Trigun Fan Fiction ❯ Children of the Pebble ❯ Kisses, Part One ( Chapter 4 )

Children of the Pebble

By “Clinesterton Beademung”, with all of love.

 

Disclaimer: “Trigun” © its respective creators and owners. I do this for fun, not profit. So there.

 

Comments and criticism welcome.

 

Chapter Four - Kisses (Part One)

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“Eat your breakfast, darling, before it gets cold,” Mother said.

“Yes, ma'am.” Meryl poured warm syrup over her pancakes and added a spoonful of banana chips from the hydrator. She considered topping the pile with half a can of whipped cream, the way she'd always liked them, but watching her parents move about the kitchen forced her to reconsider. There was enough sweetness in the room already.

At the kitchen archway, standing on the threshold as if taking command of all he surveyed, Michael Stryfe, founder of the engineering firm Stryfe Consultants, a man of rising reputation, known and respected by the city's giants of emerging science and industry, a man sought after for his sage and savvy advice, passed Meryl's mother as she prepared breakfast and, as he did so, patted her on the rump.

At the griddle, wielding a spatula like a conductor's baton, Madeline Stryfe, teetotaler, churchgoer, advocate for social justice and orphan's rights and, when fundraising for St. Teresa's was the task at hand, a sparkling socialite and speaker—in short, a model of modern civilized womanhood on any world in any age—cooed and wiggled her behind in response.

Meryl cut a bite of pancake with one hand, shaded her eyes with the other. Something in the water, maybe.

Father took his seat opposite Meryl's and scanned his folded newspaper.

“What are your plans for the day, Meryl?” he said.

“I thought I'd call on a friend.”

“A young gentleman, perhaps?”

“A girlfriend, Mother. Milly Thompson. I haven't seen her since I returned to December.”

“I think that's a fine idea,” Father said. “Doc Trimbel said you were strong enough to leave the house.”

“And Mrs. Wronski's been asking after you,” Mother said. “You remember her, don't you? And her son?”

“I remember he had difficulty keeping his hands to himself.” Righton Wronski, Jr., eldest son of December Academy's most popular mathematics teacher, had pursued Meryl for a year and a half. It would've been only one, had Righton graduated on schedule.

“I'm sure he remembers you, too,” Father said. “Broke his nose, as I recall.”

“I didn't hit him that hard,” Meryl said. She'd been grounded for a month but the look on his bleeding face when he hit the floor was worth it.

“Mrs. Wronski tells me he's changed. He's quite handsome, you know.”

“I'm so glad I didn't do any permanent damage.” Meryl forked pancake into her mouth. “And anyway, I'm spoken for, remember?”

“Mind your table manners, darling.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Meryl put her hand to her mouth. “Sorry.”

“And anyway,” Mother said, “a little competition might make your young man try harder. If you like, I could call and arrange a—”

“No, Mother. Don't even think about it.”

Mother carried her own plate to the table and sat down.

“Very well. It seems to be your poor mother's lot to enter old age unappreciated, and I'll just have to adjust as best I can.”

“You should've been an actor,” Meryl said, carrying her empty plate to the griddle. “Would you care for seconds, Father?”

“Yes, honey, thank you. Big day and—hard work ahead.”

“Darling, let me do that, you come sit down.”

“No, ma'am. You just sit there and act your age.” For once. “Seconds?”

Mother shook her head. “I don't know where you two put it all.”

“She has my metabolism, my dear wife.”

“And your stubborn streak, my dear husband.”

Why me? Meryl searched the ceiling for an answer. With a flick of her wrist she turned the rising pancakes. She counted to twenty and flipped two onto her plate.

“Give me your plate, Father.” Meryl filled it with the last two. “What kind of work?”

“I'm taking the day off,” he said. “I have some chores to catch up on here.”

Mother, smiling dreamily, lowered her chin to her hand.

“It's past time you attended to those, my dear husband.”

“Think you can teach an old dog some new tricks, my dear wife?”

“I do believe I can, Mister Stryfe.”

“Why, Maddie Silverton, I had no idea you were so—knowledgeable.”

Meryl's ears and cheeks were aflame. It had been many years since her parents had looked at each other like this but she didn't need those boring and euphemistically titled “Health and Family Planning” classes to know that she'd been the result of such a look.

“I'm beginning to get the impression,” Meryl said, “that three's a crowd in this house today. Am I correct?”

“Meryl's a perceptive girl, isn't she, my dear husband.”

“She takes after her smart and pretty mother, my dear wife.”

“All right, all right,” Meryl said. “I can take a hint.” Getting out of the house had been her plan all along, but leaving her parents to their second adolescence would be a welcome fringe benefit. She finished her breakfast and moved to start clearing the table.

“Don't bother with the dishes, darling,” Mother said as she grabbed the juice pitcher from Meryl's hands. “I'll take care of them.”

“Don't you want me to help?”

“You've been an enormous help to me, Meryl my dear. Now go call your friend.”

“But Mother, I—”

“You don't want to keep the poor girl waiting, do you? You're burning daylight, your grandmother would say.”

Right. Meryl went to the phone and lifted the handset from its cradle.

“Hello, operator? Connect me to—hello, Mrs. Graham. Yes, I'm fine, thank you for your—what? Of course, I'm sorry, I know you're very busy. Could you connect me to Sydney-three-five-oh-five, please? Thank you.” Connections clicked and popped through the background hiss of active circuitry.

“Hello, Thompson Farm.”

“Good morning, ma'am. This is Meryl Stryfe of the Bernardelli—I mean, this is Meryl Stryfe calling for Milly. May I speak to her, please?”

“One moment, please.” Footsteps faded, leaving only static. A loud call, indistinct. The handset on the other end scraped on something smooth as it was picked up.

“Meryl!”

“Hello, Milly.”

“Oh, Meryl, it's so good to hear from you. I've been wondering all this time why you haven't called.”

Meryl bit her lip. “I'm sorry, I've just been—I haven't been well recently.”

“Oh, no…Meryl, are you okay? I wish you'd called me, I'd have brought you some chicken soup and homemade ice cream and trashy novels and kept you company.”

“I'm sorry, really I am, but please don't worry. I'm fine now.”

“I'm glad, Meryl.” The phone was silent for a moment. “I've missed you.”

Meryl put her hand over the mouthpiece. No sense in deafening Milly and her whole family with the sound of her heart breaking.

“I've—I've missed you, too. Hey, I almost forgot. I wanted to ask you something. It seems my parents want me out of the house today, and I was wondering if—”

“You could come have lunch with us? That's a great idea. And then maybe after that you and I could get all gussied up and go into town and do some shopping and go see a movie and then we could have dinner somewhere really, really expensive—”

“Milly—”

“And then we can come back to my house and have a pillow fight and eat ice cream and stay up half the night talking about stuff. How does that sound?”

“How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Talk so much without taking a breath.” And read her mind, except for the pillow fight.

“I guess it's just my healthy upbringing. Farm work is good for the heart and the tummy. Speaking of which do you know where I live?”

“Judging by how long it took to connect the call, somewhere beyond the Third Moon.”

“Not that far, silly. Get something to write on and I'll give you directions.”

Meryl found a pad of paper and a pencil and drew while Milly spoke. Too far for a taxi, but this wasn't bad, an hour or so by jeep. She extended a line to the edge of the paper, made a right angle and marked the spot with an X.

“It's a big whitewashed three story house with lots of windows,” Milly said. “You can't miss it.”

“Great, Milly,” Meryl said as she tucked the map into her jeans pocket. “I'll see you about noon.”

“And not one minute before or you'll be eating with the hogs. Say, Meryl…do you ever miss it? Bernardelli, I mean.”

“Sure, I do. I wake up every morning wondering how I can possibly live another day without Mark's lousy coffee or Karen's suffocating perfume or Leary trying to look up my skirt or any of the other wonderful joys of office life.”

The circuit's thermal noise hissed in Meryl's ear.

“Really, Meryl? I thought you hated Mr. Leary's guts. Remember? You threatened to shoot his thing off in front of the Chief and the whole office.”

“It was a joke, Milly. I was being sarcastic.”

“Oh. Right. I knew that.”

“Uh huh. And I'm a two headed thomas, sister.”

“No, you just eat like one.”

“And you just smell like one. See you in an hour.”

Meryl hung up the phone and bounded up the stairs. Most of the clothing she'd left behind was still packed up in the basement but she'd never indulged in anything too expensive. Tonight she'd need an evening dress.

At her desk Meryl slipped the map into her pocketbook and thumbed the thick sheaf of bills inside. Thanks to luck, God, or the proper planetary alignment a Bernardelli payroll check for the exact amount of her back pay had arrived in the mail during her hospital stay. The envelope it came in had been plain and unofficial and had no return address. If Karen had anything to do with it, she'd owe her former colleague a tall apology and an even taller drink.

Whatever or whoever was involved, she had money to burn and burn it she would. She packed a change of clothes and other sundries into her suitcase. A quick change into her travel duds and another phone call later, she was ready.

“I'm leaving now, Mother,” Meryl said, and kissed her cheek. “Is Father still outside? I need to ask him something.”

“If it's about the jeep, darling, I think you'd better go talk to him. He has something else in mind.”

Meryl opened the screen door, held it behind her until it gently touched the frame. If Father was planning to deny her the use even of that old rustbucket the whole day would be ruined. She'd never dare ask Mother's permission to drive her—

Convertible? In the driveway, Father leaned on the passenger side door of Mother's car. Except it couldn't be Mother's car because it was silver gray, not sky blue.

“What do you think?” Father said, waving his hand over the vehicle and grinning like a salesman. “Belated congratulations, Madame Valedictorian, Class of One-twenty-four. What's the matter, honey? Do you not like it?”

Meryl dropped the handle of her suitcase. In three steps she had her arms around him, her face buried in his shoulder.

“I take back every terrible thing I ever said or thought about you,” she said.

“If only I'd known it were this easy,” Father said. Meryl released her embrace and slapped his arm. He went to the driver's side door and held it open. “Your carriage awaits.”

Meryl slipped behind the wheel and adjusted the seat. She pulled the safety belt over her shoulder and lap and snapped the buckle into place. Her eyes caught a glittering blur, followed it into her open hand. She slipped the key into the ignition and turned. The car roared to life.

Father shut the door.

“Don't hurry home,” he said.

 

---

 

Sixty iles east of December, Meryl made the final turn north onto a ruler straight road. White gravel dust billowed from under the car. The alfalfa fields on her left were lush and green and cooled the air through which she drove. On her right, wheat and soybeans whizzed by in a regular pattern that made her dizzy if she stared at it too long.

On the crest of a gentle hill a dazzling point of reflected sunlight forced Meryl to drive with a hand before her eyes. The glare faded as she approached.

Meryl stopped the car at its source, an aluminum mailbox with THOMPSON stenciled on the side in black. She felt certain that, had she been standing on the Fifth Moon with a pair of binoculars, she could've seen it with no trouble.

The house Milly described stood at the end of a short driveway of packed earth. A blind man couldn't miss it, which was good, since, thanks to that gargantuan mailbox, Meryl had difficulty seeing beyond the blotchy afterimages the glare left on her retinas. She followed the drive to the house, parked, and killed the car's motor.

The only sound left was the delicate ring of the wind chime hanging from the veranda's roof. The air was filled with scents that evoked both memory and queasiness: vegetables, compost, baking bread and cooling pies, thomas feed and the end product thereof. Her grandparents had never kept pigs but the smell of both their food and their habitat were unmistakable.

Up the stairs, through the screen door and across the golden wood of the porch, Meryl found a brass key in the center of the front door. She spun it, and winced at the earsplitting clang of the bell.

The door opened to reveal a belt buckle the size of New Texas.

Meryl had never been self-conscious about her relative short stature. If anything being smaller than most girls her age had filled her with confidence in her real abilities, and as far as men were concerned, the bigger they were, the harder they fell. But this man, this giant before her, could've broken her in two with one hand.

“Hello?” said the giant, who turned his blue eyes left, then right. The plain chambray of his shirt stretched like the sail on a windsled when he shrugged his Atlas-massive shoulders. He shut the door, muttering something about crackers.

The water. Had to be something in the water. Meryl rang the bell. The door opened.

“Hello?” said the man, scanning the air over Meryl's head. “If that's you ringin my bell, Hap Fortinbras, I'll have your mum take a switch to your—”

“Excuse me, sir…”

“What? Hello!” A huge grin that reminded Meryl of Milly spread under the awning of his thick moustache. “There you are. Good day, miss. How can I help you?”

“I'm Meryl Stryfe, calling on Milly.”

“Crikey,” he said, slapping his forehead. “Of course, Miss Stryfe, we've been expecting you. Please come in. I'm Neville Thompson, Milly's dad.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Meryl said, extending her hand, a little afraid when his hand enveloped hers. She accepted his invitation to sit and make herself comfortable and only hesitated for a split second when Mr. Thompson offered a glass of water. On the way to the kitchen he paused at the bottom of a flight of stairs.

“OI, MILLY!” he shouted. “YER MATE'S `ERE, LOVE!”

“Coming, Dad,” came the faint reply through Meryl's hands, still clamped to her ears.

Meryl expelled a deep breath and relaxed. The day was hot, and despite the refreshing taste of her ice water—potentially deleterious effects on the mind notwithstanding—Meryl was worn out from the trip. She leaned back, and lost her balance just as her shoulders touched the padded back of the enormous chair.

From the high ceiling a quartet of wide bladed fans driven by a network of belts blasted air toward the floor. A faint scent of ozone and hot rubber, much more pleasant than manure and compost, followed it down.

Footsteps thundered down the stairs.

“Meryl!”

“Hello, Milly,” Meryl said, standing. “Thank you for inviting meeoorph!”

“Oh, Meryl, I'm so glad to see you.”

“Glad…see…too…”

“How was your trip? Were the roads good? Did you have any trouble finding the house?”

“Can't…breathe…”

“What? Oh. Sorry,” Milly said, releasing her. Meryl leaned on her knees, gasping. If her friend had changed at all, it was only in her choice of clothing, a loose shirt tucked into a pair of blue jeans. Otherwise, she was the same old Milly. Meryl thanked heaven for favors small and great.

“I'm sorry if I hurt you,” Milly said.

“No, it's—no, you didn't hurt me at all.” Meryl stood erect. “So tell me how you've been keeping yourself.”

“Busy,” Milly said. “There's always something to do on a farm.”

Milly's father returned, extending a glass to her and to Milly.

“My beloved wife tells me lunch will be ready in an hour,” he said. “Milly, your mum wants you to tend the thomases before then.”

“Yes, Dad. Hey, Meryl, you want to help me?”

“Sure, I'd be happy to.” When their water was gone, Meryl followed Milly out the back door and across a wide graded yard. The scent of the pigsty hit her like the wake of a passing sand steamer.

“Sorry about the smell,” Milly said. “You get used to it after a few years.”

“Great,” Meryl said through her hand. Habit, as well as vanity, had compelled her to spritz a dash of perfume on her wrists before she left. She thanked heaven for vanity.

Milly stopped at a mountain of stacked fifty-poung bags of thomas feed and hoisted a sack onto each shoulder. Inside the barn, thomases—more animals than Meryl could see in the dark stables—grunted approval and anticipation. Milly poured the feed from the bags while Meryl used a pail she found in a corner.

When it was done Milly laid the empty bags in the corner of the barn near the door and flattened the sacks with her feet. She pointed at a pair of saddles resting on their wooded horses.

“The one on the right's yours,” she said.

Twenty minutes later Meryl was goading her thomas, a mare named Winnifred, into an easy jog to keep up with Milly, who was guiding her own steed to the base of a long ridge north of the Thompson house. Milly had chosen a shortcut through a field of tall native whipgrass, and the plants lashed softly against Meryl's stockings as Winnie swayed through the thick growth.

“So, Milly,” Meryl said. “Who owns all these fields out here?”

Milly laughed.

“Who do you think, silly? My family does.”

“You're kidding me, right?”

“Meryl, do you think any farmer would let us trespass across his property just to take a shortcut? If we were on another farmer's land without permission and he saw us, we'd be getting shot at right about now.”

When Milly reached the end of the grass she spurred her mount into a two-legged hop. Meryl copied her, grateful to end the jogging cant that had always made her sick, and Winnie lit out like a sprinter at a championship track meet, spraying fountains of dust from her birdlike feet with every bounce. This was an animal bred for racing, or Meryl didn't know thomases as well as she thought.

Five hops to the top of the ridge and Meryl drew back on the reins. She and Milly were winded. The thomases weren't even breathing hard.

“That was fun,” Milly said.

“Sure was,” Meryl said. “Is this your favorite place?”

“Yes. Now listen.”

Meryl obeyed, but all she heard was the wind in the pale grass through which they'd just ridden.

“I don't hear anything,” she said.

“Exactly.”

“So how is this your favorite place? Wasn't the wasteland quiet enough for you?”

“There are different kinds of quiet,” Milly said. “This is one of my favorite kinds. Here, I don't have to be afraid of wild dogs, bandits, or bounty hunters. I don't have to listen to my boss nag me about paperwork—”

“I wasn't that bad.”

“Or hear those damned water pumps or my parents or—well. Anyway, I just wanted you to be here, Meryl.” Milly's thomas turned under a twitch of her bridle. “You're only the second person I've brought out here.”

“Second person? Who was the first?”

“We'd better be getting back.”

“Wait, Milly…”

“We have to go, Meryl. Aren't you hungry?”

 

---

 

For Meryl, lunch proved to be an exercise in nostalgia and humility.

The scent and flavor of the food, simple and nourishing, recalled fond memories of meals at her grandparents' house when she was a little girl. Grandma always helped her with the knife and fork, guided Meryl's hands with her own as she cut her food into bite sized pieces. Sitting at the table on Father's old December phone book, swinging her legs as if she'd never touch ground again—those were the things she remembered most.

Nostalgia. And humility.

On the edge of her makeshift booster seat, Meryl squirmed. The edge of the phone book dug into her thighs and the bottom rung of the armless chair was a hair lower than her toes could reach. She picked up an oversized butter knife, half expecting to see in its mirrored surface the ponytail she'd grown out to be just like Grandma.

Now that's a knife, she thought.

When the conversation turned to farm business, Meryl learned that Mr. Thompson had been a client of her father's firm.

“Your old man designed some water pumps for me about ten years ago,” Mr. Thompson said as he spread butter around the middle of a steaming biscuit.

“How about that,” Milly said around a full mouth. “Small world, ain't it, Meryl?”

“Millicent, watch your manners in front of our guest.”

“Oh, Mom, Meryl's seen me act lots worse than this.”

“Milly Alice…”

“Yes, ma'am.”

In her travels Meryl had seen much of the world and talked to many of its people. Though they spoke a common language, those who lived outside the Cities spoke with accents they'd acquired from their ancestors. Some even treasured their manner of speaking as a matter of pride and distinction. Milly must've lost her parents' accent when she moved to December, but now Meryl couldn't be sure if Milly was saying “Mom” or “ma'am” or, even more charming, “Mum”.

“Those pumps were one of the best investments I ever made,” Mr. Thompson said. “Be sure to tell your father for me.”

“Certainly. He'll be pleased to know one of his designs is doing well.”

“Actually, I've been meaning to get hold of him again. I'm going to need some better harvesting equipment in a couple of seasons.”

“He'll be happy to talk to you, sir.”

“Well, he's a difficult man to talk to, begging your pardon, Miss Meryl. Got a waiting list six months long, I heard. I don't suppose you could talk to your old man and have me bumped up the line a little, say three or four months—”

“Neville,” Mrs. Thompson said in a tone of voice Meryl recognized from her own mother. “We do not discuss business during meals.”

“Now, Victoria, there's no harm in—”

“Especially questionable business. Now you let our guest alone, right quick, d'y'hear?”

“Yes, mother.” Mr. Thompson scratched his head and grinned, revealing to Meryl the primary source of Milly's personality.

“I don't know if I can help, sir,” she said, “but I'll talk to him.”

“Would you care for seconds, my dear?”

Meryl patted her stomach. “No thank you, Mrs. Thompson,” she said. “I'm quite full.”

“But you've hardly eaten. No wonder you're so small.”

“I take after my parents, ma'am. They're both about my size.” Like normal people.

“Then I suppose we Thompsons have been blessed. Or maybe it's something in the water, eh?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Meryl said, discomfited. Had she made that remark out loud? If so, Milly's mother had sharp hearing. Or maybe that was an attribute of all mothers.

“I have to go down to the south quarter, mother,” Mr. Thompson said, rising from his place at the table's head. “Quent's having trouble with one of his—”

“Don't you bother lying to me, Neville Thompson,” Mrs. Thompson said. “You and Quent Fortinbras both know your way around a pint.”

“Victoria Springs,” he said, “I've told you before. He has a well that's been acting up—”

“And all his hands are on holiday. Heard that one before. A well? I daresay it's a well. A bottomless well of beer, I'll warrant.”

“No worries, love.” Milly's father placed a tender kiss on her mother's lips. “I'll be home before second sunset and stone sober.”

Milly excused herself from the table, intent on some task. Meryl stacked the dishes while Milly's mother covered and put away the food. With the help of the phone book Meryl leaned over the three sinks and started the dishwater.

“It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Meryl,” Mrs. Thompson said.

“Likewise, ma'am,” Meryl said. “Milly's talked so much about her family I feel as if I know you.”

“How nice. I feel the same way. My little Millicent has told me so much about you.”

“Not everything, I hope.”

“Whatever do you mean, dear?”

“Well…” Meryl said, discomfited again by—something in Mrs. Thompson's voice she couldn't quite identify. “I just mean—I'm not sure I was the greatest boss in the world sometimes.”

“I doubt that's true. Milly spoke highly of you in her letters, saying how close you two were. Were you always together?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Meryl said. “Except for when I went home, of course, but that was only when we weren't on a field assignment.”

“What was your last assignment like?”

“All I can say, ma'am, is that I'm glad it was our last.”

“You don't say. Tell me more.”

Meryl concentrated on drying the plate in her hands, unable to shake the feeling she'd just been given an order.

“It was—difficult, in a lot of ways. We ran into some bandits, ended up broke in the middle of nowhere, Milly and I had to take extra jobs just to buy groceries, even though I told her time and again—”

“That must've been terrible. I can't even imagine.” Mrs. Thompson lifted a knife from the water and examined its surface. “I'm close to my little girl, too.”

Meryl laid the dry plate on its stack. The rinse water was empty of dishes.

“I know parents are never supposed to choose favorites among their children but in Millicent's case it happened so naturally I just gave in. My other children were fairly easy to read, but with Millicent I always knew, even when she was a baby, even before she made a sound, when she was hungry or thirsty, happy or sad—even what she was thinking.” Mrs. Thompson angled the knife in her hands, as if to see Meryl's face reflected in its surface. “Just as I can almost tell what you're thinking right now.”

“Mrs. Thompson,” Meryl said, “I—ma'am, I'm afraid I don't understand.”

“Millicent is special, Meryl. I'd like to think it came from me, but her father is special in so many other ways I can't flatter myself. Ever since she was born I've felt a connection to her I've never felt with anyone else, not my sons, not my other daughters, not even my husband, and all this time I thought it was my mind seeing into hers. I'm telling you all this because three weeks ago I learned I was wrong.”

Mrs. Thompson reached in front of Meryl, lowered the knife into the sink.

“Milly was only letting me in. Now she's shutting me out.”

The back door opened, closed. Footsteps rang down the hall.

“Are you finished, Meryl?” Milly said. “I'm done with my chores, Mom, can we go now?”

---

Author's Afterword

Next: Kisses, Part Two. The fun continues as the girls paint the town red…and Milly makes a confession.