Chapter Two. Wilfred.

Please Note: this is a first draft with minimal proofreading/editing. Thanks for reading!


The condition of a book makes for a world of difference in the reader's enjoyment of it. In school, a student grips that tattered textbook with apprehension; "This is old, used." A brand new text incites a more enthusiastic response: "This is new. This is nice." The two books could contain the exact same lessons and facts but in the mind of that student, the perceived treatment of the book's bindings and pages indicate whether they should take interest in it, or regard its teachings with apathy. Never mind the design choices on the cover, or the tasteful layout of each page. No, the incentive for the reader to pay any attention to the conglomerate of hard work by so many talented professors, writers and editors is whether the edges are torn slightly or not. Of course, children are generally indifferent to the subjects they are given anyhow, but it makes one wonder what the causal relationship between the two is, or if it even matters at all.

This can be applied to people too, can't it? The saying "don't judge a book by its cover" may seem trite enough, but its well-known for a reason. It has applicability in every aspect of life; ugly foods can be tasty, unsightly people kind, and crude methods practical. However, can you really fault someone for denying someone or something else their time because of their outward appearance? Natural selection dictates that those with desirable traits survive and reproduce and those traits tend to show themselves in a person's appearance. If someone's strong, they have muscles. If a woman is especially fertile, she has wide hips. Can you blame anyone for following their instincts, for acting according to their natures-

"Hey, you gonna ever get out of my line of sight you fruit!?"

Some rude thing growls at me from behind, and I'm brought back into the present-I'm on public transit.

Yes, I was going to meet him, today...

And then I notice the reflection in the window in front of me; a portly, jaundiced mass of flesh with two beady black eyes glares at my back defiantly. "I'm tired of looking at your ass. You know the high school theater department in Wilmington is putting on a new show? Mac-bess or some shit. You should sign up." His cascading jowls tremble with each barely-articulated sentence, and he looks me up and down smugly. I make no comment, because his pathetic visage is amusing enough on its own. I'll be departing soon enough; but I don't tell him that, if only to let him stew for a bit longer.

"Hrrmph. Need a smoke…." He muttered towards the sign next to his head. It reads "No smoking in train".

Naturally, his talking to it seems to grant him permission to break that rule; he takes out a cigarette and fumbles about in his tote bag, which is of even poorer condition than himself. In between intervals of piggish grunts, he repeats "My light…." Eventually, a long strip of duct tape peels off the bottom of the bag and a myriad collection of grimy items pour out of the now uncovered hole gleefully. Predictably, he curses in frustration and kneels over to collect his things.

The train is still in motion, of course, so he's having a rough time trying to catch all the possessions of his before they escape. The noise is aggravating. I then spot, in my peripheral vision, a small blue cylinder. I catch it quietly with the toe of my boot; it's a lighter. And a trashy one at that, plastered with imagery of half-naked women. After some time, he sits back down and gathers himself, mumbling incomprehensible things that probably weren't worth hearing. Then of course: "Damnit! Did I leave it home today? Can't even have a smoke…." He whines. I press my foot down on his treasure a bit, testing to see how easy it is to break. Then, like clockwork, my destination is reached and I exit the train, and I kick aside his prized bauble onto the train tracks below.


I pass through the station quickly and without further incident. I have no more time to spare. Before long, I'm standing in front of a humble colonial-style house on the outskirts of the town-which I don't care to name-and when several minutes pass by without a greeting from the owner, I parse over the letter I was sent three weeks ago. I've already read it several times; but perhaps I misread the address.

No, I didn't…..well, there's a van in the driveway, and he lives alone (or so he claims) so he must be in that place somewhere. The man's name is Wilfred, and he was a close friend of my parents', apparently. He sent word to me that he just found out that I'm still alive, and that he'd like to support me, though he didn't explain what that meant. That being said he was a valued friend of my mother's. That must make him trustworthy to some degree, and I would do him a great dishonor by not coming to meet him.

And if this is a trap, well, the resulting confrontation won't be dangerous so much as tedious. A competent assassin wouldn't send such obvious bait.

As if to dissuade my thoughts, the front door is swung open and he emerges partially out of the doorway, waving and smiling. "I'm so glad you're here! I thought you wouldn't, cause you didn't send a letter back or anything. Come in now, come in! It's too damn cold!"

He gestures for me to enter and laughs heartily, and I comply. I can tell just by looking at him-he will pose no threat. He's a bit rotund, wearing a flannel jacket that clings to his large waist. That, and his impressively long beard and puffed, ruddy cheeks are the first things about him that catch my eye. He closes the door behind him with some caution and paces quickly throughout his small living room, firing off volleys of statements and questions.

"Let me take your coat! Oh, you want to wear it in here? My house isn't too chilly is it? I'm making dinner! Pasta al, um, al dente. With meatballs! I'm so glad you're here, I really am. I've been trying to track you down for the longest time, young man! I was honestly worried you were, well, passed, um. Then I thought, oh heavens forbid, you turned to crime-or worse-sorry! Oh but you are really so polite, you don't need to stand around, have a seat. Pop a squat!"

He takes a wooden chair from a nearby table and sets it down in front of me, then raps his palm on it repeatedly. The moment I sit down, he rushes into his kitchen and I can hear glass and boxes being shoved around hastily.

He rushes back into the room, holding two ceramic mugs in his wrinkled hands. He lays each one carefully onto the table, then gasps horrified. "Coasters." He whispers, then dashes over to a black dresser on the other side of the room. I take my mug off the table and examine its contents. It's hot chocolate, with fleshy marshmallows floating atop. I take a testy slip as Wilfred clumsily rummages through the drawers-it's absolutely saturated with sugar. At nine years old, I would've loved this, but now I just feel a bit sick.

He finally comes back, face flushed and hands shaking. "Gah! I can't believe how forgetful I am…." He lays down each of the coasters, each depicting a rugged mountainous landscape and the name of some national park or reserve.

"It's fine." I assure him. "Oh, and thank you."

He sits down wearily. "I hope it's not too sweet. I always made these sweet. My son loved them like this. Still does." He smiles wholeheartedly at me with that last remark.

His face drops a bit as he raises his cup to his lips. "Hmm." He gulps his drink down and wipes away the drops caught in his moustache, and then continues: "I really want to help you out. I have plenty of resources, money and whatnot. I can certainly spare a room, or two, too, as long as you'd like. I'm absolutely indebted to that wonderful mother of yours-she supported my wife through a lot." His stares out the window with watery eyes as he says this, "And your father. Such a man has never and will never exist again-"

He turns to me, tears trickling down his red face. "No, that's not true." He smiles warmly. I shift slightly in my seat.

"But anyway," he wipes both cheeks with the back of his hand and sits up straight. "I'm here to help."

"I apologize. I'm afraid I don't know you too well, and as such it would be impolite to impose upon you like this." I place the mug gently back on its coaster and start to rise out of my seat. I can't possibly take advantage of this man-he clearly sees me as a surrogate not only for his son, but also my fath- his best friend.

His eyes widen and he hurriedly gets out of his seat and starts pacing about the room again. "No, I'm sorry! I've always been so mundane compared to you guys-just a human, just a guy who offered a hand sometimes, a friend of a friend. I always distanced myself, with how weak I am-but I swear I'll do what I can!" His hands thrash about in his pockets as he says this, and then he pulls something out. "Here! This, this I saved up, I knew you'd need it, Vergil. I knew you would…."

He trails off embarrassed as he holds out his hands, lightly clutching something.

There are two very large wads of cash in both hands, and when I stare at them stunned Wilfred throws them onto my chair and starts pulling more out of his cabinets.

"I've got ten thousand here. And some directions….and, and this, she wanted you to have this…." He tosses more money, a map, two pieces of paper and a small key in a pile on the chair. He excitedly grabs me by the shoulders. "Stay a couple nights, please. I'll explain everything, and send you on your way with everything you need. This isn't just my guilt, there's things they wanted you to have, wanted you to know!" He shakes me while he says this and I feel a slight headache coming on-wait.

"Wanted me to know?"

"YES!" he started jogging around to different rooms in the house, shouting excited gibberish and yanking open and slamming shut all kinds of things,then ran up the stairway to the next floor and kept making more clamor.

I guiltily consider just leaving, right then and there. The poor man is clearly a bit loose in the head, and I wouldn't want to exacerbate that.

Then, curiosity grips me by the teeth and I pick up one of the two slips of paper.

It's slightly yellowed and crinkled, and the handwriting resembles my mother's, but is uncharacteristically messy. This can't-

'Will, my boys need this-some form of inheritance that one of my husband's friends kept, for insurance reasons. I can't be sure I won't be threatened after his death- they may be all alone and they'll really need this. Give them this address- I wrote it on the other slip. Can't tell you anything else, gotta be safe about these things. If you do nothing else after my death, please give them this, and make sure to give them the key too. I don't know what it opens, but they need it. Thank you, so much. You've always been so loyal to us, and I couldn't ask any more of you.'

She was so frightened she didn't even sign her name.

She knew?

I can't look at this. I let the message fall out of my trembling hands. No, calm down, please…

My knees give in. No, stop. Please. My head…..

I can't remember those things, I can't breathe. My chest is getting stomped on. I can't breathe.

They won't let me breathe…..they're cutting my stomach…no, stop….

My vision is so dark, and I feel hands grip and tear at every inch of me. I'm spitting up blood. Everything burns, I'm suffocating and they won't get off me. I think they're starting to eat me…..do I deserve this? No one's helping me. No one's helping her…where's my brother? Oh god, oh….s..top….

"….And your room's all set! Cleaner than Brian left it, ha! I hope you-"Wilfred is standing in the doorway leading to the stairs. His mouth is gaping, eyes frozen in shock. "You alright?" he asks quietly, voice barely above a whisper.

I try to collect myself and pass off the incident as something else. "Oh, yes. I'm just tired, sorry." I get up slowly, rubbing my eyes and yawning as I rise. It's such a pathetic act.

Yet he sighs in relief, wholly convinced. "Oh man, you scared me. Bah, I'm just bein' silly. "A loud chiming sounds from the kitchen; he slaps the wall nonchalantly and grins. "Dinner is ready, ya know."

He chuckles giddily while heading into that room. "Ziti and meatballs, my son's favorite."