CALM

004.

004.

WHEN THEODORE WINTHROP WAS SEVEN, he managed to run away from his house. He couldn't remember exactly what his parents had done to make him pack a week's worth of clothing into a small multi-colored suitcase and walk a mile to the nearest house to his. The Wyngards.

It was just ironic how he now was leaned against the front door of Clifford Boateng's house to clean Oliver's blood from his white carpets. He shook his head at the thought of it.

The night was barely thirty-two degrees when he decided to hop out of his second-floor bedroom and climb down the nimble oak tree that sat right outside his window. Jance Wyngard cuddled him in a tight hug when he rang their doorbell at midnight, her nightgown a sheer baby blue and her blonde hair smelt like fresh honeydew.

Theodore glanced down at the watch on his wrist. George had told him to be here at exactly six. It was now six fifteen and George was nowhere in sight. He sat down on the gravel and looked around the estate, his eyes taking in everything but his brain refusing to process it.

Oliver had ran down the stairs and dragged Theodore upstairs to his room, sneaking him past his sleeping twin in the bed over, to see the new plane model his father had bought him for his eighth. Jance had come upstairs and tucked Oliver into bed before Theodore and herself had walked down to the kitchen.

She had given him a plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies as she dialed the Winthrop household number only for the dial tone to answer her. She then called Mrs. Winthrop's personal phone and was greeted by a fake hello.

Theodore was too young to understand at the time, but the hushed tone Jance had spoken to his mother was a beratement. He had finished his plate a short while after Jance had finished. He would spend the night there—the guest room smelling like fresh lilies, her family's favorite flowers. And the next day, when his mother had picked him up from the Wyngards, he wished that he could change his last name.

"Teddy," called a voice.

He looked up to see George, two large buckets clasped in his hands. "What are those for," he asked.

"I didn't know what we would need to clean up...well you know." He motioned one of the buckets towards Theodore. "Were you crying?"

"No. Just...reflecting I guess."

"Are you okay?"

"Could I really be okay with what we did?"

George looked away from him. "No."

|

Blood was harder to clean from the walls than it was to clean from the white carpets. It had taken them a large part of their Sunday morning, and Theodore could still streaks of red on the linen walls of the guest bedroom.

But the two sat in the living room of Biff's house, the sun setting directly over the horizon, the light watching them like an eye of an omnipresent god. Theodore shivered underneath the sunlight, while George basked in it. His arms were outstretched like a cat as he yawned slowly to the dying sun.

"We need to finish cleaning that room," George said through mid-yawn.

"It only looks like a wine stain now."

"And it also reeks of bleach in there. That's going to be harder to explain to Biff than a fucking wine stain."

"Relax, George. We'll finish it before the end of the weekend."

George shook his head as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Cynthia can show up anytime to clean this massive fucking house. So let's just clean it and-"

Click. The boys both peaked their heads to the front door. The door unlocked and the footsteps heightening the pumps George's heart gave.

"What the fuck do we do?" hissed Theodore.

George shrugged his shoulders as small as he could as if the intruder could see every one of his movements. "It probably Biff. Or Cynthia. Act normal.

The footsteps rounded the corner and out peered Biff, Celeste, and a random short man eerily similar to the man they had exchanged cars with two nights ago.

"Mom..." George spoke, his gaze still on the mysterious man. "I thought you'd be in New York until the end of the week."

"I'm flying back in about an hour," she looked to Biff and then to the handkerchief man next to him. "I needed to come down and deal with...some things."

George glanced back to Theodore, his eyes wide. "I hope it has something to do with Biff," he laughed humorlessly.

Biff stood next to him shook his head tightly. George could feel his heart tighten in his chest and then took a step forward to the mysterious man next to his mother.

"I'm George Hearst." He motioned his head towards his mother. "Celeste's son."

The man took his hand and returned it with a firm handshake. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Hearst. I'm Alexander Gulley, Biff's attorney." He then grabbed a handkerchief from his suit pocket and whipped his hands.

George took another step forward, but towards his mother. He leaned down towards her ear and whispered, "Mom, what's happening?"

She leaned back and looked him in the eyes, confusion and fret twirling in her green eyes. "Don't worry, George."

He took a step back and look at the three of them. If anything it looks like they had been more guilty or a crime than George and the others. Biff coughed quietly into his hand and then motioned his head towards the guest room that George and Theodore were cleaning.

Celeste nodded her head and gave her son a quick kiss on her son's cheek. "Head home, George. I'll see you at the end of the week." She then turned around and followed Biff and Gulley down the hallway.

Theodore moved to stand next to George. He could feel the shakiness of his hand against his leg. "What the fuck do we do?"

George gulped. "Pray to God that they think it's wine."