The Truth of Mr. Willington

He was misunderstood. He was a rational man who seemed to be around five and twenty, to say much of his complexion and figure was so vaguely portrayed that one simply couldn’t imagine his justified appearance. No one knew Mr. Willington, no one was certain if that was his birth name or surname or if it was any name at all. He was a silent soul that intrigued every neighbor in town to peep through their windows for a glance of the man without being caught. All they could spot out was a tall, slender man who wore a hat and a long trench coat, for Throttingburrow was always cold year round.

 But, Mr. Willington never understood why the town’s gossip portrayed him in such a light. However, he agreed that his figure was tall and slender, and his complexion an eggshell pasty white-- but in the winter one is destined to turn such a color. 

So, he pinched his cheeks, attempting to make them rosy but ended up with a bright red contrast instead of a faint pink. He looked at the sidewalk so as to not slip on the ice, and on the way to the grocery store, he pulled up his collar to prevent the cold from chilling the nape of his neck. If the neighbors had peeked through their windows to take a glance at him, he wouldn’t have noticed. Nor would they have seen any of him but the heap of clothing warming his body. 

Upon his return however, the man who had been undiscovered and so oddly mysterious was stripped down to his undergarments laying cold in the snow. Mr. Willington was accompanied by the few loose apples and groceries he had bought as if they were his only companions. Only when Ms. Gretcher was getting her mail did she notice a hairy-chested man crouched in the sludge. Hesitant of not knowing if the man was hurt or simply intoxicated, she approached him slowly and tapped his shoulder. Not a sound was made by the man, however his touch was numbing against her fingertips. His breath was weak given by the slight stream of steam coming from his mouth and she checked his pulse which was extremely faint. From this observation, she had decided that he was, in fact, harmed. So while being quick-witted as she was, she grabbed the empty wallet partly soggy by the sludge and saw only his name engraved in the leather. Ms. Gretcher  had concluded that “Henry K. Willington”, assuming that was in fact his name, was badly hurt and robbed. 

Ms. Gretcher was a petite young woman, one who would struggle to drag a man into her house. No matter how strong willed and minded she was, lifting up a surprisingly sturdy and tall man was not one of her strengths. Therefore with the help of a siding neighbor, Ms. Gretcher got ahold of Mr. Markley and he had carried the poor frozen man into Ms. Gretcher’s living room sofa. Ms. Gretcher quickly fetched a blanket and fed the fireplace extra wood as if to turn up the heat while Mr. Markley ran to his house to bring the naked man a new wardrobe more suited around ladies. Ms. Gretcher left the room as Mr. Markley stripped the man completely naked and changed him; she started making chicken bean soup. Mr. Markley grabbed all of the frozen man’s groceries from the snow, at least everything that was salvageable and handed it to Ms. Gretcher saying, “Okay now miss, if you need anything else you let me know. Just a knock away. Good day!” Mr. Markley tipped his hat to her which shadowed his face enough to draw attention to his jawline. Ms. Gretcher’s blush made her respond hesitantly in a swift curtsy that brushed the edge of her pale dress on the floor.

Ms. Gretcher proceeded to do some needlework while waiting for Mr. Willington to wake up. She was never too good at needlework. Her stitches were often uneven and would get stuck between the fabric. She was trying to sew a yellow rose on the fabric of a throw pillow when she was interrupted by a deep hoarse cough. She drew her attention to the man with pity, he looked as if he was sweating, but she would have sworn that it was the ice thawing off his skin.  His brown hair was damp and clumpy, his face was pale, and his lips were swollen and blue. She thought he looked almost like a ghoul with his long framed face all hollowed, gray, and cheekbones sharp enough to scrape glass. He woke up slowly and seemed to cautiously piece together his environment. He pulled at the purple crocheted blanket which covered his plain white t-shirt that had a golden brown stain near the collar. He had hoped that stain was the cause of a coffee incident but did not wish to linger on the thought longer than he already had. He was cold and sore. There was a beautiful brunette woman on a chair beside him doing needlework. He thought her hair looked tidy and soft and that her cheeks looked unusually rosy. His eyebrows crinkled the way one does when not remembering where they are, his last remembrance was when he was walking home with groceries. He remembered almost reaching the Markley house, which was about four mailboxes away from his own. Ms. Gretcher took her time to speak so as to not startle the man, but once she noticed he was promptly awake, she spoke to him, “Hello. I hope I did not startle you, I saw you in the snow all damp and hurt. Here,” She handed him the chicken bean soup, “Let’s regain your strength while I explain this to you. You must be horribly confused.” He took the soup which was warm and brothy which gave his body a stinging shock against his cold insides--a satisfying yet uncomfortable feeling. As he ate the soup, he only responded to her in deep stares, fixated on the story, unless it was appropriate to give a verbal response. 

Only after she told the whole story did he look into her eyes extra long to make sure she didn’t have anything else to add before saying, “Thank you for going through all this trouble. If there is any way for which I can repay you…” He lingered, waiting for her response. “That’s very kind of you. I did not help you out of your predicament for any ulterior motives, but perhaps you could help me with one thing,” She shuffled out of her seat and left the room. After a moment of realizing that Mr. Willington had not followed her, she poked her head from the hallway and motioned for him to follow her around the house. He quietly observed his surroundings. The house was dark but warm. It had the kind of warmth only a woman could bring into a home, he felt comfortable, like his every possible need could be met if he simply asked. She led him into the guest bedroom and she pointed out a hole in the ceiling. There was a bucket underneath the hole as if to self display that the roof leaks in the rain. The room was quite chilly.

 “You see, there is a hole in the roof which I am unable to fix given that I would have to patch the ceiling and fix the roof. Is this something you could fix? I could pay you.” 

That remark had made him snort a chuckle, in which Ms. Gretcher responded remarkably confused, “Mr. Willington, I do not understand your humor.” 

He smiled, “Ma’am it is only that you show me this room to fix as a way in which I can repay you, yet you still offer to pay me. Pardon, but how do you know my name?”

“Oh! I didn't mean to intrude, but your name was stamped onto your wallet while I was trying to find your identification. You are Mr. Willington?”

“Yes. And who is the lady who I give credit for saving my life?”

“I am Cornilia Gretcher.”

“Well, Thank you Ms. Gretcher.” He bowed slightly to her, “It would be an honor for me to fix your roof. With the snow and weather, it seems I would have the pleasure of doing it on a sunny winter’s day.”

“Oh my! Of course! Silly of me for not thinking about the weather. Would you like any bean soup to go?”

Mr. Willington nodded and smiled, making Ms. Gretcher feel as if she had given him the biggest favor by packing up the soup. 

…

Mr. Willington’s walk home had been nearly freezing as he had no coat or proper trousers to walk in, the only thing his body had coveted on the way home was the warm container of soup Ms. Gretcher had so eagerly given him. He went back to his house and immediately changed out of the borrowed thin clothes and set the bath as fast as he could. He never knew the woman five houses down from his own. He knew Mr. Markley vaguely as he was a local mailman, however, the chance that Mr. Markley would have seen him inside his dwelling was either very slim or very opaque. Mr. Willington reflected upon the people he had known within the town and he realized how insociable he was. He was a homebody that had a stationary soul. The snow globed life he lived was rarely ever shaken until earlier that afternoon and evening was now approaching. He wasn’t quite sure whether the glass had been broken free or if the swirling snow was settling. The one thing he did know, is that now Mr. Markley and Ms. Gretcher have placed themselves inside of his life. 

Mr. Willington then quickly reflected his thoughts back to the reasoning of how Mr. Markley and Ms. Gretcher came to be. He grew so hot-faced in shame and embarrassment that he wished the warm bath had been filled with thawed snow instead. He wished to crawl inside of his skin and live there as a  hermit which he always so willingly did within his own quiet town of Throttingburrow. Mr. Markley, increasingly worse yet, innocent Ms. Gretcher had both seen him nearly naked, dead, and frozen. Mr. Willington in frustration at being so easily taken advantage of and victimized, plunged his face forward between his knees and shouted underwater until his lungs gave way. He lifted his head out of the water and slicked back the hair now covering his eyes while staring at the ceiling feeling defeated. He was lonely, and hurt, but worst of all, he hated feeling weak. 

…

The next day was brisk and a bit warmer than yesterday as the sun shimmered the snow. The weather was comforting which welcomed a perfect day to stay in pajamas and hide from the world. That is until Mr. Willington heard an unexpected knock on his door. Reluctantly throwing on his robe, he answered the door while tying the waist string revealing an eager Ms. Gretcher. 

She was wearing her Sunday best which was slightly odd for a Saturday. Mr. Willington entertained the thought for a second that she had dressed so to see him, but upon the reflection of his own wardrobe, he had prayed it would not be the case. Regardless of how he had appeared in front of her, there was no denying her beauty. Little did Mr. Willington know that the ghoulish face he had when he first encountered her had been replaced with a soft glow and his swollen blue lips turned to a flush pink. Without Ms. Gretcher’s notice, he quickly snapped back into reality.

“I’m sorry Ms. Gretcher, I was not expecting company…” He said, reluctant to let her see into his dark and secluded home.

“Oh, I was actually planning on going to an outing today and remembered that you might be in use of this” She handed him a cloth wrapped container. 

“Thanks, you did not have to. ”

“And have you starved? A  neighborly lady like me could not permit it, plus it is so hard cooking for one.” 

She smiled in a teasing tone which made him feel slightly better about himself somehow. He didn’t want to end the conversation, despite his tattered attire. 

“An outing?” He pried. 

“Yes, I have joined the church in doing fundraisers for charity.” 

She leaned in close as if to reveal a schoolgirl secret, “I am to coordinate the table seating. I am debating on causing a riot. I may put Mr. Durkins and Mr. Carlson on the same table.”

“Well, I’m sure the guests will be thankful for the free entertainment then! We all know their political debates end in their wives dragging them home.” 

“--or in Mr. Davis bandaging them up!” She chuckled. 

Mr. Davis was the town’s medic who always tried to persuade patients into the ‘natural’ way of medicine that had an absurd cure or awful taste. 

“That would be a sight to see.” Mr. Willington said while lingering on the image.

“You should come! The donation is only a mere twenty pounds and there will be music, food, and if I’m successful, Mr. Durkin's and Carlson’s debate.” 

“I think I’ll pass tonight. My wallet--”

“Oh good heavens! The whole reason I’m here, I merely forgot. Surely there could be something handy you could do in return for a seat.” She persisted. 

“Perhaps next time Ms. Gretcher. Thank you!” 

He bowed his head in thanks for the invitation.

“Anytime! Perhaps I better get going then! There are tables to set up! Enjoy the roast!” She said all this while waving and strolling down his walkway. He waved back at her and closed the door. Mr. Willington did not really care for roast, but that night his bowl was empty.