BRENNADAM, STORMSONG VALLEY
She remembered the day with exceptional clarity; the day she first met Simon Schultz.
Maxinora stood in the doorframe. Sun still baked into her cheeks and streaked through her hair. Feet sore and blistered from where her loafers pinched her toes. Frozen and wide-eyed like a doe caught in a hunter’s scope
She had never met the man seated next to the hearth, and she would remember meeting someone like him. His legs were awfully long, stretching for miles before him as he reclined in Papa’s chair. And his nose, hooked and twitching, reminded Max of a rat she’d recently found in the garden. His eyes shifted much the same, tracing the contours of her mother’s face as if it were a hunk of cheese. More hunger than anything else.
But the way her mother sat in his lap, tangled in his long limbs, made Max question if she ought to have known him. Mother seemed quite fond of him, after all. She let him caress the swell of her belly. Touch her shoulders and twirl her hair. All the while, she raked her own fingers through the rivers of ash in his hair, smiling in a way Maxinora never knew she could. They whispered amongst themselves, as Midsummer fireflies do. Fluttering closer and closer. Eyes twinkling. Skin glowing. Unaware of Max. Unaware of the world around them.
Until the house started to shake.
Maxinora knew when Papa came home. She felt his arrival long before she heard or saw him. Being built like a brick poophouse- a sailor from the docks used that phrase to describe Papa once, built like a brick shithouse, which made Papa laugh. When Max tried it for herself, though, she only received a mouthful of soap. So, Papa was not a brick shithouse, but a brick poophouse. And that’s just the way of things- he possessed a thunderous gait that shook their tiny house to its roots.
The man’s beady gaze snapped to attention and latched onto Max. His eyes flashed hot like churned coals, making Max’s belly knot with sick. They stared at each other for a brief moment, though she swore it felt longer, as her mother swiftly untangled herself. By the time Papa’s steps reached their crescendo, a cordial distance was placed between Mother and the Stranger. Ice dripped cold into her toes; she wondered if she’d been naughty for peeping.
“You little scamp!” The floor flew away from Maxinora, Papa’s boisterous voice in her ear. And all was momentarily forgotten. She squealed with delight as he hoisted her up onto his shoulders. “You beat me home!”
“'Cause I’m fast! Faster than a schooner!” she laughed, spry arms thrown around his neck.
“A schooner, eh?! Who taught you that, huh?” Max’s vision blurred as Papa spun her around, bouncing her on his shoulders. “You clever girl! My precious, clever girl!”
Mother’s soft sigh cut through their revelry. Papa paused mid-spin, blinking and dumfounded. She gave him a placating smile - unlike the one she’d given the Stranger, this one Max was familiar with- as she nodded to the man in the chair. Papa swelled with excitement, laughter rippling beneath his skin.
Maxinora suddenly found herself no longer with the high ground, but instead plopped onto her feet. She wiggled her toes, feeling the chill from prior creeping back, as she watched Papa barrel towards the Stranger.
“IF’N IT AIN’T SIMON BLOODY SCHULTZ!”Papa howled.
Ah. So the Stranger now had a name.
Simon Schultz.
S-I-M-O-N. S-C-H-U-L-T-S.
“Ah. Yes. Good to see you Cy-”
Simon made a sound Maxinora could only describe as a mix between a cat’s yowl and a dog’s bark when Papa yanked him from his seat. Papa wrestled him into a bear hug, squeezing the color right from his cheeks.
“It is so good to see you, Simon! It’s been YEARS.”
“Mhm,” Simon wheezed, gently patting Papa’s back, “Very. Good.”
“Ah!” Papa sighed as he released Simon, the lankier man spilling into the chair. “You need to meet Maxi!”
Max’s chest swelled when Papa beckoned her hither. She approached on light feet, rocking on the balls of her feet before the chair Simon slumped in. She looked between Papa, with his beaming grin, and Mother, with her disquieted smile. Then, she turned to Simon and wrinkled her nose. Standing this close, she could smell something sour wafting from his dark, leather coat; a mix of wet earth and eggs turned rotten.
“You stink,” she mumbled, pulling her shirt over her nose.
“Maxinora,” Mother quipped, voice soft but stern.
Papa threw his head back with laughter as he stooped down to her level, clapping a hand on her head. “No, no, Angela! She’s right. Simon does stink! Smells right like- Ah. Bollocks. What’s it you’d always say, eh?”
Simon sighed through his nose, grumbling, “Sulfur and petrichor.”
Max drew in a sharp breath. Petrichor. A new word. Something to chew on. She licked a canine as she ducked from under her father’s palm, scurrying a degree closer to Simon. “Petrichor,” she echoed, “How do you spell that?”
Simon lofted a brow in quiet response.
“She’s got a real fixation on spellin’ words,” Papa explained, rising to his feet. “Her teacher says she’s got a hunger for it. Done already spellin’ her name ‘fore her other classmates. Go on, Precious. Show Mister Simon.”
Max did not want to spell anything for this stinky man who stared down his long, sharp nose at her. But some part of her felt that if she spelled her name for him, maybe he’d spell that new word for her, and that seemed like a fair trade. So, with a final glance at Papa’s encouraging smile, Max spoke in a clear and confident voice.
“Ah. Very impressive,” Simon mused.
The way he said it, though, sounded as if he weren’t very impressed at all. Which made Max’s cheeks burn something fierce.
“I can spell my last name, too!” she blurted, “P-A-R-K-H-U-R-S-T! Parkhurst!”
Mother’s smile remained neutral and pleasant as she nodded in encouragement. Meanwhile, Papa’s smile grew to be all teeth and no eyes as he applauded. “Very good, Maxi!”
Simon, on the other hand, simply nodded. Nonplussed. “Yes. Good.”
And that set a fire under Max’s ribcage. She puffed out her cheeks and stomped her feet. Before she could receive a scolding, she jabbed a finger at Simon. “A-and I can spell your name! S-I-M-O-N S-C-H-U-L-T-S!”
Now that gave Simon a reason to pause. He said nothing as a slow smile crept on his lips. Feeling satisfied, Maxinora met his grin with a cheeky one of her own. Either hand on a hip as she stood on the balls of her feet, her flag sailing at high mast.
She instantly deflated with a puzzled huff, “What?”
“Z,” Simon reiterated. He clasped his hands together as he leaned over his chair, bringing himself eye level with Maxinora. The grin he wore was almost feline in nature. She could smell the petrichor and sulfur in full, now. And she tried her best not to retreat from it. “S-C-H-U-L-T-Z. Sh-ult-z. Like the buzz of a bee.”
That bit of trivia fell like a stone in a lake, rippling Max’s confidence as it sank into her tummy. She dropped her gaze, feeling the burn in her cheeks and chest crawl to nest behind her eyes. She wrung the hem of her shirt as she tried to blink away tears. What an awful and stinky man. With his hard-to-spell name.
“She was closer than I was when we first met!!” Papa roared, ruffling her hair. “Just a clever girl! Ain’t got a clue where she gets it from.”
“Certainly not you,” Simon chuffed, leaning back in his seat.
“Not everyone is uncaringly logical, Simon,” Mother murmured as she glided past. She paused at the doorframe, looking over her shoulder. “Help me with supper, love?”
Papa gave an empathetic nod, following after.
The parlor fell exceptionally quiet with only Max and stinky Simon occupying it. Max stared at him as he fished in a jacket pocket. From its folds, he procured a tin of cigarettes and an accompanying matchbook. He managed to slip a vice between his teeth before Max huffed.
“You can’t smoke inside.”
“Yeah?” Simon drawled, juggling a matchstick between his forefinger and middle finger, “And who’s gonna stop me?”
Max drew in a sharp breath, expelling it in a flaring huff. “Mama is always scolding Papa about it. She tells him to take it outside!” She punctuated her statement with a curt jab towards the front door.
“Your mother,” Simon cackled as he struck the match and lit his cigarette, “Ain’t gonna tell me shit.”
Max grimaced at the tendrils of smoke snaking through the parlor. She lifted her shirt over her nose again, glaring daggers into Simon’s chest. “Is it cause you and her are friends?”
Simon shrugged off her question. He stretched out his mile-long limbs, sinking into the chair as he puffed on his cigarette. A cloud of smoke hung over his head. He looked much like a dragon - the cigarette his fire, and the chair his stolen hoard. Max didn’t like how comfortable he was in Papa’s chair. Much less how looked at her mother.
“You like her, don’t you?” she dared ask.
Simon’s gaze snapped to meet her own. A momentary heat flashed in his eyes - anger red as burning coals- before being snuffed by a sly grin. He cocked his head away to expel a cloud of smoke. Then came to lean an elbow on either knee, grinning honey-suckle sweet at Max. “Listen, kid. Why don’t we keep what you saw earlier between you and me, hm?”
Max met his grin with a dubious glare, “Why? Were you doing something bad?”
Simon’s brow shot into his hairline. He shook his head with a laugh. “No, no, no. Nothing bad. But just in case anyone asks, you saw nothing. Right?”
Max inclined her head, jutting out her chin. “You want me to lie?”
Simon snorted as he flicked ash onto the carpet. “It’s not a lie. It’s withholding the truth. It’s- Ah.” His grin turned almost toothy. “It’s a secret! Little secret between you and your buddy, Simon. Don’t that sound fun?”
Max hummed with a shrug, unconvinced.
“Come on, kid. Don’t be difficult.”
And then it was Max’s turn to grin like a cat who’d caught a canary. She met Simon’s expectant gaze with a subtle nod. “Two silver.”
Simon recoiled with an incredulous blink, “Excuse me?”
“A bag of salt taffy costs two silver,” Max explained, “All the chewing ought to keep me quiet.”
Simon’s eyes narrowed as he barked a laugh. “Alright. I’m picking up what you’re putting down.” He stuck out his hand: “Two silver and you keep that mouth shut.”
“And,” Max added, taking his hand, “You tell me how to spell petrichor.”
Simon chuffed, looking down his nose with a slight degree of admiration, “Precocious little shit.”
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