Silhouettes, Chapter 2
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-XXX-
On Thursday I arrive at the grocer's at 8 a.m. sharp. Marge, the checker, gives me a curious glance as I slip inside. I've cashed the check and the pound bills are folded neatly in my wallet. Wandering the florescent-lit aisles with the squeaking cart, I realize that Holly has given me little instruction as to what, precisely, he eats. So, I resolve to buy a load of generic, easy-to-cook things. Not that I believe this to be typical of all males, but he is alone and distracted – microwave dinners and frozen pizzas might not go amiss.
Some bread, a few sandwich things, some eggs, bacon, a few fruits and vegetables, potatoes, cereal, milk, canned soup, a few bags of pasta, a few tins of sauce, cheese….I bought enough food to last a single man two weeks (though, looking at Benjamin Holly, it might be more like a month, the fellow is a stick). Marge eyes me suspiciously as I cue up for the check out. I am clearly not buying for myself and my father, and it's exceedingly rare that customers ask us to shop for them. My head high, I make the purchase.
"You're not buying for your father, are you Viola-dearie?" she asks, tapping thick pink acrylic nails against the register keys.
"No, uh, a tenant."
"Oh?" She pauses. I can see her practically inhaling the scent of gossip. My family's business has long been one of the only sources of news and interest in the county. Our customers are often speculated upon, teased, even, by locals. Marge is, I know, one of the biggest gatherers of such tidbits.
I turn my attention to the display of bubblegum perched just to the left of the check-out counter as she continues to swipe my goods.
"You don't typically shop for any of them," she remarks, poking for more information.
"No, we usually don't," I agree.
"Who is it? Someone new? Most all of them I know, nowadays. 'Specially the regulars, like the Murphys. Have you heard of poor Mrs. Murphy's ankle? Bless her, broken them out on the cliffs, she did…."
"Yes, a real pity." I've moved on to the magazines. "Did you read last's week's edition?" I nod to the graying copies of The Post sitting in the stand. "About Susan McLarney?"
"Yes, yes, poor dear. I mean, it's quite dramatic, you know, to think them murder could be living among us. I mean, who would've have wanted to kill the girl? A tourist! It's a shame."
"Yeah."
Marge is not deterred. "So, who would these be for?"
"Oh, someone new," I say vaguely.
She thinks for a moment, pausing from typing in the code on a bag of apples, her plastic fingernails midair. "Wouldn't be that Mr. Hollaway, would it?"
"Holly," I correct.
"Ah." Eyes alight, she asks, casually, "It is for him, iddinit? He never comes in here. I dare say, he never comes into town at all. If I didn't know, I'd say he goes all the way cross the county to Elaine's shop, but she's not seen any Holly. Very mysterious. No one knows a thing about him, and he's not particularly friendly. Why, you know Witmore, from Leeds? Staying in your Northernmost cabin? He went walking the other day, came across the fellow, and all friendly-like tried to ask him a few thing about himself. Well, Holly straight-away told him he wasn't here to make acquaintances, and then went on to tell Witmore that if he didn't use a walking stick and wear those braces Mrs. Witmore bought him, that he'd soon be in for a knee replacement. 'Oy,' Witmore says, completely aghast. 'You my doctor?' 'No, sir,' says Holly, all smary. 'But anyone with an eye could see that your knees are about to give way. Years of climbing and racing, I'm sure, but do take your wife's advice.' Poor Witmore was furious. Came in here, thrashing all about."
"Has that been the only time anyone has seen him?"
"Mmmm? Oh, no, Carberry saw him 'round the cemetery last week, the little one behind the church. He was just walking. She offered him a tour of the church – one of the only things she can do, nowadays, poor old lark. But he kindly told her no, and went about his way, but not before asking a few questions about the cemetery. Well, she didn't know much, but she told him the age and what not, bit of history. Aside from that, I don't think anyone has seen him, at least not much. He's a funny man, it seems. And very tall."
"Yes," I say. "Is this any good?" I nod to a brand of gum.
"Oh, it's a little stale." She clicks in another code. "Well, that will be 46.29."
I count out the bills. Marge hands me the receipt.
"You tell that man that he's got no reason to be shy 'round us," she advises.
"Some people come to be alone, you know," I tell her. "I think he just wants to be alone. Secluded. Nothing wrong with that."
She sniffs. "Well, it couldn't hurt for him to know. We won't bite."
"Thanks." I take up the bags. "Have a good day, Marge."
-XXX-
"I didn't sign up for this," I tell him as I fill the crisper. From the desk – which, I note, was originally house in the upstairs bedroom but has been now reinstated down in the parlor, causing me to wonder how he single-handedly brought it down those narrow stairs – Holly doesn't even bother to glance up.
"You didn't 'sign up' for anything, Ms. Carters. But it was kind of you to take it upon yourself to unpack my groceries," he allows.
"You said as soon as I walked in that if I didn't they'd be left to rot because you're too distracted to be bothered with it!"
"Yes, well," he murmurs, smirking slightly. "As I said. Exceedingly kind."
I roll my eyes heavily, pulling out a carton of eggs from the bottom of the bag. To my surprise, a carton already sits in the bottom right of the fridge. Suspicious, O check the date. "Expired." Unsurprised, I make to throw them away.
"Don't," Holly warns from behind his laptop.
"Why?" I demand. "They're bad, they will make you sick!"
"I need them," he says simply.
Eyes narrowed, I open the carton. "I don't know what's so special about a few expired –"
And I nearly drop the Styrofoam box with a loud squeal. I close it quickly, shoving it back into the refrigerator. For a few seconds I catch my breath and allow my heart to return to its normal pace. Once moderately recovered, I ask, "Eyes?"
Holly grunts.
"What…for?"
"Experiment," he says, as thought it were the most natural thing in the world, to keep eyeballs in your ice box
"They're not…human?"
"No, Sus scrofa domestica," he informs me shortly.
I blink. "Come again?"
He sighs heavily. "Pigs."
"Oh." Then, "Ew!"
Holly waves his hand carelessly. "Back to the left, if you please. And be careful not to drop or overturn them. It was not easy to procure them."
"Yeah, I'm sure it was no picnic pulling out those piggies' eyeballs," I murmur under my breath. He ignores me.
Once I've finished with the groceries, I stand aimlessly in the kitchen. My host takes no notice. After a few moments, I spot a teal kettle sitting beside the sink. Struck with an idea, I cross to the desk.
"Would you care for a cuppa?" I ask. He spares me a brief glance.
"I certainly wouldn't mind one."
My lips twist. "Good. Because I'm dying for a spot of tea. You're a terrible host for not offering."
"It's not exclusive to you," he assures me dully, turning back to the blue-white screen of his computer. "I never offer anyone tea. Though, on occasion, I might ask the housekeeper to bring up a tray."
"I am unsurprised by this, and I regret to inform you that our rental services do not include housekeeping or any kind of maid service," I reply lightly. "You hardly seem like the 'tea-time' type, Mr. Holly."
"I rarely enjoy someone enough to wish their presence for the duration of a tea."
"You flatterer."
He snorts. From the kitchen, I smile.
After filling the kettle, I scour the cabinets for mugs. I find a mismatched pair – one patterned with pink and blue flowers, the other a cool, slightly chipped green. I dig a white pot out from the pantry and fill the small silver straining ball I found among the forks and spoons in a cluttered drawer. Then I set about arranging a few biscuits on one of the china cake plates. Most of these dishes - and there is a scant number – are old. Second-hand, surely. Holly isn't old enough to be the original owner of dishes as aged as these. They're mismatched, too, as though they were all bought at different times and places, like flea markets and garage sales.
The kettle screams, and I hasten to fill the tea pot. Within a few minutes, I have the mugs balanced with the biscuits between my two hands. Steadily as possible, I set everything down upon the desk, jostling Holly slightly from his work. A quick trip back to kitchen, and I return with a carton of cream and the sugar bowl. I pull up one of the nearby armchairs, swinging it around to face the desk. A flash of irritation muddles Holly's brow. But it subsides, and he settles.
In silence, we sip. I stare out the window. Holly watches his computer screen with a furrowed brow. It's not an unsettling quite between us. On the contrary, it is companionable. I enjoy the clear ability to think – there is no need to create senseless babble or questions or feign interest in another's senseless babble. It's one thing I could definitely appreciate about Holly.
I clean up the tea things sometime later, then return to hover beside him. "I'm going to go…shall I leave the receipts? "
"No."
"Okay. Well, is there anything else you need?"
He pauses from scrolling down a page. "Laundry."
I frown. "Excuse me?"
"I've run out of socks and pants."
"So wash them."
There is a beat. Aghast, I gape. "You don't know how? You're a probably-thirty-something-year-old and you can't even wash your own socks?"
"My landlady used to do it for me," he states simply, without shame.
"Oh, I'd love to see the psychology behind that relationship." I snort. "I am not your landlady."
"You asked if there was anything I needed," he reminds me. "It's been a month, I've run out of towels."
"You've not done laundry since you've been here?" I am incredulous. "For nearly a month and you've yet to clean any of your clothes?"
He grunts, turning back to his computer screen. "I've been occupied."
"Oh, yes, I can see. Playing violin and otherwise causing a mess. How do you manage to live on your own?"
Mr. Holly doesn't answer. He continues fiddling with his plants. After a few minutes of silence, during which I stand with hands on my hips, I finally speak.
"You're really asking me to do this. You barely know me, and you'll let me wash your knickers?!"
"The housekeeper hasn't been 'round," he says mildly.
"Because we haven't got at housekeeper!" I shout. "It's not a part of our services. Neither is laundry!"
Holly just looks at me. After several second being under that bright gaze, I roll my eyes. I have no doubt that if I don't help him he'll turn to wearing bed sheets and bath towels.
"I will show you how to use the washer and dryer set. But that's it."
-XXX-
Naturally, I end up doing all of it myself – washing, drying, and folding. I even hang the delicates, like the nicer trousers and shirts. They'll need to be ironed later, but there is not way I am reaching ultimate housekeeper status by doing that.
I sit on the loveseat, folding socks and shirts, quietly contemplating my future. Once I've finished the pile, I carry the stack of freshly folded laundry to the stairs. About halfway up, I hear Mr. Holly shift and speak.
"You can call me Ben." The voice is muffled.
"Come again," I call, poking my head 'round the corner to hear down the stairs.
His throat is cleared, and he says again, "You can call me Ben."
I pause. Slowly, I move down the narrow stairs to take a seat. "Oh."
His brows rise. "Oh?"
"Well, yes, then. Ben. I suppose you ought to call me Viola."
"I rather like Carters."
I chuck a washcloth at him. Holly ducks, smirking.
-XXX-
I choose Ben after our dear Benny, and Arthur after the esteemed author, and Holly is thought to be a translation of the name Holmes.
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