2022-06-01 - Book Drop: Reparations

The holiday weekend was bright and sunny and is now, alas, over-- though that has varying meanings in this particular household, given hours of work, study and other occupation. It's late in the afternoon when Una gets home, letting herself in through the front door rather than the back for once, shoes removed, and--

The library door is open. That happens when their resident ghost is active, of course, but that's been less and less often of late, and maybe that's not actually the whole point, either, because it's not so much that the door is open that prompts her gasp of surprise, but the fact of what she sees when she reaches in to try and close the door again.

Something is wrong.

"DELLA? JULES?"

"-- What?!"

Della, caught with her headphones off; and, given the tone in her housemate's voice, Della now clattering down the stairs: casual shorts, video-meeting blouse and jewelry, high ponytail swinging.

Down the stairs, down the hall (bloooooody hands)...

Jules has been laying low and keeping out of her housemates' way as much as possible, either sequestered in her room or 'out,' wherever 'out' may be. But she's home now, as evidenced by her yelled, "WHAT?"

She clatters down the stairs not long after Della, bare feet whumping against the wood floor, and comes screeching to a halt in front of the library door, looking at Una. "What's going on?"

There's something a little wide-eyed and hesitant about Una's expression as she waits for her housemates to assemble, and when they do, words seem to have failed her because she simply gestures through the door, at the library.

... that's not quite a library. Oh, the bookcases are in place, but they're all empty, and the whole room seems somehow brand new: sun streams in through the window, the floor looks newly polished (and utterly pristine), and none of the usual stale, uncomfortably chilly presence is there.

Della's lips round in a silent ooh, round like her own eyes -- "...You didn't just clean, did you?"

"Well fuck me."

Jules transfers her attention from Una to the library on her housemate's indication and stares at the interior. "That's not our library." She sounds curious, mainly. "Did the ghost change it? Can ghosts do that? I know nothing about ghost powers, if we're being honest. HEY IRVING ,YOU IN THERE? DID YOU FUCK WITH THE LIBRARY?"

Una's hands flail a little, incoherent in their messaging. "That's not our library," she confirms, voice strangled and strange. "But it looks like our library, doesn't it? It's the right size and shape, but-- it's not just that the books aren't there."

Asshole Irving is never precisely voluble, but if he's anywhere, it doesn't seem to be here. His whole presence is just... gone.

Once upon a time, Della hadn't gotten the same library-vibes they had; now -- now, crowding the entry, she has something to compare it to. "Maybe? Ask Ravn? Here," and she pockets her phone before sticking her arm past the flailing as best she can: is it a force field? Will her hand bounce off?!

"Are we in a Dream?"

Jules waits expectantly, muttering to herself in the meantime: “Come on, asshole, show yourself, please don’t let this be weirder than it already is, please just be one f your stupid pranks.”

It’s not working. No ghost. Della’s question has Jules looking at her sharply. “Aww, fuck.”

"Are we?" Una's not certain, though of course that would help to explain a lot about this whole situation.

Della's arm crosses the threshold easily enough; no forcefield. It's not a warm spring day on the other side of the door, though, not given the air temperature. Instead, it's a little damp, a little chilly, and though the sun is certainly shining right in, it's not the same sun that is pouring in through the windows elsewhere in the house.

That's when a little head appears around the other side of the door, red-haired and perhaps five or six, dressed in a cotton smock of some kind.

"Who are you?" the childlike voice wants to know.

"...Brr." Della retracts her arm, only then just winds up leaning agaainst the doorframe to peer down at the kid. "Your name isn't 'Una,' is it? We're invited. I'm Del."

“Oh shit,” Jules breathes as the child appears. This is promptly followed with her self-reprimand: “Do not swear in front of the kid, Jules. Don’t do it.”

Except then Della asks her question. “Oh shit.”

Una-- adult Una, the one who is definitely Una and not just a pint-sized redhead-- shoots Della a horrified glance. There is no way in hell...

... right?

"That's a silly name," declares the child, shaking her head firmly. "I'm Millie. Millie Irving. This is my house. Do you want to see my books?"

'Millie' -- and that's when Della sends a tip-browed, marveling glance Una's way. "Millie," she lets the repetition buy at least a little time. "Pleased to meet you, Millie. I do love books, and I would love to see your books."

Although she does turn to include the other two, "Wouldn't you?" If either housemate wants to stop them, now is the time.

“Don’t go through there.” Jules’ warning is immediate, alarmed. She reaches to grasp Della’s arm. “Remember has happened to me? You don’t not know where it goes. Not really. And I can’t bring us back.”

Una looks positively pole-axed. Millie Irving. Millie Irving?

She's possibly a little too overwhelmed by that little bit of information to properly register the rest of what's going on; what Della might do; what Jules says not to do.

Millie beams, reaching her hand out in the hopes of taking Della's and tugging her in. "Mama says I can have a whole shelf for my books," she announces. "But they haven't been moved in yet. Not all of them, but some! Won't you come in?" She's a little more shy towards the other two, apparently having caught some of the under-current even if she's not following their every word.

Della could pull past Jules -- but she doesn't. That's not her mother, nor a semblance of her mother, on the other side. (Not yet.) Instead, she gives the other woman a quick nod and crouches down to accept Millie's hand... and clasp it, with a little introductory shake before letting go. "Lucky," she says. "Good luck. A whole shelf!"

But, earnestly, "Is it all right if I sit here on this side, for now? My friend's a little uncertain," as opposed to being very certain Della shouldn't go there, "and I want to help her feel comfortable." Both of them.

Jules keeps her hand on Della's shoulder when she crouches down, tense and ready to grab her. At the moment, she's more concerned about Della's actions than just who this little girl is or her shelf full of books.

"I would just like to point out, Una, that this is me being responsible and not doing stupid shit," Jules says conversationally. The look she steals at Una follows her comment. "Whoa, you look weird. Do you need to sit down? Who is this? Is this like your grandma or something? Let me tell you a thing or two about meeting your ancestors: do not accept whatever gifts they may want to give you."

Millie shakes Della's hand very solemnly, though she otherwise seems very pleased. "Yes, if that would please you," she parrots, in a way that suggests she's copying someone else's words, here.

Also? "I'm not a grandmother!" Little Millie seems to think this is a good joke, and giggles brightly for it. "I'm six! My grandmother died in the fire that burnted down our house, but that was before I was born."

"I see that," murmurs Una, very low-voiced. Deep breaths. This is fine.

Della outright beams at her; whatever issues she might sometimes have around infants, Millie -- who loves books! -- is another story. With that, taking it easy, she moves under Jules' hand to just... sit down. Right there on the runner, "Criss-cross applesauce. I'm sorry you didn't get to meet your grandma! Did you get to meet your other one? This house is very nice."

She doesn't look back at Una, but surely -- something about the tilt of her shoulder, the angle of her smile -- she's aware.

Sitting is good. Sitting means that there's still time for Jules to grab Della, should she decide to make a scramble for that open door. Jules relaxes just a bit, though she's still keeping an eye on this whole situation.

"Mom?" she asks Una without looking at her, pitching her voice low.

"No," says Millie. "Just Grandfather. He's angry all the time, and I don't like it, but mama says I shouldn't mind him, he's just sad." She follows Della's lead and sits down, cross-legged, her smock riding up to reveal more of her bloomers. "It's a very nice house. I get my own room and everything, and you can slide on the floors because they're so shiny!"

Una gives a minute shake of her head: no, not her mom, either. She's completely at a loss.

"That sounds hard. I hope he, mm, feels better soon. And is kind to you and your mama, especially." Della's already borrowing something of the way the girl speaks. The way Millie speaks. "Your own room! That sounds lovely. I shared with my sister for ages and ages. But we couldn't slide on our floors, or," down the stair-rail? Della stops short rather than say. "But your books, which books do you like? 'Little Women,' maybe? 'Little House on the Prairie'? Not that they should all have 'little' in them, but some good ones do." To her housemates, as though she were just asking about books and absolutely nothing else -- well, maybe having one's own room -- "What do you think?"

"Ancestors." That's what Jules thinks, exasperated.

She finally begins to pay more attention to Millie, considering her with her lips firmly shut tight. Eventually, she ventures a question. "What's your grandfather's name?" She can't help but continue that line of thought aloud, adding for Della and Una, "I wonder if that's the same guy as our ass-- nope, nope, stop right there, ancestor ghost."

"He's not a ghost or a donkey: he's alive!" Millie is beginning to give Jules wary looks, because seriously, what kind of weird person is she? Though maybe that's the point-- it strikes her then, a moment later. "You must be the new servants. Mama said she wasn't going to hire injuns because they're dirty but you don't seem dirty."

Forget books: let's have some casual racism instead.

Una freezes, and goes bright, scarlet red.

Della's lips press together: she has a filter, and she's using it. Her posture has changed -- oh, she's still sitting cross-legged, but her arms aren't relaxed any longer, and her back is straighter -- and even her expression's less open now, her eyes darker. The unexpectedness of it.

But what she says is -- with a held-up hand for Jules that she can't imagine will stop her -- "We aren't dirty, no; none of us are. We aren't servants, either. You could wash and wash and wash my hair and it wouldn't get red like yours, because it likes to be this way. It's more interesting to have different colors."

Surely it’s the after effects of the fruit, and not just Jules being Jules, when she promptly suggests to this red-haired child, “Tell your mama she can go fuck herself.”

Good thing Della’s there to hopefully smooth things over with a little education, because Jules takes this moment to stalk towards the kitchen. “Give me a minute.” Whatever else she has to say, she at least contains to mutters under her breath.

"Mama says--" But although young Millie doesn't entirely understand what is happening, she's clearly perceptive enough to have picked up on something. "Why would Mama say something that isn't true? She says it's bad to lie. Are you Baxters? Or Addingtons? Grandfather says they're all bad news too, and I thought bad news was in the newspaper, but I'm not sure how that works?"

Una sucks in another breath through her teeth, caught short between rushing after Jules and staying to watch this perplexing child. For now, that means she does nothing.

Deep breath -- it's subtle, but Una might recognize it -- and time for some emotional labor. More emotional labor. If the child had been resolute... but she hadn't. "Sometimes bad news is just gossip," Della says plainly. "Sometimes it's harder when it's in the newspaper, because it's right there for everyone to see, you can touch it... and sometimes it's harder when it's gossip, because you can't pin it down and make it right. Or tear it in half." Her hands are open on her knees, deliberately so.

"For what it's worth, none of us would want you to lie, I don't think." Della valiantly, valiantly refrains from describing exceptions. "Even so, when you said that, it hurt my friend's feelings and she felt," mad? upset? bitter? "unhappy. I felt unhappy too."

"Goddamn fucking racism!"

That would be Jules, venting in the relative privacy of the kitchen.

Okay, so maybe it's not that private.

Millie's eyes-- blue, not brown like Una's-- open wide, and she looks genuinely horrified. "Oh no, I didn't mean to," she says. "To hurt you or to hurt her. Should I go and 'pologise? Nanny says that's the best thing to do when you say the wrong thing, and I am sorry. Is it a bad word?"

Which one?

"Thank you," says Della, her solemnity underlaid with quiet, genuine relief. "Your nanny sounds like a wise lady, and that's a very good idea. Let's first see if she's ready, hm?" She stands, and offers Millie her hand to do the same before calilng down the hallway, "Jules? Is it okay with you if Millie comes and apologizes?" She does not mention cookies; she does not specify words.

Silence in the kitchen. Then Jules appears in the hallway again, deliberately calm as she says, “I’m okay.”

The question itself has her sucking in a breath and looking to Una. “Can she? Can she do that?” She’s aware Millie can hear all this, and she looking back at the child, Jules quickly says, “Here, let me come to you.”

Too late: Millie has taken Della's hand and powered forward, crossing the boundary between library and hallway just as Jules speaks. Nothing seems to happen to her, as she crosses: she's still a small child, dressed in a somewhat old-fashioned smock and bloomers. "I'm ever so, ever so sorry," she tells Jules, lifting her chin to look up at her, determined and eager. "You're not dirty and not a servant. I know that now."

She hesitates, and then barrels onwards. "Are you an injun? Grandfather says they used to live all over here, but we do now... does that mean we have your property? I shouldn't want to think that."

Una looks horrified. "Oh shit," she says.

And... that's where Della doesn't chime in, not even to discuss the merit and worthiness of various occupations (possibly including maid-of-all-work to a landlord), though she had patted Millie's shoulder encouragingly as the girl went by. This is for Jules.

Which doesn't mean that she doesn't give her housemate a speaking look over Millie's head -- though what it says may be less than clear. Is Una guarding the door? She's not; although she stops well before reaching Jules and the girl, it's to watch them.

“Thank you for your apology. I know it’s not your fault. You’re just repeating what you hear adults say.” Jules speaks evenly, despite her outburst not two minutes prior in the kitchen. After that she once more keeps her lips tightly sealed for a moment, squatting down to get to Millie’s level.

“Yes, I’m an Indian. It’s okay to call me that, but ‘injun’ isn’t a very nice word, even if that’s what you hear other people say. You can also say ‘native’ or ‘indigenous,’ though that word is probably too difficult for you to remember right now. So stick with Indian or native. Okay? And yes, you do live on our property, but that’s not your fault, that happened before you were born. But sometimes it’s hard for me to talk about that, because no one likes other people stealing from them.”

Jules can, in fact, have a conversation with this child without swearing.

Una stands by the door, at least, though whether she's looking at it-- well, no. She's watching Jules. She looks so proud.

"Oh," says Millie, frowning in consternation. "Indian or native, I will remember that, I promise. I'll tell Grandfather, too. I'm sorry that you were stolen from. If it were my house, I would give it back to you, but it isn't. Do you want one of my books? I could give you something of mine to make up for it, would that be okay?"

She glances back at Della, inquiringly. Is she doing good? Is this right?

Della, so torn. So, so, so torn. She does give Millie an encouraging smile to go with the earlier pat, but at the same time...

In the end she murmurs, "You might get into trouble with your nanny or your mama, mightn't you? Books aren't necessarily easy to find," and doesn't otherwise interject.

"Oh, sweetheart."

Jules smiles at this child, so earnestly set on doing the right thing and making things better. "That's very kind of you. I don't think anything will quite make up for it, but if you would like to give me a book, I would be very happy to accept it. Gift giving is important, in my culture." Now, her gaze flickers to Della. "But it's also okay if you would like to keep your books. And you can tell your Grandfather, but don't be surprised when he doesn't listen or gets mad, okay? Sometimes adults get mad, especially if someone else tells them that they're wrong. And that's not your fault. Adults are pretty complicated, especially with stuff like this."

Little Millie, so conflicted. So earnest.

"I don't want to give you one of my books," she admits. "And nanny might yell, but they're my books, not hers. But... but that's the point, isn't it? If you give up something you don't want to, it's not really giving something up. That's what the Father says. So I'm going to give you a book."

That's when she runs back to the library, limbs all helter-skelter.

It's the moment she runs inside that the door slams. One moment it's open, and the next? Closed again.

The girl puzzles things out, and Della's eyes close momentarily -- only to open again, luminous with her smile, even before the girl's final decision. Brave Millie!

And then.

And then!

She pivots to follow with a quick, "Careful!" and --

-- reaches to open the door once more.

Jules smiles, somewhere between amused and astonished, and rises out of her crouch as Millie runs back to the library, through the door, into her own time.

And then the door slams.

"Well," she says slowly. "That was something."

The door opens easily enough, but on the other side? It's just the library, as cold and eerie as ever.

"Fuck me," says Una.