THE RATLIFFE HOUSE – Chapter Fourteen
THE RATLIFFE HOUSE – Chapter Fourteen
Sunday morning, I awoke to steady rainfall and a dreary gray sky. Though I’d planned to walk over to campus and hide out in the library all morning, I gave up after one peek out the window. There was no chance of taking a walk today, not even in the garden.
I rolled over from the bed to my desk chair and opened my laptop. July 11. My heart sank. It had to be today, didn’t it?
I opened my email. Spam, more spam, some clothing store coupons, and a message from Mom. She wanted me to call her today. Sigh. I really didn’t want to talk about it.
I bummed around in my room, half-heartedly typing away at an essay on “Ode to a Nightingale.” I made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch, since none of the ladies were around, and then kicked myself for eating a child’s meal like it would make me feel any better. At least Mr. Ratliffe was gone too.
I finished the essay, which I was pretty sure sucked, but emailed it to Ms. Price anyway. Keats could go to hell, pretending death was some pretty bird while he was getting high on laudanum. What about the rest of us? What about the survivors? How were we supposed to get through the day to day, the year to year? The crushing hours of just-after and the big empty nothing of a decade later? Scrape along, I guess. No thanks to poetry.
I finally picked up the cell phone and called Mom.
“Hi, sweetie. How are you doing?”
“Fine.”
“Everything going okay for you at school?”
“Yep.”
“That’s great.”
A silence hung between us, neither wanting to acknowledge the occasion. This was the day Dad had died ten years ago. Every year, we’d make the pilgrimage to his grave, place some flowers on it, and pretend like our lives hadn’t been shattered by the accident—a freak wind gust that drove his tiny commuter plane into the side of a mountain. There was no body in that grave, just the ash of his bones and the emptiness of our hearts. Mom took his life insurance money and put it away for my college, setting the fence along the road of my future. Thou shalt go to college, for thy father’s death hath paid it all. Then she buried herself in her own career, making the money for us to live on. Now she had Frank. And I had no one. But neither of us could talk about it.
“I’m going to meet Gran and Pops for lunch before we head over today,” she said. Those were my grandparents on my dad’s side. I could tell that was her serve and she was waiting for me to volley back.
“Oh yeah. Tell them I love them. I’ll send them a postcard soon.”
“I will. I’m sure they’d love that.”
She waited again, and I wondered if, on some level, she resented me being here instead of there with her. Our mourning had always been collective.
“You know, your dad would be so proud of you,” she finally said.
“Thanks, Mom.” Would he? Sometimes, I could barely remember his face. What did he expect of me? How was I ever going to know?
“Well, I guess I’d better let you go,” she said.
“Okay.” I hesitated. “Hey, Mom? Could you put in some daisies from me?”
I heard the smile in her voice. “For the Gershwin song? Sure, sweetie.”
“Thanks. Love you, Mom.”
“Love you too, sweetheart.”
We hung up, and I leaned back on the pillows. Late afternoon, and the rain kept coming. I cleaned up my room, washed a load of laundry. Mrs. Ashby and Mrs. Scott arrived to begin cooking. Soon, the smell of roast beef and hot rolls began waft through the house. I wondered if I should beg off, say I wasn’t hungry or didn’t feel well, but I couldn’t think of a way to say so without bringing up the deathaversary. Besides, the PB&J hadn’t held me over very long. My stomach grumbled, and I decided to just try and get through dinner saying as little as possible. Then I could escape back to my room and… do what exactly? The trouble was, there was nothing I wanted to do—not read, or listen to music, or wait for Trish to come online. But I didn’t want to do nothing, because that just left me alone with my thoughts. Thoughts and memories, all oblique, all invisible to trace except out of the corner of my mind, impossible to touch without pain, and still more impossible to ignore.
Mrs. Scott knocked at the door, summoning me to dinner, so I went and seated myself in the dining room at my usual chair, diagonal to Mr. Ratliffe’s and facing the hall door. The man had not arrived, so I occupied myself tracing the light scuffs and scratches across the table’s green surface. It wasn’t new, that I could tell. And yet, Mr. Ratliffe didn’t seem like the Antiques Roadshow type. Perhaps it was left over from before, a relic of the days when other students had sat in my chair, laughing, trading notes on classes, making plans for the weekend. Or maybe it was older. Could it have belonged to the Ratliffe family? I wondered…
I ran one hand across the smooth surface, just along the edge, away from the plates and napkins and silverware. It was calming, the way that cool surface drained a little of the heat from my hands. I hadn’t realized how fevered my body was from the anxiety of the day. I dragged my hand back, lazily, imagining the mysterious Ratliffes, however many there were, probably all in plaid shirts, having some erudite discussion about politics in between requests to pass the potatoes. No, I concluded. This couldn’t be their table. I was sure they were much too picky to put up with scratches and scuffs.
Then there were heavy footsteps in the hall. I withdrew my hand and hid it in my lap. Mr. Ratliffe appeared, stopped short at the doorway to say something over his shoulder to Mrs. Ashby, and entered.
“Evening, Miss Lucy,” he said, taking a seat.
I never knew what to say back, so I just nodded and avoided his eyes.
He cleared his throat and settled his napkin into his lap as Mrs. Scott came in with the roast. She served us liberally, we thanked her, and she departed to the kitchen again. Though the aroma was appetizing enough, I groaned inwardly, looking at my plate. I didn’t want Sunday roast. I wanted to drown my sorrows in a tub of Rocky Road, straight from the carton. Still, I had to eat something.
Reluctantly, I pulled out my silverware and began cutting into the roast. I took a bite. It was nicely seasoned and well-cooked, just like all of Mrs. Ashby’s dinners. But still, compared to American pot roast, it was under-salted and too rare for my taste. I chewed and chewed, then washed it down with a gulp of water and sighed, perhaps too loudly, because it elicited a remark from Mr. Ratliffe.
“How’s your roast?” He gestured to my plate with his right hand, grasping his knife. He always held it that way, for the entire meal—breakfast, lunch and dinner. That, and the fork in his left, prongs down, was something I was sure I could never get used to seeing.
“It’s fine,” I said. I resigned myself to making a show of my enjoyment by cutting another piece of roast. Maybe that would shut him up.
No such luck.
Mr. Ratliffe chewed a bite of carrot while I sawed away, and observed, “Terrible weather today.”
Now what was I supposed to say to that? I went for short, without the sweet, hoping he would get the hint that I was not in a chatty mood.
“Yep.”
Unfortunately, he took my reply as encouragement.
“I don’t suppose you’ve been able to walk through town much,” he said.
Was that a statement or a question? If I said yes, I had, that would lead to more questions. If I said no, I was bound to get some verbal tour from the townie over here on all the local highlights. But if I said nothing, I’d come across as rude. I ground a piece of potato to mush in my mouth while I deliberated between the three.
“Wickwood may be small, as towns go,” he added before I could choose my response. “But we do have hair salons. Several, in fact.” He took a sip of water and seemed to be gauging my response.
Really, dude? This again? “I hadn’t noticed,” I said flatly, and went back to sawing my meat with a vengeance. Then I stuffed a particularly large mouthful of beef and carrot in my face to make an excuse for not talking any further. Mr. Ratliffe’s eyes widened but he said nothing, and after adjusting a button on his green plaid shirt, picked up the fork and knife again and resumed eating.
Safe. I chewed and chewed, the unmanageable bite becoming an uncomfortable mass in my mouth. A little prickle began to make my neck itch as I realized my error: I am not going to be able to swallow this. I tried more and more desperately to grind down the bolus or separate it somehow with my teeth, but my throat was already tightening into a gag.
Mr. Ratliffe chose that, of all moments, to glance up at me, and his eyebrows went through the pantomime of furrow, widen, and return to flat. Abruptly, he stood up from his chair and set his silverware on his plate.
“Do you know, I thought we were to have rolls,” he said to no one in particular, and stepped down the hallway towards the kitchen.
The moment he was out of sight, I leaned over and coughed the grey ball of meat and veg into my napkin and folded it over in my lap. Oh, thank goodness. I could breathe again. With a trembling hand, I reached for my glass of water and took a short sip, trying to compose myself before Mr. Ratliffe returned. In a moment, I heard his footsteps.
He appeared, basket in hand, and set it on the table.
“Here we are,” he announced proudly, and seated himself again with a little tug at his shirt. I stared at the little wicker basket, lined with a white cloth napkin. Six rolls glowed from inside.
Congrats! You’re on a roll! The phrase, which had been printed on a “good work” sticker from one of my fifth-grade teachers, strode into my mind from some dusty, unswept corner of my subconscious and made itself at home. Congrats! You’re on a roll! Congrats! You’re on a roll! I could even see the cartoon lump of bread from the sticker with his black line smile and white buggy eyes.
Congrats! You’re on a—
“Would you like one?” Mr. Ratliffe asked.
Startled, I looked up. “Huh?”
“Would you like a roll?” He gestured toward the basket.
Would I? My stomach growled again, insolent at the under-salted roast. What was beef to bread and cookies? Yes,I decided. I want all the rolls. I want to stuff them down my throat and into my cavernous belly until I pass out in a carb coma so I can sleep away the rest of this awful day. Still, I hesitated.
“Shall I pass them to you?” Mr. Ratliffe leaned over and nudged the basked toward me. “Go on. Ladies first.” He smiled and nodded encouragingly.
Now I guess I have to take one. Determined not to look greedy, or give in to my sudden, violent cravings, I selected the smallest of the rolls, and pushed the basket back to Mr. Ratliffe, who thanked me and slid over the butter dish.
The roll indeed offered some small comfort. I slathered it in butter and savored the taste. A faint voice suggested I should have been insulted by Mr. Ratliffe’s “ladies first” comment, but I waved it away. I was too tired to start a fight. I passed the butter dish back to Mr. Ratliffe.
“Thank you,” he said, accepting the dish. As I plowed through my roll, I watched his motions, wishing I could have another but afraid to for the basket again. He laid butter into his own roll with a neat slice of the knife, and glanced to my plate. My bread was gone. Wordlessly, he slid the basket and butter dish back to me.
Ashamed of my appetite, but too broken to care, I withdrew two more rolls: my allotment of the half-dozen prepared, and began to butter them both. I was fully absorbed in the task when Mr. Ratliffe spoke.
“May I ask you something, Miss Lucy?”
I hope it’s not about my hair. I looked up, mouth full. He was waiting for an answer. I shrugged. “Sure.” Might as well get it out of the way. Today couldn’t get any worse.
Mr. Ratliffe laid down his silverware and took a breath, pursed his lips, and then began again with that smooth tenor of his. “As a woman, do you think marriage is romantic? The idea of marriage, that is.”
A look of confusion must have come over my face, because he quickly added, “I only ask because of some of the reading I’ve been doing for this Women’s Studies course. Not from any personal interest, I mean. It’s only that ….” He scratched the back of his head as he searched for words, and a lock of wavy black hair fell over one ear.
“Well, you see, Miss Lucy, what I’ve learnt rather confuses me. I understand, or at least, I thought I understood, that most women desire husbands who make more money than they do. And I know that most men earn more money than women, for a variety of reasons. But is that a man’s fault? Should a husband feel personally guilty for earning more than his wife? And moreover, why shouldn’t a man feel insulted that his income is part of what attracts a woman to him?”
I tried to untangle his questions, but my logical mind kept being overruled by heartache. I could see my mom hunched over her computer with her checkbook beside it, figuring out the bills. I could hear her steps on the kitchen floor late at night, when I would sneak down the stairs to eavesdrop on her arguing with Grandma over putting away the life insurance money so soon. I could remember snippets of overheard conversation at recitals and birthday parties, where she and the other working moms complained about struggling for the next promotion.
“It’s not easy for a woman to make it alone,” I mumbled, half to myself.
“Yes, I understand that,” Mr. Ratliffe said, nodding in earnest. “I do. But what I meant was, well, simply, it often seems to me that women believe men have been living an easy life off their backs all this time. That they resent us, all men, that is, for taking advantage of them somehow. But it’s all work, you know. It’s not as though the pressure of providing for one’s entire family is easy. And to be accused of oppressing women for simply trying to meet their expectations seems, well, rather unfair.”
He looked at me, absorbing my bewildered countenance.
“I don’t mean to upset you, Miss Lucy. It’s only, I always imagined that when I met the woman I wanted to marry, we would share everything. That she and I would be as one. But now it seems I’ve been sadly naive about the whole thing. A man can never be a woman’s equal in this world. He’ll always be her shackle. And I don’t see what could possibly be romantic about that, for either the man or the woman.”
I gulped, and looked down at my plate. The rolls had vanished, leaving only crumbs behind. Among them lay the remains of roast and veg, a sad brown mash on the white porcelain.
“Sorry,” Mr. Ratliffe said. “I suppose that wasn’t much of a question, was it?” He made a little smile, reached for the bread basket, looked in, and selected another roll. I watched, feeling dull and helpless.
“Perhaps it’s not so bad in practice,” he continued in a brighter tone. “Marriage, that is. My parents seem happy enough. Or at least, agreeably miserable.” He smiled again, as though this was some kind of joke. I looked past him to the door, wondering if he was done with his speech. Maybe I should excuse myself and skip dessert. A hint of cinnamon drifted in from the hallway. Mmm. Dessert. It wouldn’t be Rocky Road, but anything sweet was a welcome guest at my pity party.
Mr. Ratliffe lifted his chin and cocked his head to the doorway. “Hmm. Bread pudding, I think.”
More bread? And then, Congrats! You’re on a roll! Congrats! You’re on a roll!
Arg! Darn sticker! I tried in vain to think of anything else—song lyrics, the Gettysburg Address, shampoo bottle directions in French, when Mr. Ratliffe cleared his throat and adjusted the sleeve of his green plaid shirt—It matches his eyes, I noticed for the first time.
“What about your parents?” he asked. “Are they happy?”
The sticker roll’s cartoon smile bent into a frown, and was silenced.
“My parents?” I asked.
“Yes. Yours. Are they happy?” He said it again as though it were the simplest question, like “Do you enjoy apples? or “What’s your favorite color?” But how could I answer? I shifted in my seat.
“My mom seems pretty happy,” I offered, hoping that would suffice. Even so, I flinched saying it. I reached for my water glass again to stave off the rising heat in my cheeks. But only a single drop rolled down into my mouth. The cup was empty.
“And your father?” Mr. Ratliffe pressed.
I searched the room. Usually, I didn’t drink so much at dinner, but now I was wishing for a pitcher nearby to refill my glass. My tongue grew sticky. Why didn’t Mrs. Scott leave a pitcher? It was those darn rolls.
Rolls. The cartoon sticker’s eyes narrowed, and its mouth bowed into a wicked grin. A grin like Mr. Ratliffe’s. Congrats! You’re on a roll!
“My father’s not… Frank’s not…” I made a feeble attempt to speak, but the hot prickle was itching my neck again. Water. Why couldn’t I find any water?
“Sorry?” Mr. Ratliffe asked, brow furrowing. “Is Frank your father’s name?” His fingers flexed toward me, as if to make a bridge of my fragmented words.
Crumbs. Fragments of bread. Hot, dry, and coarse. I felt a warm rush to my eyes, and heard the sticker shouting, CONGRATS! YOU’RE ON A ROLL, LUCY!
I stood up. “I don’t feel good,” I think I said, and stumbling over the rug, sprinted for the bathroom. Once inside, I locked the door behind me and pressed my back to it. Water. I need water. My eyes darted to the sink. No, not that. They shifted to the shower. Yes.
I tumbled forward, tearing off my clothes and wrenching the shower handle to full blast. With a hissing burst, water sprayed from the showerhead and rang against the porcelain tub. I stepped in, ignoring the cold, and laid my naked body in the bottom of the tub. Now, I let my own tears loose, rivers and rivers of them, streaming out of my eyes and down my cheeks, joining the flow of the shower water in complete anonymity as they were carried down the drain. No one could hear me now. No one would have to. I was alone.
Gradually the tears died away and from the assaulting height of six feet above, shower drops performed acupuncture of a thousand needles on my bare flesh, leaving me still and numb. It was only then that Reason gathered my feelings into two slim volumes and placed them on the shelf of my consciousness: I was always going to miss my dad. And he was always going to be gone.
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