THE RATLIFFE HOUSE – Chapter Thirteen
THE RATLIFFE HOUSE – Chapter Thirteen
Mrs. Khumari was just coming into the hallway from the kitchen door as I exited the bathroom. “Are you finished, Miss Lucy?” she asked.
“Oh, yeah. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”
“Not at all, but I will clean your bathroom now.”
I thanked her and retreated to my room, put in my earbuds for my iPod, and laid down in my bathrobe to take a nap. When I woke up, my playlist had finished, and one of the earbuds had fallen loose. As I pulled out the other one, I heard Mrs. Khumari in the hallway talking to Mrs. Scott.
“Could you have Mr. Taggert come take a look?”
“I don’t see why not. Mrs. Ashby said he’s just finishing up at the main house.”
I shrugged and went to the bathroom in my robe to grab a few cotton balls. Mrs. Khumari was gone, and it was only four o’clock. I had plenty of time to finish my mani-pedi and let it dry before dinner. I went back to my bedroom, put my earbuds in again, and started wedging cotton balls between my toes.
I heard a man’s muffled voice in the bathroom. Must be making plans for the renovation. Weird to do it on a Saturday, though. Then I heard more voices and recognized Mr. Ratliffe’s with Mrs. Scott. I was just finishing the paint on my nails when there was a loud rap on my bedroom door.
“Miss Steppenwolf, are you there?” It was Mr. Ratliffe.
“Do you really need to bother her about this?” I heard Mrs. Scott saying. “Drains do clog, you know.”
“Yes, I do,” he said, and knocked again, saying louder, “Miss Steppenwolf?”
Yeeps. He was using my last name and boy did it sound like I was in trouble. I looked frantically around the room. I couldn’t take my robe off or put any clothes on without getting nail polish all over them.
“Just a second,” I hollered back. I yanked out my earbuds and hobbled over to the door, cotton balls still wedged between my toes. Now how was I supposed to open the door without ruining my manicure? After letting my mind run through several scenarios at lightning speed, I finally held my palms flat, squeezed the doorknob between them, and clumsily rotated them around until the door pulled open.
I hid behind the door as much as possible, hoping I might be able to avoid talking for long. But that hope vanished in a moment. Mr. Ratliffe wore a stern expression and began speaking as soon as the first sliver of my face emerged.
“Really, Miss Steppenwolf, I—what’s that smell?” he said, suddenly wrinkling up his nose and looking past me into the room.
“Nail polish?” I offered, hoping that was what he smelled and not any remnants of bug spray.
He looked back and noticed me, as I was trying to hold a hand over the open neck of my bathrobe. “What, are you not even dressed?”
“Spa day?” I suggested meekly. I hadn’t put any deodorant on yet and could feel myself breaking into a hot sweat.
“Really, Adam, couldn’t you--” Mrs. Scott started to interject. I could see her face looking distressed just over his shoulder. Another large man in overalls stood past her in the hallway.
Great, everybody’s here for the show.
“No, she needs to hear this,” Mr. Ratliffe continued, cutting her off. He thrust a plastic baggie of red hair clippings and gooey soap sludge in my face. “Is this yours?”
“Uh …” My toes squirmed as I made the connection between Mr. Taggert, the baggie, and my haircut.
“Did you or did you not read the house rules?” Mr. Ratliffe demanded.
“Yeah. I read them.”
“And did you not understand what I said about being mindful of the delicate plumbing?” he pressed.
“I did. I just thought it meant not to flush, um … certain things down the toilet,” I finally said.
The faces of all three stared back at me, with varying degrees of understanding.
The voice of the man in overalls emerged first in a rumbling bass. “She’s right, y’know. Them tampons’ll wreak havoc on the sewer line.”
I could see Mr. Ratliffe starting to turn red enough to match his plaid shirt, though whether from impatience or embarrassment I couldn’t tell. He began with, “Yes, well, what I meant was—” but Mr. Taggert cut him off.
“You see, miss, soap and water, that’s about all you can put down these old pipes. So next time, what you do is, when you’re wantin’ to trim your hair or nails or what-not, you lay a flannel in the sink, see? Lay a flannel in the sink, and then clip your trimmin’s into the flannel so’s they don’t go down the drain. Then you can shake ’em into the rubbish bin afterwards, just like y’do with your tampons.” He finished with pleased smile, as though he’d just delivered some friendly advice.
I had only one thought as I stood there, enduring the single most embarrassing moment of my entire life: I will die, absolutely die right here in my bathrobe, if one more person says the word “tampons” to me. I cast pleading eyes at Mrs. Scott, who took the cue.
“Well then,” she said loudly, “now that we all understand each other, we can have a nice cup of tea. You’ll join us, won’t you, Mr. Taggert?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” he rumbled, tucking his thumbs behind his overall straps.
“And I’ll dispose of this,” she said, reaching around Mr. Ratliffe and snatching the plastic baggie from his hand.
“Right. Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Scott.” He turned to follow her, then looked back to me, giving my face a little once-over as if searching for my missing hair.
I pulled my robe a little tighter, forgetting my nails. “Anything else?”
He seemed to remember himself. “No. No, so long as we’re clear about the… pipes.”
“Crystal.”
“Good. Yes. Crystal clear pipes. That’s the idea.”
We stared at each other. He passed his tongue between his lips, like he was going to say something else, but Mrs. Scott called him from the kitchen. He mumbled an “excuse me” as he turned and left. I scowled at his back and closed the door.
Psh. Typical man.
I slid down to the floor and let the back of my head rest against the wall. Was it going to be every little thing with this guy? It’s not like I was trying to clog his drains out of spite. Though it was tempting. I looked down at my nails. Ruined. And I didn’t have any polish remover to start over again. I felt the match inside me growing hot and painful, full of embarrassment and misery. Arg! Stupid Mr. Ratliffe with his stupid rules! I could be having a perfectly decent summer if it wasn’t for him. His apologetic look flashed in my memory for a moment, but I flicked it away. If he felt embarrassed, he deserved it. I wasn’t going to cut him any slack. As for my nails… I got up, grabbed my bottle of polish, and sat myself back on the bed. I would just paint over them with a second coat … or a third. Enough black covers everything.
###
Dinner was a silent truce, and, after my nap, I was in no mood for an early bedtime. I stayed up late, listening to the fan upstairs and some quiet music on my laptop, messaging back and forth with Trish. Of course, I had to give her the whole scoop on that afternoon’s events.
L: So … yeah. That’s what happened.
T: Man. Are you sure this is worth it?
L: What?
T: Being in England. I mean, a summer with your mom and Frank seems like a real vacation compared to Mr. Grumpus over there.
L: I dunno. I like my classes ok.
L: Enough about me. How’re you? How’s the glamorous life of a full-time journalist?
T: Ha ha. Boring. Stressful.
L: So, not cool?
T: It’s ok. Keeps my mind off things.
L: Meeting anyone fun?
T: The copy room guys are pretty hilarious.
L: Dateable?
T: No. Everyone stays away from them.
L: Mailroom?
T: Worse.
T: Forget about it.
T: Hey where did you go for field trip today?
L: Westminster Abbey. You know, Poets’ Corner graves and all that.
T: That is so awesome! Did you see any ghosts?
L: Um, saw a lot of pale tourists. Does that count?
T: Not really.
T: You should totally visit some graveyards though. England has the best ghosts. Famous ones.
L: Yeah um once again not really my thing.
T: I know but promise me you’ll go on a ghost tour or something before you leave.
L: I’d love to but $$$
T: Oh right. Broke life.
L: Yeah. I even had to cut my own hair, remember?
T: Harsh.
All of a sudden, I noticed that the fan sound upstairs had stopped. I heard the sound of something being dragged along the floor, and then a hard heavy bang.
L: Uh … there are weird sounds coming from upstairs.
T: Really? Right now?
T: Maybe it’s a ghost!
L: Trish, c’mon.
T: Do you have a better explanation?
L: …
I listened, heard another bang, and then silence.
L: It stopped.
L: He’s probably just rearranging furniture.
T: Who, the ghost? Or the old guy?
L: Ratliffe.
L: And btw he’s not that old.
L: I saw some tech magazine the other day that said he’s only 28.
T: What’s he doing in a tech magazine?
L: That’s his job, I guess. Some kind of software developer?
T: That’s kind of cool.
L: No, not cool. Boring.
T: Fine. But he’s still old, for sure. Compared to us.
L: I guess.
T: So… is he hot?
L: TRISH!
T: Just wondering.
L: You’re the worst.
T: For real though! Your housemate might be one of England’s most eligible bachelors.
L: Uh, maybe to people who have never met him.
L: He has the personality of a cardboard box. A grumpy cardboard box.
L: I mean it. I don’t know a single woman who would put up with that for more than five minutes.
T: I’m just saying. For the right size wallet, some women will put up with a lot.
L: No size wallet can compensate for this, trust me.
T: So he doesn’t have a girlfriend?
L: I don’t think so. If so, I’ve never seen her.
L: He seems to hate women too much to have a relationship with one.
T: He has you. *wink*
L: Ha. I’m the real light of his life.
T: LOL. You’re his little flamethrower.
L: ROTFL!!!
T: Seriously, it’s so cute how you torture him. Clogging the pipes so he can see you in a bathrobe? Genius.
L: Trish! You’re awful.
T: You know I’m just joking. :-) Besides, if he’s as bad as you say, he deserves it.
L: Agree. Total just desserts.
L: Anyway, it’s past midnight here. I gotta go.
T: Got it. ’Nite
I put the laptop on sleep mode and curled up in bed, grinning but feeling a little guilty. I hoped Mr. Ratliffe didn’t actually think I had clogged the pipes on purpose. But did he? Ugh. Not that there was any point in me apologizing. He’d probably just make some sexist remark about women’s vanity. Not worth it.
Soft rain began rattling against the window pane, replacing my usual soundtrack of the swooshing upstairs fan, which had ceased. I guess he turned it off since it’s cooler tonight. I pulled the quilt up closer to my chin. I imagined him padding around up there in his pajamas. He probably wears plaid ones, just like his shirts. I’ll bet he even irons them before bed, or something weird like that. I closed my eyes, and Mr. Ratliffe’s apologetic face appeared again, then faded to the smiling portrait in the magazine. Which one was the real Adam Ratliffe? And would I ever know? I drifted off to sleep, plaid patterns cross-crossing my subconscious.
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