yawns. I had
intended to see the Professor home and then head to our apartment,
but he seemed so exhausted that I decided we should stay
until he was safely in bed.
Perhaps the crowded bus on the way home had been too much
for him. He had almost panicked as the waves of people swayed
against him, obviously terrified that they would tear off his tags.
"We're almost there," I'd told him again and again. But he gave
no sign that he heard, and he twisted and squirmed the whole way
home in an effort to avoid being touched.
He hastily undressed, which I suspect was his habit. He threw
his socks, coat, tie, and trousers on the floor, and slipped into bed
in his underwear without brushing his teeth. I pretended to myself
that he had brushed them very quickly when he'd disappeared
into the bathroom.
"Thank you," he said before he closed his eyes. "It was great
fun."
"Even though he blew the no-hitter," said Root, kneeling by
the bed to straighten the Professor's quilt.
"Enatsu threw a no-hitter," murmured the Professor. "That one
went to extra innings. It was on August 30, 1973, and the Tigers
were battling the Giants for the pennant right up to the last game
of the season. They were playing the Chunichi Dragons, and Enatsu
himself hit a walk-off home run in the bottom of the eleventh to
win the game 1 to 0. He did it all himself—offense and defense.
But he wasn't pitching today, was he?"
"No, we'll have to check the rotation next time before we get
tickets," said Root.
"But they won," I added.
"That's right," said the Professor. "A fine score, 6 to 1."
"They moved up to second place, and the Giants lost to Taiyo,
so they're in the cellar. It doesn't get much better than that, does
it, Professor?"
"No, it doesn't. But the best part was going to the game with
you. Now listen to your mother and get home and go right to bed.
You've got school tomorrow." He smiled faintly, but his eyes
closed even before Root could answer. His eyelids were red, his
lips were cracked, and he had begun to perspire. I felt his forehead
and realized he had a high fever.
I hesitated a moment, but soon decided that Root and I would
have to stay the night with him. I could never ignore a sick person,
much less the Professor. Rather than worry about the terms of my
contract or the agency rules, it was easier simply to stay and take
care of him.
Not surprisingly, a search of the house failed to turn up anything
that might be useful for treating a fever—no ice pack, thermometer,
gargle, or medicines. I peeked out the window and saw
a light still on in the main house, and for a split second I thought I
saw a shadowy figure standing near the hedge. It occurred to me
that I could use some help from the Professor's sister-in-law, but
then I remembered my promise not to involve her in any difficulties
that might occur in the cottage. I drew the curtains.
Realizing that I would have to manage for myself, I crushed
some ice into a plastic bag, wrapped it in a towel, and set about
trying to cool the Professor's neck and back. Then I covered him
in a heavy winter blanket and made tea to hydrate him. This was
my usual routine when Root had a fever.
I put Root to bed on the sofa in the corner of the study. It had
been covered with books, but when I cleared them away it proved
to be comfortable enough. Root was still worried about the Professor,
but he fell asleep almost immediately, his Tigers cap perched
on a stack of math books.
"How are you feeling?" I asked the Professor. "Are you in
pain? Are you thirsty?" He did not reply, and as he was sleeping
soundly I assumed the fever would pass. His breathing was a little
irregular, but there was no sign that he was in any pain. He looked
almost peaceful. Even when I changed the ice packs or wiped
down his damp arms and legs, he remained limp and did not open
his eyes.
Out of his note-covered suit, his body was surprisingly thin and
frail. His skin was pale and soft, the flesh on his arms and thighs
and
intended to see the Professor home and then head to our apartment,
but he seemed so exhausted that I decided we should stay
until he was safely in bed.
Perhaps the crowded bus on the way home had been too much
for him. He had almost panicked as the waves of people swayed
against him, obviously terrified that they would tear off his tags.
"We're almost there," I'd told him again and again. But he gave
no sign that he heard, and he twisted and squirmed the whole way
home in an effort to avoid being touched.
He hastily undressed, which I suspect was his habit. He threw
his socks, coat, tie, and trousers on the floor, and slipped into bed
in his underwear without brushing his teeth. I pretended to myself
that he had brushed them very quickly when he'd disappeared
into the bathroom.
"Thank you," he said before he closed his eyes. "It was great
fun."
"Even though he blew the no-hitter," said Root, kneeling by
the bed to straighten the Professor's quilt.
"Enatsu threw a no-hitter," murmured the Professor. "That one
went to extra innings. It was on August 30, 1973, and the Tigers
were battling the Giants for the pennant right up to the last game
of the season. They were playing the Chunichi Dragons, and Enatsu
himself hit a walk-off home run in the bottom of the eleventh to
win the game 1 to 0. He did it all himself—offense and defense.
But he wasn't pitching today, was he?"
"No, we'll have to check the rotation next time before we get
tickets," said Root.
"But they won," I added.
"That's right," said the Professor. "A fine score, 6 to 1."
"They moved up to second place, and the Giants lost to Taiyo,
so they're in the cellar. It doesn't get much better than that, does
it, Professor?"
"No, it doesn't. But the best part was going to the game with
you. Now listen to your mother and get home and go right to bed.
You've got school tomorrow." He smiled faintly, but his eyes
closed even before Root could answer. His eyelids were red, his
lips were cracked, and he had begun to perspire. I felt his forehead
and realized he had a high fever.
I hesitated a moment, but soon decided that Root and I would
have to stay the night with him. I could never ignore a sick person,
much less the Professor. Rather than worry about the terms of my
contract or the agency rules, it was easier simply to stay and take
care of him.
Not surprisingly, a search of the house failed to turn up anything
that might be useful for treating a fever—no ice pack, thermometer,
gargle, or medicines. I peeked out the window and saw
a light still on in the main house, and for a split second I thought I
saw a shadowy figure standing near the hedge. It occurred to me
that I could use some help from the Professor's sister-in-law, but
then I remembered my promise not to involve her in any difficulties
that might occur in the cottage. I drew the curtains.
Realizing that I would have to manage for myself, I crushed
some ice into a plastic bag, wrapped it in a towel, and set about
trying to cool the Professor's neck and back. Then I covered him
in a heavy winter blanket and made tea to hydrate him. This was
my usual routine when Root had a fever.
I put Root to bed on the sofa in the corner of the study. It had
been covered with books, but when I cleared them away it proved
to be comfortable enough. Root was still worried about the Professor,
but he fell asleep almost immediately, his Tigers cap perched
on a stack of math books.
"How are you feeling?" I asked the Professor. "Are you in
pain? Are you thirsty?" He did not reply, and as he was sleeping
soundly I assumed the fever would pass. His breathing was a little
irregular, but there was no sign that he was in any pain. He looked
almost peaceful. Even when I changed the ice packs or wiped
down his damp arms and legs, he remained limp and did not open
his eyes.
Out of his note-covered suit, his body was surprisingly thin and
frail. His skin was pale and soft, the flesh on his arms and thighs
and
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