Author's note: I know that some people were offended by the last chapter, and for that I'm sorry. I hope that I haven't caused anyone to stop reading. If anyone would like an explanation of my thinking and my process, just email me, and I'd be happy to send you one (though it may be fairly convoluted). With that said, on with the story, and thank you for reading. Oh, and the title, in case you've been wondering, is an allusion to Shakepeare's play "Titus Andronicus."
"No, I'm sorry, I really can't come in on, Captain, you know how many sick and vacation days I've got stacked up....No, I know that Elliot's not coming in, either....No, the rumors are true...Yeah, me too...Thanks for understanding. I'll keep in touch."
Olivia replaced the receiver in it's cradle as though it were full of lead. She noted the heavy click with satisfaction. Her reflection caught in her hallway mirror; her bruise was coming along nicely.
Maureen was asleep again, finally, curled up under too many blankets in Olivia's bed. When Olivia had turned the clock away from her, the red numbers where glowing 5:00 am in a little pool on the night table, spilling over onto a three-quarter empty bottle of sleeping pills and and a glass of water with perfect, sweaty fingerprints. Maureen's eyes were racing frantically behind her eyelids. Her eyelashes were gummy and clumped together.
They'd sat together in the kitchen for close to an hour, not saying much, sipping mugs of very sweet tea that Olivia had made. The bottoms of the mugs were thick and sticky with honey, Maureen had tilted her head back and stuck her tongue out, letting the honey trickle down her throat. She'd giggled, and stopped abruptly.
Olivia went to her hallway closet, dragged out an extra blanket from somewhere, and brought it and the pillow she'd snagged from her bed over to the couch, which was only really slightly less long than she was tall. She settled herself on her side, with her legs curled. They'd probably be cramped by morning, and the springs in the couch were not what they once had been.
She lay for a long time staring at the wall. Her eyelids were as heavy as grand pianos, but they wouldn't close. Out the window, through the blinds, she could see that the sun was starting to rise, casting cloyingly sweet pastel colours on the clouds.
Her sweatshirt caught on something climbing through the window and onto the fire escape. The metal was cold on her bare feet. She ran her fingers lightly over her upper arms, tickling the goose bumps and the hairs standing on end. Vigorous rubbing did little to warm her up; she wished absently for a sweater, but didn't move. Her eyes felt warm and gummy, and contrasted sharply with the crispness of the breeze on her skin.
Elliot sat in a dark room. He could hear his kids yelling and fighting downstairs, though at a lower volume that was their usual practice. They probably hadn't wondered why he wasn't eating dinner with them,
He wondered if he'd broken her jaw. His recollection was so clear, so sharp that it cut. Someone knocked on the door, probably Kathy. Two or three polite raps were followed by a brief silence in which Elliot hoped that whoever was there would go away. The doorknob jiggled, but the door was locked and didn't open, and he didn't turn around. The square of light at his feet vacillated as the transparent curtains in the window he was facing blew in the wind. He held his hands out, and examined the bruises on his knuckles. He flexed them, and grimaced. He flexed them again, pushing past the stiffness and into not enough pain.
He was almost certain that he'd broken her jaw.
"Oh, God," he whispered, and then once more, louder.
He thought that he might vomit, as he had done earlier, kneeling on the bathroom floor, gripping the toilet and emptying his guts in a foul-tasting acidic stream. He'd brushed his teeth, and spit blood, the remnants of vomit, and minty fresh foam into the sink.
Now, sitting in the dark, he lead forward with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.
When Maureen got up, she noticed the tangled blanket on the sofa and the pillow on the floor beside it. The straggling fog from the pills was cleared by the breeze from the open window. When she walked over to close it she saw Olivia, standing on the fire escape. Through the window, Maureen saw that her host had her forearms resting on the railing of the fire escape, and her head tilted up into the air. One ankle was crossed over the other, the sole of one foot was pointing up. Maureen thought that she looked cold, and wrapped her own blanket more securely around her body, gripping the fabric tightly and curling her fingers around and inward to seal herself in against the cold air.
She stood still for a long time, twitching her toes as light crept grimly across the floor. Finally, she sighed, and shook herself. She padded over the kitchen, and found milk in the fridge. Several deep gulps finished the carton. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and slipped the blanket off her shoulders. After folding it neatly, she placed it carefully over the back of a kitchen chair.
The door of the fridge pulled open again with a pop. Among its meager contents were the makings of a rudimentary omelet: eggs, butter, milk, onions, mushrooms, cheese. They made a percarious bundle in her arms. She slid them out onto the counter. A frying pan sitting on top of the stove was quickly wiped out and placed onto the stove, which was already heating up. Butter sizzled and slid around, and cracked when chopped and beaten ingredients were poured on top of it. It was ready in a couple minutes, still slightly wet, and Maureen awkwardly maneuvered it onto plates from the dish rack. A short exploration produced two forks, and glasses into which she poured slightly suspect orange juice.
A plate in each hand, she padded out of the kitchen.
In the bedroom, the clock radio turned itself on, slowly leaking the morning's slurry of inanity and violence into the apartment.
To Maureen it was just background buzzing which disappeared as she reached the window, and got herself through by taking oddly high steps and holding the two plates far out from her body, wedging the forks in a crook of her right thumb, and leaving the glasses of orange juice balanced just so on the window sill.
Olivia didn't turn around untill Maureen cleared her throat and put one of the plates down to tap her gently on the shoulder. The younger women extended a plate of quickly cooling omelette, which Olivia accepted with a smile which hurt her jaw. Maureen handed her a fork, then spun around to grab the juice. The women settled down, side by side, just touching, their backs against the cold and rough building, and ate their breakfast in silence. The sun trudged on, and the day got brighter, but no warmer.
Maureen shivered, and they went inside.