Thick As Blood

Richard Harrow had contemplated what Jimmy had told him. Several things entered his mind: Jimmy was his friend, and even though Richard didn’t agree with his terms – he thought that respecting his wishes would be for the best. But if Richard took a moment and thought for himself he knew that he wanted to do the job.

For some reason the way the Cecelia looked at him made him comfortable. He almost felt like she couldn’t see that half of his face was fake. He liked her kind eyes, and kind words and he even enjoyed sharing a drink with her that night he put her to bed. Apart from work Richard didn’t really have much contact with others – and in a way he almost felt like Cecelia was someone that could be meaningful to him.

Richard left his home that day feeling lonely, as he often did. He wouldn’t see Jimmy until later, and there was little alcohol to move that day. Richard was uneasy when he had spare time – it tended to leave him with his own thoughts. One’s which Richard didn’t exactly trust. The stubborn Atlantic waves would leave him thinking about the beaches in France. Beaches he remembered that held the souls of hundreds of men.

Richard tried to focus his attention elsewhere. He rarely looked into shop windows because his own reflection would often bother him. But today many windows were plastered with bills for Cecelia’s show, one he had now seen. And like many men who had seen the show – he tended to like Cecelia. Richard now distracted himself with thoughts of the girl and how she managed to bring every man to empty his pockets, and beg for her attention. Some as beautiful as her deserved it… that was for sure.

Richard could hear her voice in his ears. Something velvety and sweet seemed to lull him away from the roar of the crashing waves. And he carried on his merry walk, now slightly happier than he had been before. It seemed that the only things left Richards head was work, the war, and his sister. All things that tended to make him sad since he struggled to see anything bright in them anymore – and now he could deny that last week listening to Cecelia had made him smile, and he also couldn’t deny that he liked sharing that drink with her… he liked the way she saw him.
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Cecelia was now fitted from head to toe in a flashy blue dress that fitted her curves tightly. It reminded her of the way that an hourglass would sit on a table. She draped a warm scarf over her shoulders while she waited for someone to bring her backstage. She was cold, and unhappy with the way her second week in Atlantic City had turned out.

The first was no picnic, but she had still kept the potential for the future in mind, and when the second week showed little promise, she felt her hope waiver.

After sometime on stage she felt ill. She kept her cheeks pinned high and her teeth gleaming while she waited for the band to finish her last number. When the curtain fell she felt her stomach sink further when she realized men had found their way backstage again and there was no one to stop the stranger who let his hand wander her curves. The man was handsome – he seemed to be in a lot of money, and he even had decent manners.

With a little sly flirting Cecelia was able to trick the man long enough for her to slip away unnoticed – but now it was considerably later than usual and she couldn’t help but think that sleep would elude her another night. Her immediate thought was alcohol. After kicking off her shoes and throwing a long coat over her dress she made her was down a familiar hall to her favorite closet that always seemed to be flush with booze.

She stole a tall bottle of champagne. The glass was green with a golden foil wrapper, something fancy, with a label in French. Cecelia cradled the bottle and sulked as he walked back to her room.

Her feet were bare, and they glided across the carpet, carrying her back to her hallway where she had to stop short. She now found Richard. He was standing in the hallway pretending to be interested in one of the French paintings on the wall. One that he must’ve seen several times by now – so Cecelia intently curious on why he was so late, and why he was so nervous.

“Rough night?” she asked.

“Mm, something like that. You?”

“Of sorts.” She said. She was looking at him now… waiting for him to interject, to apologize, to explain. Richard looked at the glass bottle in her hands.

“If you have company, I can come back later.” He told her.

“I had none.” She said, “till now.”

“Chapmange is for celebrating, I’m sorry for assuming-”

“Richard, you don’t need to be sorry.” Cecelia inhaled deeply. “I assume Jimmy talked to you.”

“He did.” Richard responded.

“And… that’s why you were late. And now you’re here to tell me you won’t be around tomorrow night?”

“Uh, well, no. I came to do my job here, tonight, and to inform you I will be here tomorrow night. I apologize for my lateness.”

“That say’s a lot about you Richard.” Cecelia was now smiling, quite happy with his choice of sticking around. “Should we celebrate?” Cecelia asked him tilting the bottle of champagne in her hand.

”With him?” they both heard. Behind Richard’s shoulder was the same man that Cecelia had escaped from only a short while ago. And she was only relived that Richard was here this time to help her get rid of him.

Like before, he seemed to think that his hands had free range of her body. He walked up beside her and claimed the free space next to her. Cecelia looked at him quite aghast while she felt Richard become slightly uncomfortable. Cecelia stepped away from him, and made it clear that she was uncomfortable. She turned and stepped away from him and now Richard was behind her, and closer to her.

“Don’t tell me Frankenstein got you a bottle of bubbly to try and get you to forget his freakish face did he?” Cecelia watched the rich yuppie size Richard from top to bottom. No doubt comparing his black tuxedo with Richards plain suit. “Listen pal, I’m going to have to ask you to leave the pretty lady alone.”

Cecelia crossed her arms and finally let her irritation play across her face at the man’s stupidity. A look of confusion crossed his face before he realized that perhaps he was the one who had made a mistake.

“I think you should leave.” Cecelia said very clearly.

“Don’t tell me… did this guy threaten you or sumthin’? Cause doll, you can tell me, I’ll make sure he don’t show his ugly mug ‘round here again.”

Without really thinking, Cecelia’s arm snapped and clean cut the guy’s face. He held the bridge of his nose and check for bleeding while Richard grabbed her arm, although Richard’s movements were quick, they were gentle. The man, now angered, reached for Cecelia’s throat, but Richard quickly foiled any attempt he may have at hurting her when he thrust the man to the ground and shoved his face against the wall.

Now he was surly to have bruises in the morning, and Cecelia couldn’t help but watch while Richard threatened the man with a knife to his throat. And although Richard was protecting her, she couldn’t help but wonder what Richard had done to protect her before… Had Steinzer received a similar fate?

She found herself cradling the champagne while Richard kicked the man away. He picked himself up off the floor and fled down the hall away from Richard, away from the man that had spared his life. Cecelia heard several more slurs and ugly comments but she tried not to listen while he walked away. Cecelia was now again alone with Richard, who was now a bit flustered and seemed almost embarrassed. He had protected Cecelia from defending him: something he had never really expected to do.

“Mm, I guess you do need someone here.” Richard told her.

“I need you here.” She said while returning to her earlier state of serenity. She placed her hand on his cheek and looked into his only real eye. She gave him a slight smile before asking if he still would like a drink, to which Richard politely declined.

Cecelia returned to her room to strip off the uncomfortable clothes, and while the champagne sat chilling on a bed of ice, she couldn’t help but feel stupid wanting to drink alone. But, sleep still did not succumb to her. She lay awake in a silk nightgown with a white sheet covering her body. After hoping that sleep would take her, she decided that it was an endless cycle of begging her body to just give in and let go – something that would not happen. She was used to staying up all night, and it seemed that tonight was a night that she would see sunlight before feeling tired.

She pulled out a blue suitcase that she had yet to open, inside were her books, she had yet to touch them in Atlantic City. She tried to decide between fiction and poetry, and finally settled on a small bound book that contained the fascinating work of T.S. Eliot. Now, Cecelia had learned to read growing up, but it had come from the broken teachings of several maids, and the occasional outside conversation. She could read, but only very slowly – and fiction didn’t bother her as much because even if she read slowly, she could still see a story, but with poetry… she couldn’t find the real meaning within words.

She peaked out her door to find Richard, still sitting on the couch even after all that time. It was likely quiet enough for him to have left – yet Cecelia was glad he hadn’t. She tied her robe tight and found herself sitting next to him. He was surprised at first, he seemed to be distant in thought when she came about and when seeing no sign of trouble he was slightly confused.

“Do you read, Mr. Harrow?”

“Used to.” He said. His gravel voice seemed to echo in the silent hallway.

“But you can?” she asked again, more specific.

“Yes... I can.”

“Would you?” she politely asked handing him the bound book.

After looking at it a short while Richard took the book from her hands and flipped through it cautiously. “Do you like his poems?” Richard asked.

“I don’t know yet, I don’t… read well enough to understand them.”

“But you speak so well.”

“I just… never got enough practice. I talked a lot in my life, but never wrote – didn’t read. I learned how but it never became… a skill.”

After admitting something Cecelia realized she never told anyone – she began to close her eyes while Richard told her about ’stuffed men.’

Cecelia didn’t give anyone a reason to think she was weak, or to think she was undereducated – but when she told Richard she almost knew that he wouldn’t be someone to use it against her. Almost as if he was someone that wouldn’t ever hurt her – because she never remembered falling asleep, she never remembered him stopping – she only realized what had happened that afternoon when she awoke in her bed, alone, well rested – and without the usual head ache from a heavy drink the night before.
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Richard again, was alone with is thoughts. He waited now, alone on the couch – he wouldn’t leave until morning, just to be sure that that pig didn’t come back to try and hurt her. He remembered her immediate reaction to protect him, to fight for him. That compassion hadn’t been felt by Richard for a long time; not since before the war.

He let himself smile for a moment, while he was grateful for her eager display of defense, and in return he would ensure that she spent the night safe.

Richard was startled when she came out of her room. He had expected her to be fast asleep by now – but instead she looked restless, and tired. When she asked him if he could read, he almost wanted to lie. He had grown tired of literature and the lack of human connection that Richard believed didn’t exist. But when she handed him a book of poetry – he couldn’t help but feel curious.

Richard had loved the way a book felt in his fingers, and he had almost forgotten how the pages smelled. And while he read to her – he couldn’t help but get swooped back onto the battlefields in France. Because Richard had been a hollow man.

Everything within the poem was something he related to, something he knew deep down to his core, and here it was poetically displayed in ink. But instead of feeling pain, and turmoil for his loss in the war, he felt a stab of peace enter his mind for the first time. Because reading this meant that someone somewhere knows what that war was like. Eliot knew that hollow men were brought to the battlefields to fight the other hollow men until someone somewhere was left. He had re-read this poem several times now, a few out loud, and a few just in his head. The soft dozing coming from Cecelia seemed to get him to notice that there was a reality still around him. After looking at the exhausted girl Richard placed the book inside his vest pocket while he lifted her gently from the small couch. Opening the door without waking her was a challenge, but worth it when he realized he had been careful enough not to wake her. For the second time Richard placed this girl back in her bed and covered her body with a warm blanket. And although he did not want to, he left the small book of poetry on her vanity table before leaving.