Part 40 (1/2)

He didn't say anything until right before I opened my mouth to repeat my question.

”This s.h.i.+ts me,” he whispered. ”It s.h.i.+ts me, Tess. So d.a.m.ned embarra ”

”Cob,” I broke in quietly, ”honey, where do you live?”

He hesitated then gave me his address and I knew where it was.

”I'll be there in fifteen minutes,” I promised.

”Thanks, sweetheart,” he whispered.

”Hang tight,” I said, disconnected, tossed my phone on my purse, backed out and headed to Cob's.

Cob lived in Baker Historical District, not far from where Brock used to live. Baker was a great 'hood, a mishmash of houses, personality and most folks took care of their homes.

Cob's was tiny with a chain link fence, an overabundance of tall trees planted close to the house which would, in summer, totally block out any light and a look that said he didn't spend much time keeping up with the Joneses even when he wasn't being treated for cancer.

I knocked on the door and entered when I heard him call weakly, ”It's open.”

And when I entered, I was a.s.saulted immediately with the hideous smell of vomit.

Oh G.o.d.

Cob was on the couch, the TV on. I noticed at once he'd lost more weight, his eyes were more sunken in his head and his skin seemed to hang on his face. Even though he was reclining I could see his clothes were loose on him and there was a vomit bucket he'd missed on the floor beside him.

His eyes came to mine.

”I can't... I can't...” he shook his head. ”I don't have it in me to clean it up, sweetheart,”

he finished on a whisper.

”Of course not,” I whispered back, closed the door and rushed forward, dropping my bag on an armchair that made Brock's old furniture look like it belonged in an interior design magazine. ”I'll get this sorted, don't worry,” I said softly as I pulled off my coat and dropped it on the chair.

”It's also...” he pressed his lips together, ”I also couldn't make it to the bathroom when I was lyin' in bed.”

Great. More vomit.

I nodded, buried my distaste for my upcoming ch.o.r.e as well as the smell hanging in the house and smiled. ”Okay, honey.”

Then I went to work, clearing his immediate s.p.a.ce first and scrounging in the kitchen for a big bowl to give him just in case another wave came on. Then I set about dealing with the mess on the bedroom carpet. Then I realized that even with the cleanup, the smell lingered.

I needed to do something about that. The smell was making me sick and I wasn't having chemotherapy.

I walked back to the living room and said, ”Okay, cleanup done but I'm heading to the store to get some stuff to deal with this smell. Do you need anything else?”

He shook his head, ”Laurie and Jill keep me pretty well stocked.”

I nodded but replied, ”I'll just go look. And, I know this doesn't sound great right now but, if you can keep it down, you need dinner so we'll get you set up when I get back.”

”Thanks, sweetheart,” he said quietly.

I studied him a second then, gently, I queried, ”Cob, don't they give you something for the nausea?”

His face shut down almost to stubborn but he was too weak to manage even that.

Then he stated, ”So many d.a.m.ned pills.”

”I can imagine but you need to keep your strength up,” I advised.

”For what?” he asked, his eyes never leaving mine.

”To fight,” I answered, again gently.

He continued to hold my eyes then his moved to the TV.

d.a.m.n.

I gave up, hit the kitchen, did an inventory, found a piece of paper to make a list and headed out, stopping to lean down and kiss Cob's cheek on my way out.

The good news was, the flurries were holding off so I felt a little better as I drove the five minute drive to the Albertson's on Alameda.

The bad news was, I was so involved in what I was doing, I was standing in line at the checkout when my phone rang, I yanked it out, saw it said ”Slim Calling” and realized I forgot to call him.

c.r.a.p.

I engaged it, put it to my ear and said, ”Hey honey.”

”Where are you?” was Brock's terse reply.

”I ”

”I'm standin' in my livin' room, you're not here and you didn't reply to my text.”

With all the fun I was having cleaning up puke, I must have missed it.

c.r.a.p again.

”I'm ”

He cut me off again. ”You also didn't call.”

”Brock, give me a second to speak,” I said softly, pus.h.i.+ng my cart toward the conveyor belt and starting to unload.

”So, speak,” Brock ordered.

”I'm at Albertson's on Alameda,” I told him but got no more out when Brock spoke again.

”Babe, we're doin' pizza, remember?” he asked, didn't give me a chance to answer before he went on to query, ”And what the f.u.c.k are you doin' at Albertson's on Alameda?”

This was a good question considering the fact that for his place or mine I shopped either at Wild Oats or King Soopers, both on Colorado Boulevard.