THE RATLIFFE HOUSE – Chapter Fifteen
THE RATLIFFE HOUSE – Chapter Fifteen
Despite the tears and the cold shower, I slept heavily that night and awoke feeling a little better Monday morning. Seminar was uneventful, and at the end of class I waited in line, “queue" they called it here, to sign up for my mid-term advisory meeting with Dr. Mosely. Back at the house, Mr. Ratliffe was out for lunch so I sat at the kitchen island, chatting with Mrs. Scott. She inquired about my quick exit from dinner the night before and was sympathetic when I told her about my dad.
“You know what I do, love, when I’m missing Mr. Scott?” she asked. “I spend some time in my garden. A bit of digging, the fresh air, watching something grow and come to life—it seems to revive me, just a bit.”
“I guess gardens are kind of a big deal here, huh?” I asked. “I mean, I’ve never in my life seen a plant sale at my college, but it looks like there’s one here all the time. I pass two nurseries in town just on my way to class!”
She chuckled, a sonorous sound like bells in a church tower, and shook her grey curls. “I suppose you could say gardens here have a bit different purpose than America’s yards. They’re not so much an accessory to the home as a expression of it. A personal challenge, a bit of pride, a living history, even. Not exactly the same as an expanse of grass in which to play games and hold barbecues, though we do that too.”
I thought about the yard around our house. After my dad passed away, Mom hired a landscaping crew to come mow the lawn and trim the shrubs. I never saw them except in the summers, and I don’t think she ever took the time to plant anything special there. I was pretty sure the homeowners’ association had a short list of plants to choose from and any deviation was destined for a nastygram from the board and a hefty fine. As for houseplants, when I was little, we kept a few African violets on the kitchen windowsill that eventually died of neglect and had never been replaced.
“Have you spent any time in this garden?” Mrs. Scott asked.
“Not really. I didn’t want to mess up anything.”
“I don’t think you need to be afraid of that. Gardens are rather hardy things. Mr. Ratliffe has gone to a lot of trouble to make it pleasant. There’s some pretty flowers in the greenhouse, for instance, and the fruit trees in the back give a lovely bit of shade.”
That afternoon, I took her advice and let myself out through the sunroom into the garden. An oasis of green, it was nicer somehow than when I’d first tried it for a study spot. I made my way past the hedges to the dark corner in the back where the fruit trees were, following a faint, sweet smell whose source remained hidden. When I wound my way around the back of the greenhouse, I found a plot of roses in the corner. How had I missed them before? They were a tangle of pink and white cups, heady with perfume, exuberantly thrusting out of the leaves and thorns below them. I crouched down, reached out carefully, and pulled one close to breathe in its scent. With my eyes closed, the sound of birds twittering and a few bees buzzing among the flowers, I indulged in the reverie. If only it could be like this, always like this. No ticking clocks or expectations, no baggage or grief, no blank pages or rainy afternoons. Only roses, and sunlight, and the ecstasy of summer.
“Not thinking of cutting them, I hope,” a smooth tenor sounded over me.
My eyes opened, and blinded by the sunlight, I blinked away the blurry image of dark hair and blue plaid. Mr. Ratliffe stood looking down at me, his hands in his pockets.
“I know the rules,” I said sullenly. Never a moment’s peace with this man.
“These are Scepter’d Isle,” he went on, as though he hadn’t heard me. “Not as sexy as your red roses, but prettier, I think, and more fragrant.”
The last thing I wanted to hear about was what Mr. Ratliffe thought was sexy.
“I can cut some for you, if you’d like,” he offered. I couldn’t tell if he was being sincere or not. “It has to be done in a particular way.”
He stooped down next to me and looked over the plant, finally selecting a flower that was still mostly bud. “This one, for instance. It would open nicely over a few days in the house, and it has a good firm stem. This one, however,” he said, pulling forward the one I had held to my nose, “is already full blown. It would wither quickly and wouldn’t offer much scent.”
Just like you to put down the one I chose. I stood. “Good to know. Well, guess I’d better get back to studying.”
“Already?” he asked, brow furrowing. “You looked quite settled just a moment ago.”
“Oh, no, it was just a quick study break. Gotta hit the books, y’know. Essays won’t write themselves.” I tried to sound casual as I edged away, lengthening my stride.
“So, you didn’t want me to cut one for you?” he called after me.
“No thanks, I’m good,” I said over my shoulder, practically jogging back toward the house. I didn’t stop until I was in my room, where I closed the door and flopped down on the bed. That was close. We almost had a real conversation. Blech!
Mr. Ratliffe didn’t say much at dinner, but I did find it hard not to stare at the vase of pink roses that had appeared above the fireplace. What a weirdo. Computers, flowers, and books. I flinched a little, remembering the busted copy of Jane Eyre. He hadn’t said anything about it in the last three weeks. I should probably count my cash and check my bank balance tonight just in case that comes up anytime soon.
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Late Wednesday afternoon, I made my way back to campus for my advisory meeting with Dr. Moseley. It was another beautiful day, and I hummed along to the music on my iPod as walked along the brick and cement pathways, admiring the tall green trees framing the gothic archways. Now that I knew my way around, I didn’t have to walk with a map in hand every day looking like a tourist. I entered Taylor Hall, found my way to Dr. Mosely’s office and knocked at the half-open door.
“Come in,” he called. “Ah, Miss Steppenwolf. Please.” Dr. Mosely gestured at the chairs in front of his desk, then pulled out some papers that looked like printed copies of my essays and a yellowed notepad. He adjusted his glasses as he looked over the stack. “Shall we begin?” he asked. I nodded.
“We’ll start with notes from tutorials. Ms. Price says that since the first week you’ve arrived well prepared and on time for discussion. You have good attention to structure and detail, and your essays have been first-rate. Which is what makes your most recent contribution a bit disappointing.”
I chafed, and shifted in my chair. “Yeah, I’m sorry. It wasn’t my best work. I was kind of having a rough day.”
“We’ll come around to that in a moment,” he said. I realized I’d cut him off and pressed my lips shut. “First of all, you seem to have missed the point of the poem itself entirely. ‘Keats idolizes his pain and worships it with reckless abandon in a laudanum-induced state of stupor.’” He took off his glasses and laid them on the desk, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “That may be the laziest piece of critical analysis I have ever had the displeasure to read. You do know, Miss Steppenwolf, that tuberculosis is an incredibly painful way to die?”
I scrunched up my shoulders, afraid to say anything.
“John Keats was not only acutely aware of his own medical condition and its terminal outcome, but had also watched his own brother pass away from the same disease only a short time before. He had a preview, if you will, into the suffering that awaited him while simultaneously experiencing the emotional pain of loss. So, to say that he was idolizing his pain while taking hits of opium for amusement is not only inaccurate, but also rather mean-spirited.” Dr. Mosely looked at me with a piercing gaze, and I felt all my thorny defenses of anger and resentment grow limp.
“If you didn’t wish to use Keats’s condition as the platform for your analysis, you could have focused on another aspect of the poem. But I do find it ironic that you should refuse to show him any pity while expecting it for yourself. Keats, at his most vulnerable, turned suffering into great art. The purpose of literary criticism is to extract meaning from that art, using knowledge and reason. But you’ve used neither and produced rubbish. Perhaps you could take a lesson from the man you despise. Tragedy comes for us all eventually, Miss Steppenwolf, and self-pity is hardly a useful way to weather it.”
He slipped his glasses back on, and looked again at me over the tops of the lenses. “I expect better from you in the future.”
Humbled, I nodded in silence.
“Good. Now then, let’s discuss the residence situation. How are you settling into Ratliffe House?”
“It’s fine,” I managed in a tiny voice.
“From your manner, I assume that’s as accurate as your analysis of Keats.” A little grin formed at the corner of his mouth. “Come on, out with it.”
I fiddled with the edge of my shirt. “It’s nice.”
“You’re comfortable? Fed regularly?”
“Yep.”
“Getting on with everyone in the house?”
“Yeah, they’re nice.”
He eyed me carefully, like I was hiding something. “And Mr. Ratliffe? You see much of him?”
“Oh yeah, every day.” It was hard to keep the sarcastic tone out of my voice, though I tried.
“Something wrong, Miss Steppenwolf?” Dr. Mosely asked as he leaned forward and folded his hands on his desk.
I bit my lip, not sure how to proceed. Was it a good idea to spill my opinions to the person who helped me get a place to stay? I tried to think of how to describe all the weirdness that was Mr. Ratliffe without sounding ungrateful.
Dr. Mosely prompted me, a tone of concern in his voice. “He’s not been ungentlemanly toward you?”
“Oh, no,” I said quickly. “It’s just … I don’t think he likes women very much.”
A look of amusement came over Dr. Mosely’s face. “You don’t suppose that stems from his present course of study?”
“Oh, for sure. He talks about everything he reads. I mean, everything. It’s like he expects to debate it all right then and there.”
“Yes, that sounds like Adam. But he’s not treating you poorly?”
I sighed. “I guess not really. But he has a lot of rules. Like, a lot of rules,” I mumbled, thinking of yesterday’s roses.
“Rules? About what?”
“About stuff with the house. He’s super-picky,” I said, sensing that Dr. Mosely was now feeling sympathetic to my plight.
“Ah, well. I suppose we’d better phone the police then. Can’t have a man doing what he likes with his own property.” This time, the twinkle of amusement seemed to be directed at me. I immediately felt embarrassed for pushing the sympathy angle. I should have known Dr. Mosely would be on Team Ratliffe. He seemed pretty cozy with the family for some reason.
He continued, “You know, Miss Steppenwolf, I’ve been a friend of the Ratliffes for a very long time. Adam was once one of my students, even sitting in that chair where you are now. He’s always been particular, though he’s hardly a monster. And the family… well, as I said before, tragedy comes for us all, sooner or later. And we all must learn to cope with it, each in our own way. Vulnerability, the capacity to feel pain, and navigate it with reason, knowledge, creativity, and love… that’s what oftener leads to a happy ending.” He stacked the papers on his desk with finality. “Literature, you know. That which we study. Turns out to be a bit useful after all,” he said with a wink.
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