Of African Violets
by L. Inman
It was shaping up to be one of the bad nights. Rupert turned up the fire under the kettle and turned in the small kitchen to brace his hands on the counter and stare out into his barren livingroom. He hadn’t even put up the curtains, instead trusting the blinds to guard his privacy; and in the sea of boxes the only sign of life was his open suitcase at the foot of the couch. Beyond that, —it didn’t bear thinking of. Unpacking was just not in the cards this trip, not when he was rendered so weary just making a cup of tea.
Though weariness wasn’t really the word: there had to be some word to describe the paralyzing weight in his spirit that was eased by neither rest nor activity. But he could, with effort, occasionally forget. Tomorrow he had a date, and with any luck he would get to spend the night away from here: Bacchus had failed him, but Aphrodite had some power yet.
But that was tomorrow.
Rupert let his head hang low between his shoulders, listening for the squeak and whistle of the kettle.
Instead, he heard a small, insistent knock on the door.
Frowning, he lifted his head; the knock came again, louder, and he moved slowly to answer it. When he opened the door onto the dusk, his heart sank.
“Elisabeth,” he said faintly.
She looked up from her efforts to unfold a scrap of paper from around the things in her arms. “Oh, you’re there,” she said. “I do have the right place then.”
“Yes,” he said, “you found me.” Damn, he hadn’t managed to school the dismay out of his voice.
She heard it: but other than a shrewd look she made no comment, which was new. Rupert wondered what was up; Elisabeth had chosen to take a tart and persistently solicitous attitude toward his grief, which, he supposed, was all she could do under the circumstances—but it had nettled him and pained him by turns.
“I’m on a buying trip for Mr. Edwards,” she said now, “and I thought I’d use the opportunity to drop by a housewarming gift for you. That is—” she paused— “if it’s a good time….”
His face felt leaden, and she added, before he could make himself answer, “If it isn’t, you know, I can just leave these and go on—I can’t stay here long in any—”
Stung with shame, he uttered, “No—no—it’s—I’m not—do, do—” He stopped short of inviting her in, and instead stepped aside and held open the door.
He caught her scent as she moved past him into the foyer: her warm skin mixed with the faint aroma of books. He had suspected her of delicately lying about the business trip, but no: slung over her shoulder was a satchel, and she wore a pair of dress slacks topped by a tailored vertical-stripe oxford-style shirt with white collar and cuffs. Her hair was up; the inevitable soft tendrils hung in a light drift at the nape of her neck, and over her collar. Yes, it was a bad night—he was unable to ignore the persistent urge whenever he saw her to gather her in, to melt into her: an urge toward a refuge distressingly other than the claims of Aphrodite. It wasn’t what she wanted from him, and quite right too: he thanked God for one secret at least which she had not found.
But it was just as well she wasn’t staying long.
“What did you bring me?” he asked, encouraging the faint movement of childlike anticipation within him.
“Oh, just a little token,” she said. “Something to go with your décor of…cardboard boxes.” Her sweeping glance took in the barren livingroom.
He gritted his teeth, wishing he had not lamented to her over the phone last trip about the heartbreak of unpacking.
But again she forebore to comment further; instead she relieved herself of her burdens onto the kitchen counter, then set them apart.
“Bread and salt,” she said, indicating a plastic grocery bag. “As per Jewish tradition.”
“You’re not Jewish,” he said with a little smile, going into the kitchen to turn down the heat under the kettle.
She smiled back. “No; just a shameless thief of traditions. Also an African violet.” She pushed forward a small pot; the specimen was a rich purple with glistening petals.
Rupert braced his hands on the counter as before, staring at it. Damn her. She knew him too well; it shouldn’t be allowed. “What,” he said, “if I kill it with neglect? What kind of omen would that be?”
“It wouldn’t be an omen of anything except maybe your black thumb,” Elisabeth said dryly. “But, if you take care of it, maybe it will take care of you.”
He lifted his eyes without raising his face: he gave her a long look, which she returned equably. Then humor came into her face and she pushed forward a small, square package. “Go on. Open your present.”
Tentatively he reached for the package and began to undo the outer paper. Inside was a cardboard box, taped lightly shut; he pulled it open, drew out a few wads of bubble-wrap, and finally lifted out—a very small lamp with a glass shade shaped like a green scarab beetle fitted seamlessly into its metalwork.
He went still, looking at it, trying to divine whatever obscure message Elisabeth might be trying to send him. After a few seconds of utter failure he realized the obvious, and swallowed an ache at the back of his tongue.
“It’s...delightful,” he managed finally.
Elisabeth was speaking offhand. “Well, I ran across it in a glass shop the other day, and I thought it looked like you, and well—you know—it was cute.” She dried up finally, looking up at him. “I hope you like it.”
“I do,” he said. “I do like it.”
The kettle began singing softly behind him, a little tune of blithe betrayal. Now he would have to give her tea, which meant she would stay longer, which meant he might—
“Would you like some tea?”
She waved away his offer. “No, thanks. I really am just stopping by.”
Rupert turned the fire off under the kettle altogether, tried to summon the wherewithal to get out his mug and a teabag. Instead, he blurted: “I have a date tomorrow.”
“Oh?” He listened carefully without looking at her, but all he could hear was cordial interest in her voice. She said nothing more, and he turned to look at her. Her face was no more troubled than her voice, though she did look a little grave. Rupert cursed his transparency.
“Is she nice?” Elisabeth inquired, then backtracked a little. “It is a she—right?”
He rolled his eyes. “Yes, it’s a she. And yes.”
“That’s good,” Elisabeth said, a little lamely.
He paused to search her face before asking, “You—you’re not upset?”
Her eyebrows went up. “Did you expect me to be?”
He opened his mouth, hesitated, said: “No.” He sighed and shook his head. “No. I just—I only—” A new thought struck him, and he frowned at her closely. “Is it—do you know about it? Is it—?”
“...in the story?” Elisabeth finished quietly. She sighed and cast her gaze back down to the scarab lamp. “Well...no. Not really.”
He didn’t know what to make of that—whether his new friend would be in the picture for long, or if he would drop out of it with her. An actual mental image of a picture came to him—a murky, swirling battle, and himself slipping off the margin of it, whether to escape or be banished he still didn’t know.
He should have taken pains to find out what happened to Watchers after—when Buffy had asked him about it: the process, the diaries, the story. It would have come in handy to know.
“I think I’d better be going,” Elisabeth said softly.
“No,” he said, instantly. “I mean—it’s my fault. I broke one of our little taboos. I asked you questions.” He dared a single glance up at her, his head low.
She shook her head, a faint shine growing in her eyes. “It’s not that. I mean, it is that, but that’s not why I’m going.” She paused, sucking in her lips for a moment. “I am trying not to make things worse for you,” she said.
“You’re not,” he said, lying through his teeth: she looked up at him reproachfully, and he fell silent.
The silence between them stretched so long that the moment it became exquisitely unbearable, they both looked up to speak.
“Well, I hope you—”
“Thank you for the housewarming—”
They stopped. With a look she gave it to him to go first.
“Thank you for the bread and salt,” he said, with a small attempt at a smile. “And the lamp.”
She swallowed, shifted the satchel higher on her shoulder. “You’re welcome.”
He stretched out a long finger to stroke the fur on the nearest violet leaf. “And the violet.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll take good care of it.”
“See that you do,” she said crisply. She turned and moved out of his vision, toward the door. He jumped to follow her.
At the door she turned, the dim light picking out the glints of her glass-rims and the faint remaining shine in her eyes. “I hope you have a good date,” she said.
“You don’t mind?” he said, before he could stop himself.
He saw surprise cross her face before she said dryly: “Well, apart from being a little jealous that you’re closer to getting some than I am right now...no.”
He had to crack a smile at that, though her answer left him oddly unsatisfied. He glanced back into his disheveled living area. “Well, obviously, I’m not bringing her back here,” he murmured.
“Maybe in the future,” Elisabeth said, with a little shrug.
“When I get unpacked, you mean,” Rupert said bitterly.
Elisabeth answered quietly. “Yes. When you get unpacked.” She stepped back from him and opened the door. He caught hold of the jamb for her as she began to duck out; but she paused. “And you will.”
Her tone as she spoke the words was not the flaunting of prophecy, but the rich concern of a friend. He ushered her out before it could sink in.
“Thank you for the gifts,” he said again.
“You’re welcome,” she said, casting a glance over her shoulder as she stepped out onto the front stoop.
She was going down the steps. “I’ll call you,” he said.
She turned to look at him, pushing up her glasses and tucking back a bit of her hair. “Okay,” she said. Her gaze was very steady, with calm skepticism round the edges.
“I’ll call
you,” he repeated. “And maybe, next
trip...I can come up to
She offered him a small grave smile. “I’d like that,” she said. “Maybe we can hook up with a friend or two of mine, or just us, whatever your speed is. Let me know.”
He nodded.
She hitched up her satchel on her shoulder. “Well, I’d better hit it. Take care.”
“And you,” he said. She moved off down the pavement, and he said abruptly: “Elisabeth—watch your back.”
She turned with a half-grin, patted her satchel flap, and set off at a quick, confident pace. Watching, Rupert saw her hand wander just under the satchel flap in a circumspect movement that belied the carefree motions of her stride. Before she could disappear round the corner, Rupert withdrew inside and shut the door.
He found that the tea water had cooled again, and he was too weary to turn up the fire again and look for his mug. Instead he braced his hands on the counter as before, staring at his gifts.
Bread and salt. Light. Blooms. He shut his eyes.
He had completely botched it with Elisabeth. The entire interview was bollocksed, from his blank dismay at the first sight of her, to his blank desperation when she left. He had asked her questions, he had attempted to make her jealous (and for what?), he had got none of the consolation of her company that he could so easily have had....
He felt a brief, wild urge to sprint out of the house, find her, beg her to come back and talk to him, really talk to him, about anything or nothing, it didn’t matter—or alternatively to beg her to take him with her to her book deal...which he would probably muck up for her, with his dishevelment and his wandering mind. He opened dull eyes to the counter once more. It was best that she had gone.
He let the
weight of his shoulders shift to one hand and reached out the other, to stroke
the soft fur of the violet again. He
should take her up on her offer of an
He traced with his fingertip the soft serrations of the violet leaf. She had picked a good one: healthy, sturdy, with firm stalks and new blooms bright and fresh right to the edges of every glittering purple petal.
Rupert eased a finger under the leaves and felt the soil in the plastic container. It was damp enough; but the plant clearly needed a real pot to grow in, and some fresh soil. He looked up and scanned the boxes in his living area: he had the perfect pot somewhere—well, actually not a pot, a small disused fertility urn, but it was still perfect.
He moved, picking up speed, into the living area and began poking among the cartons, looking for the correctly labeled one. He found what he thought might be it, and took out his pocketknife to cut the tape.
Inside he found knickknacks from his livingroom in Sunnydale, packed hastily (he remembered) as how one should rip off an adhesive bandage, to minimize the pain. Rupert unwrapped each item carefully, lining them on the floor next to where he sat.
He got to the bottom of the box; the urn was not there, but his knickknacks were very dusty. Rupert got up and hunted out a rag and some cleaner.
An hour and a half later found him nested among three unpacked boxes overflowing with crumpled Sunnydale newspaper, his fingertips grimy and his glasses askew, wiping off his Orb of Terrian with a rag that really needed replacing.
Three hours later found him cutting into another box.
When dawn crept pale-fingered into the flat through Rupert’s uncurtained windows, it found him curled up on the couch next to his open suitcase, wrapped squaw-fashion in a chenille throw, barefoot, eyes tight shut as he slept, surrounded by the debris of unpacking.
On the kitchen counter, next to his abandoned glasses, the urn and the violet sat side by side, waiting for the next step.
*
Finis