Chapter Two: Through the Open Window
Mitch made Boromir something to eat while the man bathed. Explaining the shower was a curious process, but the man was sorely in need of some comfort. Mitch had lain out a towel for him, and some of his larger clothes. He wasn't sure what would and wouldn't fit him, but Mitch couldn't let him walk around in his heavy, horribly medieval looking clothing.
Boromir let the water wash down over his face and body, not bothering his mind with the contraption for the moment. He had watched as the layers of dirt and sweat left his body, flowing through the metallic and shiny slotted hole in the bottom of the tub. Boromir had used the things Mitch directed to, one for his hair, the bar of soap for his body. That, at least, was something he recognized. He contemplated on what Mitch had been telling him. His mind was warped by the things he had seen outside the window, and knew that Mitch couldn't be fooling him. Everything about this world seemed so different – there were things that resembled what he knew, but they had been distorted and changed by this race of men.
Reaching forward and turning the dials until the water stopped running he then slid back the curtain enclosing him in the bath. Grabbing the towel Mitch had left out for him, he examined the pile of clothes on the lid of what Mitch had called the toilet. Shaking his head, he slowly wiped the water from his skin. As he stepped out, he caught sight of himself in the foggy mirror. Wiping away so he could see himself, he was only slightly startled to see three new scars on his chest from where he had been struck by the orc arrows. His mind drifted to his friends on their quest. The quest that had cost him his life, but was only fantasy to the people in his new world. Sadness crept into his heart as he tried to comprehend why the gods had brought him here. Staring at himself, he recognized the clarity in his eyes that hadn't been there for a long time, but also his newfound sadness.
When he exited the bathroom, he walked to the kitchen.
"Mitch," he said softly, noticing the boy piling food on to his plate. "Where shall I place my old clothes?" Mitch stretched out his hands, taking them from him.
"Here, Boromir," Mitch said, "eat some food." Boromir walked to the table, and sat. He smiled a little.
"This is quite the meal," he said to himself, eagerly picking up his fork and spearing the eggs. Mitch returned, sitting down opposite of Boromir.
"Is it all right?" Mitch asked. Boromir nodded enthusiastically.
"I have not had such a meal in a long time. The elfish food did not suit me well," he said with a smile. Mitch gave him a smile, but it didn't seem sincere. "So, tell me, does Frodo destroy the Ring?"
"Yeah," Mitch answered. "And you're remembered fondly by all." Boromir met the young man's brown eyes, furrowing his brow.
"Lady Bridget-" Boromir started.
"About the titles, no one really does that. Unless they're royalty, but we don't have royalty in America so just call people by their first names," Mitch explained. Boromir nodded, and then continued.
"Bridget, where is she?"
"She's at work," Mitch responded, taking a sip of orange juice from his glass. Boromir had not touched his drink, and eyed it a little before deciding to follow suit. Lifting it to his mouth he let the yellow-orange liquid pass to his lips. He was pleasantly surprised by the taste.
"This is excellent," he said, before lifting the glass again and taking several gulps. Mitch maintained his wary expression.
"It's my favorite."
"What work does Bridget do?" Boromir asked as he took the last few bites of his breakfast.
"She works for the District Attorney," Mitch replied, rising and taking Boromir's empty plate. He placed it in the sink, intending to get to it later. He turned and faced Boromir again, watching as the man wiped his face with his napkin. The shirt that he had given him was taught across his chest, clearly a size too small. Fortunately, the sweatpants fit him comfortably, though they could be a little longer. Boromir shook his head.
"I do not understand what that means." Mitch sized him up, staring at his face. He could recognize that Boromir was having trouble accepting what Mitch was telling him, and that the man had become sad since he had shown him what was outside.
"You really don't have any idea where you are, do you?" Mitch asked. Boromir shook his head again.
"I told you, Mitch. I awoke in your aunt's apartment after dying. Do not ask me again, it pains me to think that my gods have abandoned me in this strange place as punishment for my weaknesses," Boromir answered. He looked away from Mitch, visibly upset. Mitch buried his face in his hands for a second.
"I can't believe I'm beginning to think this is real," he said, and then left the kitchen to get his laptop. He returned, slouching into the chair across from Boromir and opened the device. He opened a page for the internet, wanting to run a search.
He paused, at a total loss as to what he would even find.
Then, he could feel the body of the Gondorian very near him. He saw the man's face come into his peripheral vision, staring in amazement at Mitch's laptop.
"What is this?" Boromir breathed, transfixed.
"It's a computer," Mitch replied. He scooted over so the man could look closer. "It's really amazing, actually, when you think about it. It started as a machine to help people perform complicated mathematic equations. But, now it's developed into something much more complex and detailed than that."
Boromir reached forward to touch the lit screen, wondering at the images before him. Mitch gave him a few moments, but then began dragging his fingers over a square, and new images popped up. Boromir started, shocked and amazed all at the same time. A soft tapping sound began as Mitch's fingers darted over the other squares on the part resting on the table. Symbols that were similar to the common language and that had been on the cover of the book Mitch had shown him were appearing in an outline on the screen.
"How are you doing that?" he murmured, mystified. Mitch chuckled.
"That's how it works," Mitch replied. "This entire machine is based on numbers and mathematics. Every button I press here," he said, gesturing to the many tiles, "is a specific set of numbers that means this letter." He pointed at the letter 't' in the box. "The people who create and work with computers and their functions, programmers, call that code."
Boromir met Mitch's eyes, and he realized that his explanation was nearly lost on the man. Mitch shrugged, knowing that while most people used computers, they didn't understand any more about them than Boromir did. In fact, as he thought on it, the majority of the people in the world were too poor to even seen a computer. He didn't linger on the thought. He pressed enter, and the search engine returned thousands of results in a matter of a second.
He had searched "time travel proof."
It was the closest thing he could think of.
Bridget turned the key in her door, and sighed in relief. Her Friday had been long, and the T ride had seemed even longer. It was spring in Boston, which meant that it was either raining or about to rain. Tossing her umbrella against the wall near the door, she took two steps and then slipped out of her black rubber boots. Slipping off her jacket, she hung it on the peg on the wall, and placed her pocketbook on the red bench along the wall. She sighed, and walked into her bedroom, where she began to change.
Her mind was barely troubled by what she would make for dinner, when it crossed her mind that she hadn't seen Mitch in nearly a week. She had heard him walking about upstairs in the morning when she left, and had passed him twice on the stairs, but he had seemed to be in a big rush. She shrugged, reminding herself that it was not entirely unusual for her nephew to appear and disappear for days at a time. Sometimes, that's just how their schedules worked.
Pulling a white cotton t-shirt over her neck that she had long since cut the collar off, and tying the drawstring on her black sweatpants, Bridget sighed and looked at herself in her mirror.
She was of average height and curvy, a body type that she had learned to love over the years. She had found that, as she grew older, not loving herself was exhausting. Her dyed blonde hair was cropped short, barely passing her ears. She had cut it a while ago, but wasn't sure if she was going to cut it again. Her most striking feature was her eyes: one blue and one brown. As she examined herself, she slowly relived her day, covering the mistakes that she had made through its course.
Working in a fast paced and highly volatile office like the Suffolk County District Attorney's office had its benefits. She enjoyed the challenge of her work, and felt that while many of her cases were similar, no two were ever exactly the same. Bridget possessed a desire for correcting wrongs, and nothing moved her more than injustice. She was young to be working in the DA's office, but her professors at Harvard had wanted nothing less for her.
Many people rolled their eyes at her when she discussed where she obtained her JD. Of course you went to Harvard, they'd say, as if it was some overly-common and trite experience. The truth was that Bridget had worked her ass off to get into that school, and had worked even harder to become the assistant editor of the law review and to log the most pro-bono hours in her graduating class. Bridget had set those goals for herself and then blew them out of the water. Now, she had a salary and a budget to help her nephew get a college education and have a place to live – two things he wasn't going to get without her.
Mitch crossed her mind again. What had he been up to? When was the last she had heard from him? Reaching for her phone from her jacket pocket, she checked her texts from him.
"Tuesday?" she said to herself.
What are you up to? she typed, pressing send. She slid her feet into the flip flops that she wore around the house and headed down the hall to her kitchen. She placed the phone on her table, and turned on some music. John Mayer began crooning from her device, and she headed to the refrigerator to get the chicken she had pulled out that morning.
Two songs later, her chicken was in the oven and Bridget was peeling a few potatoes for herself. Her phone buzzed, and she looked down at it.
Not much, just homework. She smirked. Taking a moment, she walked to the first of the two windows in her kitchen and opened it, a warm breeze caressing her skin. The window overlooked the street, and the fire escape made for the perfect place to read on the hot summer nights. She turned back and pulled a bottle of hard cider from the six pack in her fridge. Twisting the cap off and opening to her lips, she picked up her phone again.
On a Friday? Yeah, right. Tapping send, she turned to throw the peels into the trash.
Above her, seated on the couch, Mitch read the text message from his aunt with Boromir looking over his shoulder.
"So, you just tap these tiny letters?" Boromir asked, squinting at the phone's screen.
"Yeah, it's just like the computer, only smaller and all touch screen. No physical buttons," Mitch said. Minding Boromir had been nearly a full time job. Mitch felt bad, keeping him locked up in his apartment all day, especially when he left to go to class. Initially, Boromir didn't seem to mind, as he had all kinds of things to investigate, and Mitch left him in front of the television for two whole days. But, Mitch could see now that he was becoming restless.
"Is she not right downstairs?" Boromir asked. Mitch smiled.
"Yeah, she is."
"So why not go down to her and speak?"
"Because this is easier," Mitch replied. "And, frankly, I don't want to see her right now."
"Why?" Boromir asked, Mitch's response surprising him.
"'Cause I don't like lying to her." Boromir knit his brow together, moving away from Mitch.
"Why are you being dishonest with her?" Mitch set the phone aside, not responding to her yet. He looked at Boromir, searching for the best way to explain this to him.
"How am I supposed to explain you to her?" Mitch asked. Boromir laughed.
"What is there to explain? She knows who I am," he replied. As if it was that easy. Mitch opened his mouth to reply when his phone's text alert went off.
Have you got a girl up there?!
Bridget was just pulling the chicken out of the oven when her phone vibrated again, interrupting Ke$ha as she whistled.
No.
She pursed her lips, and looked up at her ceiling.
I made cinnamon honey chicken with mashed potatoes. Come have some
She strained the potatoes, the steam from the boiling water and now soft potatoes billowing up into her face. Tipping them back into the pan so she could mash them, she caught a few strays as they headed for the sink. Suddenly, there was a tap at her window.
"Knock, knock!" Mitch said from the fire escape, and Bridget smiled as she placed the now empty colander into the sink.
"Come on in, stranger! There's some wine and cider in the fridge if you're interested. I just need to mash these and then we can –"
Bridget stood, frozen on the spot, by the sink. She had turned to look at Mitch, but instead was greeted with two faces. One of them, she had wanted to forget.
Boromir smiled at her, though somewhat awkwardly.
"Mitch," she breathed, turning now fully to face them.
"Bridge," Mitch started, walking towards her, "let me explain. There are a lot of things I have been working on over the last few days and I think you need to hear me out before you get pissed."
She heard him talking, but her eyes couldn't move from Boromir. He was staring back at her, as if confounded by some part of her. He was no longer in the strange clothes he had been in, and had clearly bathed for his skin was clear as opposed to dingy with dust and dirt. Mitch grabbed her hand, and it seemed to snap her out of the trance she was in.
"What?" she asked, remembering what was going on.
"I think you need to sit," Mitch replied, leading her towards the table. Boromir sprang into action, and pulled the chair away from the table for her.
"You told me you got him to leave," Bridget said, beginning to shake. Whether it was with fear or anger, she didn't know, but she couldn't seem to let go of Mitch's hand.
"I did! Well, I got him to leave your apartment and go to mine," Mitch replied. Bridget opened her mouth to protest, but Mitch stopped her. "No! Listen to me. I think that there is something real happening here. I have been working with and observing Boromir all week, and everything he has been telling me, and all of his reactions indicate that he is telling the truth."
"Oh, please," she said, doubt crossing over her face.
"No! I'm not done yet. I know how this sounds – some guy saying he is from a place we don't understand, but I think that he is for real. I explain everything to him that he doesn't understand, and he is actually mesmerized by things that you and I have in our everyday lives. Like my computer! And the shower! And the toothbrush I bought him!"
"You bought him a toothbrush?" she asked, the detail seeming so minor to Mitch at the time.
"Yeah," he said.
"Mitch, he isn't some stray animal you can keep and feed! He is a man! A man who thinks that he belongs to a place that isn't real!" Bridget said, exasperation on her face.
"I beg your pardon," Boromir interrupted, his mouth set in a line of disapproval. "Where I am from is indeed very real. And though it may not be known to you as any specific location on a map of your world, I assure you that the home I lived in, the parents that raised me and the battles I have fought are just as real as yours."
Bridget was silenced for a few moments, surprised by his lecture. She recovered quickly, though still holding his gaze.
"I'm sure where you are from is very real," she retorted. "What I am concerned about is the fact that you have abandoned reality to live in a fantasy."
"Bridget, that isn't fair," Mitch said. She looked back at him.
"You can't be serious, Mitch," she said, bewildered that he was even suggesting any of this could be real.
"Bridget, you've read the books. You've seen the films. Isn't he exactly what you've pictured? Isn't he the epitome of Boromir?" Mitch challenged. Bridget rolled her eyes.
"Of course it is," she said. "He believes he's him! Why wouldn't he look like him?"
"It's more than just looks, Bridge! Everything about him! The way he talks, the way he carries himself – he is a man that has had some serious training and education in the way he is supposed to behave and in his skills," Mitch said, his eyes pleading with his aunt.
"So, what? He just landed in my living room?"
"Yes!" both men cried to her. She looked from one to the other, shaking her head. Standing, she walked over to the sink where she had left the potatoes and grabbed the masher from the drawer beside her. Opening the stick of butter, she used a knife to cut several tabs, and began mashing it together. She was enraged that Mitch would take a man into his apartment like this. She was astounded that, somehow, this "Boromir" had made her nephew believe that he was the man he was pretending to be.
"How can I prove to you I am who I say?" Boromir asked her, his voice quiet. It was filled with some emotion that Bridget hadn't seen in a man in a long time. There was a deep confusion there, muddled with abandonment. She turned to him when she heard him speak, his voice quelling the rage in her throat. His eyes met hers, and she sighed.
"I don't know," she replied. "I don't know how someone can just be one place when they weren't there before. I don't know how anyone can trust someone when they say they are from a book."
"I do not understand it myself, my lady," he replied. "All my life I have grown believing that, when I die, I would go one place. And to wake in a world that I could have never even imagined, with not a soul I recognize, has been challenging. I feel as if I am being punished by my gods for the darkness I let cloud my mind." He looked away from her, unable to meet her gaze as he finished.
Bridget felt her pride diminish. Something inside her was telling her to trust this man, and that even if he wasn't a character from a book, he was a man in need of people who would look after him. She looked at Mitch, and he begged her with his eyes. Turning away, head and heart telling her two different things, Bridget sighed.
"I doubt my nephew has cooked you any decent food," she said, picking up the masher again and continuing her work.
"Hey now," Mitch said, "I made you breakfast, didn't I?"
"Yes, he did cook me a fine breakfast," Boromir answered. Bridget noted the lighter tone to his voice, and she let a small smile come over her mouth.
"Get the plates, you doofs," she said. "Boromir, there's cider and wine in the fridge if you'd like any." She looked over her shoulder at him, and their eyes met again. This time, he smiled.
"I will have a glass of wine," he said. Bridget opened her cupboard, and retrieved him a glass. Holding it out to him, he took it from her.
"Help yourself," she said.
