Chapter Ten – A Refuge

She only finds the note because it crinkles under her slipper when she steps on it.

Sleeping on your couch. L.

She ties her bathrobe more snugly around herself, and goes out.

He is, as advertised, sleeping on the couch – curled on his side, the back of one hand pressed to his snout, a knuckle clamped between his teeth.

She stands there, watching him, and he comes awake with a soft intake of breath. His eyes slit open to regard her with a steady focus it usually takes her ten minutes and a cup of coffee to achieve.

She holds up the note, written on a sheet torn from her own kitchen pad. "Thanks for the warning."

His knuckle slides from his mouth, a thin string of saliva snapping back from it. "Thanks for the couch," he mumbles thickly.

"No problem." She folds the note, slips it into the pocket of her robe, and regards him with the loving sternness of a surrogate mother. "Am I feeding you breakfast too?"

"No." A thin whisper. His gaze has fallen away from her, to rest dully on the carpet.

She leaves him alone.


When she comes out of the kitchen, newly fortified with caffeine and toast, he's sleeping again.

He doesn't wake as she shuffles back and forth, getting ready for the day. He doesn't wake when she tucks a note of her own into the cross of his sword-sheaths, where they're propped against the couch.

Where he's sure to find it.

In the shop. Help yourself to anything. A.


Late in the morning, she sells a piece of antique jewelry to a very sweet young woman, and listens in satisfaction to the ring of the bell as the happy customer goes out through the front door.

Then she feels a light step on the floorboard, a ghost of a touch on her shoulder, and the door to the stock room closes softly behind her.

"Whattaya want a little room like that for?" the architect had asked, when she had insisted on adding it to the plans for the reconstruction of Second Time Around.

"For refrigeration," she'd said, pointing to a duct she had drawn on the blueprints. "See, the cooling unit goes here."

The architect had rubbed his head. "Cooling unit? That's gonna cost an extra –"

"Never mind," she'd interrupted. "I'm getting it through another company."

Of course, there had been no cooling unit. After the last coat of paint had been slapped on by the professionals, and all of the contractors had packed up and gone away, Donatello and Raphael had done a quick construction job to put a sturdy metal door over the "vent" - really a recreation of the escape route that had saved their lives when the store burned down. April had bought a padlock for the little door, to prevent anyone from sneaking in that way, and the key to it was hidden in the room Leo now occupied, the room that had, in fact, become something of a storage space.

"April," he whispers, from the crack of the door. "Do you have that book with the stories in it?"

She passes it to his outstretched hand. "So," she says. "Finally curious what people are saying?"

"Not really," he says, even as she hears the leather creak and the heavy pages flip. "But it would be very strange if the reporter asked me about it, and I hadn't read them."

"Ah," she says. "So it's purely for academic interest."

He hums softly, a kind of verbal nod.

"You don't believe there's anything to it, though?" she asks.

"No."

She pulls a rag from beneath the counter, wipes a film of dust from an old music box on a nearby shelf. "Why?" she says. "If you don't mind my asking. I mean, I always thought you were… spiritual, in that way."

A quiet flip of pages.

"Can I tell you a story?" he asks.

"Sure." She moves out from behind the counter, inspects the glass cases, wipes away a smudgy fingerprint.

He's silent for a moment. "If anyone comes in," he says, "pretend I'm the stockboy."

She doesn't reply to that. He knows she'll go along with it, knows she won't give him away.

"This is a story the Ancient One told me," he begins, "one time when it had been snowing for three days. It's… interesting to think about."

She hears the soft slide of leather on wood, as he puts the book on a shelf, and then he begins.

"Once upon a time, in Edo," he says, "there was a greedy lord and a clever peasant.

"One day the peasant went to his lord, bowed low, and spoke respectfully.

"'My lord,' he said, 'I would like to ask you a great favor.'

"The lord was not much given to granting favors, but it was his duty at least to listen. 'Yes,' he said, 'what is it?'

"'My lord,' the peasant said, 'I am entertaining guests this evening. But I have no pot with which to brew tea for them. May I borrow yours?'

"The lord thought about this. He was a jealous man, and did not like to share his possessions – especially with people he did not trust to return them.

"The peasant sensed his master's hesitancy. 'Please, my lord,' he said, without looking up from the floor. 'It will be very shameful if I cannot serve my guests tea. I promise I will return your pot tomorrow.'

"The lord could not easily refuse such a simple request, not without making the other peasants in his domain grumble about what a cruel and unfair master he was. He knew he would have to agree. But as he was dreading putting his valuable porcelain teapot in the hands of a clumsy peasant, he remembered that he had an old clay pot, one he never used.

"The lord called for one of his servants to bring him this old pot, and he gave it to the peasant. The peasant bowed low, thanked his master profusely, and left.

"The next morning the peasant returned, grinning broadly. 'Good news, my lord!' he said.

"'What is it?' the lord asked suspiciously, for he did not expect much from an uneducated peasant.

"The peasant presented the teapot - clean and undamaged - with a flourish. Then he also produced a little clay teacup. 'Congratulations, your Lordship!' he said. 'Your teapot has given birth!'

"'That is nonsense!' the lord said, even as he snatched pot and cup from the peasant. 'Teapots do not give birth!'

"'Begging your pardon, my lord,' the peasant said, bowing low, 'but your teapot was pregnant and last night it gave birth. Its child, the teacup, is rightfully yours. Being an honest man, I have brought both pot and cup to you.'

"The lord thought this was very strange, but secretly he was pleased. It was in his nature to love any increase to his own wealth, even if it was only a little clay teacup. 'Very well,' he said, and dismissed the peasant back to his work.

"Several days later, the peasant again called on his lord. 'My lord,' he said, bowing low and speaking respectfully, 'I must ask you another favor.'

"'Yes?' the lord said. 'What is it?' He was still suspicious, but he remembered how granting favors to this peasant had worked to his profit before, so he listened with interest.

"'My daughter is coming to visit me from far away,' the peasant said, 'and she is bringing her children. I am afraid I do not have quite enough chopstick rests to set the table properly for them all. May I please borrow one of yours?'

"The lord thought about this momentarily. Then he called for one of his servants to bring him a bone chopstick rest – not an extremely valuable thing, but fine enough to set on a table for a special occasion. This he gave to the peasant.

"'Bring it back to me when your daughter leaves,' he said. 'And also bring me any children it might have,' he thought to himself, but he did not say that for fear of sounding like a fool.

"'Yes, my lord!' the peasant said. And he bowed low and left his master's presence.

"At the end of the week, the peasant returned, bearing the bone chopstick rest and two beautiful chopsticks, also of bone. 'Good news again, my lord!' he said, with a wide smile. 'Your chopstick rest was also pregnant, and it had twins!'

"The lord snatched chopsticks and chopstick rest, and inspected them closely. The chopstick rest was undamaged, the chopsticks well-made, and the further increase to his wealth delighted him so much that he almost forgot that chopstick rests do not give birth.

"Instead of protesting the strange event, the lord praised the peasant for his honest behavior, and eagerly asked him whether he might like to borrow something else. 'A candle-holder?' the lord suggested. 'A robe?'

"But the peasant only shook his head. 'No, my lord,' he said. 'Thank you, but I need none of these things.'

"The lord was disappointed. 'Well,' he said, 'if you should think of anything...'

"'Actually, my lord...' the peasant said slowly. 'There is one thing I would like to borrow.'

"'Name it!' the lord declared.

"'I am going to visit my son soon,' the peasant said. 'I am happy to go, but the way is dangerous and I would feel better if I had a weapon at my side. Might I borrow your sword, sir?'

"The lord hesitated. His sword was well-crafted and very expensive. But, lending the teapot and the chopstick rest had brought him good fortune, so...

"'Take it!' he said, lifting the weapon from the wall with his own hands, and giving it to the peasant. 'With my good wishes!'

"The lord waited anxiously all week, for the return of the peasant and the sword. But when the peasant finally appeared, it was with downcast expression.

"'Why, what is wrong!' the lord exclaimed. 'Where is my sword? Did it not give birth to a dagger?'

"The peasant shook his head sadly. 'Bad news, my lord,' he said. 'While returning from my son's house, I was attacked in the road. I got away safely, but your sword was killed in battle.'

"'What!' the lord roared. 'That is nonsense! Swords cannot die!'

"'Begging your pardon, my lord,' the peasant said, bowing obsequiously, 'but if you believe that teapots and chopstick rests can give birth, then you must also believe that swords can die.'"

Silence in the shop. April had become so entranced in the story, that she had almost forgotten to watch for customers. Her rag is a lifeless heap under her hand, and she can't remember whether or not she already wiped this cabinet.

"What does it mean?" she asks.

"What do you think it means?" Leo returns.

She moves again, wiping the cabinet in case she hasn't yet, then cleaning the next, straightening some out-of-print books an elderly gentleman had been leafing through earlier, noting that her display of fancy hats is due for a new arrangement.

"Four things," she says, and this time he makes a small noise of invitation. Go ahead. "First, don't believe everything you hear. Second, learn to take the bad luck with the good. Third, don't be greedy, and fourth," she pauses in her work, so she'll be able to hear his reaction, "never trust a peasant."

He laughs. "Very good."

She returns to the counter and puts the rag back in its place. "But what does it mean to you?"

"It means…" He sighs. "It means that as long as I don't believe my carvings are responsible for the good things that have happened to your customers, I also don't have to believe they're responsible for the bad things that have happened to my family."

"Oh, Leo…" she says softly.

Maybe he hears her, maybe he doesn't. Either way, his next remark is decidedly different in tone.

"Are you hungry?" he asks. "I could make some lunch."

"Oh," she says again. "Leo, no offense, but I've heard stories about your lack of skill in the kitchen."

The door to the stock room swings open, and he smiles at her as he slips along the wall towards the back staircase, the guestbook tucked under his arm. "I assure you they are greatly exaggerated."

Then he's gone.


When she gets upstairs, twenty minutes later, the kitchen is still in one piece. On the table is a pair of tuna sandwiches – hardly a demonstration of great cooking talent, but a perfectly good lunch nonetheless.

"I hope you like tuna," he says over his shoulder, as he stirs something on the stove. "I mean, I assume you do, since it was in your cabinet…"

"Tuna is fine," she says. "What's in the pot?"

"Rice."

"Rice?" she sniffs. "It smells strange."

"Don't worry; it's supposed to."

"Leo…"

"No, really." He turns and holds the spoon out to her, inviting her to taste. "If you put some seasonings in the water as it boils, it infuses the rice. It's very good."

She looks at the proffered utensil suspiciously. "What did you use?"

"Rosemary and tarragon." He watches her expression. "It's good, I promise. I got this from Mike."

She tastes carefully. It is good. She nods and hums appreciatively.

Then she turns back to the table, to the other thing there that had caught her attention: a foot-tall wooden dragon. "That wasn't there this morning, was it?"

"Hm?" He glances back at her. "Oh, no. I left it in the basement when I came in."

"Good," she says. "I thought I was losing my mind." She pulls out a chair and sits, and a moment later he joins her.

"This is amazing," she says, referring more to the dragon than to the sandwich. "How did you do the…" She trails off. His gaze is elsewhere, as if he's trying to avoid her words. "Leo? What's wrong?"

He lowers his sandwich, resting it against the plate. "April, can I ask you a question?"

"Sure," she says.

He looks up, watching her sideways. "When you told me… that people change, and I should learn to love them as they are now." His gaze flicks to the sandwich, as if the answers to all his problems are somewhere in the shredded tuna. "What if I can't? What if I don't like the people they've become?" He lowers his head and his voice. "What if they don't like who I've become?"

"Oh, Leo." For a moment she can't give any more answer than that, and she simply takes stock of the moment. The sandwich in her hands, the smell of warm spices in the air. The sun on the other side of the drawn shades. The narrow table and yawning gulf of experience that separate her from this giant turtle she's come to call friend.

Then she starts again. "Leo," she says, "you and your brothers love each other more than any siblings I've ever met. I don't think not liking each other is your problem."

He frowns. "But -"

"No, hear me out." She puts her sandwich down, reaches for a napkin, wipes her fingers. "I think the problem is that you have to live together."

He pushes his plate away slowly, trying to figure out where she's going.

"You're at that age where people start to think about moving out of the house," she says. "About having a relationship with their families where they still love each other, and still enjoy spending time together, but where they don't have to put up with each other's annoying habits 24/7."

He opens his mouth to protest, but she cuts him off. "Don't tell me there's nothing you dislike about them. I know it's not true, you know it's not true, and it would be a little creepy if it were true."

He shuts his mouth again, and just listens.

"Correct me if I'm wrong," she says gently, "but I think the problem is that you're in this for the long haul, and the situation is not quite good enough to imagine spending your whole life this way."

He lowers his gaze. "I can't do this forever," he says softly. "With Raph... I think he hates me..."

"Raph does not hate you."

"You haven't heard what he's been saying to me."

"You didn't hear what he said while you were away."

Leo raises his eyes again, searching her face, trying to decide how to interpret this.

"You know," she says, "it took me a long time to understand him."

He watches her curiously.

"For a long time after I met you guys," she says, "I thought he was going to kill you all."

Leo recoils in shock. "April! He would never -"

"No, listen," she says. "Do you know those people who keep wild animals? Tigers, or bears...? And they think the animal is tame, that it would never hurt them?"

His face clouds over, and he nods tersely.

"And then," she says, "one day the animal eats the owner's face, and if the owner is still alive, they lay there wondering how that happened. And, sorry for the analogy, but I thought Raph was like one of those animals."

He watches her stonily, waiting to hear how the metaphor ends.

"You would tease him," she says, "all of you, and I could tell it was good-natured, but I could also see that it made him angry... and, I'm sorry, but I kept having these visions of a slightly stupid zookeeper poking a bear. He can do that, because the bear likes him, but he's not going to get away with it forever. One day, that bear is going to snap."

"It's not like that," Leo says tightly.

"I know," she says. "I know, Leo. I understood, eventually, that you could get away with it forever. Because he loves you. Enough to let you hurt him very badly, and still want you in his life."

"I don't want to hurt him," Leo says, and there's something desperate in his voice. "I never want to. I know that I - I suffocate him, and I wish he had a place to go where it wasn't like that, but... you're right, there's not..."

She lays her hand on his forearm, where it rests on the table. "He wouldn't go, even if he could. Do you know that, Leo? Do you know how lost he is, when you're not around?"

He watches her with infinite sadness.

"He'll never admit it," she says, "but it's true. He needs you. And - Leo, stop - that's not a bad thing."

He wipes his eyes with his free hand. "Why do we do this, April?" he asks. "Why is it so hard just to be honest with each other?"

"I don't know, Leo. That's something you have to work out with him." She pats his arm again, and withdraws her hand. "Listen, I have to go back to work. Will you be okay?"

He nods, then reaches out to push the dragon across the table to her. "Here. For you. For the store. I don't know. Just get rid of it."

She picks it up. It's surprisingly heavy for such a graceful figure. "Okay," she says. "I won't be long. I'll close up early and come back for the interview."

He nods again, absently, and she turns to go. But in the kitchen doorway, she pauses and turns back.

"Hey, Leo?" she ventures. "Can I ask you a question?"

He raises his head, but doesn't look at her. "What is it?"

She resettles the dragon in her arms. "All these different animals... Why haven't you made a turtle yet?"

He laughs hollowly, his face towards the shaded window. "April... I've spent my whole life making a turtle. If I ever finish, I'll let you know."


At ten to three she locks the front door of the shop, turns the sign to CLOSED, and heads back up the stairs to her apartment.

Leo is sitting on the couch, a knee drawn to his shoulder, the guestbook open in his lap. He glances up when she comes in.

"Before I forget," she says, and opens the front closet to retrieve a small paper bag. "These are for you." She hands him the bag, and opens her fist to offer him a folded scrap of paper.

He takes the paper first. "What's this?" he asks, though she suspects he already knows.

"Your tab," she replies, and he nods, slipping the paper into his belt without looking at it.

Then he takes the bag, and unrolls the top. He peers in, and she waits for his verdict on the assortment of incense she selected. "Mm." He rerolls the bag carefully. "Thank you." He sets the bag by his foot, closes the book in his lap, and glances apprehensively at the phone. "Is it time?"

"Near enough," she says, and settles in the other chair. "Are you ready?"

Something shifts in his jaw, his shoulders, and she has the fleeting sense that in his mind he is facing an enemy army. She has seen this change come over him before, in the brief seconds before he drew his swords and plunged into battle.

But he only relaxes again - fractionally - and nods. "I'm ready."

"You'll do fine," she says. "It's only a conversation."

He doesn't seem convinced, but it's too late to back out now.

She smiles reassuringly.

Picks up the phone.

And dials.


Notes

I'd like to take credit for the story Leo tells in this chapter, but it isn't really mine. It's a somewhat-modified retelling of the short children's story "Shrewd Todie and Lyzer the Miser", by Isaac Bashevis Singer. Regrettably, I have not been able to find the text of this story online.