Wyeth and Pine-Sol

 

Wyeth and Pine-Sol
     by Someone Came Knocking

Earnest lounged in his tub and then got out to refresh his wine glass. It was only 6:30 a.m. and there were still two hours before his brother arrived. He drank this one off and poured another and got back in the water. Now that he’d been out of it, it felt lukewarm. He let the hot water run a while, his feet up on the wall above the taps because his heels got so dry if he kept them in heated water too long. 
     He looked around the bathroom.
The walls were peachy-pink and it felt to him as if he were caccooned within a huge something weird. The off-white countertop was old and had a crack, but he liked it. He couldn’t stand carpenters about his  space rummaging, fixing, disturbing. The floor of black ceramic tile shone because he wiped it every few days with Pine-Sol. He sprayed the sink, countertop, mirrors, windowsill, bathtub, toilet bowl on the outside, and soap holders with a mixture of Pine-Sol and water from a spray bottle. He rubbed all these with a wet cloth, the toilet last. Then he did it all again with a dry cloth. Ten minutes for all that. He finished by pouring a bit of full strength Pine-Sol into the bowl, vigourously scrubbing with the white toilet brush inside the toilet bowl, and then flushing. Then he washed the floor with the wet rag, which had still a little Pine-Sol on it, after which the bathroom was totally spic and span, and he liked it that way. Neat. Clean-smelling.
    He imagined his kitchen from where he lay in the warm water. It had older cupboards, but the tall kind. He cared for these. They made the place feel less suburban, or less neo suburban. Tan, with nice semigloss finish, they gleamed above the recently laid hardwood floor, which also gleamed, and the two brown gleamngs reflected nicely off the white stove and new white countertop and new white sink with silver faucets. His toaster he hated, but it worked. He had another method  of making toast, a toaster oven. The problem with it was the minimal standard wiring, which tripped the breaker if two heating appliances were on simultaneously. Toaster, electric heater, trip. 
     But otherwise he loved this room, too. The light fixtures in the ceiling were sickly looking in a way. Mainly, they hung solo and lazy over the middle of the kitchen, and you’d think they had the flu. But they didn’t. They were only lights fixtures with lightbulbs in them. The window light was magnificent on the shiny oak floors when the sun shone in there in the morning on a clear day. It had a healthy glow about it that made him feel young and alive. Yes, the healthy glow of the kitchen, he thought, smiling and sipping his wine. 
     The white refrigerator smelled sometimes, too quickly. It maybe had mould growing somewhere hidden and would have to be replaced one day soon. Sick that the mould would grow in a cold spot like that! Oh, he’d fix that, though. The kitchen needed nothing in it to remind him of his age. He was fit for 60. He also liked the glasses in the cupboards, with their crystal look and ring. He had still the ceramic coffee cup his sister had given him as a present for his graduation from the University. He did enjoy all the things in their places in this kitchen.
    The living room was another matter. The carpets would one day have to be all thrown out. He needed something neat and clean-looking which had nothing disturbingly worn about it. The brown couch and the tan leather loveseat were just fine the way they were. He sometimes convalesced on the couch, because it was firmer than his bed, and when he felt under the weather, firmness of bed was a certain cure over a few days.
     The walls had original Wyeth paintings on them, one from when Andrew was still Andrew and not Wyeth to the world. This one featured a tree with a small hare under it, its ears at a relaxed level, and it’s paws crossed in an unusual way. On the hill behind the tree, through the branches, you could see Wyeth’s famous farmhouse, and in its kitchen, likely, if one looked with a magnifying glass, a bucket of blue water and a jacket on the door. The rest of the artwork in the living room was abstract, done by a French painter whom Ernest had never met or read about, but his father had and had commissioned him to do these dozen works. The paintings were worth a fortune, but he would not sell them. He didn’t need the money.                
     He didn’t like these abstract works. They made him feel queasy, as if he were coming down with something when he looked at them. He had also on his wall a mirror with C. S. Martin and Company in gold lettering on it in an upside down smile, under one of the fresh air vents, the one by the front door. 
     He liked that one and would never get rid of it. He got out of the tub and filled his glass again. It was 7 o’clock. He would pick his brother up at the airport at nine.
     The study. Ah, his study. He liked it best. A thoroughly healthy room. He never went into it when he felt a cold or flu or something else coming on. Yes, this was his healthy room. Typewriter, bookshelves all along three walls, drawers where he kept his clothes. A chair for reading with a light behind it and a good gooseneck lamp. His eyes were not what they used to be. And on the ceiling his prized light, an old, ornate, odd thing of brass and green glass, with a nifty carving of a bull moose suspended in the chain-link that held the light to the ceiling. The wall plaques, with his name on them, he rather cherished. “Honorary doctor of letters. Presented to Ernest Hemingway this day, September 19, 1958.” He would go back into his study only when his brother left. His brother and he did not get along. He felt oddly ill now, thinking about the visit. When he left, though, he would recover quickly, and be able to return to his routine. Two days of routine and he would be cured, he thought, and smiled. He helped himself to one more glass of wine, let the hot water flow into the tub one more time, and then got out and dried himself once he’d finished the lovely liquid.