Chapter 6 – Ziva's Day
Ziva David took a deep breath and let it out quickly. She blinked a few times, psyching herself up, and reached out to ring the doorbell.
"Don't be such a wimp, Ziva," she told herself. "You've faced men with machine guns pointed at your head. You've been taken hostage, nearly killed many times. This is just an elderly woman who is probably as weak as a kitten."
But she thought about the horror stories.
She thought about how Tony had been accused of being… what was that word again? A juggler? That made no sense… why was that so bad? It was an admirable, if somewhat useless skill.
Tim, she had accused of being an alcoholic. Well, Ziva had never seen him drink to excess, so she had no idea where that idea had gotten itself into Mrs. Mallard's head. She truly hoped that Gibbs' junior agent hadn't reacted to his day with Ducky's mother by uncharacteristically numbing himself to the experience with liquor, and earning the label honestly.
Abby had come back with a story of how Ducky's mother had nearly had a stroke at the first sight of her. Ziva smiled at this, seeing how that might have been – given Abby's rather unconventional choice of wardrobe and makeup - but at the same time, thinking to herself that in spite of her outward Gloomy Goth appearance, Abby could hardly bring herself to harm a fly, let alone a helpless old woman – and Mrs. Mallard was not just any helpless old woman, to boot.
Ziva herself was trained in the art of psychological torture. But still… she had a sick feeling, deep down, that she was about to meet her match, and not come out the winner.
"I'm doing this for Ducky… Damnit, Jimmy, why do you have to be too sweet to say no to. You owe me at least a dozen piano tunings after this – no, make that TWO dozen piano tunings."
All of these thoughts had raced through Ziva's mind in a matter of a few seconds, just enough time to straighten her clothing - a conservative blouse, after Abby's horror story of how Mrs. Mallard apparently had rather strict ideas of how a lady should dress – basic black slacks, and sensible shoes.
She'd even worn rather conservative "knickers," just in case. Tony had taken a bit too much delight in telling her of Mrs. Mallard's comments to Kate a couple of years ago. "One can always tell a lady's intentions by her panties," he had said to her, with an odd, creaky high pitched tone.
"You've got to be joking," she had replied, in dismay. McGee had merely smiled at her with a sweetly evil grin, that Ziva hadn't known up until that point that Tim was even capable of. "Nope," he'd simply said.
Ziva was abruptly brought back to the present when the door swung open.
"Who are you?" Vanessa Mallard demanded.
"Ziva David, Mrs. Mallard. I'm here to keep you company today." She tried to smile, but then realized that it would most likely appear forced.
"Dah-VEED? What sort of name is that, Girl? Well, speak up!"
Ziva cleared her throat and swallowed nervously. "It's… from overseas, Ma'am. I'm Jewish."
"I hope you can make a decent cup of tea, Miss David," the elderly woman said, as she turned around and shuffled back into the house.
"I think I can manage that," Ziva said to herself, shrugging.
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"So, young lady, how long have you worked with my son at… where is it he works again?"
Ziva sat across the dining room table from Mrs. Mallard, sipping her tea. "NCIS, Mrs. Mallard. We work at NCIS." she said, watching the elderly woman carefully. They'd had an uneasy time of it ever since Mrs. Mallard had casually mentioned that she carried a knife in her brassiere… and Ziva had, perhaps unwisely, responded that she carried one on her ankle. The look of shock and alarm on Mrs. Mallard's face was enough to make her remain quiet for quite some time, but Ziva knew that the silence wouldn't last. Sooner or later, they would have to communicate.
She glanced up at the clock. Good – it was almost time to start dinner. That would at least give her a chance at some solitude in the kitchen.
Ziva was brought back to reality when Mrs. Mallard cleared her throat, rather conspicuously.
"I've been with the team for less than a year, Ma'am. After Kate Todd died."
"Caitlin died? What happened? My word… she was such a lovely young woman, too. But she wouldn't show me her knickers. One can always tell a lady's intentions by her panties, you know."
Ziva hid her dismay – she'd thought Tony had been joking about that… but in retrospect, McGee hadn't shared "that look" with him when he'd said that – the look that indicated that "the boys" had just shared a little macho joke that the girls wouldn't know quite how to take. In fact, McGee had simply smiled that smile that he used when wordlessly agreeing with one of his fellow males, and raised an eyebrow in amused understanding. Funny, it had seemed a more diabolical smile, at the time.
"Well, Mrs. Mallard… Kate died in the line of duty. I'm sorry – I thought you knew."
In all honesty, Ziva realized that Mrs. Mallard had probably been told shortly after it had happened. But the old woman barely remembered what had happened an hour ago – let alone a year ago.
"Well, no matter. What's done is done. What is for supper… Ziva, you said your name was? What kind of name is that, anyway? You certainly aren't from around here."
Ziva sighed. She had told Mrs. Mallard several times already that she wasn't from America. She glanced up at the clock again. What a predicament… on the one hand, she could waste time in the kitchen like nobody's business… on the other hand, if dinner were too early, it would be cold by the time Ducky arrived home from the Navy Yard.
How long could she really take, within reason, to chop a few vegetables, and pound some chicken breasts?
Well, she'd just have to chance it.
"Mrs. Mallard, would you like to return to your chair in the parlour? I really need to start dinner… I mean, supper, very soon, and I'm sure you would like to have a rest before our meal."
"Are we having baked ham?" Mrs. Mallard asked. Ziva winced. She'd told her at least a dozen times now that she was Jewish.
The Mossad officer arose from her chair, setting her empty cup in the sink. "No, Ma'am. We are not having baked ham. I'm not telling you what we're having. It's a surprise." Ziva winked and smiled, and much to her shock, Vanessa Mallard smiled back, with a mysterious twinkle in her eyes. "I love surprises," she said. "And my grandson tells me that you are a wonderful cook. So do Anthony and Timothy, for that matter. They did rather carry on about it." Ziva smiled warmly, a genuine light shining in her dark eyes. "Really?" she asked. Mrs. Mallard nodded, as she placed her hands on the table to help boost herself out of her seat.
"Indeed, Miss. David. Oh, my, that rhymes. Yes, Abigail raved about it too. I must say, I'm rather looking forward to it."
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While Ziva chopped vegetables, and prepared chicken for the dish she had planned, she thought about the preceding afternoon, and why it was that she had been so desperate to seek solitude in the kitchen.
The afternoon with Ducky's mother had not gone… well, if any word could be used to describe it, "swimmingly" was not that word.
She had made enough slips with her already shaky grasp of American slang, that Mrs. Mallard was now convinced that she was not only a terrorist assassin – a misconception unfortunately given credibility by Ziva's rather unwise and impulsive remark that she carried a knife on her ankle – but an illiterate foreigner, to boot.
Normally this wouldn't have mattered. Sometimes McGee corrected her, with a small friendly, almost brotherly smile of understanding, and sometimes Tony had the honour. Neither man ever patronized her when she made her little malapropisms. Mrs. Mallard, however, was not so forgiving as Ziva's gentlemen colleagues.
"I am, evidently, only allowed one good day per week. Today is clearly not my day. Tomorrow is probably not looking very promising either," Ziva muttered to herself. She gasped and swore to herself as the knife slipped, and she sliced into her thumb with one of Ducky's razor-sharp chef knives.
"Well, I suppose that was to be expected," she said to herself, not without a hint of self-pity. She stuck her thumb in her mouth instinctively, wincing at the pain that was making her thumb throb painfully, out of all proportion to the actual injury, just as Mrs. Mallard decided to return to the kitchen.
"Not only is that immature, it is highly unsanitary," she said, with a huffy air. Ziva said nothing, not quite trusting herself, removed her thumb from her mouth, and went over to the sink.
Ziva had just had enough. It was the straw that broke the horse's back… Or was that, straight from the camel's mouth… Oh, Hell, who really cared anyway? The point was - enough was enough.
Ziva's head swayed in defiance, and she sighed heavily. "Mrs. Mallard," she said, in her breathy voice of frustration. "I am not an assassin. If I were, I would certainly have found a more legitimate target than an elderly Englishwoman. I assure you, you pose no danger to me. I am not a terrorist, nor am I illiterate. I speak five languages, I'll have you know, and so you will have to forgive me at times if I confuse some of the more obscure Americanisms." She had let loose with her rant in such a display of frustrated passion that Mrs. Mallard had simply stood, staring at her, mouth agape. Then, her weakened old eyes had lit up somewhat, with regard.
"I've always admired a woman with goolies," she said, smiling with triumph.
"A woman with… WHAT?" Ziva gave her a look of pure confusion and near-defeat. She was nearly ready to throw in the towel… it was the "towel," wasn't it? She was hardly sure of her own name anymore. Well – win, lose, or draw, towel it would be for now.
"No worries, my dear girl," Mrs. Mallard had said, shuffling over to the Israeli woman, and grasping her hand. "You need only understand, that you have… what is the word you Jewish would use…? Ah, yes. Chutzpah."
"Chutzpah!" she had repeated, with a burst of cathartic giggle. "Oh, my… Mrs. Mallard," she had said, laughing now, nearly uncontrollably. "Yes, I believe that is the word I might use."
Mrs. Mallard nodded, satisfied. "I will be in the parlour," she informed. "Donald shall be home soon. I look forward to your meal. I only hope it lives up to my grandson's pot roast. Timothy's roast duck was rather delicious, as well. His mashed potatoes didn't have enough butter, but otherwise, it was a very good meal…"
Ziva sighed and smiled. Clearly, Ducky came by his propensity for digression honestly…
Well, she could only hope that she would be using enough butter in the chicken Kiev. God help them all if she didn't.