Wes concentrated, his left hand steadying the right as he filled out a postcard of a giant potato chained to a flatbed truck. “He’ll love it. It’s kitschy,” Wes thought. He and Devin were cut from the same cloth—a bolt hidden in a long-dead branch of the family tree. Wes never felt any connection to his kin until Devin came along and worried he might lose him due to his illness.
The previous year, Wes had a stroke and found himself the proverbial crooked man. His right leg, arm, and side of his face languished like unrisen dough as his unhindered side carried the load after a lifetime of always being a second thought. Put on a shoe—right foot first. Put on pants—right leg first. Hold a gun in the right hand and aim with the right eye. To hear something better, Wes cupped his right ear. Not anymore. Always the understudy, his left side took up the lead and carried the long-favored right.
Wes tried to master writing with his left hand in physical therapy. The therapist said it would help rewire the pathways in his brain, but he could never get the hang of it. Old dog. So instead he used his left hand to quiet the tremble in his right and push it along as one would an overcooked noodle, eking out scrawl like a drunken schoolboy.
When he was in the hospital, Devin visited Wes nearly every day. At first, Wes didn’t understand what happened and could barely make sense of where he was but was acutely aware he was no longer able to speak. Despite this, his doctors asked him the same questions day after day, “Where are you? What day is it? Can you draw a clock?”
Wes left the hospital strapped in brand new motorized wheelchair, had in-home attendants fix his meals, help him shower, and clean his house. All the while he tried to hide his terror over the cardboard box he kept on a shelf in the coat closet. In it, Wes kept items so vile that if discovered he knew he would go to prison no matter his infirmities. Too weak and off-balance to retrieve the box, he sweated through his shirt whenever the housekeepers vacuumed near it. He tried to tell himself that even if they opened the closet it was just a cardboard box on a shelf, but it didn’t help. For Wes, the closet vibrated with tension. It was his very own Tell-Tale Heart, bound in cardboard. If found after he died he was sure it would make headlines and cause posthumous ruin. And what would Devin think? They were Sympatico, the only two of their kind. But the box would cause Devin to wipe Wes from his mind like sucking the venom out of a snakebite.
Wes had to get to the box and burn it — no other way to be sure. If the box was thrown out it might be discovered or break open—the contents spilling forth and staining whatever they touched. He was alone in his home every night, so decided to rid himself of the box and its unsavory contents.
After his last attendant left, Wes rolled to the front door, grabbed one of the many canes, opened the closet, and tried to hook the box. The cane couldn’t get any purchase on the smooth cardboard. He pushed on the underside of the shelf, hoping to knock it loose but only managed to push the box further to the back. Desperate, he leaned on the cane and levered his body up against the wall. He hoped to flip his arm at the shelf and knock it loose. Teetering on the cane, Wes flung the sloppy side of his body like a bag of gravy, crashing into the closet and completely missing the shelf. The coats broke his fall on the way to the floor where he landed on shoes, luggage and assorted Christmas ornaments. Laying there, sweat dripping off his nose, his body heaving for air, his mind spun in all directions. What if they find him in the closet? What if he’d broken his neck? What is he going to do about the box?
When he finally caught his breath, he knew he had to at least get out of the closet. Hooking his right foot around the steering column of the wheelchair, Wes pushed on the control with his cane and slowly dragged himself out of the closet. Looking up from the floor, the evil box seemed to glow and shimmer with defiance. Wes couldn’t let the box win. He dragged himself to the sofa and was able to pull himself up enough to swing his leg over the wheelchair and pop back up into the seat. Wes let out a happy sigh. He decided to burn down the house.
Searching the drawers in the kitchen, Wes found several boxes of matches, but as he only had one good hand, striking it would be difficult. In his experience “Strike Anywhere” matches never did. He searched for a lighter, but his attendants had cleaned those out for their smoke breaks. He then realized he could light a match on the gas stove, then light the box of matches and throw them in the closet. But it might just smolder out. Not much fuel in there except the newspaper wrapping the ornaments. Looking around the house he finally noticed the wooden blinds on his windows. Those would do nicely.
Using a steak knife to cut the slats free, he piled the thin wood teepee-style in the closet. When enough was stacked, Wes scattered all the matches in the closet and returned to the kitchen with one of the slats. He realized he could use it as a torch. Wes considered turning on all the burners to fill the house with gas but decided he might pass out before he set everything alight. He turned the dial, the spark clicking to ignite the circle of blue flame. Wes held the slat over the stove like he was roasting an invisible marshmallow. Once lit, he carefully balanced it on his handlebars and made for the closet. He slid the flaming wood onto the pile and it crackled to life. Just then, Wes heard the front door open. The morning shift had arrived.
Upon entering the house, the attendant saw the fire and slammed the door shut. It quickly smothered out. Wes started slapping and punching her, and fell out of the wheelchair. She called 911 and left him lying on the floor. When the firemen arrived, they put Wes on the couch and smothered the few lingering embers. They removed everything from the closet including the undamaged box filled with collector plates from the Franklin Mint.
“Yeah, he was trying to set the house on fire when I got here,” the attendant said into her phone. “I don’t think he can live alone anymore. He’s confused. And violent. And every day he writes a postcard to that nurse Devin at the hospital. Thinks he’s his long-lost nephew or something. What? No, I don’t mail them. Most of them are pretty creepy.”
Wes was taken to live in a nursing home. Unsure what had happened to the box, he was certain the authorities would burst into his room at any moment. Wes waited, day after day, cringing in fear from the disgrace that would be visited on him.