A Room With A View

Chapter Fifty-One - Phineas

November 23, Thursday

Phineas sat hunched forward with his elbows on his knees. He hadn't moved from the chair in three hours.

It hadn't been the first time he'd seen a tenant die in the Watley, but it had been the first time he hadn't been able to hide behind his father's coattails while Watley Sr. delivered the news.

Phineas's hands shook. They hadn't stopped shaking since Theodore hand rung Phineas's bell to tell Phineas of Ms. Newman's passing.

He swallowed thickly. He'd had to write out what he was going to say before knocking on Mr. Margova's door, and even still the word had come out hollow and rushed. Phineas had left like a coward before Mr. Margova could even ask any questions. Phineas had done his duty as caretaker of the Watley, and he could do no more.

Phineas's father had always instilled in him the importance of being the director of the Watley. They needed to be the champions providing good news, and they needed to be the shoulders bearing the bad.

Which was why no one had been there to tell Phineas his father had died. Phineas had had to discover the cold truth himself.

Phineas's mother had passed in childbirth, so Phineas had grown up solely with his father. There had been no siblings or cousins to speak of. Of course, there were other members of the Watley family, but they were distant relations and had moved away from the family's stories reputation.

Growing up, Phineas had often wondered what it would be like if even just one of those relations had called, or written a note. He'd fantasized about differing old aunts coming to whisk him away, or affectionate grandparents packing him off and taking him to live in the wilds of Nebraska.

But no one had come. Not even when Phineas had posted the obituary in the paper. So he'd sifted through the posthumous legalese with only his father's accountant to hold his hand. Although, at 27, he'd been long past the age of holding someone's hand.

Phineas's jaw twitched. He hadn't known what to say to Mr. Margova, because Phineas didn't know what he wished someone would've said to him. How did one convey the news that the parent you abhorred has died?

The doorbell rang suddenly, causing Phineas to flinch. He wasn't expecting anyone. But before Phineas had even risen halfway out of his chair, he heard the door open, and then close with a sharp click.

"Hello?" Phineas called, his voice seeming to echo off the marble.

"Hi Phineas." It was Alice.

Phineas walked quickly to the foyer, his feet tripping over themselves.

Alice was standing in the center of the small entrance hall, clutching a sheet pan to her chest.

They stood seven feet apart. Neither met the other's eyes. Phineas didn't know what emotion he would find written in hers.

"I, um, brought you Thanksgiving," Alice said, holding out the sheet pan.

"Well not Thanksgiving," she corrected quickly, "just the food."

A red flush crept its way from her neck to her nose.

"Thank you," Phineas said evenly.

They lapsed back into silence, Alice still holding out the pan. After a minute or two, she coughed quietly and Phineas was spurred into action. He took the pan from her and carried it into the kitchen, hearing her soft footsteps behind him. She'd always taken off her shoes whenever she'd entered his apartment. When they were little it was because she thought the marble was too beautiful to walk on with "grody shoes".  Phineas wasn't sure what her reason was now; he'd never asked.

Phineas set the tray down on the kitchen's granite countertop. With Alice watching him, he slowly peeled back the aluminum foil tent d over the tray.

Underneath was a mound of turkey, seemingly drowning in gravy. Alice's mother's famous sweet potatoes and marshmallows filled nearly a third of the tray, with her father's cranberries and slices of an iced bread filling out the last third.

Something caught in Phineas's chest.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

Alice merely nodded and opened the drawer in the center of the island, withdrawing two silver forks. She handed one to Phineas and sat on the leather stool next to him.

Like every year before, she pushed the cranberries as far away from her as possible and took a forkful of marshmallows.

The doorbell rang again, but Phineas ignored it. He didn't need anyone else today.

"Happy Thanksgiving, Phineas," she said, her words muffled by fluff and sweet potato.

"Happy Thanksgiving, Alice," he said.

He felt Alice reach over and take his hand with her free one. She squeezed it, but didn't let go.