This arrangement, it turns out, works far better than I thought on the drive over. For two reasons. First and foremost, Cee is a perfect houseguest. She’s perfectly polite, keeps her space clean. To be polite, I offered the bedroom, but she refused, opting instead for the attic. Says she likes to be able to escape at a moment’s notice. I think it’s actually some sort of psychological pathology involving fear of being too close to the ground. She never talks about her past, which only goes to reinforce that belief.
The second reason is Wallace knew of my predicament. They made sure my basement was well stocked the moment trouble was coming. It seems even when I am away from this place, I never really can leave my life behind.
Our schedule is well set by the second day. In the mornings, Cee awakens near seven. She sits at the counter as I make eggs. After eating, we play a few rounds of Sniff. She wins most of the time. Cee is far smarter than she appears. Then, she gets our homeless squatter, who lives under my porch, to head down to the store in exchange for food and money. I remain inside, away from prying eyes. Even though I trusted the whores and homeless of Storyville to not talk to the gang we were technically hiding from, I didn’t trust them not to blab to Louis. He had his methods of getting people talking. After she sends off Gregory, our squatter, on his daily mission, we settle in for our work, be that what it is. She exercises, mostly. I study my old school books, and practice surgical techniques. Once Gregory comes back, she collects the food and watches carefully as I cook dinner for three. Originally, I thought she was studying me. Now I believe she’s studying technique, trying to learn how to cook by observation alone. It intrigues me. Then she takes her meal outside and eats with her new homeless friend, while I store my meal away in the freezer. Eating these sorts of meals was a luxury that, while I enjoyed, I need not, and having extra for the child in case of trouble would be useful. After her meal, Cee returns inside and we play a few games of chess, talking about whatever comes to mind and relaxing. Then, eventually, it gets late and she heads up to her attic room. As she closes her door, I head back to the kitchen to whip up some basic extra food. Then, I walk down to the basement. I feed that sustenance to the gentleman staying there, less than willingly. A former member of Wallace’s organization, no doubt one who got second thoughts when they learned the truth. I don’t know how long I will have to stay, and so the good man cannot be permitted to starve or die. Then, after he has eaten, it is my turn. Slowly, carefully, I bite down on his cuffed wrist and drink. Just enough to keep me alive. With that complete, I tend to his wound, apologize for the circumstances, put the gag in his mouth, and return to the main floor, locking the basement door behind me. Heading back into my bedroom, I lay down and, staring at the ceiling, contemplate what the hell is wrong with my life.
As the fourth day rolls around, I get up at six fifty. Getting dressed, I walk on out to the kitchen. I start doing preparations for breakfast. Around seven, Cee walks down the stairs, calm. She smiles and nods to me. “Bonjour, Alex,” she says as she seats herself at the counter.
“Good morning to you as well, Cee,” I reply from the stove. I carefully crack the eggs onto the old pan.
“Why don’t you ever invite Greg inside?” she asks the question that has likely been on her mind for a while.
“That’s a complicated question with an even more complicated answer. If you really want it, I can tell you over breakfast,” I answer her honestly. It is complicated, but it’s hardly a secret. I just will have to be careful in my word choice. When am I not, though?
“Ça va,” she replies. I quickly have learned that she slips into French when she’s still tired.
I shoot her a smile and nod as I finish the eggs. No need for conversation until breakfast, especially if she didn’t sleep well last night. Walking the eggs over to the counter and sliding one onto her plate and one onto my own, I sit down across from her. “Sleep okay?”
She shakes her head. “I slept fine,” she answers me.
I push. “The offer still stands, you can take the bedroom. I’m happy taking the couch or the mattress.”
“I like it up there,” she says, “I just had a bit on my mind last night.”
I nod. “Alright, it was just an offer.”
She smiles. “You’re kind for offering, but I’m fine. So, why not let Greg in?”
“Right,” I say, “I said I’d tell you.” I think a moment, then say, “You know why I don’t live here, right?”
“Because Wallace has you super busy running the clinic?”
I shake my head. “No. I don’t hardly sleep because Wallace is a jerk,” I reply. She chuckles, and I continue, “No, I have a complicated history with this area. Right a couple blocks that way,” I gesture to the west, “Is my old college.”
“Makes sense,” Cee interrupts me, not that I mind more time to think my answer through, “You mentioned you got this during your collegiate years.”
“Well, during college, I had a, let’s call him a friend, though he was closer to a mentor. He manipulated me, took everything that was good about me, and destroyed it. For years, I fought to get away from his influence, and the job Wallace gave me, it also protects me from it. Keeps me away from the guy’s orbit. Now, being here, I just need to make sure he doesn’t know. There’s no telling what he might do if he found out.”
“You don’t trust Greg?” she asked.
I laugh. “Oh, no, don’t get me wrong. The people of Storyville like me much better than him. But, he has power and influence, and I am afraid of his reach.”
Cee nods. “Ah, je comprends,” she answers me, “Wallace actually helped me out of a similar situation.”
“Really?” I spit out, then, realizing that’s rude, add a quick, “Sorry, you just tend not to talk about your past.”
She shrugs. “I don’t know much. All I know is my brother was crazy, ran with a bunch of other crazy people. Some of them tried to kidnap me, for some reason, when I was three, and Wallace’s people stopped them, took me in. Worked for him ever since.”
I shake my head. “That’s rough. I would say this life’s no place for a kid, but you’re more clever than you want people to think you are. I doubt you are as helpless as you play.”
She laughs. “We have to stop playing games. You’re picking up too much.”
“Including your tells,” I say, “And you mine, I’m sure.”
We smile pleasantly at one another. We’re both hiding elements of our past, but why ask. She would tell me her secrets probably around the same time as I would tell her mine. Never.
“Maybe it’s best we skip dominos today, no?” she only half jokes.
I shrug in response. “It’s up to you. I thought youth liked games,” I add to my more than sufficient response. If she’s getting as much information about me as I’m getting about her, perhaps we should.
She chuckles and nods. “True, but I’m not sure I want you in my head too much more.”
I wave the comment dismissively off, and push Gregory’s breakfast across the counter to her. She picks it up and, with another nod, heads outside. I go back to the sink and wash the dishes. As she comes back inside and heads to the attic to get into workout clothes, I head into my study. Time passes and evening comes. After dinner, much like earlier, we don’t play chess. Instead we sit in my salon and simply talk about the neighbors. Evidently, according to Gregory, the people who live across the street were having some marital troubles. This is the sort of thing that would fascinate Wallace, half the time or so. Seeing Cee’s eyes as she talks on it, I can tell it is the same with her. Hotter blood than Wallace, in more sense than one, but the same curious drive. It would seem that her desire for me to stay outside her head will not work as intended. I admit to her that I don’t know the couple living there. After all, they aren’t my old neighbors, who I was once and am still good friends with. That couple moved out around the beginning of Prohibition. As we talk about the new neighbors, I tell that to her. I don’t want her to think I’m withholding anything about her obsession of the day.
When she presses for more details about the old neighbors, I elaborate on it, giving my best explanation fit for a kid. “You see, they lived across the street when I first moved here. Worked the local sort of work. After the unfortunate changing of the local ordinances, they started making less income. Then, after the new national ordinances came into effect, an old employer of theirs was opening a new specialty shop. They wanted my neighbors’ special sort of entertainment for their clientele. And they gave the couple a good offer. So, just before I started working with Wallace, they moved across town.” Since she works for Wallace, I assume she understands the specialty shop aspect of my vague statements. As far as the rest of it, either she knows about what Storyville used to be, or she doesn’t. Either way, she’s too young for me to want to talk about it any more. But that isn’t what she asks about.
“You never did tell me how you started working with Wallace,” she states, with the implied question hanging near as loud as the statement.
I smile and shrug. “It is hardly a story.”
To respond, Cee simply shakes her head. “Tout peut être un conte,” she insists. She is right, I suppose. Everything can be a story if told the right way.
I relent swiftly enough. If she’s truly as curious as she seems, she’ll find out. One way or another. As long as I tell it the wrong way, it should be fine. “I wanted to open up a place,” I admit, “And Wallace needed a doctor. We’d met and interacted once before, a common foe sort of thing so, he decided to help me out. And in return I help him out.” It’s the truth, albeit an incomplete version of it. I don’t know how much Cee knows, or how much she’s supposed to know. Either way, not oversharing is important on this side of my business. It’s only a little while longer before she retires to her attic room and I head over to the kitchen to make some basics, then down to the basement to take care of those necessary chores for my current living situation.
For the next two days, our schedules, while mostly unchanged from the days prior, no longer include Sniff nor chess. Slowly, we return to our baseline, first Sniff returns to our days, then chess as well. By the beginning of the second week of our isolation, we are all the way back to our original isolated lifestyles. And, in spite of a gut feeling I am getting that something is about to go wrong, I can’t help but start to enjoy my time away from work. In spite of the hiding and in spite of the secrets, it is still a vacation, and vacations can be so rare.
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