Darned if You Do by Monica Ferris

propped up stiffly in front of him. His hair was combed, and he was freshly shaven, but his eyes were at half-mast. The big bandage on the side of his head had been replaced with a smaller one, but the thin, short-sleeved robe he wore showed still-bright bruises up and down his arms and on his hands.
    â€œYou look good, Cousin!” she said, and came to touch him on the shoulder. His slight wince told her that he still didn’t like to be touched, just as was true in his youth, so she backed away.
    â€œThere’s another place to sit over there,” he said, pointing to the wooden chair with a cushioned seat back over near where another patient lay (or didn’t; the curtains were pulled around the bed, so Valentina couldn’t tell).
    She went over and pulled the chair forward so she could sit facing him. “How are you feeling?” she asked.
    â€œBetter. I think they’re going to turn me loose tomorrow or the next day.”
    â€œNot to go home,” she said, alarmed.
    â€œNo, not yet. There’s a place where they give you phy-si-cal thur-py”—he pronounced it carefully—“and I hafta stay there a week or two.”
    She nodded. “That’s good, that’s good.” Then, seeing the look on his face, she added hastily, “I mean, good that you’re still going to be cared for. They’re not just handing you a pair of crutches and shoving you out the door.”
    â€œYeah, I guess so. Have you been to the house again?”
    She nodded. “Yes, I have. And I’m putting together several crews, people who are going to help me get it back in shape—so you can live there again.”
    His brows drew together and he asked suspiciously, “Who? Who’s in these crews?”
    â€œWell, there’s Godwin DuLac—”
    â€œThat queer?” he said, laughing.
    â€œNow, Tommy, you know you don’t mean that the way it sounds.”
    He sat back, looking a little smug. “Maybe, maybe not. But I bet he don’t lift nothin’ heavier than a ashtray.”
    â€œNow, he’s a good man, smart, and stronger than he looks, probably.”
    â€œWho else?”
    â€œConnor Sullivan, Doris and Phil Galvin, Emily Hame, Jill Larson . . .” Valentina paused, counting on her fingers.
    Tom’s eyes closed, and he murmured, “They’re people who hang out in that ’broidery store.”
    â€œYes.” She nodded. “That’s where I was first told to go asking for help. The people I met in the store are asking around, rounding up more people, but they were the first to volunteer, so I’m putting them on the first crew.”
    â€œThat Jill, she’s married to that cop who broke inta my house.”
    â€œYeah, after you were yelling for help,” she pointed out drily.
    â€œWell . . .” He shook his head slowly. “Yeah, well . . .” But he couldn’t think of an argument and slouched a little in his chair. The movement made him suck air through his teeth.
    â€œThat leg still hurts, I guess,” she said.
    â€œYeah, it still hurts, doggone it!” He slammed his hands feebly on the arms of his chair.
    â€œTake it easy, take it easy,” she counseled, holding a palm toward him. “It’ll get better quicker if you don’t wriggle around.”
    â€œAw—!”
    â€œAn’ there’s another volunteer I just remembered, her name’s Georgine, they call her Georgie.”
    â€œI don’t think I know her,” he said.
    â€œProbably not. She and her sister, Grace, are new in town, been there a coupla months. Pickering’s their name.”
    â€œOh yeah, the twin sisters. I seen them around. They like antiques stores.”
    â€œThey’re not twins, but they do look kind of alike. But Grace is afraid of mice, and there are mice in your house, so only Georgie is coming. They buy and sell antiques