Chapter 68
Khan: "Remember always that the wise man walks with his head bowed, humble like the dust."
They fight. It's not just an argument; they've had a few of those before and always worked their way back into good humor. No, this is a full fight involving yelling, slammed doors and a cane-thrashed vase after Belle dashes out.
He knows as soon as the words leave his mouth he's screwed himself, but he can't hold back his anger. He doesn't want his wife on her knees scrubbing disgusting messes left by strangers, he shouts. Belle deserves better. She's too smart to waste her time cleaning up other people's messes. What he really means to say is show me you trust me to make things right again, to take care of you again. Quit this other job and then I'll see you still believe in me.But he can't bring himself to that level of vulnerability, so he shouts and hopes she'll somehow hear what he can't say.
But she takes this as an insult to her fortitude, a challenge to her resourcefulness, a denial of her responsibilities as his partner in life. Hands on her hips, she gets up in his face. "Well, listen to Mr. Hoity Toity. May I remind you, King Rumple, how we met? When you were the Dark One and I was a lady, you didn't think me too delicate to clean up your messes. In fact, you thought it was funny to have a noblewoman scrubbing your floors. And we get to this land, and what do you have me doing here? Hmmm? For thirty years I'm your maid."
"That wasn't my doing. The curse–"
She throws her hands into the air. "The curse, the curse, the curse! Well, here's another reminder: the curse didn't create itself, dearie! And while you were busy creating it, who was trailing along behind you with mop and bucket to tidy up your spills? If cleaning up after you in two worlds wasn't beneath me, then why am I too good for cleaning up after strangers?"
Caught, a deer in headlights, he apologizes. "I didn't mean it that way. I just–I'm your husband. I should be taking care of you–"
"Don't give me that chauvinist crap! I can work, I want to work, I will work! You knew from the beginning I was no china doll to be sat on your shelf. You told me that's why you bargained for me, because I was strong enough to stand beside you. Well, I'm smarter and stronger now than I was then, and being your wife has been a source of that strength, so get used to it, bub!"
"I'm not saying you can't be a librarian. That's a noble profession, worthy of you, but–"
"Oh no, do not go there!" She waves a warning finger. "You will not tell me what jobs I can or can't take. I don't do that to you; you will not do that to me. I'm your wife, your lover, your helpmeet, and you will honor me, whatever jobs I do, just as I honor you."
"It's because I honor you that–oh hell. I said my piece. Let's drop it. Otherwise Spencer wins. We can't let him drive a wedge between us."
"Of course we won't. We took vows and a Gold never breaks a vow. But right now, I'm mad as a gauntlet-slapped jouster, so I need to go out for a while. I'm going to Ruby's. I may decide to spend the night there." She bangs the front door behind her. "I'll be back for breakfast, if not before. Remember to eat something tonight."
She's back at eight a.m. to dress for work and have breakfast. They follow through with their good-morning kiss and murmured apologies before she leaves for the library. As he hears her car start up, he thinks it needs a tune up–he doesn't know how. It makes him feel doubly ashamed that he can't even do that for her.
He feels awkward, standing here on Bae's front porch, waiting to be asked in. He keeps flashing back to the peasant days, when he'd have to go digging for roots so that he could put something on the table for Bae. He realizes he's being ridiculous; he and Belle are far from those near-starvation days, but the principle is the same: he's the chief breadwinner, and he's not bringing home so much as a crust today. It's hard for him to look another man in the eye, especially one who remembers what a loser he was in his previous life. But there's no condemnation in Bae's eyes as he opens the door and invites him inside; no shame in Henry's manly thump-on-the-back hug as the boy greets his gramps; no judgment in Emma's grin as she asks if he's had breakfast yet and would he like a cup of Java and a sinker anyway, because they overslept and they're just now sitting down to their bacon and eggs. He accepts the java and sinker and the chair across from Kamen, who's munching toast and comparing "best moments in baseball" stories with Bae and Henry.
"What can we do about this levy?" Gold interrupts the sports talk.
"I'll file a request for a collection due process hearing this morning."
"And in what percentage of those requests have you been successful?" Gold can't keep the sarcasm from his voice.
Kamen looks at him hard. "It's your only recourse at this time."
A car horn beeps from the street and Henry grabs his backpack and a donut before shouting farewells and galloping out to the curb. "Grace Hatter," Emma explains with a glint in her eye. "She passed her drivers' test last month. First one in their class to get a license."
"Sheesh. It'll be college next," Bae remarks. "And before long, marriage and parenthood."
Emma chokes on her eggs. "Don't start, Bae. I'm not ready for granny panties yet. Besides, when we're grandparents, your Pop and Belle will be great-grandparents."
"Oi. On a happier note, FedEx picked up those copies this morning." Gold addresses Kamen. "How long will it take your friend to examine the documents?"
"I know you're anxious; so am I. I can't wait to blow this phony accusation out of the water. But handwriting analysis shouldn't be rushed. Even though it's admissible in court, judges don't have a lot of faith in it. Give April time to put together a detailed, thorough report."
"Here's an interesting little factoid," Emma produces a bunch of stapled pages from her purse and gives them to Kamen. "Over the past year, Spencer called Sidney nine times. Sidney called Spencer nineteen times. And I thought this was weird, but after what Kevin told us last night, not so much any more: Spencer called Wilford Scrooge's cell twenty-seven times in the past twelve months."
"Asking about that free calendar the bank gives out at Christmas, no doubt," Bae quips. "And according to our sources–none of them court-worthy, I'm afraid, just hearsay–Sid had lunch at Granny's with Wil several times. Spencer was never seen with them, but he made a lot of visits to the bank."
"Ruby remembers overhearing Willie say to Sid, 'He keeps them in his study, ground floor, northwest corner of the house.'"
"My house," Gold growls.
"And he was drawing something on a napkin. She tried to sneak a peek but they heard her coming and hid the napkin."
"Scrooge has been in my house several times," Gold reveals. "Dropping off and picking up documents."
"Sid, Scrooge and Spencer haven't had any contact with each other since the arrest," Bae says, carefully avoiding the phrase your arrest. "As far as we can determine, anyway. That's all we have for now, but I'm sure we'll have more soon." He fixes Gold in his gaze. "Pop, we've got eyes and ears all over Storybrooke. If you thought a lot of people supported you during the exile thing, you should see how many more want to help now. They want you back on the job at the hospital, ASAP. Not that Bernie's not good with kids, but," he shrugs, "they relate to you, because of your disability. The hospital staff say they see a real improvement after your visits: the kids cooperate better, eat more, sleep better. Whale says to tell you get your rear in gear with this legal thing so you can come back. The kids miss you."
Gold's mouth twitches. "Me too."
"Well, don't get bummed out. People are on the move," Emma assures Gold. "A miracle could happen."
Standing on the sidewalk, Gold adjusts his tie and his attitude. He's about to do something he's never done before, and it's damn hard, considering his age and his position–his former position in this town. He starts forward, reaching out for the door handle to Paul's Electronic Repair, but then he freezes. The little speech he's practiced rolls itself up into a ball like a pill bug and skitters to the back of his brain. As Persie passes by him with a cheery hello, he drops his hand and pretends to be admiring a motorcycle parked at the curb. Persie chuckles and walks past: let her think he's contemplating buying a bike. Better she think he's hit a mid-life crisis than hit the skids.
Who's he kidding? They all know his circumstances. He presses his lips together and, reminding himself that his wife, the someday mother of his future children, is right now scrubbing toilets in the Sleepybye Motel. This is as shameful as his encounter with Hordor.
"Good morning, Paul," he says as he enters the shop.
"Morning, Rumple," the shop owner glances up from an oscillating fan he's taking apart. "What's new?" Then Paul reddens, because he already knows what's new in Gold's life and it's the kind of thing casual acquaintances don't talk about.
"Well, ah, the sign in your window. . . ."
"Oh, the Blu-Ray player? Yeah, I'm asking fifty for it. Secondhand but it works great."
"No, the other one, the, ah, 'help wanted.'"
Paul grins. "Oh, yeah. Henry looking for an after-school job, is he? Tell him to stop by this afternoon and we'll talk."
"No, I. . . " Gold squares his shoulders. "I'd like to. Apply, that is." He plunges on, though he can see the answer already formed on Paul's lips. "You know I ran my own shop for a long time, fixed all kinds of things, everything from mending cracked table lamps to rewiring electric fans." He nods at the oscillator. "I'm very good with my hands and–". he lets his voice trail. "I'd be willing to work on a trial basis."
"Oh." Paul busies himself with a screwdriver so he doesn't have to look up. "I'm sorry, Rumple. It's just an errand boy kind of thing. Minimum wage, making deliveries. I don't do enough business here to take on another repairman. I figured it as an after-school job for a kid. Sorry."
"Oh. Sure. I understand." Gold starts to leave. "I'll pass the word to Henry. Thanks anyway."
"Sure. See you at the Fishing Tournament Saturday?"
"You bet." Gold gnaws on his lip. "Paul, if you hear of something. . . ."
"I'll give you a call. My best to Belle."
"And mine to Betty."
"Is Gold the new orange?" Goldie Lockley teases. "If so, we're predicting the new orange will be gold. Mr. Gold versus the IRS: and our silver is on Gold to come out victorious."
"Turn it off, please, Henry." Gold feels a headache coming on.
Reluctantly his grandson shuts off the Youtube video he wanted to show Gold on his phone. "Just wanted to show you, GMS is on your side. They're the most-watched local program in the two-county region; they've got influence."
"They're the only local show in the region, other than the Sunday Night Creature Feature with Dr. San Guinary and Puppies, Puppies, Puppies with Prince David," Belle says mildly.
"They really do have influence though," Bae says. "The newspaper ran a poll yesterday: seventy-nine percent of Storybrookers think you're innocent."
"Yes, and forty percent think I'm cute."
"Forty-three," Belle corrects.
"Things are happening in Storybrooke," Emma says vaguely. "Things that could help. Just be patient."
Gold frowns suspiciously. "What sorts of things?"
"Nothing violent, nothing nasty. . . exactly. Just things. You'll see."
"Well, if you don't mind, Henry, I'd rather watch some of those Roy Rogers DVDs." Gold motions toward the television and taking the hint, Henry slides off the couch and onto the floor to dig into the DVD cabinet. "Sounds good, Grandpa." He reads the covers of the first two DVDs he grabs. "Apache Rose or Under California Stars?"
"Need you ask?"
"Oh, yeah." Henry studies the cover. "We gotta have Dale." He slides the former disc into the player's tray.
"Roy without Dale is like Bae without Emma," Bae reaches up to the woman sitting on his lap and strokes her back.
Gold glances questioningly at Belle.
"We're Rumbelle." She kisses his palm. "We're endgame."
"Hey Pop," Bae's calling from his car. "Em said to tell you Grayson's call log shows a shoplifting complaint around August last year: Storybrooke Hardware. A locksmith kit. No witnesses, no security camera, no arrest."
"Good morning. I saw your ad in the paper."
"Good afternoon. I was told you might be hiring."
"Hi, Arnie. Looks like business has really taken off here. You know, I'm pretty handy with all sorts of tools. . . ."
They're as embarrassed as he is. They respect him, care about him, would give the shirts off their backs for him, because they've seen him do the same for this town. But to have Mr. Gold come to work for them. . . to ask him to wear a smock and a plastic name tag that says "Rumple," to require him to call them "Mr." or "Ms." while they call him by his first name and order him around. . . . Besides, he belongs in Armani and at the head of a mahogany table, not selling hardware. . .not snaking out hair-clogged drains. . . Not repairing toasters. . .not driving a garbage truck. . .not bussing tables. . .not doing whatever work they have to offer.
Not scrubbing toilets. It just isn't right. Not Mr. Gold. They just can't see him that way. It's hard enough watching their beloved librarian drag a vacuum cleaner from motel room to motel room, but at least she used to be a maid and she seems okay with resuming her old vocation, humming along with her iPod as she changes the bed linens. Besides, they've seen her do such work at the library, where babies spit up on her shoulder and toddlers spill sippy cups and pre-schoolers get overexcited and puke.
But they've never seen Mr. Gold doing manual labor, apart from gardening—and hey, even Prince Charles gardens.
So they pretend not to see his desperation and they ask if he'll make the next committee meeting, because they sure do need his guidance. When he doesn't show up for the meetings, they bring the meetings to him, along with take-out from Persie's. They ignore the condition he and his house are in. They ignore his sullen silence, yanking the ideas out of him, forcing him to forget, for an hour, what's changed, forcing him to remember who and what he was to them, before. They're as desperate as he is for a return to normal.
"Isn't there anything we can do?" he presses Kamen for the fourth time. They're talking by phone, as Kamen has had to go back to Boston to work with other clients while they wait for a court date. "All my assets are frozen. My personal accounts, the shop, Treadle. Bae and Josiah and I have no means of making a living. We can't draw a paycheck, we can't sell anything from the shop, even the income from my rental properties is inaccessible. Bae's hired on with the Public Works Department, Josiah's washing dishes in his wife's restaurant. I can't even sell my house or my car. The only money we have to live on is what Belle makes." He's relieved that they're talking by phone so Kamen can't see him.
"I filed the protest last week," Kamen reminds him. "All we can do now is wait for a date to be set for the collection due process hearing."
They've been through this before, but Gold is desperate. He's walked all over town, asking for work, only to find there is none he's suited for. His age and his status go against him; people have heard about the levy–it's headline news in this small town–and they're sympathetic, but he's overqualified for most jobs. He learns to dress down and talk down as he applies for everything from sporting goods salesman to grocery cashier.
After the IRS rejects the request for a hearing, he stops calling Kamen. When the lawyer calls him, his replies to Kamen's questions are brief and dull. Not even the announcement of a court date, six months from the day of the arrest, brings him out of his lethargy.