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“You need to leave.”
“I don’t respond well to orders,” His voice was loud, echoing off the cement walls as he loaded the gun.
“You can leave on your feet or in a body bag, it’s your choice.”
“ ‘I don’t respond well to threats either.’ Light reflected off the polished metal of the gun. His cold eyes stared into mine, waiting for the moment to—”
A yawn broke the man’s narrative as he leaned back into his red armchair. The story of his past faded away, its listeners grounded themselves in the present, “I think I’m done tonight, it’s getting late.” Reaver adjusted his circle framed glasses, dull eyes looked at the two teenagers sitting across from him on the couch.
“You’re kidding, right? You’re not going to finish again? This is bogus!” One of the teens whined while the other got up to turn on the main light. The family room was illuminated in a healthy, warm glow.
“Mr. Reaver, thank you for having me over,” The bulky blonde said from the wall, hand still hovering over the light switch.
“What? No. Mihael,” The other teen looked over at his friend, amber eyes narrowing, “don’t thank him for doing nothing.”
Reaver slowly got out of the armchair, smiling at the boy on the couch, “Thank you for putting up with Rabbie, I know he can be a handful.” The elder male moved to the coffee table, a vase of yellow acacia rested around the trio’s mess of mugs and dishes. Before the teen could rebuttal, Reaver raised a hand out to silence him, “Rabbie, could you walk Mihael to the door? I’m sure his family is worried about him at this hour.” His voice was soft, contrasting with the scowl on his adoptive son’s face. With an exaggerated sigh Rabbie pulled himself off of the couch and motioned for his friend to follow.
“Your father is amazing Rabbie,” The deep boom of the taller teen’s voice resonated around the entryway into the family room, the rest of his sentence lost to Reaver as it became hushed, secretive. Smiling, the man continued to pick up from their evening, brushing the fallen, yellow petals onto a plate and moving into the kitchen.
“Father…” He tested the word on his tongue, it was foreign to the household, Rabbie would never call him that. In turn, Reaver would refrain from calling Rabbie his son. Cool water hit his hands as he rinsed the small plates and mugs. How long had it been since Rabbie became a part of his life? “No more than five years,” he thought, remembering the way the teen growled at him when they met. A rambunctious twelve year old, too wild for a single parent, too wild for foster care. He congratulated himself, nearing his mid sixties and still able to care for himself and Rabbie.
Once the dishes were on the drying rack he moved through the hall, feet hardly making a noise on the hardwood floor. Pausing, he caught the unfamiliar sight of a dazed Rabbie and a red faced Mihael. The two teens were stuck at the door, the thin fingers of his adoptive son entwined carefully with Mihael’s. Thick snowflakes found their way inside, the two teens oblivious to the harsh cold. Reaver took a step back, moving to his bedroom and quietly shutting the door.
The bedroom was bare. A bed was shoved off in the corner, a night stand beside it with an armour to the left wall. The most personal items in his room were the few vases of dying flowers he forgot to water. As Reaver slipped into his night shirt he heard Rabbie stomp through their two story home.
“Old man can’t you finish one story?” His voice resonated off the walls, Reaver could imagine Rabbie’s face, full of spite that would die out by morning. As Reaver sat on his bed, springs squeaking in resistance, he found his eyes wandering to his nightstand drawer. With a careful tug on the handle, a worn out, faded moleskine found itself in his hands. ‘Vyacheslav Zoloste - 1950’ the words laid out before him tugged at his core. His calloused fingers felt over the cover, chest clenching as he opened the journal, “Maybe…” he thought, “maybe this time I will finish one.”
By morning Reaver was leaning against the jamb of the door, kitchen phone cradled between his shoulder and his ear. The sweet nothings he heard on the line caused his fingers to trace over the journal’s spine. The moleskine was cracked, rough to the touch as his index finger stroked it three times, tapped it twice, and repeated.
“Rabbie, you know, I think...” The voice on the end of the line trailed off, stammering out a confession the intended audience was not ready to hear. The older man hung the phone up on the wall, the now free hand rubbing his temple. With a peek outside, he was greeted with sheets of fluffy, white snow; a perfect opportunity to keep the two men inside all day. Slowly trotting upstairs to his adoptive son’s room Reaver thought through how he could execute his story. With a short knock on the wood for warning, he moved over the threshold.
“School is canceled today. It snowed a good seven inches last night.” His voice was calm as he watched the boy in bed feign sleep. The coiled cord of his phone extending from his nightstand drawer to the comforter, “You can come downstairs for breakfast when you want.” He shut the door behind him, moving downstairs to the kitchen. Minutes passed and Reaver could hear Rabbie lazily move down the stairs. Once in the kitchen, he plopped down in his chair and dropped his head onto the table. He wore only his boxers and a shirt that hung from him so loosely it could not have been his. Long, black hair stuck up every which way, contrasting with Reaver’s slicked back salt and pepper hair. They were polar opposites, the finely dressed man cared for his appearance in and outside of their home. He set a plate down before Rabbie, the chair across from the teen squeaked against the floor as Reaver took a seat.
“Why don’t you ever finish them?” His adoptive son asked, voice breaking through the grogginess of morning. He waited for a reply, stabbing the yolk of his eggs with a fork. “Mihael and I both enjoy them, hearing about when you were cool and like that one guy from For Your Eyes Only, you know, Agent 007.”
Reaver chuckled, setting his steaming mug of coffee down on the table. “You don’t need to know everything about my past Rabbie, a lot of it I regret.” His aged hand traced over a crack in the table’s wood. The rich brown contrasting with his almost grey skin. Three small strokes. Two taps. Repeat. He looked up at the boy who began to wolf down his breakfast. “I have a story I want to tell you. A story I can finish.”
The fork dropped to the plate. The clinking of metal on ceramic echoed between them. Rabbie’s amber eyes stared into Reaver’s cloudy blue ones as he waited for him to continue. Swallowing the food in his mouth he let out a shaky breath, “Go on.” His voice was soft, muscles tense and mouth dry with anticipation. He watched Reaver think through his words, opening up the moleskine journal full of dried flowers and ink before opening his mouth.
…
Her name was Holly Zolotse. At least, Holly was the name people gave her. The one typed out on my document was much too long and confusing to pronounce. Glancing down at the piece of paper before looking up at her through the window of her shop made me reconsider my assignment. She looked nothing like the photo, her hair was long and her features soft. Asking around for her store was easy, everyone knew her and spoke of her with such fondness.
I thought back to when I was assigned to follow her. The man’s office was forgettable, his job offer, was not. Rarely was I asked to gather information, it was easier to just put a bullet in someone’s head. He had little evidence to prove she was a Russian spy. The fear of the Manhattan Project still fresh in his mind, even after five years of it happening.
“I don’t trust this one,” He said, pulling out her photograph. The sepia captured her in all the worst ways, her timid smile, the worry in her eyes. Her short hair which amplified the sharpness of her jaw. I nodded, accepting her folder and taking my leave. He wanted to know if she was a spy, I was prepared to kill on command.
The frigid breeze pulled me into her shop, a haven from the snowstorm. I slid the document into my briefcase, greeting her as the smell of a hundred flowers wrapped around me.
“Oh, hello!” Her voice was gentle, husky as she held a bouquet of flowers. With a wave, I stood off to the side. Taking refuge in the flower shop while she finished with a customer. She held out red tulips to them, the bright colour matched her long hair. Once the customer left, we were able to talk, the store wasn’t the only haven I found that day.
“Can I help you with anything?” She asked, moving away from the counter and over to me. Despite her thin frame, she stood only a few inches shorter than myself. I looked around her store, taking in the variety of flowers, many of which I was unable to name at the time.
“Why did you pick the red ones?” I motioned over to the tulips, they were ugly flowers, leaves almost overshadowing the bulbs of colour. She smiled, tucking a few loose strands of hair behind her ear. The click of her shoes filled the space between us.
“Red tulips mean true love.” Her reply was earnest, I had no idea of the truth the ugly bulbs held. I spent the rest of the afternoon in her store, she taught me more of the flower’s meanings and it was refreshing to learn something so gentle.
Weeks passed and before I was aware, my knuckles were rapping on her door. I took a deep breath. Holding it as I heard the door unlock. When she opened it, the air escaped my lungs. She smiled as I greeted her and led her to my car. Her navy dress and swing coat brought out the colour of her hair, neatly curled and resting well below her shoulders.
“Would you look at that? You’re not a greaser, are you Mr. Reaver? Maybe I should be worried about you being in the mafia now, dressed up so nice and proper.” As she stepped into my black Austin Sheerline a soft series of giggles came from her heart shaped lips. She had me chuckling as I took my place in the driver’s seat, using the rearview mirror to look over myself. Black hair, slicked back paired with my naturally cross expression. The mafia wasn’t far from the truth.
“You think I’m a greaser Holly? I’m twice their age.” She laughed as I drove downtown to a drive in theatre. Holly had been talking non stop about wanting to see Little Women and I could not decline her if I wanted to. I parked the car and we rolled the windows down. She took my hand in hers as the movie began and I found myself obsessed with the softness and warmth of her skin. Three small strokes. Two taps. Repeat. I did it without realizing, and I felt her hand squeeze mine.
“What was that?” She turned her head, hair sliding from her back to her chest.
“Nothing important.”
“It’s important to me.” Her thin eyebrows furrowed as she tried to tear down my facade. I had spent the past two months getting to know her, unraveling the truth about her character. Nothing pointed to her being dangerous, she was a white carnation from her shop. Pure, elegant, and subtle. Holly was someone worth protecting, my employer just needed more proof.
“It’s something I can’t really tell you.” I smiled at her, but she still wasn’t sated, who would be with an excuse like that? She sighed, eyes downcast as I shut down our conversation. We sat in the car in silence, the movie being the only noise between us. As other patrons turned their cars on, I felt her index finger move over my calloused palm. Two strokes, a mistake. Hesitation. One tap. Another tap. She had never done a day of morse code in her life. Smiling, I took her hand in mine and followed her through each step. Three strokes, two taps, repeat. A simple pattern. Eight eight, ‘Love and Kisses.’
I was in love with Holly and it had ruined both our lives. One minute I was investigating a target, a paycheck. The next I’m waking up in her bed and trying to prove her innocence to my employer.
One foggy morning, I stepped out on the veranda and lit a Camel. The cool autumn air refreshed my skin as I inhaled. The sliding door squeaked as it was opened, Holly joining me with a mug of black coffee.
“I hear that those are bad for you. Lots of people are saying that they cause cancer now.” Her morning voice was groggy and deep, morning breath mixed with coffee. Hair messy, and a flannel dressing gown hanging over her thin frame. She was beautiful. I pulled her close to my body, sharing a chaste kiss.
Months passed, fall turned into winter, our first anniversary as an official couple. Her home filled itself with flowers, bouquets, her work became a part of my life. The smell of lavender filled the kitchen, clinging to her as she washed the dishes each night.
“Serenity, grace,” I whispered in her ear, wrapping my arms around waist her from behind. I could feel the laughter move through her body, setting the bowl in the sink.
“Correct!” She chimed, turning to hand me the faded blue and white gingham towel so I could dry. I moved beside her, drying the bowl she had set in the sink using the towel stained with years of use.
“What were you up to today?” She looked up at me for a moment, a baking tray in her dainty hands.
“Work.” The answer was the same as always. There was no safe or sane way to explain what I did. She frowned, eyes crinkling near her brow as she began to scrub. The metal whined as she vigorously removed any ounce of grease off of it. Our conversation was shut down, the wall I caused her to build around herself began to grow into a fortress.
By our second year together the emotional strain I put her through became visible. Our nights on the couch watching I Love Lucy turned into silent battles. At home her smile was forced and lines of worry began to etch into her skin permanently. She wanted a family, she wanted a husband. I couldn’t give that to her. No one could. The washroom door slammed shut in my face, the click of the lock shortly followed. I heard her drop to her knees as I sat down in front of the door.
“Holly.” My voice was even, I tried to be understanding, I could never grasp what she was going through. “Holly, please open the door.”
She hiccuped, most likely shaking her head as a soft, “No.” was her answer. I tugged at my hair, itching for a cigarette. We remained in a stalemate for most of the night. She eventually opened the door with puffy eyes and I quickly pulled her into my arms.
Shaking, her hands grasped my shirt, “I want you to be with me.”
“I am,” I whispered, petting her head, trying to soothe her.
“Forever, I want you to be with me forever Reaver.”
Our final night together was spent lying in her bed. The hot summer air making the thought of blankets unpleasant.
“Holly,” I started, holding her hand in mine, tracing each indentation of her soft skin with my fingers. “I want to make you happy.”
“You do. You’re a part of this home.” Her voice held no resentment; the deep breath she took was my signal to continue.
“I can’t make you happy like this,” I struggled as I tried to put my words together. There was no right way to go about this, “You need someone who will be here. Holly, you deserve someone so much better.” My fingers moved instinctively, three swipes, two taps, no room for error. Our secret code. I could hear her let out a shaky breath as I tried to swallow the knot in my throat.
“I love you,” Her confession was gentle, soft lips becoming flush with my own. Thin fingers combed the inky bangs out of my face, my 5 o’clock shadow scratching her smooth skin.
Kissing her forehead I removed myself from the bed. Watching her chest rise and fall softly in her sleep as I buttoned my shirt. Leaving the bedroom I found myself tiptoeing through the family room, sweet-peas on the coffee table. Goldenrod, and forget-me-not in little vases and jars throughout the end tables leading to the kitchen. I looked down in the sink, leaves and cut stems littering the bottom and edges of the ceramic basin. Hyacinth rested between my fingers. The rich blue and purple petals, the healthy stem, it was perfect. I set it on the entry table while I tied my shoes. Leaving the house empty handed, I knew I would never be able to see it again. That I would never see her again. I was wrong about Holly, she wasn’t just a white carnation. She was a bouquet with reds and pinks. She was elegant, my pure love, someone I would never forget.
…
Rabbie stared at his adoptive father, needing a minute to ground himself. Taking in the smell of cold eggs and the feeling of his stomach grumbling. He looked at the old man with salt and pepper hair. The man he thought had as many emotions as a stone.
“What do you mean, never see her again? Go see her now Reaver!” The taste in his mouth turned sour, hands white knuckling the table, “She liked you! She was happy with you, why did you just leave her?”
“Rabbie, it isn’t that easy,” Reaver took a sip of his cold coffee, shutting the moleskine. “
Why won’t you see her? Sure you’re old and gross now, but she’s old and gross now too! You could get married and be happy and tell her you love her and I don’t know, not be so depressed with a stick up your-”
“Rabbie.” His voice was curt, “That isn’t possible.” He paused, took a breath, index finger twitching on the wooden table. “Holly passed away over five years ago.”
Rabbie clenched his jaw, slender fingers tugging at his messy hair. “This is stupid—It’s mental! Why would you tell me this?”
“Because I don’t want you to make the same mistake I did. I want you to be happy. I don’t want you to end up like me.”
Rabbie’s hand dropped back onto the table, the two looked at each other, trying to understand what the other was thinking. Reaver watched the teen before him, taking in the way his shoulders fell as he slowly relaxed.
“I need to make a call. Someone...needs an answer from me,” His words came out after a moment of hesitation, getting out of his chair and taking the few steps to the kitchen phone. Reaver watched as he began to dial a familiar number, feeling rhythmic strokes and taps on the wood beneath his finger. He watched as his son hopped up onto the counter; sitting beside a budding pot of primrose.
“Young love,” He thought, smiling to himself as his mouth opened, “Ask Mihael to stay for dinner this time, alright?”