Chapter 4: Terms

I slept like a stone in a stranger's bed, and woke up not knowing where I was.

The window showed gray light over a sea of cane, and my hand throbbed under the gauze.

Somebody was moving in the kitchen below, a plain steady sound of a cup set down and a drawer slid shut.

I dressed in jeans and my work shirt, took the brass key off the nightstand, and went down.

He was at the stove in a faded T-shirt, with his back to me, turning an egg.

His forearms were brown and corded, and the castle tattoo showed at the inside of the left one.

"Coffee's on the table," he said, without turning.

"I didn't hear you come in."

"I didn't want to be heard."

I poured a cup and sat.

The percolator was clean and steady on its burner, and the kitchen smelled of butter and chicory.

When he set a plate in front of me, I realized I had not eaten at the supper at all.

I ate everything.

He sat across from me with his own plate and did not say a word.

When I put my fork down, I folded my hands on the table.

"Terms," I said.

He set down his cup.

"One.

"I take the room at the end of the hall.

"The door locks from my side, and I keep the key."

"Yes."

"Two.

"I pay my way.

"Cash, weekly, at what an organ tuner makes.

"I tune the reed organ at the co-op chapel on Thursdays and the church on Saturdays.

"I'm not a guest.

"I'm a tenant."

"Fair."

"Three.

"You tell the parish nothing until I say.

"Not that I'm here, not that you're whole, not one word about the contract."

His brows drew together very slightly.

"They will see me walk."

"Then they'll see you walk.

"You don't have to say it."

"All right."

"Four.

"You fix nothing of mine without asking.

"Not my truck, not my hand, not my father."

"Four," he said gravely.

"Five.

"I can say no on any day.

"I can say it tomorrow."

He looked at me for a long moment, and I thought he was going to argue.