This fanfiction was a bit of a dedication to the members of MTC's production of "Arsenic and Old Lace", as well as the house members who sat and deciphered all the lovely sexual innuendos. I don't even know what genre this was supposed to end up as, but I can guarantee that it will be pretty much all of them in the end. Good Lord. Have mercy, this will likely be the worst, most unrefined, inappropriate thing I've ever written. ~Cat.
Rating: T+, I think. For swearing, blood, and implied sex.
The late morning was fresh, with a slight bite of autumn on the breeze. A bird sang in the tree outside Teddy Brewster's window, and the man in question threw open the pane and blew his bugle in an angry blast in the bird's general direction. The sound carried across the windy, weathered cemetery, all the way to the episcopal parsonage. The bird fell from the tree with a panicked screech, and a drunk in the street roused from a whiskey-induced sleep. "Whuh the he-ell..." The window shut with a perfunctory slam.
Downstairs, the sisters bustled about the enlarged dining room table, lifting a perfectly white, airy tablecloth over the polished surface. A hunter green table runner was set over the snowy layer, and a set of plates and silverware were pushed into straight perfection in eight places. There was a vase of fresh lilies on the table, a painful reminder of the season that was threatening to pass at any moment. The setting was finished at eleven o'clock in the morning, and the dinner was to take place at half past two. [Overachievers, aren't we? Guess the Brewster sisters have nothing to do but clean, perform works of charity, and plot their tenants' demise...]
"Now, remember, Abby," Martha said, stirring a pot of stew, "No word or thought of what we discussed last night." Her sister nodded and replied simply with a finger to her lips. They continued in silence for an hour or so, a dark air of shady plots hanging in the air. Delicious smells wafted through the small space. Cooking was the Brewster sisters' speciality, especially soups and oddly-named desserts.
The two had just sat down for a rest while their strawberry-banana-inside-out-cakething baked in the oven. The doorbell rang. Abby sprang up in a burst of youthful exuberance and peeped out the small slit in the curtains near the door. "Oh, Martha, it's darling Mortimer," she said happily, unlocking the door and throwing it open for her other nephew. "Hello, Mortimer, dear. A pleasure to see you as always!"
There was a hail of embraces as Martha and Abby greeted the disgruntled journalist. Mortimer Brewster was a journalist for the large local newspaper. He had just been transferred to the Reviews department, specifically that pertaining to the theater. He was an intellectual man of otherwise plain appearance, wearing suits on a daily basis, his blonde hair combed to the side. He was a gentleman, if there ever was one. "Good to see you as well, Aunts," he said quietly. His briefcase was placed on the windowseat in a haphazard manner. Mortimer was at home, for now.
"So, dear, what brings to our pastoral little piece of Brooklyn this afternoon?" Martha asked, sitting in an armchair across from the young man. "Normally on a Saturday afternoon you'd be working, wouldn't you? No rest for those who work?" Abby clattered in with a tray of tea, and offered to her nephew. He accepted, gladly, and sipped on the tea.
The cup made a slight clink as it was set down on the end table next to the telephone. "They gave me the day off. I was suppose to go to the Noble this evening, but it burned down three days ago. Guess that means I'm off the hook." He smiled, satisfied with the luckiness of the situation. [I bet you burned it down, you FIEND.] It was true Mortimer hated the theater in many respects, if not all of them. It was a big deal to be free from the binds of his career for an extra half a day.
"Oh, what a pleasant surprise! For you and us," Abby murmured, taking a generous drink of her own tea. "Perhaps you can stay for dinner? The Reverend Dr. Harper and his lovely daughter are gracing us with their presence at our table this evening..."
Mortimer raised an eyebrow as he crossed and uncrossed his ankles. "He has a daughter? Wouldn't that menace have sent his daughter away to a convent by now?" Another fact on this fellow was perhaps that he loathed all organized religions and their leaders, and refused to confrm to any of them, specifically ones that required a positive outlook on life, a pure mouth and mind, as well as the imposing idea of chastity. [But somehow, you flirt and use Bible verses in the process. What is WRONG with you?]
Martha and Abby chuckled. "Yes. He considered sending her away at the age of sixteen, but it turns that precious child is quite bullheaded when it comes down to it," replied the taller sister, smirking at her nephew's smarting wit. "Elaine has quite a lot of sway over people if she desires it. Those green eyes of hers have broken many a heart amongst her father's young male parishoners."
Mortimer shivered. "Hm. Sounds like an interesting person, I suppose." He contented himself by thinking about what sort of person would turn out from being raised in the community of a parsonage. Probably good at sewing, outwardly silent. Typically wearing a habit.
"She bears quite an interest in the theater, much to her father's dismay," Abby added, staring up at the ceiling. "Perhaps you can regale her with some news of the shows this evening, as our talk typically bores the poor young woman to tears." She scrunched her shoulders and sighed.
Martha cocked her head. "I believe the cake is done, Abby. Let's leave Mortimer to his thoughts, shall we?" They nodded and left him with a pat on the head. He offered a small smile to them and leaned his head on the slope of the sofa's backing. He was quite the tired one these days, what with adapting to a new post that demanded hours that went far later into the night than writing for documentation of legal trials. Slowly, his eyes lolled and shut, the sunlight prickling vainly against the nerves in his lids.
Two hours passed, and the two sisters tried to give their nephew a slight afternoon of peace. In a vain attempt to let the last days of summer in, Abby silently cracked the window nearest the door. A gentle whisper of the breeze rolled in, laced with the scent of late-summer flowers. The world of Brooklyn was at peace. [For now...]
The doorbell rang, forty-five minutes ahead of schedule. Mortimer crashed off the couch and onto the rug, surprised. "AL?! I told you, I'm not... going in tonight..." He sat up, absentmindedly brushing his blonde hair back to the right side. He stretched as he stood, straightening his tie. They were here, he realized, yawning. Martha opened the door, and a young woman stepped in, followed by a taller man. The sun, right where the door faced, created an uncomfortably bright patch of light right behind the visitors.
"Good afternoon, Reverend, Elaine," Martha said cordially, inclining her head politely as the two stepped in. "My sister's in the kitchen finishing the supper. We didn't expect you so early. Perhaps my nephew Mortimer can keep you entertained." She turned her head in Mortimer's direction, smiling. The young man took the hand that was shielding his eyes and held it out for Elaine to shake. He nearly jumped to find her grip was fairly tight for such a small person. [This grip will prove useful in later situations... Muahaha.]
"Hello, Mortimer. I'm Elaine Harper," she said. Her voice was beautifully light, but also persuasive in an unexplicable manner. She was small, nearly two heads shorter than himself, with long blonde-red hair, and the strangest eyes. She appeared very young, but there was something, something... Mature about her.
Her father broke in. "Ahh, Mortimer Brewster. I'm Reverend Harper." Mortimer wasn't paying much attention as he grasped the Reverend's hand, instead looking at Elaine as she walked to the window and looked out at the street. She mentioned something about a lovely view of the cemetery, and then time began to blur. His mind, in some sort of fit, began to fast forward, straight through getting to know the Reverend and his daughter, the supper, and straight through to dessert. [Sounds like a bad Adam Sandler film.]
Mortimer looked up from his plate as his aunts carried the dishes away into the kitchen. He cleared his throat. "Aunts, I'm going out for a breath of air in the backyard. I'll skip dessert, I think," he called, pulling his obviously-used napkin from his lap and making his escape through a hall straight behind his seat. Abby made a surprised face at his retreating back.
"Erm... Miss Brewster?" Elaine chimed in to Abby. "I believe I'm going to head into the back for a while as well..." She was much more tactful and swift in her escape, moving subtlely and quickly. Her father's glance toward the kitchen was one of sheer bewilderment. Looks like his daughter was at it again. [I believe 'at it' is a stark understatement...]
In the garden, Mortimer strode along the fence, nearly fifty feet away from the back door. The old Brewster home had one of the largest backyards in the state to its name, with a creaking yew tree and numerous flowerbeds lining its landscape. The young journalist let his hand clatter against each post, the dull sound breaking through his confusion. "I wonder what happened... Why did everything..." He bit his tongue. He had woken up, the doorbell ringing, and then... He willed it to be a panic attack.
"What happened," echoed Elaine to herself across the yard. She ran her fingers over the velvety petals of late-summer marigolds. The leaves rustled, prickly and stained with earth. She herself had felt time go extremely slowly, perhaps almost to the point of her fainting. The innocent young woman wondered if it had to do with the atmosphere, or the smell of the food. Perhaps she had felt out of place. Her eyes travelled upward on a track towards Mortimer. Or perhaps it was Mortimer, with his casual, unassuming secularness. He was everything she had never been allowed.
The man across the garden had slowly rotated his head, painstakingly staring over at Elaine. She was lovely, beautiful, perhaps, but she was the one thing that he could never have or take for himself. Her father would probably shove a stake through him first, or fling holy water in his eyes. The critic was mostlikely better off alone. And then, much to his great excitement (though he refused to admit it to himself), the woman herself was walking, or more like gliding, toward him. A marigold was tucked behind her ear, a similar color to that of her hair.
"This time of year is wonderful, isn't it?"
Mortimer nearly threw up the dinner he hadn't actually tasted. "Yes you- I mean, yes, it is." He chuckled as his ears flushed. Elaine laughed too, striding beside him. He was bashful in the face of no woman, typically. But now he felt the ground disappear under his feet, as though he were floating around on the twilit lawn.
"Your aunts keep a lovely house, Mortimer," she said then, her voice the choir of angels to his dispair. "I find myself much at peace here, though time has stopped around me." Elaine smiled, showing a mouth of straight, white teeth. It was rather quirky, the way her eyebrow elevated itself in a questioning way every time she showed a bit of happiness.
The journalist found himself snorting at her former comment. "I felt as though time was rushing past me today, like I had no place to be sitting and waiting..." They came to the base of the wide yew, and Mortimer ran his fingers over the aged bark.
"Perhaps we can help each other with our own time," Elaine murmured, dropping unceremoniously to her knees to sit in the soft grass amongst the roots of the tree. "Your time moves quickly, mine slowly... It only makes sense, silly." She patted the ground beside her, as though inviting the fellow to sit beside her on a cushioned seat back in the house.
Mortimer blushed furiously, turning his chin to look up at the branches above. She was so forward. Perhaps this is what his aunts had warned him about... And yet, somehow it did seem right. Every girl he'd tried to woo had proven much too difficult. And now, it appeared that the perfect girl had just crawled into his lap. [Bow-chicka-wow-wow...]
Her hand slowly tip-toed its way up to his. She began exploring the roughed surface as a child might its father's hand, tracing light, lingering lines over the palm, pressing just slightly on each of the fingers. Mortimer sighed and looked down at her. She looked up at him. Both let out a slight grunt, facing away, embarrassed. And then, just when he thought she had grown afraid, Elaine laced her small, feminine hand through Mortimer's calloused one.
"I, uh..."
"Let's just sit here like this for awhile. I think the clock's falling back into place."
The sun set over the next house by the fence, bathing the entire neighborhood in an amber glow. The two, eyes closed and bodies relaxed into natural positions against the yew tree, were petrified in a statuesque picture. Time seemed to be a tangible thing, just in the distance, and yet, a nonexistent notion from the past. [AWW.]
Afternotes: This ended up way longer than I'd planned, and it didn't feel right when I split it up. Well, splah, there we have it. The meeting of Elaine and Mortimer... *melts* Eheh.
What comes next is highly unexpected.