Lessons in Housekeeping – Chapter 6
DISCLAIMER: Man, I think I'm beginning to run out of creative ways to say that Hetalia is not my property!
November 24th, 1925
Tiesa was walking down Main Street, taking care to avoid the gray slush that spilled over the edges of the curb and spread a slippery layer of half-melted snow over the sidewalk. Drivers crept carefully down the street as hordes of children darted across it, set free from the prison called "school" by Thanksgiving break. The town wasn't small, but it wasn't huge either. It still held the endearing charm of a tinnier community, and didn't have the hustle and bustle nature of a city.
I really do like it here! Tiesa relished the opportunity to go into town; usually she would stop to peek in through the shop windows to see what was being sold inside, stop in the local bakery to pick up a pastry for lunch. What was that thing I had called? She tried to remember…a dough-ring? A doughnut! But not today – today, the young woman was on a mission. She was hunting for Thanksgiving dinner.
But in a figurative sense, of course…she had only been notified of this upcoming holiday the previous evening. Mr. Jones had found it appalling she had never celebrated it before. All truth be told, she never really had anyone to celebrate it with. Her cousin in Pennsylvania probably hadn't even known Thanksgiving existed, and she and Felicja had never possessed the money or seen the reason for cooking an elaborate dinner to celebrate the colonization of a future country they didn't belong to.
Thanksgiving, gathered from what Mr. Jones had told her, was a holiday spent with family. But since her family was on the other side of the world and his was mostly not on speaking terms, it was just going to be him and her the entire evening. Tiesa had to admit to herself that she was excited by the opportunity to be alone with her employer, but at the same time the entire celebration had a kind of empty feel to it. My family is far away, and his doesn't care enough to show up…what a holiday. Tiesa wondered why he didn't invite any of his friends over, but she didn't want to pry.
She had spent the last few hours doing the required errands –Tiesa had gone and bought everything they would need come the 26th, all bought and paid for with the extraneous amount of money Mr. Jones had bequeathed upon her to purchase the holiday foods. She had taken extra care to save every receipt, to keep track of all the change.
Tiesa knew she didn't need to show Mr. Jones the change a receipts to let him know she hadn't stolen, hadn't bought anything for herself or lifted a few coins and bills. She kept them incase Mr. Kirkland or Miss Josie should happen to call her morals into question, which the young woman was willing to bet practically anything they'd do sooner or later. So, being the suspect of theft wasn't really her problem – her problem was how much stuff she had to carry.
Her arms were overloaded with everything from eggs to bread, from cranberries to yams. And to top it all off, a huge twenty-five pound turkey was balancing precariously on the tip of the grocery pile-stack thing…whatever I guess it is. It had been the last bird the butcher had on him – it was too late to try to go somewhere else for a turkey, so she'd just have to make due. I hope Mr. Jones won't mind leftovers for a while! It was a miracle she'd made it as far as she had, considering all the different bags and boxes she had to mind. Just one misplaced foot, one errantly located patch of slush or slippery ice, and everything would be covering the sidewalk as one huge Thanksgiving mess. And the car is still three blocks away…it was highly unlikely that Tiesa would make it there without incident. Already she could feel her tendons and muscles protesting, surely getting to rebel against her the next day for making them work so hard; scrubbing and stirring and polishing they could do, no problem. But carry a load over thirty pounds? Forget about it.
"You, like, need some help with those?" Tiesa froze. Was she hearing things? Had her lonesome and worry-wrought mind finally snapped and started providing a familiar voice to fill all those bouts of silence and self-reflection? She turned around as quickly as the groceries would let her. A feeling of elation rose in her chest, a grin breaking heedlessly across her face.
"Felicja!"
There Felicja stood, leaning against the display window for a tailor and clothing store. She still looked the same, but then again Tiesa probably did too. It had only been just over three weeks, after all. But it felt like an eternity! Relief enveloped her life rain after a drought. Felicja was safe, she was alive, she didn't look hurt or starving. She didn't look nearly as angry as the last time Tiesa had seen her…in fact the pole didn't look very upset at all. The guilt and self-condemnation that had been quietly gnawing away at Tiesa's conscience the past month faded away, replaced by a sense of completion and pure happiness. She could tell by Felicja's expression that her friend felt something similar.
"Long time no see, Esa!" her best friend plucked the turkey and a couple boxes off the top of the pile in her arms after delivering a quick hug – any longer and Tiesa would have dropped every single item she had been holding. Tiesa immediately felt the difference, standing up straighter gratefully and loosening her hold on the remaining items.
"Uhh…Esa, where are you taking these?"
Tiesa motioned in the direction with a nod of her head. "This way, follow me." There was no awkward moment of silence on their walk to the car, mostly because when around Felicja there is no moment of silence – period. Not awkward, not suspenseful, not anything. She just chattered away as if their argument all those days ago had not taken place; like everything had been normal the past couple of weeks. That was one of the reasons why the two of them made such great friends - they fought, yes, but they both got over themselves eventually.
"So, how've you been?" Felicja finally asked, after recounting the brief tale of her embarrassing run in with the milk man the previous day.
"Me?" Tiesa responded incredulously, adjusting a package wrapped in paper from the bakery and another from the butcher. "What about you? All you've done is told me what happened to you yesterday morning!"
Felicja shrugged nonchalantly, eyes rolling up to the sky. She scuffed her foot absent-mindedly on the cement walkway in a gesture of aloofness. "I got fired."
"What?" Tiesa cried, partly out of shock and partly out of disbelief. "Oh, Felicja, I'm so sorry!" And here I was thinking everything was fine…well, just goes to show that maybe her friend wasn't as capable as she assumed her to be. But she really had been wishing Felicja the best…
Felicja responded with the slight wave of her hand, the action impeded by the turkey she was carrying, and shaking her head. "Like, don't be," Tiesa could see the car in the distance as the other young woman continued. "I got this totally awesome new job, and best of all I'm getting a date out the entire ordeal." She wiggled her blond eyebrows in a cocky fashion.
They were finally at the car, and the first thing Tiesa did was finagle and experiment until she finally found a way to open the trunk without dropping anything. Both women deposited their armloads of groceries into the bed of the not-to-expensive-but-definitely-not-a-lemon vehicle. Tiesa brushed off her coat.
"That's wonderful, Felicja," and she meant every single word of it. "It's kind of funny really…we don't see one another for three weeks and all these things happen…"
Felicja smiled, nodding and not speaking or making any motion to leave. She wants something…but what? Her friend tapped the passenger side window, looking at her with eyes like saucers and a face that could have made the devil himself give her whatever she wanted. Tiesa sighed, kind of amused, brushing a loose strand of mousy hair behind her ear.
I know what she wants. "Do you want to come back to my employer's house and have lunch with me, Felicja? I'm positive Mr. Jones won't mind."
The blonde's face lit up. "YEAH! Let's go!" Eagerly she tried to wrench open the passenger's side door, and struggled in vain until Tiesa came over and unlocked it. "Oh…" she said. "…thanks." Then Felicja slid inside and slammed the door behind her, making herself perfectly comfortable. Tiesa followed suit, and it wasn't long before they were driving on the winding country road that would take them to Mr. Jones's place of residence.
At first they talked about nonsensical things, about anything other than Tiesa's job, where she was living, or directly addressing the fight that had happened between them. Then the conversation gradually trickled away to nothing and died, indicating the first awkward moment of silence that had occurred between them in a very long while. It stretched on as Tiesa stared at the road ahead; Felicja, too. It's not like we can avoid it any longer…Tiesa decided to bite the bullet and just get it out of way, destroy that lurking sense of regret and caution that had lingered amidst them today.
"So…have you forgiven me yet?" she asked evenly, eyes on the lookout for any late-season deer that might decide to take a scamper across the dirt roadway. Obviously she must have to some degree, otherwise she wouldn't be here right now and I'd probably be buying new groceries to replace the ruined, dropped ones.
There was the creaking of leather as Felicja adjusted herself in the seat. "Would I be here talking with you and stuff if I hadn't?" her friend sighed. "Have…Esa, have you forgiven me?"
You mean for not trusting me to make the right decisions for myself? "Yes, I have," Tiesa assured her. "You have no idea how worried I've been about you."
"Yeah, me too," Felicja started fiddling around with the glove box, opening and closing it repeatedly like a child would do. "I…I have forgiven you…like, you know, mostly." There was a smile in the blonde's voice.
"Oh, only 'mostly'?" she joked back. Tiesa looked both ways at an intersection before making a turn. She was being very wary – she knew how to drive, but she hadn't needed to do so in such a long time. It wasn't like she had a car, much less the money to buy gas for one; her road-skills were rusty. She was just lucky Mr. Jones had so many…there was a building on the estate that had probably once housed horses, but now was the make-shift garage of at least five different vehicles.
"Yup," Felicja flipped down the visor in front of her, checking her hair in the mirror before whipping it closed; she took on a degree of seriousness…well, as serious as someone like Felicja gets. "I want to see what you've gotten yourself into before I, like, completely absolve you of your sins."
OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO
It was not long before they were in the kitchen, Felicja comfortably seated at the little table tucked into the corner of the room, Tiesa standing at the counter preparing three lunches. Tiesa was experiencing a probably unholy amount of satisfaction; she'd shown the other young woman around the house, and she'd been thoroughly impressed. Tiesa's room in particular had been an area of interest.
"So you clean this place all by yourself?" Felicja had asked once the tour was over, upon being led into the kitchen.
Tiesa had shrugged. "It's not so bad."
"Not so bad" was a massive understatement. Working for Mr. Jones was the easiest, most pleasant domestic experience she had ever had. Speaking of her employer, he was currently out of the house. Which wasn't a bad thing, she supposed, but she really wanted to introduce Felicja to him. Then she'll see I'm safe here.
Even still, Tiesa made sure to prepare an extra sandwich for the young man; he'd probably be back soon anyway. When he got here Felicja's fears would be abated, and then the two of them could get on with their lives; best friends as always. But that was what made the blonde such a good friend; even if she was fickle, immature, and sometimes rather selfish, she really and truly loved Tiesa. They were like the sisters neither one of them had ever had.
Tiesa reached for the lunch meat sitting on the wooden counter. "Beef, or turkey?" she asked her friend.
"Ham. With lettuce and lots of tomatoes."
"So, Felicja," she said, layering the blonde's desired ingredients on a slice of bread. "Tell me about this man of yours…the one you've got a date with."
Felicja grinned slyly, propping her elbows on the table and resting her chin her in her palms. Tiesa picked up Felicja's sandwich as well as the one she had made for herself, and set them down on the table. She sat down in a chair, picking up her food. "What? Cat got your tongue?" she prodded.
Her friend drew a circle on the wooden table with her finger, lazily. She sighed "His name's Joseph…he's tall, Polish, totally handsome…he works with me at the tailor's shop," she was starry eyed and almost girly –looking, despite her menswear, make-up-less features and boyish haircut.
"Polish?" Tiesa inquired incredulously. In this area?
Felicja shrugged her shoulders. "Well, the grandfather on his mother's side is…that's totally enough for me." Tiesa smiled, shaking her head. Unlike her friend, she really didn't have any nationalistic preferences when it came to the opposite sex. She'd take anybody with a kind heart and good intentions, really…maybe that's my problem. Or was it?
The two of them continued making pleasant small talk, cracking a few jokes and catching up with each other just as they had many times before. Tiesa felt so happy to have Felicja here at her side, it was almost unreal. It was like being reunited with a long lost family member. In fact, it was just that. Over the time they had known each other, the two family-less (albeit, in different senses and under varied circumstances) women had sort of formed their own little family unit. Tiesa could not think of any other girl her age back in Lithuania or here in America that'd she had been nearly as close with.
In fact, she was having such a good time just talking and reminiscing that she almost didn't notice Mr. Jones walk in –luckily, he used the back door more often than naught. Tiesa was able to stand up and greet him just as he walked into the house.
"Hey, Tori," he said, attention still directed outside and pointing a finger at the turkey Tiesa had carefully placed on the back stoop – it had been too big to fit in the fridge, and it was cold that day, so she'd figured… "I got a look at that turkey and…" he trailed off, focus now shifting to Felicja. His eyes widened slightly, blinking in shock.
"Who are you?" He seemed more thrown off than shaken or angry. Thank goodness.
Felicja lifted her chin, the ham sandwich still held in her hands. "Esa's best friend," she answered simply and haughtily, as if to say "What, did you think I was some bum off the street?" Luckily though, she didn't. Tiesa interjected before the blonde said something rash that she wouldn't be able to take back; she could tell that Felicja still didn't quite trust him. How could she? It's only been ten seconds! Then, she realized. She said Esa! ESA! I told him my name was Tori…
Felicja knew that Tiesa used the alias of "Tori" wherever she found a job, but she didn't know that here, specifically, Tori was all she wanted to be called. No "Esa", no "Tiesa." Just, "Tori." Maybe he didn't pick up on it…she could only hope.
"Mr. Jones," she motioned to the other woman. "This is my friend, Felicja Łukasiewicz; I ran into her today while I was on my grocery run and invited her over for lunch…I hope you don't mind?" Perhaps she had acted without thinking; it was terribly unprofessional, bringing a friend to her employer's home? Her workplace? What's the matter with me!
But Mr. Jones just smiled, crinkling up his blue eyes with surprised intrigue as he did so. "Not at all! Very pleased to meet you, Felicja," he extended his hand, and the blonde raised her eyebrows at the gesture. Please Felicja, for the love of God, just shake his hand! Her friend was appraising, scanning the young man from head to foot, scrutinizing and searching doggedly for any visible flaw. The entire process lasted about three seconds, so Tiesa wasn't even sure if her employer had known it had taken place.
Felicja held out her own hand, locking it with his and shaking firmly, "Likewise."
Tiesa felt like cheering, going crazy with ecstasy, but miraculously managed to kept it on the inside. I knew she was wrong! I knew I could make the right decisions for myself! And now she knows that too…for Felicja had liked what she'd seen; she wouldn't have taken Mr. Jones's hand otherwise.
OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO
After everyone was done with their food, the unlikely trio moved into the living room; it was more comfortable there, anyway. The rest of the visit was filled with pleasant small talk; Tiesa was surprised that Felicja had been able to keep her attention focused on one conversation with one person for so long…or that she hadn't said anything offensive yet. Just a matter of time...but she wasn't too worried; people here didn't get worked up like they did in New York. Felicja had made many an enemy - and Tiesa too, just by association. She let her employer and friend dominate the floor; they both had a lot to say, and were enjoying doing so to each other quite a bit.
But as surprised as she was at Felicja's willingness to sit still and converse like a normal adult, she was even more surprised with how well Mr. Jones was carrying on the entire exchange. It was quite impressive; not only did he keep up with the rapid-fire pace at which the blonde spoke, but he could also found spots to interject and start a new topic even after the most bizarre comment…he's holding his own…now that's impressive! Tiesa just sat back, piggy-backing on what someone else had said every-now-and-then, or listening to the frantic and chaotic game of words and wit that was playing out before her very eyes.
Felicja checked the men's' watch around her wrist, its leather band three sizes too big and flopping about her hand like a bracelet that didn't fit. "Aw," she groaned. "Esa, you have to take me back."
"For what?" Tiesa yawned - she'd almost nodded off, the late nights reading and the early mornings working finally beginning to catch up to her.
"For my shift at the tailor's shop," Felicja got up and stretched lazily. "I'm actually, like, kinda sorta late…?"
"What?" she shot to her feet from her stationary position, head leaning against the armrest of the couch and legs curled beneath her. "You're late?"
"Pshhhh…," the blonde waved her hand in an aloof way, as if batting away Tiesa's suddenly manifested nervousness and hast. "It's totally all good…Joseph'll cover for me."
Tiesa shook her head in disbelief. "Come on, I'll drive you."
Mr. Jones accompanied the two women to the door. "Hey, uh…Felicja," he scratched his head. "Would you like to come over for Thanksgiving?" Tiesa blinked, caught off-guard by the young man's sudden proposition to her friend…and why? He looked back and forth between the blonde and the brunette; as if unsure he'd done the right thing. Why would he invite one of my friends…well, my only friend…to Thanksgiving dinner? I'm his housemaid!
Felicja smiled, tapping her chin in a mock-display of serious though. "That depends – can I bring a date?"
A grin lit up Mr. Jones's face as he nodded. "Yeah, go ahead. We have more than enough turkey…seriously though, that thing's gigantic."
Felicja slid her arms into her coat, shoving her feet into her shoes. Tiesa just stood by, in a minor state of confusion and shock.
"Then consider me there," Felicja grabbed Tiesa by the arm and opened the door. "Like, thanks for having me in your home and stuff."
"Anytime."
The two of them then walked all the way to the car, still parked around front from when they'd gotten back from shopping. The second Tiesa and Felicja were safely inside the hushed quiet and protected interior of the car, the blonde turned so fast and so suddenly the chassis actually rocked.
"Spill," she demanded.
"Spill what?"
Her friend rolled her eyes, throwing her hands up into the air. "What'da ya think? The reason for that cast-off faraway-look in your eyes the entire time – especially just now."
"I was just…a little surprised that he would ask you to Thanksgiving dinner."
"Why?" Felicja puffed out her chest indignantly. "Something wrong with me?"
Tiesa shook her head, sticking the key into the ignition and starting the car with a muffled chk-chk-vrrrrrrr. "No, it's not that. I guess I wasn't expecting him to ask the friend of his maid to come, is all…"
"Total newsflash, Esa," Felicja stuck her feet up on the dash as the car pulled out of the driveway. "Not every rich person is an uppity asshole."
"Well, yes, I know," she protested, still trying to figure out why Mr. Jones had so readily extended a hand of invitation and welcome to a woman he barely even knew. "It's just so…"
"Your just trying to find a flaw in the guy so you can come up with an excuse not to like him," the blonde interrupted, matter-of-factly.
Tiesa's hands tightened on the wheel. "I am not!" But even as she said it, she could feel her cheeks begin to heat and redden; belying the truth that hid beneath her protests to both her friend and to herself. Felicja raised a skeptical eyebrow.
"I saw the way you kept looking at him in there, and as your best friend in the entire universe, I demand that you give me the details. All the way down to the totally nitty-gritty!"
Damn it! "I uhhh...," she was at a complete loss for words, too busy trying to organize the sudden barrage of worries and new contemplations assaulting her mind. What looks? I didn't give him any looks! Felicja's making it up...but, was it really that obvious?
Felicja continued. "Well, in case you were wondering or something, I definitely approve. Out of all the guys you've dated this one is, like, a total keeper."
She decided to nip this one in the bud, before the blonde got completely carried away and became enamored with a false reality where she and Mr. Jones were together, heedless of social class and their current professional relationship. "We're not dating," she said, probably a little too quickly.
"What -! But you two would look so adorable as a couple! Just go out dancing or something…dinner! Screw "social standards" or whatever-the-hell else is keeping you apart."
Tiesa sighed, swallowing her feelings of embarrassment. Might as well tell her the truth… "It's more complicated than that," she cleared her throat. "He's...he's engaged."
"A-HA!" Felicja was now kneeling on the seat – a completely unsafe position to be in while riding in a car, Tiesa noted – pointing her finger in a manner that was part accusation, part victory. "I totally knew it! You like him!" Then a dip in the road caused the car to jostle violently for a just a moment, but it was just long enough to propel Felicja upwards into the ceiling.
"Owww…," the pole rubbed the top of her head, giving the source of her sudden pain an evil glare.
"I said no such thing," Tiesa managed to maintain her calm and her composure, barely holding back laughter at her friend's expense, and slight-panic at her own. The warring emotions elicited a smile that wasn't quite sure whether to turn or down.
"Might as well have," Felicja protested, adjusting her position to one more suited for driving down a bumpy country road. They could see the lights from town ahead. "Esa," she said quietly (quietly for Felicja, that is). "What does this girl have that you don't?"
Everything! Tiesa wanted to say. Beauty, clothes, money, a life…but she really didn't feel like getting a lecture on self-esteem, so she didn't. Not tonight.
"You can beat her!" Felicja had begun her own variant of a motivational speech anyway. "What have you got, huh?" Tiesa didn't answer; it was a rhetorical question, one presented to her on many a previous occasion. "You've got looks, smarts, a sense of humor! A God damn sense of humor, Esa! Do you like, even know how rare that is to come across in uppity dames? Plus, you make a helluva cup 'a coffee. What are you waiting around for? Go, fight, WIN!"
Tiesa peeled her eyes from the road just long enough to catch a glimpse of Felicja's pose – arms held up in the air, fingers splayed wide in a gesture of confidence. They were just arriving on the outskirts of town; she racked her brain for directions to the tailor's shop.
"If I recall correctly," she said slowly. "You were against me even going to work for Mr. Jones…and now you want me to steal him from his fiancée? I dunno, Felicja – that seems a little wishy-washy on your part." It was a jest of course, but she also kind of meant it.
"That was, like, before I met him!" Felicja protested. "I mean, he's so damn sexy!…besides, you could use a little spice in your life."
Oh really? Spice and sexy men? "Sexier than Joseph?"
"Wee~llll…not that sexy. But still pretty good lookin', if I do say so myself."
Tiesa pulled up to the curb beside the tailor's shop, the lights inside looking very inviting in the evening light. "See you later, Felicja."
"Okay…,"the blonde clambered out of the car. She turned, one hand on the door and ready to close it. "…and remember what I told you - GO AND GIVE THAT BITCH A RUN FOR HER MONEY!" Then with a resolute slam!, Tiesa's best friend sauntered away and into her place of employment – the place where her man of interest also resided. Tiesa felt a small twinge of jealousy. At that moment, the young woman really wished that she too had someone that could be called her own.
OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO
Thanksgiving Day, November 26th, 1925 – Virginia Estate
Alfred was sitting on the couch - the very same couch in fact, that he had waited on that one life-changing summer day; so many years ago…but now he was waiting for food instead of a verdict. He was only sitting here because Tori had shooed him out of the kitchen, in her uniquely polite and hesitant manner. Apparently he'd been getting in the way, and Alfred knew that – just like his father – he was no cook. So he'd done as Tori asked and vacated the premises.
It's almost kind of funny…to be treated like a child by someone around his own age. She really did seem beyond her years, though. Most of the women Alfred knew still called their fathers "daddy" and lived off their trust funds…kind of like Josie. Tiesa was just as old – or younger? He wasn't certain of her age; just that she was a legal adult – well, anyway, she was much more mature than pretty much anyone he knew…one of those "old soul" types; working for a living and supporting herself.
I wonder what it would be like to work every day? College had provided him with a small taste of what it would be like to have a daily obligation to work for one's shelter and food – he hadn't really cared for it (but whether he didn't like it because he truly didn't or to piss of his father was debatable). He got up and turned on the radio in the corner, tuning it to a football game. This whole NFL thing was pretty new to the scene, but he enjoyed it nevertheless. He reclined on the couch, listening to the announcer's grainy voice as it filled the room; the cheers of the crowd, the extremely faint blows of a referee's whistle…he painted an image in his head of the proceedings of the game, formed from both what information the announcer was feeding him and what he knew about football.
There were sounds coming from the kitchen, too – pots, pans, the opening and closing of the refrigerator door. They were homey sounds; ones that breathed a new kind of life into the house that he had often felt was oppressive and stifling in his childhood, despite his mother's attempts to make it otherwise. Alfred wasn't really sure when, but somewhere between the second quarter and halftime he nodded off, completely relaxed and feeling unbelievably comfortable in his around-the-house slacks and sweater, Tori still buzzing around the kitchen.
He woke up slowly, just as the game was ending – the favored team had won, apparently. Great – now I owe Jimmy money. Alfred lamented the loss of his sizable bet while stretching out his arms and legs, slightly stiff from remaining on the couch for so long. He rubbed his eyes and got up feeling refreshed from his nap but also incredibly thirsty. Water…need water…he shook off his the remaining dregs of sleepiness as he half-shuffled, half-walked into the kitchen were Tori was still slaving away.
"Oh, shit," he said, upon entering. "You need any help with that?"
Tori was balancing an uncooked turkey housed in an iron cooking pot on her knee – the kind that's made specifically for the purpose of getting pulled out of the cellar once a year for Thanksgiving, and occasionally to cook ham around Christmas time. She was holding onto one of the pot handles as she used her free hand to open the oven door.
"No," she said, wobbling slightly as she began to shift the pot to her other knee and hand. "I've got it…" Tori wobbled again; Alfred could just imagine it – a Thanksgiving disaster of the worst sort possible. How could one have a proper holiday dinner if the turkey ended up all over the floor?
He rushed over just as she started to put it in the oven. "Really, let me take it – " his fingertips brushed against her forearm as he reached for the two handles, but ended up awkwardly grabbing the pot by the bottom instead. Then Tori let go of the turkey quickly and unexpectedly, as if branded with fire – the sudden lack of support made Alfred realize just how heavy the thing really was! Besides, it didn't help that he was only holding one end by a single thumb…
The heavy iron cookware was too much weight to bear – it crushed his poor little digit between the oven rack and it's broad, flat bottom. Alfred felt searing pain as the pot crunched his bone and the heated over rack burned his skin. "OW! GOD!" He leapt back, yanking his finger from its hot iron torture chamber. Miraculously, the turkey stayed in the oven, but at this point that was the least of his problems.
"JESUS!" he had felt some unpleasant things in his lifetime – this was a new and particularly nasty one. "SHHHHHHII-" he caught a glimpse of Tori's face and the curse died in his throat. She was stricken, eyes wide and hands clutching the sides of her face as if this was all her fault and the-absolute-worst-thing-she-had-ever-done.
"M-mr. Jones, I'm s-so sorry!" she cried, rushing to his side and practically collapsing there. "I'm s-sorry, it's my f-fault! It really is, I w-won't do it again - please, please, p-p-please, don't be angry with me –"
"Tori – " he tried to interject, holding his injured thumb like a baby bird with a broken wing. She was descending into partial hysteria, babbling on and shaking her head, voice cracking with self-blame and anxiety.
"I r-really didn't mean t-too, it w-was an a-accident! I-I'm such an idiot, p-please –"
"Tori!" he said it louder this time, managing to cut through her frantic apologies and comments filled with self-loathing. She stopped; looking nervous and harried, eyes still trapped wide open as if anticipating a verbal reprimand…or worse. Why the strong reaction? There's that stuttering thing, again…she's upset. Alfred was determined to make it right, to abate her fears, whatever they were; he wanted to show her that he was not angry, or blamed her.
"Y-yes?"
"Stop…freaking out…" he began, but then she looked absolutely crushed. He backtracked, and quickly. One thing that really tore him up inside was watching a girl cry. "No! I didn't mean it like that!" he assured her. "What I wanted to say it that it's not your fault I hurt myself – it was all me."
She still looked a bit uncertain, wringing her hands together fretfully. "A-are you sure?"
"Yes," he said. "…and besides - even if it was - I've still got the other one now, don't I?" Alfred wiggled his unharmed thumb in the air for emphasis, a carefree grin on his face. "So take those tears back, alright? I'm not mad at you, promise."
"What?" she put a hand to her cheek, and upon feeling the wetness there she blushed. "I-I'm sor-"
"Nope!" Alfred interrupted her. "No more apologies."
"Oh, I'm sor-"
"No more!"
"But-!"
"None!"
Tori let her hands fall to her sides in defeat, utterly lost at being denied the ability to ask for forgiveness. The panic and horror painting her face was now gone, replaced by a determined gleam in her eyes that was a stark contrast with the way she'd been just mere moments earlier. She lifted her chin a little higher.
"At least let me take a look at it, Mr. Jones…"
"Ahhh…," Alfred took a look at said finger. It's fine…it really wasn't; but he would rather die of embarrassment than admit to Tori that he was going to cede a little bit of his manhood for the sake of a mere finger injury. So he steeled himself, trying his hardest to keep his discomfort from becoming visible on his face and the way he held himself. I am a man…I CAN TAKE IT! "No thanks, I'm fine."
Tori fixed him with a look he didn't even know she was capable of mustering. Jesus, no wonder she goes around looking so nice and innocent all the time…it wasn't a mean look, or one that distorted her features. It was one that made it obvious she wasn't buying any of his bullshit; Alfred could practically feel those green eyes of hers cut right to the truth amidst his web of bravado and put-on manliness.
So, when she said for a second time - "Mr. Jones, I think you should really let me take a look at your thumb," he nodded…and quickly.
He followed her to the upstairs bathroom –the one down the hall from his childhood bedroom. It wasn't as big as the master so things felt a little cramped and claustrophobic with two fully grown adults in there (it was an older house, after all) but Alfred wasn't complaining; he wouldn't have even if he thought he could get away with it. Tori had an aura of strength of will emanating around her that he hadn't detected before – he was just going to do what she told him to for the time being.
"Sit there, please," she pointed to the toilet, and Alfred took a seat after dropping the lid. He propped his elbows on his knees, one fist under his chin. He watched her back as she rummaged through the cupboards under the sink and the medicine cabinet mounted right next to the mirror. He didn't say a word, and neither did she. The general feeling in the room wasn't tense, per say…in fact, Alfred was having quite a difficult time figuring out just what it was, exactly.
After a few minutes of searching, Tori settled on the edge of the bathtub next to him, a small pile of medical supplies in her lap.
"I see you've familiarized yourself with the stuff in all the cabinets and cupboards," he observed. Tori put out a hand, and he placed his palm against hers. Her hand is really soft…odd, considering her profession. Alfred would have assumed they'd be calloused or dried out from washing floors; something like that, anyway. But instead they were smooth – smoother, even – like his own. His comment elicited a small smile from the young woman. His humor had not been lost on her.
"Yes," she said, turning his hand over gently. "I organized them when I got here." The Tori took ahold of his injured thumb, and pulled backwards ever so slightly. Alfred sucked in his breath, trying unsuccessfully to ignore the pinching, piercing pain that was now lancing up his thumb and through his hand. She winced at his reaction, peering up at him sheepishly.
"Sorry," she apologized, but Alfred didn't stop her this time. "Did that hurt?"
"No, not at all," he lied badly, and he knew that she knew he was doing so. Then, in a joking manner, "Why don't you do it again?" One could hardly imagine his horror when he actually saw Tori reaching to pull on his finger a second time! "No! Don't!" he said, probably a little louder than he needed to. He ground his teeth – that outburst had been very…sissy. Unmanly, not tough…
Tori looked up, her now-calm eyes meeting his now-pained ones. "I'm not going to pull on it, Mr. Jones. I'm just going to see if it's broken."
"Oh…," he still felt like an idiot. "Uhhh…continue?"
He watched as Tori gingerly felt around his joints, as well as up and down where he assumed bones resided within his flesh. It felt tender, but it was nowhere nearly as agonizingly painful as when she had pulled it. She's being incredibly gentle.
After about forty-five seconds of this she gave him a verdict. "It's not broken," Tori said aloud, sure of herself.
Alfred couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief. "Good…I don't know how I would have carved that turkey with a broken thumb…" he smiled to indicate his humor.
"But...," she ceded, still examining the black-and-blue digit.
"But what?"
"…can you move it?"
Alfred bent his thumb at the knuckle and bit back a very inappropriate word from to keep it from flying out of his mouth. Damn, that's becoming habit for me, isn't it? He grimaced as a wave of discomfort radiated from the spot where he bent his finger, all the way up to his wrist.
"Yes," Tori said, reassured. "You probably just have a tissue bruise…here," she had routed through the small collection of medical supplies in her lap, producing a tiny tongue depressor, a few strips of gauze, and something which didn't have a label on it but what he assumed to be rubbing alcohol.
"We have tongue depressors?" he asked in disbelief as she poured a little bit of the probably-rubbing-alcohol onto his thumb, presumably to disinfect the burn that was already starting to blister there.
"Oh!," Tori exclaimed. "Is that what their called?"
Despite himself, he suddenly felt a lot less comfortable with her touching such a vulnerable part of his body so forwardly. She took one of the gauze strips and wrapped it around the wooden depressor.
"What are you going to do?" he asked her, as politely as possible, trying to keep the young woman from picking up on his anxiety. Is it really my fault if I don't like pain?
A patient, "Just hold still for me, please," was all he got in response. Warily, Alfred watched as Tori took the gauze-wrapped depressor and lined it up on the un-burned side of his thumb. It hurt a bit as she adjusted his finger so it was straight, but now he was beginning to figure out what she was doing. Then she wrapped a few more gauze strips around the thumb and gently sticking it with a medical pin, securing the make-shift splint in place. Tori craned her head back slightly, as of admiring her handiwork.
"You should probably leave that on for a week," she said. "…or two," she ceded, and then shrugged. "…possibly three. I wouldn't know – I'm not a doctor!"
"Maybe you should be," he told her, noting that his thumb felt almost normal and pain-free now that he couldn't move it. "Where'd you learn how to do this, anyway?" Alfred again realized just how little he knew about his housekeeper, and that he wanted to learn more.
Tori smiled. "With a friend like Felicja, I needed to learn just to get through one day."
Alfred nodded, no doubt! The girl was probably certifiably insane…or hyperactive, at least. Something! He could easily imagine the young woman's friend getting the both of them into some type of trouble or another – Felicja almost reminded Alfred of himself, in and odd kind of disconnected way. At least she was entertaining; that afternoon two days ago had been the most eventful for him in a long while.
In fact, the entire reason he'd invited her was not only because he found her fun to be around, but because he wanted to make Tori enjoy the holiday to the fullest. Thanksgiving tended to be a rough occasion amidst the absence of family (Alfred would know – he'd been eating a ceremonial turkey sandwich for dinner by himself for the past decade). And since, gathered from what she'd shared with him, this was her first, he figured he might as well invite Felicja too. The next best option to family was friends; something Alfred had few true of, if any. Besides…we really need to get people to eat the damned turkey. He highly doubted two people alone would be able to finish it themselves, even if they had leftovers for two weeks.
One thing he had noted with a considerable amount of interest was Felicja's calling Tori "Esa." Is that her real name, a foreign word, or what? He tried to convince himself it didn't matter, but the curiosity was quietly eating away at him, and he didn't know how to bring the topic up without sounding rude, or insensitive. She didn't tell me her real name for a reason…and I guess I should respect that…
"Speaking of which," he said as Tori let go of his hand. "Shouldn't she be here soon?" Felicja and that guy she was bringing were going to show up around three o'clock – at least, that's what she had said. If the impression he'd gleaned from the Pole two days ago was any indication, she could very well be running up to their front door at that very moment; apparently she liked to keep things spontaneous.
"Oh, yes…" Tori stood, Alfred looked up so he could still see her face. "I suppose I should get ready and check on the food."
Then, it happened, but just for the slightest fraction of a second. She was about to turn, he was about to stand – their eyes met for a brief moment, and Alfred could have sworn that time froze just for them right then. He had no idea what it was, just that looking her in the eyes would elicit it from the very depths of his being. And then it was over – Tori broke the spell by leaving and Alfred was all alone in the suddenly much-more-spacious bathroom.
"I'll be in the kitchen if you need anything, Mr. Jones," he heard her call over her shoulder, trotting down the staircase.
What…what was that? He almost felt dizzy; he ended up not leaving the toilet seat for a few moments more, pondering and puzzling over what the Hell he had just felt. Could it be…? No! No, I don't think that's what it is…he forced himself get up. He was not dressed for a Thanksgiving dinner party – who cared if only four people were going to be there? He was still technically the host, and had to look some semblance of put together. A clean sweater and nicer pants, at least…he supposed that was his father's distant and weak influence manifesting itself in him.
He walked to the closet of the master bedroom, a space that had once belonged to his parents but was now occupied by him every night. He rooted through the clothes in the closet – his clothes. Alfred had stashed his father's in different rooms around the house out of pure spite, and his mother's had been thrown away after her death. He withdrew a freshly ironed pair of cotton slacks; not too expensive, but not casual wear either. Then he stuck his hand back into the unorganized mess of pants, shirts, and various other articles of clothing until he found a sweater.
This one was nicer than the one he currently had on, with fine stitching made of a high-end material. This was newer…he didn't remember wearing this before, much less seeing it. Oh, yeah. Josie got this one for me…before she'd left his fiancée had gone on a shopping trip, bringing back many things for him and herself.
"Expand your wardrobe," she'd told him, running a hand through his hair as she placed a pile of clothes in his arms. "I can do more than just improve your "nightlife". I can help you with your fashion sense, too."
Personally Alfred didn't see anything wrong with the way he dressed. But he couldn't turn down her offerings just because his pride had taken a little blow. It was odd – ever since the southern belle had vacated the premises, he hadn't been thinking about her that much. He should; he was getting married to her, for Christ's sake! It wasn't like she didn't leave an impression – it just kind of faded quickly once she was gone.
…but why? Alfred tried to button his collar, a small splinter of discomfort lodging itself in his injured thumb. He couldn't help but wonder…does Josie know first-aid like Tori does? He shook his head as he slipped the sweater over his head, pushing his arms through the sleeves; he couldn't think like that. What had been felt in the bathroom was a fluke…right? Besides, it wasn't like he was even on the market anyways. He was saddled with Josie out of fear of his father's reparation. What I want with Tori, he told himself, is friendship.
She was a great gal, a really kind person. Kinder than he felt he deserved, at any rate. Easy to talk to, good conversationalist, witty sense of humor…it was just so easy to share things with her. Since she'd arrived, she was the ear to all his out loud musings and thoughts. Only interrupting to ask a question or provide a little bit of feedback; not that he'd mind if she talked even more. Was she spoken for, he wondered? Did Tori have a boyfriend? If she did she certainly hadn't said anything to indicate as such…maybe he should ask her; but just for professional reasons, of course. Tori was intelligent, lucid and patient – Alfred hoped she would open up a little more so he could get to know the woman behind the closed nature she carried around like a shield.
Well, Felicja will be here tonight, he brushed some lint off of his slacks, checked his hair in the full-length mirror…maybe she'll talk a little more freely with a friend around. He departed for the stairs – he figured he might as well set the table, cross one more thing off of the list of things needing to be completed before the arrival of their guests.
Now that, he figured, is got to be something she knows I won't screw up!
OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO
Tiesa was setting the table with Mr. Jones's help; even though he had assured he her wouldn't drop anything she still kept a wary eye on the young man, making sure he didn't try to carry too much at one time or hurt himself again – especially with his thumb and all...which is my entire fault! It didn't matter what he said, what he told her – Tiesa had overreacted when he touched her. It was only the brush of his fingertips on her forearm…I'm pathetic, I really am.
Would she ever truly put it behind her? How could she possibly hope to live a normal life if every touch, every sound or unrelated reference brought up those dark memories? And it was because of her overreaction that she'd stepped backwards, letting go of the turkey and enabling it to crush the poor man's thumb. It would definitely be a while before Tiesa could forgive herself for that one, even if Mr. Jones himself had already told her he didn't blame her. But it's my fault!
Felicja was the only person on this entire planet who she actually let got close to her in the physical sense for almost a year – and in the emotional sense as well. But she had never opened up all the way to her friend, not since it. Felicja was smart, though; she probably had no problem piecing together what had happened. Tiesa knew she was different…it had changed her, and she hated that. The young woman was holding back, no denying it. And even if Felicja was the only person she consciously permitted to grab her arm, to sit right next to her on a bus or a train, she still ended up feeling anxious and claustrophobic at times.
I'm not going to think about that tonight, Tiesa resolved as she checked the turkey. I'm going to have fun for a change.
While sliding the gigantic bird back into the oven, uncomfortably hot waves of air buffeting her face, the sound of someone knocking on the front door echoed throughout the foyer and into the kitchen. "They're here!" she called, alerting Mr. Jones to the arrival of Felicja and John just in case of the slight chance he hadn't heard their knocking.
Should I open the door, or should he? Felicja was her best friend, which should have naturally ensured her the right to answer the door, but this was Mr. Jones's house. It would be rude to do so. It was a conundrum she wrestled with while walking to the foyer. Luckily it was resolved for her, as Mr. Jones had indeed heard the knock and managed to get to the front door before Tiesa had.
"Hey!" he said upon greeting Felicja and Joseph. "Glad you could make it!"
There was a flurry of "Hellos" and "Nice to meet you's" as Felicja and Joseph removed their coats.
"Esa," Felicja led her date over to Tiesa's side. "Say hi to Joseph." Tiesa smiled, said "Hello," and shook the man's hand warmly. He had kind eyes, patient eyes. One would need those traits, to deal with Felicja as often as he does….hell, as often as Tiesa herself did!
He greeted her similarly before she was whisked off to the kitchen by Felicja, leaving Joseph and Mr. Jones to converse in the foyer. The second the two of them were out of earshot, she gave her friend a once over, shocked and surprised. This was the first time in the all the years they'd known one another that she'd seen Felicja wear actual women's clothes!
"Felicja, what are you wearing?" she asked amusedly. Felicja had on a burgundy dress, pumps, some jewelry – her hair was done, and so was her makeup. But the really astonishing thing was that it all looked good.
The Pole shrugged nonchalantly. "So I want to dress up for once in my life – it's like, no big deal or anything…" she scanned Tiesa from head to toe. "What are you wearing?"
Tiesa had ditched her standard modest blouse/calf-length skirt combo for a favorite second-hand dress and a nicer pair of shoes. She'd taken her hair out of its usual braid, instead opting to put it up into a French-twist. And instead of being kept hidden away in its prison underneath her clothes, her amber pendant was the showpiece of her clothing ensemble.
Despite the fact that the old silver chain had long since broken and been replaced with a length of nicer-looking string, Tiesa still wanted to display it proudly on her chest on this occasion. Usually she liked to keep the treasure private, a little piece of her family she could keep to herself…but since Thanksgiving was for family wouldn't it make sense to bring it out? It's be kind of her own little way of having Mama, Papa, Eduard and Raivis there celebrating with them.
"...a dress?" she answered Felicja's answer simply, cautiously. While her question had been the product of surprise, she had absolutely no idea as to what had prompted the blonde's.
"Yeah, but it sure isn't anything special," her friend waved her hand dismissively. "If you want to get him you have to try way, way harder."
Tiesa groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. "Look, Felicja…we've been over this. I am not getting anything."
Mr. Jones chose right then to stick his head in – both of the women froze, caught in the awkward act of talking about someone behind their back; not in a negative way of course, but that didn't make it any less humiliating to have the current subject of their conversation crash their hushed exchange. Please, please, please! Please not have heard anything…and it seemed their words had gone unreceived by Mr. Jones's ears, as he had the same cheerful and oblivious nature about him as always.
"Hey Tori, Felicja," he said. "Me and Joseph'll be in the back yard if you need us for anything. We're gonna go play some one-on-one football." Then he flashed them both a thumbs up and disappeared from the doorway, his quick and loud footsteps audible down the hall as he searched for his shoes, coat, and that damn-near-impossible-to-find football.
"That was close!" Felicja whispered excitedly.
"Too close!" Tiesa chastised worriedly. "If he had come in three seconds earlier…"
"Oh, stop it," Felicja sighed exasperatedly. "He didn't hear, right?"
"I guess…"
"Then, like, stop loosing hair over it," the Blonde walked over to the stove. "Bald woman are totally not attractive – then you'd never get him!" She tapped the metal door. "How long has this turkey-thing been in there, anyway?"
Tiesa checked the clock. It would be two and a half hours, at least, until the turkey was done. She did some quick calculations in her head and on her fingers – that would give and Felicja more than enough time to work on the pies, and then stick them in the oven, too. Once those were out of the way they'd be able to start the vegetables and various other side dishes.
So the two of them set to work, Tiesa consulting the cookbook Mr. Jones had dug out of the cellar rather often, as she had never even heard of many of these things before. Pumpkin pie? What an interesting idea…and what exactly was a yam? She'd been told it was a sweet potato, but on the inside it sure didn't look like any spud she'd ever seen. Oh my God, it's orange! But Tiesa just put everything up to good faith and did exactly as the book told her, occasionally reading things like ingredient amounts out-loud for Felicja.
She'd put her friend in charge of the apple pie, due to its similarities to the Polish apple cake. She'd need to do less reading, Tiesa figured, trying to spare Felicja the embarrassment of needing excessive assistance regarding the comprehension of the dishes recipe. Felicja was also responsible for making the more simple side dishes, like green beans. Those kinds of things were just common sense, not to mention the fact the blonde was already very familiar with them.
The entire experience was very enjoyable – Tiesa loved making the new, interesting food. She cashed the new culinary knowledge away with her already pre-existing learnedness in Lithuanian, Russian, and Polish dishes. She and Felicja were able to safely discuss Joseph and Mr. Jones, as the two men were still outside playing football –Mr. Jones in particular. Her friend would ask little sideways questions, trying to extract information regarding their relationship through subtlety. It didn't really work, much to Felicja's chagrin and Tiesa's amusement.
Soon all four of them were gathered around one end of the table in the formal dining room, the best china and silverware out on Mr. Jones's insistence, and their glasses filled to the brims with a very tasteful wine taken from a secret stash in the cellar. The food was all laid out of the richly-hued wooden surface of the table, creating a myriad of delicious-looking colors and smells that permeated the room with their warmth and home-like feeling.
Mr. Jones chose to sit at the head of the table, Felicja directly across from her, and Joseph happily next to his date; Tiesa herself was right by Mr. Jones The two men looked like they had bonded quickly over the rough sport they had enjoyed during the preparation of dinner – her employer's hair was mussed, and his expensive-looking sweater was damp and mud-streaked; Joseph was in a similar state. Neither man had changed; Joseph because he hadn't brought a spare outfit, and was too humble to accept Mr. Jones's offer of borrowing his own. Mr. Jones, likewise, hadn't change because he hadn't wanted his guest to be the only dirty one at the table – a rather considerate and gracious action, Tiesa thought.
"Let us join hands for grace...," Mr. Jones held his hand out for Tiesa, and for the second time that day, she took it. She could feel the splint she'd put on his thumb earlier press gently against her palm. His hands were not soft, but they were not rough either. Having only been touching that back of his hand earlier, this was the first contact she'd had with his palm. Tiesa swore she could almost feel an anxious energy in his touch – is that even normal? – but dismissed it as her wistful imagination getting carried away with itself. No use hoping for the impossible…Then she reached across the table and linked up with Felicja, and then their circle of thanks was complete.
"Tori," Mr. Jones said to her. "Since you're the one who provide us with all this great food, would you like to start?"
Really? He's giving me this honor? Tiesa smiled. "Of course." she bowed her head, as did the others.
"I would like to give thanks for the graciousness Mr. Jones has shown me these past few months," she began, catching a knowing smirk work its way across Felicja's face. Luckily, she was the only one who noticed. "…and to allowing me the services and shelter of his home. I am also thankful for Felicja," she shot a mildly pointed glance in her friend's direction, who saw it, removing the smirk but replacing it with a wiggle of blonde eyebrows. "…for her help this evening and that she has been such a good friend to me all these years."
Mr. Jones then looked to Felicja. "Felicja – would you like to continue?"
Felicja cleared her throat dramatically. "So," she started. "I would like to thank that God guy up there for Joseph…and everybody's health…uhhh, and Esa…and my wonderful sense of fashion!" She finished, obviously satisfied with her offerings. Then Joseph took over, in his quiet, sensible way.
"I am thankful that I had the chance to meet Felicja," the blonde glowed with happiness at his words. "…that Alfred was so kind as to invite us over for dinner, and Tori especially, for making all of this."
"Hey, I helped!" Felicja interjected, good-naturedly. Joseph smiled, with a small shake of his head."…and Felicja for helping," he concluded.
Then it was Mr. Jones's turn. "Well, first of all," he said, humor in his voice. "I'm very, very thankful that Tori know first-aid!" he held up his splinted thumb, breaking contact with Tori's hand for the briefest moment. The other chuckled, as did the young man. He continued after a few moments of soft laughter. "…and I am also blessed to have her as a friend. Alright, everybody…dig in!"
F…friend? Tiesa couldn't belief it. He just called me his friend! She felt and immense sense of elation. …but why? All they did was talk - and pleasantly so - she'd introduced him to Felicja, helped him with his thumb…oh my God, we are friends! The revelation filled her chest with a warm, fuzzy, most0likely dangerous feeling. Friends! "Friends" is all he said though, Tiesa – not "soul mates." Get ahold of yourself. But even still, the fact that Mr. Jones considered her, his housemaid, a close enough acquaintance to call her "friend" – and in front of other people, too! – was a source of practical euphoria.
She almost didn't let go of his hand that she so tentatively held on her grasp, but realized that holding on another second longer would probably just raise up awkward questions. Even after releasing it though, she could still feel the warmth of his palm. That eager energy Tiesa had felt in Mr. Jones's own had seemed to have settled in her chest and in her head.
The rest of the meal was occupied by pleasant chit-chat which she happily took part in, Mr. Jones's words still running through her head. They all joked and talked as if they had known one other for years, as if this wasn't just some last-minute slap-dash gathering of practical strangers (excluding Tiesa and Felicja, of course). The food was delicious, and Tiesa discovered that, despite the oddness of its texture and appearance, she actually liked pumpkin pie. The yams she tried too, but didn't care for nearly as much.
After dessert and one last glass of illegal drunken wine, Felicja and Joseph bid their farewells. The couple was expected later in the evening at Joseph's own family gathering.
"Remember," Felicja had whispered into Tiesa's hair while delivering a tight hug. "Go, fight, win!" Then she'd winked encouragingly, and Tiesa had to fight to keep a slight blush from coloring her cheeks. After their guests had departed, Tiesa had started about the cleanup. Just as Mr. Jones had helped her set the plates before dinner, he helped her clear them afterwards.
He sat at the kitchen table while nursing a late-night cup of coffee and keeping her company, Tiesa standing at the sink and washing the dishes at a leisurely, relaxed pace. A comfortable, almost satisfied, silence sat between them as they wordlessly served as a barrier against the lonely, now empty house for each other.
Once the last dish and final spoon were washed, dried, and carefully put back into the china cabinet, Tiesa turned to her employer. "Good night, Mr. Jones," then with a slight inclination of her head, she began the short walk to her quarters.
"Tori, wait a second…" she halted, her heart beating quickly in anticipation, even though she wished it wouldn't.
"Yes?"
"Well, uhh…" he scratched his head. "I just wanted you to know – today wouldn't have even happened if it weren't for you."
"Oh! Thank you…" she was flattered despite herself.
"And one more thing," Mr. Jones looked up from his coffee, a warm, open look in his eyes and on his face. "Now that we're officially friends…do you think you could call me Alfred?"
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out...I'd be violating my own rules! But in all honesty she didn't really care. The decision was easy, much easier than it should have been. "Of course," she smiled, inclining her head once more.
"Have a good night, Tori," Mr. Jones told her as he stood and stretched. "I'll put away my coffee cup – I promise."
"Thank you…," Tiesa hesitated, uncertain. She could practically hear Felicja's voice, screaming in her ear - Just do it! "Good night, again…Alfred."
And then she disappeared into her room so he wouldn't see the elated expression on her face. Tiesa went to bed that night, very, very happy.
You know, she thought as she rested in-between her sheets, the moonlight coming in through her window and illuminating the walls with a glow that was the lightest color of blue…I think Thanksgiving might be my favorite holiday…
OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO
Thanksgiving Evening, Kirkland England Estate
Thanksgiving. Arthur hated it, but he hadn't always. Then again, he'd hated most holidays for about ten years now; ever since the day he'd stopped considering his wife and son a family, as he was sure they had done likewise. It was on these once anticipated occasions that he seated himself in front on the fireplace, nothing but his misery, wistful memories, and a bottle of his favorite scotch to keep him company.
Thank God that "prohibition" nonsense is done and over with here…Arthur may worked for the American government, but that didn't mean he had to like every law, legislation, and bill those dysfunctional congressmen and representatives passed. As if they're all following to their own laws…puh. Alcohol-free nation my ass! But one of the things that was great about being an ambassador was he could drink what he wanted, when he wanted, with no fear or reparation. And right now, Arthur wanted scotch.
He was reclining in his favorite chair, the crackling glow of the fireplace casting a sphere of heat around him. Solemnly, Arthur knocked back another heavy-bottomed glass filled with the poisonous amber-brown liquid. This was what now, his eighth? He didn't know…he'd begun to lose track around five…or was it four…? There was paperwork to be done – the American Thanksgiving wasn't a holiday in good old England. Guess they figured they didn't need to celebrate the beginning of a colony that would later declare independence; effectively eschewing their protector, their guardian from all the horrible things in the world, from their lives as despised and obsolete.
I'm kind of like England…Arthur thought, sloppily refilling the glass. …and that brat Alfred is like the colony…He loved Alfred, he really did. He just didn't like to admit it to himself very often…sometimes, when he was drinking, he would have these periods of clairvoyance. He was hurt by the way Alfred had pushed him out of his life, and at such a young age, too. Arthur knew that he was the one to blame for that fiasco, no matter how many times he tried to convince himself it was Francine who had cheated first. He hated himself. He had turned cold over the years, built walls of spite and blame for everyone but himself. And those he'd loved had built some of their own. Would he ever be able to break through his own and climb over his son's, to apologize? Even if he did, Arthur doubted he'd be forgiven. The damage inflicted on their relationship was deeply seated and not easily forgotten.
As he raised the glass to his lips, he heard the footsteps again. Not now…Peter came into the room, warily stationing himself beside Arthur's chair; the older gentleman didn't even spare him a sideways glance. Peter knew full well of his father's morbid holiday tradition; to get one thing absolutely clear - Arthur had never, ever raised a hand to or laid a single finger on the boy...but a lot of the time a simple insult or an aptly placed jab could be just as bruising, just as cutting.
"Dad…," Peter said, the meaning of his words coming in slightly garbled through Arthur's alcohol induced state. "Are we having Thanksgiving this year?"
What a stupid question. "No. Why on earth would you think that?" his speech was slurred by drink, his usually cold-and-distant aura when around his son becoming biting and sarcastic. The scotch whiskey hardened him, made him think and say things he never would have otherwise. But Peter didn't know that.
The boy shuffled his feet uncertainly, put-off for the tenth-year in a row. The entire span of his life, he had never experienced a real holiday. He heard them talked about - at school, at the shops, but Arthur hardly even did anything to acknowledge their passing. Yes, he got a few presents on Christmas, a basket full of candy and games on Easter…but the love wasn't there. It was not through affection his father did those things, but through obligation. Through habit, even. It was a miracle Peter even knew about Thanksgiving at all.
"Well," he began. "It's just that you said, last month, we would –"
"I say a lot of things, Peter," Arthur cut him off, reaching again for that tempting and oh-so-beloved bottle. "It's about time you learned that I don't keep my word all the time…no one in this fucked up world does…" I am teaching the boy a lesson, Arthur's impaired mind was convinced…a lesson he will thank me for later.
"But you said – " Oh Jesus, there was that whining, petulant tone again. Like a caterwauling baby.
"What!" he snapped angrily as he turned to face his son, scotch sloshing from his overfull glass onto his sleeve as it jostled in his hand. "What could you possibly need that I haven't given you?" Toys, books, clothes, an education, food, and a bed to sleep in – what more did one need?
Peter walked around to block his view the fire. Damn it , get out of the way! "…I wanted to spend time with you, Dad."
Arthur finished off another helping of alcohol. "Here's a thought…," what he was saying was barely discernable through his slurring, but it could be heard by one listening carefully enough. "…maybe I don't want to spend time with you."
Peter's mouth tightened into a hard line, possibly holding back ten-year-old tears. His eyes narrowed and his fists were clenched at his sides. A line had been crossed, and this time Peter was old enough to realize what those pent-up feelings inside of him meant, and they manifested themselves in the form of a single phrase. "I hate you!"
Peter's eyes were wide, probably shocked at the very notion such a sentence would come flying out of his mouth, and so easily and with such vehemence. The boy straightened, looking his father in his blood-shot eyes, becoming more comfortable with the heavy abhorrence-laden words. "I…I hate you," he said again, without the passion of the first utterance; this one was a test – to see if he could do it again.
"Good," Arthur returned his attention to the fire, seeing past and through the piss-and-vinegar-filled boy that stood in front of him. The words barely touched him – they were only that…vocalizations of the animosity his youngest now held for him. Peter had probably been cultivating these feelings for a very long duration, only to just now realize the full potency of it. This was not the first time this had happened – years ago, a similar thing had occurred between him and Alfred. History was repeating itself.
Later, when he was sober, Arthur would feel bad…maybe. But for now, the scotch formed a protective barrier around his heart and a shield of pure ignorance around his mind.
Peter continued, his newly rebellious nature gathering steam. "I'm…I'm going to run away!" He was shouting now, face pink with fury and feet spread apart in a stance that emanated stubbornness. "Because you're a bastard!"
"Who the Hell taught you language like that?" Arthur was almost bemused by the boy's display of frustration. He'll never run away…words, words, words.
"Why do you care?" Peter cried angrily, accusingly. "You never care about anything I do!" Then he turned and ran out of the room, feet thumping on the floor as he flew up the stairs. Even from where the older gentleman sat, the sound of Peter's bedroom door slamming violently was still audible.
Arthur paused for a second, then downed what scotch remained in his glass. He reached once more for the bottle, the last dregs of its precious contents still remaining. Best I hurt him sooner than later…I do it to everyone eventually…God damn I am a bastard…
OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO
Eight days previously, Upstate New York
Demyan hated coming here. Never mind the breathtaking landscape, the idyllic forests that wore their November coats of reds, yellows, and oranges, or the quaint little cottages tucked away in the trees, or the big stately manors where the upper-echelons of America resided…what this place was for Demyan was fear. Riding the train up would have been horrible even if it hadn't been an entire day late…damn trains…feel like I'm a sardine trapped in a tin can…but unfortunately for the Russian-American, snow had once again put a kink in the much-utilized transportation system. Just like it did Joise…
Aw, Hell. Josie. I'm willing to bet she's pissed as anything…the way he'd stormed outta there? Man, what a day…he could just picture her now, face all scrunched-up in that antagonized way, arms crossed, just waiting in that hotel room for him to come back, hankering to give him an earful of "what a rotten boyfriend he turned out to be." ...if I still have an ear, when I get back…if I get back at all…
He was waiting at the station, just a tiny wooden, stage-lookin' thing, really. Demyan looked at the sky, the road, his shoes…anything to keep his mind off the inevitable encounter he was scheduled for later that day. He heard the car long before he saw it. Over the rise it came, a junker no more fit to be a car than a donkey was to be a horse. Demyan could almost feel it, his doom looming ever closer with every foot the vehicle advanced towards him. The car came to a stop. Demyan opened the passenger door, and climbed in.
"You're fuckin' late," he grouched irritably at Alexei, one of the guys he considered a pal, but not exactly a close friend. "I called you forty-fuckin'-five minutes ago."
Alexei shrugged, his weasely little features lookin' as smug as ever. "So, what, now you's short a nickel? Relax, Printsessa Dyoma. You're already a day late. 'Ya think forty-five minutes is really gonna matter?"
Demyan didn't answer – just kept his hands busy with the task of clutching his knees so he didn't clock Alexei right-then-and-there. Maybe I should 'a just came unannounced…he'd called from the city's train station too, to give warning of his arrival in advance. "He" didn't like getting surprise visitors. Never mind, callin' beforehand was a good idea…and besides, they were already speeding much too quickly for an old car going down a dirt road, so it probably wouldn't be a bright idea to knock the driver in question unconscious. Demyan may not have been extremely bright, but he wasn't some idiot that acted purely on instinct and impulse.
Alexei looked over at the hulking man. "Ya doin' okay? You's don't look so good." The smaller man was testing for weakness, not really concerned for the well-being of his comrade. Demyan glared at him. Weakness was not a good thing when it came to Demyan's line of work.
"This God damned, sorry excuse for a car is makin' me sick – fix the fuckin' suspension, will you?"
"Not my call," Alexei explained. "Borrowed this car to so I could pick ya' up - wouldn't let me take a Cadillac."
The rest of the ride passed in tense silence, Demyan trying to disguise his fear as bravado, and failing miserably. As they drew closer to the Family headquarters, his level of anxiety doubled with each passing minute. Demyan wasn't exactly a high-ranking member in the organization – he was easily disposable. And even though the headquarters was supposed to be like a refuge for those of his kind, he felt like he was walking into a hungry lion's den wearing a steak on his head.
"Alright, get outta the car," Alexei said, stopping in front of an ornate pair of wrought-iron gates. Demyan hesitated. "Come on, ya' dumb fuck," the smaller man prodded. "I gotta return this heap of a car before three.
Ignore that prick…Demyan got out of the car, slamming its door as hard as he could – which was pretty damn hard.
"Asshole!" Alexei yelled out of the window as he drove away. "What if ya' dented it?"
"Then I hope they break your greasy little head and snap your legs in a half!" Demyan shouted back, shaking his head in disgust. He walked through the open gates, dread accumulating in his stomach and weighing there, like a lead ball that would hopefully keep him from going any further. The manor wasn't unpleasant to look at, no. With its stone exterior, tall skinny windows, and sloping roof it looked like a tribute to one of them French-things. What is it Josie calls 'em…chateaus? But it wasn't what was outside of the mansion that was the problem – it was what lay in its depths.
He approached the front door, knocking three times. Maybe…maybe they won't answer the door? But his hopes proved futile, as his knocks were soon answered. The door swung open, revealing a guy probably a few years younger than Demyan – a new recruit by the looks of him; most likely stuck on headquarters defense duty. The kid looked haggard and scared shitless.
"Demyan Demidov," he supplied shortly.
"You here to speak to the Pakhan?"
"No. I'm here for…someone else."
The other guy nodded in grim understanding as he pointed up the stairs. "Then you're late - go on up."
Jesus Christ, does EVREYONE know I'm late? Demyan walked over the threshold, shivering in the cold interior of the house. He trudged up the marble covered stairs, regretting each and every step he took with every fiber of his being. He had never thought this day would come – and the notion of bringing up that horrible occurrence…Demyan shook his head. Stay focused…he supposed he should be lucky he wasn't already dead. I was just in the wrong place, at the wrong time…and too righteous for my own good…
He was there. A door, made of something that looked like oak and a brass doorknob, stood before him like the gates of Hell. Doing his best not to shake – I am a man, God dammit, a full grown man! I can do this – as he raised his hand to knock. All it took was once – one time for his knuckles to hit the wood, before he was summoned.
"Come in."
Demyan turned the knob, his palm slipping and sliding against the metal as they were covered in a thin film of nerve-induced sweat. He entered the study, closing the door behind him and cutting off the bright light from the hallway. The shades were half-way drawn, a slice of illumination filtering through the dark curtains, but doing little to cut away the inky black that filled the rest of the room. It was like a band of unnatural hope, suffocating in a sea of misery; preyed upon by the darkness. And on the window sill, a single, half-alive-looking sunflower wilted in a crystal vase. It was a completely random thing, out of place in this kind of atmosphere. But every single time Demyan had entered the room, it had been there. Whether it was constantly being replaced or was the same one he had no way of knowing. It was just always there, in all its perverse and oddly-intimidating glory.
"Demyan," the voice practically cooed, much too high-pitched and childish to belong to its owner. "What brings you here? I thought you were still in the city with your lady-friend, yes?"
He almost completely lost his composure as the voice wrapped it's tendrils around his ears, filling his brain and infecting his tentative nerve. "I was, but I..."
"Yes?" the voice said expectantly – but that expectation was not to be mistaken for patience; no, just the opposite. That was something Demyan had learned by both example and by experience. Shit, shit, shit! Hold it together.
"I know where she is!' Demyan finally got the courage to blurt out. There…now he knows…but what will he do to me? Now that Demyan had delivered this news, what would his fate be? Would it be his long promised price?
Silence permeated the room, no response of any kind was audible or visible from the shadowy image of a desk and a figure, both tucked away in the dim corner of the study. And that silence made Demyan more nervous than anything. Maybe he didn't hear me.
"I know –" he began again.
"I head what you said," the voice interrupted. "You promised me a long time ago you would fix what you did wrong, yes?"
"Yes," Demyan answered, anxiously to have the story told. "See, my girlfriend is engaged to this guy –"
"When I want details, I will ask for them," the voice said chidingly, like a mother scolding a child. Almost cheerfully. "You will go and get her."
Demyan was partially relieved – it seemed he was going to live to see another day after all. "You mean a kidnapping? I could have her back here by –"
"Not yet."
What? He has me on the lookout for this dame for years and then he tells me to wait? Demyan felt a question forming on his tongue, and it slipped between his lips before he could stop it.
"Why? Why wait when we know where she is?" This elicited soft laughter from across the room, laughter that sounded cheerful but nevertheless still managed to raise all the hairs on the back of the hulking man's neck.
"Demyan…," there was the sound of a chair sliding across a rug as "He" stood up and began taking leisurely steps, until "He" was standing just inside the shelter that the darkness offered before being exposed by the light shining through the window. "…who is your source?"
"My…my girlfriend."
"Listen to me carefully – I want you to go scope this out. See if it is indeed her, and then report back to me…yes?"
Demyan swallowed, that leaden ball in his gut not getting any lighter. In fact, with the deliverance of these latest instructions, it may as well have gotten heavier.
"…I will."
"Good choice. Go, now." Demyan did as told immediately, turning to depart, then waltzing across the room with a quickness he hoped was perceived as haste to complete his new mission. But just as he was about to open the door, his name was called again.
"Oh, and Demyan…"
Oh Christ, what now? He reluctantly turned, anticipating a loaded gun pointed at his head…or worse…
"He" stepped into the light, his towering figure and generally pleasant-looking features being thrown into relief. That is, his features would have been pleasant, ruggedly-handsome even, if it weren't for the scar. It started way up in his ash-blonde hairline, cutting diagonally across one now-milky-looking-and-blinded eye, marring the very edge of his nose, and from there twisting one corner of his mouth down into a permanent frown and ending at his chin. His other eye was still bright, the other corner of his mouth still able to turn up in a gentle smile.
Demyan just about shit himself, as humiliating as that would have been. "He" spoke.
"If you mess this up for me a second time," "He" had his hands clasped in front of him, like a well-behaved schoolboy. "…I promise you that you will not live to commit a third. I am understood, yes?"
Demyan almost choked on his tongue trying to formulate a response. "Y-yes, Gospodin Ivan… Gospodin Ivan Braginski, sir!"
"Good!" Ivan said happily, as if congratulating Demyan on some type of commendable accomplishment. "Now…you may go."
And Demyan left. In fact, he ran. He ran all the way to the train station, regardless of the distance. But now, instead of heading to some other destination in New York, he would be heading to Virginia. But first, he needed to pay a visit to Josie and get more details.
(A/N) Sorry for the delay! I am alive. Life was busy last weekend (pumpkin carving, homework, cousins, blargh) and then this week was filled with school and stuff. 14,000 + words! Wow, biggest chapter yet! Just something I realized - do you realize that if every single person who read this story over the past month (October!) had reviewed, I'd have over 1,000 of them? CRA~ZAY! D: Let me just say, thanks so far for all the feedback/faves and stuff :) stuff like that is what keeps me motivated.
IVAN IS HERE. We're going to examine why he is the way he is…in a flashback chapter! DUN DUN DUN DUNNNN…also, what happened between Mattie and Arthur and Alfred :) Possibly a Tiesa explanation, too, but I'm not sure yet. That's probably what the next chapter's going to be, just a heads up! And Tiesa…is that turkey made of lead? Seriously, woman… :I
The NFL was in it's infancy in 1925; and as you know, TV didn't exist back then (OH GODZ) so that's why Alfred listens to the game on the radio ^_^ I've always thought of Liet as having this iron will…he/she's just a really nice person :) BUT DON'T YOU TRY TO BULLSHIT HER/HIM, NUH-UH. And to be fair, Feliks doesn't wear girl clothes all the time, so why should fem!Feliks wear boy clothes all the time? Don't hate Ivan…he is the way he is for a reason…have you noticed that Tiesa doesn't really like getting touched? There's a reason for that, too (look up hapnophobia). Don't kill me for Joseph. He doesn't make another appearance, I swear. I just needed someone to be fem!Feliks's date ;A; Dyoma = Russian nickname for Demyan…man, they really like nicknames…pretty cool :) Printsessa = princess Gospodin = mister
So I'm just gonna let fem!Feliks keep the first/last name. I can see him/her being really stubborn about it, too…too many people have changed their surnames :C In WWI + WWII, the German families in America changed their names (shame that they would feel the need to do so). My own family shortened our last name in the sixties, during the Cold War (it sounded very Russian…but it's Polish. Go figure). Oh well. Now we sound like we're Muslim or something C: haha, how's THAT for irony? Not that there's anything wrong with that, I've just gotten some odd looks before during roll call ~_~ All I'm saying is that I think it's a shame that we live in a society where people feel pressured to ignore their cultural heritage because of a couple 'a jackasses…okay mini-rant over. I love Fall…have you ever seen a twenty-five pound turkey/smashed your thumb with one? It's gigantic/hurts like a mother. We have to get one every year to feed my family and relatives on Thanksgiving.
~ V.o.t.s. :3
P.S. While writing this, I was listening to "Zombie" by the Cranberries and "Free Bird" by Lynrd Skynyrd over and over and over…it doesn't really have anything to do with the story, but if you want to listen to some kick-$$ songs… :D
Go to the following internet address to give you an idea of what Tiesa's necklace looks like – but if you wanna stick with your mental image, that's fine by me!
.com/imgres?q=amber+pendant&hl=en&gbv=2&biw=1366&bih=642&tbm=isch&tbnid=ybd6nOqS94ivMM:&imgrefurl=.&docid=fQU4jZOAHu7J5M&imgurl=.com/USERIMAGES/AMBER%&w=480&h=480&ei=XG-_TraOGuP10gHOgry2BA&zoom=1&iact=hc&vpx=655&vpy=205&dur=842&hovh=225&hovw=225&tx=123&ty=146&sig=101451181218790578069&page=5&tbnh=120&tbnw=111&start=92&ndsp=28&ved=1t:429,r:14,s:92
