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TWENTY SIX
William
As soon as the police officer finishes taking Jessie’s statement and clears out, leaving us alone in the apartment, I scoop her off her feet.
She laughs. “Where are you taking me?”
I stride straight down the corridor and pull back the bedcover with a clawed foot. Depositing her into bed, I pull them over her and tuck her in.
“There’s still so much cleaning up to do before Maurice gets home. I can’t go to bed yet.”
“I got it.”
She starts to push back the covers and I let out a low growl. She raises her hands and laughs. “OK, OK. I’m not going to fight you. You sure you don’t want me to help?” Her offer is spoiled when she lets out a long yawn.
I shake my head. “Of course not. It’s my fault. I will clear it up.”
“Aw, thanks, babe. I’m really beat.”
“Lay back. Relax. Try to get some sleep.”
She nods and smothers another yawn.
I stalk back into the living room and survey the damage. Glass is everywhere, all over the floor by the balcony and a large pile is beneath the low table that holds the television. The night breeze blows in through the smashed door. I close the blinds, but it does little to keep out the chill. I should call someone to replace the door, but when I find Jessie’s phone on the sofa, I can’t even make the screen move beyond the photo of us she insisted on putting as her ‘wallpaper’. It took her a long time to explain to me she wasn’t pasting it onto the walls of her house, but capturing a tiny image to put on her phone. Sometimes I don’t know why she bothers with someone as dense as me.
Shaking my head, I carefully place the phone back onto the table and get to work on the glass. That, at least, I can do. When the glass is swept, I straighten the furniture and glance down at my stone perch in the middle of the living room. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner. Removing my perch to Jessie’s apartment means I only have to go as far as the balcony by morning. I can be here when she wakes up, even though I’ll be sleeping by then. I hope that will mean something.
She calls to me from the bedroom. “Babe? Can you make me a cup of tea? I can’t sleep.”
“Of course.”
In the kitchen, I spend a long moment staring at all the cupboards and little electronic devices. I have no idea how to operate most of them. It feels like a triumph when I locate the tea at the top of the pantry and a cup and set them on the counter. Now I just need hot water. I rummage around until I find a metal pan the size I want and fill it with water from the faucet. But the stove absolutely stumps me. I’m quietly cursing, turning the knobs back and forward, thinking to myself that the overwhelming smell of gas cannot be a good thing, when I hear a quiet chuckle from behind me. I spin. Jessie is leaning against the refrigerator laughing at me. “Babe, what are you doing?”
“Making you tea.” My tone is more sullen than I have any right to. She doesn’t deserve my ire.
She slips her arms around my waist and leans her cheek between my wings. “That’s what the kettle is for. Let me show you.” She marches straight to a metal jug on the counter and flicks a switch. Immediately some modern witchcraft ignites a fire under it and I hear the whir of water beginning to heat.
God damn me, why am I so useless?
