Falling Down Stairs

Falling Down Stairs

“One . . . two . . . three.” Fitch waited patiently. He knew the time would come. It always did. “Four . . . five . . .Oh! Now seven!” Almost there . . .  “Eight! And Nine! You see that? The birds always fly away when there are nine of ‘em on that branch! Why do you think that is?”
         “Well, maybe nobody likes that ninth bird. Maybe he smells bad, even birds hate things that smell bad. And you know what? I know a little birdie that could use a bath. Come on upstairs once you finish your breakfast. I’ll go get the water running.”
         “Yes ma’am . . .” said Fitch, talking from one side of his mouth. He had developed sarcasm at an early age, but did not yet know how to use it subtly. Abigail shot him a glare from the staircase. Then she smiled.

Abigail always smiled at him as a child, and even today it wasn’t uncommon. There was something magical in her smile. Nowadays, even though Fitch was sixteen, the epoch of teenage composure, he would blush and turn away. He was powerless against it. It left him petrified, motionless, and completely exposed to feelings of lust.
“Mom, I’m going up to the library.” He spoke as in a hurry.
“Did you finish your chicken? And what on Earth could compel you to go in there?” his mother, Elizabeth, replied earnestly.
“Of course I did. And for the books, I like books. The library is a good place to read.”
“Well, ok. I’m off to the country club to play bridge. Tell your father for me when you see him.”
“I’m sure he remembers mother, you have been going up there everyday now for a month. Bye!” Fitch was unsure if she had heard him. He had been climbing the stairs while she was talking, and now he stood in front of the library door. The library had been neglected since Fitch was born. Now it would be he to reclaim it. It was just down the hall from his parent’s bedroom, yet for some reason they always passed it by.
         He opened the door and walked inside. The room had all the black of an onyx, but lacked all of the stone’s character. He could see no distinguishable features, except for dust drifting away from an open vent. It was cold and completely unwelcoming. The sight of countless novels was no solace for the boy.  He got an eerie feeling walking around the room. There were cobwebs. The dust was suffocating. “Those servants are useless. They had better be entangled in some giant spider’s web, or at least be boiling in a witch’s cauldron. Otherwise, someone is in trouble.”
         He could just make out a window on the wall opposite of the door. The window was the room’s only source of illumination; the drapes were thin and lucid. He had no choice but to follow the light.  Traversing overturned chairs, disturbed desks, books thrown onto the floor, and upturned carpet edges, he made it to the window. He pulled back the drapes; the power of the light was glorious and magnificent. It was like seeing for the first time. After a moment, and through the spots and afterimage, he saw her. His desire, his flower, and his reason for being in the library at all: Ms. Abigail.
         She was walking about the vineyard, tending to her duties at the estate. Actually, her single duty required her to be inside, serving wine to the older members of the family. However, she liked having conversations with the grapes each afternoon. After years of doing this she had convinced the family that these talks were absolutely essential to the taste of the wine. She liked the distraction.
         “Look what my father puts her through. She keeps company with flies and mosquitoes. She deserves better.” Fitch whined and scratched at the window. He knew just what she needed most: a husband with money.
         He watched her for another hour. From his perch in the library, he saw her work through the vineyard like an ivory comb. When the day was hottest she went into the cellar, and prepared herself to serve the wine. Fitch stayed in the library. He took up a book, sat underneath the window, and made sure the door was noticeably open. Abigail would be by soon.
         Fitch had read two chapters of an old philosophy book (written in German), when he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. The moment had come. He turned to the back of the book, and didn’t even look up when she glanced into the room.
         “Fitch! You spooked me. I haven’t seen this door open in years. What are you doing in here?”
         “Oh, just admiring a newfound love: books. You spooked me Abigail. I had gotten myself so invested in this ending that I didn’t notice you walk in.”
         “You read now? How fast you have grown. I hope the ending was a good one. What was the book about?”
         Fitch panicked for an instance. All he knew about the book was that it was in German. “Oh, yes. Um. World War II.” His voice cracked. Abigail laughed.
“A good ending indeed. Well I better be off, you know how your father gets when his wine is late. But it is nice to see you reading Fitch. Can I count on you to be here tomorrow?” She spoke as she walked out of the room.
“Yes ma’am. I’ll be here.” Fitch was still humbled from his nerve-induced adolescent blunder. But this feeling was quickly overshadowed by Abigail’s apparent interest in his reading and location.
He watched her walk out of the room; but he wasn’t finished with the conversation. It was a good start for their relationship together, but he decided to push his luck. He jumped up from his desk, his chair toppled over from the sudden movement, and raced through the doorway. Before Abigail had reached the parent’s bedroom, Fitch grabbed her by the arm.
“So what is the best ending you ever read?” It was all he could think of. Bringing the topic of books back up was a gamble; he knew he couldn’t contribute to such a conversation.
“Fitch, please. Your father wants his wine, and he doesn’t like to be disturbed when he is drinking it. Go back to your books.”
“I would rather talk to you. I don’t think my dad will mind if we talk a little bit.”
“He would mind. Please, go back to your books. We can talk when I come back this way.”
An hour passed before Abigail walked past the doorway again. She saw Fitch from the side of her eye. She stumbled a bit, and the wine glasses, now empty, wavered on the unsteady platter.
“Oh Fitch. You are still up here? I’m glad to see you are so serious about your studies. How is the reading?”
“It is going really well,” the boy said.  But I am having a bit of trouble understanding this one. I thought maybe you could help me.”
“I would love to Fitch, and I know I promised that we would talk. But I really do have to make a trip into town, your father’s orders. I’m sorry. But if you are up here tomorrow we will certainly have a chat.”
“Oh, alright. I understand Abigail. I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
“Yes, tomorrow.” She smiled at Fitch. He blushed. “Goodnight then.”
The next day flowed on the same current. Fitch watched Abigail work in the field until she came inside. He placed four open books on the table, and one in his hands to complete the illusion. After a short while she came into the library. The two engaged in partially stimulating conversation. Fitch’s desires and self-esteem were once again stroked.
“Oh Fitch, before I go, I wanted to give you a gift. “ She placed the wine tray on the table, and reached into a satchel slung low at her side.  She searched through its depths, became frustrated, and began pulling out all sorts of exotic trinkets.
“Where did it get off to?” She murmured like she was casting an incantation. “Aha! I don’t have the slightest notion how it sunk all the way to the bottom.” In her hand was a tiny wooden box. “ I picked it up for you last night when I was in town.”
The box had fine paintwork and wispy engravings on the tops and sides. Fitch had hoped for something more obviously intimate, but he soon perked up remembering that Abigail had thought of him outside of the library.
         “What is it?” He was genuinely curious.
         “It is a Chinese Puzzle Box. I thought you might enjoy it, seeing as you are an intellectual now.” He glanced at the open books on the table and grinned. “These squares on top of the puzzle can slide around. You need to put the squares in the right order, and when you do, the painted lines on the squares will create a picture of a Lotus flower.  But that is not all. When you solve the puzzle, the box will open. And Fitch.  . . inside the box there is a surprise for you.”
         He blushed. The blackness of teenage obsession was finally formalizing into something of immense value. “Well I will start on it right away. I should have it solved before I see you again tomorrow.”
         “I hope you do Fitch. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She swept the loose trinkets back into the bag, balanced the wine tray on her right hand, and began toward the door. Fitch saw her glance at an old map of the British Empire, checking her hair in the glare of the framed glass; they met eyes in the reflection. She turned away, brushed her bangs to one side, and continued down the hallway.
         Before she could reach the end of the hallway, Fitch had begun fidgeting with the puzzle. But it was so foreign to him. He hardly knew how to hold the box, let alone decide which piece to slide first. How could he make a reasonable judgment when he had never seen a Lotus flower? He was anxious to prove his intellect to Abigail. But the tangling of painted lines was indecipherable, how could a flower grow from a knot? He sat in silence, hoping some divine intervention would move his thumbs in the right pattern. It did not. He sighed, and began manually moving the pieces. He was already frustrated, but he knew that inside the box was a love-token, sentimental gift, or cry for help addressed to him.
“I’m getting nowhere blindly moving these pieces.” He looked about, and found an encyclopedia lying parted on the ground, pages bent, and binding distressed. He ran his fingers across the cover, leaving furrows of dust in his wake. Flipping through the pages, he disregarded the photographs of native people hollowing out tree trunks, an army officer lying motionless on a stretcher, and men in suits drinking whiskey at a speakeasy.  He finally found what he had been searching for: a quarter-page picture followed by two full pages of text about the Lotus flower. His eyes twitched; the colors were vivid, the words were extensive. He didn’t know where to begin. He slipped into a stupor.
An hour later, Fitch was roused from his information-induced daze by creaking floorboards. Abigail walked past the door. She barely noticed the boy on the rim of her vision.
“Did you make any progress on the puzzle Fitch?”
“I sure did Abigail. I found a lot of information on the Lotus flower. For instance: it is really a type of water lily; it is the national flower of India; it is renowned for its purity; and you can make herbal tea of it the stems!” Fitch slurred his words in excitement, and looked at Abigail for approval.
“That is very interesting indeed. I had no idea about all of that. Good luck with the puzzle Fitch. I look forward to seeing you again tomorrow. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.” echoed Fitch. He closed the encyclopedia, and started again on the puzzle, now with a renewed passion. He kept at it for a few more hours, until his mother called him downstairs.

Within one week’s time, the puzzle, and the fleeting image of the Lotus flower, had engraved itself deep into Fitch’s mind. Solving the puzzle became Fitch’s primary ambition, because inside was a secret romance with Abigail. That tiny wooden box had a heavy impression on Fitch’s life: he lay awake in the early morning hours, thinking about the puzzle; he wouldn’t eat all of his food, or even skip breakfast outright; and even to the point where he was working on the puzzle instead of watching Abigail in the vineyards. Fitch’s mother had begun to worry about him. She thought it was an unhealthy obsession.
Fitch would sit alone for hours in the library: a room that was illuminated by outside light from a single window, a library with cobwebs between the bookshelves. He hardly noticed these sensory details any longer. Why look at the present when you hold the future in your hands? Inside that box was Fitch’s future.
He only saw Abigail twice a day now, brief interactions with long intervals between them. With wine tray in hand she would pass by and ask:
“Made any progress on that puzzle Fitch?”
And each day he would reply: “Yes ma’am. I feel like I’m getting close. I should have it finished by tomorrow.”
An hour or so would pass before she moved in front of that doorway once more. Again she would ask Fitch about the puzzle. He told her that he was getting very close to solving it now, and the two would say goodnight.
But Fitch wasn’t actually sure if he could solve the puzzle or not. He desperately wanted to prove himself to Abigail. He memorized entire scientific journals about the flower, and he had developed a library’s worth of knowledge on each type of traditional Chinese Puzzle Box. He moved the sliding tiles in every imaginable pattern; a few times he began to see the outline of the illusive Lotus, but always one or two pieces did not quite fit. It was as if the puzzle was unsolvable. But he took solace in knowing that he had time. Abigail had always been there at the estate. She wouldn’t leave the boy now. 
         
         “Did you finish your lunch Fitch?” Elizabeth asked from the kitchen. Fitch was halfway up the stairs.
         “I ate most of it mom. Only missed a few bites. I’m not that hungry.”
         “You need to finish all of your food. You never do anymore. I’m off to the club.”
         “Ok, have fun.” He was at the doorway now.
         “Oh, and Fitch. Some of the girls are coming back over tonight, to have a bridge party. So try to keep yourself upstairs or in your room.”
         “Ok mom. No problem.”
         Fitch sat down at his daily perch. There was Abigail down in the field. He wondered if she could see him as clearly as he could her, or if she was too distracted by her work. It rained almost every night now. The plants were tall and lush; and the grapes were nearly ready. As she worked through the foliage, he would begin to lose sight of her behind the wall of vines. At a point, he could just make out the contrast of her glossy hair floating above the vibrant green. Then he turned his attention to the puzzle. He was still adamant about solving it for her.
         The day passed in this manner, as it had for weeks. However, just as Fitch was expecting to be called to dinner, he heard instead a mass of high-heels moving downstairs.  Then he remembered that his mother had mentioned a party. It didn’t take long for the smell of old women to spread upstairs. It was some foul mixture of baby-powder, medication, and immobility. He focused more on the puzzle, hoping it could distract him from the noxious gasses.
         Some time passed, and Fitch heard footsteps coming upstairs. It was Abigail, and she was right on time.
         “Finish the puzzle yet Fitch?” she said, leaning against the doorway.
         “No ma’am. I’ve gotten really close, but I can never finish the picture.”
         “You must keep at it. Think about the surprise waiting for you inside. I’m waiting for you, please open it.”
         “I will. Can you stay and talk with me for a bit, maybe help me with the puzzle?”
         “You know how your father is Fitch. He needs his wine on time. We can talk once you open the puzzle.” She turned away from the boy and continued down the hall.
         “I must solve this puzzle,” he thought. “Maybe I should look at the encyclopedia again.” He opened the book to the dog-eared page. But his studies were interrupted by high-heels on the stairs, a sound he connected with Abigail, but it couldn’t be her. The clap of the heels sounded heavy on the hollow wood. It was a slow and careful ascent, like the owner had to have her balance reassured after each step. Fitch’s curiosity was aroused.  He poked his head out from the doorway. He expected to see his mother, coming to drag her husband down to present to the party. But it was not his mother. It was her bridge partner and friend, Clare Hunter. She was hugging the banister with one arm, the other holding a glass of amber colored scotch.
         “Why there you are Fitch. I thought your mother would be showing you off downstairs. I didn’t know I’d have to come looking for you.” she said. She stumbled forward, lunged over the final three steps, and stood confidently at the top of the stairs. Fitch wondered how her deteriorated hipbones were capable of such a maneuver. It must have been painful for the old women. The strong drink probably acted as an anesthesia of sorts. 
         “Hello Mrs. Hunter. I can come down to the party for a bit if you’d like. I’ll help you back down the stairs.”
         “That is quite alright Fitch. There are too many women down there for me, no intimacy. And I’ve lost a lot of money tonight. Elizabeth tells me you spend all of your time up here nowadays. Reading?
         “Yes ma’am. Reading and working on this puzzle. It is nice and quite. I spend most all of my days alone up here.”
         “Ah yes, Elizabeth has told me about this puzzle. Please, will you show it to me?”
         “Well alright. I’ve been having some trouble with it. Maybe you can help.” He showed her into the library. The sun was setting now, and the afterglow dispersed through the room.  He picked the puzzle from off the desk, looked the woman in her stale blue eyes, and placed it into her hands. She examined the box, turning it over like a wobbly gyroscope.
         “It is very pretty Fitch.” she said. “It is no wonder you have such an infatuation with it.”
         “Thanks. I like it. I just wish I could figure it out.”
         “Well, maybe I can help you. I have a lot of experience in Bridge, which they say is the most stimulating card game. Show me where you would move this piece here.” She was holding the puzzle in one hand, and with the other pointed to a trapped corner piece, with only one obvious move.
         “Well here I suppose.” Fitch made a move to slide the piece. Mrs. Hunter also made a move. She grazed her fingernails across the boy’s outstretched hand, and placed her fingers around his now quivering forearm. It took him a moment: “Mrs. Hunter?”
         “On second thought,” she said, “I am tired of trying to figure things out. You said you spend most of your days alone up here? How sad. It must be nice for you to have some company. I know it is for me. Why shouldn’t we enjoy ourselves?” The puzzle dropped to the floor, her hand caressed his neck.
         His heart jumped, but the puzzle was fine. It landed unturned, the fragmented Lotus flower looked up at him. “Please Mrs. Hunter. I really don’t want this. I am kind of with someone right now and she would be crushed if she found out. Please.”
         “Nobody will know Fitch. We are alone.” She pulled the boy in close, tightened her grip on his arm, and let her lips massage his cheek. “Isn’t this your fantasy Fitch?”
         “Well . . .” he stood still as she moved her hand from his arm to his chest, and from his chest to his thigh. She kissed his ear. “Mrs. Hunter . . . really. I thought you were just going to help me with the puzzle. I want to do the puzzle, that is all.”
         “What? The puzzle? I can’t even keep your mind of that damned thing for one minute. Look at me: the curve of my bust, my long legs, my soft nape. Smell me Fitch. I know how it must make you feel. ” She kicked the puzzle away with the back of her heel.
         “That puzzle is important to me!  You have been drinking Mrs. Hunter. Just let me be, please.” He tried to distance himself from the woman, but it only made her grip tighten. “Please. Just let me go! I don’t want this.”
         “Are you being serious with me boy? I don’t understand it. That puzzle has some magic hold over you. I know you desire me.” She let go of his arm, snatched her glass from the table, and took a drink. She backed away from him, bent over, and grabbed the puzzle.
         “Please Mrs. Hunter, give me the puzzle. You don’t know what it means to me.”
         “This puzzle is bad for you Fitch. Elizabeth tells me that you don’t finish your food anymore, you are losing sleep at night, and you never go outside. No, no. This spell it has over you needs to be broken.” She looked over the puzzle again. This time fingering it with the interest and precision expected of someone holding some all-powerful weapon. Then she raised it above her head.
         “Mrs. Hunter! Give it to me! I’m so close to solving it, please!”
         “Oh that is right. You can’t even solve this puzzle. How sad. Really Fitch, I am doing you a favor.” She hesitated, sizing the boy up, held her arm up higher, and then thrust it downward. He lunged for her; but as fast as lightning strikes the earth, and with twice the power, the puzzle drove into the floor.
         Shattered, he stood there petrified. Splinters of the puzzle now blended with splinters of the library’s wood floor. Only a few pieces of the Lotus, that symbol of purity, were even recognizable. Fitch dropped to his knees. Mrs. Hunter took another drink.
         “Oh don’t be so dramatic Fitch.” the old woman said. “They make puzzles just like this at a shop in town. You can ride your bike to get a new one tomorrow, get a little exercise anyway.”
         Fitch made no words, but only those primitive little noises heard in nature: the cries of a young gazelle when the cheetah catches up to it, or of an elephant who has lost his way. That woman would never understand what the puzzle meant to Fitch. He pawed through the wreckage, the sharp splinters stuck in his hand, but he didn’t care. He was looking for his surprise: the reason Abigail had given him the puzzle box. He couldn’t find it. “Where is it?” he could barely speak through the anger. “Where in the hell is it?”
         Mrs. Hunter, tired of the boy’s spectacular act, had channeled her attention to that framed old map on the library wall. But she couldn’t ignore the boy’s mumblings. She was beginning to question his sanity.  “What are you looking for Fitch?”
         “The surprise. It must be here. It was inside the box. That’s why I wanted to open it. I don’t know where it is. You probably broke it.”
         “Don’t accuse me, boy. I don’t even know what you could possibly be talking about. You can’t put anything inside of those boxes. They don’t open. You solve them, and gain some sort of intellectual satisfaction, or something. Please get a hold of yourself. You look ridiculous. That puzzle had you distracted from the real world.”
         “She doesn’t know what she is talking about,” Fitch thought. “Something happened to the surprise, something went wrong. Abigail can explain. I need to find Abigail.” He used his hands to stand back up, forcing the needles deeper into his skin. “I’ll just tell her what happened, she’ll understand.” He stepped into the hallway, looked at the closed door of his parent’s bedroom, thought of Abigail, and began walking. He hesitated at the doorway, plucked the splinters from his hand and wiped the tears from his eyes. He could hear movement coming from behind the door. It swung open. He jumped back.
         There she was. “Abigail! Something happened to the puzzle. It wasn’t me . . .”
She stood there motionless. There was something wrong, something different. From behind her slender frame Fitch saw what was out of place: his father, struggling to button his shirt across his swollen belly. He looked up and met Fitch’s glazed eyes with a scowl. His face became as red as the scarlet colored tie draped across the headboard. Abigail slammed the door. She was still inside the room.
         “Abigail!” Fitch shouted. “The surprise! It wasn’t in the box! Please open the door.” But nothing happened.
         Fitch stood there for a moment, coming to terms with what he had just seen. He couldn’t cry anymore. All of his outward emotion had been exhausted by the broken puzzle. He backed away from the bedroom, turned around, and walked back through the narrow corridor. He stopped at the library doorway, but only to glance in and look once more at the pile of splinters before moving on. From the top of the stairway, he could see Mrs. Hunter struggling down below. She wavered on each step, clinging to the banister. He noticed something about the old woman: she had her eyes fixed on an unopened bottle of scotch standing on a table in the living room, where the other woman were playing Bridge. It was as if she was using the unmoving bottle to reassure her own balance. “The alcohol is the only thing keeping that old hag from falling down those stairs and breaking every bone in her body,” Fitch thought.