WE WALK THE PLANK - THOMAS

Before having bought the labeler, she’d left Thomas to his own devices. She couldn’t honestly care less what he did with his belongings. As long as they were reasonably well-kept, not in her way, she ignored anything that smelled or looked of him. They were roommates, yes, coworkers, yes, but not really friends. There was no common ground, no desire on Thaddea’s part to actually put the effort into forming a relationship. She’d been content to treat the house as her own, Thomas as a ghost – as she assumed he saw her in return. She wouldn’t be insulted if he did. She’d seen the piles of laundry in his room, haphazard and utterly disgusting to her eye. He’d leave it until he was down to the last pair of socks, the bare bones of his closet. The entire thing turned her stomach. She couldn’t imagine doing laundry with such infrequency. Like with everything else, Thaddea had a strict schedule. Wednesday’s at 4:30 began an hour set aside each week for her own laundry. She planned exactly what she wore, which clothing she used. If she wore her best dress on Wednesday, then needed it again on Sunday– well the laundry wouldn’t be done! So she would have to choose what was more important.

Some people might have suggested simply moving her laundry day, in such a case. But Thaddea wasn’t about to disrupt her whole schedule, to throw her entire way of life out the window so she could clean a single garment ahead of time. No it was utterly nonsensical. She didn’t make a sound as these thoughts coursed through her head. She was laying each piece of clothing in it’s place, one by one. Within her drawers there were dividers, to keep the clothing from falling or intermixing with each other. A small basket for each color of sock, another for her underwear, an entire set of rows in which she carefully aligned her bras. Each piece of clothing was handled individually, set just so. When she finished, she stepped back, closing the drawers. She was really quite happy with herself. There was no better feeling than having completed one’s laundry. She exited her room, closing the door quietly behind her. She carried her basket on her hip, tucking it away in its little niche in the laundry room. She made her way to the kitchen, pausing in the dining room. Thomas’ basket stood untouched, as it likely would for however long it took him to get home.

A small part of her knew that even when he did come home, he wouldn’t take as much care with his laundry as she had. A part of her suddenly longed to put it away for him, maybe to clean up while she was at it. She forced herself to turn away, threading through the kitchen. She picked out a few ingredients which she would be using later to make their dinner. Then, with an effort to ignore Mr. Roth’s basket of laundry, she returned to her room. This time was allotted for pleasure reading. She picked up a biography on Queen Elizabeth I. In Thaddea’s opinion, the woman had very near achieved perfection – very near, but not quite. She’d brought England into its Golden Age, but she’d had flaws, certain things that had stopped her from attaining what Thaddea herself was determined to have. She flipped through the pages until she heard the door open. She didn’t bother to greet him, instead remaining in her room. But her sense were attune to him. She could tell the minute he noticed the basket, the pause in his step, followed by the soft knock on her door. She set her book carefully to the side, rising to open the door and address him. “It is all for convenience, Thomas.” She never used nicknames, even the way she said his name had a formal rigid ring to it. “The house was inefficient, the time in which you attend to tasks is an outright laughable matter.” She watched him frankly, finding her words entirely logical and in many senses – “normal”. “You’ll quickly grow accustomed, I’m sure.”

She was in a moment of extreme shock. She had in all realistic expectations, thought he would express some displeasure. She had expected it, but been unable to avoid doing the things she so desired to do. They were her compulsions. To have not done them, well at the moment it simply wasn’t possible. So she’d steeled herself for the argument, for his displeasure. She’d expected some mocking, a request that she take down the labels and desist from handling his clothing. And she would have argued, cooly and logically, for why her system should stay. She had expected a rift in their already slightly awkward relationship. But she’d known she would have to sacrifice for her lifestyle, for her safety. Friendships were something she had sacrificed ten times over, and would continue to do. The consequences – the inability to perform her rituals, to do things according to her schedule, the little tidbits people would discover – well those were absolute out of the question. Such a thing, they could literally get her killed – should Zachary find her. She had no doubt that should her husband find her alive and well, she would leave with much more than a scar along her back. He wasn’t find of rebellious women, not in any way.

But Thomas, well she couldn’t even describe what he had done. She was silent for a long moment, her surprise clear on her face. After the surprise, came a flow of warmth. He would let her systems stay. He would live with them. Perhaps he even appreciated them. They’d earned her mockery, wary glanced. She had kept a finger on the line she was reading, but suddenly her book was in no way important. She closed it, setting it gently to the side. She hadn’t even bothered to mark the page, to glance at the number or chapter she had paused on. She was consumed with her utter shock and a strong warm feeling. It was a combination of many things – appreciation, gratitude, a little bit of joy. She shifted, rising from her position on her bed. She had changed from her more formal dress for the Academy into something slightly more informal – namely jeans and a nice sweater. She was barefoot (she had a peculiar dislike of socks). Thomas was a good deal taller than herself, though she didn’t much mind. Slowly, her features were warming, a slow wary warmth, but a change nonetheless. It was difficult to see, quiet, but she was slightly less rigid.

Her lips twitched, just a small twitch, a little turn. It wasn’t a full smile, nothing near a grin, but it had a distinctly pleased look to it. She’d never in her wildest imagination thought he would be so accepting, so willing to adjust. She gestured to her room. “I’ve labeled my entire space, though have left yours untouched.” She looked around, obviously proud of the neat labels on all her drawers and such. “I will touch nothing within your room unless you make it apparent as something you would wish.” She would actually wildly enjoy going through his room – cleaning, putting everything in a place. She could buy little baskets and boxes so everything had its place. And she would color code everything, make sure it all matched. She moved towards the door, slipping past him into the majority of the house. Their clothing brushed, just barely, as she passed. She moved towards the kitchen, gesturing towards the multiple cabinets. “Most everything else has been left alone, but knowing where everything is will certainly be useful when I make dinner.” She paused, “I believe the only other thing within the house is the bookshelves, those have been labeled by genre and alphabetized.” She moved into the kitchen, towards the refrigerator. She’d picked up food that afternoon. Originally, she’d intended to make a stew. She’d had no reason to take his opinion into account, he would either eat or make himself something different. But now, well she was a little more inclined to do something nice for once. She pulled out some steaks, having heard him mention earlier to a buddy on the phone that he was “aching for some meat”. She set them in the sink to thaw. “I thought we’d have steaks tonight, dinner at 7:30.” Her voice was still somewhat curt, professional. But with a slightly softer edge. It wasn’t a hug or a smile or a thank you, but it was what she had.

She hadn’t made the connection to OCD yet herself. Well perhaps subconsciously she had. Some of her peers definitely had. They whispered it behind hands. But a conscious part of her refused to admit it. OCD was, by nature, a flaw – a weakness. Such a thing would make her pursuit of perfection impossible, illogical even. The entire pursuit was powered by her OCD, but how could she really understand that? Her rituals, her schedules, were what kept her calm and functioning. They kept the terror at bay. They kept her from pacing every hour and asking herself – what if today’s the day he finds me? Because that’s what it was all about, at heart. Zachary Rothschild was the root of it all. He always would be. No matter what she changed her name to, where she lived, who she lived with – she was still Phaedra Rothschild, wife of Zachary Rothschild. But that didn’t need to come up, ever. And without some basis of reference, why would anyone ever check? As far as the world knew, Mrs. Rothschild had died three years earlier. And Thaddea had sprung into existence. But the logic, the side that reasoned out why Zachary would never come looking for her, it did nothing to assuage her fears. The only things that kept her going were her rituals.

But that wasn’t a matter for today, for right now. Thaddea was unusually cheerful, brightened by Thomas’ reaction. She’d never yet encountered any degree of support, or even acceptance. Such a reaction spurred her positive feelings towards him, quieted the voice inside of her that warned her not to create personal relationships. They were a thing she’d been avoiding for years, simply so she could avoid the questions that came with it. But for the moment, she forgot all of this. And she was entirely oblivious to what people said about herself and Thomas. She refrained from even mentioning her living arrangements. Thomas’ friends knew, but not many others. Thaddea wasn’t exactly the sharing type. But if the issue had come up, well Thaddea wouldn’t have hesitated to come to the man’s defense. Anyone who gave her free reign in a house not her own, well it warmed her robotic little heart. At his words, well she couldn’t help herself. Her hands clapped together, just once, her fingers clasping each other excitedly. She was already imagining all the little boxes she would buy, a little cup for his pens and pencils too – for his nightstand.

There was a genuine, small tentative smile on her lips now. And she blushed at her untoward expression of anticipation. Her fingers were already itching to grab her labeler, to attack the adventure that would be Thomas’ room. But she would wait. She glanced away quickly, embarrassed by her reaction. She cleared her throat, busying herself with grabbing this and that out of the kitchen cabinets. Eventually she cleared her throat. “Thank you.” It was rare that Thaddea did such a thing (she often found it unnecessary). But this was entirely necessary. He was facilitating her OCD of course, which wouldn’t help her in the long run, but neither of them truly knew that. She was overwhelmingly pleased – both with herself and with Thomas. She’d never had the experience of having something express satisfaction with her organization, or thank her for it. She found it a good feeling, one she wanted to continue. He was slowly becoming Thomas, becoming familiar. She smiled at his joke. She didn’t quite laugh, but she was close. “I’ve always found the Dewey Decimal System highly illogical.” She shook her head, amused with the mere idea.

She gestured to a stool on the opposite side of the kitchen counter. Another woman might have playfully shooed the man out of the kitchen while she worked, but Thaddea was not that kind of woman. She washed her hand, proceeding to cut various vegetables for their dinner. She watched her hands, feeling suddenly intimidated – too intimidated to look up at Thomas while she worked. She did look up, with some degree of surprise, when he asked about her day. It wasn’t often she got asked such a question, most avoided her – which was the way she had liked it. She took a moment to consider the question. Her day had been exactly as any other, aside from the organizing. She looked back down at the vegetables, the warm cheeriness not quite starting to wear off. “My day was good precisely because of the organizing.” The time question, well she felt slightly awkward. She got home at exactly the same time every single day – her schedule was organized that day. “I returned home at 4:17 PM.” She shifted, scooping the cut vegetables into a bowl. “What did you do all day?” That was the expected return question, wasn’t it?

She moved flawlessly, in the kitchen especially. The kitchen was a familiar place to her, one she moved in with fluidity and ease. In her years as a child, growing up, her mother had stressed a woman’s mastery of cooking. Her lips twitched, thinking of her traditionalistic Greek mother. She believed that the ability to cook made a woman more attractive to a man, that she should have mastery – expertise. She’d grown up learning to cook every dish known to man. And these skills had in fact been a necessity when she had eventually been married. Zachary had been traditionalistic in his own way, though a far less pleasing way than her mother. He’d expected a woman to remain in her place, and her place was in the home. Thaddea had learned to keep her mouth shut, to anticipate what her husband wanted, and to have his dinner hot, ready and on the table at 7:30 sharp. Moving now brought back a mix of emotions – the joy of learning to cook with her mother, and her terror of her husband. Her fingers paused, lingering over a pan as she lost herself briefly in memories. A moment later she was moving again, shuffling pots and pans.

She nodded, slightly surprised. She was actually enjoying the quiet hum of Thomas’ voice in the background as she worked. She wanted him to keep talking. She didn’t have much to say, but she enjoyed listening. It seemed home-y, something so different. The last time she had lived with anyone, it had been Zachary. And every afternoon, when he came home from work, her fear would begin. She’d walked on eggshells, aiming only to please him. The sound of his voice used to frighten her. For months, any man’s voice had frightened her. But Thomas, sitting on his stool, chin in his hand, was somehow comforting. It was rhythmic, as if he expected nothing from her. It was a unique feeling, as everyone always wanted something from her – usually she was broken by her own expectations. She glanced up from the risotto she had begun to stir. She blinked at him. “Of course I would?” Her tone was as rigid and formal as ever, but there was a slight smile on her lips. She was confused, but strangely pleased by his words. Did he truly think to know her well enough to make such a judgment? And, even more interesting, how did he see her?

She truly didn’t mind him hovering, she enjoyed his company. Usually she enjoyed no company but her own. But he was calm, quiet, soothing. She rummaged in the refrigerator, pulling out a small bag of mushrooms. She had thought to sauté some, perhaps add a few to the risotto. She pulled out a cutting board and a pairing knife. She set the board and knife before him, the mushrooms at his side. She didn’t order him, didn’t ask. But perhaps, if he had something to do, he would stay longer – keep her company. She’d heard such things were “social” and “community-building”. He mentioned Wes Anderson and she smiled again. Wes Anderson. She’d watched the films as a child, more often as a teenager. She’d seen them each dozens of times, mostly because Alisander had loved them so. The two had watched them together, over and over and over again. When he couldn’t sleep, he snuck in, and she’d put on the movie. They’d huddle on her bed, under quilts and with pillows, and take turns quoting the lines. But she didn’t say all of this. Instead she nodded. “I’ve seen every one of his films. I could quote every line of Fantastic Mr. Fox if you asked me to.” She still had that barely-a-smile tilt to her lips.

He’d wanted a baby. It was why she had left, had decided once and for all to escape. He’d wanted a child, multiple children. He would lie in bed at night, and rest his palm on her belly. And he’d smile this satisfied smile, and whisper to himself about the son he would raise. It was always that “he” would raise, never “we”. It was like she was simply the vessel, empty and waiting for him to impregnate. She couldn’t have risked birth control, or any other sort of contraceptive. He would have found it. And surgery, as much as she’d considered it, was impossible. He controlled all the expenses. He would have seen the bill, the charge. And his fury would have been unmatched. And each morning, when he left for work, she would flee to the privacy of her bathroom, filled with a cold gripping terror. She would hold the test with shaking fingers, the occasional tear in her eye. She’d breath in deep as she forced herself to read the results, then breathe a sigh of relief as it came up negative – again, and again and again. But there was always that possibility, that inevitability. It would come, her child, their child. And then she’d be stuck, well and truly trapped.

But she didn’t allow these thoughts, these memories, to pervade her consciousness as she stood chopping vegetables for Thomas. She didn’t allow herself to remember buying that handful of tests, even after she escaped. She wouldn’t allow herself to remember continuing to test, every morning for a month, just to make sure, just to know that she was rid of him – every part of him. She concentrated on Thomas, the smooth nimbleness of his fingers, his reassuring smile. She didn’t know what it was he was trying to reassure, what reason he had to look so gentle, but he looked it all the same. But of course, if she had known what he was thinking, that he would have ever used the words “adorable” or “cute” or “sexy” to describe her – well she would have dropped her knife. Her rigidness, the perfection, it was a defense as much as anything else. It kept her organized, in control, but also kept others away. Because it always started with words like “cute”. That’s how it had begun with Zachary. But it never ended that way. No, far too often it ended with jagged scars and newspaper stories.

She looked up, her lips twitching towards that almost-smile once more. She liked his description, accurate yet with kindness in it. Like it was something to be admired, instead of loathed as so many others did. Her lips parted, as if she would speak, but she pressed them quickly and firmly together. Her first response had been to say “because I know how everything should be”. But she held herself back, held back that rigid insistence. Instead, she spoke differently, an airiness infecting her rigid formality as she spoke. “Most would call that domineering or controlling.” And indeed, those were frequently what she was called – not that she had ever much minded. She scooped the vegetables into the risotto, stirring in a rhythmic motion as he spoke. Wes Anderson. She couldn’t help but think that this was a scene from one of his movies, a homey heart-warming kind of scene. Meant to meet. Meant to live together. They used to say that she and Zachary were meant to be. Was anything “meant” at all? She simply nodded her head, forcing that almost-smile. Instead, she concentrated on his question. She’d always liked whatever Alisander did, and he what she. She smiled to herself, fond memories surfacing. “The Princess Bride,” She paused. She’d always been something of a closet romantic, even after such a horrible experience. She continued, with a true, if small, smile. “And The Dark Knight trilogy.”

She didn’t quite understand his comparison. On the one hand, dogs were loud dirty entirely unpleasant animals. They were generally obnoxious and clingy. Not to mention many of them had a nasty habit of destroying furniture and other valuables. They licked or chewed near everything in sight. And puppies were even worse, as they were entirely untrained. They were liable to whine or urinate in various unwanted places. So was his comment, by reason of association, an insult? Was he implying that she was both messy and unreasonably attached? This, to her knowledge, seemed a very poor judgment as she would have said she was the exact opposite. But perhaps, conversely, it had been meant as a compliment. According to the wide amount of greeting cards and pictures considered “cute”, puppies were highly valued. Her lips twitched. Why, for heaven’s sakes, was she considering this so carefully? She hadn’t made a habit of doing so before. She let comments role over her, replied when necessary. She was a machine, working for herself. The opinions of others, unless directly affecting her pursuits, had never had any significant meaning to her. And yet here she was, chopping chives, and questioning whether being likened to a puppy was a compliment or a glaring insult. What had the world come to?

Yet when he continued, naming a girl who had apparently organized his receipts, she cracked another smile. She even let out a breath that could have been considered an almost laugh. She shook her head, mostly to herself. In her mind, this girlfriend of his had been entirely incompetent. Indeed, as far as she understood, Thomas had thought the same thing. She smiled that barely-a-smile at him. “Everyone knows that receipts should be organized by date received.” She shook her head, continuing her chopping. It had not occurred to her that his point was simply that the receipts had been organized. In her mind, the point was that they had been organized incorrectly. She scooped the chives into a bowl, along with some other spices and such she intended to use for the seasoning of their steaks. As she did so, she began cleaning some of her utensils. While the steaks cooked, she would have a few spare minutes. Without a word, she strode from the kitchen purposefully. She vanished into her room, moving with that practiced intent rigidness. She emerged a moment later, her new labeler in her fingers.

She returned to the kitchen, and set about labeling the cabinets. This, she saw, as a perfectly legitimate task to accomplish in her free moments. She started with the cabinets, assessing what they held. Some dishes she took out, shaking her head slightly as she did so. What were coffee cups doing in with the dinner plates? She organized carefully – plates by size and purpose, cups by quality, cabinets by the specific dishes they held. Each cabinet door received her neat little label. And each shelf held two or three such as “Tea Plates” beneath a neat stack of saucers. She continued their conversation as she worked, only glancing over her shoulder once or twice to cast furtive looks his direction. She had to acknowledge, in her stubbornly clinical way, he was pleasing to look at. She brightened up as he mentioned owning a copy of The Princess Bride. She hadn’t seen the movie in years, and just the thought made her heart ache with loneliness and grief. Yet it was also a comfort, a sense of familiarity. She smiled slightly. “I’m sure I’ll locate it during my home organization.” Home. She’d just called this home. She couldn’t help but wonder when it had stopped being simply a house. But she didn’t stray on this thought for long, preferring to imagine all the labels she would bestow in Thomas’ tornado of a room.