Book II – Chapter 03: Kettle

Posted On June 10, 2014

“I’m home, Mom,” Ferris called as he toed off his shoes in the entrance of his home — the house, more his mother’s than his own, that he had spent his childhood in. It was a three-story brownstone on a tree-lined block, set snugly between the walls of its neighbors.

The announcement was unnecessary; Ruth Levinstein knew that her son was home before he had even opened the door. Stanley, an aging, doughy pug, was wagging his tail at her side.

“It’s about time! You didn’t come home last night — you didn’t even call!” his mother fussed as she set both hands on her hips. Ferris decided not to mention the fact that he was no longer a teenager, nor the fact that he had been much too inebriated to do such a thing.

“Sorry, I stayed the night at the compound,” he explained, fastening his umbrella and placing it in the stand. “And then I had an appointment with that broker for the apartment showing.”

“Oh, how did that go?”

“Awful. Another bait and switch. The ones I wanted were ‘already claimed’ and the places he showed me were overpriced rat holes,” Ferris sighed, rubbing the rain from his hair as he found the sofa. “At least he showed up, though — unlike that other guy.”

“You know, bubele, you don’t have to move out,” Ruth said, taking a seat beside her son. “It was so quiet here when you were at school. It’s nice to have someone in the house again.”

Ferris took in a slow breath. He knew perfectly well how lonely it had been for her. She had spent nearly two decades with her husband and son and then, suddenly, they were both gone.

“I know, but I need my own space. You seem to enjoy forgetting this, but… I’m kind of an adult now.”

“You’ll be an adult when you have children of your own.”

“So… never?”

Ruth smacked her son’s arm — a little too hard. “Oh, no you don’t. You’re going to give me grandchildren. So many of them that I can’t even remember all of their names.”

“I’ll get right on that,” he grumbled, rubbing his sore arm with a frown.

“You’d better! Remember, you have that date next Friday I set up with Rosenthal’s daughter.”

Ferris groaned dramatically. Since his return to Southport, his mother had arranged no less than four dates with young women from the local synagogue.

“Mom. Mother. We talked about this.”

“It’s just one little date. She’s a very nice girl.”

“I’m sure she is, but—“

“By the way,” Ruth interrupted, “some flowers arrived this morning. They’re in the kitchen.”

Momentarily distracted from his mother’s scheming, he turned towards the kitchen, trying to ignore the sick feeling rising in his chest. Sure enough, it was a large bouquet of calla lilies — about $250 worth, to be exact. Tentatively, he approached to read the tag.

“Delivery not accepted,” he mumbled. “Return to sender.”

That could have gone worse, but not by much.

“They’re uh… they’re for you,” Ferris called back.

“Nice try, bubele, but my name isn’t ‘Emiklgyf.’ Did you get drunk and send—“

“No. Don’t be silly,” he cut in before she could reveal his shame. “It must have been a computer error.”

“Well, I’ll just pretend they are for me, then,” she replied with amusement in her voice.

“That’s the spirit.”

Ferris welcomed work the next day. Though making ‘house calls’ involved additional commuting and trekking through the rain, he was desperate for a distraction from his mortifying weekend.

He had secured his position at Sterling LLP before he had graduated, making his transition back to Southport fairly smooth. Of course, with an entry-level position came entry-level tasks — spreadsheets, analyzing databases, and slowly letting his eyes and the computer monitor become a single spiritual entity. He could often see a square of white light even after closing his eyes, its glow saturated with blurry numbers and columns. Any opportunity to visit clients was a breath of fresh air — literally.

This client was a small business — a bookshop on the east side of town. It would be his first time meeting with the owner and he was determined to make a good impression. On the list of reasons he had been hired at the accounting firm, ‘charisma’ was predictably absent. He wondered, as he struggled to position his umbrella against the wind, how charm came so naturally to Demos.

That bastard.

The door chimed as he entered the shop, shutting out the rain as it closed behind him. The interior was warm and narrow, smelling delightfully of old paper and binding.

A tall black woman stood behind the counter, arranging a set of periodicals in a box. Beside her stood a man, one a few inches shorter and with a smile half as warm.

“Good afternoon,” Ferris said, approaching the register. “I’m looking for a ‘Mrs. Allen?'”

“That’s me,” the woman replied, stopping her work to offer him a smile. “You must be from Sterling.”

“That’s right,” he said, shaking her hand and giving his name. She introduced the man at her side as her husband — his handshake was stiff, pausing to grip Ferris’ unsuspecting knuckles.

“Oh, you got rained on,” the woman said as they went into a back room.

“And somehow I survived,” he said before he could stop himself. He immediately clamped his back teeth. This was a client, not a friend. Professional — he had to be professional. Luckily, she laughed, relieving him of his jacket and umbrella before he could protest.

“Why don’t you sit while I make us some tea. Linus can get all the paperwork for you.”

Tea — hot tea. The creases in Ferris’ hands immediately began to sweat.

“No, that’s all right, I don’t really need–“

“Please,” she interrupted, gesturing to a chair. “I insist.”

She disappeared into a side room, leaving him frozen in place. His heart seized, jerking beneath his collar like a hooked fish. He could hear the sound of clattering mugs, their ceramic rims bumping against one another.

“Levinstein,” came a voice at his side, drawing Ferris’ eyes away from the side room. The shop owner’s husband was staring at him, his hand flat on a box of files.

“What kind of a name is that?” the man asked, his tone more cautious than friendly.

“It’s, ah,” Ferris said, trying to think over the sound of the faucet. His eyes caught a pine crucifix on the wall above a shelf. “It’s European.”

“Is that so?” he replied. “Well then, why don’t you have a seat?”

Ferris swallowed the last trace of moisture in his mouth, adjusting his tie before taking the offered seat. Linus sat across from him, his hands folded. For a minute, neither man spoke. Ferris glanced down at the wooden table; he could feel Linus’ eyes locked on his features. He hadn’t stopped staring.

“I’ll just… take a look at these,” Ferris said, forcing each word from his throat as he opened the file box. He moved without thinking — there were papers in his hands, but he couldn’t read them. He couldn’t see or hear anything — only the stove clicking, the gas bursting into a ring of flame. The fire, blue and translucent, shimmered beneath the silver base of the kettle.

The kettle.

It took him a moment to realize he wasn’t breathing. He amended this by inhaling, the air dry and prickly on his tongue. The numbers on the page refused to focus, blurring into one another right between his hands.

“Tell me, Mr. Levinstein,” the man said, his voice static. “Are you a god fearing man?”

He could hear it — the water beginning to bubble, the beads of perspiration trailing on the smooth, steel surface.

Ferris finally looked up, his eyes dull and shaking.

“…What?”

Linus leaned forward in his seat. “I said…”

Finally, it happened. The whistle erupted like a cry from hell, straightening Ferris’ spine and swarming inside of his head. The noise beat around in his skull, scraping between memories and flashes of white. He could feel it — his flesh blistering beneath the water, layers of skin peeling over bone and muscle.

“…Are you a god fearing man?”

Ferris’ next breath shuddered in. He stared forward, ignoring the sweat on this temples. The document in his hands crinkled under his grip.

“I…”

Then, the stove clicked off. The whistle faded, leaving the room silent once more. It was only when his heart slowed that he realized how fast it had been thumping. He released the paper before he could damage it further, letting his fingers roll into fists in his lap. His hands hadn’t stopped trembling.

“Here you go,” the shop owner said as she returned, setting a plain mug on the table. “I hope you like Darjeeling.”

Finally able to look away from the man, Ferris let his stare drop to the tea before him.

“That’s fine,” Ferris replied, wondering if his voice was as dusty as it tasted. “Thank you.”

From the edge of his vision, he could see fluorescent light winking off the surface of the kettle, daring him to look a little harder. He shut his eyes, gathering himself before continuing.

“All right. Let’s have a look at your records.”

By the time he left the bookshop, the rain had stopped.

“A bible,” Ferris hissed into his phone, cupping it against his ear as he walked. “That asshole gave me a bible.”

“Ha! What are you going to do with it?” came Demos’ voice from the line.

“I don’t know, prop up a table? Do you want it?”

“Which version is it?”

“Fuck if I know,” Ferris muttered, glancing down at the linen-bound book in his hand. “You expect me to keep track of the million different ways to love Jesus?”

“Some sects are angrier than others,” Demos mused, his voice tinny through the small speaker. “Anyway, what are your cross streets?”

“I’m at 12th and Grand, why?” he answered, momentarily examining his surroundings. The sky was getting dark and the street lights reflected gaudily off of the wet pavement.

“Oh good, you’re not that far,” he said, then proceeded to provide a very specific street address. The location was only blocks from the Giorgetti compound. It was unusual for Demos to do business so close to home. Even so, Ferris didn’t bother asking the reason — no matter what dubious nonsense his friend wanted to drag him into after a hard day of work, he would come, regardless.

“I just left a client,” Ferris explained. “I’m not heavy.”

If Demos expected him to have a gun after a day of assets and liabilities, he would be sorely mistaken.

“It’s fine, just come. Meet me on the 14th floor,” Demos said. “And hurry up, I’m getting bored.”

“All right, all right. Just paint your nails or something.”

“Hurry up.”

The building was not quite what Ferris had expected. Rather than a shady looking flat, he had found himself in front of an upscale condominium. Whoever they were dealing with was certainly not a two-bit crook. The facade was set in smooth red brick, the ground floor lined with floor-to-ceiling windows. The glass was so clear that he could easily make out the lobby’s layout — wood paneling covered the walls and dim sconces cast shadows on the flooring below.

Ferris pushed through the double doors, not making eye contact with the doorman. He had recently learned that the best way to sneak into a tended building was to imagine that he belonged there. This time, it worked. Perhaps his suit and tie, as well as his beeline for the elevator, had helped.

Demos was, as promised, waiting on the 14th floor. He was standing beside one particular door, both hands folded patiently behind his back.

“There you are,” the Italian said, a smile slipping across his features. He didn’t wait for a response, reaching for the steel doorknob and pushing it open.

Once again, Ferris was surprised. There was no liquor, no cigarette smoke — not even a table for poker. In fact, there wasn’t a single person or piece of furniture inside the apartment. It was empty, aside from one thing — a piano.

“Who are we meeting here?” Ferris asked, his brow knotting as he surveyed the space.

“No one,” Demos said, gesturing at the open space. “This is your new apartment.”

Ferris stared.

“…What?”

Demos glanced back over his shoulder. “You suck at apartment hunting, so I found this for you. It’s near the compound, so you’ll never be too far.”

Ferris continued to stare.

The flat was nothing like the cramped studio apartments he had been viewing. The floor was set with slim oak, corresponding perfectly with the wood and steel in the kitchen. The outer walls were lined with exposed brick and tall windows. Along the back was a sliding door, its glass leading out to a covered terrace.

“I know you’re fussy about how you set things up, so I thought I’d leave the interior to you,” Demos continued, momentarily breaking Ferris out of his stupor.

“Then… then why the piano?” he blurted, unable to think of anything else to say.

“So we can play together,” Demos replied casually. “That’s not optional.”

“Demos, I…” Ferris finally began. “I can’t accept—“

“Oh, no you don’t,” he snapped, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “I knew you’d be too stupid and proud to take a free apartment, so you still have to pay rent. Granted, it’s discounted… a lot. A whole lot. The landlord pays us protection so I got a good deal.”

Demos waved his hand as he spoke, looking as if he were talking about a new sweater rather than an entire apartment.

Ferris took a breath through his nose, wordlessly running both hands over his hair.

“Well?” Demos asked, biting his lower lip. “Do you like it?”

After a moment, Ferris looked up, his expression softening as he conceded.

“…It’s perfect,” he said. “It’s absolutely perfect.”

Truly, it was. It was everything he’d ever hoped for in a flat — hoped for, but never expected to have. It killed him how well Demos knew his tastes, from everything to the color scheme and materials, it was as if Ferris had chosen it himself.

Feeling a tickle in his throat, Ferris covered his mouth with a hand. A snicker came forth, which soon blossomed into a full-fledged laugh. He was suddenly in stitches, laughing whole-heartedly beside his startled companion.

“What’s so funny?” Demos demanded, folding his arms across his chest.

“Nothing. You’re just—“ Ferris started, trying to think of the proper word as he held in his laughter. “You’re insane.”

“I know,” he replied with a shrug.

Once he had wrested back control of his emotions, Ferris cleared his throat. He took one more look along the walls before returning his attention to Demos.

“…Thank you,” Ferris said, wishing that he was better at expressing himself — wishing that he could think of something more meaningful to say.

“Don’t mention it,” Demos replied, regaining his smile. “Come on, let’s go get some coffee and look through furniture catalogues. I have some in the car.”

Despite his inadequate show of gratitude, Ferris knew — he knew that Demos understood perfectly.

“Sounds great.”