The River 1.2.1 (Revision)
Revision
==
Sucking the remaining juices on my thumb, I felt, more than heard, Cerise’s sigh of utter contentment. I couldn’t have stopped the smile tugging at the corners of my mouth, even if I had wanted to.
“That was marvelous,” Cerise declared, wiping off the spatters of grease on her chin with her napkin. She reached her arms over her head, stretching her spine like a cat waking from a nap in the sun.
“Animal,” I said, popping a fry in my mouth. It had escaped from my sandwich and was still covered in coleslaw.
Happily full, Cerise’s earlier crabbiness had evaporated so completely that, you could hardly imagine her capable of a foul mood. She inspected her basket, seeming to consider licking the white paper lining it. Still undecided, she responded to my taunt with one word: “Rawr.”
“Eloquent as always, I see,” I retorted, cocking my head as I considered whether that even constituted human speech.
“You know, though I’m not much of a carb-a-holic, I have to admit, these sandwiches wouldn’t be the same without Mancini’s bread.”
I nodded my silent agreement, when I felt my phone vibrating against my ribs. Jamming my hand into my jacket pocket, I fished out my phone and flipped it open without checking the caller id. Before I could open my mouth, I heard a voice that made my spine go rigid.
“Livy?” asked a husky voice with a lifting lilt. There was a strain underlying that one word as he said my name, which I immediately misinterpreted.
“Good bye, Liam-” I began, my voice monotone, drained of any hint of emotion. I started to drop the phone, when he interrupted, the strain rising.
“Livy, for once, don’t be a mule.”
“You bloody git!” I exploded, the words tumbling out in a low growl before I could stop them. If I ever blushed, my face would have been on fire. “You have the nerve to call after-”
He interrupted again, calmly – infuriatingly, calmly. “Livy, they’re going to contact you. You’re in Strip at Primanti’s, right?”
The tone in his voice poured ice into my veins as his words hit me. Making me suddenly hyper aware of every stray movement of every person in this very tightly packed, agonizingly small restaurant. “Who?” My golden eyes memorized each seemingly innocent face that laughed, sipped their Cokes, leaned in closer to their conversations, shrugged into their bulky jackets.
“They want to be civilized about this,” he continued calmly, but that underlying strain shouted his anxiety louder to me than any hysterical screaming three year old was capable. “They want you to know that what happened to Father Christopher was,” he paused as if unwilling to continue, “regrettable.”
My mind wouldn’t slow down; I couldn’t stop the question. “How’s John Scullion?”
Cerise had been watching my eyes and hissed with a sharp intake of breath at the name of the first victim of the Troubles, though sat with every appearance of relaxation. The warmth was leeched from her eyes as she waited.
“Well, you know, same as always,” Liam responded and the phone cut out.
Snapping the phone shut, I scooped my Marlboro’s off the counter and shoved them both into my jacket. Before Cerise could question me, Laren walked into my peripheral vision. The call had taken less then forty seconds and I consciously eased the tension in my back and settled into an easy smile as my student approached.
“Dr. Wetherden?” Laren asked. “I hope I’m not interrupting?”
Pushing my thoughts away, I answered, “Not at all, ducky.” I groaned internally. No matter how long I lived away from London, it always crept back in when I was stressed.
Laren smiled at the resurgence of my accent, but the way her eyebrows drew together, she seemed on edge, nervous. She had a slip of paper in her hand. The skin around my eyes tightened.
“Um, this is for you, Dr. Wetherden,” Laren said, looking slightly confused as she handed me the notebook paper.
“Thank you, Laren,” I said forcing my voice to sound grateful and not like I was about to snarl. Holding the paper in my hand, I refused to read it. “Who gave you this?” I tried to sound curious, but unconcerned.
“Dark woman with jet-black hair, who just left. But…” she trailed off her brows pulling together again, as if she did not want to voice something. She shook her head and laughed nervously. “Oh, never mind.”
“What is it?” Cerise encouraged, her voice tender and inviting as she barely touched Laren’s arm.
“I don’t know,” she evaded, as if trying to shake off a shudder, “she reminded me of one of paintings we studied last semester, Dr. Wetherden.”
My stomach jumped to my throat, then plummeted through the linoleum floor. “Ah, well, there are a lot of people of eastern descent in Pittsburgh,” I suggested, my mouth drawn into a cheerful smile.
Laren nodded immediately, readily accepting any innocuous explanation. “Right. Well, I need to get back. Night, Dr. Wetherden, Dr, Mirault.”
My eyes scanning the nearby patrons once more, I said, “Laren, do me a favor? Make sure one of those strapping young gents, walks you to your dorm tonight.” Not that it would change anything, if they decided to act.
The apprehension that had left Laren’s face returned. “You know, those muggings last week,” I reminded her, identifying the source of my worry as the ordinary and harmless threat of petty theft.
“Oh, right,” she remembered, the lines between her brows relaxing. “Yeah, I will. Thanks, Dr. Wetherden.”
“Just be safe,” I called after her as we swung off our stools and headed for the exit, forcibly slowing our pace as we walked. I crushed the piece of paper into my hand as my grip tightened around it. My fingers dug deep trenches into the flesh of my palms.
The clammy, cold air hit us as we left behind the stale, humidity of the restaurant, washing away the façade. We rounded the corner and Cerise pinned my shoulders to the brick causing bits of dust to puff around the edges as my bones ground into the wall. It would leave marks, but not on me.
“What happened?” she demanded, her amber eyes cold as steel, captured mine.
Shaking my head to indicate my ignorance, I opened my hand and pulled open the notebook paper. Elegant hand-written script read: We would like to make a trade.
© 2008 Elizabeth Mock
==
Sucking the remaining juices on my thumb, I felt, more than heard, Cerise’s sigh of utter contentment. I couldn’t have stopped the smile tugging at the corners of my mouth, even if I had wanted to.
“That was marvelous,” Cerise declared, wiping off the spatters of grease on her chin with her napkin. She reached her arms over her head, stretching her spine like a cat waking from a nap in the sun.
“Animal,” I said, popping a fry in my mouth. It had escaped from my sandwich and was still covered in coleslaw.
Happily full, Cerise’s earlier crabbiness had evaporated so completely that, you could hardly imagine her capable of a foul mood. She inspected her basket, seeming to consider licking the white paper lining it. Still undecided, she responded to my taunt with one word: “Rawr.”
“Eloquent as always, I see,” I retorted, cocking my head as I considered whether that even constituted human speech.
“You know, though I’m not much of a carb-a-holic, I have to admit, these sandwiches wouldn’t be the same without Mancini’s bread.”
I nodded my silent agreement, when I felt my phone vibrating against my ribs. Jamming my hand into my jacket pocket, I fished out my phone and flipped it open without checking the caller id. Before I could open my mouth, I heard a voice that made my spine go rigid.
“Livy?” asked a husky voice with a lifting lilt. There was a strain underlying that one word as he said my name, which I immediately misinterpreted.
“Good bye, Liam-” I began, my voice monotone, drained of any hint of emotion. I started to drop the phone, when he interrupted, the strain rising.
“Livy, for once, don’t be a mule.”
“You bloody git!” I exploded, the words tumbling out in a low growl before I could stop them. If I ever blushed, my face would have been on fire. “You have the nerve to call after-”
He interrupted again, calmly – infuriatingly, calmly. “Livy, they’re going to contact you. You’re in Strip at Primanti’s, right?”
The tone in his voice poured ice into my veins as his words hit me. Making me suddenly hyper aware of every stray movement of every person in this very tightly packed, agonizingly small restaurant. “Who?” My golden eyes memorized each seemingly innocent face that laughed, sipped their Cokes, leaned in closer to their conversations, shrugged into their bulky jackets.
“They want to be civilized about this,” he continued calmly, but that underlying strain shouted his anxiety louder to me than any hysterical screaming three year old was capable. “They want you to know that what happened to Father Christopher was,” he paused as if unwilling to continue, “regrettable.”
My mind wouldn’t slow down; I couldn’t stop the question. “How’s John Scullion?”
Cerise had been watching my eyes and hissed with a sharp intake of breath at the name of the first victim of the Troubles, though sat with every appearance of relaxation. The warmth was leeched from her eyes as she waited.
“Well, you know, same as always,” Liam responded and the phone cut out.
Snapping the phone shut, I scooped my Marlboro’s off the counter and shoved them both into my jacket. Before Cerise could question me, Laren walked into my peripheral vision. The call had taken less then forty seconds and I consciously eased the tension in my back and settled into an easy smile as my student approached.
“Dr. Wetherden?” Laren asked. “I hope I’m not interrupting?”
Pushing my thoughts away, I answered, “Not at all, ducky.” I groaned internally. No matter how long I lived away from London, it always crept back in when I was stressed.
Laren smiled at the resurgence of my accent, but the way her eyebrows drew together, she seemed on edge, nervous. She had a slip of paper in her hand. The skin around my eyes tightened.
“Um, this is for you, Dr. Wetherden,” Laren said, looking slightly confused as she handed me the notebook paper.
“Thank you, Laren,” I said forcing my voice to sound grateful and not like I was about to snarl. Holding the paper in my hand, I refused to read it. “Who gave you this?” I tried to sound curious, but unconcerned.
“Dark woman with jet-black hair, who just left. But…” she trailed off her brows pulling together again, as if she did not want to voice something. She shook her head and laughed nervously. “Oh, never mind.”
“What is it?” Cerise encouraged, her voice tender and inviting as she barely touched Laren’s arm.
“I don’t know,” she evaded, as if trying to shake off a shudder, “she reminded me of one of paintings we studied last semester, Dr. Wetherden.”
My stomach jumped to my throat, then plummeted through the linoleum floor. “Ah, well, there are a lot of people of eastern descent in Pittsburgh,” I suggested, my mouth drawn into a cheerful smile.
Laren nodded immediately, readily accepting any innocuous explanation. “Right. Well, I need to get back. Night, Dr. Wetherden, Dr, Mirault.”
My eyes scanning the nearby patrons once more, I said, “Laren, do me a favor? Make sure one of those strapping young gents, walks you to your dorm tonight.” Not that it would change anything, if they decided to act.
The apprehension that had left Laren’s face returned. “You know, those muggings last week,” I reminded her, identifying the source of my worry as the ordinary and harmless threat of petty theft.
“Oh, right,” she remembered, the lines between her brows relaxing. “Yeah, I will. Thanks, Dr. Wetherden.”
“Just be safe,” I called after her as we swung off our stools and headed for the exit, forcibly slowing our pace as we walked. I crushed the piece of paper into my hand as my grip tightened around it. My fingers dug deep trenches into the flesh of my palms.
The clammy, cold air hit us as we left behind the stale, humidity of the restaurant, washing away the façade. We rounded the corner and Cerise pinned my shoulders to the brick causing bits of dust to puff around the edges as my bones ground into the wall. It would leave marks, but not on me.
“What happened?” she demanded, her amber eyes cold as steel, captured mine.
Shaking my head to indicate my ignorance, I opened my hand and pulled open the notebook paper. Elegant hand-written script read: We would like to make a trade.
© 2008 Elizabeth Mock
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