THE RATLIFFE HOUSE – Chapter Nineteen
THE RATLIFFE HOUSE – Chapter Nineteen
When dinnertime came, I had rehearsed my apology a thousand times, hoping the repetition would work some kind of charm for its success and my peace of mind. But what made me increasingly nervous was not my choice of words, but Mr. Ratliffe’s choice of reaction, which remained solidly in my blind spot. Would he accept graciously and wipe the slate? Laugh and make a PMS joke? Thank me for the apology but ask me to move out? Well, I decided, if he says something about tampons, I’ll move myself out.
I was so deep in running through imaginary scenarios that I almost jumped out of my chair when Mrs. Scott knocked to announce dinner. I followed her down the hall, shoulders pinched with tension, and took a deep breath before I turned in to the dining room, expecting to encounter Mr. Ratliffe for the great Moment of Truth.
Except his seat was empty.
“Mr. Ratliffe should be along shortly, dear,” Mrs. Scott said coming in from behind me. She set a plate of steaming lamb shank at my place setting, but none for Mr. Ratliffe. “He said he had to fetch something in town. I’ll bring along some Yorkshire Pudding in a moment,” she added on her way out of the room.
I sank into my chair, the folds of my dad’s giant sweatshirt settling in around me. Great, more suspense. Could I not just get this over with? I stared at the steaming shank, its gamey scent beckoning me toward the plate. I had just grasped my fork and knife when I heard a sound from the front door. Mrs. Scott’s quick, shuffling step hurried to meet it.
“There you are. Dinner’s just served,” I heard her say. “I’ll take that package for you.”
“No, thank you,” the smooth tenor replied. “It’s for Miss Lucy. I’ll give it to her.”
My mind began to race. What kind of package could he have for me? Maybe something from my mom? Or had he bought me something? Maybe it’s a suitcase. I envisioned him shoving it at me and saying, “Pack your bags and get out, Miss Steppenwolf.” Oh boy. I had misread him after all. It was over for sure, and right now, too!
I was staring at my lamb in a full-blown panic with knife and fork in hand when Mr. Ratliffe walked in. His face was still scruffy but he didn’t have that bleary-eyed look anymore. He held a green shopping bag in one hand. He glanced at me, then at the plate.
“It’s just lamb, you know. Not going to jump off the plate at you.” He grinned.
I realized how I must look and quickly dropped my cutlery and pulled my sweaty hands into my lap, feeling my cheeks grow pink.
He cleared his throat. “That was only a … the way you were looking at it … I didn’t mean to …” His voice trailed off, and he patted the bag absent-mindedly, eyebrows descending from amusement to … concern? Why is he concerned?
“This is for you,” he finally said, thrusting the bag toward me.
I awkwardly took it and held it in my lap, unsure of what to do now.
“You can open it,” Mr. Ratliffe said, seating himself. “Please?” he added after glancing to my terrified face.
I gulped and forced myself to peel the plastic bag from around whatever was inside. There, in a clear vinyl pouch, was a neatly-folded pink plaid cloth. The label read “Premium Electric Blanket: 3 Heat Settings, Automatic Shut-Off.”
Is this some kind of joke? How am I supposed to use an electric blanket when I’m sleeping on a park bench? I was trying to make sense of it all when Mr. Ratliffe spoke again.
“Mrs. Scott brought to my attention that your room, being the last not yet renovated, may be draftier than the other parts of the house. I know we both want to be comfortable, so I thought that might help.” He paused and seemed to be scanning me for a sense of approval. “Do you think that could work?”
Wait. He wants me to stay? My heart started beating again. I get to stay! “Yeah, that’s … thank you so much. I can pay you back—”
He waved his hand. “No, no. It’s a gift. An olive branch, I suppose. I’m only … I hadn’t realized you were …” Mr. Ratliffe took a deep breath, and his eyebrows furrowed again. “Upon reflection, I realized I may have contributed to you feeling rather … uncomfortable here. That was certainly not my intent. I’m not angry at you, Miss Lucy. I don’t dislike you. In my own way, I was trying to make you feel welcome by avoiding any pretense or ridiculous small talk. In short, I was being myself, and myself may be a bit of an arse.”
A faint smile curled at the corners of his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he continued, “and I suppose you’ve tolerated it rather well, in that you haven’t told me to shut up yet as I would have expected. Mrs. Scott says it’s not the habit of Americans to do so, though I’m not sure I believe her.” He seemed to have regained his confidence as he talked, and his brow began to relax. He pointed to the packaged blanket I was still holding in my lap. “You know, you don’t have to hold onto that all evening,” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice.
“Oh, right.” I looked around, then set the package in the empty chair next to me, giddy with relief.
Mrs. Scott came in with Mr. Ratliffe’s plate and a basket of steaming popovers, glanced at the blanket, and beamed at him. He didn’t appear to notice her approval at all. She left the room, humming to herself, and Mr. Ratliffe began to cut into his lamb. I took the cue and followed suit, picking up my knife and fork again while I tried to think of a good icebreaker. I had to come up with something if we going to keep dinner conversation for another four weeks.
I was saved from the awkwardness when he pointed to my sweatshirt. “I thought you were at Northwestern.”
I glanced down. Faded gold letters spelled out LOYOLA across the front of the burgundy fleece. I blushed as I suddenly realized the logo was probably what he’d been looking at earlier—not my boobs.
“Oh, yeah. I am. This was my dad’s.”
“Ah.”
We chewed in silence for a moment, and I was grateful he didn’t ask more about my dad. Maybe Mrs. Scott had told him about the deathaversary last weekend. Mr. Ratliffe took a serving of mint jelly from a dish and passed it to me, then reached for the basket of popovers.
“Yorkshire Pudding?” he asked, titling the basket toward me.
I craned my neck to examine the popovers. They didn’t look sugared or anything special. Still, since Mr. Ratliffe was waiting, I reached in and took one of the puffy pastries. One bite confirmed my suspicion: they were nothing but bread. So, there’s pudding that’s dessert and pudding that’s not dessert, but neither one is actually pudding. I shook my head a little. Just when I thought I had it figured out.
Mr. Ratliffe and I chewed on in silence for a moment, but it was a pleasant silence, not an awkward one. The Yorkshire pudding, despite not being pudding, was crisp and tasty, and a nice compliment to the roasted lamb. Presently, Mr. Ratliffe made another attempt at conversation.
“Do you have any flatmates at your university? At Northwestern, that is,” he added with a cautious smile.
Oh. A joke. I smiled back, unused to small talk with Mr. Ratliffe, but reassured of his good intentions by the blanket beside me. It was kind of nice seeing him be friendly.
“Well, I did,” I said. “Kind of. The dorm I was in last year was apartment style. Four bedrooms and one common space,” I held my hands apart to show him. “The common space had a living room with some furniture and a kitchen. We had a bathroom to share for each side, but the it was just one person per bedroom. It was a really nice dorm, practically brand new. But my roommates weren’t there a lot. The girl beside me moved into her sorority house halfway through the year, and the other two ....”
I drifted off. I didn’t want to wear out Mr. Ratliffe’s patience with college girl drama, so I took a sip of water. I was surprised when I looked up from my glass to see him waiting patiently, fork and knife together, his expression pleasant and open.
“And the other two?” he repeated.
Oh. He’s actually interested. I guess I can humor him. “So, one of them, Leila, was really into campus activism, and she was always gone at meetings and protests and stuff. She had invited me to join her at an animal rights demonstration the first week we moved in but I didn’t go, and after that I think she kind of wrote me off as a ‘cog in the system’ or whatever.”
Mr. Ratliffe looked amused at this, so I continued. “Plus, she got mad whenever I left anything with meat in the fridge, so I kind of avoided her. The other one, Janie, was practically engaged so she spent most of her time with her boyfriend at his place. I think the only reason she even had a room in our dorm was because her scholarship paid for it. I probably saw her, like, a total of five times all year long.”
I paused, trying to picture something distinguishing about her besides the high-pitched giggle I’d hear when she came in late at night. Was her hair mousy brown, or dirty blonde? Maybe it was brown, but she got highlights later? I shrugged and picked up my fork again. “I don’t even think I’d recognize her in a line-up.”
Mr. Ratliffe helped himself to another Yorkshire Pudding. “What about at home? You have brothers or sisters?”
“Nope,” I said as I cut another piece of lamb. “No siblings. Just me and my mom.”
“So, you’re alone often?”
“The benefits of being an only child,” I said with a rueful smile.
“I see.”
Mr. Ratliffe looked thoughtful as he chewed the last bite of his lamb. I hope he doesn’t feel sorry for me. I pretended to laugh and added, “Some people would say I’m a spoiled only child.”
“Used to having your own way?”
My cheeks flushed. “Maybe.” I felt my stomach tightening again.
Mr. Ratliffe’s eyebrows widened as he seemed to perceive my anxiety. “Don’t worry, the same could be said for me. All my bad bachelor habits and such. The staff don’t mind much, but I think we can all agree it’s been a bit counterproductive for my unexpected role as host.” He chuckled a little. “Though I don’t much care for that term, ‘host.’ Sounds rather stuffy and self-important, don’t you think?”
I smiled back a little, and noticed that Mr. Ratliffe’s eyes, always green, were somehow greener when they were merry. The knot in my stomach began to relax. I felt less anxious now, but was almost shy at his new, more affable way of speaking. I never enjoyed being his debate partner, but was entirely unprepared to be treated this sociably.
“No, I don’t like it at all,” he went on, grinning. “You as guest and I as host, a gulf of bad habits and misunderstandings always between us. I think we should set on something more … equal. Housemates, perhaps. What do you say to that, Miss Lucy?”
“To what exactly?” I asked, cautiously.
“To a clean slate,” he said, with an earnest look. “I know this residency situation was rather unexpected for both of us, but I’m willing to give it another try, a better try. That is, what I suppose I’m asking, since I never did before, is, would you like to be my housemate, Miss Lucy?”
For some reason, I felt my cheeks growing warm again, but I pushed past the sensation.
“Yes,” I said, still feeling shy, and after a pause added, “Thank you.”
Was it relief, or gratification, that danced across his face that moment? I couldn’t tell, because it was quickly replaced with merriment again. The green eyes twinkled, and Mr. Ratliffe reached for his glass of water.
“I propose a toast,” he said, raising his glass. “To housemates.”
Boy, he’s in rare form tonight. Probably still short a few hours of sleep. Still, the grin on his face was hard to resist. I reached for my own glass, never one to say no to a good time.
“To housemates,” I echoed.
We clinked glasses, and the whole thing felt ridiculous and cheesy and great. Housemates. That meant I belonged here now; no more “just visiting” like a Monopoly token on the outskirts of Jail. With newfound confidence, I reached over and helped myself to another Yorkshire Pudding while Mr. Ratliffe finished off his lamb. I watched with interest as he sawed off another piece and fed it to himself with his left hand, prongs down. I had to hand it to these British folks; their mealtime coordination was impressive. If I tried to feed myself left-handed, I’d probably stab myself in the eye.
Now seemed like a good time for me to step up to bat in the conversation. Still feeling shy, I tried to pick an easy topic. Something housemate-worthy. Finally, an idea popped in my head.
“Have you had other roommates before?”
Mr. Ratliffe looked happily surprised that I had spoken. He finished chewing, wiped his face with a napkin, and laid down his silverware.
“Several, in fact,” he replied. “At uni and camps, that sort of thing. But none of them came close to my first and worst: my brother Geoffrey. We had to share a room once when we were children. My mother’s an anthropologist, you know. She thought it would be a wonderful experiment to ‘facilitate the primitive stages of bonding.’”
I stopped nibbling my popover long enough to ask, “Did it work?”
Mr. Ratliffe made a comic sniff. “She got the primitive part right. We threw everything at each other short of the furniture, and once Geoffrey was big enough to lift the desk chairs, she decided the experiment was over and that we had ‘evolved to the state of establishing individual territories.’ So that’s when we got our own rooms.”
I giggled, and he looked pleased. “So do you guys stay in touch?” I asked when my laughter had subsided.
“Oh, yes. He lives just down the road. We weren’t always so close, but some things made that necessary. Anyway, you didn’t think the staff have enough to do around here for me alone?”
“I dunno.”
He chuckled. “That would be rather posh, wouldn’t it? But no, I’m afraid I’m a very small part of their daily activities. The other house requires a great deal more upkeep. In fact, I rarely received such good dinners as this until you came along. I think Mrs. Ashby enjoys having someone who appreciates her skill, rather than old me, who’d just as soon subsist on cold chicken and warmed-over stews.”
We talked on, swapping stories about crazy roommates and weird dorms over dessert. Finally, Mrs. Scott came in to fuss at us for keeping her so late to do the dishes. But it was hard to miss the pleased look on her face.
That night, cozied up under my electric blanket while listening to the soft whir of the fan upstairs, I closed my eyes and let all the crisscrossing thoughts of the day come to rest. One thought, light as a feather, settled with so soft a touch it almost didn’t register. You never told him you were sorry. But sleep was coming on heavy, and my senses were dulled. I rolled over, released a light breath, and watched the feather float away to settle in some darker corner. Oh well. We got along now. That was all that mattered.
And then, I gave in to slumber.
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