Kansas in the summer of 1955 was a beauty beyond compare. Birds sang from every winding tree branch, haystacks riddled every field, and the air was warm and heavy. Tree limbs dipped into reach with summer fruit, and children ran and roughhoused along the dirt roads that wound to the proud town of Unionfield. Unionfield was the tiniest town you could imagine, holding residence only around 200 people, and it sat out in the middle of rural nowhere, with the nearest city one hundred miles out and a twelve day walk on foot. Unionfield was farm country, with vast majority of it's citizens living on the land they worked. Yes, Unionfield was the ultimate sleepy Southern town, devoted to plants and church more than anything. Most families were dirt poor and most of their kids went to school for a month or so before going back to the fields to work. There was one doctor and one lawyer and that was just about the end of it as far as professionals went, but there were a good deal of farmers, all honest and hard-working folk who minded their own business on most accounts. Occasionally a rumor would spread or a dispute would spark, most times over something quite trivial, and these occurrences were minimal by any standard.
So life in Unionfield was a pleasure to most and alright for the rest. Money was of little concern to anyone who grew their our supper and that was everybody, save for Gilbert Beildschmit, the lawyer, and Ludwig Beildschmit, the doctor, brothers, and German by blood. The local growers would pay them in crops, since few of them had seen ten dollars in the same place all their life, and Gilbert and Ludwig had no qualms with it.
Alfred Jones was content as he reckoned he would ever be in that little town, if he knew what content was. He worked in the mornings and lounged in the afternoon, eating his way through Mr. Edelstein's orchards to little repercussions and dozing in endless fields of golden grass. His only hobby, it would seem, was whittling, which was normal enough, and as far as anyone with sense was concerned, Alfred was perfectly likable young man with not much of a future. He wasn't too bright or skilled in any craft, but he could grow things well enough, and that was enough for a farmer's son.
That summer was hotter than hell, miserably for some but thankfully for most. Luckily, it was humid too, and summer rain came rolling in around the end of June, which was god sent for every farmer for fifty miles.
Aside from rain, however, another thing came rolling in, quite literally, on a greyhound bus that stopped three miles from Unionfield and then looped back around on it's way to Kansas City. No one quite knew why it took the trouble of coming so close to nowhere, particularly because no one had come off or boarded as long as Alfred had been alive, but it came all the same.
It was to Alfred's great surprise that he stumbled upon a young man standing to the side of the dirt road where the bus stopped one afternoon in July. It was particularly stewing that day, and Alfred had been forced to strip to his overalls as to avoid a stroke, but the stranger he had found wore a full tweed suit, every button done up all the way to his throat. Just in his staring, Alfred began to feel squeamish and sweaty. The stranger tugged at his white shirt collar and glanced to a neatly creased slip of paper that he held in a death grip between his thumb and forefinger. Assuming the man was lost, Alfred allowed his Southern courtesy to kick in and tramped out of the bushes to offer the newcomer directions.
"Hey, friend, you look pretty lost." Alfred waved his hand in greeting, and the other man started before offering a hurried 'hello' in response. By his voice, Alfred guessed he was from overseas, an exciting prospect, as Alfred had never quite met a foreigner before. There was a chinaman in town, but he was only Chinese by blood and not by birth. Upon closer inspection, he appeared to be quite a few years older than Alfred, but as though he hadn't worked a day in his life. His hands were pale and pristine, his features tense, and his shoulders squared, as though the mere sight of another human was threatening. "Could you use some help there?"
"No, I'm fine, thank you."
"Sure. Where are we?" Alfred stuck his hands into the pockets of his overalls and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, waiting fro an answer. He knew perfectly well, naturally, where he was, but he wanted to be sure of just how lost the stranger was.
The man faltered. "I don't rightly know, but I'm certain to find my way soon. Good day." He nodded curtly, and Alfred took the hint and turned on his heel, whistling as he strode away. "On second thought—"
Alfred smiled, spinning to face the stranger. "Could you direct me to Unionfield?"
"Certainly, friend."
"You got a name, friend?" Alfred questioned as they marched through a necessary bramble.
"Arthur. Kirkland. Arthur Kirkland." Alfred nodded in approval.
"Where you come from, anyhow?" He turned his head to look at Arthur. "We don't get many visitors round here."
"Yes," Arthur sighed. "I gathered."
"So?" They glanced at each other before Arthur regained his common sense for long enough to remember what the question had been.
"England. I'm from England."
They turned on to an elevated dirt road that bordered a cornfield just outside of town and merged into the main street. Alfred halted suddenly and pointed to the buildings that lingered in the distance, warped by the heat of the air.
"This road'll take you straight to town. I'm gonna go a nother way now, if you don't mind."
"Thank you." Arthur smiled for the first time that afternoon. "Oh, you never told me you name."
"Alfred Jones, friend. I live just over yonder." Alfred pointed toward his house, which sat in the center of a tobacco field not far from the road, old and wooden and tiny.
"I see. Well, thank you again, Mr. Jones."
"Certainly, Mr. Kirkland, anytime." Alfred nodded and began down a side road that led into the cornfield and eventually to his house, but he had not taken two steps before Arthur called to him again.
"Alfred!"
"Yeah?"
"I do hope I'll see you again!" Arthur waived to him is a final gesture of farewell before begginging his trek toward town, and Alfred grinned.
"Sure thing, Mr. Kirkland." His response was too quiet for a retreating Arthur to hear, but he Alfred muttered it again, to himself, still grinning.
As he walked away, Alfred thought that Arthur Kirkland from London, England had the most beautiful smile of anyone he had ever laid eyes on.
Arthur Kirkland was out of his element, to say the least. Firstly, Unionfield was home to the most scorching sun and least shady trees known to man. Was there a bus? Taxis? Policemen? Anything? Apparently not, it seemed, for the only thing Arthur had encountered thus far was some dry bushes and handsome young Southern boy. And oh, that Southern boy. If every boy in Unionfield held anything resembling a candle to Alfred Jones, Arthur would enjoy his stay very much. Not that anyone could know that, particularly Alfred himself. Regardless of the quality of men in Unionfield, however, Arthur was exhausted by the Southern heat, and he decided to rest under an oak tree that proved to be decidedly less shady than advertised but better that the open sun all the same. A short warm breeze relieved him from the humid air briefly, but beyond that, the air was still, and silence crept over the road like a soft blanket. Arthur loved silence. It was in silence that character truly emerged from a person, when everyone was free from the mask of pretty words and lies. He was very much one for integrity, after all.
Once he felt mentally and physically ready to continue he walked the last stretch of dirt road toward the town part of Unionfield, which was ridiculously tiny, and held a total of twenty buildings, each with their own back country purpose: The General Store, a dentist's office, a law firm. He passed only two people on his way to a small diner that sat on the nearest corner to the road. They looked at him with suspicion, as if he was a threat to their well-being, and yet still inferior, their faces an ugly mixture of fear and contempt. To Arthur's great relief, however, the diner was nearly deserted and the women at the counter was very friendly, if a little inquisitive for his tastes.
"You new here? Never seen you before." She was beautiful, with honey blond hair that fell in drapes over her shoulders and neck. Her skin was translucent, her face round, and her eyes were a clear green. Her voice had a pleasant Southern twang to it. He nodded absently, trying his best not to make conversation and hoping that she would continue to ask yes or no questions. "So where you from?" Damn.
"London, England," he said, smiling despite the creases of irritation in his forehead. She slid a cup and saucer in front of him without his request, and he was delighted to find that it held coffee. He pointed toward it wordlessly, and the woman nodded. He hooked a finger into the delicate handle.
"So, England, huh? That's pretty far from here. What's your business? Not many people come from London to just pop in and visit Unionfield." She laughed and reached past him to buff the counter with a yellow cloth.
"I've come to teach school here, or that is my purpose," he said.
"Makes sense, since the other teacher up and died on us not a month ago. Funny man, he was, all alone and the whole deal. We don't really know why he decided to come here, but he did and that was that, I guess. Word was that he got bit by a mad dog." She looked up at him for a moment and dismissed the subtle confusion on his face. "I guess it is that time of year, huh?"
Arthur hadn't the slightest idea what she was talking about, or what a mad dog was, but nevertheless he answered with a confident:
"Yes, I suppose it is." He sipped his coffee to add finality.
Arthur shortly finished his drink and asked the woman how much he owed her, which she waved her hand at and said it was on the house.
"My name's Eliza, by the way," she said, pointing toward her nametag. "Well, Elizaveta, really, but it's rather a mouthful." She motioned for him to wait and pulled the pen out of her apron, scribbling something on a scrap of paper and then handing it to him. "If you need anything, give me a call, won't you?"
Arthur nodded and left the diner, making his way down the main street.
The 'apartment' that Arthur had selected to stay in was more of a flat, sitting atop a small bookstore, which judging by the sign was called 'Red Lion Books'. Arthur approached it with paced steps, counting five heartbeats for every stride. He stopped short at the door, rocking on the ball of his front foot and hovering his hand over the golden doorknob. Just as he thought to knock, the door opened without movement on his part. A pleasant looking elderly man stood in the doorway, hunched over a wooden cane and smiling the sort of old smile that said 'I know something you don't'. It made Arthur slightly uncomfortable, but he did not hint to it.
"Are you Mr. Roma?" Arthur asked, nodding respectfully. The man nodded in return.
"I am indeed, and you must be Arthur!" His speech was slightly accented, with an Italian tongue, . Roma turned to venture into the store, and Arthur followed. The inside of the store was dark but welcoming. Hardbound books lined every wall and table. Heavy red velvet curtains hung in drapes from the ceiling. Mr. Roma turned into a nook to the right of the store, which revealed a door to the second level. A narrow flight of stairs later, Arthur stood in an empty attic, painted completely white. Light streamed through the large uncovered windows, illuminating floating particles of dust and causing this room to be a far cry from the darkness of the shop downstairs. "This will be your room, then. I apologize for it being so dusty but you called on short notice." Arthur raised an eyebrow.
"I called a month in advance." Mr. Roma shrugged.
"That's short notice for a man my age. It seems like everything is only moving faster while I just get slower." He hobbled over to the staircase, and turned before exiting the room. "I apologize that there's no furniture, but there's a man down the road that sells tables and such, perhaps you could strike up a deal, yes?" With that, he creaked down the flight of stairs and out of site.
Arthur lingered in the room a little longer, thinking. He thought briefly about the circumstances of his arrival here. They had been strange, and he pondered the exact chance of him finding that American newspaper and calling Unionfield from a telephone box. What had possessed him?, he wondered, to travel so far from home to a land so barren, and yet so beautiful? It had seemed so right at the time. Like an adventure. Arthur had never been fond of adventures, and yet he had still chosen to be the only applicant for a job that he wasn't sure he wanted. They had readily hired him, of course, without even meeting, as soon as he had assured them that his travel expenses would not come out of their pockets. He wasn't really sure, even, who 'they' was. Perhaps it was just a 'he' or 'she'.
Regardless, he was meant to meet the they/he/she in, he glanced at his wristwatch, half an hour. After asking directions to the schoolhouse, Arthur bid Mr. Roma goodbye and exited the charming little shop.
The schoolhouse was in ill repair, to be kind. It was made of a dark brown wood that might have been beautiful, or at least acceptable, if it had not been cracked and splintering. Rain had worn the entire structure and it seemed to sag, heaving and exhausted, like an old man that had seen too many wars and bottles of whiskey. But before he had a chance to make further analogies, the brush rustled and a young man came into view, about an inch or so taller than Arthur and sporting shoulder length blond hair that gave Arthur the urge to burst out laughing, and he could think only of the phrase 'Takes one to know one.' He had seen obvious men, but this handsome stranger was beyond obvious. Aside from his hair and rather flamboyant gait, he was dressed in the most peculiar shade of bluish purple that Arthur had ever laid eyes upon, and in the breast pocket of his suit jacket, rested a small, scarlet rose bud.
Forgetting his manners entirely, Arthur raised his knuckles to his lips to stifle a laugh, and seeing the man's subtle annoyance, played it off as a cough.
"Are you Arthur Kirkland?" he asked extending a hand, which was at the wrong angle to be shaken, forcing Arthur to execute some minor hand contortion in order to grab it and give a curt but firm bob.
"That I am." The man smiled in a way that made Arthur mildly uncomfortable, an intruding sort of smirk that touched only the corners of his lips.
"C'est magnifique, cherie." he said, giving Arthur an intrusive up and down glance. Arthur quirked an eyebrow.
"Excuse me?" Another rustle sounded in the bushes and a man emerged from the brush, this one not much shorter than the first but still much smaller by some measure, and fair of hair and face.
"Stop teasing him, Francis," the smaller man pouted slightly, and 'Francis' looked at him dismissively and yet adoringly, as though he was some cute little elf, to perch on his shoulder and give him advice.
"That was hardly teasing," Francis answered finally, effortlessly making the phrase suggestive with a movement of his eyebrow, and the smaller man huffed a breath through his teeth.
"But it was rude, Francis," he began, but stopped mid-sentence, looking to Arthur like he had just remembered something terribly important before turning to face Arthur and offering his hand, in the correct position. "But how awfully barbaric of me to barge in without introducing myself. My name's Matthew, I'm Francis' loyal assistant. I apologize for him, I know he really has a way with making everyone around his squeamish."
Francis scoffed in offense, but Matthew paid him no mind.
"Oh, it's not a problem, I'm certain he doesn't do it on purpose," Arthur lied, shaking Matthew hand. Matthew seemed well aware of Francis' uncomfortable one-sided flirting, but chose not to mention it, perhaps a wise choice, as Francis was becoming progressively more irritated.
"Let's cut to the chase, shall we?" He coughed slightly and drew some neatly folded paperwork from his ridiculously blue coat. "You do want the job, don't you?"
Arthur nodded. Matthew breathed a quiet sigh of relief and shook Arthur's hand again. "Well thank heaven for that. We didn't know what we were going to do after that mad dog got our last teacher." Francis handed the papers to Arthur along with a golden ink pen.
"Shouldn't we have the permission of the school board?" he asked, taking the paperwork and pen from Francis regardless. Matthew smiled.
"You're looking at it!" Arthur said nothing. "We are the school board, in it's entirety, and I must tell you Mr. Kirkland, you've really gotten us out of a bind. We're very lucky to have someone so qualified working for us." Matthew explained. Still, Arthur could not think of a thing to respond with. Did a town so tiny truly exist, where the entire school board consisted of a pompous, flaming gay man and his tiny secretary? To say that it was alarming would have been a severe understatement, and when a sentence finally rose to his tongue it was only this:
"Please, call me Arthur."
A/N: Bleurg this took me far too long but I hope you guys like it anyway.
This story is based loosely on the Bob Dylan song 'Don't Think Twice, it's Alright' hence the title and if you know that song then you know that angst will come and you will be powerless to stop it.
implcations of canADA and FRANCE WHERE DID IT COME FROM. i don't know but it worked so don't judge me. Hungary is way out of character and I'm not even sorry.
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