Nameless: The Memoirs of Jane E, Friendless Orphan, #2

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.  Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.   

NAMELESS:

THE MEMOIRS OF JANE E, FRIENDLESS ORPHAN

BOOK 2

Copyright ©2016 by Erin McCole Cupp

Cover art © 2016 by Fiona Jayde Media

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.  For information, contact the author at emccolecupp@gmail.com.  

For additional information and to order additional copies or request print copies, please visit erinmccolecupp.com.  

First Edition:  October 2016

Contents

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

After the PLED screens broadcast daylight, I went to collect Kirti for breakfast per usual.  I turned right, heading for her room, but something small, fidgety and clothed in beaded chiffon caught the corner of my left eye, shadowing the hallway bend to my left.  It was Kirti, dressed and waiting outside Mr. Thorne's room. 

Jane! Kirti cried, running to me on her dancer's feet, each step a leap.  He's here!  Thorne is here!

Kirti, what are you doing outside Mr. Thorne's door?

She stopped on tiptoes and began chattering to me in the most animated, flowing English she'd used in my presence to date.  "He got here last night.  He tucked me in and told me a story about a little kaur.  Guess what— Here she squinted her eyes, translating in her brain.  —the princess!  Guess what the princess-es-es name was!"

I don't know.

"She was called Kirti!  And in the story, a mean gabroo—old man—goes on tour so he can bring presents for Kirti Princess!  But sometimes the presents get lost before they can be delivered..." 

I couldn't help but smile.  I tilted my head to indicate that she should follow me to the breakfast room.  Art imitates life, I take it?

She was too excited to waste energy on my question.  Neither did she follow my lead away from the "gabroo's doorway.  And he asked about you."

Suddenly my feet were stuck to the floor.  Mr. Thorne?  Asked about me? 

"He asked if my homeschooler is nickhee makhna." 

I practically started out of my slippers.  I felt a little dizzy, but I attributed this to not yet breaking my fast.  He asked if I were little and— I searched my own mental dictionary.  Makhna.  Buttermilk.  —pale? 

I was, I admit, embarrassed.  This guy might have been older than I, but he couldn't have been so old to think that calling someone pale was a compliment.  Bhenji Nealingson had taught us that pale skin once implied that one did not spend one's days out in the fields and thus was of a higher social standing.  Quite the opposite of the reality we share, dear reader, where pale skin implies a life trapped inside working to make ends meet, never able to take a break outside and get that elusive balance between sunkissed skin and melanoma. 

Kirti bobbled her head in the affirmative.  Then an idea lit her already sparkling eyes.  You should knock on his door and tell him to find out when my presents get here! 

I will do no such thing.  Inwardly I was still too irritated from the previous night's encounter, and this new intelligence from Kirti did nothing to pat down my dander.  Here is a chance for you to practice patience and manners.

Patience and manners were two English words she and I had been discussing in depth over the past three months.  Inevitably, Kirti began to pout. 

Perhaps, I suggested, using this as an excuse for her to practice her language, you should ask Mrs. Fairfacs to tell Mr. Thorne that you want to see him.

Petulantly, she dropped her back against the nearest wall, folded her arms in front of her and looked heavenward with annoyance.  Mrs. Fairfacs, please, she drawled. 

The servant appeared, the morning light from above making her more translucent than usual.  Yes, Miss Kirti?

With the bad grace of forced obedience, she queried, Excuse me, but could you tell Thorne that I would like to see him, please?

Mr. Thorne is in his personal terminal on business, and he asked not to be disturbed today, but I will relay the message. 

Thank you, Mrs. Fairfacs, the child said with an imperious wave of the hand.  That will be all. 

Kirti, I sighed as Mrs. Fairfacs bobbed out of our presence, "I wish you would call Mr. Thorne 'Mister Thorne.'"

Thorne hates to be called 'Mister.'  He says he has too many names, and 'Mister' is not one of them. 

That struck me as odd.  Too many names? 

His regular names and his Catholic names.

Kirti!  I couldn't help but glance over both shoulders so quickly my neck pinched on each side.  I couldn't help my fear that the house system might have heard and relayed Kirti's innocent sentence to God knew whom.  I drove my voice to an urgent whisper.  Kirti, it's not nice to call someone a Catholic.  You could get that person in trouble.

She refused to whisper along with me.  I said Thorne's names are Catholic, not him. 

He, I corrected, wincing, but not at her grammar.  It doesn't matter.  Never mind.

What does 'never mind' mean?

It means pretend I didn't say anything about it, and let's go get breakfast. 

Pretend like in an actie?

Something like that. 

As we ate, Kirti went on to quote Mr. Thorne, further explaining—in Punjabi now—why I should not call him Mister.  Thorne says that 'Mr. Thorne' is his mother's father's name. 

More orange juice?  I asked, still trying to change the subject in the interests of preserving the man's right to ask me to call him whatever he wanted me to call him. 

As we walked to the study for our first lesson, I kept expecting to see the thief from last night standing around the next bend, the next, or the next.  I was disappointed.  We did not even run into that dog. 

Kirti and I began the day with more drills in head math.  We had the same argument we always had before these drills. 

But Jaaaaaaane!  Why do I need to do this?  I'll always have my HandRight with me!

What if a virus wipes out the calculator accessory?  What if you can't talk because you have a sore throat and your fingers are broken and you have no way of making your HandRight do your math for you?

From there, we segued into a few light story problems, the kind that did not require any writing on her part, with me guiding her through them question by question.  Believing that her brain had warmed up, I tapped a few problems into her HandRight, set a few fences to keep her out of the calculator, and instructed her to work independently for a few minutes. 

While she worked, I strolled the perimeter of the room, casually inspecting the bookcases as I always did when our lessons gave me a few moments to myself.  My eyes wandered across the crackling bindings, but my mind cavorted elsewhere, across the landscapes of the imagination.  I was lost in a daydream of stars floating in a dust cloud when Kirti announced in a triumphant chirp that she was ready to go over her results. 

After reviewing Kirti's work, helping her to correct mistakes and ladling out praise for correct answers, we took a ten minute break, for I was far more generous with breaks than my teachers had been with me.  Kirti spent most of her break in her terminal checking for a message from Thorne. 

Then we met in the large, empty room she had shown me during my first week, where we now did our exercises every morning.  Since it was all I knew, our exercises were the same ones Bhenji Fleuvbleu had taught in the Naomi dojo.  Kirti undertook these with a performer's self-consciousness and concentration, with focus admirable in a child of eight. 

I will use these exercises for warm-ups when I'm in the acties again, she announced today. 

Mrs. Fairfacs sent us water, so we took another break.  While we both sat cross-legged on the matted floor, Kirti summoned Mrs. Fairfacs. 

Is Thorne can see me now?  Kirti exclaimed in her own brand of English, jumping up and spilling some of her water on her pink leotard, splashing on the tiny blue and yellow flowers decorating her tights. 

Mr. Thorne is in his personal terminal on business, and he asked not to be disturbed today.

Same message as earlier.  Kirti's lower lip dropped into a full-force pout.  In spite of her melodramatics, I did feel sorry for her.  I too had been a little girl once, craving the attention of the only adult holding a parental position in my life, only to have those cravings left unsatisfied. 

Excuse me, Mrs. Fairfacs, I queried, my voice softening with pity, can we expect to see him today?

Him, dear?

I felt my shoulders solidify with undue irritation.  It was my own fault for using a pronoun without an antecedent, after all.  I mean Mr. Thorne.  Will we see Mr. Thorne today?

Perhaps, dear.  I'll tell him you asked. 

No!  I blurted, summoning a bland curiosity onto the hologram's face.  As miffed as I was, I did not want to miff Mr. Thorne.  He did, after all, pay my salary.  No, Mrs. Fairfacs.  There is no need to tell Mr. Thorne I asked anything. 

But— I eyed the trail of splattered water in Kirti's wake and remembered my own position.  Could you please have some dry rags sent to this room?  Then in Punjabi I added, I need Kirti to clean up her mess. 

Excuse me, Miss Jane, Mrs. Fairfacs interrupted, her lined mouth smiling in contrived confusion.  What are rags?

I exhaled with slow control.  No one had ever told her database what a 'rag' was.  Of course not.  Anyone providing her with data entry would not have expected to be held responsible for cleaning.  I mean something to clean up spilled water. 

Do you mean for me to send the mops to dry the floor?

No, thank you, Mrs.— 

Oh!  Kirti suddenly cried, her eyes sparkling with poorly concealed connivance.  Back to English, she slyly said, I can go get some towels! 

I knew where she was going with this.  She wanted an excuse to pass Mr. Thorne's room.  Kirti, Mrs. Fairfacs said we're not to disturb Mr. Thorne.  Why don't you ask—in English—for Mrs. Fairfacs to send you some towels?

Her foot stamped lightly.  But I don't know how! 

I knew that was not true.  Time to invoke the childcare professional's strongest weapon:  the forced choice. 

Kirti, I said in my own native tongue and not hers, "You get to choose.  You can ask in English for Mrs. Fairfacs to bring some towels, or you can wipe up the spilled water with your duppetta."

It's silk!  The little kaur protested in her native tongue. 

I shrugged.

She was stunned speechless, fingering the hem of the fabric she had cast aside just before exercising. 

"The choice is yours, nickhee," I said, and I stepped over to a drier spot of floor in which to continue my own stretching.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kirti standing indecisively in the doorway. 

Finally as I moved into my next stretching pose, Kirti announced in perfect General American Dialect tainted with only the slightest drop of a sigh:  Mrs. Fairfacs, please have some towels sent to me. 

I tried very hard not to smile at the victory.  In reward for her cooperation, I helped her clean up the mess and carry the towels to the closest laundry chute. 

It was a chore to keep Kirti busy for the rest of the day.  Her mind wandered even more than usual, while on the same count I was anxious.  For all I knew Mr. Thorne was watching us.  I wanted to impress him as a perfect private home educator.  My nerves made me snap at Kirti a few times during the day. 

That evening, as Kirti and Deepali finished their chocolate chip cookie sundae deserts and I sipped at my tea, I was about to dismiss Kirti for the evening when Mrs. Fairfacs appeared before us.  Ladies, Mr. Thorne has told me to bring you to the study.

Told, not asked.  Bring, not invite.  Irritation supplanted my nervousness.  Mrs. Fairfacs, can't you tell him—Mr. Thorne—where we are and he come to us? I asked. 

Her face darkened with concern.  Mr. Thorne is under doctor's orders not to exert himself too much, and he is reading in the study. 

Kirti jumped from her chair.  I ran behind her, protesting that she slow down and give Mr. Thorne the quiet he needed.  Kirti seemed not to comprehend my pleas. 

Deepali followed neither her mistress nor me out of the dining room.  I proceeded to the study with no company besides my own apprehension.  What would my first official meeting with my boss be like, here under the harsh light of the house system?  I stopped just off of the study's threshold and stretched my fingers to still their mild tremors.  I listened for some cue that my entrance would be acceptable. 

Thorne!  I heard Kirti cry.  A thud followed—the sound of an energetic child throwing herself into the unwilling arms of a burly malcontent.

Kid.  The gruff voice addressed my student with scant tolerance.  Go play with Chuck, and be quiet about it.

No wonder Kirti had trouble polishing her manners, I thought in the solitude of the hall.  Her guardian was such a poor role model.  I'd been teaching respect to an unruly student for months now.  All I needed to do was keep in mind that my boss needed the same lessons.  That would, my mind argued, ward off any temptation to feel tiny and powerless before him.  I stepped into the brighter light, my head high with forced calm. 

Mr. Thorne—for he was still Mister to my mind, regardless of what Kirti might say—had stretched himself out on the black leather couch, his broad-tipped fingers holding a book.  On his right index finger was a perks ring of solid platinum.  It had been burnished in its making, but the perks button on top did not have a single use-scratch on it.  It could not have been more than a week old. 

I'd never seen a grown man dressed so casually before in such close quarters.  He wore a pair of black shorts that stopped right above his knees, revealing a log-like pair of calves.  His feet were bare and his toes knobby with calluses that absorbed the light like sponges did water.  A loosely knit t-shirt of fading charcoal cotton strained against his blunt wedge of an upper body.  There was a palimpsest of an INGO crest, one I did not recognize, embroidered onto his shirt, considerably distorted by the muscles of the chest beneath. 

He held the front cover of his book folded over in such a way that I could not read the title, and it shielded most of his face from my view as well.  The square cut of his lined forehead and furrowed eyebrows showed above the top of the book.  He seemed to be constructed of right angles.  This greatly served to accentuate the round clarity of his eyes, which in this indoor light I saw were the hard, crystalline, black-flecked hazel of a street dog's. 

He ignored my entrance.  I glanced over at Kirti, who was kneeling on the floor with the immense Chuck, patting his shaggy coat and fawning over him in Punjabi. 

Mrs. Fairfacs appeared.  Mr. Thorne, she said, her programmed cheer stark against our keeper's brooding silence.  Mr. Thorne, this is Miss Jane E, the homeschooler you hired. 

Mmnh, he replied.  It was a sound like brick scraping brick. 

The previous night, I had taken one look at him and known that to bring him down I would need to unbalance him.  I sensed that showing him politeness in equal measure for his indifference would make him as uneasy as I was.  Extrapolating, I placed my palms together beneath my chin and bowed my head. 

Namaste, Master-ji, I said in the most deliberate tones, using the deepest title of deference I had in my arsenal for someone of his status in comparison to mine. 

Those onyxed amber eyes of his fixed on me suspiciously.  I looked at him through my lowered lashes and felt my own eyebrows harden as we had another staring showdown.  He shifted his weight from one elbow to the other, lowering his book enough for me to see his mouth tighten off to one side.  He flipped his thumb in the direction of the nearest easy chair, fixing his eyes in his book once more.  I took the indicated seat. 

Tea, Fairfacs, he growled.  Please.

Bobbing a nod, the servant dissolved for a minute, taking shape again just as one of those wheeled carts carrying a teapot and matching cups navigated its way to the center of the room. 

To fill up the silence between the two adult humans in attendance, Mrs. Fairfacs began to direct some of her chatter at me.  She leaned her head in the direction of the still untouched tea cart.  This is the tea Mr. Thorne's doctor recommended to settle his stomach from the re-keying.  Is it working, sir?

Not right now, he said into his book.  I'm not drinking any.

Miss Jane, she asked, would you bring this to Mr. Thorne? 

I can bring it!  Kirti piped up from her corner.

You'd spill it, the sullen reader replied in his still-un-locate-able accent. 

While Kirti pouted and I scowled at the man's lack of kindness towards his ward, I nevertheless poured a cup at the cart and brought it to the couch with another deferential, "Master-ji." 

He flinched, holding his book aside with one hand and taking the tea with the other.  "Don't call me that.  And don't call me 'Mister Thorne,' either.  I'm nobody's master, I don't deserve to be called anything-ji, and Mr. Thorne is my mother's father's name, not mine." 

I turned back to the cart and began pouring a cup for myself.  I could smell that the pot was filled with an over-steeped black tea blend of some kind—too strong and dark, just like the patient for whom it had been recommended.  Mr. Thorne took a sip and seemed not to notice its scalding heat.

I watched him swallow before inquiring, Then what am I to call you, sir?  Is there any term I can use that will carry the honor you're due?

I would not have known he were laughing if his barrel of a chest weren't shaking and the corners of his slightly open mouth turned down in wry irony.  "There is no honor due.  My European passport calls me a British National named Parker Garfield Thorne.  My baptismal certificate, lost in the closing of St. Rose Church, Reno, Nevada, named me Padráic Gadhra Thorne.  So—just Thorne.  Understand?"

Yes, sir. 

An aggravated grimace took his features.  He said, Speaking of terms of address, what in Baal's name am I to call you?  Jane?  Just 'E'? 

I paused to consider my answer.  I am your employee, sir.  What you call me is up to you. 

You mean to tell me that 'E' really is your last name?  Nothing more?

Second Chance Reproductive Rights Center names all their unclaimed female embryos Jane.  I was the fifth in their history.  Hence, 'E.'

An unclaimed embryo?  So, no mother to slap you, no father to ignore you, no brothers or sisters to torture you?  His head shook as he lifted the book again.  You don't know how lucky you are.

I fumed.  I knew the remark was spoken out of offhanded obliviousness.  Still, it pierced something of the scar tissue surrounding my heart.  I remained silent, unable to respond at all for the quiet tearing in my chest. 

Mr. Thorne lowered his book and peered at me.  You look like there's something you want to say but won't.

I closed my eyes and breathed deeply.  I'm thinking, sir, that abandonment comes in many shapes and flavors, some of which you've never even smelled, much less tasted.

He gave a sort of quick, bitter laugh through his nose.  You'd be surprised at what I've tasted and smelled.  Still, you never thought to give yourself a last name?

It's the only name I've ever had for myself.  It's been mine, such as it is, as long as I can remember. 

The book fell again, and he studied me as if I were a curious species of sea life.  You're not lying to me.  You don't seem the lying type.  Like, not only do you not lie, but you'd turn your nose up at anybody who did.

It has been my experience that lying hurts the liar more than the lied-to. 

He flinched again.  And what experience is that?

I take it you don't recall my resume.

Never read it.  That was the agency's job.

As a girl I used to work for the Naomi Foundation, if you've heard of it.

He tilted his intense gaze at me, studying me with a mixture of suspicion and reluctant awe.  Who hasn't?  It was all over the casts—what—seven years ago?

The Kamchatkan incident happened when I was twelve, so that would be ten years ago.

You're only twenty two?

The shock in his voice made my own eyebrow raise.  Your math skills are stunningly accurate, sir.

That's not what I meant, he said, although I'm flattered that you're already comfortable enough to share sarcasm with me.  But really, it's impossible to tell your age by looks alone.  Your face is young, but your eyes and hands are old.

He'd been examining my hands?  I tried to keep them from fidgeting and clung more tightly to my teacup. 

Maybe, Mrs. Fairfacs, he said in a clear voice, I wouldn't need this doctor-recommended cup of sewage to settle my stomach if Miss Jane here hadn't upset it in the first place. 

Mrs. Fairfacs's face displayed confusion.  Pardon me, sir.  I don't understand.