“Don’t need help.” But he doesn’t shake me off when I grab him by the elbow and steer him up the three porch steps.
I fight the urge to shake my head. He’s lucky he didn’t fracture a wrist or collar bone. Or break his neck. Then again, the man is so stubborn, he could have his femur sticking out of his skin and into the ground and he’d still refuse to see a doctor.
He lets go of his jaw and leaves a bloody handprint on the porch railing as he hoists himself up the steps. Even with my help, it’s a challenge.
I open the screen door for him. “What were you even doing out here without your walker?”
He braces against the doorsill and halts. “Hell and damn, I clean near forgot. Ernie at Champagne’s Grocery called the house. Says he’s been tryin’ to reach you the last two days.”
Shit.
I pull off my baseball cap and scrub a hand through my hair. “Sorry, Pop. I got his voicemail last night and I forgot?—”
“You forgot?!” Those white brows fly to the ceiling. “One of our most loyal customers?!”
“I would’ve gotten back to him this afternoon?—”
“You’ll get back to him now.”
“I will. Right after I get you cleaned?—”
“I CAN TAKE CARE OF MYSELF!” he booms, the words rattling throughout the two-story house.
“Pop, I?—”
“No, son.” Instead of reaching for the walker that is literally right there, he plants the bloody hand against the white wall and shuffle-steps past me. “You call Ernie Fletcher back right the hell now before we lose one of our best customers.”
Then he swings the door of the hall bathroom open so hard it slams against the wall.
Pop doesn’t shut it behind him. Probably because he wants to hear me make the call as ordered.
I rake my fingers into my too-long hair, grabbing it by the roots, willing myself not to swear. I’m clenching it so tight it aches.
“Sonofabitch.” I hear Pop mutter. He probably just got a good look at his “scratch” in the mirror.
Surely, the man has never cut his face open falling off a porch. I’ve never seen him drink enough to even stagger much less fall down.
Until two years ago, I doubt he’d ever fallen in his life.
Now, we can’t seem to go two weeks without him dropping like a felled tree.
“Shit,” I hiss, willing my jaw to unclench.
Castor Olivier has a lot to be pissed about. Between his body, his brother, and his two sons, something is always letting him down.
The least I can do is keep our customers happy.
I tap Ernie Fletcher’s contact and wait for the call to connect. Champagne’s Grocery is not, in fact, one of our best customers. They are a mid-range buyer. Nothing close to what the cannery in Opelousas takes, but Pop is right. They’ve been a customer forever. My grandfather supplied them back in the 1970s.
The call is not as quick as I’d like, but Ernie lets me go when I promise the delivery of two crates of sweet potatoes by end of day.
When I disconnect, Pop hollers from the bathroom. “Ernie doin’ alright?”
He doesn’t sound pissed anymore. More washed out. I approach slowly on the pretense of answering.
“Sounded good. Said he’s thinking about retiring.”
Silence.
