Book II – Chapter 17: Study

Posted On November 19, 2015

Though only a day had passed since Ferris had last seen his front door, it felt as if he’d been gone for a year. It was the same feeling as seeing the stoop of his family’s brownstone after a semester in New Haven, where every detail of the entrance was simultaneously different and exactly the same. Ferris held the key just shy of the lock, noting the cold metal against the curve of his finger. The trigger, the smell of chemicals, the mustard sofa speckled with red — had it really happened only yesterday?

Whatever had happened, it was over now. No matter what ridiculous ordeal Ferris found himself tangled up in, life never put itself on hold. Though he had called in sick, there was still an apartment to tend to, bills to pay, and one daunting CPA test to study for.

The second Ferris opened the door, he wished he hadn’t. An odor drifted below his nose, one of rancid beer and unwashed clothes. In one corner of the living room was Stanley, who had fallen asleep in a pizza box with a sliver of button mushroom stuck just above his nose. In the other was Seamus, or Seamus’ leg, which lay draped over the arm of the sofa. Brown bottles in various states of fullness had been scattered about the area, some having leaked their contents into weak, sticky puddles. Among them were bits of clothing, some of which Ferris recognized as his own.

He pushed up his glasses to clench the bridge of his nose. “Goddamnit.”

“You all right, mate?” came a groggy voice from behind the couch.

It took Ferris a moment to respond. He could feel the blood heating under his skin, trying, and failing, to come to a full boil. It was no use — he didn’t have the energy for it. He exhaled, closing his eyes in the hope he could escape from the crime scene his apartment had become. That was no use either. He could still smell it.

“How long was I gone?”

Seamus dragged himself upright, revealing a mop of tousled blond hair. “A day, why?”

“Because it looks like ten annual shit parades just passed through my living room.” Ferris’ eyes fell on the cigarette butts that had found a home in a potted plant. “How does one person create this much garbage?”

“Talent.”

“What is that, a bra? Did you fuck someone on my sofa?”

“No. What, this?” Seamus toed the lingerie in question. “This is… mine?”

“Seamus,” he said through his teeth. “This was supposed to be for a couple days. When are you going to find your own place?”

“When I’ve got enough money.”

“And when are you—“

“When I’ve got a job.”

Ferris rubbed his temples. “So, never.”

The Brit tapped his nose, his lips spread in a boyish grin. It was too much. Ferris had already been teetering at the precipice of composure, and that smile was just enough to knock him over the edge. He moved before common sense could stop him, balling the lavender bra in his hand before chucking it directly at Seamus’ head. The rumpled fabric whipped through the air with surprising speed before planting itself across the side of the man’s half-shaven face.

“Ow!” Seamus picked the strap from his ear. “Watch it, these things have hooks.”

“You’re lucky I’m not strangling you with it. We need to set up some house rules.”

Seamus flopped backwards, releasing a groan to end all groans. He was the perfect image of a child, of a petulant schoolboy whose mother had sent him to bed without dessert. Sadly, he was twice the age for this sort of behavior.

“One.” Ferris was counting on his fingers. “Clean up after yourself, you walking dumpster.”

Seamus’ groan intensified, now gaining a lower, more gravely quality.

“Two, no fucking women on the sofa.”

“Ah, so—“

“No men, either. No fucking, period!”

“What about—“

“Not the coffee table, or the— just, nowhere! Nowhere in this apartment, or this building. No fucking!”

Seamus draped an arm over his eyes, his grin now deflated into a sullen frown. “Well, you’re no fun.”

“Three, no smoking inside.”

“But you let Demos smoke in here.”

“Demos has mastered the fine art of using a goddamned ash tray.” It was mostly true. It went without saying that Demos generally did whatever he wanted. “Four—”

“Four? Aren’t these sorts of things supposed to stop at three?”

“I’m going to make it twenty if you don’t shut up. Four, quit feeding the dog pizza. And buy your own food. Get a job, any job. Just— just stop being a human leech and contribute for once.”

“But Ferret—“

“Don’t ‘Ferret’ me, young man.” Ferris grabbed a pair of books from his desk, stuffing them into his bag as he headed back toward the door. “I want this all cleaned up by tonight.”

“Tonight? But— hey, where you off to?”

“Somewhere that doesn’t smell like a carnival ride. Clean up. Now.”

“All right, all right. Don’t get your knickers in a twist, mate.”

“Five.” Ferris held the door in mid-swing, giving Seamus one last glare. “Stop being so fucking British.”

The door slammed shut before Seamus could respond. That had left Ferris with a grand total of five minutes back home, which was slightly less than he’d been hoping for. There was still studying to be done.

After passing a handful of cafes that were much too crowded, Ferris found himself in front of Giorgetti’s. Somehow, he always ended up in front of Giorgetti’s. It was as if the restaurant was his eternal destination and everything else in life was simply a pit stop along the way.

It couldn’t hurt to grab a cup of coffee, anyway.

Unfamiliar faces took up most of the tables. It was barely noon and, unlike those fortunate enough to enjoy brunch on a weekday, Ferris had a day job. Usually. There were only three souls he recognized, one of which he had no intention of speaking to. Emily was at the register, handling an elderly couple and supposedly unaware of his presence. The other two were at the far end of the restaurant. Victor was leaning on the bar, his voice indistinct as he spoke into an old-fashioned phone receiver. Beside him stood Demos, who waved Ferris over the moment he noticed him.

“Didn’t I just—” A tight glare from Victor stopped Demos in mid-sentence. His lowered his voice to a whisper. “Didn’t I just send you home?”

Ferris only shrugged, having no desire to further agitate the man on the phone. Victor continued speaking in low, single-word replies. He adjusted the phone against his ear, eyes trailing over the bar as he listened. As much as Ferris strained to eavesdrop, there wasn’t much to catch. It must have been something the customers weren’t supposed to hear. After a minute, Victor exhaled before giving one final word.

“Done.”

With that, he hung up. Demos turned toward his uncle expectantly, silent as he waited for an update.

“Tomorrow,” Victor said. “At Valesio’s Butcher Shop.”

The name struck a familiar chord with Ferris. There was a meat market just down the street from Giorgetti’s, but it went by a different name. It had to be someplace else. Images of flickering lights and carcasses ran through his mind, followed by the memory of cold — he remembered seeing his breath. That was it, the butcher shop where they had found Lee’s daughter — the butcher shop owned by the Marianis.

“We’ll be there,” Demos said with a nod.

“You’d better be,” Victor said. “They asked for you. Something about Six Pines.”

Demos swallowed — hard. “Oh. Speaking of Six Pines. They placed an order.”

Luckily, Demos’ diversion worked. The hard line in Victor’s brow softened, if only a bit.

“How big?”

Demos slipped a pen from inside his suit, readying it with a click. The tip scratched over a cocktail napkin, writing out a particularly long figure before he slid it over the bar to his uncle. Victor studied it for a moment. Then, Ferris noticed it — the birth of an expression. The corner of Victor’s lip quirked, lifting into a slight, but unmistakable smile. He said nothing, only nodding before tucking the napkin into his pocket.

Apparently, that was all Demos needed. His chest rose with a victorious breath and the color in his eyes seemed to intensify in the dim light of the restaurant.

“Your grandfather wants an update, so I’ll be out for tonight,” Victor said. “Stay out of trouble.”

“Will do.”

Victor caught Ferris’ eye. “You too, Fish.”

“No trouble here.”

Victor gave a low scoff before turning, leaving the two alone at the bar. The ambiance of soft conversation and pouring coffee hung in the air as they watched him depart the restaurant.

“We’ll be there?” Ferris pushed up his glasses, which had slid dangerously low on his nose. “What exactly am I being there for?”

Demos leaned back on the bar, his elbows resting on polished wood. “A talk with the Marianis. About the—“

“Oh, good. It’s not like I had plans or anything.”

“You never have plans, nerd.”

“No, really. I do.” Ferris folded his arms. “I need to study for—“

Demos sighed loudly, burying his face in both hands. “Study? I thought you finished college.”

“I told you this a hundred times. It’s for my CPA exam.”

“Didn’t you go to school for four years? Why the hell do you need to take another test?”

For the second time that day, Ferris began counting on his fingers. “Promotions, salary, opportunities for—“

“Stop. Stop, stop,” Demos waved both hands. “I didn’t actually want an answer.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Are my civilian issues boring you?”

“Yes. God, yes.”

“Well, I was supposed to study tonight, but Seamus turned my apartment into a fuck barn.”

“A fuck—“

Ferris waved him off. “Don’t ask.”

“Well, why don’t you study here?”

“In the restaurant?”

“Yeah, like we did in high school.” Demos said, the smile returning to his face.

Ferris paused, momentarily forgetting to be cross. “You’re going to help me with—“

“Oh, hell no. I have actual plans today. Just hang out in the office, it’ll be nice and quiet.”

“Actually, that doesn’t sound so bad.” Ferris glanced past the bar, eyes trailing over the various liquor bottles. Though the restaurant had been rebuilt after the fire, he could still find memories in its walls. There were countless times they had stayed past closing, their tablecloth covered in scattered math notes and pizzelle crumbs. Demos never was very good at math.

“What are you up to, anyway?”

“Um.” Demos looked away, pushing his fringe from his eyes. “I have a lunch date.”

Ferris had heard that reply before, and had always replied the same way.

“Oh.”

Yet, this time, there was a tone in his reply, a tinge of defeat hidden in a single two-letter word. He’d let it escape without realizing, unaware of the implication until the word had long since left his mouth. Ferris inhaled sharply, as if attempting to suck the word back before Demos could notice. Luckily, he didn’t.

“Yeah. I met him at, uh—“ Demos pushed his sleeve back, eyeing his watch. “Ah. I’d better get going.”

Ferris swallowed. “Okay. Er, good luck.”

Demos looked up, his eyes burdened with an look Ferris couldn’t quite place.

“I don’t need luck,” he said, his voice unusually soft.

Ferris watched him leave, following Demos’ dark figure as he slipped past the tables and through the front doors. Once again, there was the ambiance, the sound of chatter and the clinks of forks.

For a while, he stood in place, wondering why he suddenly felt so weary. That was right — he hadn’t had caffeine yet. He shook his head, forcing himself to change focus. There were only two things he needed now — a cup of black coffee and a quiet room.

The back office hadn’t changed much over the years. There were times in his youth Ferris had glanced through the tall doors to see Gino and his father poring over documents. The walls, the furnishings, everything had been replaced, yet somehow the air smelled the same. The scent came slowly as he walked in — stretched, brown leather over wingback chairs, lingering notes of cigars and scotch over hand-carved wood. One wall was lined entirely with books, though Ferris knew the bottom shelf hid a safe. Behind the desk was a glass cabinet with various rifles, their mesquite stocks lined in a perfect row.

There was another door, one that led into the kitchen — the same he and Demos had leaned up against when eavesdropping after the mayor’s party. They had been children at the time, but then, they still had some growing up to do.

Ferris set his cup down, the black liquid rolling against the ceramic mug. The desk was an antique, set in a distinctive mahogany grain. It was sturdy in the way only old things were, capable of handling much more than mere writing. He had been using it more often recently, tasked with the very same books his father had once cared for.

He spread the text book to the proper page, locating the passage he had last read. His finger ran down each line of text, yet, somehow, the words refused to focus.

Ferris shut his eyes. His thoughts were seeds in the wind, refusing to settle no matter how desperately he grasped. It was strange, the way he had responded to Demos’ plans. It was such a normal thing, these dates. They were like the rising sun, the surge of tides — they always came. Why now had Ferris decided to be testy, to act as if he had been slighted in some way? It wasn’t fair of him. It was ridiculous.

It was then Ferris realized he was flipping his pen quite frantically between fingers. He clutched it in his palm, forcing himself still before opening his eyes.

He still hadn’t had his coffee.

Hours passed. Without a window, Ferris hadn’t noticed the sun set, nor had he noticed the final patrons departing the restaurant as the open sign flipped to closed. It was only when someone knocked at the door that he remembered where he was. He rubbed his eyes, attempting to find his voice.

“Yes?”

The door cracked open, revealing a sliver of a woman’s face.

“I’m locking up,” was all she said before the door shut once more. Oh, right. Emily. He had forgotten she was working that day. He had also forgotten to eat lunch, as well as dinner. Had dinnertime really passed? Was it already that late? A painful twist of his stomach confirmed the fact.

Demos hadn’t returned. Perhaps his date had gone well.

With a sharp sigh, Ferris piled his books back into his bag. As much as he and Emily opposed each other, he couldn’t keep her waiting.

The restaurant was dead silent — black with only a wash of light from the door to guide his way. Once outside, he was greeted by the pattering of rain and back of Emily’s head.

She locked the door, then glanced out past the awning with a frown. “Shit.”

“Um, here,” he said, passing a folding umbrella.

She glared at the umbrella in her hand, then at him. “This is yours.”

“I’ve got an extra.” Ferris said, gesturing to his bag. Rain pattered over the awning, dripping down the edges to meet the sewer grates in the street. A taxi drove past, splashing rainwater over the curb. After a moment, Emily’s common sense seemed to win out over her distaste for Ferris. The umbrella opened with a snap before she turned away.

“Thanks.”

With their backs to each other, they went their separate ways. Ferris fished inside his bag, pulling out the old issue of National Geographic he had been meaning to read. Sadly, it was too late for the magazine. It was an umbrella now. Droplets hit his shoulders as he made his way down the block, leaving dark speckles over the thin fabric of his shirt. The rain was loud, pelting the sidewalk and drowning out most every sound on the street — every sound but one voice.

“Lying doesn’t really suit you.”

Ferris froze, daring a look over his shoulder to find the source of the accusation. It was Emily, standing just behind him with the umbrella tucked over her shoulder. His face grew hot, caught in a half-frown just as he had been caught in his lie.

“Well, I tried.” Ferris shrugged. “You’ve got a longer walk than me, anyway.”

She studied his face for a moment. “Where are you going?”

“The 8 train.”

She said nothing more, only stepping forth in his direction. The shadow of her umbrella fell over his figure, cutting the onslaught of rain and leaving him hurrying to follow. He faltered with the soggy magazine, gripping it with both hands as he tried to think of something to say.

“Um.” The umbrella smacked his forehead and he ducked to avoid another bump. “I’m sorry about the flowers.”

Ferris winced, immediately regretting the apology. There was no need to remind her of that disaster.

“It’s okay. He told me you were drunk.”

Thank God for Demos Giorgetti.

The two continued down the street in uncomfortable silence, waiting at a crosswalk as cars sloshed past. When the light blinked green, she spoke again.

“How’s your girlfriend? Her name is Alex, right?”

“How do you—“

“I saw you two outside the other day. She looks nice.”

“She is.” Despite the water running down his face, Ferris couldn’t help but smile.  “I really like her.”

The conversation dropped once more. Emily’s focus drifted to the pavement until, after some time, she managed to reply.

“It’s good to see you happy.”

“Thanks.” He bit his lower lip, then glanced back at her. “Um, Emily—“

“What?”

“I’ve been meaning to say, well, that is—“ Ferris shook his head, cursing his clumsy tongue. “You have every right to be mad at me. I did leave you behind. I can’t imagine how that must have felt and, well, I never tried to. If you’d really like me to leave you alone, it’s all right. I’ll let you be.”

Emily stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, keeping her gaze on her rain-soaked shoes. For a long while, she said nothing. When her mouth finally opened, he could barely catch her words over the downpour.

“I miss being friends with you.”

Ferris took in a soft breath. “So do I.”

“Do you want to try again? As friends.”

“I’d like that.”

It had been years since he’d seen her smile, not from a distance, but beside him — for him. It was just as warm as he remembered. Her friendship was all he could ask for, and more than he deserved.

“Me too,” she said, then glanced past his shoulder. “That’s your station, isn’t it?”

He followed her eyes, catching sight of the subway entrance on the corner. The lamps glowed green and white, a beacon through the haze of gray.

“Yeah, that’s it.” Ferris gave her a nod. “Get home safe, okay?”

Before he could turn, she took his arm, pulling him into a tight hug. Thankfully, she paid no mind to his soaking wet clothes, or the way he nearly tripped against her embrace.

“You, too,” she said. “And thanks for the umbrella.”

The stairs glistened with water and grime as he descended into the station. Bodies pushed past him toward the turnstile, commuters mumbling through the dank, stuffy air. Through the rumble of an approaching train, he noticed the torrent outside had grown muffled.

It was good to be out of the rain.