsh sun hit his eyes. He did not squint, however. He just looked ahead and kept on walking. He figured as that long as he kept his eyes open, sooner or later, he'd grow used to it