“Oh, I have someone I pay to do that,” he said, putting up his feet on an oak stool. “They handle all my cooking.”
“He pays really well!” came a shout from the kitchen.
“Oh, okay. Is he also the one who keeps doing my laundry?” I asked my uncle, looking at his smirking face, at his deep laugh lines.
“Oh, no, I have someone else hired to do that.”
I shrugged. “Okay, if you have enough money, I suppose that’s fine.”
“Exactly,” he said. “It’s the whim of the rich to use the poor, right?”
I almost said something to that, but you know how older generations can be about this sort of thing. In one ear and out the other.
“Eh, I don’t think so,” I muttered.
My uncle did not seem to hear me. Instead, he picked up a golden bell and rung it exactly four times.
“Oh Richards!” he said. “I need your help.”
From a random room came a smallish man, who had the oddest look in his eyes. Somewhere between creepy and melancholy. He looked at my grandfather and then nodded in the direction of the kitchen.
“Yes, as you do,” my uncle confirmed.
And Richards walked over, stood by the cook, and opened his mouth wide.
My uncle chuckled and smiled at me. “Chewing your own food is so pedestrian, am I right?”
Special thanks to: Melissa Potter
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