And he sent his only begotten son. And his son put on a frock.
As Ophilia enters the room with Leon where her father sits looking at his hand with a pained expression that Ophilia can only guess is from some sort of anticipation (and not that his foot still hurt from the fumbled rock), she feels her throat tighten. She tries not to look in his familiar face, his bone structure she'd seen so many times in the mirror and she balls her fingers so that she won't be tempted to study her own hand in the same way, acknowledging any connection beyond physical to this man who is sitting being so obnoxious to have the same hair color as hers would be naturally peppered beneath the white graying of his slight sideburns. She tries not to acknowledge the kindness of his face as he looks up to her, though she can't imagine how such a meek and pitiful man could ever do any malice.
"Hello again," he says in that crisp learned accent. He sounds like such a fool, Ophilia thinks. All learned people, to Ophilia, sounded like fools, like they'd borrowed that hollow way of talking from someone who could use it much better.
Ophilia doesn't sit down but remains standing, above her father. "So, you're looking for Oliver." Her own accent betrays just how long she's been out of the states. If her father had borrowed one hollow accent she'd pocketed a good number of rich ones.
"Yes. I was told I would find information about him here. And I have a feeling that with the dissent I've gotten he might have told you about me..."
"Do you really think you're that important?"
"Well, obviously--"
"You're nothing but a shit stain on a baby's cloth diaper; completely unwashable, but of little consequence except your muddied appearance in a place no one looks at regularly anyway. The parents should just throw you away, but the only reason they don't is because they haven't the resources nor the motivation to care enough about you," Ophilia spits out.
William spends a moment in silence. The lady, O, she seems to be taking his presence at her house very personal. Both of them seem to. He takes a breath tiredly. "Is Oliver here?" he asks.
"What do you mean by that?" Ophilia replies.
"What do you mean what do I mean? Is Oliver here? Is my son here? How much clearer can I get? Listen here. I have been taken around in circles my entire journey here. The minute I think I'm close I get harpooned away into the next red herring. I thought for a time that a tall German called Hans was my son. They had me convinced. Actually--actually I think he was Russian come to think of it...Anyway. You are the lady with the red shoes and you are the constant in all of my searches. I need your help. I need to tell Oliver...tell my son..." he trails off, unsure.
"Tell him what?" Ophilia asks.
"Tell him that I'm sorry."
"About what?"
"About leaving. About..."
"What? What else are you sorry about?"
"About his mother. About his grandmother, I've heard she wasn't a very nice woman. About abandoning him. About his life. I could have given him so much better. I could have given them both so much better," he says.
"How disgusting. He doesn't accept, though he does admit that you are very, very sorry," Ophilia replies with a sinister grimace. "A very sorry man, indeed. He also thinks that you should leave gracefully now before his uncle puts a boot in your arse so far as to knock out all of your teeth."
There is a very long pause between them, a silence perpetuated by the intense stares of each of them into each other's eyes. William takes his glasses off, he is farsighted after all. The condition developed as he turned forty. The glasses he wears are more novelty and fashion than utilitarian. Green eyes peer into dark ones. The shape of Ophilia's eyes are different than her father's. They are larger, cuffed in her eyelid. William's are smaller and sharper, pinched at the sides like emeralds shoved in sand, just peeking out from his eyesockets.
"You have your mother's eyes," he murmers, barely loud enough to be deciphered. Barely sure enough in itself to be taken at its worth.
A lump forms in Ophilia's throat. Her hiding is over. It feels a mixture of intense grief, relief, and anger. She swallows hard, the lump in her throat bobbing down and up simultaneous to her Adam's apple. Her eyes divert to the floor. She can feel bile in the back of her throat burning its way up.
She excuses herself softly for a catharsis in the nearest bathroom leaving Leon and William to their own again.
"Hello again," he says in that crisp learned accent. He sounds like such a fool, Ophilia thinks. All learned people, to Ophilia, sounded like fools, like they'd borrowed that hollow way of talking from someone who could use it much better.
Ophilia doesn't sit down but remains standing, above her father. "So, you're looking for Oliver." Her own accent betrays just how long she's been out of the states. If her father had borrowed one hollow accent she'd pocketed a good number of rich ones.
"Yes. I was told I would find information about him here. And I have a feeling that with the dissent I've gotten he might have told you about me..."
"Do you really think you're that important?"
"Well, obviously--"
"You're nothing but a shit stain on a baby's cloth diaper; completely unwashable, but of little consequence except your muddied appearance in a place no one looks at regularly anyway. The parents should just throw you away, but the only reason they don't is because they haven't the resources nor the motivation to care enough about you," Ophilia spits out.
William spends a moment in silence. The lady, O, she seems to be taking his presence at her house very personal. Both of them seem to. He takes a breath tiredly. "Is Oliver here?" he asks.
"What do you mean by that?" Ophilia replies.
"What do you mean what do I mean? Is Oliver here? Is my son here? How much clearer can I get? Listen here. I have been taken around in circles my entire journey here. The minute I think I'm close I get harpooned away into the next red herring. I thought for a time that a tall German called Hans was my son. They had me convinced. Actually--actually I think he was Russian come to think of it...Anyway. You are the lady with the red shoes and you are the constant in all of my searches. I need your help. I need to tell Oliver...tell my son..." he trails off, unsure.
"Tell him what?" Ophilia asks.
"Tell him that I'm sorry."
"About what?"
"About leaving. About..."
"What? What else are you sorry about?"
"About his mother. About his grandmother, I've heard she wasn't a very nice woman. About abandoning him. About his life. I could have given him so much better. I could have given them both so much better," he says.
"How disgusting. He doesn't accept, though he does admit that you are very, very sorry," Ophilia replies with a sinister grimace. "A very sorry man, indeed. He also thinks that you should leave gracefully now before his uncle puts a boot in your arse so far as to knock out all of your teeth."
There is a very long pause between them, a silence perpetuated by the intense stares of each of them into each other's eyes. William takes his glasses off, he is farsighted after all. The condition developed as he turned forty. The glasses he wears are more novelty and fashion than utilitarian. Green eyes peer into dark ones. The shape of Ophilia's eyes are different than her father's. They are larger, cuffed in her eyelid. William's are smaller and sharper, pinched at the sides like emeralds shoved in sand, just peeking out from his eyesockets.
"You have your mother's eyes," he murmers, barely loud enough to be deciphered. Barely sure enough in itself to be taken at its worth.
A lump forms in Ophilia's throat. Her hiding is over. It feels a mixture of intense grief, relief, and anger. She swallows hard, the lump in her throat bobbing down and up simultaneous to her Adam's apple. Her eyes divert to the floor. She can feel bile in the back of her throat burning its way up.
She excuses herself softly for a catharsis in the nearest bathroom leaving Leon and William to their own again.