It was, as many of those awful, clichéd stories go, a dark and stormy night. The wind smashed its hands along the tiles of my roof, grabbing handfuls of tree branches and raking them across my windows like a child running a stick along a fence. With the sea crashing so far below (but not far enough), I felt fit to die.
But at least there was tea. The kettle sang hopelessly on the stove, knowing full well it was outgunned by the elements beyond. But its audience of one listened anyway, up until I tipped a long, steaming draught of water into my mug, my nose instantly filling with the floral scent of jasmine and peach. As I turned away from the quieting kettle, I glanced, once again, at the second empty mug I’d placed on the opposite side of the little card table that was both my dining place and my workspace.
I like to keep an extra mug out, especially on nights like this. You never know what the storm will spit out at you. And at my age, I’d hate to ever be surprised again. Plus, there’s always the ringing question: Will they come?
The first time was when I was six. My parents had brought me here, to the cottage, and I’d hated it. Hated the smell, hated the damp, hated the creeping mist that rose off the sea in the mornings. But, even after years had rolled by like a sluggish ball of yarn, I can still remember what it felt like the first time my mother set out an extra mug during a storm. Who’s that for? I’d asked, hoping it was secretly for me and would soon be filled with hot chocolate instead of dirty leaf juice. We might get an unexpected visitor tonight, my father had said, scooping me into his arms. It’s always best to be prepared, Aletia. Indeed, I found that he was right. But not that night.
The second time was when I was 13, too sunk in my own mind to hate the smell of the sea any longer. Once again, out came the extra mug as storm clouds bubbled and popped at the edge of the horizon, a promise and a warning all at once. Rousing myself from my own neurosis for the briefest of moments before the storm broke, I remember the sound of a knock at the door. Tak-tak-tak. My mother was the one who got it. The rain lashed her face as soon as the white-washed wood allowed, speckling the floor and sending the receipts and bill shreds we used for game scorekeeping fluttering to the floor. I’m afraid it’s not time yet, she’d said to the night, her listeners just out of sight. But we have tea, if you’d like to come in and rest a while. I don’t remember what the reply was.
The last time, I was 18 and I was alone. Busy mulling over the perfect conclusion to a college application essay (If given the chance to alter the world in one way, whether social, personal or cultural, what element would you choose and why?), it had slipped my mind to keep one eye fixed to the horizon. In my focus, I barely noticed the thickening taps of rain against the windowpane and the darkening light, until I heard the distinctive, insistent tak-tak-tak once again. I’d fully jumped, my head whipping up to meet my own startled reflection in the window, the rivulets of rain running down my image’s face like sweat. I thought perhaps I’d imagined it, that it was nothing more than the trees overhead. But it came again. Tak-tak-tak.
I’d glanced at the sink, piled high with dirty dishes I’d always intended to do tomorrow. No clean mug in sight. It was then I shivered, remembering my mother’s coaching: Be polite. Be hospitable. But above all, you must answer. Over the sinking dread in my stomach, I heard the knock at the door once again, no more aggressive nor soft than the times before. Tak-tak-tak. My hands shaking, I’d risen from my seat, my essay forgotten, and made my way to the door. With the cold latch grasped in my hand, I could nearly imagine the hand on the other side. Poised, waiting. Three knocks, three attempts. They would not ask a fourth.
The damp, icy wind made me shudder as my heart knocked fervently in my chest, the weak, electric bulb that lit our doorstep catching each drop of rain for an instant before they spattered to earth. They stood just beyond the pool of light, two humanoid silhouettes, tall and whisper-thin, their feet the only features the light from the door revealed around my shadow. Both wore pointed leather shoes that peered out beneath well-creased suit pants, one pair brown, the other black, both well-oiled and perfectly dry at the porch steps.
Good evening.
“Good – good evening,” I mumbled, gripping the door until my nails sunk a fraction into the wood.
You are alone this evening. For the first time.
“I—” I hesitated. Be professional, be direct, my mother murmured in my head. They’re not here to talk, so neither are you, added my father. “I am,” I said carefully, “But I think you’ll find I more than meet expectations.”
My toes went numb as water began to pool in the sealant of the cottage’s floor, making frigid little puddles at my feet. I waited, my eyes moving from one shadow to the other. The brown shoes shifted slightly, like a cat cocking its head before a mouse. Be patient, whispered my mother.
I think you shall, Avery Jefferson.
I shivered again, a chill before an unexpected warmth in my belly. Before I could think, I said “Thank you for using my new name.”
Of course, Avery Jefferson. Names are important. Very important.
The black shoes shifted closer to the light, which crept up to the knee of the pant leg.
Is it time yet, Avery Jefferson?
I could feel a small spike of pain slithering up my leg, a cramp that started an hour ago but I hadn’t addressed. Say no, instructed my father, always no. I opened my mouth to do as he said, but the words died at my lips. I wanted to say no, I did – But. But. At my back, in that tiny little one-roomed cottage, I could feel the pressure of melting ice, as persistent as the leak in the bathroom we’d never fixed. The pressure of raised fists, of shouts and shots, of gunfire and bathroom signs and flags on cars, of lies and rumors with the precision of needles. The waste of it all, pooling on the floor. Say no. Say yes.
I could feel the answer clawing its way up my throat. I wavered. “Y—” Then the power went out.
My heart froze. Never the dark, said my mother’s voice. Never.
Avery Jefferson.
Is it
time yet?
I spun away from the door, cramming my shin into the shoe rack stacked with muddy boots and seashore sandals. A stray flash of lightning cracked overhead, lighting the square of the open door and the panes of the windows – and no pair of shadows on the porch. Gasping, I crouched down and fumbled for the camping lamp we kept by the door, just in case. It’s always best to be prepared, my father reminded me. My fingers, still damp and trembling from the cold, clawed abandoned scarves and gloves to the floor as I dug into the little cubbies by the shoe wrack. Where was it, where was it?
The muscles of my neck torqued with my backward glance as a shadow moved in the kitchen. Something was there. In the room with me. Right behind me—
Is
it
time
yet
Avery
Jefferson?
No lamp, but – glowsticks, from the spring dance I’d been to before coming to the coast. They crackled and popped between my fingers, shedding a sickly green glow as a I spun around, half-crouched, my back against cubbies by the door. Two pairs of leather shoes stood not more than an inch or two from me, their shadows looming as they vanished into the darkened ceiling. I was panting, drops of rainwater and sweat sticking strands of hair to my forehead. The only other light in the room was – my laptop. With my college essay still up. My key to all the places I hoped to be. If given the chance to alter the world in one way, whether social, personal or cultural, what element would you choose and why?
I swallowed, my throat struggling. “No,” I managed, strangled, my voice higher than I thought. “No, it’s not.”
The shoes didn’t move.
“But—” I amended, “We—we have some tea, if you’d like to rest. For a minute.”
The brown shoes shifted.
Thank you, Avery Jefferson. That will suffice.
First the black shoes, than the brown shoes, shuffled out of sight of my glowsticks. I heard them scuff along the stone floor, then felt more than heard the creak of weight on the porch. There was a squelch of mud, or maybe the slick crackle of unfolding tissue. Then another flash of lightning, illuminating the empty threshold once more.
I fixed the breaker that very night, Googling instructions and getting advice from my father. And, once I got my degree in electrical engineering, I added a back-up generator and additional insulation, too.
It’s been eight years, but whenever I come out here, to the cottage by the sea, I remember the extra mug. You can come in and rest a while, too. If you’d like.
