THE RATLIFFE HOUSE – Chapter Sixteen
THE RATLIFFE HOUSE – Chapter Sixteen
After Dr. Mosely dismissed me, I wandered out of Taylor Hall in a daze. What was all that stuff about a Ratliffe family tragedy supposed to mean? And why would it have anything to do with the way he ran the house? I ruminated on the idea as I trudged across the quad, now half-shaded by drifting clouds. Voices echoed against the brick walls of the buildings, background noise to my thoughts, but one smooth tenor in particular caught my ear. I looked over in the direction of the sound to see none other than Mr. Ratliffe himself, standing with a group of students near the entrance to another building. They were all guys, of course, but it struck me as funny that Mr. Ratliffe didn’t really look much older than them. It was the little things, like the neat crease in his pants or the stiffness of his checkered shirt that set him apart. The rest wore similar clothes, only more wrinkled and unkempt.
I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I noticed one of them watching me. In a moment, he lifted his chin, said something to Mr. Ratliffe, and gestured in my direction. Yikes! I pivoted toward the library and picked up the pace until I reached the opposite side of the quad, where I dog-legged left through another exit. Whew. It was bad enough to be noticed. It would be worse to be introduced.
As I wound my way through Wickwood and back to the house, I did reflect on one thing. There were no women in Mr. Ratliffe’s group, a fact I found strangely satisfying. But why? Never mind that. There were probably no girls because the guys were all talking computer stuff, or bashing women. But that last reason didn’t sit right, somehow. Not after his sad soliloquy on marriage the other night.
I let myself in the house and headed for my room. I needed a sounding board, and there was only one girl for the job. I plopped down at my desk and booted up my laptop. In a moment, Instant Messenger pinged. It was Trish. I looked at the time: five here, eleven in the morning there.
T: Hey.
L: Hey! Whatcha doing?
T: I’m at Starbucks.
L: For lunch?
T: Kind of. I’m waiting to meet someone.
L: ???
T: It’s complicated. I’ll explain later—if they show up.
L: OK weirdo.
T: Hah. Just killing time on the free Wi-Fi. What are you doing?
L: Just got back from a meeting with my advisor. Apparently I’m the worst writer in the world.
T: What?
L: Well I wrote kind of a crap paper on Sunday because y’know … June 11.
T: Oh … wow I totally spaced on that. I’m so sorry. How are you doing?
L: Hanging in there. Better now. But I guess that didn’t cut it for the paper.
L: And then my advisor knows Mr. Ratliffe so he was like ‘how is that going’ and I was like ‘um he hates women’ and then he talked about some vague family tragedy and don’t judge them or something
T: That’s weird.
L: Yeah. I don’t get it.
T: I smell a story.
L: Your journalistic instincts picking that up?
T: Seriously. Weird single old guy with absentee professor mom and unspoken tragedy … got to be more to that one.
L: I thought so too.
L: He’s not that old though.
T: Yeah you keep bringing that up ;-)
L: …
T: j/k
L: OK so if there’s a story to it how do I find out more?
T: You sure you want to know?
L: I dunno. It’s just … I have to live here. And I don’t want to go on like this. Everyone keeps acting like he’s such a great guy or something but it doesn’t make any sense.
L: Help. Me. Please.
L: Should I google him?
T: No. Definitely do NOT google him.
T: Why not just ask him directly?
L: Uh, no.
L: I don’t think he likes me. I don’t want to make things worse.
T: What about those maids you always talk about? They must know something.
L: I guess.
L: But how do I ask without seeming nosy?
T: That’s easy. Don’t be nosy. Be curious.
L: ???
T: Just ask little questions that seem related. Then listen closely. If you get wind of something juicy, ask a little more.
L: That doesn’t sound hard.
T: Listening is harder than you think. You have to make sure you hear what they’re actually saying and not what *you* want to hear.
L: Oh.
T: Hey I g2g ttyl
L: Have fun with your person.
I closed my laptop. Listen closely. Be curious. I could do that.
The sound of Mrs. Scott and the others came drifting in from the kitchen, along with wonderfully scented notes of sweet honey and sharp mustard. Mrs. Ashby must be making a glaze, I thought, and the very idea of a warm, homey ham dinner drew me toward the kitchen.
Mrs. Scott and Mrs. Khumari were drinking tea around the island while Mrs. Ashby whisked something in a saucepan over the stove.
“Good afternoon, Miss Lucy,” Mrs. Khumari said, her chin bobbing lightly.
Mrs. Scott looked up from a magazine, gray curls bobbing. “Hello, dear. Would you like some tea?”
The perfect opportunity to linger and question. Especially with Mr. Ratliffe out of the house. I thanked my stars and settled into a seat at the island.
“Love some,” I said, and watched her fill the electric kettle. My eyes fell to the paper on the counter, which appeared to be a tabloid. Most of the names and faces were unrecognizable to me, but I did notice a couple I knew. “Is that William and Kate?”
“Oh that?” said Mrs. Scott, looking over her shoulder. “Yes, some charity event or other. Hardly the most interesting bit.”
“I bet it is to you, Miss Lucy,” Mrs. Ashby said, bringing the saucepan over to a ham roast on the counter. She began spooning the golden glaze over it, a dripping delight of steam and sugar.
“Not particularly,” I said. “I just know who they are from the news.”
Mrs. Ashby sniffed at this. “I thought every American was obsessed with the Royals. Grows up hopin’ to marry a prince.”
“Maybe she already has a boyfriend.” Mrs. Khumari winked, and made a wide gap-toothed smile.
“Oh, no. I don’t,” I said.
“What, you so pretty and no boyfriend? That’s a shame, it is,” Mrs. Ashby said, returning the saucepan to the counter. She turned around and looked me over. “Y’do like boys, don’t you?”
I flushed. This interview was supposed to be about Mr. Ratliffe, not me! “Yeah, I do, it’s just …” I floundered. “It’s hard to meet guys sometimes. Everyone just wants to hang out. They don’t … I don’t … dating is kind of … hard.” I was saved by Mrs. Scott bringing over my tea and hurried to take a sip, then recoiled in sudden pain as it scalded my tongue.
Mrs. Scott gave me a sympathetic look, and addressed the other ladies. “It’s not like when we were young. I don’t think boys ask girls out on dates so much anymore.”
“I didn’t go on dates like that,” Mrs. Khumari responded. She spread her brown hands wide. “It was all arranged by my parents.”
“You had an arranged marriage?” I asked incredulously.
“Not quite,” she replied with a smile. “It was more like … matchmaking. They looked for some other families with eligible men who thought we would be compatible. When I found a good match with Sanjay, we courted.”
I leaned forward, chin on my hand. “So, what was that like?”
Mrs. Khumari gave a little shrug. “We learned about each other. Phone calls, letters. I was still living in India at the time, but I had always wanted to travel. Sanjay was already in the UK, and he even came to visit me once with his family. His parents did most of the talking, but when we were able to speak with each other alone, I could see that he was a kind and good man. Even our families were satisfied. We were engaged before he left. Plans were made by our parents for the wedding. After that, I came with him to the UK, and we have been married for twenty-three years.” Her face shone, the gap teeth in her wide smile showing. “I can see that you think it is strange, Miss Lucy, something you would never think of for yourself. But it is not strange if everyone else you know does the same. And then, if you do not expect too much, you learn to be happy, because what else is there?”
“Be single forever, like Mr. Adam,” Mrs. Ashby said with a smirk.
“Ashby!” Mrs. Scott admonished.
Mrs. Ashby thrust her spoon at Mrs. Scott. “You know it’s true! He’s headed past bachelorhood straight into old crank.”
“That’s not fair. He’s still young,” Mrs. Scott defended, smoothing down her cardigan.
“Youth don’t last forever,” Mrs. Ashby said. “He’s got to get some practice in, at least, or he’ll find himself forty some day and not know how to say ‘How are you?’ to anyone younger than us.” She pointed the spoon at me. “Like he does with Miss Lucy here. Quizzin’ her day in and out and thinkin’ it’s a conversation.”
I shifted in my seat. If Trish were here, she’d know how to steer the conversation into a question she wanted answered. But now I found I was backed into a corner.
“It’s not that bad,” I offered, surprising myself even as the words came out of my mouth.
Mrs. Ashby looked skeptical. “You’re sayin’ you don’t mind the rake-down every evenin’?”
“I guess I just don’t really understand it. Does he not like women to work or something?” I said, trying to massage the question into a less objectionable form.
Mrs. Ashby snorted. “If he don’t like women workin’, why’s he keep all of us employed?”
“And his mother, Mrs. Ratliffe, that is, Dr. Ratliffe, she works too,” added Mrs. Scott. “She’s a professor of anthropology.”
“When she’s here,” Mrs. Ashby tossed in.
Mrs. Scott pursed her lips and gave Mrs. Ashby a steely look. “She is still working in Australia.”
“Right, right. Maybe she’ll bring Adam a girl from down there, if she ever comes back. Some young research assistant or other. I think he’d like that kind of thing. Saves him the trouble of falling in love.” Mrs. Ashby cast a knowing wink at Mrs. Khumari, who’d been watching the whole exchange like it was a tennis match, her dark eyes darting from one speaker to the next.
This last comment proved too delightful for her to remain a spectator. “It’s not the falling that’s the trouble, it’s the keeping,” she said, grinning widely.
Mrs. Scott’s expression softened with amusement, even while she tried to appear dignified. “I must admit, he did have that terrible habit of proposing all the time when he was a teenager.”
“Mrs. Scott, do you remember how you told us about that surfing instructor in Honolulu when he was twelve?” Mrs. Khumari clapped her hands together with glee.
The housekeeper looked over her shoulder for a moment, then held herself stiff and lowered her voice. “‘Madam, you have bewitched me, heart and soul.’” The ladies giggled over this shared joke.
“And then,” Mrs. Khumari said, leaning in, “the way she looked at him and said, ‘Kid, I have a boyfriend.’”
They laughed again, louder this time.
Mrs. Ashby drew closer, spoon held close to her mouth as if to hush us, but it I could see her wicked grin behind it. She, too, made furtive glance towards the hallway before speaking. “I remember the time he came home from that Science Program when he was sixteen, wouldn’t stop talkin’ about the Prestwick girl he met in his computer classes,” she said.
“‘She has the mind of Ada Lovelace and the body of Botticelli’s Venus,’” Mrs. Scott imitated again, before bending over in laughter.
“Flat as an ironing board, if I recall from the class book,” Mrs. Ashby said, waving her spoon in front of her own ample bosom.
“Now, now,” Mrs. Scott chided. “Eye of the beholder, Mrs. Ashby.”
“Imagination is more like it. Hard to see somethin’ that isn’t there,” Mrs. Ashby said.
That sent Mrs. Khumari and Mrs. Scott tittering again.
Okay. So Mr. Ratliffe doesn’t hate women… maybe. Or has a lot of ex-girlfriends? Or does he hate women because of all the ex-girlfriends? It was like asking for a sweater and being handed a pile of loose yarn instead. Interesting information, but it still didn’t really explain anything about this tragedy that Dr. Mosely had mentioned. I needed more.
I tried to think of a way to broach the subject but Mrs. Scott abruptly ended our tea break by saying she had some filing to do for Mr. Ratliffe. The others seemed to take the cue. Mrs. Ashby shifted the ham into the oven and Mrs. Khumari went to clean the upstairs. I took my mug, half-empty, outside and had a seat on the brick steps that led out to the garden.
Listen closely. Be curious.Oh, I had been curious all right, and it was hard not to listen. But I guess I should have been more straightforward and less embarrassed if I wanted anything useful out of it all. The sun peeked out again, and my thoughts wandered like clouds until I realized Trish had never said who she was meeting at Starbucks. For someone advising curiosity, she had been pretty vague about her own day. I’d have to ask her more about that later.
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