Mrs. May Chapter 3

3

So I waited patiently and quietly as Sal dug his hands through an emerald ceramic jar that I assumed held many of May’s recipes.  I stepped out from behind the plant and made my footsteps like bare feet on pillows.  Behind me, directly in fact, was the room that I mentioned before.  The room where I had no clue as to what was in it, but then knowing that I was completely incognito, slipped into it and rested my body in the shadows.

    The room was a museum.  It had a comfortable brown wallpaper with many old paintings and pictures; there was a table near a window and on it were various antiques and small sculptures.  I travelled in further and began to smell a dusty scent that made my nose tingle; a smell of old cardboard boxes as I recall.  I pulled my shirt over my nose and continued to trespass.  Besides the wallpapers, paintings and the table, I noticed a miniature, but bold chest with a golden or brass outlining (it was too dark to tell).  I very well thought of it as a secret holder, judging by the bulky golden lock that kept it sealed.  I ran my fingers over the cold lock, then gave it a curious pull.  Of course, it did not budge; what fun would my childhood be if I discovered its secrets on my second day?  A child’s curiosity is like an ocean view from the beach; seemingly endless.  So after that day, it became my distinct mission to open that chest.  

But it would have to wait, it seemed, as I heard a door shut from the unknown scenery of the second floor.  My youth assumed it to be Mrs. May, so I quickly ran out the room, only to find that she was already half way down the stairs.  I fell next to my toys, and pretended that I was there the entire time of her departure.  From my understanding at that time, she believed it; my nose followed her old scent as she walked past me and into the kitchen.

    “Did you find it in there?” She brushed her hand over Sal’s shoulder as she went to the stove.

    “I did,” he held it in his hand, but still searched through the jar.

    “Good, good,” she replied.

    I still had no view of my sitter; from where I sat, I could only see the suited man with the kingly mustache as he slipped a second recipe out of the jar quite furtively.  I remember gasping and getting the peculiar urge to maybe say something.  But I held there, frozen without a word, or words, to help me relay what I saw to Mrs. May.  

    “Thanks again for the ham, May.  I really must have it ya know.”  He held the recipe in plain sight, but held the second piece of paper in his other hand, well tucked behind his back.  “I’ll be going then.”

    “See you soon dear, hopefully,” she replied.

    He walked from the kitchen, with a quick and guilty gait that I would soon see again.  I began to sweat as my childish conscience urged me to report his crime; my mouth, in contrast, stayed within its confines.  Sal was about to walk out, until, by some miracle or coincidence, Harrison saw his exiting and decided to call out for him.  Sal’s face shrunk, thinking he had been caught, but to reassure his innocence, quickly put on a smile and spun around.

    “Yeah, what is it?” He adjusted his glasses, then wiped his forehead of its perspiration.

    “Leaving without saying goodbye?” Harrison smoothly walked into the room with a more subtle smile than usual with his hands pocketed in his tailored suit.

    “Ah,” Sal tucked his head, “I was only gonna go heat up the car.”

    Harrison closed the distance between them and grasped his hand tightly.  I noticed that from where I witnessed these events, my appearance was still somewhat masked by the wild plant.  Me being so small, the wild leaves shrouded parts of my body; enough to hide me from peripherals at least.

    “Maybe you come back one weekend,” Harrison’s voice lowered as he pulled Sal’s shoulder closer to him, “you could check out the new kids we got here.  Some fresh ones I tell you.” His smile returned, but for different purposes.

    Sal grinned rather insidiously, then nodded his head.

    “I’ll give you a call.”

    They unclenched their hairy hands, and Sal would have been gone, if it were not for a suddenly brave young Corvo, who, decided at the right time to go and tell Mrs. May.  When I testified against the gentleman, I finally saw her face, but not in the light that I want to tell you, so her appearance shall come later.  The large woman set a cooking spoon down as she rushed out of the kitchen with her apron falling off from her body.  Sal noticed her entrance to the final room of his escape, and like all guilty parties, tucked his head once more and attempted to turn out of the door.

    “Oh, you thief!” She said most unpleasantly.

    Sal held the door handle, but turned to her from fear.  

    “I let you have my best recipe, and you go and steal from me?”

    “May, I’m---”

    She seized his collar and bent him over to an uncomfortable position.  I watched the confrontation untangle as she searched through his pockets and pulled two papers from them.  

    “After all I taught you Sal?  I should have your fingers!”

    He stood there, shrugged and shrivelled, and quiescent, and querulous as she opened the door for him to leave.

    “Before you come back, I want a’ apology letter from you, ya’hear?”  

    “Yes,” he said cowardly.

    “Yes what?”   

    “Yes Mrs. May.”   

    So he was gone, like a dog cast out after eating from the table; and I, the hero, waiting for acknowledgement.  She heaved a deep breath as she absorbed the oxygen that her elderly lungs had exerted moments ago.  With that, she held her hands on her hips and walked into the room that I had trespassed prior to the event.  She said nothing to me, but I followed as her finger curled in my direction.  In that room, she sat, still trying to return her breathing to the same speed as when she stood in the kitchen.  Since she was calm at this moment, I find it appropriate to describe her.  

She was, as I said before, heavy.  Her face was age filled, her eyes were very low and heavy; she had a beauty mark just above her lip; with those lips always poking out.  Her hair was in a gray bun, tied by a small blue bow.  I remember, for some odd reasons, being afraid while standing there waiting for her to talk.  Even though I did a good deed, I still felt sour.  When she was well enough to speak, she gave me a look, then spoke to me for the very first time.

“You’re the new boy, hm?” Said the dowdy woman.   

“I am ma'am,” I spoke to the floor as my fingers tangled behind my back.

“Ay, look up here boy, I’m talking to you.”

I looked up into her eyes for the first time and said that I was sorry.

“What’s your name again?  Your father called me about two weeks ago.  Can’t expect to remember that far back.”

“Corvo.”

“Right, right, little Corvo he said,” she giggled.

At this point, I underwent a thought process that was a bit complicated for my age.  I thought of Sal, and how he was a thief.  From that, I connected a thief with a liar.  So if in fact Sal was a thief and liar, then I proudly accused him of lying about Mrs. May.  She didn’t seem that bad.  Yes, she handled him quite roughly, but it was reasonable.  And she smiled at me, so I became less frightened by her words, and altogether, less afraid of her.  But I would soon learn that May was just very skilled at hiding her emotions.