Never forget, this is for @jammeke.
I have begun posting this to FictionPress. (It’s not caught up with all my postings here, yet)
Find the earlier bits here on my tumblr.
Part XIII - The Day Of
Toronto – some weeks later - Ada Covington pressed the accelerator down in her elder brother Roger’s pickup, trying to lose the cars, and several motorcycles’ worth of paparazzi, now in swift pursuit of her on the QEW.
Her eyes stung with tears she was doing her best to hold back, and prevent them from impeding her ability to drive, leaving her eyesight clear enough to show her that she hadn’t enough gas in the pickup’s dual tanks to evade them for long—certainly not enough to get back to the relative privacy of the farm without stopping to fill-up.
She could not stand the idea of pulling into a gas station only for them further mob her there.
She needed, and quickly, to find a restricted, non-public space they couldn’t follow her into, a friends’ house—not the law offices—she couldn’t stand being trapped in them for even ten minutes longer. But she knew no one in the city.
She sped past a billboard advertising the University, and had to correct herself. Yes, she winced, she did know someone.
Conrad Bierkut was not usually home at his townhouse this time of day, but circumstances had conspired for him to need a plumber, and so here he was, waiting.
When his bell rang, he had expected it to be said plumber. Not at all a very upset Ada Covington, her jacket pulled up over her head like a murder suspect trying to avoid the press.
“Ada!” he exclaimed, upon opening his front door. It had been some weeks since he had silently excused himself from her farm following the explosive (and seemingly intimate, or post-intimate) pictures of them running in the Sun tabloid. He had no false illusions that she had any wish to ever encounter him again, though their day in court was soon to arrive.
“Please,” she said, “please—I beg you—have me in, quick as you can—“
“Yes. Yes!” he agreed, moving to the side so she could dive into his short front hall.
“Are you—is everything alright?” he asked as he shut the door.
“Yes. No. I mean—of course not. Why else would I come here, without even trying to contact you for an invitation?"
Conrad restrained himself (not without feeling the unintentional humor in her question) from reminding her of him being in that self-same situation arriving at her farm one rainy night not so long ago.
"They’ve been at chasing me for almost an hour. I could think of nowhere else to go, and Roger’s truck needed gas. I—it’s outside. Probably not parked very well.”
Conrad looked out through his front door's Judas window to the street beyond. She was right. Roger's truck was not parked very well, but it was so large with its doubled rear tires and wide bed it was at least partially shielding his townhouse’s front from the photogs camped-out in the small neighborhood park located on the street’s opposite side.
Conrad shepherded Ada Covington through his short entry hall and into his front room. She noticed the wood blinds in the street-facing windows were all but closed. No one—no drone, even, could see in.
She collapsed into the nearest chair, still in her jacket.
“Can I get you something?” Conrad asked, not quite sure what to do next.
“Don’t let me keep you—from whatever you were at doing,” Ada said, looking like she was still teetering on miserable. “You needn’t treat me as company.”
“Oh, well…I was just,” he pointed up, “in my office.”
“Go on, then. I’ll be fine alone,” she told him, asking, “Do you have anything to read? Perhaps something to watch?” She looked about the room for such things.
“Well, I’ve—“ he pointed out several scholarly journals artistically strewn about here and there on end tables. “But no, no proper television. Why don’t you let me show you around for a moment, help you get your bearings before I leave you to…” he didn’t know what to call it, he lightly shrugged, “your solitude.” He was not so unobservant to think that she had come here actually looking to spend time with him.
Ada followed Conrad Bierkut through a tour of his modest townhouse. The majority of rooms of the 1920s-era now-renovated home looked like they belonged in a glossy mag that sang the praises of open floor plans and modern design.
Except the last room, which she had expected to be a bedroom--his bedroom, as the only other bedroom he had shown her housed but a just-shy-of-monastic-looking twin-sized bed, and she had taken that space for a guest bedroom.
But this last room was, in fact, his office, and it shared almost nothing in common with the house it sat within. Books were everywhere: stacked high upon any flat surface. Windowsill, fireplace mantel, floor, desktop, chair seat, bookshelf, sidetable, rolling box heater.
A very old-looking divan, its upholstery as dark as its wood frame, was relatively free of books, but draped in several older-looking quilts. Four hardcover books stacked under its left front leg (broken and missing) helped attempt to keep it level. A bed pillow at one end added to her impression that this was quite possibly where the master of the house did most of his sleeping.
The wood floors in here were not refinished, the wood trim unpainted, the furniture old and some pieces, like the divan, in rough repair. In the introducing of it, Professor Bierkut didn’t show any self-consciousness.
“You’ve no computer?” she asked, noticing its lack.
“Not here, no. Sometimes I bring home my laptop.”
“Sometimes?”
“It’s only good here for typing, anyway. I’m not wired for internet access.”
“Not wired?”
“No. I don’t pay for access.”
Ada stared. The entire farm had gone wireless (with only occasional outtages) three years ago.
“I’ve got my phone, if I really find I need it," Conrad tried to explain, himself as mystified at her flummoxed response to his confession, as she was to his confession. "I’ve got it at my university offices.” He struggled on to make sense of it to her, “My field—it’s a book-based field, really. That, and journals,” he shrugged. “I handwrite a lot of things.
“Of course you do,” he heard her say, and it raised something of a hackle within him he had not felt rise in a long time. Not since Julie.
“Why are you come here, Ada?” he asked, baldly and abruptly. Surely not just to devil me? he thought, to himself.
At his unusual-for-him biting response, Ada stopped short from where she had been walking away from him, ready to leave the room and return downstairs. “I made a bad decision,” she said.
“In coming here? I don’t think you did,” he said, the edge of his earlier annoyance only slightly receding in response to her honest answer. “Did you have anywhere else in the city to go?”
“No,” she confessed. “I needed somewhere I could be invited into a private home where they couldn’t follow me.”
“Then you made a good decision—the right decision.”
“No,” she again disagreed, and sat down (her action like one plunking down an over-heavy suitcase one has been carrying too long) on his top stair, without his inviting her to do so, her back now to the railing.
“I didn’t tell Roger, you know," she said, without contextualizing the remark to Conrad, "in the way you don’t tell people you love when you’re about to do something they won’t approve of. In the way you know you might not do it if you have to confront their disapproval. And I wanted to do it. I’ve wanted to do it forever, I think.”
“Do what?” Conrad asked, thoroughly confused, seating himself on the stair nearby her, their knees now almost touching, concerned that his continued standing might track as a position of judgment, a feeling he did not care for, no matter his momentary sniping.
Ada sighed. “I’ve been searching for my—for our--birth mother. This week the agency I'd hired told me they’d found her, and she was willing to meet me. So, I came to the city today to meet her for the first time. But I wasn’t at the agreed upon spot fifteen minutes, waiting, when they showed up. So many of them, snapping shots, yelling at me.”
She had not been looking at him as she said--as she confessed--any of this. She stared at the wall ahead of her, and occasionally to the ceiling. “And she didn’t come,” she concluded.
“They scared her off?” he asked, his own eyes never off what he could see of her face, now only in profile.
“I don’t know," she shook her head. "Maybe she was never coming. Maybe she lost her nerve before she saw them. I only know, if I’d have seen them, I’d have lost my nerve.” The final words of her sentence came out half-hushed, in the way coming-on tears can often bring about.
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t mean to be so upset,” she said, tears starting as she spoke about the experience and she finally turned toward his face, so close beside her, but a step and riser below. “It’s just, you know, it’s your worst fear, that after all this time you’ll find them—the one who gave you up--and still-still they’ll turn away from you.”
Her tears were silent, and without sobs. She was very still. He thought maybe he would have preferred sobs.
“I’m sure she just got spooked, that’s all.”
“And then I think about—“ she stalled, and looked away from him. “I think about the baby,” she had never been one to speak so, “is this what’s in store for her? Dogged by photographers at every turn? Constantly reminded no one in her family wants her? Finding our two faces in newspaper archives—seeing all we wanted was to be well shot of the legal case, of her future? Believing she isn’t worth anything because the court system had to be called in to decide who, of the many people trying to avoid taking her on, is obligated to?”
Her eyes were again upon him. Their now-familiar blue swam in tears. Why did she do that? Turn toward him like he had the answer--a good answer--any answer?
He squinted. “Don’t talk like that. That’s not gonna happen," he felt worthless in this interaction, clumsily guiding someone through heartbreak, all platitudes and reassurances, and no wisdom. "Let’s get you downstairs, let’s call your family, let them know where you are, that you’ll be along home later. I can drive the truck and get it filled up.”
Her eyes were now straight on him, her confessional for the moment done. “It’s a stick.”
“O-ookay," he made the adjustment. "I can find someone to take the truck for a fill-up, and get you on your way.” He pulled out his phone.
She did nothing to conceal her worry. “Who are you calling?”
“Plumber,” he said.
“What?” a half-hysterical edge threatened to come into her tone.
“I’ve got a plumber coming," he said it like a throw-away line in a play, Ada thought. Like it was the most normal and routine thing in the world.
"Did you want some lunch?” he went on to ask, “I haven’t got much here—I’ll have him pick something up.”
“You can't seriously have invited someone into the house—while I’m here?” Hers was not a pleasant tone.
“No worries. He’s a friend. I’ve used him forever. He’s not gonna photograph us together for a quick buck. I trust him, one-hundred percent. He’ll gas up your truck for us, too. Promise,” Conrad said, and the smile he gave her she could hardly naysay.
The plumber came, and with him dinner for two, and ten gallons of fuel for Roger's truck. The paparazzi expended several hundred pictures each before assuring themselves he was no one important come to call on the couple dubbed The BabyMakers.
While the plumber fixed the pipes in question, Conrad fell to eating in his study, as was usually his way, hunkered over whatever text he was at presently dissecting. Ada avoided the second floor, the plumber worked. Hours passed.
When Conrad came down to the kitchen to settle up with the plumber, he found Ada taking something out of his rarely-used oven. "What's this?" he asked, curiously bemused.
"I thought, you know, as a sort of thank you, for the lunch and all," Ada said, taking what looked like fresh-baked bread out of a loaf pan Conrad, honestly, did not even know he owned. "One for you, one for your plumber."
"You--you're--baking down here? With what?"
"Oh, I found some things in your pantry."
"I can't imagine what," he said.
"The only truly fresh thing was yeast," she said.
"Yes, well, I had been mulling over trying out a thirteenth century brewing recipe for honey mead," he said, smiling with the recollection of yet another of his one-time plans eternally unfulfilled. "I had almost forgotten about that."
The aroma of the bread and whatever ingredients she had put it in was pungently alluring, almost heady. It was not a feeling he generally associated with this kitchen. He may have just eaten, but it worked to awaken what he had thought was his appeased appetite immediately. "Do you bake a lot?"
"What?" she asked, poking around for something to cool the loaves on. "No, I, I mean I do lots of things when I'm, when I'm--"
"Distressed?" he offered, not having forgotten the disastrous non-meeting with her birth mother.
"I usually play my viol, or knit. Sometimes I knit. But baking, you know, baking works, too."
"I clean," he confessed. "Lots of chemicals, scrubbing. Once, for a week I thought I tore my rotator cuff working on a stubborn tub ring. That was the week of my doctoral thesis presentation, which went only slightly better than the Battle of Monmouth."
"You'll have to tell me about that some time," she said, smiling, as though they might schedule another visit later in the week, or meet-up somewhere for drinks. Neither of which, of course, would they do. She did not specify if she meant the thesis presentation or the historical battle.
"I called home," she said. "Roger's rung some of his army buddies that live in the city. They're going to come by and, well, they won't come in. But they'll make sure the photographers keep their distance."
"Roger was in the Army?"
"Special forces."
"Right. Gina, too. It's where they met."
"Gina?"
"Of course! Have you see her arms?"
This question now had him smiling. "You'll be leaving, then?" he heard himself ask, "Since Tim brought you gas for your truck."
"It wouldn't start for him, though,” she told Conrad. “He tried it for me, you know, get it running and then I could run out of the house and be on my way. We both of us, Tim," she used the plumber's first name, "and I, have our suspicions."
"You think the guys camped out did something to keep it from running?"
She gave a light shrug. "Who wouldn't consider a little theft, a little vandalism when a million-dollar picture is almost in your grasp, just across the street?"
Conrad nodded. "You may well be right. Perhaps Roger's friends might ask them about it."
"I have every expectation that they will."
"You don't seem as upset as I would expect you to be," he hazarded saying, noting her lack of fury at the newest roadblock she had encountered into leaving him, and his home, and returning to the safety of her farm.
"To be honest, with you and with myself, I'm tired. To the bone. Could I stay? Please? I just--I don't feel ready to walk out that door into--everything."
"Of course," he said, "of course you can stay. I insist on it as a doctor," his small joke was rewarded by the slightest beginning of a snicker. "I've know just the thing for supper later. You've made the bread, I've got the cheese."
"Can we maybe, I mean, I'd just like to watch something. Take my mind off it all for a bit. But you don't--you don't have any way to do that, do you? I could bake more," she cast her eyes around his kitchen, knowing at this point she'd made use of just about anything that might be used. "I have to confess, your--magazines--"she referenced the academic journals lying about here and there, "well, I think I've gotten just about everything from them I could--without writing a term paper."
He nodded. "Give me a minute," he said, and disappeared back upstairs.
Shortly she heard furniture creaking and a stack of books falling over, before he came down the steps. He was holding a thirteen-inch CRT television that something told her was also going to be black-and-white. It had a built-in VCR.
She now recalled having seen it squirreled away in one of the corners of his office.
"Fooled ya," he said brightly, "I do own a TV!"
"I stand corrected," she replied, watching on, slightly amused, slightly horrified as he got down on the elegant, reclaimed hardwood floor of his modern, stylish front room and searched for a wall plug to plug it into.
He popped up, "there!" he said, claiming triumph as the elderly screen sizzled and fuzzed to life. "We'll have to...drag some pillows down here," he did the job himself, taking the couch apart into its pillows and strewing them on the floor in front of the tiny screen. "No, no," he told Ada, sounding as cheery as someone organizing an Easter Egg hunt, "wait right there. I'll be right back."
She waited. He returned, bounding down the stairs this time, and into the kitchen, where he came out with her bread and a sizeable cheese.
"What is it?" she asked, looking at the unfamiliar-to-her golden rind.
"It's a Boerenkaas," he said, no small amount of pride in his tone. "Helped make it myself."
"You're now a cheesemonger? As well as an aspiring brewer?"
There was no overlooking the pride in his voice as he spoke, nor the nostalgia. "Writing my last book, I was in the Netherlands," he said, "excellent country, fascinating agriculturally. I stayed for about a year on and off--I also traveled and lectured--with a family on their farm. They had about half a hundred red Friesians. They let me sit in on their cheesemaking--their farm is four centuries old--it literally sits on a dike--"
Ada didn't mean to be, but now she was smiling, too.
"--they were utterly committed to sustainable production, they make cheese every day."
"So, you speak Dutch?" she asked, already mostly knowing the answer.
"Not as well as I'd like," he said. "I'm better at reading Old Saxon texts than, say, being conversational."
"I suppose they were sorry to see you go?" Ada asked, imagining a dock-full of mournful Dutch girls weeping at the handsome American professor taking his leave.
"Maybe a little. Mostly I think the old couple were relived at not having to share my name with their neighbors."
"What?"
"Oh, I'll just let you Google that when you're back online," he said, half in throwaway line. "I found this. It's all I've got to watch."
He sat down the cheese, knife, and bread on the floor near the pillows and produced an old VHS clamshell case. "Bye Bye Birdie" proclaimed the movie poster facsimile on the cover.
"My mom, you know, I said. Musicals. I found this in her things after she passed. It's the only sort of movie I've got." He gave a shrug. Would she accept it as entertainment? Or tell him he had to be kidding?
"When was the last time you watched it?" she asked, gingerly taking the case from him.
"Oh, I dunno. Year or two, probably. Does it matter?"
"I'm just wondering," her eyebrows raised, and one of her eyes threatened a twinkle, "if the tape itself hasn't turned to dust."
"Only one way to find out," he answered with a smile. Taking the tape out, and feeding it to the machine.
Conrad found himself so engrossed with the film, and his personal nostalgia surrounding it (and one did have to watch very closely to follow it on the tiny monochrome screen), he was surprised to turn at one point fairly deep into the narrative and find that Ada had nodded off.
He had to force himself to turn back to the screen, his attention no longer fully with the film. He reminded himself that the woman that had shown up without fanfare on his step that day had little enough privacy, without him invading it when she had let her guard down.
Yet it was no easy thing to look away.
Ada was in and out. Perhaps it was the pillows so casually on the floor, perhaps the teeny black and white screen she found it so hard to see. Perhaps, simply, for the first time in a very long time she was in a spot where her exhaustion overwhelmed her, and she let it.
Half-dream, half-memory, she relived Garrett’s recent farewell. He’d been offered a job in the Pacific Northwest, head arborist. A job that before all of this the two of them had jointly dreamed of for him. His face showed her how happy, how hopeful it made him.
But she hadn’t managed to match his pleasure. She was suddenly far less certain she was ready or willing to leave the farm and travel west with him.
He mentioned Conrad Bierkut’s name.
She told him not to be ridiculous.
He looked sad.
“It’s not that I think you’re with him—“ he said, referring to the phony story the tabloids tried so hard to keep alive; that she and Conrad were now a couple. “It’s only, Ada, you’ve never seemed upset enough.”
There had been no argument. She wasn’t sure how, even, to argue such a point: not upset enough? She felt terribly upset all the time. All her anger, she thought it was apparent, wore the handsome face of Conrad Bierkut. That didn’t mean that she wasn’t pleasant to Professor Bierkut when he’d showed up at the farm. That she couldn’t share a laugh, or a conversation with him. Who else, after all, might understand even a fraction of this absurd and taking-over-everything situation she’d been unfairly thrust into?
If you don’t want to go with him, Mum had said, and he doesn’t want to stay here with you—there’s your answer, isn’t it? As to whether you two still love each other?
Garrett had left two days ago. He’d extended Ada an offer to join him. But he’d also said he didn’t honestly expect to see her, said that if she couldn’t decide to come within the next two weeks, she never would.
He was right, she thought. Two weeks was long enough for anyone to make up their mind about just about anything. But she didn’t need that long. A few years ago, yes, Garrett and that job in the PacNor had been among her dreams. But her dreams now were of the farm, her land, her business. She didn’t want to leave, and it appeared that this was a two-for-one decision: that she also, no longer wanted Garrett, who very much still did want to leave.
She awoke occasionally to volume fluctuations on the small screen. Several times she sneaked the opportunity to watch Conrad as he watched the screen. How his expressions tracked with the film the way a child’s might. Perhaps, as a child with his mother, his had also done.
A few moments at that, and she would nod off again.
Finally, she awoke to find Conrad Bierkut also asleep, the film still playing near the beginning, as the tape must have rewound and re-started.
She must have fallen over in her sleep, and him as well, for they both lay now face to face (though some distance apart, their feet at opposite ends of the room). She let herself examine his upside-down features as he slept (and thankfully did not snore. Oh! Had she snored?) ‘Never seemed upset enough’, she thought.
He was a nice person, Conrad Bierkut. The papers pairing her with him was annoying, the attention unwanted, inconvenient, but it wasn’t improbable, was it? That she, Ada, might to the mind of a reasonable person, be involved with an accomplished, kindly man such as Professor Conrad Bierkut?
I mean, the too-poor pantry would have to improve, she thought. The teensy monk-sized rack bed would have to be banished, and perhaps over time his backward attitude toward technology would get up to speed—or she would (in this wholly fictional future) come to find it endearing. But really, was it such an impossible thing to believe? To root for, even? He brought his tiny TV/VCR downstairs for her, didn’t he? And his mum’s film to watch? A person could be phenomenal on paper—book title in Dutch and all—and still be decent company, couldn’t they?
Before she had a chance to answer her half-asleep self, she fell fully asleep, without even the chance to contemplate what price such a photo of her and Conrad now, asleep together among pillows on his living room floor, might bring on the national tabloid market.
(next Part is the FINALE!)
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