2

Dusty Shelves

On Thursday, five pm, Arthur waited in his office. Light poured through the windows, painting his shelves of book a near white color. Autumn was looming, sending cold breezes traipsing through the country like troops of men. Arthur sipped his coffee, looking up at the clock. The long hang poised elegantly on the twelve, the shorter one of black wires and complicated swirls, waited on five.

And Arthur was alone.

His cheeks burned with emotion. He had work to do. It would be a blessing of the boy didn't show up. He turned to the thick volume on his desk, next to a packet of papers filled with his own nasty scrawl. Pens and papers sat in disarray around his table. He chose one and picked up a page and began to mark notes on a mathematical proof he did in his spare time.

He wasn't a big fan of math or of science. He was a man of history, philosophy, literature. Numbers should have bored him to tears. And yet, there was pleasure in deriving straightforward numbers from a grid of lines and matrices. Arthur worked on it.

The paper filled with his notes. The long hand marched steadily towards the six. Still no one joined him. Even his colleagues seem to have taken it upon themselves to ignore Arthur as completely as they could.

Drawing no closer to an answer, Arthur paused. Although he appeared to have been deeply engrossed with the sets of numbers, his mind was far away. He was thinking still of Alfred and hanging on to a dear, slim, fragile hope that he would appear.

The long hand pinter solemnly at the nine. Forty-five minutes late. Hey, maybe he was just a tardy boy.

Or he didn't want to come.

Fine, then. Arthur thought. He sat back with a huff, his brows furrowing. Be that way. Abandon all your dreams and hopes and goals! Abandon everything! Leave me! Disappoint a poor man like myself, why don't you?

Arthur's temper worsened and climbed to a crescendo, namely because Alfred hadn't showed up. And in part because he had hoped so much for it to happen. He felt like a deflated balloon, and like an imbecile too. Arthur licked his lips, staring at the door.

His thoughts drifted back towards the farm, with its lone cow and pig, plus the five chickens. On top of that Alfred had a job and Sam had school. How did they manage a farm like that? Albeit, it was certainly minuscule when compared to the major producers of wheat or beef. This farm was a baby compared to those monsters. Yet, it still needed maintenance. Someone needed to clean the house, cook the food, care for the animals. At least there wasn't an acre of farmland to tend to, only the handful of animals.

How did that freak genius of a young man manage that?

The door pushed open. Arthur tried to swallow his excitement. It was six pm. The excitement that was born was extinguished just as quickly. Arthur's colleague, one he didn't take to well, entered. He approached Arthur with a warm smile.

"I see that proof has stumped you, dear friend." He said.

"As stumped as a tree chopped down for lumber," Arthur said sarcastically. "I haven't had time to do it. I'm not on a time limit, am I? Is there a hidden dead line you didn't tell me about?"

"No, no," the man said and took a seat on one of the plump leather sofas across from Arthur.

The man, Francis Bonnefoy, originally François, regarded him with lofty familiarity. He crossed his leg, ankle over knee. "I can't give you a hint to my own proof, that would be cheating."

"I never asked for any of your help." Arthur stated warily.

"You implied it."

"Ah, now I see why you majored in science and not psychology."

"You failed psychology in high school."

"And that is why I didn't major in that subject either. No, too many odds and ends and inconsistencies."

"Unlike history?"

"That, my friend, is different."

Arthur laughed despite his contempt. He smiled at Francis and walked around the desk, leaning against it. A book shifted as he did, revealing the corner of a tattered, yellowed paper. Francis stared at it curiously.

Arthur met his gaze, flushing. "Now, Francis, what you might be thinking of saying…"

"I'm not thinking about it, I'm doing it. How did it go with Mr. Jones?"

Arthur paled.

"I assume you were unsuccessful."

Arthur raised his hands, shaking his head. "You see, he's a very stubborn boy."

"He is a man, he makes his own decisions." Francis returned.

"But his genius is far too valuable to waste."

"Perhaps in your opinion, but not in his."

Arthur slammed his hand against the table, resorting to one of his trademark mood swings. His face crimsoned. "Oh, like you met him. You should have heard his rotten tongue, flapping out insult after insult. Your mother would weep if she had only moment to speak with him."

"My mother didn't remember my name most days." Francis said quietly.

Arthur turned so his reddened, shamed, and engirded face could not be seen. He stared out the window, down at the passing cars and students.

"Well, he was a horrible brute. A barbarian, if I might say. He's terribly stubborn and vulgar, which would not be too bad if he wasn't fathering a little girl."

Francis perked up.

"Is that so?"

"Oh, yes, I'm afraid to say it's the dire truth. His circumstances left him poor and, well, unlucky." Arthur said.

"Why unlucky? Is he unhappy? Does he drink?"

"I didn't see a drop of liquor in his house. And if he did, it would be more than hypocritical for me to admonish that action of all things."

"Does he smoke?"

"Good heavens, he's fit as a body builder minus all the steroids and stupidity."

"Does he go off with courtesans?"

Arthur gave him a bemused look. "Now you jest."

Francis returned his look with on of benevolence. He uncrossed his legs and rose to his feet. His blond, sweeping curls had been pulled into a red ribbon. His square chin shadowed with the ghost of a bear, and his build French in its wiriness and tone. He was a handsome man, as most young women thought, and a romantic too. Arthur was jealous of him for it, but impressed nonetheless.

Arthur turned away, taking a tissue from the box at his desk. He took it to the bookshelf and rubbed it against the dust, marking the tissue and puffing up particles of dirt. "He's a mess. Catatonic. Soon he'll combust."

"And forcing him to take classes here, to submit to your examinations, and to eventually work here somehow weakens the chances of his inevitably eruption?" Francis questioned.

Arthur shook his head. "No, I'll help him. He fathers this girl the way he would want a father to, ah, father him. But he keeps building up this damage, this darkness. I want to help him."

"You want to be his father?"

"No, his teacher. That is what I signed up to do. He's interesting, I can't help it, I am a learned man. I am a glutton of knowledge. It is my fatal flaw."

He faced Francis and held up the tissue, now turned soot-black.

"What does this tell you?" Arthur grinned.

"That you have a dusty book shelf. Why don't you hire a maid or ask a student in detention to clean it up for you?"

Crumpling the tissue, Arthur threw it away. "No! Firstly, I want no one to touch these books. Second off, I was making a metaphor."

"You saved all that dirt for a metaphor?" Francis asked, his brow rising. "I'm impressed."

"Oh shut it. You know what I meant. His soul's black as dirt and soon it will be as rich as ash."

Upset that his performance went unheeded, he plumped down on the sofa next to Francis. Francis watched his agitated movements, like a cat who had lost its prey. Francis felt pity and offered a drink. Arthur refused promptly.

They remained that way. Francis let Arthur to mull over his thoughts. He could never tell what filled that cramped, clever head. Despite all his faults, Francis believed Arthur was a good man. Arthur had set aside his scholarly goals to help the young man. He would drop his umbrella in the pouring rain and run a mile if only to help a duck cross the street. Francis had seen him do it. Soaked, but pleased, Arthur had smiled all the while.

There was a knock on the door.

"Come in," Arthur grumbled.

The door slid open and light foot steps echoed through the chamber. Arthur sat up and looked at the visitor. The girl, young, with her light hair plaited and her hardened features puffy with tears, stood before him. She held a box and set it on the table.

"What's this, young lady?" Francis asked gently.

"A gift," Sam stated simply. Her frown softened at his gentle tone.

"What for?"

"I want you to please forgive daddy for all the mean things he said. I want him to come here." She said.

Arthur stood up, ignoring the gift. "Does he know you're here?"

"No."

Francis eyed the blackened tissue in the waste basket.

Thank you so much for the reviews! And yes, I apologize for the bad language here and there.