Chapter 7: Linen Closet

I left his loft before he woke up, and for six days I didn't answer his calls.

That was how I kept the terms.

Gordon's text sat unanswered in my phone, and I didn't tell Eli about it.

I deleted it twice, and both times I could still see it.

On the fourth day a plain envelope came to my door with no stamp, and inside was Birchwood's monthly statement, marked paid.

Somebody wanted me to know he was watching the one thing I couldn't lose.

On Sunday I broke them anyway, because my father had asked for checkers.

The aide at the desk told me he was in the sunroom.

I stopped in the doorway with my coat still on.

Dad sat in the chair by the window with a towel around his neck.

Eli stood behind him with a razor in one hand and a basin on the sill.

He was shaving my father's jaw, one slow stroke at a time, tilting Dad's head with two fingers under his chin.

"Hold still, Martin."

"I'm holding."

"You're talking."

"I'm directing."

Willa sat on the radiator cover with a library book on her knee, laughing into her sleeve.

The sunroom smelled of shaving soap and orange peel.

Nobody had told me this was what Sundays looked like.

I had pictured a man doing a favor.

I had not pictured him knowing which side of Dad's chin was tender, or wiping the razor on the towel after every pass.

Eli looked up and saw me.

The razor stopped.

"Hannah."

"I came for the checkers."

"He's been asking for you since breakfast," Willa said. "He said you were late."

"I'm not late."

"He doesn't know it's Sunday," Willa said. "He says you're always late."

Dad turned his head, and Eli caught the razor away from his throat just in time.

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