It was dark.
The kitchen air had fallen still and musty, probably with age.
Johnston cursed as quietly as possible, almost a whisper and quite matter-of-fact. His scrubber’s bristles, loose and dull, were matted through with tiny fragments. Slime from old, scorched beans and days’ worth of a crusty film held fast.
He gritted his teeth and scraped all the more beneath pale, lukewarm water.
The chore had to be done, so he let his mind wander in the particular way it had trained itself to, having now well over a decade’s practice.
Stef . . . Stefani… Perhaps it’s just her fun, cute way of spelling Stephanie. Or maybe Stephany.
Yes, he could picture her now. And Gabby. And others, all clustered in a tight circle on the floor of Stefani’s pink and Easter-blue, pony-themed princess room. He envisioned the troop of pajama-pantsed beauties all laughing and egging each other on as together they penned Mark’s note.
Johnston now knew the note by heart. He had read and reread it over 50 times, letting his mind run to fill in every missing detail.
Had she given the note to Mark? Had Mark tried to throw it away and missed? Did that mean poor Stefani might be alone somewhere even now, perhaps softly crying into her teddy’s side for having been so slighted?
How could Mark have committed such treason? Johnston would never spurn so exquisite a creature as Stefani. Of course not.
And he could just see Mark, too . . . the pretty-boy idiot, self-obsessed, immature, carefree and careless.
The dishwater seemed to stink more than usual as Johnston continued to scrape with all his worth, tearing at a few final filthy remnants until at last he saw no traces.
With a smile, he set about drying and putting away.
The odd football yell or hyena shriek from down the hall was nothing new. Barely even noticeable.
His smile grew as the complete blueprint for a plan seemed to leap all at once to his mind, ordered already in sequential steps. He would write Stef a note, and leave it near the same place, though more visible out in the hallway.
And what if his note were to actually reach her? How romantic would their against-all-odds story one day be? He could just see himself with Stefani reciting their unlikely tale for the nth time to seated half-ring rows of beloved grandchildren.
But first Johnston would scrimp and save, running that decrepit scrub brush through more sets before retirement. That way he could take her to the movies and buy her popcorn.
He would treat her the way she needed to be treated . . . the way she deserved . . . like royalty.
She just needs someone to show her how special she is. Someone to love her.
The noises from Johnston’s older brother’s room became less human and more frequent.
Johnston remained completely still, unaffected.
The dishes were done. Yes. Floors were clean.
He paced over and lowered himself to the brown shag-carpet beside an old cherry-wood desk his father might have used. He had been told this was the very spot his father’s body was discovered. It had since become Johnston’s spot, right at the center of the house.
He stared into a blank white page that lay diagonal on the floor before him and waited for careful designs to become correct words.
Then his gaze shifted, and he stared way past the page (and every fluffy shade beneath) until all blurred to sweet meaningless oblivion.
The expected words came, and he wrote.
Hi Stefani,
How are you? Ok, try not to be mad, but I found your letter to Mark. I thought it was great! I loved what you said and the way you wrote it. My name is Johnston, by the way. Johnston Sayen.
I know this is going to sound strange, but can I meet you? I just mean that, if Mark did not appreciate your letter, maybe you would like to know someone that did?
Maybe your letter never got to him. If that is the case, forget about what I said. You can try to get another letter to him. Or whatever you want to do.
Well, I will leave it at that. Since I found your letter, I have been thinking about you. A lot. Haha. bfn
xxx
JS
He was happy with his draft, though he knew it would undergo scores of tiny tweaks throughout the night.
But first Johnston let himself get lost again, staring far deeper than carpet could go in total stillness and silence.
Time slipped away as it always did, and he became that boy again . . . the one whose older-brother guardian was always off somewhere subdued in distant rooms by all the worst subductions. He was once more that quiet boy who taught himself to clean from magazines, and who learned to find his own way to each school . . . that boy who met all violence and chaos head-on with the sheer force of a simple belief in a single ideal: that Johnston could be, and do, and become anything he chose if he were just to complete each necessary step. It was more than a belief, really. It would always be his way out . . . his line to reach for and return to no matter what.
Johnston certainly wasn’t violent. Never.
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