Book II – Chapter 13: Scrabble

Posted On June 13, 2015

Ferris wasn’t quite sure how he made it through the morning. By lunch, all he could recall was a flurry of requests, bleary phone calls, and pages of spreadsheets. The profit and loss statement he had prepared Sunday night needed revision and his supervisor had already lined up a revenue report to follow. The only clear image in his head was the face he had seen just after waking — of Alex. His hands slowed over the keyboard as he thought of her, eventually coming to a stop as he made a realization. He’d forgotten to kiss her goodbye.

Amidst the ambiance of mouse clicks and ringing phones, Ferris barely noticed the footsteps approaching his desk. It was only when a slim hand gripped the back of his chair that he thought to glance backward.

“So you are alive.”

Ferris stared. “Demos.”

“Correct.”

“Who let you in here? You need a key card to—“

“I said I had an appointment with Mr. Levinstein.” Demos smiled, sliding into the empty client’s seat. “You are my bookkeeper, aren’t you?”

Ferris sighed. The Giorgettis had been blessed with the ability to weasel their way into nearly any building. Not even his office was safe.

“Sorry I didn’t call,” Ferris ran a hand over his hair. “I barely made it to work on time.”

“Where were you? Seamus said you didn’t come home last night.”

“At Alex’s.”

“Alex’s?” Demos’ smile faltered, a movement too subtle for Ferris to notice. “You stayed the night?”

“Yeah.”

For a while, Demos didn’t move, only looking back at his friend as he struggled to keep his features in order. His hands were motionless over his knee and it was only the slight rising of his chest that exposed the fact he was actually alive. There was a lump in his throat, shifting as if he had tried to swallow and then changed his mind.

“Did—“ Demos closed his mouth, momentarily retreating back into his thoughts. “You really like her, don’t you?”

“I do.” Ferris managed a smile, one soft and almost wistful. Demos had never seen it before. It struck him, wedging itself in his chest like a wrecking ball.

“What’s in the bag?” Ferris asked, nodding to the parcel in Demos’ lap and effectively wresting the Italian from his own thoughts.

“Risotto,” he said, his expression finally warming. “Alla zucca, the way you like it. I thought you could use some lunch. I mean, if you weren’t dead.”

Ferris accepted the Tupperware container gratefully. He’d forgotten about eating. “Thanks, Demos. Ah, why don’t you come over tonight? For Scrabble.”

“Really? You’re making Seamus spell things?”

Ferris shrugged. “He could use the practice.”

“I’ll be there. And, ah, also…” Demos’ fingers tightened, his thumbs rubbing together in an uncharacteristic display of hesitation. “I’d like to meet her.”

“Meet Alex? Demos, you know I can’t—“

“We don’t have to give her my real name,” he said. “She seems really important to you, so I think it’s only fair.”

The two looked at each other for a moment, with Ferris mentally running through every possible thing that could go wrong. His instincts told him this was a bad idea — even worse than taking her to Giorgetti’s to deal with Sergio’s acting skills. Their relationship, however, was getting serious. It would only be a matter of time before they met. Alex truly was important to him, and then, so was Demos.

The Italian’s brow rose. “Don’t you?”

“All right.” Ferris exhaled in defeat. “I’ll see what I can do.”

After a set of brief goodbyes, Demos took his leave. Ferris gazed at the Tupperware on his desk, wondering if he’d made yet another poor decision. The seat next to his creaked as his coworker leaned over to whisper.

“Hey, was that— that Giorgetti kid?”

“No.” Ferris closed his eyes. “It wasn’t.”

As promised, Demos arrived that evening with a bottle of wine and a Brioni blazer.

“Little overdressed for board games, aren’t you?” Ferris said, taking the bottle to the kitchen.

Demos dusted an imaginary piece of lint from his sleeve. “I had a meeting before this.”

“The way you say it, it almost sounds like actual work.”

“Fuck off, give me that wine back.”

“Too late.” Ferris gestured to the counter. “Seamus already broke into it.”

In the kitchen, Seamus had wasted no time plunging a corkscrew halfway down the neck of the bottle. He bit his lip in determination, apparently quite eager to start drinking.

Demos raised a brow. “Thirsty?”

“I need a real drink. All Ferret has is Jew-wine.” Seamus released the cork with a pop. “That shit tastes like lollies.”

“You know there’s a hotel down the street with a great bar on the first floor. You could always sleep over there,” Ferris said.

Seamus grinned before lifting the bottle to his lips. “But then who would keep you company?”

“Hey, that’s a Castello di Ama,” Demos said with a glare. “Use a glass.”

The Scrabble board was arranged on the coffee table, bordered by cheap snacks and Chinese takeout boxes. As expected, Seamus, wine, and dozens of small choking hazards were not an ideal combination. Wooden tiles had covered half of the board, with some words more appropriate than others.

“No.” Ferris covered his eyes with a hand. “Chorg is absolutely not a word.”

“It is so!” Seamus said, gesturing with the glass Demos had forced him to use. “You know, in porn when—“

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

Demos elbowed his friend. “Just let him have it, Ferris. You owe us.”

“Owe you? What the hell for?”

“You disappeared into the night without calling. We were worried sick.”

“For Christ’s sake, I already have one mother,” Ferris said. “I don’t need three.”

Seamus downed the remaining dregs in his glass. “Well, it’s two to one. Chorg counts. Your turn, Demos.”

“I swear to god if you put down another porn word I’m kicking you both onto the street.”

Demos rubbed his chin. “Damn, I was one letter short of ‘anilingus.’”

“Out.”

“You two keep bickering.” Seamus stood, dusting his knees. “I’ve got a surprise in the kitchen.”

Demos narrowed his eyes. “I thought we ordered Chinese so he wouldn’t try to cook something.”

“Well, that, and there aren’t any clean pans. You got any tips on house-training Brits?”

“Give up, he’s too feral,” Demos said, placing a single letter on the board.

“Really, Demos? Qi?”

“Hey, if you’ve got a fucking ‘U’ I can have, by all means.”

Unlike Demos, Ferris took his turn quite seriously. The Italian had stolen the space he’d wanted, blocking a triple word tile and forcing him to rethink his entire strategy. He wondered if Demos was relying on dumb luck or if, somehow, he’d done it on purpose. Ferris was so invested in the set of lettered tiles that he didn’t notice the sound of running water in the kitchen, nor did he hear the stove click on. It was only when steam began to rush through the steel spout, when the faintest hints of a bubbling water began, that he glanced up from the table.

The whistle was shrill, screaming, striking him like a train at full speed. His tile rack clattered to the floor, spilling letters across the wood. He could see the kettle in his mind, stark and gleaming, sweating droplets. The image grew brighter, whiter, blinding him as the sound of the whistle overtook every sense in his body.

Demos stood, nearly slipping on a loose tile as he hurried to the kitchen. “Seamus. Seamus, turn it off!”

The Italian bumped Seamus aside before he could ask why, clicking off the dial. The flames died in an instant, dropping the burner back into silence.

“Christ,” Seamus said. “It was just some fuckin’ tea.”

“He didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

Just as Demos opened his mouth to explain, a dull voice stole their attention.

“What is that.” Ferris was standing past the counter, his stare long and unfocused. He would have been perfectly still if not for the twitch in his fingers, the long digits trembling beneath tight knuckles.

“It’s a kettle, mate,” Seamus said with open hands. “You didn’t have one, so I thought I’d buy you a gift.”

“Get—“ Ferris stopped to breathe in through his nose. “Get it out of here.”

“What? You don’t like the color? Thought you’d be fine with silver.”

Ferris’ eyes widened behind the glare on his lenses. His shoulders tensed, hunching as he made a rapid gesture toward the door. “It’s bad enough everywhere else— I don’t want it in my fucking house!”

“Ferris, I—“

“Get rid of it!”

Ferris didn’t wait for another response, only letting out a hard breath before turning on his heel to leave. The bathroom door slammed shut behind him, startling Stanley out of his nap on the sofa.

The medicine cabinet opened with a clack. The prescription bottle wouldn’t stay still, shaking in his hands as he struggled with the child-proof cap. His scar seemed to be burning, throbbing, once-deadened nerves now howling beneath marred skin. He knew it was a lie. It had been years since he had lost feeling there, but then, at that moment, it felt so real.

The cap popped open. Pills tumbled into the sink, several making it all the way to the drain.

“Fuck.” Ferris grasped for them, desperately trying to salvage whatever remained in the basin. “Fuck, fuck.”

Two pills made it into his hand. He tilted his head back, downing them with a bob of his throat. The water glass clinked as it was set back down, its contents sloshing. His scar continued to pulse. Each breath seemed so loud, filling the tiny room, scratching up his throat. This was ridiculous. It was a kettle — just a kettle. It had been years since that day.

So why did it still burn?

He tore his glasses from his face, setting them aside to splash a handful of water over his eyes. Trails ran down his jaw, dripping back into the sink as he stared at the drain.

There was a knock at the door.

“You all right?” It was Seamus’ voice.

“Just—“ Ferris scrubbed the water from his eyes. “Just give me a second.”

Outside the door, Seamus glanced backward at Demos, his brow low with worry.

“Well, I fucked up again,” he said, his voice unnaturally soft. “Though I’m not quite sure how.”

Demos was staring at the door and took a moment to respond. “You didn’t know.”

“I still don’t.”

For a while, Demos considered his words. He knew that if anyone should explain it, it would be Ferris. He also knew that his friend was in no mental state to retell the story. He never wanted to talk about it — not then, and certainly not now.

“Remember what I told you, about what happened?” Demos said. “When you first saw his scar.”

Seamus nodded.

“They did it with boiling water — with a kettle. It stuck with him. He’s taking pills for it, but they don’t always work.”

Seamus scrubbed his fingers through his hair. “A kettle? But what about that thing — that moka pot you got him?”

The bathroom door opened and both men glanced quickly over. Though Ferris’ hands had stopped shaking, the weariness hadn’t left his face.

“It doesn’t whistle.” Ferris lifted his reddened eyes from the floor. “It’s— it’s the whistle.”

“I’m sorry, mate.”

“Me too. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

“Well, I got rid of it,” Seamus said. “You won’t see it again.”

“Thanks. I hope it wasn’t expensive.”

Seamus barked a laugh, his features bright in the dim room. “Look who you’re talking to.”

“Ah, of course.” Ferris managed a smile. If he could count on Seamus for one thing, it was always a proper grin. That, and buying cheap household goods.

“But if you think depriving me of tea is going to get me out of your flat, you’re sorely mistaken.”

“Next time I’ll try dumping it in the harbor.”

Several days passed before Ferris found a moment to himself. He lingered at the window of a chocolate shop before sidling inside. Shopping wasn’t his preferred way of passing time, but notable occasions warranted notable gifts. The interior was lined with shelves of elegantly displayed sweets, wrapped in gold and black ribbons. The scent of truffles and almond bark lingered in the air. To a normal person, such an environment would immediately rouse the senses, instilling a keen, delectable sense of craving.

Ferris had little to no interest in sweets, yet there was one special person who did.

“Could you wrap it, please?” he asked at the register. “It’s a gift.”

The wind had picked up outside. It was unusually cool for June, the skies overcast and the trees rustling along the sidewalk. He knew this walk well. It was always a long one, with the same sausage vendors parked by the curb, the same deep cracks on the sidewalk below his feet. He passed through an iron gate, noting that the grass seemed dryer than it had in spring.

After seemingly endless rows of flat markers, Ferris reached his destination. He reached into his pocket, removing a single, smooth rock to lay flat on the headstone. The monument was wide, carved from solid granite and bearing a single word — Levinstein.

Ferris dropped to a crouch. His fingers found the newest marker — one that had been placed only five years prior. For a moment, Ferris could only feel over the letters, tracing over the outline of his father’s name. Harold.

“Happy Father’s Day.” His shopping bag rustled as he removed the gift. “I got you those chocolates you like — from that Belgian place on 44^th St.”

He set the box down, carefully positioning it at the base of the headstone.

“You know, the ones Mom never let you have because — because they were bad for your heart.”

For a while, he listened to the trees. There were birds calling overhead, their voices light in spite of the gray sky.

“I’m seeing someone now — Alex,” he said. “She’s amazing. I think you’d have gotten along. It’s probably a bad idea, but I’m going to see if she wants to meet Demos. I wish you could meet her, too.”

Ferris pushed his fingers up beneath his glasses, rubbing the corners of his eyes.

“I’m worried about Demos. He’s been acting a little strange lately. I mean, even more than usual. I guess he’s under a lot of pressure.”

He inhaled, keeping the air in his chest for a moment. His ribs felt tight, as if they were attempting to close in on his lungs.

“I wish he’d tell me what’s on his mind.”

The wind stopped. The cemetery felt strangely still, quiet enough for Ferris to hear himself swallow.

“Thanks for listening.” He lay his hand flat on the marker once more. “I miss you, Dad.”

By the time he left, the sun had dipped further in the sky. Southport University was six stops and one transfer away on the subway and the city was nearly dark once he reached it. Unlike the sprawling Ivy League campus he was accustomed to, the university was planted through various city blocks, its buildings tall and compact. He unfolded a piece of wrinkled note paper, checking the hand-drawn map. The biochemistry department was just across the park.

The laboratory was stark, laid out in whites and grays, each surface lit with long fluorescent bulbs. After a brief scan of the room, he caught sight of Alex near the far wall. She was suited up in a lab coat, too caught up in her work to notice him. Her hands were occupied with a machine, the purpose of which he couldn’t even begin to imagine. He smiled at the sight of her, tempted to simply watch before remembering they had a reservation.

“Hey, Alex.”

She glanced up in an instant, brightening at the sound of his voice. “Good timing, I just finished.”

After a quick jot in her notes, she snapped off her gloves. Just as she began to clean her supplies, a fellow student nudged her side.

“It’s okay, Alex,” she said. “I’ll clean up. You go ahead.”

“You sure?”

“That’s Ferris, right?” The girl jerked a thumb at the man behind her.

Alex reddened. “Yes.”

“Yeah, you go on.”

After a hurried thanks, Alex slunk past her classmate. She caught up to Ferris, chewing her lip as they made their way to the locker room.

He glanced back to the other student. “How does she know who—“

 “What?” Alex threw up her hands. “It’s not like I talk about you all the time or anything. God.”

“You’re still red, you know.”

“Shut up.”

He held in a laugh, watching the back of her head as she tugged off her coat. The contents of her locker were fairly disorganized, though he knew it would be futile to mention it. She had firmly defended the mess in her apartment and he was certain this would be no different. Various school supplies had been crammed on the top shelf, as well as the edge of a folded newspaper.

“I didn’t know you read the paper,” he said.

It took her a moment to realize what he was looking at and she quickly shut the locker to keep his eyes out. “Oh, I don’t usually.”

“Find anything good?”

“No.” She took him by the hand as they headed toward the exit. “Not really.”

The newspaper had fallen into shadow, half-crushed under the weight of Alex’s textbooks. The majority of its articles had been of little interest to her, with only one piece on the third page catching her eye. A photo of a young man with black hair sat nestled beside a wall of text, a story touting accounts of speculation and intrigue. Only two words in particular had been marked, the text circled in thick, red ink.

Demos Giorgetti