X-men: World of Gray

Chapter 2

Chapter 2…

One month later…

Renovations were taking longer than expected. At least a dozen contractors scurried through the mansion that afternoon, and as Charles Xavier sat in his wheelchair in the foyer, he listened as furniture and appliances were being uprooted throughout the home like weeds yanked from a garden. In front of him, a burly man stood in an undershirt and jeans, the clothing stained as if he had spent his day underneath a car.

"Here's the problem, Mr. Xavier," the foreman explained with a cigarette wedged between his lips. "The roll-out drawers you need for your kitchen cabinets can't be ordered from my distributor. There's a company in Arizona that sells them, but the ones they have won't fit into your kitchen's layout. Now, we can make them for you ourselves. But we'd have to start from scratch, you see, and that'll take time, men and supplies, and well…" The man huffed out a breath of smoke.

Ignoring the acrid scent of cheap tobacco, Charles replied, "If I may ask, exactly how much are we talking for all this ‘time, men and supplies’?"

"At least a thousand more than the original estimate."

“That seems a bit excessive.”

“For a rich guy like you, I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”

“That’s not the point.”

It was like a game of poker where the opponent kept peeking at his cards. The foreman knew Charles was well-off and knew Charles needed the renovations. Gold-digging, it seemed, wasn't just found in California.

On that thought, Charles placed his left elbow on his armrest, and brought his middle and point fingers to his left temple. “I believe I might have an alternative solution,” Charles said as he read the other man’s mind. “Why don’t you give Mulloy's Hardware and Supplies a ring, speak with your friend, Gary, and have him phone his distributors about some roll-out cabinets? I’m certain he can fetch a decent set.”

The man gawked at him, his cigarette dangling off his bottom lip. “How’d you know about Gary?”

“That should cut the costs a bit, yes?” Charles replied and dropped his hand.

The man blinked and then slacked his shoulders in obvious disappointment. "Yeah, fine. Whatever."

Sucking in another lungful of smoke and trying to hide his displeasure, the foreman was off. As he turned a corner, Charles lowered his head and rubbed the back of his neck. The other man was too tall. Gazing upwards from his wheelchair every time he talked to someone was cramping his neck like a set of hands constantly trying to strangle him.

It wasn't the first time Charles had a discussion with the foreman. He was one of several others, in fact. That day, they were gutting the kitchen, hauling out the old refrigerator and installing a new one with the icebox on the bottom instead of the top—custom-made, of course. Same with the oven. Charles couldn’t reach the knobs on the old one; he couldn't open the oven door without his wheelchair getting in the way. He required side-doors and knobs fitted on the front so he could use them.

Next week, another set of contractors would tackle the flooring, replacing most of the carpet throughout the mansion’s rooms with high-resistant hardwood floors. Electricians needed to install new, lower light switches and phones. Cords for the ceiling fans would have to be re-routed to wall panels. Doorways needed to be widened. The elevator Charles had wanted was still on the backburner; he hadn’t seen anything except the mansion's first floor in six months.

Things were getting complicated.

Pursing his lips, Charles grabbed the handrims to his wheelchair and pushed off. He preferred his motorized one, but his physical therapists insisted he still needed to increase his upper body strength. Using his arms to lug himself around would certainly gain him some.