THE RATLIFFE HOUSE – Chapter Eighteen
THE RATLIFFE HOUSE – Chapter Eighteen
After I had cried myself out, I became aware of the stiffness in my joints from sitting hunched up on my bed for so long. I knew I had to move, even though I didn’t want to, so I dragged myself to the bathroom to wash my face. From there I would figure out what to do next.
While I dried my face on the bath towel, my eyes fell to the rain-soaked clothes I’d left draped over the side of the tub. Might as well do some laundry. I’ll want everything clean if I’m going to leave.
The last thought surprised me, but rang true enough to consider. If I were Mr. Ratliffe, I wouldn’t put up with someone like me, calling him a jerk to his face and messing with his stuff. Gosh, what was I thinking to say all that to him? And to refuse to apologize!
I gathered up my clothes in a wire hamper Mrs. Khumari had given me and headed to the laundry room down the hall, mulling over the situation. I mean, whatever his opinions were, Mr. Ratliffe had never asked for a housemate. I was forced on him, like a sick old dog from a deceased grandparent: a pet that nobody liked and nobody wanted. And even if he didn’t have the heart to put me out on the street, maybe I should put myself there. Today is Sunday. I could at least email Dr. Mosely and say things weren’t working out at the house. Maybe he could find another student to switch places with me. Or, worst-case scenario, I could go home.
I reached the laundry room, which was adjacent to Mr. Ratliffe’s office, and paused for a moment, shifting the basket to my hip so I could twist the handle. From where I stood, I could hear that smooth tenor drifting around the corner through the half-open door.
“I simply don’t understand her. I tried to talk to her and all she did was shake her head and refuse to say anything more. I mean, really, what more could she want? She has the run of the entire house, the garden. She can do whatever she likes. It seems like a holiday to me.”
“And who does she have to share it with?” Mrs. Scott’s voice came in return. “She spends nearly every hour in that little room of hers, all by herself. She’s never once brought anyone else over here, and she never talks about her classmates or friends. Perhaps she’s lonely. Just think of it, Adam. Even you didn’t choose to live here when you were at Ruxbury, and there were a lot more students in the house back then.”
“But that’s different.”
“Is it? Well then, let’s just turn the tables, shall we? You’re a twenty-year-old man in a foreign country for the first time, and instead staying at uni and making new friends and sharing every moment from meals to laundry, you’re living a half mile off in a mostly-empty house with a businessperson eight years your senior, who promptly hands you a list of rules, fusses at you when you don’t follow them precisely, and turns every meal you share into the Spanish Inquisition!”
“I’m only trying to have a conversation with her. Something more substantial than ‘How’s the weather?’ and ‘Did you catch the news last night?’.”
“Perhaps work up to it then. I’m sorry, Adam, but you always make things too serious too soon. She’s not from here. She doesn’t know you or what you’re about. And honestly, I think you’ve frightened her a bit. You can be rather intimidating, you know.”
“I don’t think I’m intimidating.”
“Well in this case, it doesn’t much matter what you think, now does it?”
Intimidating? Not sure that’s what I would call it. I pushed my way into the laundry room and dumped my clothes in the washer, added detergent, and turned on the machine while flipping through my mental thesaurus. Annoying? Off-putting? Alienating? I collected my basket and headed back out into the hall, pausing again to pull the door closed behind me.
“Besides, you could afford to get out a bit more,” Mrs. Scott was saying.
“I go out.”
“An occasional working lunch in Chelsea is not a thriving social life.”
“And what should I do? You know I can’t go to the pub.”
“You could do something.”
I wandered back down the hall, considering their exchange. It didn’t sound like Mr. Ratliffe was too pissed off. Just frustrated. That makes two of us, buddy. Anyway, if I could apologize for being such a brat, maybe we could still work things out. After all, I still owed him for the book.
I began to make a list of remittances I could offer. I’d promise to never break another Ratliffe Rule. I would eat all of my meals on campus, though I could barely afford it, just so he wouldn’t have to see me so often. I could say I’d never challenge a single one of his Women’s Studies rants again. Well… that might be going a little too far. Better not make promises I couldn’t keep. Sigh.
That was the trouble with Mr. Ratliffe. I really didn’t know what he wanted. I mean, yeah, he had given me a list. But without the why, I just couldn’t bring myself to fall in line. Ah, the riddle of the sphinx. Who knew it was possible to spend so much time with a person, and not understand him at all?
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I spent the next hour pretending to read Coleridge, but I couldn’t focus. The scent of red wine and simmering tomato, with a hint of … roast lamb? … kept wafting in from the doorway with intermittent waves. I breathed it in, eyes closed. Mrs. Ashby’s Sunday meals were heaven in a chafing dish. And without this house, I’d be eating repeats of my first meal on campus every day. Mrs. Scott, Mrs. Ashby, Mrs. Khumari … maybe they weren’t really friends, exactly, but I could tell they did everything they could to make me feel at home.
My eyes fell to the furniture and the walls, and the window, now showcasing a lovely view of English robins cavorting on the damp lawn. It was pretty here, that was sure. My room was neat and comfortable. I didn’t even have to deal with the grab-bag of roommate assignments. What if I’d been paired with Olivia? I shuddered. Dealing with Mr. Ratliffe was a cake walk by comparison.
That did it. I would apologize. But how?
I put down my book and decided to go check on my laundry, still stuck on the words, when a little voice piped up. Hey. Just say you’re sorry you blew up. Say you’re homesick and not having a good time. You don’t owe him your life story. The washer was finished, so I piled everything into the dryer and turned it on. That’s fair. I can do that. Back in the hallway, I stared at the cracked door leading to Mr. Ratliffe’s office. Should I try to talk to him right now, before I lose my nerve? I timidly stepped forward and knocked. No one answered. I pushed the door open a little and peeked inside. A desk lamp illuminated the center of the room where dancing lights of a screen saver played across a computer monitor. And there, slumped across the desk and snoring, was Mr. Ratliffe.
The whole scene reminded me of my baby cousin Dylan who used to fall asleep in his car seat constantly. Anytime he came to visit us in Chicago, we would barely make it fifteen minutes down the road he would fall silent, the heavy eyes gradually closing until his little head would dropped to one side—mouth open, arms limp, chest rising and falling slowly and evenly. A posture far from intimidating and actually kind of cute.
I suddenly became aware that I’d been staring and quickly withdrew, pulling the door closed behind me. I’d have to wait until dinner to talk. Maybe … maybe, it wouldn’t be so awful after all.
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