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Assr Stories
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Mg10-11, cons, ped, 1st, uncle/niece
Fate brings two damaged people together. A lost uncle and untrusting ten-year-old niece gradually find companionship, then friendship, and finally love.
She came to me a broken little girl.
She came to me a gaunt, quiet, and withdrawn girl with scraggly, unkempt dirty-blonde hair and huge, fearful, dark olive-green eyes, and found a broken man incapable of taking care of her.
The long crescent drive leading to the mansion I called home must have given the social worker the wrong idea; expectations of social graces and culture and politesse. Her eyes opened in surprise when I pulled the large front door open, the young girl's hand in hers.
I nodded, scratching the stubble on my chin.
"Noah Jackson?" she asked as if there was some doubt, her eyes taking in my ratty jeans and wrinkled shirt.
Opening her shoulder bag, she pulled out a sheaf of papers and consulted them. She took her time, eventually commenting, "It says here that the welfare department has inspected your home and found you fit to be Lucy's guardian." She looked at me as if expecting an answer, skepticism clear in her expression.
I stared at her. She hadn't asked a question. Why would she expect an answer?
Frowning at my silence, she shook her head as if amazed that I'd been found fit for anything, let alone looking after a child. I knew how she felt.
"Lucy, this is your uncle." Looking at me with disapproval, she said, "Mr. Jackson, this is your niece. I'll get her bag from the car."
Lucy looked up at me and quickly averted her eyes, studying the interlocked stone front porch at her feet. She was scrawny, clothes cheap and unwashed, and she didn't look like a ten-year-old. To me she looked like she was eight, or younger.
The social worker returned and handed me a small, beaten-up suitcase. It was very light. She touched Lucy on the shoulder before heading back to her Ford Focus. Lucy shied back from the touch.
I watched her drive out through the open, rusted gates. A chilly autumn gust blew in the dreary twilight. Dried leaves rustled across the cobblestone driveway. Grey clouds scudded overhead threatening a cold rain shower.
"You'd better come in," I said, turning back to the entrance hall.
She followed silently and stopped. I dropped her suitcase and swung the door shut. A few stray dead leaves blew across the marble floor before it closed, collecting in the corners and joining other dried, crumbling refugees huddling from the cold.
For a second or two I studied her. Her eyes were cast to the floor, hands interlocked tightly, her scraggly dirty-blonde hair hiding her face. Worn and torn jeans with dirty cuffs looked two sizes too big for her; scuffed sneakers and a red anorak. She stood as if trying to make herself invisible.
What was I supposed to do with her? I didn't need anyone in my futile life. I wasn't capable of taking care of myself, let alone a child. I didn't have enough humanity or care left in me.
"Follow me," I said, turning and walking off. I couldn't hear her and assumed she'd obey; she seemed like that sort of child. Walking through the large entrance hall, my bare feet slapping on cold black and white marble, I led her past the sweeping circular staircase to a hall, down the hall and into a vast, empty and echoing kitchen.
Shoving empty microwave dinner trays aside to clear space on the kitchen table, I told her to sit, and moved to the large refrigerator, tugging the freezer drawer open. With a Hungry Man meal in hand, I tore the box open, shoved the tray into the microwave, and set the timer. At the sink, I rinsed a used glass and filled it with water from the tap, placing it in front of her. She shied away from my hand.
Microwave humming, I wiped out another small glass, hunted and found a half-empty bottle of Stolichnaya vodka and poured, neat, taking a large gulp. Hot fire burned down my throat; a familiar friend.
"You can take your jacket off," I suggested.
She didn't move, didn't look at me, just continued to study her lap.
Through the kitchen windows I watched rain arrive, feeding the profusion of weeds that had slowly choked real plants out of existence. Leafless bushes struggled for survival. Green scum and dead leaves covered the surface of the large in-ground pool. The unkempt, overgrown garden stretched to old leafless oaks crowding the back of the estate. A wooden swing and play set rotted and tilted precariously. At the sight, I glanced away. I hated that play set.
Taking another gulp of vodka, I set the glass down, pulled the sad-looking tray of supposed barbecue chicken, corn, and mashed potatoes out and set it in front of her. She flinched again. In the sink, I rooted around and found a knife and fork, wiped them with my shirttail, and put them next to the tray.
"It's all I have," I informed her. Grabbing my glass of vodka, refilling it and taking it and the bottle over to the table, I sat across from her.
"You can take your jacket off," I repeated.
A curtain of unwashed, dirty-blonde hair hid her face, head bowed. What was up with her? Was she mute? Deaf? Social services hadn't mentioned anything. Maybe she was praying.
With no response, I shrugged, stood, grabbed the bottle and glass and wandered through the chilly mansion back to the study, the coziest room in the house.
Rain pelted the windows. Darkness approached. I turned on the floor lamp, turned on the television - volume off, and sipped vodka. A welcome buzz formed, muting the voices in my head.
Out of habit, I pressed the display button on the remote. The time appeared on the TV; six-fifteen.
LUCY SAT IN THE silent, dark kitchen, the aroma of warm food tugging at her. She was so hungry her stomach hurt.
When Noah left, when she was sure she was alone, she picked up the fork and took a bite of corn. Sweetness popped in her mouth as she chewed. She moaned quietly and shoveled food into her mouth out of habit, rushing to eat it so it wouldn't be taken away before she was finished.
She thought about Noah and this vast house. He was tall and slender except for the paunch at his waist that swelled over the top of scruffy jeans. His face, thin and gaunt, needed a shave badly, his hair dark and limp and way too long. He'd buttoned his wrinkled shirt badly, the buttons off by one making one shirttail longer than the other, both hanging out.
Lucy had learned to be unobtrusively observant. Never stare or you'd be slapped. She'd learned to read faces - anticipate anger and violence. In Noah she saw no anger, just loneliness and loss. But she was wary. He drank alcohol, too, and she knew what alcohol did to people.
Finishing the food, she wiped the tray with her finger. Based on experience, she might not eat for another day or two. She gulped the water down, then sat at the table waiting patiently, waiting for permission to leave.
An hour later, when Noah hadn't returned, she stood and moved to the kitchen door, looking out, prepared to run back to the table. The house echoed lonely silence. She heard rain pattering against the windows driven by wind gusts. Should she leave the kitchen? Did she dare?
Slightly nervous, after waiting another ten minutes, she sneaked out trying to be quiet - not get caught, and began a cautious exploration.
The house was huge, room after room, each larger than any she'd ever seen. The dining room was formal, a rich wood table for sixteen, chairs pushed up against the sides, huge floor to ceiling glass and wooden doors on one side, serving tables and wood and glass display cabinets on the other, a huge, intricate chandelier hanging from the ceiling. She passed through into a formal living room with a massive fireplace at one end. Couches and armchairs and side tables filled the room. A large painting hung on one wall covered with a draped sheet, landscape paintings on other walls. Beautiful polished wood side cabinets held small figurines and interesting intricate carved shapes. Wide wooden and glass doors opened out to a messy garden; a fishpond and fountain were visible in the weeds.
Halls led to more rooms, bathrooms, closets. At one end she noticed the blue flicker of a television. Approaching carefully, she peeked in. The room was smaller, still big, lined with floor to ceiling bookshelves jam-packed with books, and a cluttered, big, dark wood desk near the bow windows. A television was on but no sound. Noah was sprawled in an armchair, his legs up on a footstool, a glass of clear alcohol in one hand resting on the arm, an almost empty bottle on the floor at his side.
She tiptoed away and climbed the wide, curving marble staircase.
Carpets lined the hall to the right and left. More paintings filled the hall, the walls painted a soft, pale, yellow color. Doors were closed on both sides. Walking to the left, she tried them, some opening into bedrooms, some into bathrooms bigger than she'd ever seen. At one end of the hall, large double doors were locked. She explored the other wing. More bedrooms and bathrooms, a linen closet. Another locked door.
Descending the stairs quietly, she returned to the living room and sat on a couch. Everywhere was covered in a layer of thick dust. Everywhere! Every room, every bedroom. Even the bathrooms.
The house echoed emptiness. Rooms were chilly. She thought the house was sad; as if it was waiting, holding its breath, hoping for people to return and bring back life, noise, laughter, music.
Exhausted from nerves and a long day, Lucy curled up on the couch. With a full stomach, she fell asleep, her jacket pulled tightly around her.
A HEADACHE GREETED ME when I woke up, slouched in the armchair, the television still on. Head pounding with a hangover, I reached down for the bottle of vodka and shook it. Maybe one sip left. I took it. Bones and muscles complaining, I stood and stumbled to the kitchen. The coffee tin was empty. Searching through the garbage, I retrieved yesterday's filter, still full of wet grinds, dropped it into the Braun basket, added water, turned the machine on and searched the cupboards for more vodka.
On a cluttered counter in the corner, I found an almost empty bottle and drank, heat searing down to an acidic stomach. Something nagged at me. What?
Sniffing my shirt, I decided my clothes would last another day without offending my sense of smell. I didn't give a damn, anyway.
Before the coffee machine had finished, I uncovered yesterday's mug in the sink, rinsed it and poured from the carafe, taking a sip; the weakest coffee I'd ever tasted. Something nagged at me again, something I was supposed to know or remember.
Rain drizzled outside, a singularly unpleasant day. Turning away from the window, I tried to remember. Nothing. Screw it. I'd have to shop for more vodka and coffee today. Maybe when I was feeling better.
Carrying the mug of weak coffee, I headed back to the study and paused in the entrance hall. A small suitcase stood next to the front door. The girl! That's what I'd forgotten.
Sipping coffee, I searched. Eventually, in the living room, I saw her curled up on the couch, her red anorak pulled tightly around her. Finally I saw her face; small button nose, lush lips, long light brown eyelashes, and pale yellow blotches on her face; old bruises by the looks of them.
Something in me stirred, something I hadn't felt in years; an emotion - anger that anyone could have hit her. It couldn't have been my brother. He'd passed away six years ago from an overdose. I hadn't attended his funeral. Had her mother given her those bruises? Could a mother be capable of hitting her child?
Her dark olive eyes opened. Fear rushed in.
"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to sleep on your couch!" she said apologetically in a rush, sitting up and huddling back into the corner.
I shrugged. "It doesn't bother me. Nice to know you can talk. Come with me."
She rose and followed me back to the kitchen. I assumed she'd need breakfast, even if I didn't. Opening the freezer drawer, I pulled out a Hungry Man dinner; roast beef, pasta, and green beans. Opened, I shoved the tray into the microwave to heat.
When I turned, she was sitting at the same spot at the kitchen table. At least her face wasn't hidden. She watched me through the curtain of her hair with dark olive eyes that looked far too old for her, far too knowledgeable.
Refilling my mug, I set it down, checked the fridge in case there was some milk or orange juice. There wasn't. I filled her glass with water and rinsed her fork and knife off from last night. The microwave beeped.
Pushing the empty black tray from last night's meal aside to join the others, I put the hot tray down in front of her, noticing how she shied back slightly.
"You can take your jacket off," I suggested.
Watching me closely, she ate as if she didn't taste anything, shoveling food down, eating fast. Sitting across from her, I watched her. She needed a bath, but what the Hell. So did I and I wasn't going to take one.
Her face was gaunt, her hands bony. What the Hell was I supposed to do with her?
"You don't have to sleep on the couch. There are plenty of bedrooms upstairs. Pick any one you like. Somewhere you'll find towels, if you want to shower. It's up to you. I think there might be soap somewhere. You'll need to find it."
She just stared at me, shoving mouthfuls of food in.
"I'm going out this morning," I added.
With no response from her, I shrugged, stood, topped up my mug with coffee and headed back to the study. I tried to ignore her. I tried to forget her. I really didn't want responsibility. I wasn't capable of being responsible. I didn't have enough care left in me. Maybe welfare workers would visit and judge me unfit. That would work.
For three days Lucy and I occupied the same house. She never bothered me, always gone somewhere. When I remembered, I fed her microwave meals. She slept somewhere, I don't know where, and she wore that red anorak constantly.
Our interaction was limited, conversation non-existent.
Her suitcase remained in the front hall, a visual accusation that I was supposed to look after her every time I passed it.
I drank. I watched the silent television. I tried to ignore her and failed. What little humanity remained in me whispered in my brain, "She's a child. She's your niece. Look after her."
She disturbed my alcohol-induced numbness just by being in the house, making me uncomfortable. Like a gnat buzzing in my ear, I couldn't swat her away.
On the fourth (or maybe it was the fifth) day, when I woke up to another dreary, rainy fall day, without alcohol numbing my brain, and after checking the time on the television - nine-seventeen - I finally accepted I needed to do something.
Coffee mug in hand, real coffee this time, I went in search, finding her on another couch, curled up asleep in her red anorak. Reaching out, I touched her shoulder.
As if I'd electrocuted her, she woke with a scream and cowered away.
"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to!" she exclaimed, her eyes full of fear.
"Mean to what?" I asked. When she didn't answer, her face turned down and again hidden by unkempt hair, I shrugged. "Come with me."
Without waiting for her, I returned to the front hall, grabbed her small suitcase and said, "Follow me," without checking if she was even behind me.
I climbed the staircase and paused at the top. She stopped four steps down from me. I pointed to the halls. "Go pick a bedroom."
Cautiously climbing the four steps, she eased around me keeping her distance. Without a word, she walked to the right. As if she knew where she was going, she walked to the end and picked a room overlooking the back garden. I followed, entering the familiar room: large queen bed with a white frame painted with bright small flowers, bedposts at each corner; a colorful brocaded white bedcover with spring flowers; matching white dresser and closet doors; thick pale yellow carpet that matched the walls. With the exception of a layer of dust covering everything, it hadn't changed since I'd last seen it, eight years ago.
I placed her suitcase on the floor and pointed. "There's a bathroom through that door. If you can't find soap, check the other rooms."
I didn't see her again until noon. She'd washed and changed, now wearing different jeans but still wearing her red anorak. Her hair, now clean, was blonde streaked with ash-brown, thick and almost straight, falling to below her shoulders. Yellow bruises had faded to shadows like badly applied makeup, her dark olive eyes even sharper with her face clean.
Standing in the doorway of the study, she was silent, watching me. What did she want?
"You can take your jacket off," I suggested.
I checked the time on the TV; twelve forty-three.
With a sigh, I stood and walked to the kitchen. Lucy followed at a distance. I microwaved another Hungry Man dinner and pulled out a fresh bottle of Stoli, cleaned a glass with my shirttail, and placed both on the kitchen table.
The microwave dinged. Passing by her on the way to the microwave, I paused. "You should take your jacket off," I suggested, reaching out to help.
Lucy yelped and leaned back, eyes full of fear.
Shrugging, I put the hot meal at the table in front of her, grabbed the vodka and glass, and returned to the study, the television still on and muted. I'd done my best. She had a bed. She was clean. She was fed.
Over the next few days a routine developed. Lucy never talked to me and I gave up trying to talk to her; not that I'd made much of an effort. What did you talk about with a ten-year-old girl?
Then I started noticing small changes. It started in the kitchen. Empty microwave dinner trays disappeared. I found dishes in the drainer, washed and clean. Slowly counters lost the clutter I'd lived with and the kitchen became a kitchen; neat and orderly. Floors were washed and clean.
When I served Lucy another microwave meal at lunch, I commented, "You're not hired help. You don't have to clean the kitchen." The last thing I expected was an answer so it shocked me when it came.
"I'm sorry. It was dirty,
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