THE RATLIFFE HOUSE – Chapter Seventeen
THE RATLIFFE HOUSE – Chapter Seventeen
For the next few days, I hit the books hard. Determined not to give anyone the impression that my Keats paper was my typical output, I did extra research, double-checked sources, and poured myself into tutorial discussion and my next essay. Mr. Ratliffe, the plaid-shirted sphinx, was apparently working on a big project for a new client, according to Mrs. Scott. The net result being was he was absent from dinner for the next few nights and I had quiet, if not peace. By Friday I was almost missing his “conversations,” if you could call them that. The vase above the mantel had been taken away as the roses bloomed and faded, and the afternoons had become dark and rainy.
Saturday was a bright spot with our class excursion into London to visit the British Library. Our group met early at the Wickwood station downtown and took the train into the city, then walked to the Library, an enormous, multi-story monolith of red brick and glass. A friendly female librarian in a navy-blue pantsuit led the way upstairs to the Treasures Gallery, a museum-like display of books and ephemera, all in glass cases. We were given free rein to follow our individual interests, and alone again, I amused myself by examining the different sketches and journals on display. One item, a letter written in a long, soft, looping hand, caught my eye. “Letter from Ada Lovelace to Charles Babbage 1869,” said the card accompanying it.
Where had I heard that name before? I read on.
“Ada Lovelace was the daughter of Lord Byron.”
The poet? The card said she had been educated as a mathematician and had collaborated on some kind of early computer program. In the 1800s?
“Fascinating, isn’t it?” came Dr. Mosely’s voice over my shoulder. “That poetry and programming could be such near relatives. The precise calculation of syntax to render an outcome. And yet we so often perceive the two as worlds apart.” He gave me one of those grandfatherly smiles and moved on to another exhibit. Kevin, Olivia, and Allegra wandered over to me.
“Lame,” said Kevin as Dr. Mosely moved out of earshot. He tugged at the popped collar of his teal polo shirt. “I thought we were actually going to see something cool on these field trips.”
“We can get an Oyster Card at the station when we leave,” suggested Allegra, swooping her dark hair over her shoulder. “Then we could come back to the city tonight.”
“I already have one,” Olivia said. Her freckled nose, always slightly upturned, rose incrementally higher.
“Cool. Whaddya say, Lucy? You wanna come party with us tonight?” Kevin offered.
My heart sank. This was the first time I’d been invited to do something with my classmates, but I knew a train pass and a night of clubbing was probably way more than my thin wallet could tolerate.
“Sorry. I really have to work on my next essay. I didn’t get a good grade on my last one,” I said, feeling the disappointment sink in.
I noticed the edges of a self-satisfied smile creep onto Olivia’s lips, and Allegra, who seemed to have the attention span of a gnat, wandered to a neighboring exhibit. But Kevin’s look was sympathetic. “Yeah, that Ms. Price is harsh. Olivia bombed her essay too.” Olivia’s smile vanished as she shot a dirty look at the back of Kevin’s head.
“Maybe next time,” I offered, knowing it was a lie. “You guys have fun though.”
“Come on, Kevin,” Olivia said, turning a cold shoulder to me and leading him to Allegra at the Beatles exhibit.
In the Special Collections room we visited afterward, I made sure I was extra careful with the different copies of Pride and Prejudice we were allowed to touch. I definitely did not want a repeat of the Jane Eyre incident. I was still kind of surprised that Mr. Ratliffe hadn’t said anything about that. Maybe he’d been too distracted by work.
At lunchtime in the café downstairs, I sat with Annisa, and we had a fun chat about her flatmates and her job on campus. “You could get a job too,” she said. “I think all you need is documentation.”
I thought about the idea. It would be something to do, and I could earn some money—maybe actually get out and have some fun. At the very least I would be around some people other than Mr. Ratliffe. As our class rode the crowded train back to Wickwood, I watched Kevin and the girls at the other end of the carriage. Kevin, with those impossibly white teeth and that golden tan skin. A guy that hot had actually asked me to hang out with him and I had said no! Even if I’d had to share the evening with sourpuss Olivia and her airheaded bestie, chirping away in their sophisticated British accents, it would have been better than a lonely night reading in my room. Well, probably anyway.
I slumped in my seat, and consoled myself with the dim hope of a campus job. Maybe then I wouldn’t have to say no next time after all. When the train arrived, I waved goodbye to Annisa, who had spent the ride back catching up on some reading, and hurried to the house. Once inside, I settled in at my desk and started clicking around on the internet, researching the visa I’d need to get a campus job. So much for that idea. Turned out I should have done the paperwork at home. Now it was too late and cost too much money.
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The next morning, I took myself for my regular walk downtown to window shop and get a coffee. There was a quaint little gift shop in the town center where I stopped in to find a postcard for Pops and Gran. I finally chose one with a cartoon map of England for them, and one of Poets’ Corner for Trish. She’d gone completely absent from Instant Messenger since meeting her mystery person last Wednesday. I was starting to wonder what had happened to her, and the worry nibbled at the corner of my mind, along with the loneliness settling in. I kept picturing Kevin, Olivia, and Allegra dancing at a club somewhere in London, having the time of their lives, or even Annisa hanging out with her flatmates, having one of their board game marathons. I just wanted somebody to talk to. Anyone at all.
As I waited in line at the coffee shop for my order, I noticed the sky outside beginning to darken. Dang it. I hadn’t remembered to bring an umbrella, and the thin cotton hoodie I was wearing over my shirt and jeans would offer little protection from the rain. The sun peeked from between the clouds as the barista called my name, but it quickly slid away as the sky opened up into a solid downpour.
I lingered at an empty table under the awning, taking long slow sips of the bitter brew, but the rain showed no signs of stopping. I would have to spend the next hour or more sitting by myself in a vacant café or get soaked running back to the house. Finally, I tossed the dregs of the coffee and girded myself, tucking the postcards deep in my kangaroo pocket and pulling the hood low over my head. With a deep breath, I ran out into the rain.
As if with spite, the downpour only increased as I made my awkward jog through the wet streets. My jeans stuck to each other, the heavy fabric weighing down my legs, and my sneakers squished with every step. Trees along the lane to the Ratliffe House gave little shelter as bouts of wind shoved their branches, shaking every possible drop on me. By the time I arrived at the front step, I was soaked to the bone. I pressed myself against the house, fumbling in my thick wet pocket for the house key.
Once in my room, I tossed the blue-ribboned key in the bedside drawer and then reached into my hoodie’s pocket to gingerly extract the postcards. But what came out was a pulpy mess—the cards were glued together from the rain. As I dumped them in the trash, I realized I’d forgotten to buy stamps anyway.
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A hot shower did little to take away the chill of the rainy afternoon. I toweled off and went back to the bedroom for some dry clothes, haunted by my thoughts. I should’ve just stayed at the café. At least there were people to look at there. The house was silent and empty, like it was waiting for something. Is this the kind of life Mr. Ratliffe likes?Everything still and silent, preserved like a tomb. Unchanging. Measured. Perfectly aligned.
My heart chafed against the inaction of it, the silence, the dullness, the loneliness, the cold. Everything here was frozen in time, all touched by memories of the past—past students, who had slept in my bed and at eaten at that worn green table—merging with my own memories of my mom and my dad. What was the point? I came here to forget about all that in a heat of summer activity, not live in Mr. Ratliffe’s Antarctica Exhibit. But I guessed the past was what he liked. And me? I was just a force of chaos, the foreign object in his perfectly ordered ecosystem. I’ll bet he hates having me here. I’ll bet he wishes I was gone, so he could go back to his stupid computers and his stupid boring life and have everything exactly the way he wants. I’ll bet he hates me.
I went to the bed and pulled the covers around me, tucking myself into a ball. As my mind soured and my body shivered, a little voice sprang up inside me. You could call your mom. My eyes instinctively went to the little red cell phone by my bed. She’d be glad to talk to you. You could tell her everything. In fact, she’d be more than happy to bring you back home. I felt myself drawn to it. I mean, she wouldn’t be glad about me living off campus but I could spin it like I had no choice and needed her help to get out. There was nothing more my mom liked than to feel needed. Any crisis had her name written all over it. That’s why she was the boss lady. And me? I was just a kid.
Wait a minute. I’m not a kid! This is my adventure, and I’m not going to let anyone ruin it. A sudden draft made me shiver again and pull the bed quilt tighter around me. You know what? I don’t have to put up with this.
I got up and went over to the dresser, digging through it until I found my dad’s old college sweatshirt. It was oversized and worn, but comforting and cozy. I pulled the soft fleece over my head and snuggled it around me. That was better, but not best. Squaring my shoulders, I marched out into the hallway to take a look at the thermostat. Eighteen degrees Celsius. I tried to remember what that converted to in Fahrenheit. Well, whatever it was, it wasn’t warm enough for me. Mr. Ratliffe’s rule drifted into my consciousness: “Please do not disturb the thermostat.” I brushed it aside. Screw him. I had a right to be comfortable. Besides, there was no one else here. Who was I really bothering?
My mind made up, I tapped the little plus sign on the side of the thermostat and set it to nineteen degrees. That’s better. But then I wondered if that would be enough to make a difference. Maybe I should bump it up to, say, twenty-one degrees? Yeah, I’ll heat things up fast and then turn it back down later. After all, I figured, if anyone else knew how cold it was in here, they probably would have turned it up themselves.
Satisfied, I went back to my room, bundled up in my quilt again, and settled in with a copy of Collected Poems of Samuel Taylor Coleridge. I kept the door cracked a bit so I could hear if anyone came in the house, and promised myself that I would keep an eye on the clock to be sure I turned down the temperature in half an hour at most.
And like most of my well-laid plans that summer, it quickly went awry.
Without the distraction of shivering cold, I became immersed in the book of poetry. I was in the middle of “This Lime Tree Bower My Prison” when I heard the creak of the kitchen door, and Mrs. Scott thanking Mr. Ratliffe for helping her bring in the groceries. My eyes flew to the clock. 3:00 p.m. Yipes! I’d been reading for over an hour and was suddenly aware of how warm the room had become. I threw off the blanket and tiptoed to my door, then out to the thermostat. Twenty-two degrees. What? I frantically pushed the minus button on the side, muttering “Eighteen, eighteen, eighteen!” The screen blinked, flashed eighteen, and blinked again showing twenty-two. No!
“Rather warm in here, isn’t it?” I could hear Adam saying in the kitchen. I looked at the thermostat again. Twenty-one degrees. Okay, it was starting to cool off.
“I think it’s comfortable, myself,” she replied over the crunching of paper grocery bags.
I could feel myself sweating now. Maybe if I just hide in my room, they’ll think it’s a problem with the heater. Yep, hiding seemed like the best idea. I tiptoed back to my room and closed the door softly behind me. I quickly went and sat at my computer to distract myself.
I heard Mr. Ratliffe’s heavy footsteps in the hallway just outside my door.
“Twenty degrees! Mrs. Scott, did you turn the heat to twenty degrees?” he asked.
“No, of course not,” she called back from the kitchen.
“It says twenty.”
“Perhaps something’s wrong with it.”
“It’s new. There’s nothing wrong with it.”
“Just because it’s new doesn’t mean it’s not broken,” she retorted.
“Ridiculous. Sweaty and wasteful,” I heard him mutter.
I shrank inside my sweatshirt and squeezed my eyes shut. Walk away, please walk away.
I heard a knock at my door and held my breath.
“Miss Steppenwolf? Miss Steppenwolf, are you there?”
Oh no. I had really stepped in it this time. I chewed my lip. Okay, choices. I had choices.
I could open the window, jump out, tuck and tumble across the lawn, then come in from the front door, making it seem like I’d been gone the whole time. Except then I’d get wet again, and he’d probably hear me opening the window.
I could play dead. I would just be very, very quiet, like an opossum, and he’d give up and go away. Except the light was on in here, and he’d probably send in Mrs. Scott to see if I was okay. So that wouldn’t change anything.
Or I could face the beast. Remember, you don’t have to put up with this, the little voice said inside me. Yeah, that’s right. I had to live here too. What was I hiding for? Mr. Ratliffe was stuck with me, and he was just going to have to deal with it. I shoved down the butterflies in my stomach and strutted over to the door, opening it with as much confidence as I could muster. I’d show him I couldn’t be pushed around by his stupid rules.
But the sight of him took me by surprise. He looked completely exhausted. His chin and cheeks were full of bristle, and his eyes were bloodshot with dark circles around them. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.
“Miss Ratliffe, did you adjust the thermostat?” he asked wearily.
“Huh?” The address threw me off.
“Did you change the temperature on the thermostat?” he repeated, slower this time.
“Yeah. I’m sorry, I mean … you just called me Miss Ratliffe.”
“What?”
“It’s Steppenwolf.”
“That’s what I …” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Miss Steppenwolf, did you adjust the thermostat?”
“Oh that? Yeah. It was really cold in here and no one was home, so I just bumped it up a little.”
He flattened his lips and looked me over, his eyes fixing on my oversized sweatshirt. Is he looking at my boobs? I crossed my arms over my chest and tried to look all business. He sighed and gestured toward the other side of the house.
“Would you come with me, please?”
My curiosity overcame any fear I might have had as I followed him down the hallway to the doorway that led up to the stairs. Am I about to see the inner sanctum? I was contemplating whether I should accept an invitation to go up or find an excuse to stay downstairs when he opened the door. A blast of hot air rang against my cheeks, flowing down from the stairwell.
“Miss Steppenwolf, I had asked you not to adjust the thermostat because when it becomes overly warm downstairs, it becomes unbearably hot upstairs. Now, I have been working a lot of hours over the last several days and was looking forward to some much-needed sleep. But you can see,” he gestured to the upstairs, “that will be quite impossible now.”
My confidence melted into shame as I looked into his weary eyes, realizing what I’d done. “I’m sorry,” I muttered, looking away. “I just wanted to be comfortable.”
“Well, I’d like to be comfortable too,” he responded. “Now I know this is all some sort of summer holiday to you, but this is my home and my office. I need you to respect that.”
My shoulders stiffened at the word “respect.” I knew this script. I’d heard my mom say it before too. It was the “your feelings have no place here” line. This was my cue to roll over and show submission.
“Yes, sir,” I said, keeping my eyes down, feeling the resentment beginning to simmer in my belly.
“Sir?” He repeated like it was the most absurd thing he’d heard in a week. “Oh, come off it, Miss Steppenwolf. I’m not your lord and master. And don’t go acting like I’ve just boxed your ears.”
The simmer became a rolling boil. “I don’t know what you want,” I snapped.
Mr. Ratliffe was stolid. “I thought that was clear. I did give you a list.”
That really set me off. “Yeah, well, I’m not perfect, okay? I know you don’t like women, and I know you don’t like me. I’m sorry. This isn’t what I signed up for. This isn’t a ‘vacation’ for me.”
“Is that so?” he said, sliding his hands into his pockets. His eyebrows rose and he gave me an even look. “Well then, what is it?”
A nightmare, I thought, clenching my jaw, but said nothing.
“Go on,” he said, his green eyes set on mine. “Clearly you don’t think much of me. And this house. And your experience here. Really, are you that miserable?”
I realized then I had gone way overboard this time, making a personal insult over a trivial request. Now I didn’t just look careless. I looked cruel. My cheeks, first burning from the heat flowing downstairs, now burned with shame.
My heart swelled, urging me to apologize. Mr. Ratliffe, despite my words, didn’t look angry. Hurt, maybe. He had every right to be.
Oh, if only I could explain! If only I could tell him how trapped I felt, doomed to travel the treadmill of life and spend every hour wasting away, doing school, doing a job, doing whatever other people wanted without having a say for myself. That I didn’t want to hurt him, or my mom, or my dad’s wishes. Not really. I just wanted a chance to be free, and it seemed like every time I tried to escape, I only bound myself tighter.
But could I trust him?
“Well?” Mr. Ratliffe asked again. The shadow of the door made the circles under his eyes appear even darker. I could tell how tired he was, and now I was here making him wait for me.
Just say it, Lucy, I urged myself. Say you’re sorry. Say you’re having a bad time here but it’s not his fault. You know it’s not his fault, right?
And that was the sticking point. A lump rose in my throat. I opened my mouth, but it was too much—too much to say, too much to explain. I could only look away and shake my head while my shame cooled into despondence.
“Then I suppose we have nothing more to discuss. I’ll have to go and open a window or something,” he said, starting up the stairs. It was hard to miss the note of disappointment in his weary voice, which only drove the knife deeper.
I don’t know how I got back to my room, or ended up seated on the bed facing the window. I don’t know how long I sat there, watching the rain. I only know that long after the clouds had parted and drops ceased rolling down the window, tears were still rolling down my face. It wasn’t Mr. Ratliffe’s fault. None of it. It was mine, all mine.
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