Looking Glass (reposted)

Chapter Five


“What the hell have you done to my kitchen?” Noah said the next morning.

She didn’t say anything to explain the pans, flour, and eggshells covering every available surface in the small room, deliberately flipping a pancake on the hot griddle she had dug out of the back of the coat closet. At least, that’s where Noah assumed it came from, as every last jacket he owned, and a pair of hockey skates he hadn’t known he owned lay like the casualties of war on his living room floor.

“You’ll have to clean this up. I am not cleaning up after you. I don’t know what you’re used to at Dad’s, but I won’t play maid for you. Jesus! Look at this mess! There’s egg goo on my paper! On the headline! How am I supposed to read the paper when there’s egg goo on it? That’s unhealthy. I could get e coli or something. Christ, Deirdre! Look at this mess!”

Deirdre unceremoniously clattered a plateful of pancakes onto a slice of clear space on the tiny kitchen table. “Shut up, Noah. Eat a fucking pancake.”

“Deirdre—“ he protested. She shoved him onto the chair. He slipped a little on it, and wondered with a grimace how hard it would be to get pancake mix out of his robe. He reluctantly picked up his fork, noticing that Deirdre had already put butter and syrup on his pancakes. Did she know how bad butter was for you? Could he get heartburn from pancakes? Actually, noting that it was Deirdre cooking, food poisoning was probably a bigger concern. Unless she dared to actually poison his breakfast on purpose. He sighed. At least if he died he wouldn’t have to worry about whether or not she was going to clean his kitchen. And his living room, he added mentally, remembering the coat closet.

“Eat!” Deirdre demanded, noticing his hesitation.

Noah took a deep breath and scrunched his eyes shut—as he would, he imagined, if he were ever forced to walk the plank—and shoved a bite into his mouth. He chewed furiously, trying to get it down as fast as possible. It wasn’t until he had put the second bite into his mouth that he noticed the taste.

“Hey—this is good,” he said with his mouth full. She gave him a look that told him what a moron he was, but he ignored her to dig in. He barely noticed when she sat down across from him with her own plate.

They ate in silence; Deirdre decided it was a good way to begin. It would be a good way to continue, as well, she thought, remembering Noah’s plethora of complaints this morning and barely refraining from rolling her eyes. When he finished—two platefuls—Noah took his plate and flatware to the sink, where he rinsed them perfectly before placing them in the dishwasher. He put the rest of the dishes Deirdre had used to cook in the dishwasher as well, though he left the four spills and egg goo for her to clean up. Still, she thought, it was nice of him to help with the dishes. She didn’t comment on it, and neither did he.

When he reappeared from his room, his hair was neatly combed, and his neck sported a traditional red striped tie.

“Do you ever wear normal clothes? It’s Saturday,” Deirdre noted, puzzled. He was such a dork! Didn’t he know how to relax on the weekends, like everyone else?

“I have to go to work,” he replied succinctly.

“It’s Saturday,” Deirdre repeated, not comprehending.

He shrugged. Picking up his briefcase, he headed toward the door. Stopping with his fingers on the handle, he said softly, “Thanks for the breakfast, Deirdre.” She lit up with satisfaction. “But remember to clean up. The closet, too,” he added as he closed the door behind him. Deirdre had to laugh. This would be all right, she assured herself as she plied a wet rag on the counters. After all, she was only here for another forty-two days.



He had lied. Well, he hadn’t told the truth, not exactly. He wasn’t going to the store—he didn’t work on Saturdays. But he was working. His goal was to open a store of his own before Christmas, in time for the holidays. His own book shop, specializing in rare books. It had been a dream of his since he had first started in the book business. It was a competitive business, rare books. If he didn’t nab the right book, someone else would. Saturdays were the standard day for auctions. He was always surprised by how often people didn’t know what the books they sold for a pittance were really worth. First editions, books signed by the author, complete multi-volume sets—they were often put up for auction, or donated to used book stores, the owner having no idea of the treasure they were tossing away. Noah liked the deals he could get that way. He had to take advantage of them, or other dealers would put him out of business, but he did try not to rip anybody off. Well, except that one old bitch who had informed him haughtily that yes, that was her expensive French perfume on the title page of a first edition of Absalom, Absalom!. It had been a gift to her dear belated husband on their first wedding anniversary. Couldn’t he see that from the inscription on that page? How was she to know that it would make the ink run? Well, she would sell him the book. But she wanted that. And right before his very eyes, before he could stop her, she had torn out the title page. She might as well have torn out his heart. Noah had wanted to cry. Or strangle her. Instead, he had told her calmly that she had just torn a good portion of the worth out along with that page, and had bought the defaced book for a reduced price. He hated that woman. He really hated her.

He had a decent stock already, carefully boxed in his bedroom. Still, a good dealer was always on the lookout. And so it was that Noah spent his Saturday at two auctions, three used bookstores, a thrift store, and then no less than five yard sales, hoping to hit the jackpot. Even so, all he came across was a signed copy of Beloved with a signature of dubious authenticity. He bought it anyway, hoping for the best. If it turned out to be fake, with its binding in good condition and none of the pages dog-eared, it would still be a nice addition to his own personal library. After book-hunting, he had an appointment to tour a store for lease. That, too, was a disappointment. It was nice enough inside, but the storefront was not noticeable, or rather, it was noticeably ugly, with its sterile gray brick, and weathered gray window frames. In fact, the only thing breaking the monotony of gray was the graffiti scrawled upon one face. The store wasn’t in a very nice neighborhood. Location, he knew, would be key. His clientele would be people with money to spare—lots of it. They would expect a dealer of expensive, rare books to be found in an exclusive neighborhood, in a posh shop. He would know it when he found it. Noah gave up for the day, a false autograph the only evidence of the day’s efforts.

The drive home was difficult, thanks to construction that probably wouldn’t end until Christmas. He had to circle the block time and time again before he finally found a parking space. And once he got out of the car, he knew he would have to deal with Deirdre and her mess. He sighed as his car beeped goodnight.

He only realized the door was unlocked when he relocked it trying to get it. He muttered threateningly under his breath as he finally got the door open and himself inside. Noah noted with surprise and pleasure that the kitchen was actually clean, and—he checked the coat closet opening the door the way cops on TV do when they suspect a killer might come bursting out at them—his jackets were all neatly hung up and his shoes realigned. Oh thank god.

“Hey, it looks really good in here,” he called toward the light spilling from her partially open door. Silence. He waited a moment longer for a response, then grew slightly concerned. “Deirdre?” he called again, “You haven’t overdosed yourself or anything, have you? Because I do not want a corpse in my apartment. It’s frowned upon by the neighbors,” he joked nervously. She still didn’t answer. He poked his head in her room. He was unsurprised to see she wasn’t there, but his worry multiplied. He quickly took stock of the room to see what, besides Deirdre herself, was missing. Her clothes were still in the dresser—he could see a t-shirt hanging out of one of several drawers gaping open. He closed them and opened the closet door. Most of her boxes were still there. The only thing that seemed to be missing was the plastic bag that had been sitting by the door. Which meant she was coming back. Right?

Noah rushed through the other rooms, looking for a silly, manipulative girl he didn’t want to have to worry about. She wasn’t in the living room; he had seen that as soon as he had walked in. The kitchen was the same. He fully expected her to be in the office, listening to headphones or doing something that explained why she wasn’t answering him. But she wasn’t there. He even checked out his own room, despite the fact that he had forbidden her to go in. It would be just like her to defy him just to drive him crazy. But she wasn’t there, either. The bathroom was dark and empty. He was half-tempted to look in the damn coat closet again, just to make sure she wasn’t hiding from him.

“Damn it!” he cursed loudly. “Where the fuck did she go?”

Just then, the doorbell rang. Noah opened it to find a pizza delivery guy standing there, offering a pizza box and expecting a large tip.

The young redhead grinned cheekily. “I guess you wouldn’t be Deirdre, then.”

“Definitely not,” Noah affirmed dryly.

The young man shrugged and turned to leave. “Okay, mister. See ya.”

Noah watched him leave in puzzlement. “Wait,” he called after a moment. If there was a plaintive note in his voice, he chose to ignore it. This guy seemed to know Deirdre, by some means Noah didn’t want to know, and he should really utilize this opportunity. He might know where Deirdre was.

“Oh, sure,” the kid answered Noah’s query. “She said if she wasn’t in the apartment to check the roof. You can follow me, if you want,” he said gallantly.

Noah’s eyebrows rose. Gee, thanks. Not like it’s my building, or anything, he thought sullenly. But he followed.

Sure enough, there she was, doing...what? Her back was to him, and she seemed to have made another mess. And what was that little girl doing up here? Did her mother know she was up here? It wasn’t very safe at all—there was no railing around the perimeter, and it would be a long fall to the street.

“What the fuck, Deirdre? I mean—what are you doing up here?” he corrected hastily, in deference to the little kid’s presence. Wasn’t she his upstairs neighbors’ kid? She had given him a Valentine once last year, red crayon hearts on pink construction paper. It had been kind of cute. But if he had responded, he probably would have been nabbed for sexual harassment or something, which he could definitely do without. Maggie, he thought her name was. Or maybe Maddie. Something like that.

Deirdre turned around in her chair. Was that clay on her hands? Was that his kitchen chair she was sitting in? Was that a clay handprint on the back of his kitchen chair? He gritted his teeth against the urge to let another curse word slip. Or a string of them. Whatever. She was driving him crazy!

Deirdre opened her mouth to speak, but Maddie, or Maggie, beat her to the punch. “We’re doing Art,” she said imperiously, her nine-year-old voice regal and cool.

Noah blinked. “Ah, yes. I see that. Of course. Deirdre, may I speak with you a moment, please?” He was impressed that the temper he was feeling didn’t show in his voice. Much.

Deirdre got up, mindlessly wiping her gummy hands on the sides of her pants. Noah cringed to think of all the places in his apartment that clay could end up. And did he just see her trade a look with that little girl, Maggie or whatever the hell her name was? A look that included eye-rolling? Jesus Christ! How old was she?!

He grabbed her wrist when she got close enough and dragged her closer to the edge of the building, resisting the urge to give her a shove. It would have been difficult to explain to his father.

“Do you want to tell me what the hell is going on here?” he growled low, for her ears alone.

“Can I say no?” she asked.

“No.”

“Well, then. Matty had it right. We’re doing art. Well, not Leon, of course. He’s just delivering the pizza,” she said coolly.

“Don’t get smart with me, young lady,” Noah warned.

She looked at him incredulously. “Are you serious? Who do you think you are? You are not my father, you are not my legal guardian, you are not my anything. I am nineteen years old, and I can do as I please, being an adult and all. So don’t you use that tone on me, Noah Winters.”

They each tried to stare the other down, but found the opposing pair of eyes just as tough as their own. Then Deirdre’s flashed, just for an instant to show him she had more that she could tap into before saying, “Look, we’re just hanging out, eating pizza. Meeting the neighbors or something. I didn’t know it would bother you so much.”

“You left the door open.”

“I’d have been locked out otherwise. I don’t have a key,” she reminded him.

“Umm, are you going to pay for this?” Leon interrupted.

“Oh, of course. I’m sorry you had to wait,” Deirdre said brightly. Christ, Noah thought, when she turns that smile on, how could anyone say no to her? She practically glowed with friendliness. Noah wondered briefly why that light never shined on him, and then remembered that they hated each other. She pulled money out of her pocket with hands that were still slimy. Leon took the money with stars in his eyes. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen, and the adoration in his eyes made Noah want to puke. The nausea didn’t stop him from noticing that Deirdre had over-tipped the boy. What kind of message was she trying to send to Leon, he thought sourly.

“Look, Noah!” Matty interrupted his thoughts brightly. “Deirdre is teaching me how to make art with clay!”

Noah walked closer to the girl, feigning interest. Okay, maybe the interest wasn’t so feigned. He wouldn’t have thought that Deirdre would have had the patience to deal with a little girl like Matty. He peered over her shoulder to find she was carefully sculpting a small—was it a cat? Or maybe a horse.

“Wow, that’s fantastic,” he enthused.

“Nah, it’s crap,” Matty said.

“You watch your mouth, Matty,” Deirdre interjected while she finished with Leon.

“Well, it’s not very good,” the girl corrected. “Deirdre says that I need to really be able to see what I’m trying to make, like have a model or whatever. She says that’ll be better than trying to work from a fuzzy picture in my head. I wish I had a cat, though. Then I could use her as a model for my art stuff. But they’re not allowed in the building,” she mourned.

Noah nodded sympathetically. He made his excuses, and after snitching a slice of pizza, left the girls to their art and dinner. He was thoughtful as he made his way down the stairs. Deirdre wasn’t turning out to be the charge he had thought she would be. Just how wrong were his assumptions about her?