16
Danny Hebert was a man who was used to hardship. It had been a companion growing up, it had been a more distant frenemy during the years of his marriage, only to come around again and crash on his couch in the years after. It was a colleague now, adapting smoothly from struggling against the rising tide of poverty and obsolescence in the Union to the Sisyphean push against crime and parahuman villainy. Danny was used to hardship, and to making the most of his abilities in the face of it.
So why, he wondered, staring into his refrigerator at 6:00 AM, was such a simple thing as talking to his daughter so unconquerably hard?
On the wire shelf next to the milk was a pair of boxes— fine-set wicker ones, of all things. They were attractive boxes, he'd give them that, painted and lacquered red with a few white flowers for contrast. Danny took a moment to listen for sounds of Taylor rising with the sun, and then took a peek inside the boxes.
It was more boxes. Well, okay, it wasn't a nesting doll situation, but it looked like the stackable wicker boxes were more to hold and decorate a pair of plastic tupperware containers. These were divided up into compartments, separating an array of food that had Danny scratching his head in no time. There was rice, sprinkled with some sort of herb, and a section filled with vegetables. There was a neatly-arranged fruit salad. There were—were those octopi?!
No, he concluded, after a moment. They were hot dogs, cut to have little tentacles, and with small holes poked in the ends for a face. The other box had a cup of yogurt, a slightly-flattened bread roll, and a bunch of little rolled-up egg things. Danny packed the lunches back up, and shut the fridge. Okay. So the selection and presentation was a little odd, but— cooking! She liked cooking. That was a thing they could talk about, a nice safe topic. With a satisfied nod, Danny started on brewing a pot of coffee, and set a kettle of water on the stove to heat up for tea.
Taylor came down a bit later, with her backpack slung over one shoulder, and wearing trim white overalls over a red shirt. She'd been wearing those colors a lot lately... maybe they could repaint her room sometime, redecorate to her taste? Yes, that was another good plan. She dropped her bag near the table and moved for the cereal, and Danny saw her smile when she spotted the steaming kettle. Progress. Okay Danny, deep breath, time to make this work.
"Good morning, Taylor," he started. "I've got the kettle on. So, uh, how's..."
How are your studies? Is school going any better for you? Do you have a favorite class? Do you need any help with homework? Did you need anything from the store to make your lunches? What's with the boxes? Is there a reason you want to eat marine animals? Are hot dogs more delicious that way? Where'd you get the idea for that? Maybe you could show me how to pack lunches sometime? We could do it together, would you like that?
"...how'd you sleep?" Damn it.
"Fine." She poured herself a bowl of cereal, then switched to getting a cup of tea ready. Danny silently poured himself a cup of coffee, and steeled himself for a second attempt.
"Any plans for today?" There, yes, good!
"Just the usual, I guess." Taylor shrugged, and didn't elaborate further. Danny felt defeat settle over his shoulders and give him a mocking pat on the back. Soon enough, Taylor was out the door and on her bike headed to Winslow, and Danny was left alone in the house, to face the rest of the day. He finished his coffee, then walked around and shut the blinds on the windows before dragging out his work bag and rifling through it a bit. He pulled out a pair of well-articulated wind-up toy dolls, then set them on the kitchen floor. A quick mental push, and the two dolls grew to life size while Danny finished his toast. He put the dish in the sink and cracked his knuckles, once.
"All right. Vacuum's in the closet, duster is under the sink. Let's get to work."
An hour later the house was clean, the dolls were returned to inanimacy and packed away, and Danny was out of things to do. This was why he'd rather be at work, when possible. There was always something he could turn his attention to, something he could accomplish. Not an option today, Emily had warned him if he even tried to clock in on his day off she'd have him thrown into M/S Confinement out of spite. He had no doubt she'd do it, too. Director Piggot had a never-ending well of spite.
Danny sighed, and headed out the front door, instead. Maybe he could check the mail again. Or… weed the sidewalk. Something. It was that or surrender to the fact he'd be spending the rest of the day reading rule books, or watching cat videos, or something as similarly brain-draining.
He pulled open the mailbox—empty, what a surprise—then turned and started towards the back yard, instead. Maybe he could check on that tree Taylor planted, make sure it was doing okay. The sapling was certainly growing quickly enough, Danny rather doubted there was anything it needed from him. Of course it wouldn't. Before he got there, he caught sight of Mrs. Henrick weeding her flower beds, and Mr. Henrick on the front porch, rocking slightly in the loveseat swing. Danny abandoned the tree and went to go lean on the white picket fence, instead.
"Morning George, Martha."
"Good morning, Danny! Nice to see you, are you taking the day off from work?" Mrs. Henrick smiled up at him, her face a portrait of wrinkles. Mr. Henrick simply watched from the porch. Danny nodded, and made an affirmative noise in his throat.
"Sure am… hey, can I ask you two a question?"
"Of course, Danny, what do you need?"
"Christmas is coming up, y'know. I was wondering if you two had any ideas of what Taylor might want. I don't want to ask her and ruin the surprise, eheh…" Mr. Henrick raised a single brow, his face making it clear he saw the excuse for what it was. Shame seeped through Danny and joined the vast groundwater reserves of itself.
"Oh, well, let me think…" Mrs. Henrick grabbed for her cane and pulled herself up. "She does a lot of drawing and painting, of course, she's always looking for sales and bringing home buckets of the stuff." Danny nodded… wait, buckets? How much paint could she need?
"She helps me garden a bit sometimes, and she's usually got a project or two downtown to work on. She's asked me for help with cooking a fair few times, too! I think there's a boy she fancies," she added in a stage whisper. Danny's brain screeched to a halt.
"Oh, leave the poor girl alone on that, Martha. Wait for her to come around on her own before you try and foist your cherry cakes onto her." Mr. Henrick grumbled. "Danny, that goes for you too. If you're looking for gift ideas, I'd say take her craft shopping, or maybe get her some things for her dog."
"Uhuh," Danny replied, his thoughts far away. He mentally calculated how many shovels he might need to get the point across. Or maybe he could get a toy bulldozer, a mini-cement truck… "Thanks, you two. I'll be sure and do that, that's… helpful. Yes."
He made absent-minded small talk for another minute or two, before excusing himself and heading inside. Danny sat down on the couch to let things settle. He was overreacting, and he knew it. Taylor was a smart, down-to-earth girl, she wouldn't get into anything crazy. Not like he and Annette had, he reflected. And anyway, she was fifteen, she didn't need him poking his nose into her business. Just— deep breaths. Taylor hadn't said anything, but that was normal for girls her age. He was overreacting.
He found a pad of paper and a pencil, and jotted down a few notes on what the Henricks had told him. Craft stores, and cooking supplies… She'd been a creative girl since she was young. Maybe he could extend that offer to paint minis together again. Yes, good plan. He could even ask her today, after she got back from school. In fact…
Danny set the pad of paper aside, then headed into the kitchen. He checked the fridge and jotted a few items on the grocery list, taped to the front of the appliance, then rummaged into the cupboards a little. Maybe one of the old cookbooks had survived the Great Basement Migration. And if not, maybe Taylor could pick one out? Danny's hand found a red-checkered binder, then pulled away as though it burned. He'd save the handwritten recipes inside for another time. Better to find something new, something without memories already attached.
Danny went back to the couch, eyed the clock, then laid down. Time enough for a nap, get rid of a few hours and maybe some of the weight in his chest. Danny closed his eyes, and counted sheep, until he settled into that hazy half-asleep state, where thoughts flow together and blur. A couple of thoughts, half-memory, bumped together and stuck. Danny jolted himself awake, sat up, and blinked. The thought was still there. He scrambled off the couch and ran for his work bag.
* * *
In her office, Director Emily Piggot tap-tap-tapped away at her keyboard, sending emails and writing memos and just generally putting out fires. Or more helpfully, smothering them before they could start. In Brockton Bay, it was an unending battle. A ring pulled her attention away from the computer monitor, and Emily had half-reached for her desk phone before she realized it was her own cell that was ringing, not the inter-PRT phone. She pulled out the device, checked the caller ID, and frowned.
"Chessman. It's Monday, what seems to be the probl—"
"I don't have a dog!"
"Try the city pound."
"No! No you don't understand, I don't have a dog!"
"Okay, Chessman. Could you hold for a moment?" Director Piggot sighed, set down her cell, and reached for the desk phone after all. She had entirely too many reasons for having M/S Containment on speed-dial.
