FIC: Title: Pretty Little Boxes (Scattered on the Floor) | Six Feet Under | Arthur, Ruth
Title: Pretty Little Boxes (Scattered on the Floor)
Author: MinervaFan
Fandom: Six Feet Under
Characters: Arthur Martin, Ruth Fisher
Spoilers: Through Season 4
Ships: Arthur, Ruth
Rating: PG-13/R-ish
Summary: He likes his life in neat, manageable boxes. But women are messy, even a woman as meticulous as Ruth Fisher.
A/N: Because, as of yet, I have not seen a scene where Ruth apologizes to Arthur. Arthur/Ruth UST. Mild sexual content.
I.
The apartment he has leased is clean and small, well-situated in a quiet neighborhood on a bus route. While it lacks, in his opinion, the anachronistic charm of his previous residence above Fisher and Diaz Funeral Home, Arthur Martin finds it suits his current needs most adequately. He has organized the compact kitchen to provide the most efficient use of space, and there is a welcome buffer provided between him and his nearest neighbor by the empty apartment next door.
In light of the demise of Kroehner Services International, the job market for funeral professionals in this area of Los Angeles has declined. Unprepared for the expense and logistical challenges of a long-distance job search, Arthur has secured a temporary position as a night aide in the morgue at L.A. County General. While it is not a job he intends to grow into, he considers it an acceptable compromise in terms of his general career goals.
II.
His shifts begin at 10:30, with a 30 minute lunch break around 2 AM. Arthur eats alone, in a small conference cubicle near the morgue. The hospital is quiet at this time, for the most part, and he spends his meal times at peace. On occasion, he has had to encounter members of his former profession in the course of his duties as morgue attendant. He prides himself on his professionalism, not allowing even a hint of resentment or frustration to tarnish the performance of his duties. After all, it was his decision to tender his resignation from Fisher and Diaz. And while his reasons for departure may have been justified, it hardly affords him the luxury of bitterness.
His one encounter with David Fisher in the course of his duties was brief and awkward. They exchanged pleasantries, of course, and David assured him that if Arthur so wished, he could return in a diminished (i.e., non-residential) capacity to Fisher and Diaz. There were no hard feelings, David said. But Arthur suspected his former employer was being less than authentic about his opinions.
Arthur respectfully declined as he finished the paperwork on Mrs. Santos, thus releasing her body to the final leg of its Earthly journey.
III.
In his spare time, he prefers quiet solitude to the company of others. He has always been this way, barring the recent aberration in his behavior concerning the Fisher family. Arthur finds social interaction frustrating, a complex puzzle of mixed messages and self-delusion. It is the most difficult aspect of his chosen profession, as people tend to be the most contradictory in times of stress.
His keyboard plugs into the hard drive. On its own, it produces a small, tinny sound that Arthur finds disturbing. He has purchased a composition program that actually manages to produce an aesthetically pleasing melody.
Arthur positions the mouse, and clicks play.
His tiny room is filled with sound. He has based this piece on Bach’s Prelude No. 1 in C Major from The Well-Tempered Clavier. And like Charles Guonod before him, Arthur has added his own spin to the familiar theme.
His eyes close lightly as the music flurries around him. He finds the baroque precision comforting, a pleasing balm against the roughness of modern living. His mind lingers on the gentle arpeggios, fleeting yet ethereal against the electronic ambience of his own contributions.
He wishes…almost…there was someone to share it with him.
IV.
She is sitting next to him on the chaise lounge. Her hair smells of oranges, an uncomplicated scent that lingers on his nostrils. Her smile is sad, but honest, and Arthur finds it difficult to remember why he left her.
In her eyes lie a promise and a contract. Her gaze does not waiver, nor does she flinch from his careful scrutiny.
Arthur reaches out to touch her hair, which she wears loose around her shoulders. Auburn tresses glittering with hidden strands of silver. An odd juxtaposition against her lovely but life-worn face, her hair is a remnant of a long distant youth she still revisits with decreasing frequency from time to time.
She looks to her lap, where she is grasping something small in her graceful hands.
“This is for you,” Ruth says.
She hands him a container of yogurt. On the side of the container, a strip of tape proclaims his ownership - “Arthur Martin” in bold black Sharpie.
He takes the container. It is raspberry, his favorite.
When he removes the lid, though, he finds the yogurt is half eaten. The last thing he notices before waking is the flash of gold from Ruth’s left hand.
The alarm wakes Arthur with a carefully-modulated tone. It was designed to begin his day on a positive wavelength, but today that is not the effect it has on him.
He slams the snooze button a little too hard and rolls over for another five minutes.
V.
There is a letter waiting for him when he arrives at work. He recognizes the hand-writing and puts it into the pocket of his lab coat.
It’s as if his dream were some form of premonition.
Arthur works with his usual proficiency, not allowing himself the luxury of thinking about the envelope in his pocket. There are rules, and he is a firm believer in following those rules. While on the clock, his attention must be totally absorbed in his work.
Not focused on Ruth’s handwriting on a textured azure envelope. Her stationery reflects her perfectly, he thinks, old-fashioned and elegant. He allows himself a momentary smile before pulling himself back to the task at hand.
There was a three car pile-up on the Golden State Freeway, two fatalities. He brings his attention back to the body in front of him. It must be prepared gently, respectfully, before the driver from Forest Lawn arrives. It is hardly the creative work he did as an intern at Fisher and Diaz, but it is still important. Arthur has never been one to shirk his duties.
It is almost three in the morning when he finally breaks for lunch. His sandwich tastes stale in his mouth, although he knows perfectly well that all the ingredients were well within their use-by criteria. About half-way through, he gives up and focuses on the plastic container of red grapes he’s brought. It’s all he can stomach, now that there is no corpse to distract him from the light blue envelope on the table before him.
Over the course of the months since he left his previous position, Arthur has had time to reflect on his feelings-to pull them apart and put them back together, so to speak. He has done this for most of his life-disassembling his feelings as one would a carburetor in order to understand their inner workings.
When she accused him of those heinous acts, Arthur had felt a rage at Ruth far greater than that of which he had suspected himself capable. Granted, her accusations were unfounded, based on innuendo, emotionalism, and not one shred of factual evidence. He had every right to be angry, and so he told himself as he had composed his letter of resignation.
But time and solitude have a way of unraveling even the hottest of emotions. Arthur understands that no emotion in his heart can hold up long against the push of his logical mind. Upon reflection, he has to admit that his anger was hardly proportionate to the slight he suffered.
Even more so, his sense of personal honesty does not let him ignore the fact that his anger with Ruth had begun far before she had accused him of sending those packages.
In retrospect, he should have known better than to ever allow himself to become personally involved with her, no matter how kind and attentive she was. Ruth Fisher was a decent, honest woman, and her friendship had become much more important to him than he’d ever expected. She was patient with him and with the lapses he experienced in social interactions.
She found him curious, interesting, charming. Not odd or disturbing like most people did.
After a lifetime of solitude, Arthur has to admit she was irresistible. Her gentleness allowed him the opportunity to tiptoe past the walls he’d built to protect himself, and open up to another human being. Arthur had quickly found himself looking forward to their times together.
Even when she’d kissed him, though every instinct in his body told him to pull away, even when she kissed him twice…
Arthur stares at the envelope on the table, a knot of sandwich and grapes forming, half-digested, in his stomach. He should have pulled away. He shouldn’t have led her on. She was still a vital woman, with physical needs and desires, and he should have pulled away and let her find a man who could be all things to her.
But he didn’t. Maybe it was ego. Maybe it was that tiny part of him, so deep inside, that just wanted someone to talk to. But he kept up with her, allowing her to think he’d someday find it within him to engage her carnally.
Arthur drops his face into his hands, leaning forward on his elbows. If she’d known how odd he truly was, she’d have run herself. After all, what man doesn’t accept an offer of physical intimacy from a lovely woman who is also kind, intelligent, and funny? What sort of man is so locked into his own continuum of self-absorption that he turns away someone so…wonderful?
He should have walked away, but he didn’t. And when she finally did, he was unprepared for the pain. He became sullen and resentful. Instead of a man, he acted like a spoiled child, practically daring her to chastise him.
Ruth deserved a man who could satisfy her physically, as George Sibley did so loudly once their marital cohabitation began in earnest.
Arthur shakes his head, still cradled in his palms, elbows rocking slightly as he did so. He should have moved out of the Fisher house immediately when Ruth and George married. Instead he stayed, an abandoned dog spraying his supposed territory in the most inappropriate way possible.
No wonder she hates him. No wonder she thinks him capable of sending feces through the mail.
He looks up at the clock on the wall of the cubicle. It is twenty-six minutes after three a.m., and lunch is almost over. He wraps up the remains of his dinner, and puts the envelope, still unread, back in his pocket.
It is time to get back to work.
VI.
It’s a television game show with which he is unfamiliar. Arthur has never been much for these things-farcical challenges based on luck and personality, rather than intellectual abilities. But there he is, standing in front of the microphone, lights hot on his forehead, the red light of the camera distracting as he prepares to answer the host’s question.
“Arthur Martin, you’ve made it to the final round of Let’s Make a Life! It all comes down to this.” The overly-tanned host, with his voluminous brown hair and blindingly white teeth, made a huge gesture of pointing behind him to the three numbered curtains. “Arthur Martin, it’s time to….” The host paused to allow the studio audience a chance to shout along with him. “Get! A! Life!”
He felt himself getting dizzy from the heat and his own nerves. The object of the contest is simple-choose among three equally sized curtains, behind which are three different prizes. Nominally, one of the prizes is highly superior to the other two, while one is distinctly unpleasant for the contestant. The trick is to know which curtain to choose.
Arthur doesn’t really have the skill set required for this sort of choice. Without any factual data to contemplate, his guess must be random. Any attempt at analysis is rendered pointless by the fact that the only thing at play here is chance. Either of the curtains could be the prize, or the disaster. There is no way to know which to choose, no way to know which destiny will bring happiness and satisfaction.
The lights grow hotter as he contemplates his choices. His hesitation upsets the studio audience, which takes to chanting and cheering for him to make a decision. A light-hearted jingle plays over the loudspeaker to assist in counting down the time until he is forced to make his choice.
Finally, his time is out, and the host demands an answer. “Okay, Arthur. Your entire future is riding on this decision. Which will it be? Curtain One, Two, or Three?”
His heart is pounding in his chest. There is no good answer, no logical choice to make. It’s all random and foolish, but everything depends on it.
“Make a choice, Arthur…” the host insists with a hint of warning in his voice. “Make a choice, or the choice will be made for you.”
“Three,” Arthur blurts out. “I choose Curtain Number Three.” There. It’s done. For good or for ill, he has made his choice. “I choose Number Three,” he reiterates around a dry, constricted throat.
The host leads the studio audience in a round of thunderous applause. “Well, then, let’s see what life Arthur has chosen for himself, shall we?” Another burst of cheers and applause. “But first, let’s see what he didn’t choose, shall we? Under Curtain Number One, we have…”
The curtain arises on Fisher, Diaz, and Martin Funeral Home. It’s sunset on a beautiful spring day, and Arthur and Ruth are working together in the garden. She wears a silly hat and a denim dress; he is in shirt sleeves and khaki pants. They are discussing the merits of different tomato breeds as the wind blows gently around them.
“Oh, Arthur! Looks like you missed out on a life of domestic bliss with a charming, intelligent woman. Yes, in this life, you discovered you truly were attracted to Ruth on a physical level. You overcame your shyness and found the love of your life. You eventually became a full partner and lived a long and happy life.” The host shakes his head apologetically. “Wow, that looked nice. But don’t worry-you still have two more curtains to look behind.” He whirls around to point at the second curtain. “Let’s see what else you didn’t choose!”
The curtain pulls sideways to reveal a lecture hall. At the lectern is Arthur, looking studious and impressive as the distinguished audience gives him a round of applause. Stephen Hawking rolls out in his chair, and the crowd goes wild. Dr. Hawking begins to speak in his oddly metallic computerized voice.
“It is my privilege to award the International Award for Scientific Ingenuity to Dr. Arthur Martin, for his groundbreaking theory linking quantum physics, forensics, and music. Arthur, I don’t often do this, but I’d appreciate if you’d autograph my copy of your latest book.”
“Absolutely, Dr. Hawking,” Arthur says as he accepts the trophy from the young man assisting Hawking.
“Would you like to say a few words?” Hawking asks.
“Well, only that I could never have achieved this level of personal and professional success without the help of my loving companion, Ruth Fisher.” He stretches his hands to the wings where Ruth is waiting in a sharp blue suit, her hair softly haloed by the stage lights. “Her support and encouragement changed my life.”
Arthur watches the scene with a sinking stomach. Domestic bliss, professional success. There’s only one option left, and that is the booby prize. He eyes Curtain Number Three warily.
“I know what you’re thinking, Arthur,” the host says slyly. “What could possibly be the life you’ve chosen for yourself?” He points to Curtain Number Three. “Do you want to see what you’ve chosen?”
“Not particularly,” Arthur admits.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll be a good sport. He’s a good sport, isn’t he, audience?”
The studio audience’s sympathetic applause does nothing to calm his discomfort.
The host puts an arm around his shoulder in a jovial gesture of goodwill. “Why don’t we see what’s behind Curtain Number Three, shall we?”
Arthur wants to close his eyes, but he is oddly transfixed as the curtains open on to the prep room in the basement of Fisher and Diaz. He is working alone, his back to the table as he gathers provisions to prepare the body. When he turns, though, it is not a corpse on the table waiting for him.
George Sibley lies naked on the table, with Ruth dressed only in a silky red chemise, straddling his freakishly tall body. She is writhing atop him, hair down around her shoulders, messy and wild. She cries out in a primal sound of erotic passion.
Neither one seems to be aware of his presence until he drops a bottle of embalming fluid at his feet. Suddenly, both pairs of eyes are on him, accusing at first, then mocking. He can hear a low, scoffing sound from George’s throat.
Then Ruth laughs. It’s the most cutting sound he’s ever heard, and it rips through his flesh as he watches them resume their lovemaking. She laughs again as she looks at him through tousled hair, the scorn and revulsion palpable in her pale eyes.
“Arthur, you’ve chosen a life on the outside. A stranger in every home. A solitary, pathetic, lonely life with no love, no joy, and no companionship. You will be mocked by those you love, and pitied by those you fear. You won’t even be a threat…just an afterthought, one of the oddities people notice then forget as they go on with their lives. But, Arthur, we want to thank you for playing our game and for being such a good sport.”
He wakes with the covers soaked, and tears streaming down his face.
VII.
He sits in near darkness at his kitchen table. Only the light from above the stove and the street lamp outside illuminate the room, but Arthur’s eyesight has always been exceptional. Her letter is on the table in front of him. He has moved to open it several times, only to pull away. The sun will be rising in approximately 45 minutes, and he still has not made it back to sleep. Generally, he requires a full eight hours of sleep to function efficiently on the job. Tonight, he will not be able to make that goal.
“Come on, man.” His voice seems oddly resonant in the silence of pre-dawn. One might even call it commanding. “Nothing she has to say to you can possibly be more humiliating than what you’re already saying to yourself.” His hand brushes the edge of the envelope. “Get on with it, and you can leave this sordid escapade behind you.”
He tears the envelope open gracelessly, rendering it useless should he decide later to keep the note, for whatever reason. Opening the crisp blue paper, he can’t help but admire her neat, though still somewhat ornate penmanship. Letter writing is a lost art, they once both agreed.
Taking a deep breath, he steadies himself and prepares for the worst.
November 13, 2004
My dear Arthur,
I’ve tried many times to write this letter since David told me where you were working. In fact, I went so far as to drive out to the hospital one night, after everyone else was in bed, hoping to find you on duty. I know, that is a horrible invasion of your professional privacy, and I’m glad I had the good sense to stop myself before I made even a bigger mess of this than I’ve already done.
First and foremost, I must beg your forgiveness for my horrible and completely unfounded accusations against you. I am ashamed to admit this, but I think I knew in my heart, even as I was making them, that you were simply incapable of such distasteful and cruel deeds. I knew, even as I saw the hurt in your eyes, that I was being wicked and hateful and unfair.
Of course, the real culprit was identified almost immediately after you left us. David and Nate tried to find you, to offer you your job back. I doubt you would have done so. My actions were unconscionable, and you have no reason whatsoever to forgive me.
I have tried for many months now to understand what happened with us. I realize now that I was wholly responsible for what wrong. Given the difference in our ages and temperaments, it was wrong to expect you to reciprocate my feelings in any but the most platonic ways. I think that I was just so lonely, so insecure, that I mistook your kindness and attention for something more. And when you rejected my offer of physical closeness, I was humiliated and ashamed of myself.
Maybe that is what happened…maybe I projected my guilt on to you. I knew, the minute I started seeing George, that I owed it to you to talk about it and give you a chance to make a decision on how we were to proceed with our friendship. I ignored that responsibility, instead, and let the situation grow completely out of hand. I can see how awkward it must have been for you, without any real closure to help each of us make a graceful exit from the relationship (whatever kind of relationship it may have been). The longer I waited to talk to you, the guiltier I felt, and the less capable I felt of bringing up the subject.
In the end, I handled the situation completely wrong and lost a wonderful friend because of it. For this, I can never be sorry enough. I really liked you, Arthur. You made me think and you made me laugh. Every conversation with you was another chance to learn something amazing.
I miss that. I miss you.
I know it isn't even reasonable to consider renewing our friendship at this point. I have screwed things up so completely I doubt you’ll even read this letter, much less want anything to do with me.
But, Arthur, please know that whatever you do in your life, wherever you go, there will always be at least one person out there who finds you incredible. I hope that your life is filled with joy, wonder, creativity, and curiosity. I know that you will excel in whatever you do, and I hope that when you think of me, there will be at least a bit of tenderness for the friendship we shared.
All my love,
Your friend,
Ruth Fisher-Sibley
Arthur holds the letter gently, as if the slightest mishap could crumble it into dust. He knows he will reread it several times before he is done. He knows he will think about it, dissect it, dismantle it and put it back together into a form that he can truly digest.
And for the briefest moment, he remembers how to smile.
VII.
She’s grateful for the end of the holidays. Christmas and New Year’s have become a chore for her, but she carries on as she must. Still, it’s nice to see the tree go, and the knick-knacks that just seem to gather more dust with each passing year.
It’s warm enough outside today. She may go for a hike this afternoon, if she can pry George away from his work. Hell, she may go even if she can’t pry him away. She has feet. She knows how to hike. She doesn’t need a man’s help or permission.
This thought makes her smile as she finishes up the lunch dishes. It’s been a good day, and she hums softly as she works.
“Mom?”
She starts, then laughs at her own skittishness. “Oh, Claire. You startled me.”
“This got delivered next door by mistake. Thought you’d…um, want to…” The young woman frowns slightly as she looks down at the package. “It’s from, um…Arthur.”
Ruth feels her stomach tighten as the name registered. The package is too small for anything dangerous (or disgusting), though heaven knew she deserved both for the way she had treated the poor young man. She squirms slightly under her daughter’s knowing gaze-she’d revealed far more than she’d wanted to about her relationship with the odd young man, and she cannot read Claire’s expression. “I’ll take it,” she says too quickly, taking it from her.
“Ohhhkay. You want me to stick around, just in case?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snaps, and immediately regrets the harshness of her tone.
But Claire rolls it off of her with characteristic indifference. “Yeah, I’ll be at my place working.”
“Thank you, Claire,” she adds, almost as an afterthought as her daughter disappears out of the door. The package is one of those puffy manila envelopes, larger than a regular envelope, but not quite as big as a box. She pulls in a deep breath, unreasonably grateful that George is not here to make fun of her. “Suck it up, Fisher,” she says in her best Bettina-voice and rips the envelope open. It contains a home-made compact disk in a clear jewel case with a folded note taped to the top. The neat markings on the CD itself read “Ruth Fisher-Sibley, Music, 2005.”
She smiles in spite of herself, remembering that gloriously odd music Arthur used to compose. Opening the letter, she can’t help but admire his neat, precise handwriting.
January 17, 2005
My dear Mrs. Sibley,
I hope this finds you well. I am writing to you from an outdoor table at the University of California - Berkeley, where I have been accepted into the Graduate Program for Forensic Studies. The weather here is lovely-somewhat cooler than Los Angeles, but with a fragrant sea air and a relaxed atmosphere I find most suitable to my personality.
I apologize that it has taken so long to return your letter of November. Between graduation and beginning my courses here, I find myself somewhat pressed for free time. I did think of you over the holidays, remembering well how lovely the decorations always were in your home.
I have a special lady friend over the holidays. Her name is Rebecca, and she is in my graduate studies class here at Berkeley. We have a great deal in common and have already planned to share a study group. I think you would like her. She is quite intelligent, and I think she is quite lovely.
I have included a CD of some of my compositions in hopes that it will provide you with some pleasure. The second track is titled, somewhat presumptuously I fear, “for Ruth.” It is based on The Flower Duet from Léo Delibes' opera Lakmé, first performed in Paris in 1883. You may recognize the tune, as it is very popular. I think the delicate, airy tone and gentle harmonies reflect your personality quite well.
Well, I must end this now. Again, I appreciate your kind letter and willingness to renew, even if only from a distance, our friendship. You mean a great deal to me. I wish you only the best.
Sincerely,
Arthur Martin
Ruth smiles broadly. She can hear his voice in every sentence. She knows there is a portable CD player around here somewhere. And, later on, when she listens to The Flower Duet on her hike, she finds herself dancing slightly on the clear, sunny path.
The End
Author: MinervaFan
Fandom: Six Feet Under
Characters: Arthur Martin, Ruth Fisher
Spoilers: Through Season 4
Ships: Arthur, Ruth
Rating: PG-13/R-ish
Summary: He likes his life in neat, manageable boxes. But women are messy, even a woman as meticulous as Ruth Fisher.
A/N: Because, as of yet, I have not seen a scene where Ruth apologizes to Arthur. Arthur/Ruth UST. Mild sexual content.
I.
The apartment he has leased is clean and small, well-situated in a quiet neighborhood on a bus route. While it lacks, in his opinion, the anachronistic charm of his previous residence above Fisher and Diaz Funeral Home, Arthur Martin finds it suits his current needs most adequately. He has organized the compact kitchen to provide the most efficient use of space, and there is a welcome buffer provided between him and his nearest neighbor by the empty apartment next door.
In light of the demise of Kroehner Services International, the job market for funeral professionals in this area of Los Angeles has declined. Unprepared for the expense and logistical challenges of a long-distance job search, Arthur has secured a temporary position as a night aide in the morgue at L.A. County General. While it is not a job he intends to grow into, he considers it an acceptable compromise in terms of his general career goals.
II.
His shifts begin at 10:30, with a 30 minute lunch break around 2 AM. Arthur eats alone, in a small conference cubicle near the morgue. The hospital is quiet at this time, for the most part, and he spends his meal times at peace. On occasion, he has had to encounter members of his former profession in the course of his duties as morgue attendant. He prides himself on his professionalism, not allowing even a hint of resentment or frustration to tarnish the performance of his duties. After all, it was his decision to tender his resignation from Fisher and Diaz. And while his reasons for departure may have been justified, it hardly affords him the luxury of bitterness.
His one encounter with David Fisher in the course of his duties was brief and awkward. They exchanged pleasantries, of course, and David assured him that if Arthur so wished, he could return in a diminished (i.e., non-residential) capacity to Fisher and Diaz. There were no hard feelings, David said. But Arthur suspected his former employer was being less than authentic about his opinions.
Arthur respectfully declined as he finished the paperwork on Mrs. Santos, thus releasing her body to the final leg of its Earthly journey.
III.
In his spare time, he prefers quiet solitude to the company of others. He has always been this way, barring the recent aberration in his behavior concerning the Fisher family. Arthur finds social interaction frustrating, a complex puzzle of mixed messages and self-delusion. It is the most difficult aspect of his chosen profession, as people tend to be the most contradictory in times of stress.
His keyboard plugs into the hard drive. On its own, it produces a small, tinny sound that Arthur finds disturbing. He has purchased a composition program that actually manages to produce an aesthetically pleasing melody.
Arthur positions the mouse, and clicks play.
His tiny room is filled with sound. He has based this piece on Bach’s Prelude No. 1 in C Major from The Well-Tempered Clavier. And like Charles Guonod before him, Arthur has added his own spin to the familiar theme.
His eyes close lightly as the music flurries around him. He finds the baroque precision comforting, a pleasing balm against the roughness of modern living. His mind lingers on the gentle arpeggios, fleeting yet ethereal against the electronic ambience of his own contributions.
He wishes…almost…there was someone to share it with him.
IV.
She is sitting next to him on the chaise lounge. Her hair smells of oranges, an uncomplicated scent that lingers on his nostrils. Her smile is sad, but honest, and Arthur finds it difficult to remember why he left her.
In her eyes lie a promise and a contract. Her gaze does not waiver, nor does she flinch from his careful scrutiny.
Arthur reaches out to touch her hair, which she wears loose around her shoulders. Auburn tresses glittering with hidden strands of silver. An odd juxtaposition against her lovely but life-worn face, her hair is a remnant of a long distant youth she still revisits with decreasing frequency from time to time.
She looks to her lap, where she is grasping something small in her graceful hands.
“This is for you,” Ruth says.
She hands him a container of yogurt. On the side of the container, a strip of tape proclaims his ownership - “Arthur Martin” in bold black Sharpie.
He takes the container. It is raspberry, his favorite.
When he removes the lid, though, he finds the yogurt is half eaten. The last thing he notices before waking is the flash of gold from Ruth’s left hand.
The alarm wakes Arthur with a carefully-modulated tone. It was designed to begin his day on a positive wavelength, but today that is not the effect it has on him.
He slams the snooze button a little too hard and rolls over for another five minutes.
V.
There is a letter waiting for him when he arrives at work. He recognizes the hand-writing and puts it into the pocket of his lab coat.
It’s as if his dream were some form of premonition.
Arthur works with his usual proficiency, not allowing himself the luxury of thinking about the envelope in his pocket. There are rules, and he is a firm believer in following those rules. While on the clock, his attention must be totally absorbed in his work.
Not focused on Ruth’s handwriting on a textured azure envelope. Her stationery reflects her perfectly, he thinks, old-fashioned and elegant. He allows himself a momentary smile before pulling himself back to the task at hand.
There was a three car pile-up on the Golden State Freeway, two fatalities. He brings his attention back to the body in front of him. It must be prepared gently, respectfully, before the driver from Forest Lawn arrives. It is hardly the creative work he did as an intern at Fisher and Diaz, but it is still important. Arthur has never been one to shirk his duties.
It is almost three in the morning when he finally breaks for lunch. His sandwich tastes stale in his mouth, although he knows perfectly well that all the ingredients were well within their use-by criteria. About half-way through, he gives up and focuses on the plastic container of red grapes he’s brought. It’s all he can stomach, now that there is no corpse to distract him from the light blue envelope on the table before him.
Over the course of the months since he left his previous position, Arthur has had time to reflect on his feelings-to pull them apart and put them back together, so to speak. He has done this for most of his life-disassembling his feelings as one would a carburetor in order to understand their inner workings.
When she accused him of those heinous acts, Arthur had felt a rage at Ruth far greater than that of which he had suspected himself capable. Granted, her accusations were unfounded, based on innuendo, emotionalism, and not one shred of factual evidence. He had every right to be angry, and so he told himself as he had composed his letter of resignation.
But time and solitude have a way of unraveling even the hottest of emotions. Arthur understands that no emotion in his heart can hold up long against the push of his logical mind. Upon reflection, he has to admit that his anger was hardly proportionate to the slight he suffered.
Even more so, his sense of personal honesty does not let him ignore the fact that his anger with Ruth had begun far before she had accused him of sending those packages.
In retrospect, he should have known better than to ever allow himself to become personally involved with her, no matter how kind and attentive she was. Ruth Fisher was a decent, honest woman, and her friendship had become much more important to him than he’d ever expected. She was patient with him and with the lapses he experienced in social interactions.
She found him curious, interesting, charming. Not odd or disturbing like most people did.
After a lifetime of solitude, Arthur has to admit she was irresistible. Her gentleness allowed him the opportunity to tiptoe past the walls he’d built to protect himself, and open up to another human being. Arthur had quickly found himself looking forward to their times together.
Even when she’d kissed him, though every instinct in his body told him to pull away, even when she kissed him twice…
Arthur stares at the envelope on the table, a knot of sandwich and grapes forming, half-digested, in his stomach. He should have pulled away. He shouldn’t have led her on. She was still a vital woman, with physical needs and desires, and he should have pulled away and let her find a man who could be all things to her.
But he didn’t. Maybe it was ego. Maybe it was that tiny part of him, so deep inside, that just wanted someone to talk to. But he kept up with her, allowing her to think he’d someday find it within him to engage her carnally.
Arthur drops his face into his hands, leaning forward on his elbows. If she’d known how odd he truly was, she’d have run herself. After all, what man doesn’t accept an offer of physical intimacy from a lovely woman who is also kind, intelligent, and funny? What sort of man is so locked into his own continuum of self-absorption that he turns away someone so…wonderful?
He should have walked away, but he didn’t. And when she finally did, he was unprepared for the pain. He became sullen and resentful. Instead of a man, he acted like a spoiled child, practically daring her to chastise him.
Ruth deserved a man who could satisfy her physically, as George Sibley did so loudly once their marital cohabitation began in earnest.
Arthur shakes his head, still cradled in his palms, elbows rocking slightly as he did so. He should have moved out of the Fisher house immediately when Ruth and George married. Instead he stayed, an abandoned dog spraying his supposed territory in the most inappropriate way possible.
No wonder she hates him. No wonder she thinks him capable of sending feces through the mail.
He looks up at the clock on the wall of the cubicle. It is twenty-six minutes after three a.m., and lunch is almost over. He wraps up the remains of his dinner, and puts the envelope, still unread, back in his pocket.
It is time to get back to work.
VI.
It’s a television game show with which he is unfamiliar. Arthur has never been much for these things-farcical challenges based on luck and personality, rather than intellectual abilities. But there he is, standing in front of the microphone, lights hot on his forehead, the red light of the camera distracting as he prepares to answer the host’s question.
“Arthur Martin, you’ve made it to the final round of Let’s Make a Life! It all comes down to this.” The overly-tanned host, with his voluminous brown hair and blindingly white teeth, made a huge gesture of pointing behind him to the three numbered curtains. “Arthur Martin, it’s time to….” The host paused to allow the studio audience a chance to shout along with him. “Get! A! Life!”
He felt himself getting dizzy from the heat and his own nerves. The object of the contest is simple-choose among three equally sized curtains, behind which are three different prizes. Nominally, one of the prizes is highly superior to the other two, while one is distinctly unpleasant for the contestant. The trick is to know which curtain to choose.
Arthur doesn’t really have the skill set required for this sort of choice. Without any factual data to contemplate, his guess must be random. Any attempt at analysis is rendered pointless by the fact that the only thing at play here is chance. Either of the curtains could be the prize, or the disaster. There is no way to know which to choose, no way to know which destiny will bring happiness and satisfaction.
The lights grow hotter as he contemplates his choices. His hesitation upsets the studio audience, which takes to chanting and cheering for him to make a decision. A light-hearted jingle plays over the loudspeaker to assist in counting down the time until he is forced to make his choice.
Finally, his time is out, and the host demands an answer. “Okay, Arthur. Your entire future is riding on this decision. Which will it be? Curtain One, Two, or Three?”
His heart is pounding in his chest. There is no good answer, no logical choice to make. It’s all random and foolish, but everything depends on it.
“Make a choice, Arthur…” the host insists with a hint of warning in his voice. “Make a choice, or the choice will be made for you.”
“Three,” Arthur blurts out. “I choose Curtain Number Three.” There. It’s done. For good or for ill, he has made his choice. “I choose Number Three,” he reiterates around a dry, constricted throat.
The host leads the studio audience in a round of thunderous applause. “Well, then, let’s see what life Arthur has chosen for himself, shall we?” Another burst of cheers and applause. “But first, let’s see what he didn’t choose, shall we? Under Curtain Number One, we have…”
The curtain arises on Fisher, Diaz, and Martin Funeral Home. It’s sunset on a beautiful spring day, and Arthur and Ruth are working together in the garden. She wears a silly hat and a denim dress; he is in shirt sleeves and khaki pants. They are discussing the merits of different tomato breeds as the wind blows gently around them.
“Oh, Arthur! Looks like you missed out on a life of domestic bliss with a charming, intelligent woman. Yes, in this life, you discovered you truly were attracted to Ruth on a physical level. You overcame your shyness and found the love of your life. You eventually became a full partner and lived a long and happy life.” The host shakes his head apologetically. “Wow, that looked nice. But don’t worry-you still have two more curtains to look behind.” He whirls around to point at the second curtain. “Let’s see what else you didn’t choose!”
The curtain pulls sideways to reveal a lecture hall. At the lectern is Arthur, looking studious and impressive as the distinguished audience gives him a round of applause. Stephen Hawking rolls out in his chair, and the crowd goes wild. Dr. Hawking begins to speak in his oddly metallic computerized voice.
“It is my privilege to award the International Award for Scientific Ingenuity to Dr. Arthur Martin, for his groundbreaking theory linking quantum physics, forensics, and music. Arthur, I don’t often do this, but I’d appreciate if you’d autograph my copy of your latest book.”
“Absolutely, Dr. Hawking,” Arthur says as he accepts the trophy from the young man assisting Hawking.
“Would you like to say a few words?” Hawking asks.
“Well, only that I could never have achieved this level of personal and professional success without the help of my loving companion, Ruth Fisher.” He stretches his hands to the wings where Ruth is waiting in a sharp blue suit, her hair softly haloed by the stage lights. “Her support and encouragement changed my life.”
Arthur watches the scene with a sinking stomach. Domestic bliss, professional success. There’s only one option left, and that is the booby prize. He eyes Curtain Number Three warily.
“I know what you’re thinking, Arthur,” the host says slyly. “What could possibly be the life you’ve chosen for yourself?” He points to Curtain Number Three. “Do you want to see what you’ve chosen?”
“Not particularly,” Arthur admits.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll be a good sport. He’s a good sport, isn’t he, audience?”
The studio audience’s sympathetic applause does nothing to calm his discomfort.
The host puts an arm around his shoulder in a jovial gesture of goodwill. “Why don’t we see what’s behind Curtain Number Three, shall we?”
Arthur wants to close his eyes, but he is oddly transfixed as the curtains open on to the prep room in the basement of Fisher and Diaz. He is working alone, his back to the table as he gathers provisions to prepare the body. When he turns, though, it is not a corpse on the table waiting for him.
George Sibley lies naked on the table, with Ruth dressed only in a silky red chemise, straddling his freakishly tall body. She is writhing atop him, hair down around her shoulders, messy and wild. She cries out in a primal sound of erotic passion.
Neither one seems to be aware of his presence until he drops a bottle of embalming fluid at his feet. Suddenly, both pairs of eyes are on him, accusing at first, then mocking. He can hear a low, scoffing sound from George’s throat.
Then Ruth laughs. It’s the most cutting sound he’s ever heard, and it rips through his flesh as he watches them resume their lovemaking. She laughs again as she looks at him through tousled hair, the scorn and revulsion palpable in her pale eyes.
“Arthur, you’ve chosen a life on the outside. A stranger in every home. A solitary, pathetic, lonely life with no love, no joy, and no companionship. You will be mocked by those you love, and pitied by those you fear. You won’t even be a threat…just an afterthought, one of the oddities people notice then forget as they go on with their lives. But, Arthur, we want to thank you for playing our game and for being such a good sport.”
He wakes with the covers soaked, and tears streaming down his face.
VII.
He sits in near darkness at his kitchen table. Only the light from above the stove and the street lamp outside illuminate the room, but Arthur’s eyesight has always been exceptional. Her letter is on the table in front of him. He has moved to open it several times, only to pull away. The sun will be rising in approximately 45 minutes, and he still has not made it back to sleep. Generally, he requires a full eight hours of sleep to function efficiently on the job. Tonight, he will not be able to make that goal.
“Come on, man.” His voice seems oddly resonant in the silence of pre-dawn. One might even call it commanding. “Nothing she has to say to you can possibly be more humiliating than what you’re already saying to yourself.” His hand brushes the edge of the envelope. “Get on with it, and you can leave this sordid escapade behind you.”
He tears the envelope open gracelessly, rendering it useless should he decide later to keep the note, for whatever reason. Opening the crisp blue paper, he can’t help but admire her neat, though still somewhat ornate penmanship. Letter writing is a lost art, they once both agreed.
Taking a deep breath, he steadies himself and prepares for the worst.
November 13, 2004
My dear Arthur,
I’ve tried many times to write this letter since David told me where you were working. In fact, I went so far as to drive out to the hospital one night, after everyone else was in bed, hoping to find you on duty. I know, that is a horrible invasion of your professional privacy, and I’m glad I had the good sense to stop myself before I made even a bigger mess of this than I’ve already done.
First and foremost, I must beg your forgiveness for my horrible and completely unfounded accusations against you. I am ashamed to admit this, but I think I knew in my heart, even as I was making them, that you were simply incapable of such distasteful and cruel deeds. I knew, even as I saw the hurt in your eyes, that I was being wicked and hateful and unfair.
Of course, the real culprit was identified almost immediately after you left us. David and Nate tried to find you, to offer you your job back. I doubt you would have done so. My actions were unconscionable, and you have no reason whatsoever to forgive me.
I have tried for many months now to understand what happened with us. I realize now that I was wholly responsible for what wrong. Given the difference in our ages and temperaments, it was wrong to expect you to reciprocate my feelings in any but the most platonic ways. I think that I was just so lonely, so insecure, that I mistook your kindness and attention for something more. And when you rejected my offer of physical closeness, I was humiliated and ashamed of myself.
Maybe that is what happened…maybe I projected my guilt on to you. I knew, the minute I started seeing George, that I owed it to you to talk about it and give you a chance to make a decision on how we were to proceed with our friendship. I ignored that responsibility, instead, and let the situation grow completely out of hand. I can see how awkward it must have been for you, without any real closure to help each of us make a graceful exit from the relationship (whatever kind of relationship it may have been). The longer I waited to talk to you, the guiltier I felt, and the less capable I felt of bringing up the subject.
In the end, I handled the situation completely wrong and lost a wonderful friend because of it. For this, I can never be sorry enough. I really liked you, Arthur. You made me think and you made me laugh. Every conversation with you was another chance to learn something amazing.
I miss that. I miss you.
I know it isn't even reasonable to consider renewing our friendship at this point. I have screwed things up so completely I doubt you’ll even read this letter, much less want anything to do with me.
But, Arthur, please know that whatever you do in your life, wherever you go, there will always be at least one person out there who finds you incredible. I hope that your life is filled with joy, wonder, creativity, and curiosity. I know that you will excel in whatever you do, and I hope that when you think of me, there will be at least a bit of tenderness for the friendship we shared.
All my love,
Your friend,
Ruth Fisher-Sibley
Arthur holds the letter gently, as if the slightest mishap could crumble it into dust. He knows he will reread it several times before he is done. He knows he will think about it, dissect it, dismantle it and put it back together into a form that he can truly digest.
And for the briefest moment, he remembers how to smile.
VII.
She’s grateful for the end of the holidays. Christmas and New Year’s have become a chore for her, but she carries on as she must. Still, it’s nice to see the tree go, and the knick-knacks that just seem to gather more dust with each passing year.
It’s warm enough outside today. She may go for a hike this afternoon, if she can pry George away from his work. Hell, she may go even if she can’t pry him away. She has feet. She knows how to hike. She doesn’t need a man’s help or permission.
This thought makes her smile as she finishes up the lunch dishes. It’s been a good day, and she hums softly as she works.
“Mom?”
She starts, then laughs at her own skittishness. “Oh, Claire. You startled me.”
“This got delivered next door by mistake. Thought you’d…um, want to…” The young woman frowns slightly as she looks down at the package. “It’s from, um…Arthur.”
Ruth feels her stomach tighten as the name registered. The package is too small for anything dangerous (or disgusting), though heaven knew she deserved both for the way she had treated the poor young man. She squirms slightly under her daughter’s knowing gaze-she’d revealed far more than she’d wanted to about her relationship with the odd young man, and she cannot read Claire’s expression. “I’ll take it,” she says too quickly, taking it from her.
“Ohhhkay. You want me to stick around, just in case?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snaps, and immediately regrets the harshness of her tone.
But Claire rolls it off of her with characteristic indifference. “Yeah, I’ll be at my place working.”
“Thank you, Claire,” she adds, almost as an afterthought as her daughter disappears out of the door. The package is one of those puffy manila envelopes, larger than a regular envelope, but not quite as big as a box. She pulls in a deep breath, unreasonably grateful that George is not here to make fun of her. “Suck it up, Fisher,” she says in her best Bettina-voice and rips the envelope open. It contains a home-made compact disk in a clear jewel case with a folded note taped to the top. The neat markings on the CD itself read “Ruth Fisher-Sibley, Music, 2005.”
She smiles in spite of herself, remembering that gloriously odd music Arthur used to compose. Opening the letter, she can’t help but admire his neat, precise handwriting.
January 17, 2005
My dear Mrs. Sibley,
I hope this finds you well. I am writing to you from an outdoor table at the University of California - Berkeley, where I have been accepted into the Graduate Program for Forensic Studies. The weather here is lovely-somewhat cooler than Los Angeles, but with a fragrant sea air and a relaxed atmosphere I find most suitable to my personality.
I apologize that it has taken so long to return your letter of November. Between graduation and beginning my courses here, I find myself somewhat pressed for free time. I did think of you over the holidays, remembering well how lovely the decorations always were in your home.
I have a special lady friend over the holidays. Her name is Rebecca, and she is in my graduate studies class here at Berkeley. We have a great deal in common and have already planned to share a study group. I think you would like her. She is quite intelligent, and I think she is quite lovely.
I have included a CD of some of my compositions in hopes that it will provide you with some pleasure. The second track is titled, somewhat presumptuously I fear, “for Ruth.” It is based on The Flower Duet from Léo Delibes' opera Lakmé, first performed in Paris in 1883. You may recognize the tune, as it is very popular. I think the delicate, airy tone and gentle harmonies reflect your personality quite well.
Well, I must end this now. Again, I appreciate your kind letter and willingness to renew, even if only from a distance, our friendship. You mean a great deal to me. I wish you only the best.
Sincerely,
Arthur Martin
Ruth smiles broadly. She can hear his voice in every sentence. She knows there is a portable CD player around here somewhere. And, later on, when she listens to The Flower Duet on her hike, she finds herself dancing slightly on the clear, sunny path.
The End