Expectations could fill a house, even a very large one. The wants of others eventually become your own, and you don’t know where you begin and the expectations of others end. Was there a difference?
Did it matter?
Melvin Ryan Tschida pondered these thoughts as he shook hands with Ronald McBride, a prominent local criminal defense attorney. Tschida kept his grip firm, met Ronald’s light brown eyes, trying to effect the correct mixture of confidence, humility, and hunger. But no too much sincerity; sincerity equaled vulnerability, and from country clubs to seedy bars in Northeastern County, men were expected not to have too much of either. Rather, they adopted an armor, no, an exoskeleton of gruffness and ruggedness, as if the hardness of the coal had seeped into the pores of their ancestors and had been passed on through the bloodlines of the mining families.
“I will exceed your expectations,” Tschida said calmly, as if this were a simple fact like the sky being overcast nearly every day. He would not act like an eager puppy; McBride should be thrilled to have him.
This was one step of his journey – an internship at a law firm where he would make more connections. His hours at Badger Vale Country Club had at last paid off, allowed him to surmount his greatest hurdle. Northeastern County was full of old families who’d put their roots down deep beneath the earth hundreds of years ago. Irish, Italian, and Polish people with names to match. Outsiders were often distrusted, and Tschida was not a “name” here. Tschida’s own ancestry was scattered to say the least, each member selecting a spouse of unsurpassed beauty and wit to continue their line and meet their expectations.
Tschida released McBride’s hand; he’d not be the one to hang on longer than was necessary. It wouldn’t do to be too audacious, or be seen as invading another man’s personal space for too long either. There was only one rare guest of Badger Vale who could do that.
“Be there at 8 AM Monday,” McBride said, drawing a cigar from the pocket of his pale brown blazer.
The law offices of McBride, Kelly, Lewandowski, and Bianchi didn’t open until 9:15 AM, so an 8 AM arrival time seemed unnecessary. All the same, Tschida promised, “I will.” His placid tone hid any annoyance he might feel in light of his accomplishment, something he’d managed without being a member of an old family, and having a surname people here found strange, a name that labeled him an outsider. People didn’t move to Northeastern County. The same families had children, and their children stayed, and so on. Aside from food and hiking trails, the area didn’t have much to attract outsiders, but had plenty to drive them away – mostly the people. Just about everyone was Irish, Italian, or Polish. If your last name wasn’t any of the three, you’d have a hard time. Tschida had had a difficult time, and that was why, aside from there being several Ryans in school, that everyone had taken to calling him by his last name.
I am a Tschida, disinherited or not.
McBride laughed, displaying a black speck above his left canine. “And I like two shots of espresso.”
Tschida forced his lips into a smile that he knew didn’t reach his eyes. Smiles were expected, but should be doled out sparingly. Never allow anyone to mistake your civility for naivete, Theodric Tschida’s voice echoed through Tschida’s thoughts. Naivete is weakness. Make people work for your smiles, because they think they’ll be earning your approval. It’s how you start training them. Otherwise, keep your eyes cold and dead like a shark’s.
How badly Tschida had wanted Theodric’s approval. One day, once he’d risen from the coal ash, his father would be proud and invite him back into the family. For now, he’d not be starting his work as anything remotely close to a quiet predator; he’d be starting as a dog to fetch coffee and probably dancing on whatever whim struck the attorneys.
“Of course, two shots of espresso.” He’d choose a middle-of-the-road coffee shop. The most expensive would convey that overeager demeanor he wanted to avoid, and the pricier establishments sold coffees with lavender or caramel swirls atop puffs of whipped cream; these were not the kinds of drinks for the men in Northeastern County, unless they were college students from out of town, biding their time until they could escape.
A cheap coffee would have the opposite effect and show carelessness, a disregard for the internship opportunity.
Tschida turned from McBride, and walked staidly along the damp, white concrete stairs between the rows of weeping pine. He didn’t look back; he had his prize.
The rain pattered along the roof of his black Jetta, a modest vehicle that didn’t attract too much attention or serve as an enticement to theft. Many others here drove them. He didn’t want to draw attention to his family; it would only be a disappointment to those who knew he was part of that Tschida family to find out he’d been disinherited.
Once in the driver’s seat, he turned on the local talk station, Northeast News, though it was mostly opinion, and a valuable trove of information about the locals and their values.
“All I’m saying is that people with drug, the drugs, the drug problems, they need to be locked up. They made the choice. It’s illegal,” came a local’s voice over the speakers, characterized by pronouncing the “th” sound with a “d.” “Illegal is illegal, ya know?”
“So, you don’t think we need more counseling and treatment?” Duke from Dunemoore, the afternoon host, prodded the caller.
“Nah. We didn’t have any of that when I was growing up. This manufactured crap like depression and all that? Know what I hear? Excuses!” The local’s voice rose. “We work hard and now McGill wants more taxpayer money for this? So people who don’t work get handouts? I say no. Doing illegal things means punish—”
The Jetta stalled along a damp, split-rail fence near a pond stocked with trout. Several men with poles hurried away from the pond as the rain grew heavier. Tschida’s dashboard displayed a yellow “check engine” warning. That would have been more useful if it had alerted Tschida before it broke.
He groaned and called a tow truck. Nick Flanagan would probably know exactly what to do and come right here, if his Rabbit would get him here, and if he weren’t still working. A tow truck driver it would have to be.
It hadn’t rained since this morning, but after the golf game with McBride, it had resumed a steady pace. Even the weather had been somewhat on his side. Rather than the silver or deep blue of the sky in Maryland during a storm, the sky here was as cold lead.
The tow truck company would be an hour. Sitting in the car for an hour would waste time with the added unpleasantness of making him appear antisocial. As Theodric said, those without goals and ambition could afford laziness. Tschida considered returning to the clubhouse; the walk wasn’t so far. But he’d already left McBride, and didn’t want to be obligated to continue that conversation. McBride had served his purpose already; more socializing with him would also be a waste of time. It might even go badly if McBride judged Tschida as not having a reliable form of transportation.
He grabbed the plain black umbrella from beneath the passenger seat and strode confidently toward the pavilion between the shore of the rain-dimpled pond and the dark green fringe of the forest. It boasted rows of wooden picnic tables and some high, round ones, surrounded by bar stools. Against a wooden wall was a bar with soft stools. The men who’d been fishing were far ahead of him, already seated and enjoying drinks.
Rain spattered on the lenses of his black-framed glasses. His cleaner and cloth were in his glovebox; he wouldn’t go back for them now. He peered through the droplets of rain, recognizing some of the men. One was Todd Stanski, a tall and balding man. Judge Bob Flannery, with his shock of white hair, was there, too, forcing a smile onto his usually somber and waxy face. He was either a little drunk or trying to be patient with the man across from him, or maybe some combination of the two.
At one of the high, round tables sat Luigi Guignol, a black-haired man with large white teeth. He was the district attorney. Years ago, when Tschida had had his one and only arrest, Guignol had been an assistant district attorney, and had denied Tschida bail.
Beside Guignol, not across from him, sat that one rare and strange club patron who had little regard for personal space. This man could never be ignored; his large frame was somewhere near seven feet tall, and right now was bent over Guignol’s leaner one, his smiling, full lips hovering inches from Guignol’s ear. This man was somehow useful, important enough for the other men to tolerate behavior that was so outside this area’s norm. This was a man who had enough power to ignore expectations.
Who are you? Tschida let his hair fall over his eyes and peered at the stranger, a man who’d not only been blessed with power, but with a broad-shouldered figure. Even the dark blue three-piece suit couldn’t hide the muscles beneath. A rose pin made of glittering diamond twinkled from the place over his heart – a touch that by many would not only be considered ostentatious, but also effeminate. That he so brazenly wore such ornamentation was a testament to his bravery, or the fact that he had enough power where he needn’t care.
Jealousy and curiosity welled in Tschida’s chest. To do as he pleased, to throw conventions aside…Who are you?
The stranger’s gray eyes shone with a predatory gleam as he continued whispering to Guignol, his straight, white teeth teasingly appearing between his full lips. This was Tschida’s first opportunity to get a good look at him outside of the dimly-lit cigar room at the clubhouse.
Tschida turned toward the bar; he’d already stared for far too long. His loose dark green polo felt tight, too restricting. He was almost tempted to undo the top two buttons. He slid onto a bar stool and pushed his hair from his eyes. The image of the stranger was burned into his head, and Tschida wondered if he shouldn’t try to speak with him. Now that he’d seen him in the daylight, his curiosity was uncontrollable. That’s what this fascination was – curiosity.
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