She waited for the uneasy feeling of her stomach coiling to ease down and then drawing in a deep breath, she knocked on the door.
Chapter 1: The Usual Things
I leaned against the windowsill of my office, staring at the ashen-black clouds that scudded across the sky. Unpleasant memories flashed across my sore head. Thinking hard, I lit a cigarette. The most inexpensive brand I could get my hands on. It all seemed too desperate. And like all those men entangled in relationships that are bound to fail, I was indeed pleading a very similar case, yet remarkably different in one perspective— I had lost this battle a long while back without even trying to fight. I was broke, struck with misfortunes here and there in the dwindling paths of my highly extraordinary life. From what used to be a vigorous MIT graduate fifteen years ago; handsome, tall, though not dark, but I had dark untidy hair to a married, indigent husband with two kids and a beautiful wife.
Oh! I am sorry, I forgot. From what used to be a beautiful wife to a damsel in distress. No! Not a damsel. Ellen was old now. Thirty five was definitely old.
I took a drag, staring fondly at the burning end of the cigarette. There was a knock on the door from behind my back.
“Yes?” I asked dryly. My voice sounded oddly unfamiliar. I cleared my throat loudly and asked again.
The door opened with a faint creak, and I could almost sense Jenny’s head popping inside the gap.
“Excuse me, sir. I’ve finished printing the documents…err…I was wondering if I could go out early today. It’s—” She paused, eyeing beadily at the back of my head and then added in a much louder note, “Sir-- it’s Tom’s birthday. We were actually thinking of—”
“Do whatever you feel like, Jenny”, I said wearily, barely moving my head to face her. “You are done with the day’s work, and I think you definitely deserve a break.”
There was a small pause. I knew my manner sounded a bit too coarse for someone like Jenny who was now eyeing my back rather suspiciously, perhaps to unravel the mystery behind my apathy.
“Would you like a cup of coffee before I leave?”
“No…no, I’m fine, Jenny. I think I might be going out early today— I’m not sure. Thanks for asking, though. You go ahead,” I retorted, not sparing her even a quick glance.
She closed the door behind her.
Jenny, my assistant, the bold and the beautiful! The only assistant that I could ever find, and that too mainly due to the measly offer that I gave in the Sunday Times.
I could sense the adventure in her voice. I could hear her hurried footsteps as she closed the vaults noisily.
How silly she is! She changes boyfriends like clothes. That’s twice every week! I calculated, trying hard not to imagine Tom and Jenny later in the evening.
I lit another cigarette, sneaked a glance at my wrist watch. Still one hour to go before 6 ‘o’ clock. I sighed. With my mind still on Jenny, I slowly crept out of the chair to sneak a look out of the window.
So this is Tom!
A young man, in late twenties, leaned against a white sedan, his hands tucked deep inside the front pockets of shabby looking chinos. He was wearing a black cap, turned all the way back. I couldn’t help but notice numerous freckles all over his nose and cheeks. He kept throwing nervous glances at my office building while checking his watch. Moments later, I heard the front door close and saw Jenny hurrying towards the car as Tom straightened, smiling smugly at her.
Yawning, I turned away from the window and began to stroll in my room.
I owned a small building in the village of Liddington. Thanks to Ellen’s father, Frank. Or perhaps I should call him the gracious Frank, if I were to be more precise. He was a very humble man who always tried his best to make both ends of our peculiar family meet, but his untiring efforts nearly always ended in vain. I often let no opportunity to pass that offered a chance to disappoint my family. This was the first time in the last decade of my stringent connubial life that I had kept to one job for more than four months: Running a recording studio.
In my jammy days, I averaged between hundred to two hundred pounds a day. Some days were definitely terrible. I never complained. That was Ellen’s role. She adored arguments. I always had an easy way out. George and Anne, my little ones, were both asthmatic and when her bickering seemed inappropriate or a bit too hard to swallow, I always came up with an excuse to smoke. An unconvincing lie, of course. But I couldn’t do it in the house, so a change of air or I should say an escape from reality for even five seconds always came up as an immense relief.
I wasn’t a narcissist, but I’ve been trying too hard as far back as I can remember. I wanted this to end. Despite having brief tastes of happiness, I longed for something permanent. Something that would bring a dramatic change in the way our dysfunctional family worked. I wanted my kids to be proud of their father. But the very fear of failure irked me. It shook me. Deep down, I demanded a change. Yet to bring the change, I needed to step up and that seemed overtly ambitious.
The difference between an author and wanting to be one was evident. I was stuck somewhere between the two. It had been fifteen long years and in came numerous projects— all with similar disdainful ends. It had become an obsession. I was waiting for the right push. The famous writer’s inspiration as they called it. But it never came. I wasn’t Joanne Rowling and not even a step closer to what Stephen King had achieved at my age. Their inspirations felt like divine guidance. The cross-roads were overwhelmingly difficult. Yet, I tried every day in the sordid silence of the night. My type writer’s monotonous notes played with my head all day long, only to be absent when they were needed the most. The blank paper grinned at my melancholy every night. The cicadas chirped yet I was there, staring at the keyboard. The clock chimed. I was there. Ellen and the children snored peacefully, and I waited in vain. I could hear the howling of the dogs perhaps they were brawling over a morsel. Yet, no comforting words came out on the devilish piece of paper. Fifteen years of my precise ritual had left me quite disconcerted. But I continued even more devotedly, every single night from 12:00 am to 04:00 am. It had become a habit and just like any other bad habit, it was devouring my very insides.
“It’s nearly six,” I mumbled, grabbing the car keys from the table. I could hear the clouds rumbling above me. After making sure that all the lights were off, I locked the front door swiftly.
It’s going to rain soon, I thought as I began to stroll towards my car. Wind whistled past my ears, and I clutched the overcoat tightly around my chest. Autumn leaves crunched viciously under my shoes and my mind raced again.
I needed a plan!
There it was, standing in a desolate corner staring at me with those queer, vacant eyes, my blue Aston Martin V8 Lagonda: A vibrant memory of my salad days!
I opened the car and sat down, breathing heavily. Smell of rust and old leather was comforting. I was in need of a perfect plan. The engine sprang to life with a familiar roar. I needed a direction, a path, a ray of hope, a sign post with a welcoming message or perhaps a light. Light is always comforting. Light at the end of the tunnel wasn’t on my mind. That obviously meant I gave up on life. I was clinging to suffering too firmly to let go. I steered the car in the direction of our rented apartment in Wantage, Oxfordshire. It nearly always took me thirty minutes from Liddington to Wantage.
Giving up was definitely not part of the plan!
It started raining. Unlike the usual rain, it poured down quite ferociously. Lightning flashed and the thunder roared as my windshield vipers groaned under the heavy load. I strained my eyes and neck to make out the way ahead. My phone buzzed. I ignored. It buzzed again. I tore my eyes from the road and picked up the phone from the opposite seat. There were two new messages. Both were from Ellen. I swiped them open and read:
It’s raining. Please drive carefully. We’re waiting dinner for you. xx
How caring she is, I wondered and chuckled at the same time. I lit another cigarette. We moved bumper to bumper. I’d never seen a stor
m like this. My journey was prolonged to an exact one hour, thirty nine minutes and twenty seconds as our apartment building loomed into view.
Frank’s dining with us today. Not bad! My eyes fell on a brand new Mercedes parked neatly near the lawn. I stationed mine, immediately behind it.
Rain had stopped but the clouds were as black as ever and still brimming with rage which was evident from the distant infrequent noises of thunder. And yet miraculously, rain wasn’t coming down anymore. I took a last, deep puff from the cigarette before throwing it in the stream of water on the street, where it hissed silently.
I glanced down the street. It was empty except two large mongrels moaning in pleasure, their overly grown heads buried deep inside the metal bins.
Sighing, I treaded across the stony stairs leading to the house and knocked on the front door.
Chapter 2: Frank’s Offer
The door flung open followed by the loudest of the shrieks I had ever heard.
“Happy Birthday!”
I nearly jumped in surprise. Lost in my own worries I’d completely forgotten that it was my fortieth birthday. Smiling broadly, I entered as Ellen rushed forward and kissed me lightly on the cheek. George and Anne were wearing light pink caps, their faces gloating with glee and triumph at my stunned expression.
Frank was perched in his favorite armchair beside the fireplace, laughing heartily.
“You all gave me quite a fright,” I said, closing the door behind me as the room rang out with laughter.
“Let’s cut the cake,” sang the kids.
“Give it a rest you two. Let your daddy settle down,” said Ellen in an exasperated voice, “You all right, honey?”
“Yeah…I suppose so,” I said, shaking my head. “This wasn’t needed, dear.”
“Oh come on, Alfred,” she muttered fondly. “I’ve baked your favorite cake. Why don’t you go and sit with father while I lay out the dinner.”
I nodded and picked up Anne and George, and placed a tender kiss on each of their pink cheeks before letting them go.
“Did you like our surprise, daddy?” asked Anne brightly.
“I absolutely loved it, my angel.”
“I wanted to light some firecrackers but Grandpa Frank decided against it,” said George with a sullen expression on his face.
“So you wanted to give daddy a heart attack?” I asked, laughing as I ruffled his blonde hair. “You little tyke!”
“Come on, you two. I need help in the kitchen,” came a shrill voice from the room on the left.
“Hurry up, kids, before your mother gets angry,” I ushered Anne and George towards the kitchen, and made my way where Frank was sitting.
“Happy Birthday, Mr. Writer.” Frank rose from his chair and shook my hand. He was surprisingly strong for his age. A familiar rough grasp was followed by a mighty hug which nearly crushed my ribs.
“Still haven’t lost your old touch, Frank,” I said, rubbing my chest.
“Nah, I’m still the same old looney,” he muttered gruffly and settled back rather heavily in the armchair. “My arthritis flared up, though,” he added, as he poked at his left leg.
“What about it?” I asked, bringing another armchair close to where he sat.
“My knee became the size of a football, last week. It might be difficult to believe but yes it did,” he sighed. “Doctors told me it got infected. They did all sorts of aspirations, I tell you. But still couldn’t isolate the bloody organism causing it. Oh God! It was terrible.”
“Why don’t you change your doctor, Frank?” I asked, sneaking a glance at the television. England was seventeen runs behind victory over Australia at Lord’s. “I don’t know why you’re still sticking with him. He himself looks like as if he’s going to knock over any second.”
“He’s our family doctor, Alfred,” he retorted. “I trust him with my life. After all, the pain and swelling did go away eventually. So no harm done, I’d say.”
I nodded as Kevin Peterson hit a six over long off. Only four runs needed now.
“How’s your book coming along?” he asked, looking at me from the corner of his eye.
“It’s nearly done,” I lied, suddenly becoming a lot more interested in the match. I hadn’t even started outlining it.
“A likely tale, huh,” sneered Frank, after a pause. “That’s why I like you. You can’t even lie without getting caught.” He slapped my thigh hard and laughed in his usual ferocious way.
“You know how it is, Frank,” I said quietly. “The business is downhill, and Anne developed Scarlet Fever two weeks ago. I daresay, I wouldn’t be surprised if it isn’t completed by the end of this year.” I finished, staring emptily at my hands, feeling embarrassed that despite Frank’s continuous favors I was still nowhere near a healthy, productive start.
“Oh, come on,” he said, as a toothless, wicked smile broke on his face. “Cheer up. Will ya? It’s your Birthday! And God knows what surprise your luck might’ve in store for you. So, I’d say, wait until all of this is over. ”
“Oh! I know what it is,” I said bitterly. “I can’t take any more of your favors, Frank. You’ve already done a lot for us—”
“I haven’t done anything for you. You keep my daughter happy. She loves you and I love her. I can’t see her sad. You know me, Alfred. Oh… wait—just hear me out,” he added as I was about to interrupt. “Look, this time it’s going to be different. I’m not offering anymore of my pleasantries,” he said, giving me a vicious wink and simultaneously threw a quick, worried glance at the kitchen door. “And don’t you dare talk to Ellen about it. This is a secret between you and me.”
“All right…all right. I’ll think about it.”
“You just wait and see, son.”
Frank had just finished when a tantalizing smell wafted through the kitchen door and filled the whole foyer. Soon Ellen appeared, squeezing a trolley through the narrow corridor, on which lay a scrumptious, roasted goose garnished with golden brown onions, broccoli and roasted potatoes. She laid it neatly on the center of the table and called out:
“Hurry up! Gentlemen, we’d better eat this while it’s hot. I’ll get the drinks.”
Frank and I got up and headed straight for the dining table. We sat and waited silently for the kids and Ellen to show up. Once everyone was seated, Frank recited a mini prayer, and we all began to eat.
For a moment, the room became dreadfully quite save for the clatter of knives and forks as we began to serve ourselves.
The food was simply exquisite. Ellen was an incredible cook. The texture of the goose was coarse, and yet unremarkably juicy just the way I liked. The roasted potatoes were done up some way with paprika and had a distinct spicy flavor. The blend of sausages and Abbot’s gold was heavenly indeed.
I’d just finished my second helping when Ellen asked, with an anxious look on her face.
“Did you like it, dears?”
“Never- tasted- this –better,” I replied through a mouthful of turkey and cheese while Frank simply wiped the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve, concentrating deeply on his plate.
“I hate broccoli,” said George, holding it up from his plate.
“Manners, George,” said Ellen sharply, frowning in his direction. “Nobody’s forcing you to eat it.”
“But I read somewhere that you can’t be a pirate if you don’t eat it,” said George, trying to gulp down the green vegetable with a mouthful of water that earned him a stern stare from Ellen.
She cleared away the plates as soon as we were done and brought a large triple chocolate, mousse cake. The strawberry icing on the top read:
“Happy Birthday Alfred—an aspiring author, beautiful husband and a loving father”
“It’s lovely,” I said with difficulty, going red in face. My mouth had gone very dry after being dubbed as an “Author”.
“Oh, it’s nothing, darling,” she chortled, waving her hand in air. “Father, why don’t you come over here so that all of us can fit in that cam
era? Yeah—that’s it. George please set it on that table. Ok… Hurry up! Get inside the frame…on the count of three… one—two –three!”
They all began to sing as I cut through the cake. Lifting a large piece, I stuffed it in Ellen’s mouth, and the room exploded in a dazzling flash of light. When it was Ellen’s turn, both George and Anne broke into a fit of giggles as she lifted one of the heftiest of the cut pieces and then, without warning, loaded it in my mouth. I swallowed with difficulty. The cake was softer than butter, and creamier than any of the whipped creams I’d ever tasted- far better than the finest of the fancy bakeries near our house.
Alas, when our bellies were full and our bodies warm, Frank and I sat down quietly by the fire. Ellen had escorted the children back to bed amidst their angry tantrums about wanting to see me unpack my presents. But she nearly always took the idiom “Early bird catches the worm” way too seriously.
Stretching my legs, I caught glimpse of the watch on the wall. It was already half-past ten.
“So, what’s the offer?” I asked, taking a sip of black coffee from my brown mug.
For a while, Frank kept staring at the dancing flames in the crate, immersed deep in thoughts. I could see that he was thinking something.
“Frank? Is everything all right? ” I asked again, with an inquisitive look on my face.
“W-what?” mumbled Frank. He seemed to have come back to his senses. “Yes…yes… I’m fine, Alfred. All right…err… so, here’s the deal.” He threw a tensed glance at the kitchen door once more, where Ellen was busy washing the plates. When he was sure that we wouldn’t be disturbed, he cleared his throat loudly and began, “You were telling me that you’re still lagging behind your deadlines?”
“I haven’t even started it, Frank.”
“Yeah, that’s what I meant. I know it’s difficult for you to get going especially with the responsibility of feeding your family. And I can’t promise you that I’ll live forever to cater for your needs. Not that I’m complaining…I mean… look, Alfred—urm—two weeks ago, I was diagnosed with Colon cancer.” He finished with difficulty.
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