Roast
XxX
Three sharp knocks.
Don't leave me.
Insistent – tapping out a tattoo. They might as well be gunfire, explosive in his loft, reverberating through his body.
His first thought, born from panic, is the first thing that's made sense all day: Don't leave me.
Edward's heart rattles, immediately startled. Who could it be? For a fleeting second he imagines her taken away from him.
Yesterday and Tomorrow start at opposite ends of his body, from toes to head. They pin-ball and bounce in his bones, banging and clanging; spiriting him forward, pushing him into the Present until all doubt gives way in one stuttering breath with her name on it.
"Bella."
Three sharp knocks.
Bella's eyes shift from the door to Edward, desperate to know her time's not over yet. Her urgency is frenzied as if she's pushing from door to door to door – bypassing her father, her ex, and her loneliness, until she comes to Edward's door, opens it and finds this cracked-open man sitting in front of her.
There is no time. She needs to know. "Do you still want me to go?"
"No." He's quick with it, and leaves her no room to question. He gets up, and in a roughened voice, as if he's just awakened, he tells her what she needs to hear. "Don't leave. I…we need to talk."
It matters, he knows. But she matters most of all.
She nods, relieved, and he turns to answer the door.
XxX
Annoyed, Edward throws the door open to find his smiling neighbor.
"Hello, I'm Arthur. 2B."
Arthur puts out a gnarled paw, twisted up around the knuckles. It's attached to a 6'5" old oak with a toothy grin and candid eyes.
Edward shakes his hand and cranes his neck past Arthur, searching for more interruptions.
The foyer is drafty and empty.
Arthur studies the young man who's been coming and going for months with nary a smile for his neighbors who live right above him. A worn-in smirk adorns Arthurs face.
Edward points to the house number on his front door. "Edward. 1A. Nice to meet you, Arthur," he clears his throat, reining himself in. "What can I do for you?"
The edge around Edward's eyes would warn off any other fool, but Arthur has faced tougher men and Edward's brusque manner falls flat.
Not to mention, there's a young lady in here who looked a bit hungry to him earlier. He's sure.
"The news people were saying that we have a few more hours of this yet. So I'd thought I'd go around and check on everyone."
"Oh, we're fine," says Edward, glad that this is what the knocking is about. "Thanks." He starts to close his door.
Arthur's body moves slightly, wedging him between the door and foyer. Other than Bella Swan, he hasn't truly conversed with anyone in days.
"I think it'll let up," continues Arthur. The weather is the typical start to a story for him, not hello. "They never know what they're talking about, the weather guys. I came down from Shirley Cope's place in 2C. She's elderly you know, and she thought the same thing."
"I'm sorry, Arthur, but what did you – "
"Hi, Arthur." Bella's voice pops out from beneath Edward's arm, which is leaning on his open door. She gives Arthur a sweet smile.
"Bella Swan, young lady, how are you?"
"You know each other?" asks Edward, glancing at each of them, feeling left out.
Again.
"We met in the foyer." It is then that it dawns on Edward: he never knew where she went off to.
"You never left?" His eyes search her bright ones.
"No, um, the walk was…there was snow and –" before she trips on awkwardness, she changes the subject and addresses Arthur. "Did you get your exercise, Arthur?"
Edward is convinced that Arthur's face is attached to Bella's mood because there's an intensity about it, like he's trying to figure something out.
"I did and more. Listen, you two, I have a pot roast that's been going all morning. I know you wanted to get out a bit, but before you go outside, I thought maybe you'd like to come up and join me for lunch. It's Dorothy's recipe, which means that it's enough to feed an army. What do you say?"
Poised to decline, Edward's taken aback when Bella pipes up.
"We'd love some, Arthur. I'm starving," she says, relieved for food. Confessing is big work.
"Hold on, now."
She casually pats Edward on the belly with all the normalcy of a woman caretaking for her man. "Sure you can eat."
She's desperate to get them out of this loft, where the walls are still shouting. "Besides, there's no food here, and it wouldn't hurt us for to get out."
He can't disagree. Her stomach is talking to them loudly, and she didn't eat breakfast. He tries not to think about the morning and how he made her leave. He tries harder not to think about the reasons why he had to let her go. Instead, he recalls the yellow yolk bleeding on her plate and the cutting details that don't make up the whole of her.
What else does he not know?
Although it's the last thing he wants to do, the walls around him are stifling, and Arthur seems like a nice enough guy.
He hopes he won't regret this. "Okay," he turns to his well-meaning neighbor, "we'll be glad to join you."
"It's settled then." Arthur rubs his hands in anticipation, glad they worked it out. "You don't mind coming up in, say, five minutes? The roast will be out by then."
They agree and send him on his way with an extra hop in his step.
Edward's reclining against the wall in the same break-up pose from this morning, arms crossed, regarding her. It's been one hell of a day and he doesn't know if he's coming or going.
Every time she's come through his door, he's noticed something different about her.
Gone is the choked-up woman from yesterday's first snow, the teasing girl from the afternoon, and the siren from last night. She's dressed for comfort, in a long-sleeved Henley and pants. She's dressed to stay.
She's dressed to stay.
Her hair has come loose and it drapes her shoulders, the natural part in the center frames her face so it's the only thing he sees. Her eyes, clear, are a shade of brown unknown to him. Her heart-shaped face, wide at the cheeks, is bare.
She looks like a young and frazzled flower on strong, even limbs.
And she's determined not to let this be a repeat. She puts her hands on his arms and asks his chest. "Are we okay?"
He is the sudden reflection between smiling and screaming. "Okay" is a good word, he thinks. Simple, implying nothing but a short truce. And time.
"You're really not married?"
"I'm really, really not married."
"You could have told me."
"Would it have mattered?"
He doesn't want to relive the shame of the last few months. "I never liked being that guy, Bella. Another man's wife?"
And his hypocrisy makes her snap. She can't hold back her own whipping accusation.
"You came, every time, and met me in spite of it."
His voice is even, low. "Yeah, that's the thing of it, isn't it? I came back, every time. Breaking down, every time." He's said too much, speaking from the deep end and struggling yet with a new question. Would he have ever dared?
Suddenly, he's thankful for Arthur's offer.
She latches on to his last words, breaking down, and glimpses under the coil that has wrapped him these last few months. Slowly sorting through her memories, she views the touch of madness that has made him distant and unrecognizable – this morning's man, last night's cold stranger.
And the guilt swivels back. Did she have a hand in that?
Regardless of the unspoken hurt and fear, she wants nothing more than to stay.
"I'm sorry."
She's sorry; he thinks he's sorry, too, but for what he doesn't know yet.
He rubs a hand up and down her shoulder. It's the best reassurance he can give her until they sort things out.
He grins. "C'mon, we can talk about this later," he pushes off the wall, "or your stomach will be the next thing knocking on my door."
It's been so tense, she can't help but chuckle at his teasing. She punches him on the arm. "Hey!"
Taking her entire fist in his hand (she hits like a girl or her heart's not into it, he can't decide) he gently shoves her out the door.
Together they climb up to 2B.
XxX
Three units comprise the whole of the Victorian, although Edward never paid mind to such a thing. His life, purposely nomadic and sporadic, leaves no time for the passing of hellos from neighbor to neighbor.
He's never climbed up the carpeted, winding stairs leading to the second floor, where Shirley Cope, a retired school administrator – with the awards on her wall to prove it and children who never visit – lives.
Then there is 'Arthur 2B', who resides across the hall from her.
It is on his door that Bella knocks. Behind her, Edward allows himself to ride along. She knows she is leading and carrying on for the two of them.
"C'mon in, kids. Everything's just about ready."
Arthur's space, unlike Edward's, is filled with all things for the living: photographs exposed on walls, mantles, and side tables. Yellow/green ficus and frilly ivy leaves flower out from hanging baskets on the ceiling. Any space that can be covered is ornamented in lace, doily, crochet, or fleece. They step around a Lazy-boy and a patterned couch with foot-stools, which share space with a makeshift dining area for four.
Bella and Edward notice two things, in no particular order: it is fucking steaming hot in Arthur's place, and the smell of roasted meat wafting from the kitchen is enticingly mouthwatering.
Discreetly, they fan themselves with the collars of their shirts.
"Make yourselves at home. Come, come."
Bella is smiling into a black and white photograph perched on the fireplace mantle. Frames are lively with shots of two people clearly in love. Every pose is an action or reaction to the other.
A young woman with black hair secured at the sides with ivory combs beams up into the face of a smirking Arthur. His lips are permanently crooked at one end like he's the only one privy to the punch line of a good joke.
Bella is taken by the intensity of the woman's blue eyes. "Is this your wife? Is this Dorothy?" She swings her head around, looking for the woman in the picture.
"Probably," Arthur calls from the kitchen and walks out wiping his hands on an apron. "Let's see. Yeah, that's her."
"Is she joining us?" Edward's voice startles Bella, she did not hear him approach and her stomach dips into that teenage feeling, secretly thrilling.
"No, no. She passed away, bless her."
A double-chorus of "I'm sorry" passes through the apartment.
Arthur waves it off. "I miss her, kids. I do, but we were ready for it." His tone is reserved for one comforting guests at the door of the wake. "Cancer, you know."
Bella can't stop staring at the bluest eyes, stark and open, with streaks of silver in them. "She's beautiful."
Arthur coughs and nods his head, forgetting to breathe.
Edward takes the picture from Bella and looks closely, squinting. "Is that a Studebaker?"
"1965 Lark. Black, white-top. Best of their line. Dorothy loved it, said it looked like as shiny as my shoes." Arthur takes the picture and his teeth are as broad as piano keys under his mustache. "I'll never understand her logic, but who was I to complain. I got the car. And the girl. C'mon. Let's eat."
As they move into the dining area, Bella wonders out loud. "How did you and Dorothy meet?"
Edward wishes she would let it go, guessing this is a touchy topic for Arthur, who is obviously still in love with his wife.
But he doesn't need to worry; her question takes a quick back seat to the food.
"Holy cow."
Bella and Edward stand gawking at the feast in front of them. Their jaws drop comically and both lick their lips. 'What a pair', observes Arthur to himself with a pleased smirk.
On the center of the table, he has set out a Dutch oven brimming with tender knuckle-sized beef coated in rich gravy, dotted with green peas, finger-sized carrots, whole baby potatoes, and slivers of sliced onions. Beside it sits a basket of rolls fresh from the oven. The stick of butter next to it softened.
"Sit, sit. Eat. You two look like it's the first food you've seen in years. I always did love this recipe but it's not award-winning."
The two lovebirds awkwardly navigate the chrome dining table. She grabs a chair, and then realizes he's pulled one out for her. She accepts it shyly and he slides her in. He brushes the tops of her shoulders.
Sparkling water and Ginger Ale are set out before them. Edward offers her some water from a glass pitcher, but she points to the Ginger Ale.
They might as well have a Chianti bottle stabbed with long-stemmed white candles sit between them, thinks an amused Arthur.
He starts to hand them each a portion, but from the way they take to the rolls and butter, he backtracks and loads up their bowls even further.
There go the leftovers.
Arthur sits back and watches them tuck in like starved children, glad they're not mindful of formality. He misses his wife and, if he's honest with himself, a little companionship on a day like today.
Edward coats his potato with more gravy and butter. "Arthur, this is by far the best beef stew I've ever had. Please don't tell my mother."
Bella and Arthur laugh. "I mean it," says Edward nervously.
Arthur's eyes are shiny slits of pride. "It was Dorothy's."
Bella mouth is filled with stew when she looks at him with the same question in her eyes, chewing quickly so she can get it out.
But Arthur beats her to it. "You asked how we met." He grins at Bella's chipmunk cheek. "It's a long story, but I think we have a little time."
He waits for argument, but the kids settle in further, clearly preferring to eat rather than lead in conversation.
"I met Dorothy when she sold me bologna."
Twin bemusement stares back at him.
"Her father owned the butcher shop down by the warehouse where I took up a job. I was, I don't know, twenty-two then. Back then you could get a job so long as you were willing to work hard and had a bit of muscle. Seeing as I'd been boxing for a couple of years already, it didn't take long for me to get a job at a warehouse, moving around sacks of flour and whatnot. I'd just moved to town with nothing more than a few books and the clothes on my back. I was staying with my friend, Benny, in a one-bedroom apartment blocks away from work – icebox, sink, and a poker table. That's it. One day Benny tells me to get down to the butcher shop. I had a few coins from my first week on the job and decide we're going dine on sandwiches. I walk in, and you know the bell in every shop, right above the door?"
"Sure," says Edward, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows and pausing to hear the story. His arm touches hers. Bella tries to concentrate on the story and not his heat or his skin tickling her wrist. She reaches for more butter and Edward hands it to her with a small smile.
"Well, you would think I rang a bell ordering up the most beautiful girl in the world," speaks Arthur as one who never let the moment fade away into past.
"From the back room walked out this vision in a dress and apron. Her hair was combed behind her ears with waves and a shine. I was partial to blondes up until that day. Never met a blonde that held my attention since.
"Anyway, I stood there like a putz while she watched me sputter out my order. I think I ordered the capicola, the most expensive thing in the shop, like a real idiot. I only had fifty cents on me when she packed it up and passed my order to me. 'That's seventy-five cents,' she tells me, and I take out my quarters and dig back in my pocket like I got more in there. I don't. But it doesn't take long for her to figure out I'm flat broke.
"She probably thinks I'm just another schmuck looking for charity. I'm sweating. She's about to say something when out booms a man's voice: 'Dorothy? What's taking you so long? Get back here and help me with this order.' It's her dad, and now he's made his way to the front, sharpening his fucking sickle. Sorry, Bella, excuse my language, but I still get nightmares over that shiny knife of his. He's giving me this mean look, real sharp. I might as well fall apart in slices. I'm ready to tell them that I'll come back with the rest when my angel speaks up and tells him everything is fine. She takes my money and pushes the order to me, sending me on my way. Her dad gives me one good stink eye for the road, and I high tail it out of there.
"How's the roast?"
Bella and Edward take a moment to chew and swallow. Their bowls have straggling veggies in sauce. Arthur spoons more into their bowls.
"It's alright. I'm glad you like it." He smiles, continuing with his story. "So every day, I go to the butcher shop and order the same thing – bologna. I make sure to get my order right each time. And every day, there's a little something different about Dorothy. We don't talk much, but she gives me these wide smiles when she sees me, and sometimes, she'd add a few slices of capicola to my order.
"One day, I walk in and she's wearing this white dress with little red flowers on it (no apron, thank the good mother). I have to tell you, Edward, you'd appreciate this, but the way her thighs flared out below her belt, whew, a Coca-Cola bottle." Arthur whistles in appreciation.
Bella and Edward look at each other and laugh, falling into a dreamy languor.
"Then another day, she's got her hair down, beautiful. Another day, she's got these red lips like she's eaten a bowl of maraschinos. Another day, she's wearing heels! You get the point.
"Now, I'm thinking: 'This is it, Arthur, ask the girl out.' So, I go back to the shop, dressed up in a suit I borrowed from Benny, my hair combed back, you understand. I get to the shop and she's nowhere to be seen. I'm craning my neck to peek in the back, past the swinging doors, when I hear her sister talking to her dad. They're talking about Dorothy. Dorothy who, I find out, isn't working that day because she's on a date. A date!"
He slaps his palm on the table, worked up over a passed-away memory.
Bella and Edward take sips of their drinks, the heat creeping up into their scalps. She gulps hers down and reaches for more before she gets to the bottom of her glass. Edward has eyes for her fingers, wrapped around the sweaty glass. He wipes the back of his neck.
"Her dad met some fancy pants lawyer guy and set them up," Arthur continues on.
"They were arguing about something, Dorothy's sister and her dad, but by then I'd heard enough. I turned around to leave – a man can only take so much before he has to throw in the towel. I was pitiful and the fight hadn't even started. Here's my girl, probably getting serenaded in a rowboat by some other guy, making her laugh.
"I've taken my share of hits. See this cut right here on my chin? That one damn near took my jaw off, and my career with it. That's the kind of thing I dealt with every day – busted ribs, cracked knuckles, you name it. My point is, nothing hurt, nothing brought me down like the day I heard Dorothy was being courted by a different guy."
"What happened?" asks Bella.
Edward nudges her to quit interrupting. She sticks her tongue out at him. He pokes her in the rib.
"I'm about to head out when her sister calls me back. 'You Arthur?' she asks me. I tell her 'Yeah', and she's looking at me like we're in a hospital and she's in charge of delivering the heartbreak. I must have looked a mess. 'Dorothy knew you were coming today and she wanted me to give you this,' and she slips me my order, my usual bologna in that stiff white butcher paper. I'm thinking, 'Bologna? Well, of course, bologna, you moron, what else would she give you?'
"I take it home and stick it in the freezer with the rest of the bricks. I couldn't get through all that bologna, not even with Benny as my roommate. But after months of filling it, the freezer door wouldn't close. Packages fall out. I'm convinced – it's a sign. I don't need to be going back to that shop anymore.
"I unwrap the one from that day, ready to throw out the meat, when I see a scribble on the inside. It's a note. It's a note in Dorothy's hand, and in her pretty handwriting, she tells me: 'Don't give up. Wait for me.'"
Arthur pauses and recalls how he gave the note a dozen passes before its meaning put a determined look on his face, as well as a golden smile.
Bella sits back, belly full, sweeping her hair into a bun on her left shoulder, catching it with her slim fingers. Edward eyes her clammy neck, and suddenly, he's back at the karaoke bar wishing she'd sit closer.
The memory recharges his heart rate as if the anticipation has carried over for the last six months. And on her finger, there is no ring. Not a trace, not a tan line, or a faint indentation.
Edward's throat is as dry as the bottom end of a roll. He drinks greedily from his glass.
Arthur picks up the story. "'Wait for me', she said. And what do you think I did?"
"What?" Bella's glad to use her voice as a distraction from the heat. Now that she's full, it's uncomfortable.
"I took myself, and my borrowed suit, and went to see her father the same day. She must have been waiting for me, because when I get to the gate in front of her courtyard, she comes running out with a knockout smile. 'Finally' she says. Finally! Like I'm a mind reader – finally! Women. No offense, Bella Swan, but sometimes a guy needs a nudge, you know."
He elbows Edward in cheerful solidarity and digs in to his meal. All the young man can do is force out an awkward chuckle, lightly glaring at Bella. But that's short-lived. A drop of sauce is in her hair and Edward reaches over, clearing it with his fingers. He stares at the sauce collected at the corner of her mouth and her tongue darts out self-consciously.
She's entirely warmed over by Arthur's story, the food, the too-hot apartment, and Edward.
A lone trail of sweat trickles along her neck, and detours past her collar like a broken, dangled necklace.
He stares at that, too, and she wills him to stop acting inappropriately. She fiddles with her napkin, shifts in her seat. He grins, licks his fingers and sits back, eyeing the onions swimming in stew, smiling his own private smile.
All the tension she harbors is laced in her next statement to Arthur. "But you could have told her sooner, given her a clue," she protests.
Arthur's spoon is halfway to his mouth. He looks at her, considering. "I suppose that's true," he carefully agrees. "But if she were here, she'd tell you, it wouldn't make for a good story, now would it? Besides, Dorothy had little patience for 'woulda, shoulda, couldas'. She was a spitfire, that one."
He winks at her. He has a ghost of a smile remembering the arguments with Dorothy – every version different – over who should have done what first. He wishes she were here arguing with him now. But wishes are for people with no past, and he has enough to fill a home.
Arthur looks over his table and chuckles at the aftermath. "Looks like the stew did you both some good."
The place is sweltering and Bella needs a distraction from the moisture running down her back. "It was amazing. And I'm glad you finally got your Dorothy. I guess it doesn't matter how," she shrugs, uncommitted. "She sounds like a wonderful woman."
"That she was, that she was," he says between bites of food, having worked up his hunger.
Under the table, Edward reaches for Bella's hand. She threads her fingers through his and squeezes. He squeezes back and sets their joined hands on the table, surfacing.
A/N:
As always, my absolute gratitude to the women who ensure I don't make a total horse's ass of myself - WriteOnTime and Cesca Marie.