Damned Dignity

Keane's Cold

     "My dear Lawrence, this is ridiculous."
     "And you are being childish.  Now, stick out your tongue."  Keane did not, in fact, stick out his tongue.  However, he did manage to glance up from his manuscripts just long enough for me to thrust the thermometer into his mouth.
     The result was as one might expect.
     Cursing.  Grumbling.
     And, as I suspected, a fever.
     It was not a particularly high temperature—hardly a hair above what might be considered wet, well, and wonderful—but it was there.  Wriggling beneath his collar with sweat.  His necktie had been tied, loosened, and then thrown tale over end into the fireplace.  The blue edges flashed orange before melting gradually to blackened ash.
     A shame, really.
     I had rather liked that tie.
     No chance to save it, I supposed.  Poor old fellow, he had served his master well and what did he get for it?  Momentary damnation.
     I saluted the burning necktie before turning back to Keane.
     Which sight was more sorrowful, I was not certain.
     Eyes rimmed red from the soiled handkerchiefs strewn about his desk, he sneezed, sputtered, and spewed any number of bacteria across university lectures and publishable scripts.  Another outburst sent a pen skirting off the polished surface and onto the floor.  Unlike Keane, the metal nib did not sneeze infection, but black ink.
     If illness did not kill him, Mrs. McCarthy would.
     I scooped the writing instrument off the stained carpets, snapping the cap over the sharp tip.
     "Have you eaten anything this morning?  Toast?  Eggs?  Rashers?"
     "Mrs. McCarthy brought tea an hour ago."  Keane mumbled.
     "And did you drink it?"  No answer.
     I would like to make it quite clear that I am not one for fuss, nor do I believe myself responsible for Keane's actions.  He had lived some many decades without me and, aside from a few scars and stifling habit for smoking whatever cheap brand he can lay hands on when his own cigarette stash runs empty, he has survived.  He also grants me the common courtousy of not reverting to helplessness when the first tickles of illness grab at his throat.  No, he is stubbourn.  Fighting it by inhaling short drafts of brandy, tobacco smoke, and (as a new addition) burning necktie ashes.
     Damn the man.
     I abandoned him long enough to request another pot of tea, returning soon after with a jar and steaming mug.
     And what was it I found?
     It was Keane, of course.  (Who else would it be?)       But it was Keane slumped over the desk with his forehead pressed into a fresh smudge of ink.
Charming.
     Absolutely be-buggeringly charming.
     He wasn't unconscious, though he appeared to be wavering somewhere near Morpheus' realm.  Both eyes were shut against the sprawled pages with an arm thrown up over his head while the other dangled towards the ground.
     A hand on the shoulders was all that was required for a growling lurch into wakefulness.  He stumbled to his feet, glaring down at me with all the threat and danger a person may create with their mirrored signature tattooed across their brow.
     "You will not forget to revise the lecture for Thursday?"
     "Certainly not."  I said.
     "Or the article?  The paper wants it for Saturday's morning edition."
     "Of course."
     "What about—" 
     "Keane, stop this pigheadedness and go up to bed."  My husband is not the only stubborn soul in this marriage, I am pleased to note.
     Nor am I without my allies.
     With Mrs. McCarthy's fresh tea on the dresser and Keane, more or less, in bed, I pulled the tiny jar from my pocket and unscrewed the lid.
     "What the devil is that filth?"
     "This filth, as you so eloquently call it, is dear Mrs. McCarthy's concoction to help sothe colds, cramps, and general health catastrophies."  His eyes pinched a little over their pupils.
     "I am not eating that."
     "That is very good, as this is not for consumption.  You smear it on your chest.  Or I could, I suppose, but I think you might rather do it yourself while I put honey in your tea.  Will you be wanting headache tablets?"