There's the weak, and the strong, and the beds that have no answers

[wheyoftheadept]

 

Her next stop is a boarded-up storefront in a neighborhood not quite so badly off as the Lee’s.  The buildings are basically intact, with utilities still theoretically functioning, although Saturday for one wouldn’t drink the water without boiling it.  She’s walking her pedalbike, a handcart attached at the back holding the medical box and books.

The door is thick metal, with a sliding window in the center.  Saturday presses the buzzer and waits.  A moment later, it slides open.  The eyes on the other side are small and bitter, set in a wrinkled old face.

“Oh, it’s you.”  Mr. Pham sounds disappointed, but he always does.  She’s learned not to take it personally.

“Afternoon, Mr. Pham.  I’m here with the books!”

The man on the other side makes a phlegmy noise of disapproval.  Saturday continues to smile, beaming general goodwill out into the universe.  After a moment, and with some clicking of locks and thumping of bolts, the door opens.  Mr. Pham is a  positively ancient sapiens, wisps of hair clinging to a liver-spotted scalp, dressed in a tattered dressing gown.

“Well, come in, before someone breaks in,” he snaps.  “The ones from last time are on the kitchen table.”

“Thanks, Mr. Pham!”  Saturday is unfailingly polite, and this makes him angrier.  He scoffs and stomps off.  She leaves her cart in the foyer and closes the door, carefully doing up every lock, before grabbing the new books and following him.

His rooms are a disaster area.  They always are.  Saturday knows not to bother asking; she puts the new books next to the old and starts in on the dishes in his sink.  Mr. Pham glowers the whole time.  And when she’s done with the dishes, she gets started on the rest of the kitchen.   And the living room.  And the bathroom.

It takes a while.

Mr. Pham can’t keep house himself anymore, and he won’t accept help.  He’s not some useless old man, he says, despite all evidence to the contrary.  But he will accept a loan of books from ‘jisan’s library, and if when you come over you happen to do some cleaning, well, what can he do about an interfering busybody?

She checks his fridge.  Well stocked; Mrs. Jiang sees to that, at least.  She doesn’t make meals for him, because that would be taking charity, the greatest of all sins.  But she so often happens to make too much, and he does live right next door.  He’s just a convenient dumping-ground, he sneers, if you ask him.

“Okay, Mr. Pham!” she calls down the hall.  He’s retreated to his office, to brood.  “I’m heading out!  New books on the table!”

“Get going, already!”

“See you next week!”