Steel Rose

Chapter 67

Belle Pov

The days moved in a blur as I quickly settle into a routine. Six days out of the week, from 10:30 to 4:00 Monday, Wednesday and Friday I work leaving me to have lunch at work and dinner with Carmadon. From 4:00 till 10:00 on Tuesday and Thursday I work, leaving me to have lunch with Carmadon and dinner at work. Saturday I skip breakfast and I only work the morning and the rest of the day belongs to me and Darcy, whom we mostly spend with Mora at her shop or with Carmadon in his kitchen.

I don't know how I manage to do so, and everyone around me is are happy to point it out with phrases like, 'You've got a baby girl, get home.' or 'Slow down, Belle.' or 'Ain't you tired? Seem like everyday I watch you jump back and forth through these streets like your tail on fire. Go home! I'm sick of looking at you.'

The latter is my favorite, coming from a older Red woman who owns a little café, a few door down from Mora's shop, although she obviously favors whatever liquor she keeps in the little silver flask that she had hidden away in her faded white apron. She looks like she is made out of stone, with old roots for hands, her veins sticking proudly through her skin broadcasting her age. She observes the streets with narrowed focused grey eyes and pursed thin lips, and is quick to shoo off anyone she deems "unworthy" with her particularly thick broomstick.

She smells faintly of spices and whatever smell old people tend to share. A little weight lingers around her hips and she had a slight slouch to her shoulders. She is always fussing with her grey hair, that she keeps tucked into a tight bun at the nap of her neck and curses under her breath.

But I like her. Myrtle is her name and Ms. Myrtle is what she told me to call her and threatened me with hell if I called her anything else. It is Ms.Myrtle girl, and I don't want to hear nothing else come out of your mouth when you address me. I ain't no Mrs anymore. My husband is dead in the ground and there he'll stay come hell or high water. Which is exactly what you'll get if you call me Mrs again.

What else was I to do but say, "Yes, ma'am."

Of course, all this hard exterior goes out the window as soon as she lays eyes on Dasarious, one sunny Saturday after work. She ticks her finger at him in his little stroller, I've managed to buy with my first paycheck, and talks to him about her own sons. She lets him grab her fingers and burp up on her apron. I can only watch in amusement as this old battle ax turns to mush for my almost two month old.

I sip of my cup of honey tea and nibble on my brownie as me and Darcy perch ourselves in the metal chairs outside Ms. Myrtle's café watching the traffic. Myrtle has Darcy placed in her lap, holding him up with expertise.

"How old are you girl?" She asks me, pursing her lips and looking me over.

"Nineteen," I tell her. "I'll be turning twenty in a few months and Dasarious will be two months old in a week."

"Nineteen," she murmers. "Who's the daddy?" She peers at me. "You do know who the daddy is right?"

I blush at her unfiltered indication. "Yes, ma'am I do know who the father is."

She places Darcy back in his stroller, clipping him back in. She makes sure he is secure before sitting back up and leaning back to glare at me. "Then why I ain't ever see him around? He dead?"

"No, ma'am," I answer before adding. "I'm fairly certain he is alive. And well." I place my cup down on the table with a dull thunk. "He is just not around right now, Ms. Myrtle."

The lines around her pursed lips soften for a moment as she takes my implication. "Mmm," she grumbles. She glances at Darcy in his stroller. She looks back at me for a moment and I feel myself shrink under her scrutiny.