The Knights of Sheba, Ep. 15: "Unfaithful" B

The Knights of Sheba 115B…Start

 

            Claude and Kit stay seated at the table facing each other.  They maintain a brief eye contact before finding other things to look at.  Claude stares at the far wall just behind Kit, while Kit looks around the room, absorbs it in all of its brevity.  Despite its size, it is quaint and has a warm atmosphere.

            They make eye contact again, and Kit smiles.  Claude smiles back stiffly and sips his tea.  “You, uh, need anything else?”

            “No.  No, I’m fine,” she says.  “Fine.” She looks at the table, at her hands, fingers fanned out across the table’s surface, nails painted pink.  “So, Claude, you got family?”

            “Family?” Claude sits up in his chair, nods.  “Yeah.  I have parents and a brother.  Why do you ask?”

            “Oh, well, I’m an only child.  I’m always curious about stuff like that.”

            “Oh, well, like I said one brother.”

            “Older or younger?”

            “Older.  Clark Abel Jr.,” Claude says.  “He’s named after my dad.”

            “That’s cool.”

            Claude shrugs.  “I guess.”

            “Sounds like you two don’t get along.”

            “We get along,” Claude says, his tone half-interested.  He turns his glass around in his hands.  “He’s just a pain.”

            “A pain? What, did they play favorites with him or something?”

            Claude snorts, grins.  “Ah, no.  Not at all.  It was kind of the opposite.  He’s always been kind of jealous because everyone in the family is so proud of me, of the things I can do.  When I left home, it was with him saying how I would come back crying.”  Claude frowns into his water.  “Guess I showed him.”

            “Oh.  So, he can’t do any of that stuff you can do?”

            Claude shakes his head.  “Nope.  It’s not hereditary, if that’s what you were thinking.  You’re either born special or you aren’t, and there’s no way you can learn it, either.”  Claude shrugs.  “He just wasn’t special.”

            “I see.”

            “Sorry.”  Claude leans back in his chair and takes a deep breath.  When he releases it his body compresses, shrinks down as he settles into a slouch across the table.  “I probably sound bitter, and maybe I am.  He was just always giving me grief my entire life because he resented me, what I was and what I am.  I was born special, you know, and I knew from day one that I was meant for something big.  I had this destiny weighing heavily on me, and it swallowed every part of my life.”  Claude traces her fingers along the condensation collecting on the glass.  “He’s a construction worker.  Carries heavy things.  Screws one heavy thing into another.  Grunts, I guess.  Nothing complex.  Nothing that matters.” Claude sighs.  “Sometimes, I think he’s the lucky one.”

            Kit nods.

            “But,” Claude says, adopting a smile, “If it weren’t for me and my destiny, then you and Shirley wouldn’t be here to listen to me complain, so I guess he’s not the only lucky one.”

            “Yeah,” Kit says, “I guess we wouldn’t have.  Thanks.”

            He stretches, smiles broadening and more sincere.  “You,” he says, “are very welcome.”

 

-The Knights of Sheba-

 

            “Closed,” Geneva says for the eighth time as they pull up to her house.  “Closed!”

            “Yeah, I think we’ve covered that,” Kit says, and she leans over to kiss Geneva on the cheek.  Geneva smiles back at her.  “We’ll get you ice cream later, okay?”

            “I’ll hold you to that.”

            “Then I guess I’ll have to do it.” Kit gives her a smile, a smile that Geneva is quickly coming to recognize is saved specifically for her.  This realization makes her heart race.

            “Okay.  I’ll keep in touch, call you when I see a hole in my schedule.”

            “Then I’ll keep my phone close.”  She winks at Geneva.  “See you later.”

            “Uh.  Yeah.”  Geneva hops from the car and waves as Kit drives away.

            The house greets her with an unsettling quiet.  She hangs her jacket by the door and walks through the halls, first to the kitchen and then into the living room.  Both rooms are empty, devoid of even sound, perhaps even of life.  It makes her hairs stand on end.  She takes in the empty rooms before climbing the stairs.

            She goes straight to Beatrice’s room and knocks, and she is welcomed inside.  Geneva pushes the door open and watches her sister mark her book before looking up.  She is hunched over the book on her bed, legs folded, hair in a messy ponytail, and chewing bubblegum.  “Oh, hey.  You’re home.  So, how was brunch?”

            “Not as awkward as I had assumed it would be.”  Geneva joins Beatrice on the bed, stepping carefully over the mess that is her sister’s floor on the way.  “Hey, I saw mom and dad’s cars outside but they’re nowhere to be found.  Where are they?”

            “Oh.  That.”  Beatrice sets her book aside, stretches her legs.  She taps her foot onto the floor.  “Dad came on a while ago.  Mom and I were watching T.V. and he just sort of dragged her into their room.”

            Geneva grimaces.  “Okay, way too much information, Bea.”

            “Not like that,” Beatrice says.  “It’s more serious than that.”

            “Oh.  So, they’re having one of their fights.”

            “Honestly, Gene.  I think this one is a bit different.”

            “Oh, yeah, Sherlock? Want to tell me how you deduced that?”

            Beatrice frowns.  “Some of us have this thing called empathy.”

            “Never heard of it.”

            “You’re being a turd today.”

            “Hey, language.”  She looks over to find Beatrice still glaring and holds her hands up.  “Okay, chill.  I was just playing. Sorry.”

            “It’s whatever,” Beatrice says haughtily, grabbing her book.

            “If it makes you feel better, they’re always kind of weird around each other.”

            “Yeah, I guess.”

            “But they always sort it out.  They’ve been married for, like, ever, Bea.  And they’ve got kids.”  Geneva points at Beatrice and then at herself.  “Us.”

            “Yes, I know who their kids are.”

            “So, they’ll sort it out.  Don’t fret.”  Geneva watches Beatrice, sees how she slouches, how she frowns, and feels strange.  Her entire life Beatrice has been, well, Beatrice, a name that became almost an adjective.  She was more than strength, more than anything.  She was her older sister, and that always meant something.

            Geneva hugs her.  “Seriously.  It’ll be fine.”

            Beatrice takes a deep breath, messes Geneva’s hair.  “Yeah.  Let’s talk about something else.”  She looks at Geneva, and there are tears in her eyes.  “What’re you up to?”

            “I was thinking about going to my room to study for a bit.”

            “Look at you, all industrious.”

            “Have to be if I want to maintain my C average.”  Geneva sighs, rests her head on Beatrice’s shoulder.  “School sucks.”

            “College is worse.”

            “Really?”

            “Nope.  Honestly, I find it kind of boring, but then, I got all of the brains in the family.”

            “Don’t remind me.”  Geneva stands and skips her way across bare patches of floor to the doorway.  “See you at supper.”

            “Yup,” Beatrice says, and before Geneva can close the door, she says, “And, hey.  Gene.  Thanks.”

            Geneva pauses, stares.  She grins uncomfortable.  “Yeah, well,” she pauses.  “Yeah.”

 

-The Knights of Sheba-

 

            Geneva opens her eyes to a loud knocking at her door.  Outside, her father says, “Geneva, hon, you in there?”  She rubs her eyes, rolls over onto her back.  A pool of drool wets her pillow and one of the pages of her book, which sticks to her face as she sits up.  She marks her place and shoves it to the side.

            “Yeah, dad, I’m here.  Just napping, what’s up?”

            “Could you come downstairs?  We need to—We need to talk.”

            Geneva yawns.  “Yeah, sure.  I’ll be down in a bit.”

            “Okay.  No rush.”

            “Mmhmm.”  She climbs from the bed and slips some socks on.  When she opens the door, her father is already gone.  Beatrice passes in the hall, and Geneva meets her eyes.  “Hey, any idea what’s going on?”

            “Some,” Beatrice says.  “It’s not good.”

            Geneva balances against her door while adjusting her socks.  She looks up at her sister.  “What makes you say that?”

            “Intuition.  Come on, Genie.”

            They walk together down the stairs and find their parents waiting in the living room.  The air is charged.  Their father stands in the corner of the room, beside the couch where their mother sits, crying into her hands.  They both look up at the girls as they enter.

            Beatrice rushes to her mother’s side and holds her while she cries.  Geneva can hear her whispering as she rubs her mother’s back, “I know, I know, I understand.”  Her mother’s words are hushed sobs.

            Their father stands to the side, shifting stiffly, rubbing his dark beard.  He looks more tired than Geneva has ever seen him, and his face is gaunt with worry.  She can see wrinkles creasing his skin, a deep-set frown that she has always known was there, that he has always kept behind a smile.

            Geneva waits at the doorway, watching the scene unfold with a growing unease.  Her family watches her, expecting something, but she isn’t sure what.  She clings to the doorframe and meets them with a stare.  “Okay, one of you has got to tell me what in the world is going on.”

            “Hon,” her father says, and he rubs his beard and shifts his weight again.  “Genie.” He sighs.  “Why don’t you have a seat?”

            “I’m good standing.  Why is mom crying?”

            Her mother looks up, wipes her eyes and sucks in a deep breath.  “Geneva, honey, you really should sit down.”

            “No.”

            “Guys, just let her stand,” Beatrice says, and she hugs her mother tight, lets her return to sobbing.  “Dad, just tell her already.”

            He meets Beatrice’s expectant gaze and pauses all movement.  “You know?”

            “It’s not that hard to figure out.”

            He takes another deep breath, pushes his hands deep into his pockets.  Then, he looks up and meets Geneva’s eyes, looking more like a lost child than her father.  He keeps his shoulders up, like they will protect him, like he is in trouble.  “Listen, Genie, thing is—I don’t know how to say this, but—just know that whatever happens, I love you.  We love you.  Your mother and I both love you.”

            “Yeah,” Geneva says, her stomach twisting hot.  She hugs the wall more tightly, so hard that it hurts.  “I know you do.  What’s this about?”

            Her father sighs, and her mother meets his gaze.  He sways.  “Your mother and I.  We’re…”

            “Oh, God.  You two aren’t.”  He looks guilty again, and now her world spins.  Vertigo leaves her happy to be holding the door frame.  She slides down it slowly, settling on the floor.  “Maybe I should sit.”

            “We have chairs,” her father offers.

            “I’m good here.”  She holds the carpet in her hands and stares across the room.  “You two are getting a divorce?”  Tears form as she speaks, and sadness steals her voice.  Her body is responding before her mind can even understand it.  It all sounds like fiction until he nods, and then the room goes cold.

            “Sorry to spring it on you.”

            “Yeah.  Cause, you know, it would have been better if you had just spread it out for a few years.  You know, start off small, maybe sleep in separate rooms.  Then separate houses, separate lives.  That way we can all see it all coming.”

            “Geneva, don’t be rude,” her mother says, struggling to maintain composure, struggling to be a mother, her mother, even as she wipes her eyes.  Beatrice is still holding her through the sobs.

            “Don’t be rude?  Don’t be rude?”  Geneva pulls herself up.  “Where do you get off?  Know what’s rude?  Rude is getting divorced.  Rude is not caring enough about your family to keep it together!”

            “We care.”

            “Then why are you doing this?”

            Her mother opens her mouth, closes it.  She looks at her father and, despondently, says, “Tell her.”

            He sighs, shifts his weight again.  “Honey, I know this might be hard to understand.  Believe me, it took me long enough, but I’m—I am…”

            “Dad’s gay, Geneva,” Beatrice says, and everyone looks at her.  “Sorry, just had to get it out.”

            Their father nods.  He scratches his beard.  “Well, yeah.  I am.  My friend, Steve, we’ve been…”

            “You’ve been cheating?  On mom?”

            “I’ve been—it’s complicated, Genie.  A lot more complicated than that.”

            “Cheating is cheating,” Geneva says.  “So, have you been unfaithful or not, dad?”

            “I,” he looks at the ground.  “I didn’t mean to.  I was so young when Beatrice was born, and I thought maybe I could make it work.  I thought I could…”  He sighs, shakes his head, and he meets her eyes.  She can see that he is trying not to cry.  “I’m sorry, so sorry to put you all through this.”

            “Dad, don’t be,” Beatrice says.  “You were just doing what you thought was right, and you’re not doing anything wrong now.”

            “Thank you, hon,” he says, and he takes her hand and squeezes it gently while she holds their mother.  They look then, together, at Geneva, expectant but patient.  “Geneva, I love you.  We love you, and we’ll still be a family, but I can’t do this anymore.  To myself or to your mother.  It’s not fair to either of us.”

            Geneva stares, fists clenched and jaw tight.  She braces against the wall as the room spins again.  Her breaths are short, labored, and her stomach knotted like a noose.  Nothing helps, so she shakes, and she glares.  Her voice cracks.  “So, what? You’re saying you can’t be my father anymore?”

            “Honey, no.  I’m not saying that at all.”

            “I’m sorry!  I’m sorry we were born, that we caused you so much discomfort, dad!  I’m sorry I’m making it hard for you to tear our family apart!  Let me go upstairs and come back down, give you some time to rehearse and find a better way to destroy my entire life!”

            She turns, ignoring their pleas, and storms up the stairs.  The sounds of her footfalls drowns out their calls and soon she is in her room, door locked firmly, and she is clutching her jacket tightly and digging through the pockets.  She has her window open before she dials, and she climbs through the window and hops down from the roof, landing hard on the ground.

            Her shins ache, and she catches herself with one hand and curses.  The grass is wet and the sky cloudy.  She stands, wipes her hands and pulls her jacket on.  Kit is already on the line.

            “Genny?  You there?”

            “Yeah, I’m—I…” Her voice cracks again, and she has to breathe deep to get through it.  “I need you right now.”

            “What’s wrong?”

            Geneva leans against her house for support, and she sobs.  “I just need you.”

            “Right.  I’ll be right there.”

 

-The Knights of Sheba-

 

            Kit finds Geneva waiting in the rain.  She is partway down the street, hugging her knees on the curb, hair dripping and clothes soaked through.  Kit welcomes her inside of the car and turns the heater on.  They sit in silence for a few seconds until Geneva asks to borrow her phone.  Kit let’s her, and she listens as Geneva calls her parents and tells them that where she is.  The call is short and composed of whispers.

            Kit drives home and takes Geneva to her bedroom.  She fetches a towel and strips her girlfriend’s jacket and blouse, leaving her sitting in a wet bra and wet jeans and soaking into the bed.  Normally, Kit would fuss over such things.  Today, she doesn’t.

            She goes to her dresser and pulls it open, looking through her clothes for something for Geneva to wear.  She looks back at Geneva, who has the towel around her shoulders, watching despondently.  “I don’t think we’re the same size.”

            Geneva gives a half-smile.  “No, probably not.”  She stares at the floor, droplets blooming into a puddle beneath her feet.  She looks tired and pale.

            Kit pulls out a night-shirt and turns her back so Geneva can change.  Then, she takes the wet clothes down and throws them into the dryer.  When she returns, she finds Geneva sitting again, this time curled up on the bed.  Kit joins her.

            “So,” Kit says, sidling up to share her warmth.  Geneva doesn’t shy away.  “Why were you out in the rain like that?”

            Geneva keeps quiet but trembles.  She pulls the towel across her hair, rubbing vigorously, frantically, and then stops.  Slouching, she covers her face, and she cries again.  Kit hugs her, holds her, and lets her break.

            “Hey.  Hey now, what’s going on?”

            Geneva collapses into Kit, hugs her tight, so tight it hurts, and she continues sobbing.  “My parents, Kit.  It’s over, they’re over, and I don’t know what to do.  There’s nothing I can do.  It’s too much.  It’s my life, and it’s too much for me to do it.  I can’t.  I can’t be the person everyone expects me to be.  I’m not strong enough.  I’m just a kid.”

            “Oh, Genny.”  Kit holds her arms locked in place around Geneva.  She kisses her forehead and sways with her.  “You’ll be fine.  You’ll be in shock, and you’ll be hurt, but you will make it, because you’re plenty strong and, ultimately, you’re not alone.”  She pulls back Geneva’s towel and stares into her blood-shot, blue eyes.  “And if you ever feel like it’s too much, and you’re stuck out in the rain, you can always call me again.  I’ll always come running.”

            Geneva lifts herself, swallows.  Their faces are close, nearly touching, and Kit is so warm and shining so bright in this new darkness.  She is a beacon in the night, a guiding light, or perhaps an illusion to distract her from the storm.  It doesn’t matter, she is there, and she is port.

            Their lips meet and they fall together.  The towel is discarded and, soon, so is everything else.

 

The Knights of Sheba 115...End