Blinder-Baker

There’s a prolonged silence that hangs in the air, dulling the soft buzz that resonates from the porcelain refrigerator tucked into the corner of the kitchen. 

There’s a children’s book that lies unopened across the owner’s trouser-clad legs, paper pages worn and weathered from years of practice and use. The corners are torn, spine cracked and bent, cover dented, and scratched. 

“Hurry up, Arthur.” Languid irises flit down to meet the gaze of that of the seventeen-year-old, bushy eyebrows pulling in in a look mock frustration. 

“Patience, sister. Patience.” Calloused fingers delve under the cardboard of the front cover, which has softened after years of mistreatment and care. There’s an audible crack that sounds as it peels open, and it pulls a nostalgic smile to your lips. 

You’re seated below him, the rough fabric of the dilapidated rug pressing indents into the soft flesh of your crossed legs as you stare blearily up at your elder brother. “You promised!” You argue in discontent, a pout now dancing on your lips. 

“That I did.” A baritone chuckle rumbles from the depths of his chest as the first page falls open, revealing both pigmented splashes of color and the deep-set black of the words across the yellow-hued pages. 

“Dorothy lived in the midst of the great Kansas prairies...” The eldest Shelby brother begins, a thin pair of reading glasses laying perched on the bridge of his nose to aid in his transcription of the infamous Wizard of Oz. 

Despite his inefficiency in literature, the man had been read the first chapters of the text since he was of the mere age of thirteen. Their mother had found simple pleasure in transcribing the wonderful adventures of the brunette and her little dog Toto. 

As he grew older, however, and his family grew in size, he had begun to absorb some of the responsibilities of passing along the story to his younger siblings. 

He had soon realized that in order to soothe your sorrowful woes of your missing mother at a young age, the book would need to come out. 

There were few texts that Arthur Shelby could read without the aid of others, but the man found simplicity in reading the text to the girl in front of him. It was easy. 

Your hands are clasped in front of you, an excited white bleeding into your knuckles as you peer up in anticipation for the next words that are to slip from Arthur’s tongue. By this time, you’ve practically committed the entirety of the story to memory, but there’s no possibility of passing up on your older brother reading it to you. 

As his lips move to utter the words that he sees in front of him, and your own move in synchronization. The mustache-clad man notices but doesn’t point it out. He wishes you to be happy.

Finn, of whom has fallen victim to exhaustion, is snoring audibly in the corner of the room, lips parted as he sucks in air. His curls are tousled, peaky cap discarded in some unknown location. His freckled cheeks are painted with their usual rosy hue, even as he slumbers peacefully. 

Polly meanders into the room, bony fingers wrapped around a warm mug of tea as she spots the boy. “Wish he would just listen to me when I tell him to go to bed. His head Is shoved so far up Tommy’s ass he doesn’t know how to listen to anyone else.” She tuts, setting down the porcelain cup on a coaster by Arthur’s love seat (she’s a stickler for rings on wooden furniture), but nonetheless wraps a blanket around the boy’s lanky form. You watch, momentarily distracted from Arthur’s story-telling as your twin shifts in his spot and gets comfortable. 

Polly retrieves her heated drink before she sits down on the plush sofa beside Arthur’s. Her trained eyes fall on you. “You do know there’s a couch, hm?” She cocks an eyebrow in referral to your seated position on the rug below you. 

You nod. “S’fine here, Aunt Poll. Comfortable.” Is all you say.

Your aunt chuckles in teasing disapproval and settles in to stay. She’s always liked this story. 

You turn your attention back to your older brother. “You can continue, Artie.” You urge the brunette when he pauses to tune into your small interaction with your aunt. 

The man clears his throat to regain his voice once again before he begins again. There’s a gentle nature to the way he tells the story; something truly different from his typical manner of speaking. 

You like it. 

Minutes flash by before you can even register them, and you’re so wound up in the story that you don’t notice the exhaustion that takes over. 

Arthur’s nearly finished the first chapter of the book now, and he’s ready to finish up for the night when he finally peers over the top of the weather-worn text to peer at you. 

Your eyelids are growing heavy, weighing down with fatigue, but you’re fighting back, desperate to hear the last bits of the nostalgic story.

Arthur purses his lips temporarily to refrain from chastising your attempts to fight sleep. He knows better than anyone that good nights of sleep are few and far between in the Shelby household. 

He curls his muscled legs underneath his body, attempting to get comfortable as he reaches the end of the story. 

“...In spite of the swaying house and the wailing of the wind, Dorothy soon closed her eyes and fell fast asleep.” 

Over the noise of Finn’s incessant snoring, Arthur finishes the first chapter of the book for the 100th time out of so many more to come. There are moments where you know that the older man will be reading the same words to the children you are to bear in the future, and the thought makes you smile. 

There’s an animation that Arthur brings to story-telling that none of your other brothers can manage. Nor Aunt Polly. Sure, they’re more skilled in the art of reading and writing, but Arthur’s truly different. Even with the effects of the war altering his happiness.

The spine groans in discomfort as he smears his thumb over the crease of the corner of the page as he makes a dog ear as a bookmark and shuts the book. As he gently pushes the text onto the mahogany wood of the table between him and Polly, he finally takes note of your slumbering form on the rug in front of him. 

He’s chuckling already, rising from the comfort of the armchair and squatting down to see you. His knees crack with the strained effort, but he stays a few moments to take you in. 

You’ve transitioned from your seated position, and you’re curled up now on the ground. Your cheek is pressed into the scratchy material of the old rug, arms curled up into your chest. 

You’ve grown. A lot. Freckles that were once nonexistent dot your cheeks and nose, but not they’re not nearly as evident as your twin’s. It’s astonishing to the oldest sibling that you’ve grown so fast from the small infant that once cried in your dying mother’s embrace. 

He’s so incredibly proud of you, however. He brushes back a strand of hair from your face and gently eases his muscled forearms underneath the bend of your knees and the small of your back and pulls himself up to his full height. His knees groan in anger for such. 

You shift, and his heart drops into the depths of his chest at the prospect of waking you up. However, when you settle into his embrace, a weight drops from his shoulders and he takes his cue to bring you upstairs. 

Memories of what once were flash through his mind; reminding him of all the times he had to transport you to your bedroom almost every night. He had been readily convinced that you faked your slumber so that he would carry you up when you were a child and would read to you just like tonight. 

You confirmed such just a few years later, and surprisingly enough, the man found it hilarious. 

However, at this moment, you had really fallen victim to your exhaustion. Arthur grunts as he climbs the last step, thinking it strange that you weigh more than your 6-year-old self once did. He nudges the wooden door open with the toe of his foot and steps in. 

He’s careful as he lays you down atop of the soft covers of your bed, and he readjusts your body to maneuver some covers to warm your shivering form. 

He dips down, lips smoothing over your brow as he nestles the blanket under your chin to ensure that you’re warm over the expanse of the night. “Goodnight, bug. Sleep well. Love you lots.” 

As he departs, you sigh softly. “G’night, Artie. Love you too.”