The Plight Of Mr. Davidson

  He lifted the ringing phone off of its cradle and spoke into the receiver.  "Hello?"

  "Hey, sweetie," his wife said from the other end.  "I'm just about home.  Can you have the alcohol and some gauze ready?"

  "Certainly," he replied.  "Did you stop by the store?"  He pushed himself away from his computer desk and stood to walk into the bathroom.

  "Oh, no.  I forgot," she said, disappointed.  "It took longer to finish than I thought it would."

  "That's okay.  I'll go out a little later.  I could definitely use a break."

  He opened a cabinet door and gathered the nearly empty bottle of alcohol, a wash rash, and a large Slide-Seal bag full of gauze, bandages and other dry first-aid supplies with his free hand.

  "Looks like I should pick up some more alcohol, while I'm out."

  "All for the best, then.  I'm just pulling up," she said before closing the connection.

  He pressed the "OFF" button on the phone and walked to return it to its cradle.  His wife opened the front door as he set the phone down, and he turned to greet her.

  "Rough day," he asked.

  She shut the door behind her, and then carefully eased her duffle bag strap off of her shoulder as she walked.

  "Not much more than usual, really.  Things just didn't go as smoothly as they could have."  She walked into the open kitchen, set her bag on the floor, by the island, and reached up to turn on the bright kitchen light, wincing slightly at raising her arm.

  "Sounded like you've had better days, too," she said as she sat on a stool.  Crossing her arms, and taking the hem of her shirt with her fingers, she began to carefully pull her shirt up.  "Hit another writer's block?"

  He quickly set the bag and bottle on the ceramic island top so that he could help her.

  "Yeah," he said.  She let go of the shirt and just raised her arms up, allowing him to finish peeling the filthy and moistened t-shirt the rest of the way off of her.  "I'm having trouble thinking of a decent conflict for my main character."

  She pulled her hair around one side of her neck to the front of her shoulder.

  He walked around the island to the sink, dropped in the shirt, and then turned on the water to wet the washrag.  Once the rag was soaked, he turned off the water and squeezed out the rag, halfway.  He continued speaking as he returned to his place behind her.

  "I'm just having trouble thinking of something that hasn't already been done.  Something that isn't predictable."  He began to gently wipe away the blood from her skin; careful to not brush against the fresh wounds.

  "Maybe I can help," she offered.  "What do you have, so far?"

  "Well, this man gets up in the morning, eats breakfast- a full breakfast," he interjected, "and then goes outside to mow the lawn."

  "Sounds good, so far.  I mean, the whole 'full breakfast' thing is kind of borderline, but since you have him mowing the lawn instead of, say, sitting in front of the TV and watching a movie, it could still work out."

  He folded to rag over to expose a clean portion and began gently dabbing the wounds.  Most of the lacerations were shallow and clean cuts, but a couple looked different: wider and more ragged.  She made the occasional wince and jerk as he worked.

  "What made these?  They aren't from a knife," he observed, leaving his own issue for a moment.

  "Two of them are from a whip: I was actually captured for a short time."

  "And they wanted information?"

  "No.  It was DeCarmen, again."

  "I thought Grider was the one that preferred whips," he said, confused.

  "He is.  DeCarmen's the sadist," she clarified.

  "Oh, yeah.  Then what about the other one?"

  "He shot at me on my way out.  One of them grazed me."

  "That's very unlike DeCarmen," he pondered.

  "There's some suspicion that he may be in someone's pocket."

  He set down the rag and opened the Slide-Seal bag to pull out a cotton ball.  Opening the bottle of alcohol, he returned to his own issue.

  "So, anyway.  The guy is mowing his yard, and...," he paused a moment.  "Do you think it would be going too far to have him not accidentally run over anything with the mower?"  He began dabbing alcohol around one of the wounds, giving her chance to prepare herself.

  "I think that would depend on how tall the grass is."  She loudly sucked a deep breath between her clenched teeth as the alcohol-soaked cotton ball, came down directly onto the wound.  After a moment, she continued.  "I mean, if the grass is high, then there's a greater chance of something not being seen."  

  "I suppose that would be true, but this guy mows his grass regularly; like, every weekend."  He began circling a different wound.

  "Well, I certainly didn't see that coming.  I think it might be better to just go along with him not running over anything."  She clenched her fist and slammed it hard on the island top.  "Oh, man, that's the bullet one."

  "The rest won't hurt as much, at least."  He began circling yet another laceration with alcohol.  "What do you think about taking a vacation?"

  "You've definitely been doing a lot of writing, and in light of this block-"

  "No," he interrupted.  "I mean for you."

  "For me?"  She was confused.  She winced as he dabbed the wound directly.  "But I don't even have a job.  You're the workaholic; always at home, sitting in front of the computer."

  "Aw, honey."  He kissed the back of her neck.  "You don't have to have a job to feel worn down by a daily grind.  We can both go, if you really want.  I WOULD enjoy seeing you for more than just the hours between when you get home at night and when you leave in the morning."

  "That would be nice."  She paused, in thought, for a moment.  "I have been wanting to get a dart board."  She turned her head halfway around, so he could see her smile, as she added, "Or maybe we could work in our yard."

  He chuckled.  "I'm sorry.  Which one of us is the novelist?"  She chuckled as well.

  "Well, then, maybe you could take some time off and just come with me," she suggested.  She gave a little twitch at the sting on the next wound.  "How long has it been, for you?  Fifteen years?"

  He paused his ministrations to think back.  "Wow," he marveled.  "It HAS been a while since I've been out of career mode.  After that last kidnapper I found, I decided to take my work more seriously and pretty much threw myself into my writing, didn't I?"

  "Take a few weeks off," she said with excited hope as she turned to face him.  "Spend some time with me.  Remind yourself of what it's like to not have any worries."  She took his hands in hers.  "We can take down DeCarmen, and Grider, and I know of some kidnappers, as long as no one beats you to them."

  "Actually, I would very much enjoy that."  He smiled and gave her a quick kiss on the lips.

  "Wonderful."  Her eyes sparkled with delight.  "You have no idea how much I've missed tending to your wounds."

  "It has been too long, hasn't it?"  He pulled back from her, walked over to his computer, and then turned it off.