Chapter 70

Khan: "Do wars, famine, disease and death exist? Do lust, greed and hate exist?"

Caine: "They do, but how? Where do they come from?"

Khan: "They are man's creations, brought to being by the dark side of his nature."

Caine: "How can man rid himself of such terrible things?"

Khan: "Each man must start with himself, within himself, by slowly forging his chi, the inner essence of his spirit and the limitless power of the universe. Only thus can you conquer the power and the presence of evil."

"Thirty days," she reads from the eviction notice. "We have to be out in thirty days. We can't take any furniture or appliances. There's a list of what we're allowed to take." She drops the pages onto the dining table.

It's the last straw for Belle; Gold understands that. She's so brave and strong, but she's tired in body and soul, not just from their economic and legal woes, but also from her own bitter disappointment over their inability to conceive. Perhaps, he thinks, fate was looking out for them by not granting their wish, for what could they provide an infant now, besides an overworked, absent mother and a useless father?

Gold manages to summon enough energy to hold her as she cries. He murmurs to her as he strokes her hair, but they both know he's lying when he promises things will be better soon. She finally cries herself out, gets up to shower while he prepares her a cup of tea (from store-brand tea bags; he shudders) and a bowl of oatmeal sprinkled with brown sugar. She eats dutifully, because she will be cleaning hotel rooms for four hours, then dashing to the library for another nine, so she needs some nutrition.

He crawls back to the couch in his study and lies down as she readies herself for work. Turning onto his side, burying his face in the arm of the couch, he can't decide which feels worse: shame or dread.

He hears her heels clacking on the hard-wood floors, and that decides it for him: the shame is worse. His wife has to work thirteen hours today, while he can't even get a job sacking groceries.

It suddenly occurs to him: maybe no employer needs him, but Belle does. He sits up before he realizes what he's doing. He gets to his feet and pulls on his sneakers and grabs his cane and hurries into the foyer where Belle is gathering her purse and keys, and he seizes her arm. She raises her eyebrows in surprise.

"Why can't it be me?"

"Huh?"

"Me. Cleaning the motel. So you can get some rest."

She smiles tiredly. "Thank you, Rumple. That's sweet, but impractical. Your ankle couldn't take it, going up and down stairs, dragging vacuum cleaners and mop buckets and cleaning carts around, kneeling to scrub porcelain."

"I'll give myself plenty of breaks."

"No, you can't. Eight rooms have to be cleaned before noon. Four hours may seem like plenty of time, but for an experienced cleaner it's thirty minutes per room. No breaks." She carries her leather shoes and a dress in a garment bag so she can change just as soon as she gets to the library.

"But—"

"I appreciate the offer, I really do, but we can't afford a trip to the doctor if you hurt your ankle. Maybe you could call the bank and try to negotiate an extension?" She kisses his cheek and rushes out to her car as he stands in the open door, gaping. When her car is out of sight, he returns to his couch.

Just before noon, Archie shows up on Gold's doorstep. "I assume you're here to borrow my Fenwick Eagle," Gold says coolly, "because I can't afford for you to try to cheer me up."

"You can make a deal, can't you?" Archie pushes his way inside. "A one-to-one trade: one hour of therapy for one hour of spinning lessons." At Gold's snort, Archie barks, "You think psychiatrists don't get stressed? I've got fifteen hundred displaced fairy tale characters to treat! I need a stress reliever. Teach me to spin and I'll teach you how to cope with unemployment."

"Forget it. It would take months."

"Which would take months? Learning to spin or getting you back on track?" Archie nods toward the kitchen. "Why don't you offer me a cup of coffee and we'll negotiate?"

"You're a poor liar, Archie. You no more want to learn to spin than Josiah wants to learn to pirouette. But I'll put on the coffee pot and we can negotiate another deal, one where, if you'll let me run a tab, I'll pay for your services with interest, after I have my money back." Gold stares at the floor. "The fact is, I'm not just poor right now, I'm worthless, and I'm afraid of losing my family because of it."

"Rumple, it may shed some light on things if I tell you Belle asked me to come. She's afraid she's losing you too."

Gold raises his eyes to Archie's then as he comes to understand what he risks if he continues wandering in the neverland of self-pity. His family is all he has left, and it's everything that matters. "I really need this deal. Are we in agreement, Doctor Hopper?"

"We're in agreement, Mr. Gold." Both men release pent-up breath. They work that morning on buoying Gold's spirits enough that he can ask to borrow Archie's phone so he can call John Nichols—and not threaten every banker in Maine with extinction when Nichols blithely informs him, "Mr. Gold, we have been more than generous in giving you a full month, as opposed to the legal minimum of three days. We at Storybrooke Bank are not heartless; in fact, we are loathe to remove people from homes—"

"Especially a $600,000 house that no one within a hundred miles can afford," Gold growls.

"All you have to do is to make four payments, just $14,000, and then we'll cancel the eviction, gladly. For a man worth more than a billion dollars—"

"You know bloody well I can't touch any of that money!"

"You have thirty days, Mr. Gold. We hope to hear from you before then."

Gold is shaking as he returns Archie's phone.

"Let's have a cup of tea," Archie suggests, "and discuss options."

It's a favored word for a deal maker: options. But options means more than one choice, and an hour of brain-wracking produces only two: borrow from a loan shark (the names of a few are in Gold's Rolodex; from time to time in the old days, he sold them antiques for their own lovely homes) or look for an apartment that Belle's salary can cover.

Considering what he knows about loan sharks, Gold's inclined to go with the latter.

"You will not be homeless," Archie says firmly, a distant look in his eyes.

Gold's eyes roam around the kitchen. "When we had this house built, I didn't have to take out a mortgage. I could have liquidated some CD's, some rental properties, and paid cash."

"I see where you're going, Rumple, but it's pointless to second-guess the past. And you can't give up on your dream, not yet. You have thirty days, two strong arms, a clever mind and a town full of friends."

Belle comes to him that night when he's sleeping on the couch. He awakens to her body pressed against his back, her hand under his shirt. He pretends to be asleep still, but she knows better. She nips at his ear; that's always turned him on. "Rumple." He can hear and smell her desire. "Please. It's been four months."

He says nothing, just lies there staring in the dark. She opens the buttons of his shirt, runs her warm hand over his chest, his belly. "Don't you want me any more?"

He can't let her hurt like this. He rolls onto his back, drags her on top of him, her hair falling into his face; he pushes it back. A dab of perfume is all she's wearing. He runs his finger over her lips and she takes his finger into her mouth, making his breathing hitch. He sinks his hand in her hair, pulling her forward so he can kiss her thoroughly, and when her breath hitches too, his other hand slides down her shoulder, her hip and lower. He gives as much as he can of himself, stirring her to excitement, but he can't give everything. He gives her release but not the assurance she needs.

"I'm sorry." He pushes her hand away gently but cradles her against his chest. "I can't."

"What did I do wrong?" He feels her shiver.

"Nothing. I just. . . " he sucks in a breath. "I don't feel. . . don't feel like much of a man any more."

"I want you back, Rumple. I understand, but this is hard on me too, and I need you."

"Later, I promise. I just can't right now."

Archie comes back the next morning, and interestingly, Blue is just a beat behind him. Gold scowls at them both; they've disturbed his mid-morning nap. But they chatter between themselves about trivialities and try to drag him into the conversation, and just as bold as you please, Blue moves around his kitchen, unpacking the fresh eggs and blueberry muffins that she has brought in her basket. "The baking bug bit Cecilia," Blue explains. "We have muffins, cupcakes, dinner rolls, croissants and cakes all over the convent kitchen. She's taking them in to sell at the second-hand shop, but I managed to snag these. I was hoping to catch Belle before she had leave for work. I know she loves blueberries."

Gold says nothing, so Blue continues, "I'll leave these in the bread box, then, and she can enjoy them tonight. But meanwhile," she takes out the skillet—she knows exactly where it's kept—and sets it on the stove. "Archie, if you'll chop the tomatoes and peppers in my basket, we'll have omelets." She blinks innocently at her scowling host. "Do you have any cheese, Mr. Gold?" Before he can throw out a snide remark, she's directing Archie, informing him of where he can find a knife and a cutting board.

They're eating before Gold gets around to saying anything. "It's good," he concedes.

The nun is pleased. "Thank you."

"She used fresh blueberries."

"That's Cecilia. Nothing by half measure."

"Welcome to the world of the living, Rumple," Archie quips. "After we finish brunch, you and I are going to wash dishes, and then we're going to ask Mother Superior to excuse us while we go out in your backyard and have a nice long chat."

"After I run some errands, I thought I'd take some of Cecilia's kolaches over to the library as a little surprise lunch for the staff. It's National Library Week; they deserve a treat."

Gold stares at his plate.

"I expect you at the convent this afternoon," Blue frowns at him. "We need to prepare the devil's claw mixture for Mr. Shoemaker's arthritis. You know how tricky the balance in that mixture is. I can't do it without you."

Gold closes his eyes painfully, but he's not sure if the pain is issuing from his reluctance to leave the house or from his shame at his laziness. Finally he nods, then picks up his dishes and carries them to the sink. As Archie brings other dishes to him, Gold watches the detergent bubbles rise as he fills the sink with water. "Thank you." He leaves it to his guests to figure out which of them he's thanking and why.

The next day, neither Archie nor Blue comes; they have appointments in Storybrooke. But before Belle awakens, Gold showers and puts on a clean shirt and prepares her a breakfast.

It's as much as he can manage. When she leaves, he retreats to his couch.

Emma's learned that, some years ago, Scrooge lost his life savings in a Ponzi scheme. How curious, then, that he bounced back so quickly and so well that, less than a year later, he had bought a new Trans Am for himself, a BMW for his girlfriend and a Yugo for his wife.

"Of course, he did suffer another loss a few months after he bought those cars. His wife found out about the BMW and took him to the cleaner's. He bounced back once again, though," Emma muses. "Enough to buy an emerald necklace as a Christmas present for Ms. BMW."

"Some guys have the most remarkable luck," Gold says.

Archie comes back, bearing orange juice and breakfast tacos. He finds Gold dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, wrinkled and a bit smelly. "It's going to be one of those days, is it?" Archie sighs. "Kitchen." It's not a suggestion; it's a demand. He forces Gold to eat, then to talk, and to clean up the kitchen at the same time.

After an hour of listening to Gold bemoan his fate, Archie snaps. "That's enough. You've moaned and groaned long enough; now quit yer bitchin', as my mama used to say. You've got the right to complain, sure; you're getting the shaft, no doubt about it. But your bitchin' is getting you nowhere. How long has it been since you applied for a job? How long has it been since you called your lawyer to talk about your case? Good gods, man, strategy is your middle name, so why aren't you doing it?" Archie literally throws in the towel, tossing his damp dish towel onto the counter. "Look, I can give you anti-depressants, but I think some fresh air and sunlight would serve you better. And some productive work, instead of sitting around on that scrawny ass. The Mr. Gold I knew would have been in his shop hours ago, taking inventory or something. But then, the Mr. Gold I knew was a thinker, always had some plan brewing."

Gold picks at the label on the bottle of dish soap.

Archie demands, "Well? Why aren't you cussing me and waving your cane around? I just insulted you."

"You're right."

"You're not even going to fight back?" Archie deflates. "Maybe you do need those meds." He ponders a moment, then reaches for his phone. "Let's get Josiah out here for some fishing. A dose of lithium would do us both good." After making the call, he reminds his client, "You're not the only one hurting, Rumple. Two other families are struggling too. But first and foremost, I want you to remember, everything that's been done to you has been done to Belle too."

Gold's eyes flash. "That's the worst of it. She's dragged down in the gutter with me and I'm powerless—"

"Bull." He gives Gold a shove toward the basement. "Get your fishing stuff. We start here. Now."

Blue's fist is raised in mid-pound when Gold sweeps his front door open. He's shaved and dressed in a dress shirt and tie, and as he stands aside to allow her in, she gapes at him. "Are you going to court?" He shakes his head. "To the shop?" He shakes his head even more forcefully. "Where are you going, then?"

"To the clinic with you." He picks up a box of empty vials from the entryway table.

She opens her mouth to argue. From her attire it's clear she intended to work in the garden today, and from her posture it's clear she intended to have to drag him out again. But she nods, taking her victory where's she's found it. Reaching for her phone, she says, "I'll call Doc about arranging a Lunch and Learn, if you're up for a teaching session."

"The end-of-life pain alleviation talk," he suggests, looking guilty.

She makes the call. "Done," she announces.

"Fine." He holds the door open with his hip so that she can pass through. "The convent first, to fill these," he indicates the box balanced on one arm as he collects his keys and cane in the other hand.

"Very well," she agrees, still a bit stunned.

Bell's Corners won't quit. They keep coming. Sometimes he lets them in, sometimes not. Sometimes they're asking his advice–their requests aren't fake. People here have come to depend on him; they think he's wise and, even better, cunning. Sometimes they bring beer and barbeque or sodas and pizza, as if they were friends dropping in for a chat. Sometimes they bring dishes of tonight's "too much" ("We baked too much lasagna tonight. Would you care for some?") or today's "new recipe trial" ("I tried out this recipe in The Ladies' Home Journal. It's so good I just had to share it!") or the morning's catch ("They sure were bitin', Rumple. Caught more than we can eat. Take a few off our hands?").

They never mention the eviction. He assumes they don't know. He and Belle—well, more so he than Belle—have chosen not to tell anyone, not even Bae and Emma.

They keep inviting him and Belle: meetings, holiday parties, backyard barbecues. Sometimes Belle forces him to go; she claims he owes it to this town he's helped to build, to now share in its celebrations. Sometimes he neglects to inform her of the invitations.

Sometimes they bring him little pieces of legal work: leases, deeds, wills. They pay in cash, apparently assuming the IRS will take his earnings away otherwise. It's not so; everything he had before the levy went into effect is now inaccessible, but whatever he and Belle make after the levy, they can keep. The trouble is, they make just a fraction of what they were making at the time they had this house built.

The shop and Treadle have been shut down, but Fran's Fresh and Fast is in the clear. Josiah hates it just as bad as Gold does, being financially dependent on his wife. Jo won't talk about it, though, any more than Gold will. Sometimes Jo just shows up, tackle box in hand, on Gold's porch at dawn, and they go fishing. Not talking, just fishing. Gold is too dispirited to leave the house, but he goes anyway. If it makes Jo feel better, it's the least he can do, Gold figures; it's Gold that Spencer's after; Jo and Bae just got caught in the crossfire.

"The second graphology report is in."

"And?"

"We can't use it."

Gold sighs. "All right."

"In court I'll pick at the fact that the handwriting is too good, too close a match, but the less time we allow Anguem to spend on the subject, the better."

"Kevin. . . .Whatever you think we should do next, I'm in," Gold vows. "Just—help me, please."

The lawyer's voice is warm. "It's time for Plan B. Your daughter-in-law's. Expect me in Bell's Corners by noon on Friday. Hey, Rumple, do you know what a caiman is? Caiman spelled c-a-i-m-a-n. My ancestors were bad spellers."

"No."

"It's a cousin of the crocodile. Just, as Emma would say, an interesting factoid. See you Friday."