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As I pass the first few men, I plaster on a smile. "Would you care for some tea? I just baked a batch of scones this morning. They may not be as good as Ms. Marta's famous recipe, but there's plenty to go around. Please, join me."
I can see a flicker of surprise in his eyes at my offer, but it quickly disappears behind a stern response. "We’re not here for tea."
Breathe, Fiona. Breathe. Looking back at the leader, I lift my hand, waggling my fingers for him to follow. “Right this way. I’ll happily make coffee if you’d rather!”
“Like I said, we’re here on business.” His words linger in the tense air like a looming threat. With lightning speed, he’s caught up to me and his enormous hand engulfs my upper arm, squeezing with a bone-crushing force as he emphasizes his point. I can feel my muscles strain against his grip as his dark eyes bore into mine with a ferocity that sends chills down my spine. "And you," he spits out, his voice dripping with malice and authority, "are the business matter we're here to take care of."
My heart stops in my chest. “Me?”
“Aye. You, lass.”
But I know I’ve done nothing wrong. Unless volunteering too many hours counts as a crime, it must be my father’s trouble that has me being marched up to my house by this bald stranger.
The man pushes me back, entering the sliding glass door first. I follow, my knees weak, throat tightening by the second. The moment my ballet flats hit the familiar linoleum I shakily go into detective mode. I glance through the kitchen to the living room at my dad’s worn leather armchair by the front window.
My dad is nowhere to be seen. Panic threatens to overtake me as I frantically search for any sign of him in our small but cozy home. My eyes dart around the room, taking in every detail and trying to piece together what could possibly be happening.
He’s not here.
Has he left me alone to clean up his mess? Or have they taken him somewhere?
“Where is he?” I finally manage to blurt out, my voice trembling with fear.
The man shrugs carelessly. “He’s no concern of yours, now.” His grip on my arm is still tight as he guides me away from the sliding door. “But he’s safe. Just out of the way for now.”
Lord let this man be telling the truth.
I stand there, a prisoner in my home, as the darkly dressed men move like ants over the property. I catch a glimpse out the front window at the men spreading out, and a few go over to a large black van I now see parked on our front lawn. They return with stacks of flat brown shipping boxes in their arms.
The large bald man doesn’t leave my side. Finally, he at last releases my arm. I shrug away the urge to rub my skin. He crosses his arms over his chest, watching me with hawk-like eyes as I move deeper into the kitchen, leaning on the counter's edge for support.
A small woman alone, five massive men in my house, my father nowhere to be seen. What else can I do other than make tea?
“Right. Let’s put the kettle on. Shall we?” My hands waver as I reach for the tea kettle, dropping the lid onto the counter with a quiet clang when I remove it. I scoop it up, setting it beside me as I fill the kettle with water from the faucet.
I feel slightly more settled with the kettle warming on the gas stovetop, enough to ask, “So. What business do you have with me?”
The man with the grip says, “That’s for the boss to discuss with you. We’re just here to collect.”
“Who is your boss?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer. His men now stand at the edge of the kitchen, their arms loaded with boxes, waiting for his command.
He gives them a nod. “Start in here. Pack whatever she wants.”
I’m surprised by respectful eyes turning toward me, waiting for instructions. “It would help if I knew where I was going,” I say.
“All you need to know,” he says, “is if it’s something you want to see again, it goes in a box.”
Politely, I offer tea and snacks to the men. They crowd around the small table, seeming to enjoy the treat. Afterward, I clean the dishes and wipe the table while instructing them what to pack.
Everything necessary to me in the kitchen, all items from my room, and anything that belonged to my mom.
The rest, I leave.
I watch the men as they pack up my belongings; my father is still missing.
The lead man looks up at the top of the fridge at the one item I’ve not had them pack. I wouldn’t trust anyone with my most prized possession. Mam’s big bowl. “What about that?”
