Free The Hummingbird by Stephen P. Kiernan Page A

opened his mouth for more. When I set the bowl aside, perhaps to prove he had the strength, he lifted one hand to scratch his chin. Instantly he frowned at me, hard, with his whole face.
    “What is it?” I said. “What do you need?”
    “Someone here that I can trust.”
    I didn’t blink. “To perform what task?”
    “Nurse Birch, I am a highly credentialed scholar. I have a PhD, and thirty-one years with tenure. I’ve published nine books, each one recognized for its depth, substance, and historical import.”
    “Yes, I know. Very impressive.”
    “Yet look at me.”
    “I’d say your color is pretty good for the night you just had.”
    “Not my color, blast it.” He bugged his eyes at me in disbelief. “My whiskers. I am not some pseudo-scholar, hiding his ignorance behind the costume sagacity of a beard. I am accustomed to impeccability. Today, between my fatigue and that contemptible dullard medicine your night witch forced upon me, I lack the stamina to maintain a proper appearance.”
    It was true. He had a white scruff on his neck and face, though to me it didn’t look bad. “Would you like me to shave you?”
    “Nurse Birch, would I like to swim in a river filled with crocodiles? Of course not. But if it is the only way to reach the other side?”
    “You could wait till someone else comes, someone you place more confidence in.”
    “And risk a colleague or former student visiting and finding me like this? Unacceptable.”
    I was about to say that he did not seem to have guests of that kind, or visitors at all, when I realized how cruel it would sound. “Professor Reed, here’s what I’d like to suggest. How about if I shave you, and you coach me all the way? Every step, and we’ll do it just the way you like.”
    He narrowed his eyes at me.
    I smiled. “I suspect you might even enjoy giving me instruction.”
    “Bah. You annoy me, Nurse Birch. But what alternative do I have?”
    He was fussy, and I loved it. We spent easily five minutes getting the water in the sink to the proper temperature—which I thought was just shy of scalding but he praised as ideal. I locked his wheelchair in front of the mirror and watched him stretch to see his reflection, while I rolled up my sleeves and placed towels on his chest to shield him from the wet.
    The Professor used an old-fashioned brush and a bar of bay-scented shaving soap. Fortunately, his razor was normal. He barked at me to shape his sideburns identically; they had to be perfect before I could move on to anywhere else. I did just as he commanded.
    Over the next few minutes, though, the atmosphere changed. As I proceeded down his face, and across, he couldn’t speak or I might cut him. And I was bent close, concentrating. Inch by inch down the length of his frame, Barclay Reed began to relax. Maybe it was the hot water, the humid room, or maybe the simple experience of allowing someone to care for him.
    The feelings were mutual. For me, there was the gratification of providing an intimate service without compromising his dignity. It was not just a bit of hygienic care; it was also a meeting place. By the time he raised his chin so I could shave his throat, the Professor was calm and still.
    When I had finished, I razored over everything again, drained the soapy water, and washed his whiskers from the sides of the sink. He remained quiet the whole time. I was in no mood to break the spell. I toweled his face dry and set his shaving kit exactly where it had been beforehand.
    “Where did you learn to do that?” he said at last.
    “I used to shave my husband. I did it for years.”
    “Every day?”
    “If we weren’t in a hurry.”
    “Your concentration revealed something, however.” Barclay Reed assessed his reflection, turning his face this way and that. “You don’t do it anymore.”
    I continued drying my hands. “How do you know that?”
    He ignored my question. “What happened?”
    I drew back one step. He wanted to walk on personal