My partner’s parents, Duckie and Charles, come down from New Jersey to visit us for a week every year. In their late 70’s, they are lovely people, diffident and self-effacing; they truly live in fear of being a burden or imposing on us. Whenever they visit we explain that they should make themselves at home since we work all day. We show them the refrigerator and the toaster and where we keep the extra towels.
His parents get up very early to breakfast on toast and tea. “How was your toast, Ma?” my partner asked on their first morning as he gulped down a cup of coffee before he left for work. “I didn’t make any toast,” said his mother mournfully. “I didn’t want to dirty your toaster.” She sighed. “We just ate the bread raw. ” She shook her head. “It was pretty stale,” she said.
The second morning my partner made some toast for his parents and then sped out the door to work. “But it sure was dry,” Duckie told me when it was my turn to leave for work. “It would’ve been much better with butter.”
“We have butter,” I said.
“I didn’t want to go snooping in your refrigerator,” said Duckie.
“Butter is no good for you anyway,” I said, and fled.
By the third day Duckie apparently managed to make breakfast and lunch because when I got home from work I found a sinkful of dirty dishes. “I would have loaded the dishwasher,” said Duckie, “but I know you prefer to do it yourself.”
“I do?” I said blankly, as I threw the dishes in the dishwasher.
“We’re sorry to be so much trouble,” said Charles. “No trouble at all.” I said.
After I finished loading the dishwasher I prepared myself for what I knew came next. “What’s for dinner?” said Duckie, not disappointing me. I had had a long, exhausting day; if it was just my partner and me we would have had canned soup for dinner. “I’m just going to throw some chicken on the grill,” I said. “Again?” said Duckie.
I poured a glass of wine for myself and one my partner, which I handed it to him as soon as he walked in the door. “You’re going to need this,” I said. By this time we had ditched our usual wine glasses and switched to vessels that were roughly the size of Super Big Gulps. Unlike most WASPs who guzzle gin by the pint, Duckie and Charles live in a state of rigid sobriety. “Is it wise to light the grill when you’re drinking?” said Charles anxiously.
On the sixth day, when I was counting the hours until their departure, Charles approached me timidly. “Would it be ok if I took a shower?” he said. I looked at him blankly, thinking, “You haven’t taken a shower yet this week?”
“I need a towel,” he continued. “I’m so sorry.”
“No worries,” I said, “but you could have just gotten a towel from the linen closet.” “I didn’t want you to think I was snooping,” said Charles.
I went and grabbed a couple of towels for him and Duckie, even remembering to get the “good” ones — not the ratty, torn ones my partner and I use. I put the towels on the vanity.
Twenty minutes later I was alarmed to see a large puddle of water escaping from under the bathroom door and spreading inexorably down the hall and into the bedrooms. I rapped on the bathroom door. “Are you OK?” I asked. “Just a second,” said Charles.
The water was flowing faster by the time Charles finally opened the door, fully dressed and soaking wet. In the background the toilet was overflowing at a furious pace. I stared at him with my mouth open.
“After my shower I had to dry myself off with toilet paper,” he said apologetically as I turned off the toilet’s shut-off valve. Charles is a big man, and hairy, so it took a lot of toilet paper to blot him dry. “I put the paper it in the toilet,” he continued, “but when I flushed, it overflowed and I couldn’t stop it.”
“Why didn’t you just use a towel?” I asked.
“They’re such nice towels. I didn’t want to use them,” he said miserably. “I didn’t want to cause any trouble.”
I threw the nice towels on the floor to soak up the water. I clenched my teeth and counted to ten. “No trouble at all,” I said.