A Skylark Special - Vol 3, The Man with a Storm in His Eyes

The Man with a Storm in His Eyes – Volume 3

NOTE: If you have not listened to Volumes 1 and 2 of this 4-part miniseries, please pause this episode, and go listen to the first two installments, otherwise the story won't make much sense.

Over Thanksgiving I spent a few days house- and cat-sitting for a friend. The moment I met Russell the cat I was completely charmed by the milky cloudiness of his eyes. What fascinated me most was that he appeared to be able to see just fine... to the point where sometimes he appeared to be seeing things that I myself couldn’t see. I found myself inspired and fully credit Russell with breaking through my writer’s block.

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FULL TRANSCRIPT:

Things with Wings Productions presents: The Man with a Storm in His Eyes - A Skylark Special Miniseries written exclusively for The Skylark Bell podcast. I am your host, Melissa Oliveri.  

Before I begin, if you haven’t listened to the first two installments of this story, I strongly suggest you hit pause on this episode and go listen to volume 1 and volume 2, otherwise this episode won’t make much sense. 

In last week’s episode, Marie rescued a kitten named Jones, and made the startling discovery that Mr. Holcomb had been labeled a missing person decades prior.

Now, get settled in… grab a blanket, and a warm drink… and let’s dive back into the story.

I didn’t need to worry about waking the next morning as Jones took it upon himself to serve as an alarm clock when he felt it was time to be fed. “You little rascal, you’re just loving this aren’t you?” I teased as I placed a bowl of turkey pieces with a strong pour of gravy in front of him. I was about to go take a shower when the phone on the kitchen wall rang so loudly I was sure the neighbours three houses away could hear it. I grabbed my chest with my hand and waited a moment to catch my breath before lifting the receiver off the hook. “Hello?” I asked tentatively. 

“Oh, hello Marie dear, this is Florence,” came the voice on the other end of the line. “I was simply calling to let you know we plan on returning home early tomorrow morning. I trust things are going well?” she asked.

I could still feel my heart beating out of my chest, but I managed to compose myself enough to reply. “Yes, everything is great. Mr. Holcomb is quite lovely. Oh, I should probably tell you, I found a stray kitten that I’m caring for, I hope that’s okay?” I figured I should probably make mention of the fact that I’d brought an animal into their home.

There was a moment of silence at the other end of the line, and I grew nervous that Florence was displeased. “That’s quite alright dear. I’m sure Jones is thoroughly enjoying spending the holidays with you,” she eventually replied, and I heaved a sigh of relief. “Right then, we’ll see you in the morning,” she added before promptly ending the call.

I put the phone back in its cradle. Something about the conversation was bothering me... I stood barefoot on the cold ceramic kitchen floor running the conversation through my head again, then it finally hit me: How did Florence know the kitten’s name was Jones? On cue, Jones wandered into the room and rubbed up against my legs. I picked him up and held him at arm’s length. Of course! Jones had a name tag, perhaps Florence had seen him before, maybe he even had a reputation for visiting neighbourhood homes and getting a few extra meals out of it. “I knew you were a rascal!” I giggled. I pulled him in and bumped my nose against his, mesmerized by those unearthly amber eyes, before gently placing him back on the ground.

I showered and put on a festive sweater and some dressy trousers before heading upstairs to join Mr. Holcomb for Boxing Day breakfast. I told him about the rowdy boys and the kitten, and how Jones and I had eaten Christmas dinner by candlelight before I spent a couple of hours reading Alice in Wonderland in the reading room. I was itching to ask him about the newspaper clippings, but something about his expression stopped me. His brow was knit, and his eyes had turned that stormy charcoal grey again. I realized then that I’d been speaking non-stop since we’d sat down, so I quieted myself and waited for him to speak.

“So... Jones is here now,” was all he said. I nodded but wasn’t sure if he noticed as he seemed to be staring off into space. I let the quiet linger between us, hoping he would elaborate, but his lips remained tightly pressed together.

“Mr. Holcomb...” I began, unsure of how to broach the subject. 

“Your questions will all be answered in due time, my dear Marie,” he said, sparing me the trouble of asking. “There are things that should not be known before one is ready to know them...” he mused obscurely, still with that faraway, stormy look in his eyes. I didn’t dare ask him to elaborate, I would just have to be patient. We spent the rest of breakfast speaking of innocuous things; childhood Christmas gifts, funny stories about relatives falling off chairs or spilling food and drink on one another at holiday parties. Though we only talked about surface things, the conversation was merry, and Mr. Holcomb’s eyes progressively morphed from steely grey to an appealing feathery white.

It was past noon by the time I got back downstairs to the sisters’ flat. Jones meowed at me in greeting and climbed up my shin to be picked up. I curled him into my arms like a baby and stared into his eyes, bordering on chartreuse in the midday light, while feeling the soft rumble of his purring against my chest. I felt the weight of the world disappear then, there was such comfort in the softness of his fur and his desire for companionship. 

A sudden chill passed through the air causing Jones and I to shiver in unison. “I think I’m going to run a bath,” I said, lowering him to the hardwood floor. “Don’t worry, I have no expectation that you will want to get anywhere near the water,” I laughed. “Why don’t I make a fire in the fireplace for you, and you can wait for me on the sofa with a blanket?” I suddenly became aware that I was speaking to Jones as though he were human and felt simultaneously ridiculous and grateful that there was no one around to hear. I got Jones settled then made my way to the bathroom. I took the time to admire the vintage Art Deco tile pattern on the floor and walls before turning the hot water faucet on the claw foot tub to its maximum, then adding a bit of cold water and two capfuls of green apple bath bubbles. I placed a thick fluffy towel and a bathrobe on a nearby wooden stool in preparation for the aftermath of my soak, then draped my clothes over the edge of the sink before carefully slipping into the steaming hot water. I closed my eyes and breathed in the sweet, fruity fragrance while listening to the crackling of the bubbles.

I sat quietly in the tub, keeping thoughts of cloudy eyes and mysterious disappearances at bay, choosing to think instead of what I would prepare for dinner and which tea from the three forbidden tea canisters I would brew first. Eventually the water grew uncomfortably tepid, and the skin on my fingers began to wrinkle. I used my toe to pull the chain attached to the bathtub stopper and let the water drain a moment before standing to step out of the tub. The towel and bathrobe were both luxuriously plush, and I relished the warm, cozy feeling of being wrapped in them. I walked to the living room and rooted through my weekender bag for a fresh change of clothes. Jones was fast asleep on the sofa, curled up on a throw pillow with the glow of the fire reflecting off the sheen of his velvety fur.

I made my way to the kitchen and perused the pantry and refrigerator contents for inspiration. I grabbed some zucchini, carrots, peas, and broccoli from the fridge and a box of pasta out of the cupboard. With a little butter, cream, and spoonful of flour I could whip together a mean pasta primavera, there was even a block of fresh parmesan cheese in the fridge to top it all off. I still had leftover rum raisin cake and custard for dessert. “That will pair perfectly with a cup of forbidden tea!” I chucked to myself out loud in the empty kitchen. I set to work making a roux and roasting the vegetables. My mum had always loved my pasta primavera; the secret was roasting the vegetables rather than boiling or steaming them, the caramelization added a lovely depth of flavour to the dish. 

“Jones, time to eat!” I called as I placed a bowl of shredded turkey with a dollop of cream sauce at his place setting across the table from me. I set my plate on the table as well, then gave each of us a generous sprinkle of parmesan. “Now I don’t want you to think this is what you get to eat every day, this is a Boxing Day special, okay?” I said to him as he hopped onto the table. I patted the top of his head then sat down to eat. A flood of memories of suppers with my mother came to me as I took my first bite. I could see her smile, hear her laugh... what I wouldn’t do to see and hear her again...

Jones finished his meal long before I did and stretched out in front of the stove, rolling onto his back to let its warmth tickle his belly. I cleared the table and quickly did the washing up, then put the kettle on. While waiting for the water to boil I unwrapped the rum raisin cake, cut a generous piece and placed it onto a plate. “Perfect timing!” I exclaimed as the kettle sounded its whistle. I turned off the stove, then stood in front of the shelf with the three glass tea canisters, I hadn’t yet decided which one I was going to brew. I noticed a label at the bottom of each one, and squinted to read the ornate cursive handwriting in hopes it would help inform my decision. I started with the canister to the left, the tea inside was black and appeared rather nondescript. “Dark Moon, sounds like something Winifred would come up with!” I said, laughing at my own humour. I moved on to the next canister, the tea inside was shades of purple with delicate dark pink rose petals mixed in, its label read “Violet Storm”. Intriguing! The last canister was filled with a mixture of gold tea leaves, yellow and orange flower petals, and citrus rinds, the label on that one read “Golden Sunset”. 

I pondered a moment longer, and decided Violet Storm sounded like a good accompaniment to rum raisin cake. I gingerly lifted the canister off the shelf and placed it on the counter. I popped open its lid, and the aroma of lavender, elderberry, hibiscus, and a strange sickly-sweet smell I couldn’t pinpoint rose from its contents. I found a scoop in the utensil drawer and placed three spoonfulls into the infuser part of the teapot, then poured the boiling water in and stepped away to let it steep for a few minutes. I walked to the stove and crouched next to Jones, running my hand over the sleek fur of his body. He looked up at me with those amber eyes and blinked that slow blink cats do when they’re rather satisfied with their circumstances; a full belly, a warm napping spot, and a human to do their bidding. I finally admitted to myself that I’d grown unusually attached to this kitten over the past couple of days, as though we were kindred spirits from the start.

“Tea time!” I said as I stood up. I poured tea from the pot into the teacup Mr. Holcomb had gifted me. I left the teacup on the counter while I brought my plate of cake and the little pot of custard to the table. Then I grabbed the saucer with the teacup precariously balanced on it and held it up to my face, breathing in the steam. The unidentified sweet smell was even more pungent now, and I desperately wondered what it would taste like. I shifted the saucer to my other hand and grabbed the teacup by its delicate handle, slowly lifting it to my mouth. 

Suddenly, a loud slam came from behind me. Startled beyond belief I jumped and spun on my heel. Before I could wrap my brain around what was happening the teacup flew out of my hand and went crashing to the floor, leaving the echo of a shattering sound ringing through the kitchen. I stared in shock at the purple streak of tea spreading across the black and white tile of the floor.

“I told you not to drink the tea!”

I gathered my wits about me and looked up. Standing a few paces away was Winifred. She had a small cut on her hand, presumably from when she slapped the teacup out of my grasp. It took me a moment to notice Florence was standing directly next to her. “Oh dear,” breathed Florence, looking at something behind me with sadness in her eyes. I turned and saw Jones voraciously drinking from the puddle of tea on the floor.

“Oh Jones, that’s not for you!” I said, bending to pull him into my arms.

“It’s too late,” croaked Winifred. I instantly recognized the voice on the phone that stormy Christmas Eve night in Mr. Holcomb’s flat. What in the world was going on?!

“I- I wasn’t expecting you back so soon,” I stumbled over my words, both nervous and embarrassed. 

“Winifred felt strongly that we should come home early,” said Florence. “It’s probably best that you go home now, Marie,” she added. Her voice was neutral, neither kind nor unkind, neither soft nor stern. I sheepishly bent to clean up the mess of broken porcelain on the floor. “Leave it,” she said. I kept my gaze glued to the floor and withdrew to the living room to tidy up and pack my things.

As I made my way into the hall Jones sauntered over and looked up at me with those glorious glowing yellow eyes. I pondered whether I should scoop him up and take him with me, but Winifred came through the doorway to the right and stood between us, her inky eyes piercing into my soul, and slowly shook her head no. I muttered an apology and made a swift exit.

I wallowed in self-pity and embarrassment for a few days, then decided to leave the confines of my flat to take a walk. I wandered through the woods where the crows cawed to one another as though saying “Look at that ridiculous girl, a guest in someone’s home and doing as she pleases with no regard for them!” I felt disgraced, and disappointed in myself. Making a cup of tea seemed like such a small, innocuous, harmless thing at the time, but clearly it wasn’t, clearly there was a valid reason why the sisters had forbidden it... and I should have respected their wishes.

I wandered aimlessly, stopping at one point to select a drink at the local café. I stared hopelessly at the menu board, unable to make up my mind, and finally settled on some iced tea, then chuckled bitterly at the irony of my selection. My walk eventually took me to the top of Dimly Court. I looked down the street past the brick row houses and perfectly manicured shrubs, hesitating. Would it be out of place for me to walk by? The sisters were hermits, the odds of one of them seeing me were rather low. I decided to take my chances and turned onto their street. 

Every window covering at 51 Dimly court was drawn, but I could see Jones’ silhouette sitting on the windowsill, the patterned chenille of the drapes hanging behind him like backdrop. I stood in front of the window, admiring the velvety sheen of his coat. “Jones!” I whispered as loudly as I dared. The kitten turned his head and I gasped. I instinctively took a step back and nearly tumbled off walkway. In the place of those glorious golden eyes that I had stared into just days before were two orbs filled with a swirl of thunderous grey clouds. The cat’s head suddenly darted back and forth as though watching something behind me. I turned to look but there was nothing there. I stood on the empty street watching him get increasingly agitated. “Oh Jones, what happened to you?” I choked. Suddenly, the curtain was pulled aside and Winifred’s pallid face came into view, that eternal streak of red lipstick still across her mouth. Her carbon-coloured eyes locked firmly on me as she pulled the kitten into her arms, then she quickly stepped back into the shadows from whence she came. The curtain closed behind her, a supple but effective barrier between us.

I trudged back home in slow, plodding steps, my head hung low. My mind, however, was in overdrive. Jones’ eyes were now in the same condition as Mr. Holcomb’s... what on earth could have caused it? I let different scenarios play out my head, then stopped dead in my tracks as it hit me: The tea! It had to be the tea! That would explain why the sisters had instructed me not to drink it. Jones had lapped it up after it spilled on the floor, and now he had a storm in his eyes. I let the swirling thoughts keep coming; perhaps Mr. Holcomb had ingested some of the tea as well, and that’s how he ended up the way he did. I suddenly remembered the glimpse of him I’d caught the night of the storm when he’d sat rod-straight in his chair, a blindfold strapped across his eyes. My next thought sent a shiver down my spine... What was it he was avoiding looking at that night? What was it, exactly, that Jones and Mr. Holcomb were able to see with those cloudy eyes that I apparently could not? I shuddered as I realised how closely I had come to joining their ranks.

I spent the next few days alone, only going out for the odd walk in the woods and to do a bit of shopping at times when I was least likely to encounter other people. Thankfully, I didn’t have to return to work until after the holidays. I rang in the new year by myself in my dark living room, doing my best to ignore the cacophony of the festivities outside the walls of my apartment. I simply wasn’t in a celebratory mood, and other people’s cheer was the last thing I needed.

I woke at the crack of dawn the first day of the new year with the unsettling feeling that something was amiss. I heard the sound of a car door outside my window, and got out of bed, tugging my twisted nighty back into place. I slid into my fuzzy slippers, then walked to the living room so I could look out the front windows. My stomach clenched instantly. There, standing immobile on the walkway to my apartment building, a black 1940s style car parked behind them, were the twins. Winifred was dressed all in black with a black strip of fabric draped over her eyes, which made her white powdery makeup and smear of red lipstick stand out even more. In complete contrast, Florence was decked out in a floral dress with a long brown chequered coat draped over her shoulders. The sisters’ arms were laced together, presumably so Florence could guide Winifred who surely couldn’t see much, if anything, with the blindfold. Florence locked eyes with me, then carefully and deliberately bent down to place a brown leather-bound book onto the pavers of the walkway to my building. She gave me a small nod, then the pair turned and methodically walked back to the old-fashioned car. Florence helped Winifred get in her seat, then walked to the driver’s side, and eased herself behind the wheel. I watched, equally confused, and mesmerized, as the pair drove off.

Thank you so much for listening, I truly hope you enjoyed this third installment of The Man with a Storm in His Eyes.

Be sure to check in next week for the final portion of the story!

If you enjoyed this episode, please consider leaving a rating or a review, they are both greatly appreciated. You can also support my work by subscribing to Patreon. Patreon supporters get early access to ad-free podcast episodes, digital downloads of my music, and so much more. It’s the first place I share my creations. However, if you prefer not to subscribe, but would like to make a one-time contribution, you can do so via your podcast platform. Any and all financial support is greatly appreciated.

Once again, thank you for listening – I’m Melissa Oliveri, writer, composer, and producer of The Skylark Bell Podcast. 

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