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star-nova · 5 years

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The Lives of the RiffRaff: Pietro Frost-The 4th of July

Previous chapters here.

On the morning of the 4th of July, I wake up to a barbecue grill that gleams like a prize on The Price is Right. Our patio set, which has been with us for all seven of our summers in Tanager, is set out in a formation that's almost unnaturally neat and orderly, its tabletops shining in the sun. After breakfast that morning, I head out to the pool to wash out the filters, though I quickly find out that there's only the smallest hint of gunk and I don't have to do too much. Florence gives me a kiss and says she's going out to pick up Sophia.

The other day, while I was out at an orchestra rehearsal, Florence had brought Sophia Bolshevik around for dinner and a chat. I'm not sure what they talked about, and when I asked, Florence said only that they had talked woman-to-woman and that Sophia would be reciting a piece at our 4th of July party. She didn't give up any details, and I didn't ask. But whatever happened, I suppose Sophia felt the need to repay Flo's kindnesses. Without being asked, she's become our unofficial maid.

Even in a house as big as this, Flo and I are used to doing everything ourselves. We don't believe in getting others to do our own work for us. Our own work, after all, was how we ended up here in the first place. But yesterday afternoon, after Sophia came around to work on her recitation, she insisted on cleaning up the lunch dishes and helping me clean out the pool for our party. “Oh, you don't have to do that, hon,” I told her when she picked up the pool scraper and started to work on the algae.

“I know,” she said, “but I want to.”

By the end of the day, the pool was completely blue and the tops of the patio tables were shimmering. Inside, the floors were spotless, there was not a speck of dust in sight, and the windows in the sunroom were so clear that a bird might crash into them. Florence and I were struck dumb, and I suppose our silence frightened the girl into thinking she'd done something wrong. Looking at her tennis bracelet instead of at us, she said, “I guess I'd better go.” She was about to say “I'm sorry,” but Florence interrupted: “Don't you want to stay for dinner, Sophia?”

Sophia didn't know what to say to that, so I said, “Sweetie, you've cleaned up the dining room better than Florence and I ever have! Stick around and admire your handiwork, why don't you?”

Sophia smiled. “I'll help with the meal, if you want me to.”

I patted her shoulder. “You've done more than enough. This is your home, not your job.”

Honestly, I'm not entirely comfortable with it. Sophia's our guest, not our maid. We never had maids and we never will. But she insists, and even though she does insist, I feel as though we're using her.

I pull Florence aside for a moment while she and Sophia work on appetizer trays in the kitchen. “I'll finish up the blintzes, Florence,” Sophia assures her, and Florence gives her a thumbs up. Once we're both in the living room she asks, “What is it, babe?”

“Flo,” I say, “don't let her do any more work for us, all right?”

Florence sighs. “I can try, Pietro,” she tells me, “but it doesn't seem as though the girl will take no for an answer.”

“It isn't right,” I say. “She isn't here to serve and she shouldn't think she is.”

“Nobody is making her, Pietro,” Florence reminds me. “It's all her.”

“I know,” I say, “but it's still not right.”

I linger in the doorway when Florence returns to the kitchen and gently squeezes Sophia's working hand. “Sweetheart,” she says, “I'll take it from here, all right? You've been an amazing help. I really appreciate it.”

“Have I done something wrong?” Sophia asks, without looking at her.

“Absolutely not,” Florence assures her. “You've done a better job than I or my husband ever have. Go on and watch TV, read some books, work on your song...you can even play on the piano if you want. You won't hurt it.”

“Are...are you sure, Florence?”

“Positive,” Florence says. “Pietro can take you home if you want, too.”

“No, no,” Sophia says quickly. “I'll stay.” Still without looking up, she walks away, brushing past me and setting herself down on the living room couch. She looks sort of like a child that's been sent to the naughty corner.

“Working on your recitation?” I ask, just to let her know it's okay to have a conversation.

She doesn't answer me.

“Wanna give me a preview?” I ask, and she shakes her head.

“You aren't in trouble, you know,” I tell her. “You haven't done anything wrong.”

She doesn't say anything. She may not have done anything wrong, but in her own mind she's being punished. Suddenly, I get it. Whatever had happened to her in the city had taken away any feelings of worth that she had, and being useful to us was a way for her to reclaim that worth. She didn't understand that she didn't have to work for us in order to be worth something.

I decide that the rest of the pre-party work can wait. I have a seat at the piano and begin to play, just for her. It's only classical pieces without words, because Florence is the one who can sing, not me. By the end of the private concert, Sophia regards me with a sweet little smile, her gesture of appreciation.

That afternoon, our house is packed with every RiffRaff in town, barring a few exceptions. There's no Talia or Arthur, because Florence and I won't have Talia and Arthur in our house. Consequently, there's no James, since James hates everybody except for Arthur. We lost Joanne Tushud just three months ago, and my eyes send silent sympathies to her husband and daughter, Kane and Mara. The two of them regard me with quiet understanding and gratitude.

The rest of the RiffRaff are accounted for, in the pool or on the deck chairs or running around the yard like maniacs. Most of the guys—including myself—are shirtless, while the ladies sport colorful sundresses and beach attire. Rickie's brought his guitar, and Anthony's setting up his fancy 3D chess set on the only empty table. Gilbert arrives with the showpiece of the night, the huge collection of fireworks that he and Zatch have the usual honor of setting off once dusk hits. There's a buffet table's worth of donated food, from homemade fare to buckets of KFC. It's going to be another good 4th.

Sophia's friends and sister go over to her and give her big hugs. Elsie says, “I miss you so much,” and I feel bad. Sophia's been spending more time with us than with anyone. She doesn't doesn't feel safe anywhere else anymore.

“You don't have to miss me, Elsie,” Sophia says. “I haven't gone anywhere.”

Elsie's eyes say, Yes you have.

“Can I get you a drink,” Sophia asks, “or an appetizer?”

Ellia chuckles. “You're the butler now?”

Florence and I exchange a look and I sigh. She isn't the butler, but nothing is going to stop her from playing the role. She takes her position at the drink counter as the indentured bartender, and the nag inside my head says, not right, not right. She should be laughing and chatting with those girls, not pouring their drinks. She should be jumping in the pool with Tracy, Vergil, Kali, and Leon. She should be preparing her recitation. Is she going to spend the entire party serving and cleaning? I want to say something to her, but what do I have any right to say? She's actually smiling, and it seems as though she hasn't done that in a long, long time.

Florence says, “Maybe we should hire her. She needs a job, right?”

I know she's only joking, but still I say, “No, no, dear. That's where I must draw the line!”

My wife, the chronic helper, doesn't always understand that things often resolve themselves when you don't go getting involved.

After some time spent serving and cleaning up after the others, Sophia finally decides to let herself have fun. She joins her sister, Ellia, Charmain, and Anna in a game of backyard mini-golf. Florence and I exchange smiles. We don't have to worry about her anymore. Relieved, I settle down for a game of Spades with Anthony and Vincenzo while the burgers and hotdogs sizzle on the grill.

After I've taken my final book and passed the dreaded Queen to Vince, Anthony looks at me in the cocky, scrutinizing way that drives me absolutely mad about Anthony Andrews. “So,” he says, “you got a new maid now?”

Oh, Jesus Christ. “Sophia's not our maid,” I tell him. “She's just been helping us out a little bit. She's not obligated to, it's all on her.”

“I think you should hire her,” Anthony says. “She does good work.”

“We still don't believe in hiring maids,” I say. While he's distracted, I take his book away from him.

“Sophia's a good girl,” Anthony says. “Very sweet, very quiet. She won't cause you any shit.”

“I know that,” I say. I think I may have overbid.

“She's been round here a lot, hasn't she?” Anthony asks. “You like having her around?”

“You're a real nosy bastard, Anthony,” I tell him. “But yes, Florence and I do enjoy her company.” I put down a three of diamonds.

“If you've been looking for help around the house...”

“We haven't been,” I say, putting down the six of clubs.

“My daughter Melinda...” Anthony begins, taking a book.

“We're fine, Tony,” I tell him. Two of spades.

Vincenzo asks, “What happened to Sophia, anyway? Do you know?”

“She hasn't told us anything,” I say. The game is over and I've won again, with just a slight penalty for overbidding.

“I hear Talia Santiago did something to her,” Vincenzo says. That man has some kind of nerve! Talia may not be the greatest person, but she's still RiffRaff, and you don't spread shit about fellow RiffRaff. The Others did more than enough of that without us helping them along.

“Vince,” I say, raising my voice just a little, “don't talk about things you know nothing about.” I've got to flip the burgers and turn the franks. When I get up, I catch sight of Sophia by the pool. While her friends swim, dive, and play, she sits with her feet hanging over the edge and her arms wrapped around herself. She doesn't even have her bathing suit on. The nastiest suspicion makes its way into my head. No, I assure myself quickly, no, it couldn't be.

Elsie nudges her. “C'mon, Soph. Get in there.”

Sophia looks at her and shakes her head. Their eyes exchange secrets that only sisters are meant to know. Elsie sits down beside her then and pulls her into her arms. The secrets are safe within those arms and behind the tee and shorts the girl wears like a suit of armor. But the horrible, horrible suspicions and speculations remain.

Dear god. That poor, poor girl...

Florence goes over to Sophia and asks if she'll help set out the burgers and franks.

“Of course,” Sophia says, immediately brightening when given a job to do.

“There's a tray on the kitchen table to put the food out on,” Florence says. “Can you run in there and fetch it for me, please?”

“Will do.” Sophia gives her a little smile, turns to the others, and says, “Be right back, ladies.” I never knew Sophia very well outside of our holiday get-togethers, but something tells me that in this moment we are seeing the old Sophia, the true Sophia. She slips into her sandals and heads for the kitchen with a considerable bounce in her step. I decide right then and there that I'll let her serve all she wants for the rest of the night. She can clear away the dishes. She can serve the food and pour drink after drink after drink. She can sweep up the patio and clean up the wayward trash that makes its way onto the lawn. If it means that she will smile and be Sophia again, she can go ahead and be the maid.

Her sister and her friends keep on gawking long after she's disappeared into the kitchen. “How did you do it?” Anna asks breathlessly, looking at me as if I might be a wizard.

I shrug modestly. “Good company and a place to belong,” I say. “Sometimes, that's all anyone really needs. You know, she's going to be reciting something tonight.”

Elsie's eyes nearly bug out of her head. “Sophia? Reciting? In front of all these people?” She might have been less shocked if I said her sister was joining the circus. I just nod. “It's going to be a song, apparently. I don't know what it is. Florence does.”

“Sophia's going to sing?” Now it was Ellia's turn for her eyes to bug out. I nod again. Would wonders never cease?

There's a crash, a scream, and the world ignites. Florence makes for the kitchen so fast that I'm sure she could break the sound barrier. Elsie and the girls go flying out of the pool and rush after her in their dripping bathing suits. The others—Franz and Emery, Anthony and Vince, Clara and Kammie, and just about everyone else—go pouring into the house on the heels of what must surely be some horrible catastrophe. When the shock leaves me, I follow them. She's dropped something and hurt herself. Something's fallen on her. She's fallen. There's going to be blood, maybe a broken bone...every worst case scenario I can think of plays itself in my head all at once, so that when I find the girl down on her knees with no blood and no visible wounds, I'm actually relieved.

Lying in fragments at her knees are the remains of our Italian ceramic dining tray. It was a wedding present from Florence's parents, who received it as a wedding present from their own parents back in Italy. When I asked Florence where her grandparents got it from, she said they probably bought it at a curio shop in Venice.

It was my damned fault. I had laid it out on the kitchen table in order to move it aside and I'd never put it back. I should have told Sophia which tray Florence meant. She should have told Sophia which one she meant, and what it looked like. The two of us share the fault in equal parts. The old Corningware tray remains unharmed on the kitchen table.

Immediately, Florence inspects Sophia for any cuts and abrasions. Upon finding none, she sighs with relief and holds Sophia by her shoulders. “It's okay, sweetheart,” she says, raising her voice just a little to be heard over the girl's raucous sobs. “It's okay. You're all right!” Through all of the blubbering, I'm only able to catch a few words, mainly “sorry,” “my fault,” and “ruined.” When she calms down just a little bit, she calls herself a “fucking worthless wreck.” My heart just about breaks in two. Florence give me a look and I see tears beginning to form in her eyes. I have to look away before I start crying too.

Kneeling beside her sister, Elsie says, “Sophia, it was just an accident. They know that. They know you didn't mean it.” She's starting to cry, and it's about so much more than just a broken dish. She looks to me and to Florence, waiting for us to do something. Around us, the other RiffRaff have only comforting things to say, except for that bastard Anthony, who only remarks on how expensive the dish must have been. The tension in the air tells me that they all, too, are waiting for one of us to act.

So I kneel down on the kitchen floor among the shattered ceramic. I say, “Sophia, look at me, please.” She looks, her blue eyes so full of guilt and fear and something else. “A broken dish,” I say, “is just a broken dish. But a broken Sophia, well, that would be the real catastrophe, my dear. Fancy old things are assigned their value, but you, Sophia, are priceless.”

“Of course,” Elsie says. The other RiffRaff voice their agreement.

“I...I should go h-home,” Sophia stammers.

“Without your recitation?” Florence looks genuinely hurt. “No, Sophia, you have to stay and let us hear you sing.” The others chime in with their agreement. Most of them never even knew that Sophia could sing. Gingerly, I pick up one of the fragments of the dish—one with a big yellow rose that used to belong to an entire painted garden—and press it into Sophia's hand. From Flo's grandparents, to her parents, to Flo, and now to Sophia.

“Yes,” I tell her. “We all want to hear you sing.”

That night, we all hear Sophia sing.

While Gilbert and Zatch light up the sky with their greatest show yet, Sophia sings “Song of the Century,” an acapella song by Green Day. Even against the explosions and in front of so many pairs of eyes, her soft, pretty voice doesn't stumble even once. She sounds like a bell.

“Tell us a story that's by candlelight

Waging a war and losing the fight...”

Elsie has a tear in her eye, which gives way to more and more as her sister sings the second verse. The short little song is over almost as soon as it starts, but to all of us—to me especially—it felt like it took the whole night with it.

“Tell me a story into that good night

Sing us a song for me.”

It takes a few seconds for the audience to take everything in: the song, the meaning, Sophia's voice, and the events of the summer all leading up to fireworks and this song. Then, all at once, they're louder than any of the explosions in the sky.

“That's my girl!” Elsie hollers. “That's my sis!” She never could have been any more proud to say those words. Florence and I never could have ever been more proud to call Sophia Bolshevik our new dear friend. And there's Sophia herself, who never could have ever been more proud to just be Sophia.

Nobody is going to forget this 4th of July.

#Fiction by Me #The Lives of the RiffRaff #writing #work in progress

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