| No Poets |
| Summary: | Lillie, once again, asks too many questions. |
| Date: | 1944-01-26 |
| Related: | Reference to the latter portion of this log, from way back. |
| Players: |
 .. .. |
O'Cleary Residence, Higsi
Sat Jan 26, 1944
Here we have a smaller Victorian fixer-upper with good bones. Previously closed up for a couple of years, the well-secured house has avoided the ravages of neglect. The new owner has already begun to work on some of the more 'tired' corners, making this place her own.
The house, circa early 1900's, consists of a larger lower level and a half-storey. A narrow walkway meanders from the road, through a modest fence and into the yard proper. A slight stoop leads one onto a large outdoor landing with a crude-yet-stable porch swing set up at the farthest end of the step. To the rightmost side of the house, one can just barely discern a garden bed and a sturdy shed. Entering the house proper, one is met with a porch, comfortable den, kitchen with pantry, powder room and two small bedrooms. A narrow staircase ascends to reveal a smaller spare room and an attic crawlspace that is accessible via ladder.
The mustiness has long since been chased away by the smell of TLC, good cooking and something faintly floral. Cut flowers or perfume, perhaps?
Weather:
It is winter. The weather is cool and fair.
===
The vast farmlands surrounding Lucietta O'Clery's homestead quiver in the chill mid-winter breeze of the evening. No snow, but a threat of such. Nonetheless the coolness affords to the land a different palette… dew preparing to give itself over to the frost of eventual morning. One cannot see the sunset because the cloud cover is heavy and promising a scrim of snowfall. What manages to peek through stretches itself, reddish-gold, across the Empath's back yard. It does not alight upon any dormant perennial plant in particular but rather, the woodpile. Bah.
Nonetheless, this winter evening (roundabouts 6 or 7pm) sees Lillie indoors, working devoutly upon 'something'. That something has resulted in her lack of presence in town for about two full days and nights. People who know Lillie well can count on one sighting, daily. However tonight? There's a record on the player, filling the house with pensive chamber music. The lights are on and somebody is home.
—
Clyde's got a lot to worry about, so sometime sit takes a day to register that someone hasn't been seen. So out he tromps to Lillie's. Listening as he steps up to the driveway, the music is a good indicator that everything is alright. He hopes, it's kinda depressing music, but better than nothing….right? A glance to the tree line, he'll mark it with his scent when eh leaves. He walks up the door and knocks.
—
More werewolf piss. Lillie chalks it up to location that keeps the wild animals away. There's been nothing, not even around that hokey fairy garden that she fashioned in the summer. Nothing. Has to be location. For all that Lillie seems to piece together on her own accord of that mysterious Walker clan, she has't hit the nail on the head so-to-speak. No revelations of 'omfgwerewolves' … just an idle, deeply-sown suspicion.
So yeah. It's all due to location. Clyde can piss an entire passage of Shakespeare's Macbeth and Lillie wouldn't suspect much.
The music is ponderous and sad but Lillie isn't. She in 'the zone'. She's just about to fix old lady Adinsale's left nostril on the canvass when a knock causes her to jolt and drop her brush. She stands, retrieves it, tucks it wet-end-down into her apron and makes her way to the door to open it and admit her vis—Clyde!
<FS3> Lillie rolls Empath: Failure.
—
Clyde looks cold, his jacket isn't weathering the winter as well as he had hoped. There's a mended hole from wrestling a deer that Ethel fixed for him a week ago. No greeting, no smile, just a frown and a "You okay?"
—
She sees all of that. Green eyes flit to note every mended hole, every threadbare section at the elbow or shoulder. The sense is mellow this evening.. Lillie may or may not have found a hack for dealing with it. Art. She's slight and tidy (mostly) in a housedress and apron turned down halfway at the wait, hair in a loose braid. She looks up from the jacket to the man's face, brow furrowed. Lillie has been anxious ever since her odd request, recently imposed upon Clyde. All in the name of art; all in the name of knowing more.
"You're frozen." Lillie observes, she looks and sounds worried. "Will you come in, Clyde?"
—
Clyde grunts, but will step inside. Even his pride is cold. He takes a deep inhale through his nose, his frown deepening. Why does he smell his wife and baby? "Why you been hiding away?"
—
Blink? She watches the man's expression darkening, and cannot quite understand why. Lillie's brow furrows. "Is everything alright? I.. am sorry," She looks over a shoulder, stepping back to admit him if he will concede. She does not have the capacity to discern what Clyde does, from the home'y air of her house. Green eyes move back to his face, "It smells strongly in here. I've been working all afternoon—" Blink? Hiding…
"Hiding away?" Lillie pauses, studies him. "I've been.. working here. A lot more than usual." Admitted ruefully. "Forgive me if it seemed as if I've been holed up. Clyde, it is not quite the case." Why's he not coming in? He seems.. well, he has seemed.. off.
"Is everything alright?" She asks again, worriedly. She doesn't need the sense to surmise things.
—
Dark eyes sweep around the room, but he then looks down at her. "Alright." He'll accept that. The expression on the alpha relaxes some. He steps further into the hallway, "Just been workin' a lot. Downed a deer last week, then the night before." So they have meat at least!
—
She's watching him, feeling a touch of nervousness. Clyde steps forth and Lillie feels relieved but the thought remains: she hasn't seen much of him lately. Not just due to her working more but also due to just… oh, since… her letter. Her request. She fiddles with the paintbrush at her waist, touches with two fingers the damp spot in her apron and the ruddy brownish-red stain — looks like blood — which expands from where the bristles touched. "Have I.. overstepped?" She asks outright. Damn Lillie, how she can get to the kernel of things… or what she thinks as such. Green eyes are rivetted to his face. Even if Clyde's expression relaxes some there's still something there.
"I've been allowing Dot to shower here on her way home from work… if that's been a problem—" A pause. The music fills the silence for a few seconds.
—
Clyde frowns again, "Ya can stay at home. It ain't over step-in'. It's yer place. I just needed ta make sure you're ok." She explains about Dot, and he nods, his wife had told him that, it just didn't click till now. "I appreciate it. Dottie ain't used ta living like the rest of the clan."
—
"It helps a mother to be… to be clean, and presentable." Says Lillie, as if she's an authority on what's good or isn't good for mothers. She's been around a lot of 'poor Irish' back in Boston, she just knows. She wipes her fingers again and, without guile.. with completely naivety… asks onwards: "Did you… I understand if you've been busy, and it was probably ridiculously of me to ask but.." Lillie pushes her hair behind an ear, brow furrowed. Once the two of them are indoors something tells her to not rush in, not yet; as much as she wishes to hold him, there is a curiousity there. Maybe a little test; let Clyde make the decision. She holds a hand out to him but keeps her eyes upon his face, so full and green. "Did you think on what I asked of you, in the latter? Could you? Or was it too forward of me to ask that of you?" Asked shyly.
The music fades, the record has ended. No matter; the sound of the little house sighing and settling as the temperature drops is 'music' enough.
—
What the hell does presentable even mean?!? Dot looks and smells fine. He looks around, but then his gaze comes back to Lillie. He's put the request behind him really, so that head with all those curls as he reaches back for her hand. But then he freezes. What she asked? Oh. No, no no. "I ain't no writer. It don't happen."
—
Blink. Lillie keeps her hand outstretched, fingers twitching when he freezes. Still, she will not pull her hand back; simply allow it to hang though her eyes remain upon his features. "I just thought.. there were times where you had spoken…" She reflects, but now she's tentative. Worry etches into her pretty features. "Where your words struck me." She concurs, then she clears her throat gently. "You are brilliant to me, Clyde." Said simply.. she heard things, she swears she did. Before life got so hectic up on the mountain with marriages and babies. Does he remember?
Lillie worries at her lower lip briefly. You can bet she had more to say but perhaps, mercifully, held back. She looks down briefly. "I could have sworn.."
—
Clyde's nose twitches, clearly he's not happy with this conversation. "Just words, Lillie. Nothing special." Anything he could have been is beat down. There will never be a poet on the mountain. She can swear all she wants, it doesn't change anything. Instead he sighs and turns to head towards her kitchen. He needs a beer.
—
She inhales, about to speak onwards.. there's something there. Not a reprimand; not an accusation. Just one of those deep observations that, sense or no sense, she's so damnably good at. Heckin' Lillie. She watches him move toward the kitchen, heart in her eyes, and pads along in his wake. One thing is for certain, there's beer in the fridge. It's not the cat's ass brand but what Clyde will find in the icebox in stubby glass bottles is suffice enough. "Never 'just' words." A whisper, as if uncertain to speak louder.
"You spoke those words to my heart. They are special to me." Spoken with a furrowed brow as she pulls the paintbrush from her apronstrings and moves to clean the bristles beneath glorious running water. The Empath is hurt but maybe it wasn't her place to bring it up in the first place. She asked of such a thing. A little twitch of a fine tendon in her neck as she swallows hard. Swallow down the words. Watches him thoughtfully.
—
Clyde yanks open the door to the ice box and grabs the bottle. Its a small treat, although its juxtaposed with her upset ness. As mush as he wants to demand her never say anything about it again, he can tell she's hurt. Stupid damn words. They hurt everyone. His father was right. "Ya need anythin' done around the house?"
—
What is it about this exchange that makes Lillie feel so.. not fired up, no; determined? Yes. There was one time he had her by the throat, when she asked about his race. Yes, race. What she suspected. She was told to relent; she did. But this… another side to him, surely safe to explore. Or so she thought. But she could have sworn .. sworn.. that he spoke in such a manner. It was as sudden and unexpected and poignant as a feat of nature. Dramatic much? You bet. But Lillie has always loved works, written or spoken. And images.
A deep breath through her nostrils. She moves to open up one of two junk drawers in the kitchen; it's as if the house picks up on Clyde's question. It's a sticky drawer and Lillie struggles some with it. Her lips purse, she still looks put out. Damnit she will ask her question.
"Who took the beauty of words from you?" She asks softly, shaking the knob of the firmly-stuck drawer and looking frustrated. With the drawer, surely.
—
Seeing her struggle with the draw he takes a long sip before walking over to it and kneeing. The question isn't answered. He doesn't think she'd react well to hearing about Clyde's father. "I'll get this fixed right away. Anythin' else?" He'll pull the draw pen underneath it and slide the whole drawer out so he can feel what's going on with the stuck one.
—
A splintered runner.. it's an old house and the drawer will have to really be wrenched out of there in order to get at the offending bit of wood. Lillie notes the question going unanswered — she notices!! — and takes a deep, gentle breath. Honestly, her frustration is partially to do with the drawer. This isn't the first one Clyde has had to fix, but what was she looking for to begin with?
She steps back and shakes her head slowly, signifying that there's nothing that she knows of that needs work. Only her approach. But to hell with it! Lillie lets the man fiddle with the drawers but goes on with watching him. "I want to know you, Clyde.. always do. Whatever I can. I have respected the boundaries laid as I.. stumbled upon them… but this…" A blush. "Means a lot to me."
Makes sense. If she can't be part of the wolves' world, even if she doesn't know it as such.. can one blame her for wanting to know the other avenues? Her slender fingers knit into her apron strings, fiddling with them gently. "Was it kin?" She remembers talk of him, back when she was told of Dot's pregnancy, not wanting to be like his father. Could that be…
—
Clyde reaches up for his bottle to take another sip. He's going t need a lot more if she keeps hounding him about this. "Meaning a lot don't make it a thing, Lillie. There ain't nothin' ta know." It's a wound that will never heal, one he'd rather not reopen. The bottle places back on the counter, maybe a little rougher than necessary and he'll reach to fiddle and start yanking on the drawer.
—
Good thing, she knows when to ease back. But what could have happened? Maybe Lillie just answered her own question. Had to have been the father. Was that it? It's something about the bottle being set down that decides the Empath. It's no use asking onwards, though there's an itch in her throat. Then.. thank Jesus and the Moon and all that is holy to all the good things that walk the day and go bump in the night: she doesn't ask again. She studies the paintbrush, decides that the clean bristles need another cleaning. "I.. alright. I see." Offered simply.
Sometimes actions are answer enough. Lillie, a good Irish girl at the core of her, knows never to say or think ill of the dead. Someone did this. Green eyes lift to the heavens, beyond her ceiling, and she turns to kneel at the cabinet beneath the drawer that Clyde fights with. It 'shrieks' in protest, there's a mild snap inside of the counterspace… and the drawer droops to the side somewhat. The old runner has broken off, but at least it'll open up!
—
Clyde figured that would happen, "Runner broke. I'll pick ya up one tomorrow ta replace it." He'll open and close it a few times, making sue it won't get caught in the mean time. He sighs, still on his knees, "Ya got enough for a sandwich?" He must be in a mood, to ask for a beer and food!
—
"It opens and closes, love," Lillie says easily, really not looking too concerned by the one crooked drawer amidst the others in this old space. "It can wait." She means it, too. She looks own at him, offers a hand to help him stand. Clyde may not necessarily need the help in doing so but it's the gesture that counts. As for the drawer and what was needed from within, it's a couple of envelopes and stationary. Plus a bound ledger which looks as old as the hills.
She sets the things aside and once requested, there finally is the return of her earnest little smile. "I've that and then some. Forget about this bloody thing for now and come sit a spell. Seriously, the runner can wait. The theme of this house is that of lopsided, strange things." Said simply as she makes her way back to the fridge. There appears to be a lot of leftovers set up.. not just for her, surely not. Even more than what is necessary for Walker visitors. Lillie washes her hands again, pulls out a cooked chicken carcass that she was going to break down for stock, and begins ripping meat off with her bare hands. She's in a paint-mussed dress to boot.. what a vision.
—
Dark eyes lift and he'll sigh , taking her hand he'll stand. He nods, food would be good. He moves to a chair. He lifts a hand, rubbing his face.
—
The Empath feels badly, rather simultaneously, for two things. For even opening up the subject, and for going away with mere assumptions. At least there's the remains of a cold cooked chicken to ease some of her tension out upon. She transfers the poultry into a large bowl, carries it over toward the fridge. Finds a quarter of a yellow onion, goes about dicing it fine. Onions make Lillie tear up and her nose wrinkles as she pulls out some homemade mayo. In the span of minutes she's fixed a mashed bowl of chicken salad, heaped a healthy few scoops of it between a couple of slices of brown bread. Repeats the process with another. Two substantial sandwiches and another beer are set down in front of Clyde.
She watches him, looking worried at the tired state of him. Still a bit sniffly from the onion. c_c
—
Lillie would prolly get better info from the other Walkers. He watches the food prep, always fascinated with such things. His mouth waters, eyeing the food. "….thanks, Lillie. It's appreciated." The food. And the dropping of the poetry. After a few bites, "Did I interrupt yer paintin'?"
—
There's a profound efficiency behind Lillie's movements in the kitchen… comes from working as a waitress off-and-on for a couple of years. It took mere moments for her to go from accosting a chicken carcass to producing two monstrous sammiches. But indeed the Empath reads between the lines and bows her head once. Finally.. finally.. she breaks her self-imposed tension and leans forth to press a kiss into the Walker's curls. That is as good a sign as any that she is letting it drop, though you can bet she'll ruminate later.
His latter question? Affirmative, but Lillie answers in a much kinder way. "I was due for a break. It's a commission. I am very, very tired of working on it and ready for it to be done." A blush. "It's a portrait. There is nothing organic about it at all… nothing candid. None of the fun stuff." Whatever that means.
—
Clyde lets out his own sigh, thankful for the bit of affection. A grunt , but what does he know of artistic fun? One sandwich down, he reaches for the next one. "Commissions are good."
—
"Keep eating," Says the Empath kindly. "I'm going to head in there now to put everything away." Because to end the night with that room — her studio — out of sorts just won't do. He'll know where to find her once he finishes nomming at his leisure! Lillie washes her hands for perhaps the third time, picks up the ledger that she pulled out of the trounced drawer, and carries it with her into the studio that she must now tidy up. She's efficient there, too; by the time the Alpha finishes up she will in-turn be ready to spend more time with him.. ideally without such personal questions!
Was that a ghost of worry in her features as she tucked the ledger into her apron pocket?