Six Days 'Till Christmas (Could Be Short Story #2)

Part the Third

Timothy made his frozen way to work the next morning with the knowledge that Sam would probably not make an appearance but was nonetheless pettily annoyed when the prediction came true. Not only did Mary probably think he didn't care about her, Sam had abandoned him. So he sat there at the desk in the office cudgeling his brains for a good story idea, wondering how he'd come to be so reliant on the annoying medical student. Sooner or later Sam would leave the paper for good. Timothy would have to get used to coming up with his own ideas again—this nonsense wouldn't do.

But try as he might he couldn't think of anything Mr. Ainsley thought was worth writing about. What was worse, he wouldn't let Timothy near the previous day's article for editing because he'd already sent it to the printers. Aghast and out of work for the day, Timothy left The Evening Telegram and went to go see Sam—partly out of concern, and partly because he wanted to let him know exactly what he thought of deserters. They'd been paid that day—he had a good excuse.

The Paines lived on a crooked little back street full of crooked little almost-respectable boarding houses painted a very un-respectable shade of pale yellow. The deed had been done many years back and now the paint was peeling, but items such as bedraggled window pots of dead brown flowers tried to bring out the cheer the florid color had once inflicted on anyone with eyes.

Timothy limped down the street avoiding the muddiest and wettest parts of the trek, and then knocked on the third door on the left. Within a moment the door was yanked open by a shrewish little woman in a brown cap and gown who looked at him with such a scowl Timothy wondered if her face hadn't really stuck like that. "Good morning, madam," Timothy said, tipping his hat to Mrs. Paine and regretting it the moment the cold air touched the top of his head. "I have come to see whether Sam is at all recovered today."

"Mercy, no," Mrs. Paine said, shaking her head with disgust while she gestured for him to enter. "The fool caught ill chasing after those news stories and has been shivering in bed ever since. Come in if you like."

Timothy squinted at her for a moment as he stepped inside, and then had the perversity to pretend to sneeze loudly into his handkerchief. "I suppose I must really be stupid then, coming to the house where my plague started."

Mrs. Paine's cheek twitched, an angry tic Sam had once mentioned she developed only after his father died. "I declare! I don't know what this generation is coming to," she grumbled, and whisked out of the room.

Timothy was not at all sorry she was gone; Sam was a saint to tolerate her every day. The small front room he had stepped into was cluttered with a curious mixture of Solarian and Elesolian style. It was little and square and furnished with well-worn furniture, but the ceiling was hung with unaccountable strings of onions and garlic that gave the place the impression of a spice shop turned living quarters. On the left was a heavy cast iron stove, and on his right was a small round table scarcely large enough to seat two for dinner. The light filtering in the front windows was wan and yellowed—perhaps tainted by the light bouncing off the outside walls. At least it was warmer inside the Paines' than out of it.

Timothy headed straight across the room to where he knew Sam's quarters were, knocked on the narrow wooden door with a squeaky knob, and edged it open. "Good morning," he said, and Sam put a pillow over his face and groaned.

The room was barely big enough for a bed, but Sam had managed to also cram a tiny table into the little space upon which sat a candle and a stack of medical textbooks. The walls were plastered with old newspapers to keep out the chill, and the one square window above Sam's bed allowed but sickly light to penetrate the cobwebs coating its exterior.

"I think I might finally understand why you hate it when I barge in on you," Sam said, removing the pillow from his face. He lay in bed, corpse-like dark circles under his eyes.