Fade to Black Read Free Page B

ask the sitter to call,” Eric insisted, his jaw trembling. “I was sick . . . I—”
    “Shut up!”
    “Jesus Christ, I was four years old—”
    “I said shut up!” she howled. Eric retreated past her toward the sanctuary of the bathroom. She wasn’t about to let him off that easily.
    “You’re worthless,” she hissed, “just like your father!”
    “Yeah, I know,” Eric said, close to tears.
    Winded, Aunt Stella turned the chair around and started back out of the bedroom. However, when she pushed forward on the gearshift, the motor stuck in gear, dragging her along.
    “Eric!” she screamed, tugging frantically at the shift knob. The chair wouldn’t stop and she found herself pinned against the dresser, the wheels still turning. A few plastic models tumbled off the dresser and onto the floor.
    “What the—” Eric gasped, rushing to her side.
    “Help me, Eric! Oh, stop it!”
    He came up beside her and yanked at the gearshift. Nothing happened. He reached over to the bed, pulling away his pillow and handing it to his aunt. Dragging the chair away from the dresser, he groaned through his exertion, “Hold the pillow in front of your legs!”
    She obeyed. He eased up on the wheelchair and it rolled forward again, but now Aunt Stella had the pillow to cushion the impact against the dresser.
    Bending down, Eric pulled away the panel covering the motor and quickly disconnected several wires until the motor sputtered to a halt.
    “Are you okay?” he asked her, panting as he pulled her back from the dresser again.
    “Wha . . . what happened?” Aunt Stella was stunned, somewhere between shock and hysterics. “Eric, what—”
    “I don’t know,” he said, shook up himself. “I don’t know. Aunt Stella, this thing is so old something probably just gave out.”
    “I can’t be without my chair,” she said, desperate. “I need it fixed.”
    “I’ll call someone to take a look at it tomorrow,” Eric assured her.
    “I need it today! Eric, I—”
    “It’s Sunday, Aunt Stella. There’s no one who can—”
    “You’ll have to try it yourself, then,” she insisted. “You’ve worked on this before. Eric, you have to.”
    “Okay,” Eric said drearily. “Okay, I’ll help you down to bed and see what I can do.”
    “Oh, thank you, Eric,” Aunt Stella said.
    Eric pushed her to the elevator and then into her room downstairs. He helped her into bed and handed her the paper.
    Taking the chair out into the living room, he turned on the television, changing the channel to the afternoon matinee. The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, some vintage Thurber, dished up under the influence of Sam Goldwyn. Eric watched it as he worked on the wheelchair. Halfway through the movie, he snapped the set off with disgust. The storyline was too close to home, and the comedy only rubbed it in the wrong way.
    He located the broken part on the engine and found that he could fix it temporarily by wiring it together with a twist top from the box of Hefty bags in the kitchen.
    “Here it is,” Eric said, rolling the chair back into the bedroom.
    Aunt Stella looked up from her paper.
    “That fast?”
    “Yeah, well I wouldn’t trust it past a few days. You better call the guy in tomorrow.”
    “Just leave it by the bed,” she said, turning back to the society section of the paper.
    “You’re welcome,” Eric said dryly, moving the chair over.
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Nothing,” he said, heading back to the doorway. He stopped and looked back. “I did a pretty good job on it for being worthless, don’t you think?”
    Aunt Stella lowered the paper onto her lap.
    “Don’t talk to me in that tone of voice, young man. What do you want, a medal?”
    “A simple thank you would do.”
    “Okay,” she said impatiently, “Thank you.”
    “That’s the way I like it, coming straight from the heart, like you really mean it.”
    “I told you I didn’t want to hear any of your sarcasm, Eric. Now leave me alone, would