2 - Back in his place

Ginny Hawkins

June 2, 2000

I waited outside the door to the fanciest room on the sixth floor. As a scullery maid, it was duty to bring breakfast to the proprietor if he did not come down in time. All know one must eat or be dizzy.

Finally, he opened the door, I unable to knock with my hands full. He stared in the same way he did last night, as though he registered nothing else, no voice, no sight nor sound. I had yet to decide how to respond, if I should ask someone else to come in my stead.

"Good morning," I say, to get him to speak. Thus far nothing has happened, nothing said.

"Oh!" he jumped. "I say," he managed, trembling a little, his voice more so. "Dear me. Sorry, I--I--nevermind how do I explain," he went off into mumbling. His glazed eyes trailed downward and he somehow registered the tray. He blinked. "Oh, I see," he said, his voice clear now. He gently took the tray and thanked me kindly, closing the door.

What a wreck. Poor boy.

I couldn't help a little bit of amusement, though. No one had ever done this to me, or for me? Well, it was a passion, he was floundering, and for a second the thought crossed my mind to play with him--but no! That was not my thought, not from my head.

I glanced around, suddenly caught by a vase nonchalantly floating down the corridor. I sighed. Ah but of course, such whispers were stronger here on this floor, things happened. Well, I snagged the offending vase and set it back on its spot. No good if our proprietor should see that so soon.

I went back to the kitchen, glancing behind me to be sure the vase didn't escape again. Good. Back where things were safer, where less happened.

I come to the glorious stair landing with a chandelier overhead, to see Tim bobbing on the mat. I continued walking, snagging him by the collar as I went down the stairs.

"OI!" he yipped, twisting like a caught connie in my grip.

"What excuse do you have?" I ask, not even blinking. "I know you like interesting things, out of the ordinary, but honestly. You lag to often you can no longer work here."

"What, why?" he whined. What a child for a lanky, odd college dropout.

"You are nineteen, you have a job, there are expectations," I said calmly. How many times have I explained? "There is no way to avoid it, and since you are employed, I would suggest you act by your age."

But no, he was raptly watching a rug do cartwheels on the fifth floor. He never listened. I tossed him down the stairs, and ran to catch the rug. I ran once more to snip his ear as he dashed up the stairs again.

"Cut your addiction," I scolded, losing patience. "Now get into the kitchen. The dishes await."

He slunk off, muttering, slouching. What bad posture. I stood, (straight, I must note) wiping my hands on my apron from the dirty rug, making a note to clean it. I watched Tim go, smirking at how many times he glanced back to see if I was still there.

But of course I was. He knew by now he could count on me to be so.