Chapter 5: Closet Cleaning

Someday you'll find out just how much of a coward I am, Stuart.

If you thought being asked to be a chief was the only thing I held back, you're wrong. There's so much you need to know. Things about migration. Things about me.

Things are different here in the wild. The rules aren't the same here, away from the world we both come from. You get this. But sometimes I worry if these differences have made it harder to understand you. And for you to understand me.

Like how time isn't the same. Calendars and watches aren't exactly a thing out here. I've gone a week without knowing if it's Tuesday or Friday. Meetings are estimated, schedules approximate. Tasks and distance are the things used to gauge our progress. The sun's location is our best clue as to how much time we have left before a day is over. Sometimes days are done in minutes, and idle moments go on for hours.

No matter what, one thing stays true. There's never a time when I'm not missing you.

I could leave at any point, you know. Fight beak-first through the rain and fly straight for Manhattan. Stop for nothing but your arms. Nothing could stop me. Nobody would stop me. But I can't let myself do that. And the reason, well, it might surprise you.

The day you told me you loved me was the most beautiful day of my life. Never again would I have to say that the 'mystery man' from Manhattan that I talk about too much was 'just a friend.' Suddenly the past seemed so far away. It made this bird feel worth it to have made it this far. To still be alive. For the first time in my life, I am loved.

Stuart. You don't know how often I look to you to inspire me. Your optimism carries me. You helped set me free, and together, I used to think that we could do the impossible. That I could replace the past me with a better me. Braver and smarter, and above all… honest.

I took the offer of being a chief of these birds because you said I could. So I did.

But I've seen so much more of the world since the autumn that we met. For every beautiful sight there is to find out there, there's something that makes your stomach churn. Something that reminds you just how awful the world can be. It's easy to blame humans for the bulk of it. Some do, and they're correct. Mostly. The signs are what you'd think. Smoggy air, litter filled waters, wasted food, branded cattle and caged chickens and overfed pigs. A terrier limping along the highway on three paws. A tabby cat with his entrails strewn across a country mile. A street corner with candles and toys for another child shot down in cold blood. These are the thunderbolts of the storm humanity rages on the globe.

But occasionally you stumble across reminders that nature is cruel enough on its own. A baby finch that lost their flight, left to rot in the foliage until they are half fur, half skeleton. A mother wren crying out to the black of night, asking why her only surviving son of the litter was eaten alive. A nursery of field mice pups, curled up in tiny groups, desperate to keep warm behind a couple of rocks. Frozen to death. Frozen in pain. Too innocent. Too familiar.

There are some things positivity can't change. No matter where you go, survival determines our fate. It's made me take a hard look at our future, if there even is one for us to have.

I've leaned over your shoulder while we read the articles, watched the world slowly burn from your computer screen. We'd sit up late at night and talk about how we'll become missionaries and save the world, one starving baby at a time. We thought it was simple. We had everything figured out. Get a band of people, take down hate and injustice like nameless enemies in a video game. We'd make plans until dawn, when we were both too tired, and there were no more whispered words between us. Most migration travel takes place at night, so I have the upper hand. We made it a game, to see who would last longer. But I just wanted to beat you so I could get another look at you asleep. I remember one time, I had my cheek buried in your mattress, watching you lose. You were curled up in the comforter on the floor. Peaceful. Beautiful. Even when that relentlessly enduring smile finally falls away. Maybe even better, actually. Like the sight of you without that enduring smile is intimate, somehow. Not many people in the world know what it looks like, when your greatest weapon gets hung up for the night.

Eventually, everyone needs to put their money where their mouth is. Those days of waiting and hoping and dreaming might just be over. Stuart, we both know I'm not going anywhere. Not in your world. I'd never make it in school. I'd never make something useful for myself in your world. If I want to keep you, if I want to be your crusader, I have to make it out here. I need to be somebody here. I need to make a difference. It starts here. Even though I have no idea what I'm doing half the time. This is all new to me. But it's my only chance. You don't know it now, but every mile further from you now brings me closer to you in the future.

Nothing feels like it does when you look like you might actually be able to depend on me, the way I depend on you. I need us to be the same. This is the least I can do to earn your love.

If I could only say that to you sometime. If only I could tell you everything.

Stuart. Promise me you'll wait for me. Say to me you'll believe me when I say nothing's gonna keep me from coming back to you, year after year. Promise me you'll keep on looking for a way to make this work, you and me. I don't have fur or whiskers, and I will never bear your children. But that doesn't take away from how much you mean to me. And there's nothing I'm not willing to do to make up for what makes us different. You inspired me to rebuild my life. That has to amount to something.

If I could say what I really want to say, if I wasn't such a coward, if it wasn't so hard for me to say, I'd tell you every day that I love you, Stuart. That I will always love you. And I would tell you so, so much more.

Please, please wait for me.

"Yes?... I see… Yes, I'll pass the information onto him as soon as… What's that? Yes. Thank you so much for calling… Yes, I've got the number written down… no, no! Thank you for calling… Alright. Oh, and Merry Christmas… You too. Goodbye."

Mrs. Little stepped into the living room, drying her hands on a dish towel, just as her husband set the cordless phone back down onto the charger. "I'll bet that was Judy from Loaves a'Plenty calling again about the Bizarre's bake sale. Poor thing. She's been so distraught since finding out they're going to be closing down after Christmas. But at least they'll have one last…"

Eleanor's sentence trailed off, unfinished. In contrast to his calm, warm tone on the phone, Frederick's face when he turned to her was grave. The wrinkles that had begun to line his distinguished face were suddenly deeper.

"What? What is it?"

"That wasn't anybody calling about the bazaar." He raised the lineless memo pad and pen, still clutched in his right hand. "That was the Unified bank in Harlem."

Mrs. Little shook her head slowly. "W-we don't have an account with them."

"No..." He hesitated, ashamed for the blow he was about to deliver. "But the Douglases do."

Eleanor's eyes widened as understanding washed over her. "Stuart's birth parents… But they've-they're…"

"Yes." Like his wife, Mr. Little had not once forgotten learning of the tragedy that claimed their lives many years ago. "But the bank didn't know." Frederick clicked the pen shut, tucked it into the breast pocket of his shirt, and looked down at his own handwriting on the memo pad. The shorter number he'd written down was the number of the deposit box for which the bank had called, while the longer number was for Stuart to be able to call the bank back, if he had questions.

As if they didn't. "Wha…? So what did they want?" asked Mrs. Little. "Did they leave something behind for him?"

"In terms of money, probably not much," Frederick said, tapping the pen against the pad. "Because it's been paying the fees for the safety deposit box that's still out in their name."

"You're kidding… this—s-Somethings not right," she spluttered. There was a knot in her stomach, and it wasn't just because of suspicion. "Are you sure this is legitimate?"

"I don't know for sure. And I'm not giving them a lick of information about us until I do." His voice as he said this part seemed louder, more determined. "But it wouldn't hurt to be prepared. Which is why we need to find the papers."

Eleanor watched her husband gently push the pad of paper into her hands, then fly out of the living room. She gazes at the numbers in a momentary daze, then spun around and followed him. "Wait. Wait!" Her high-heeled boots 'clack-clack'ed on the tile as she trailed his shadow. "If this is real, why are we only hearing about this now?"

"Apparently, two years ago, there was a fire that broke out in the little diner a few steps from the bank." Mr. Little came to a stop at the hallway closet, and hastefully flung open the door. He tugged on the chain that hung from the ceiling, and the closet's contents were exposed. Inside were the parents' lesser used and the children's overgrown winter coats, and a variety of cleaning supplies, including a milk crate with fresh lemon Pledge and a decade old bottle of Pinesol.

On the floor sat a bright white Bissel vacuum filled to the brim with long cat hair, and next to it, hidden in the corner, lie the reusable dust mop. It was old and gray, and it didn't quite do its job as well as it had done before the Littles invested in a Swifer, hence it found itself pushed further and further to the back. But much like the owner of the hair that threatened to choke the expensive, new vacuum—the house cat who's predatory responsibilities were, as of nine years ago, completely retired—it was simply regarded with too much affection for the Littles to part with. "Do you remember hearing anything like that on the news?" Frederick asked his wife.

"No." Eleanor crossed her arms and dented her freshly manicured thumb nail with her bottom tooth. "But I doubt I'd remember if I had."

"Well, thankfully, everyone got out alright. But the damage affected the whole block. The restaurant's gone now, moved somewhere else. Most of the businesses on the strip had to relocate until insurance carried out the rebuild. Some closed down altogether." As he repeated the details he'd heard over the call, he was moving boxes and small appliances that had accumulated in the closet out of the way, one by one, to reach the two shelves above the coats. On these high shelves sat a couple hat boxes, which were light, as well as several cardboard boxes, of which none were. He grunting as he pulled the top box from the pile, and lowered it onto the floor. "Eventually, the current owners of the property that the bank rents decided to use the fire as an excuse to demolish the building and sell it off. The bank's had to close all their safety deposit boxes along with it, and the woman on the phone said she's been trying to get a hold of the Douglases for months."

"Shouldn't the account have run out of money years ago?"

"The bank gave them and the other inactive account owners a year's grace period after the fire, and then more after the move was announced. They had no idea that whoever rented that box was… well, gone, now. But finally," he sighed, getting to the end of his impressive tale, "one of the bank managers got the idea to contact the asylums, found a common last name in the records, and got our number from there."

"So what do they want?"

"They're giving Stuart a week to come and take what's inside that box—whatever it is." His voice came out strained, and the breaks between sentences extended as he worked towards the box he was looking for. "Otherwise, it and all the other unclaimed property goes up for auction."

"A week?" The new deadline made her eyes bigger than her brown eyeliner had already made seem huge. "But w-we don't even have the key!"

"We don't need it. The bank'll open it for us. But only if we can prove that Stuart's their son. We're gonna need everything we can find to identify him. Birth certificate… " He gently pushed aside the light hat boxes and took the last box on the left side shelf. Moving these things that hadn't been moved in years, he revealed a thin layer of dust atop the boxes in part of the house even Mrs. Little's near-militant housekeeping hadn't reached. "... adoption papers."

With her husband's broad frame taking up the entirety of the remaining closet space, Eleanor found herself unable to do anything but stand still and watch. This new information was difficult to process all at once. Just five minutes ago, she was worried about finishing her business calls and getting dinner started. How trivial those things seemed now. "This doesn't make any sense. We explicitly asked Mrs. Keeper when she told us about Stuart's parents if they had left anything behind for him! She insisted there was nothing!"

"That woman said a lot of things." Frederick lifted the lid to the last box he removed—realizing it only contained family photos—and quickly moved onto the next. The highest box on the second pile, on the right side shelf, contained his father's electric typewriter, something he only realized after he picked it up. The delicate cardboard handles threatened to break, and the typewriter in its box hit the ground with a slam which made him and his wife jump. He rested his hands on his knees, breathing heavily, thankful that it had missed his feet.

"What do you mean by that?"

Realizing only then that his vague accusation had been said out loud, he paused and shook his head. "Nothing. Never mind."

"No, you meant something," she said sharply. "'That woman.' What are you suggesting?"

"Look, maybe it's just me. But I'm just… " He dropped his voice low. "There's something about her I never… really trusted. I mean, you remember how she was so resistant about giving us any information about Stuart's parents to begin with?"

"I do, and I remember feeling particularly uncomfortable with her questions," she admitted, remembering the tension in her office during that second visit. "But I thought she was just doing her job. The law does protect the privacy of the parents that give up their children to the state."

"Alright." He nodded. "Let's say she assumed he was offered up for adoption until she did the background check. Let's assume he came with no paperwork, like she said. But even if that was true, doesn't it seem a little strange that she had Stuart with her at the asylum for almost a decade, and never, not once, looked into his next of kin? In this day and age?"

"I don't—look." Eleanor shook her head and pinched the bridge of her nose. "I'm skeptical about this entire thing. Very much so, in fact… But if it's true, you're not telling me you think the orphanage knowingly kept this from us. There could be a lot of reasons they didn't know about the security box. I mean, the police records aren't going to say whether or not they had a-a bank account! And how much or what was in it! Not to mention the orphanage was the one who gave them the number to call."

The man turned back to the closet. "Well. The orphanage did."

A moment of silence. Despite her mistakes in the past, Mrs. Little knew now that keeping the brutal truth from Stuart had been a mistake. And if everything they'd heard tonight was true, then time was of the essence to right this wrong. But now it was clear that her husband's urgency had a secondary reason. "Honestly, Frederick?" Her eyes became huge. "She has a license! She's dedicated her life to helping children in need! Sure, when you're wary of someone, it's serious. But when I sound the alarm, I'm just overreacting?!"

"Because I wasn't protected growing up! But I…" After that retort, his mouth hung open, but seeing her impressed reaction made him suddenly back out of whatever point he was going to make. "I'm sorry… I didn't mean to go there."

After an insulted pause, and Mrs. Little took in a deep, albeit shaky, meditative breath. The same technique was to credit for the couple having avoided dozens of verbal altercations with each other over the years. She rested her hands against the doorframe and shook her head. "This… this has to just be some sort of mistake."

"Some mistake, if that." Grateful that the target of frustration was switched back to the situation itself, Frederick turned his head back to the closet and calmly continued working.

But Mrs. Little was slow to bounce back. Of all the people to make fun of the shortcomings she'd endured by having a rather sheltered childhood, her life partner was certainly the last. And even though he had apologized, she couldn't help but conclude that he was apologizing for saying it out loud. Not because he was sorry that he felt that way. The question now was, how long had he been feeling that way?

She folded her arms across her chest. "Why didn't you say anything nine years ago?"

"About… her?" Fredrick lowered the second box onto the floor, this one much lighter, containing Frederick's Hot Wheels collection. He checked beneath the crushed lid and the protective towel beneath to find, to his relief, that the paint on the antique tiny cars was as perfect as the day he last played with them. "I dunno…" No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't put a reason to his distrust of the woman that would satisfy Eleanor. But he knew there had to be a reason for it. He wasn't the type of man to dislike people without good reason. And he wasn't about to try and convince his wife to feel the same way unless he could justify it. It seemed especially pointless once they'd seen the last of Mrs. Keeper—a final, short follow-up meeting that occurred the January right after Stuart's adoption, all those years ago. "Maybe because Stuart's kidnapping took priority over everything? Nevermind. Do you still have his ID?"

"It's in the dresser upstairs." She sighed with defeat. Because New York did not require a driver's license to operate a model car, and because Stuart's standard State ID was too cumbersome to carry around everywhere, Eleanor kept his ID in a safe place in her sock drawer, along with documents that Martha was a bit too young to be trusted with, and that George was a bit too careless to be trusted with. Such as their social security cards. She looked down at the pad of paper still in her hands and sighed. "This means we'll have to tell him."

"Tell him about his parents box?"

"About... his parents." The last word came as a hushed whisper.

Frederick lowered the last box onto a clean spot to the floor, slowly stood up and turned to look at her. "We knew we were gonna have to tell him someday. I just never expected for 'Someday' to-"

"-arrive."

The pair gazed at each other as the quiet allowed the dishwasher's buzz in the kitchen to be heard in the hallway. Time's up.

Eleanor would be lying to herself if she claimed she never hoped for the possibility of avoiding this day altogether. Stuart's biological parents had left behind no inheritance, nor photographs, physical possessions or any personal of them that Stuart once specifically asked the Littles to acquire for him. Never at any point had it become necessary to confirm to Stuart that his parents were diseased. And it did it seem ethically correct to tell him they were dead, just to confirm that they were. For nine years, that's how the Littles justified their quiet secret. But with this new information coming to light, there was no way around it.

"Look, I'll pull him aside when he comes home," Frederick said at last. "We'll get this over with… and then we'll go get the box."

"Tonight?" Eleanor's eyes became huge.

"Well, it might be too late tonight." He glanced at his watch without really looking at the time. "We'll have to go tomorrow."

"Frederick, I don't think this is a good time."

"Honey, they're gonna be closing the bank in a week. After that, it'll be too late. What else are we supposed to do?"

"But it's Christmas! And we've got all the relatives coming over, including my mother, and he's got all these colleges to research, and his birthday is in a few days! Do you really think it's an appropriate time to drop this information on him? Drop it on everyone?"

"I'm not saying it's ideal. But what's the alternative? We let it go, and risk losing what might be the only momentos his parents left for him?"

"That's not at all what I'm saying! I just… Oh, I don't know..." She rubbed her temples. She opened her eyes, finding him back at work, rustling boxes around more restlessley than before. Seeing the mess was making her anxious. "What are you looking for?"

"The adoption papers," he repeated. "I hope we still have them. I'd hate to have to go all the way back to the orphanage to get the copy, or even if there'll be enough time… Ah! Here!" Frederick fished out a beat up manilla folder from a box marked School Records. Inside were all of George and Stuart's school papers, including George's diploma from kindergarten, their vaccination papers, transcript, and at the very back, Frederick fished out a beat up manilla envelope, containing the Littles' copy of Stuart's adoption form.

Eleanor took a step closer and peered over his shoulder as Frederick turned open the old folder. In the midst of their troubles, the couple couldn't help but smile and comment as they flipped from photo to photo of their growing children. Martha's preschool photo with her puffy pink dress and blue gelatin stains on the collar. George's second grade photo where he sneezed just as the flash occurred. And at long last, paperclipped to the inside of the beat up manila envelope, a photograph of their adopted son shortly before he'd come home with them. "Oh, look at him." Eleanor cooed. "In his little uniform. How could time have gone by so fast?"

"I know," he said, finding it in himself to smile back at her, despite the heaviness of the reason for unearthing Stuart's file in the first place. "It doesn't feel real," Frederick said, his mind taking a step back nine years ago. "It feels like he's…."

"… always been ours." Eleanor soothingly stroked his shoulder with her free hand as her smile faltered. Somehow, seeing this photo for the first time in years made the guilt of their secret that much worse.

He allowed himself to be soothed by the gentle massage for a minute. By the time he was ready to turn and speak to her, his voice was weak with regret. "What should we do now?"

"Well," Eleanor took in a shaky breath. "For starters, we'd better clean this up," Eleanor stressed. "George and Martha'll be home any minute."

She was right. School was nearly over, and he wasn't sure what their kids would think if they saw the mess that was laid out before them. Still, the father sat crouched for a moment, considering the facts of the situation.

"We need the box," Frederick said out loud, "But we can't tell him now." He gently closed the file before their faces and rubbed his chin.

"We need tact," Eleanor said. "We need a plan."

Frederick nodded and lowered his glasses to the end of his nose, so that nothing stood in the way as he met her eyes. "We need to buy more time."

I've been hesitating to post this chapter because my brain betrayed me and started mentally making an entirely different SL fanfic at the time this one takes place. I thought it wouldn't hurt to post what I finished at least. I felt the writing in this chapter here was stronger than some of the other bits at least.

In this story, one of the catalysts for angst was gonna be Stuart finding out what happened to his biological parents after all these years, and I had this idea of how it was gonna happen that I was really into for a while. One of the reasons I grew less fond of the idea was that I don't think Stuart would be the type to harbor a grudge against his adoptive parents for not telling him the truth. I also just don't think Stuart's the type to dwell on the dead. It was gonna be a theme that makes sense later with Martha's obsession with ghosts and the paranormal, which I still kinda like.

I dunno how to describe Margalo's POV bit here. Obviously she can't carry around a diary to write down her thoughts in, and even though this fan character, Dolly, could be someone she could vent to, I don't think Margalo would tell her everything. Not the parts like watching Stuart's smile fall away when he falls asleep and how private and intimate that feels, at the very least.

This is more like her mental diary to nowhere. But it covers the insecurities I headcanon she carries all the way through her teen years, about herself and what kind of partner she could be/what kind of wife she COULD be to Stuart. And it covers this contradictory situation she has where Stuart think's she's brave for risking her life out there to help other birds through the passage of migration, but she spends the whole winter anxious about getting back to Stuart, and having to question if their relationship is legit enough to make it through adulthood, or if this has just been all fun and games. She's doubtful because so much of her life up until Stuart has been full of neglect and abandonment. Seems natural to me that she'd be skeptical, even when she wants so hard to believe Stuart is good and will stand by her, and would someday marry her, no matter what.

I know it's been a while, just dropping this because I felt like it. Comment/criticism if anything here spoke to you, or repulsed you. That too.