The Helper
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

I had not realized how far the house was from the main road until the taxi finally drew up beside it. It was a large house with a veranda on all sides, even larger facing the sea. Mr Golbenkian was waiting for me near the front door. He was seated in his electric wheelchair. I had not met him before then, but his warm brown eyes were as friendly as his voice on the phone.

“Welcome, Tom,” he said. “And thank you for being here.”

I walked up the ramp to the veranda and put down my bag before shaking his hand. I said: “I am so pleased to meet you, Mr Golbenkian,” or something like that. I had spoken with him over the phone several times to settle the terms of the arrangement. Now I was here for 6 months to be his “valet and companion”.

“You can call me Hyrick,” he said. “It is not my first name. It is sort of a pet name in Armenian. My family are Armenian.”

“All right, Hyrick,” I said.

“Let me show you the house,” he said. His wheelchair lurched into action and he sped confidently around the house, pointing out the boardwalks off down to the beach or into the small thickets of windblown shrubs.

“I do like to swim in the sea when the weather gets warmer, so I will need you help with that,” he said. His chair bucked a little as he crossed the threshold into the house.

The main room was large and open, but had alcoves created by the external shape to provide separate spaces. The walls were decorated with art and photographs, and there were shelves and tables with all manner of objects and artefacts. This was the home of a man who had lived a rich and varied life, and had no doubt travelled widely. His chair moved easily across the polished floors and occasional rugs.

“My room is here on the ground level,” he said. “I am generally quite capable in my own room. I may need some help if I use the bath, but you will be pleased to hear that I can toilet and shower myself.” He was smiling at me. I knew already that I liked him.

“I have a guest room on this level as well, but your room is upstairs. The two rooms upstairs are my daughters’ rooms, but they only rarely get out here these days.” There was no sadness in the statement, although I wondered how a man so clearly outgoing could exist happily in this isolated place.

“Can I ask what you do during the day?” I asked. I was standing beside my bag, enthralled by the objects on one table in particular. It had a number of indigenous masks and rattles, and decorated bowls.

“Oh, I see you have found my voodoo table,” he said with delight. “The tools of bewitchment from five continents. But in answer to your question, as you know, I write. I write every day at that desk over there. And I understand that you are here to write too.”

“I hope that I can finish my novel,” I replied. But he could not know the doubts that had persuaded me to take this job. If I had any hope of finishing I needed to isolate myself from the distractions of life, and this was that opportunity. I was in the middle of a crisis of confidence.

“It must be difficult,” he said. “I am strictly non-fiction. I have always found that fact is more often stranger than the imagination. People have no idea what others are capable of. But please, if I can help in any way, just tell me. We can talk anytime that I am not at my desk. I find that with writing it is best to keep a timetable. Minimum hours before lunch. Minimum hours after lunch.”

“That’s good advice,” I said. “I will develop a timetable to match yours.”

“There is a desk in your room, but you are welcome to write at the desk over there, or on that table, or this one, or either of the tables outside, when the weather improves.” He pointed to the various spots and the ample furniture available. “Can I ask what it’s about? Your novel?” he asked.

“Well, it’s a story of unrequited love, I’m afraid. My hero is a complex character, and I think I have succeeded in developing him quite well, but the girl in my story is still a mystery to me. He doesn’t understand her, and neither do I.”

“So, she loves him, but he does not love her back?”

“Well, he might. But I think that it will end in tragedy and he will discover it too late. Whether she dies at his hand or by another’s, I still have not worked out. But she loves him, yes.” It felt good to talk about my thoughts, like clearing a channel through a mind full of too many words.

I thought that he must have read my mind because he said immediately: “You need to clear your thoughts entirely. I have some techniques that might help you.”

“That would be great,” I said, shouldering my bag. “Is my room on the left or the right at the top of the stairs?”

After I came back down, I had told him I could cook so I made a meal for him.

“This is very good,” he said. “My work in the kitchen lately has been limited to running between the fridge and the microwave. But I had fresh food delivered yesterday. You can make a list and I will have it delivered.”

“I could go into town,” I said. “I see that you have a car in the garage.”

“You can use the car on your day off,” he said, “Only subject to a few rules. But the delivery to me is free, so why not take advantage of it.”

We talked over dinner, and after we had eaten he produced a bottle of Armenian brandy and insisted that I try it. It was very good. A little too easy to drink. If he had needed help to get to bed that night it is doubtful that I could have given it. I was able to crawl into bed.

The bed was soft and warm. There was a wind blowing outside and I could hear the sound of waves crashing onto the beach below the house. I soon drifted off and slept deeply.

The room that he had chosen for me faced the morning sun and the first rays of light woke me. He had told me that this room was his daughter’s, and it was definitely decorated in a feminine style, with floral patterned wallpaper and lace-edged curtains. It may sound old fashioned, but it wasn’t. It looked fresh and tidy. There was a desk by the window and a dressing table in the corner lit with lights, its drawers full of his daughter’s things. There were women’s clothes in the wardrobe as well, but space left for me to hang a few things. And the chest of drawers too, had only two drawers for my use, marked with post-its “Tom”. It was enough. I was travelling light.

That morning, before I got out of bed I re-assessed my position. I felt that I had made the right decision. I was living in an environment that offered me time and space to write and to think. Free board and lodging and money to spend at the end, and I was in the same house as a man who offered friendship and help, which was more than I was getting back in the City. It was over with my girlfriend because she felt I was going nowhere. I barely had contact with male friends because I had chosen to try to make a living as a writer, which none of them understood. My parents despaired of me. My father had told me at the Christmas we had together a month before: “Come back when you are married and have a real job.”

As if to reaffirm my thoughts, Hyrick greeted me with a warm call to breakfast and the smell of fresh coffee and baking. He said: “Enjoy some matnakash; baked straight from the freezer but excellent with jam. My daughter has made these and other pastries and burek for me. This is what I can do. Cooking in the oven.”

The food was delicious and I wanted to know the recipe. He assured me that he had no idea, but there were books on the shelf, and recipes for Armenian food on the internet.

After breakfast he suggested that we should sit together and try some relaxation techniques to “Clear the mind” in preparation for the day’s work ahead. Before he sat me down he asked me to get something from his “voodoo table” – a sort of short stick with a carved head on top, the eyes being mother of pearl or something like that.

When I was seated comfortably he said: “Don’t be concerned about this, it is just something to concentrate on for a moment. If you look at it you will see that the eyes are slightly different color. Can you see it? You have to look more closely. There are many colours in these eyes. Look closely and see what colors there are…”

And the next thing I knew I was on the beach. I was skipping along the beach. I mean skipping, not walking or running. I stopped to get my bearings. I could see the house above me. The beach was about to end in front of me where there was a rock face. Before it there was a jetty going into the sea in what would be a sheltered cover. The shore end of the jetty had a ramp that headed up to the house.

I had wanted to come down to the beach before I started work. So I was here now, but I seem to have lost a few moments. But I was aware that my mind was clear. I excitedly realized that there was a line of narrative appearing in my head. Not a jumble of ideas, but a clear story. I knew that I had to write it down. I completely disregarded the apparent blackout I had just suffered and I hurried up to the house.

Hyrick was seated at his desk and clearly busy, but I could not have talked to him anyway. I rushed upstairs and spent hours clattering away on my keyboard. The words seemed to run out of me. I completely forgot about lunch, until I heard Hyrick call out to me. That seemed to break the spell. I just dropped everything and ran downstairs to make him a sandwich for lunch, and one for myself as well. But I found myself surprised that I had walked away from that moment of high productivity so easily. He called and I stopped.

“What is name of your heroine?” he asked, as he munched on his sandwich.

“Hester,” I said. “It is a bit of an old-fashioned name. I’m not sure why I chose it.”

“Change it,” he said. What is the color of her hair?”

“Fair. Blondish, I think.”

“Be more precise. Chose a color from the hair dye chart and tell me. Tell me the color of her eyes, and the shape of her nose, and her lips. You need to see her before you can understand her. What does she wear? Perhaps find something in my daughter’s wardrobe.”

It seemed to me that he had a plan to help me. I wrote down some notes for him on a piece of paper.

“Add the shopping list,” he said. “I can have it delivered this afternoon. Perhaps a couple of steaks for dinner? Whatever you need.”

He sent the list through by email and then we had some lunch. I was disappointed that I did not have the same explosion of words in the afternoon, but I reshaped and corrected the morning’s work and I was very happy with what had been achieved in only my first day at the beach-house.

Later in the afternoon he greeted the delivery and collected some items before leaving me to unpack food items. After our steak dinner he handed me a small box.

“Here is the hair color you wanted,” he said. “The instructions are on the back.”

I remember being very happy, but a little confused. I looked at him for guidance and he just smiled. I immediately ran upstairs and opened the box. I followed the instructions and while I was waiting for the dye on my hair to work I went through the wardrobe. I washed my hair and used the special conditioner and then I used the blow drier and round brush in the bathroom to give body to my hair, following the instructions in the magazine by the bed.

I put on a dress and I went downstairs.

He was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. He looked very pleased to see me. A few steps up I did a little twirl, with the hem of my full patterned dress swinging out.

“Hester?” he asked.

“No,” I replied. “Tamzin. Or Tammy or Tam.” I had decided that he was right, the name needed to change.

“Tam is a lot like Tom,” he observed.

I remember being confused again. It was as if I had forgotten who Tom was. I was trying to order things in my mind, but everything was not where it should be. I felt as if I was descending into a mild panic.

“If you are understanding how Tammy is feeling, I think you need to write it down.” Hyrick had seen my confusion and was making a suggestion. My laptop was downstairs on the table near the kitchen, so I went over and started to type.

I woke up in the morning and discovered that I had gone to bed wearing a nightie. Somehow that did not seem to be wrong. What did seem wrong was the whiskers on my chin and the hair on my arms and legs. When I looked in the mirror I saw that my hair was a beautiful shade of golden blonde, and despite being crushed by the pillow it still looked full and feminine. But on my face there were unsightly hairs. The razor would not do. I rummaged through the draw and found some hair removal cream. I applied that, and I used the razor on my arms and legs in the shower.

It was late. I threw on a dress and ran downstairs to make breakfast, donning the pretty apron that hung inside the pantry to protect my clothes.

I heard the buzzing behind me as Hyrick rolled out of his room and down to the kitchen table.

“Here are your tablets,” he said. Two every morning for at least the next few months, then down to one.”

I did not even ask what they were. I took the pills and served him his meal.

After breakfast I sat at my PC and looked at what I had written the night before. There was a lot, but most of it seemed to make no sense. It was basically a rambling emotional diatribe. There were expressions of feelings, uncertainties, regrets, desires, all punctuated with phrases about pretty flowers and beautiful sunsets. The day before I had been able to get the stream of consciousness into quality prose. But this was going to be much harder. The heroine in my novel was a much more complex character.

The truth is that Tammy did not develop much on the page after that. She developed off the page.

Hyrick had a pet name for Tammy. He called me Amoosin, which he said was an Armenian word, like Hyrick was, apparently. I liked it when he called me Amoosin. His lips would pucker when he did, like every time he said it was blowing me a kiss.

He actually did kiss me a few times. Just on the cheek. Sometimes he would kiss me when I sat in his lap on the wheelchair. For fun he would have me on his lap while we rode down to the jetty for a swim, now that the weather allowed that. It meant lifting him out of the chair and into the water and then getting him out of the water and back into the chair. This seemed to be getting increasingly harder for me to do. I was just becoming weaker in the arms and legs, with the bulk now being flabby areas elsewhere on my body.

He would sometimes play with the swellings on my chest. He would kiss me on the cheek after that. And he liked to stroke my hair. It was getting longer and needed the application of more color.

He would always kiss me on the cheek as a thank you after I brought him to an orgasm. I started by doing this with my hand and a little olive oil, but then he suggested I try my mouth, and I did it that way. I liked the way he would hold my head. My hair was long enough to put in a big blonde topknot that he could play with.

Rather that working on my novel I seemed to spend a huge amount of time watching daytime TV and reading all the old women’s magazines in the house, plus keeping up to date on beauty and fashions tips over the internet. I had some idea that I was engaged in research, but when I sat down at the keypad I never seemed to be able to string much of anything together.

I kept fit with regular swims and walks on the beach, and I experimented with yoga from a site that I found on the web. I took to wearing a bikini most of the day as the summer wore on. There were several in the chest of drawers in my room, and everything seemed to fit me perfectly. There were also several loose “beach to bar” robes that suited during the warmest days. Hyrick told me that he liked the way I looked, so I was always working on little improvements to my appearance, with touches of makeup, and polish on my finger and toenails.

I completely forgot about the world outside. I got emails from my mother and even one from my father and a couple from my ex-girlfriend. I just told them that I was happy (which I was) and I was very busy with the book which was taking shape (which was a lie). Other communications from friends or connections I just ignored or gave very limited responses too. The truth is that I was in my own world. The weather was warm, my life was comfortable, Hyrick provided me with everything I needed, and I seemed not to care beyond that.

And then one day, Anton arrived.

I was walking along the beach and I saw that there was a car by the house. It was not the grocery or the parcel deliveries that were basically our only visitors. It was a European sports car of some kind. I should have recognized the make and model as I used to be interested in such things, but now I did not care – it was a nice car of some kind.

I went up to the house. I had no mirror with me but I pulled the tie out of my hair and hoped that I looked good enough for visitors.

When I stepped inside I saw that standing beside Hyrick was a tall, dark and very good looking young man. I knew immediately that he must be related to Hyrick. He had those dark Armenian features but also the nose and the same bewitching eyes as the older man.

“Amoosin,” said Hyrick. “This is a bit of a surprise. This is my son Anton.”

I walked forward and offered him my hand. He did not smile. He looked at me, at then at his father accusingly. There was dislike here and it was palpable. I kept my hand forward, and so he had to take it. Rather than shake it he held it. He looked at me with those eyes. I think my heart skipped a beat. It made me stammer a bit as I spluttered out: “I’m, um, Ta, Tamzin. Tammy.”

“Are you alright?” he asked. I was not sure what he meant. Did I look that out of sorts? Was I blushing? Or was he concerned about me in some other way?

“No,” I said. “I must look a mess. Please forgive me. I was not expecting visitors. Let me get myself together. You are staying for lunch?”

“The weather was so nice, and with my air conditioner out of order I had hoped to stay the weekend,” he said. “If that’s not too much of an inconvenience?” He turned the question to his father.

“Of course,” said Hyrick, with perhaps a trace of reluctance. “The City is so close yet you visit me so rarely. Of course you can stay. In the guest room. As long as you like.”

I excused myself to run upstairs and get changed. I found a nice sundress and some pretty sandals with a heel. I put my hair up in a loose messy bun, and applied some makeup. It was the right look. Casual but chic. It was now safe to go down and get to work in the kitchen. I needed to make something special to impress our visitor. An exotic salad.

As I prepared it, I tried not to listen to the conversation going on at the other end of the house. I could have, as it was an open room. I chose not too because it seemed angry and personal, and it was not my business. I hoped that when I called out for them to come to the table they might be more agreeable.

“This is great,” said Anton. “You are a good cook and you are clearly looking after my father very well.”

I thanked him and I think I might have blushed a little.

“Amoosin is my treasure,” said Hyrick.

“Don’t call her that,” said Anton angrily. Then he looked and me and apologised: “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to upset you.”

We ate a little and then Anton asked me: “How long have you been here exactly?”

It seemed like a simple question. I had to know the answer. Of course I did. What day is it? What date did I arrive? I suddenly realised that I did not know. I started to feel worried that memory was going. I must have looked concerned because Hyrick stepped in.

“She’s been with me about 9 months,” he said. But I thought I was here for only 6 months?

“And you’re a character from your own novel?” Anton appeared to be accusing me.

“No,” I retorted. “The character in the book is based on me, that’s all. And I have given her my name.”

“And you have become her?” he persisted. “My father has suggested it and now you are one and the same? Is that not what has happened?”

“No,” I said. I was getting a little angry with the young man now. “Tammy in the book is fiction. But we share some beliefs and maybe some character traits. We are strong women – we believe in ourselves. We love to please others and keep them happy. We can be selfless to a fault. But we do tend to get over-emotional at times.” I realized that there were tears in my eyes. He had made me cry, this man.

“Hey,” he said. “I have gone too far. Forgive me.”

“Talk to me then, Anton,” said Hyrick. “Tell me how things are going in the world of high finance”.

I cleared the plates and dried my eyes. I refreshed my makeup in the pantry. This man Anton was rude, but he was fascinating, and powerful. Unlike Hyrick in his wheelchair, Anton exuded masculinity. I could almost smell it on him. I found myself wondering how big his penis might be.

I had baked a cobbler and I brought that out and joined them. The conversation had moved onto art. They both seemed well informed. Sometimes they tried to include me but I had no idea. I shrugged and smiled, and tried to look interested and pretty.

While I was cleaning up, Anton came to help while Hyrick went to his brandy cupboard. I could feel Anton’s eyes looking at my bottom. I had noticed lately just what an attractive bottom I had. I may have been guilty of showing it off a little because I had sensed that he had noticed it.

Hyrick produced the bottle of Ararat Brandy and three glasses. After the compulsory toast to “The Old Country” I felt that I needed to watch my intake. “I’m just a girl,” I said. “I get drunk too easily”.

For the first time that evening we laughed together. They were both very nice to me, complimenting me on my cooking and my presentation as the perfect hostess. I was very pleased with myself, and I told them so.

“You two can finish the bottle,” said Hyrick. “I’m going to bed.”

I got up and kissed him on the head as he trundled off, leaving me and Anton alone.

“I sense some hostility between you and your father,” I said. “Can I ask what he has done to earn your … what appears to be, at least dislike?”

“He ruined my brother’s life,” said Anton, flatly.

I said: “I was not even aware you had a brother. In fact I did not even know about you. He told me that he had two daughters.”

“I have an older sister. She is devoted to her father, but she has a family and she now lives some distance away. Before you arrived, she looked after him and I am sure she left him with food in the freezer. The other sister was not always a sister. She is like you, I think. A victim of his mind control experiments. She was my younger brother Michael. Now she is my sister Maria.”

“Like me?” I asked. I was suddenly aware that I was not like other girls. I might pee sitting down, but only by pushing my penis back. I was like Michael - now Maria. I was a girl who was once a boy. I had a penis. I burst into tears.

Thank God – his arms were around me. I was not a total freak. Somebody was holding me. Anton was holding me. His face in my hair; whispering something reassuring and caring. I put my arms around him and I held on as the tears flowed.

Anton said: “What I want to do is to take you into my room right now and make love to you.”

I hugged him even tighter.

“I am not sure whether this is his doing or not,” he said. “I have wanted to do it from the moment I saw you. If you are willing, I don’t think anything is going to stop me.”

I pulled my head away so that we could face one another, still in a tight embrace. His eyes were deep and dark, and full of love. I said: “I am willing. Please. Please make love to me.”

He carried me to his room. I had become so small and slim that he could pick me up like that. Or was he just so strong? I practically tore his clothes from his body. I had never touched a male body before, except my own when I had one. I wanted to touch every part of him. His penis was erect in my hand and we kissed aggressively.

“Please do your best to ignore my thing,” I said to him. I was deeply shamed that I could not offer him a crotch clear of such ugliness, and a wet slit for him to penetrate. I could only give him what I had, but fortunately I had been experimenting with penetration, and I had cleansed thoroughly in the shower before dinner.

When he entered me, I knew that it was right. When we both came together, we both knew it.

“I am sorry if I hurt you”, he said in the morning, his hand stroking my colored blonde hair cascading across the pillow in the sunlight sneaking through the curtain.

“To start with, a little,” I said. “But when I felt your man juice inside me, there was no pain, just the sweetest feeling I have ever had.” I rolled over and kissed him tenderly, pressing my ample breasts against him.

“Would you consider running away with me?” he asked. “Do you think you could? Or is his hold over you too tight?”

“I was not even aware he had a hold over me,” I said. “But if he does, my guess is that your hold is stronger. And what about you? You said last night that you might be under his spell as well?”

“No,” he said. “That cannot be so. I think that the power of suggestion can make people do many things, but it cannot make you fall in love.”

His words enchanted me. I kissed him, and rested my head upon his manly chest.

“Can it change somebody from a man into a woman?” I wondered aloud.

“You are a woman,” he said. “I only know you as that.”

“I need to be fixed … down there,” I said. “And I need to tell my parents. I need to get away from here. You need to take me away.”

“I will, my darling,” he said. “We just need to arrange another helper for my father.”

The End

© Maryanne Peters 2020