Occams Razor

It's a quiet Thursday afternoon, a few hours before sundown, and Billy St. Francis is walking. His thoughts, whatever they are, seem be the heavy sort that wear away at one. As has been the habit these past few months, his brow is furrowed and his shoulders are hunched. When he moves, it is with purpose and some consideration.

He pauses as he nears the Hanley Halfway House, turning right and heading up the short walkway to its front door. He pauses there a moment, then lifts his hand to knock three times on the door. The sound of his knuckle striking the door has a definite sharp report, and not for the first time, Billy takes a moment to stare at his hand and listen to the sound.

Wood on wood, if you just let it sit there in your ears and did not think too much about it. It is in examination where the mind rationalizes it away, hiding it under layers of deception and practiced behavior. Just a trick of the ear, the mind insists as the sound fades. Just a way it echoes.

The truth, however, weighs heavily on Billy, however, and he turns his gaze from the odd-sounding knuckle to focus on the door.

The door to Hanley House opens and the smell of lemons, sugar and pastry wafts out.

“Hey there, Billy!” grins Eden. “Good to see you, as always!”

Her hair has a faint dusting of flour, but it looks like the apron hanging in the kitchen caught the worst of it. Behind her, Billy can see the inviting chaos of Hanley House: books piled on most horizontal surfaces, overstuffed chairs in the living room, the faint sound of Mr. Henry’s classical music drifting down the stairs.

“Would you like to come in? Or sit on the porch if you prefer; it’s lovely outside for a change. I don’t want to go too far, since I’ll need to hear the oven timer for this last batch of lemon bars.”

"I can come in," replies Billy with a flicker of a polite smile. There is a slow crane of the neck to look past Eden at the controlled chaos beyond, before focusing his gaze back on the woman bedecked in flour. "But I will respectfully stay out of the kitchen. I would not want your oven to take offense to my presence and spoil something."

He tries another smile, this one sticking a little longer than the last.

"Thanks for the note," he adds. "It... has been a while, hasn't it?" A hand reaches up to rub slightly at the scar across his forehead, and then pass over into his hair. "I'm... pretty terrible with time these days, so I'm going to have to rely on your sense of when we last talked, Eden."

Eden looks intrigued, “Is offending appliances something you regularly do? I can see how that could make things tricky. My oven is very reliable, but best not to test it.”

She steps over to the living room and clears books and scribbled notes off of the chairs, gesturing for Billy to sit. “I think it’s been a good year since we last sat down and got caught up on things, and so much has been going on recently. I thought it would be wise to share information and make sure we both have a decent sense of what’s going on and what we need to worry about. Or at least prioritize our many worries.”

Having freed the seating from clutter, Eden throws open the windows and leaves the front door open, only closing the screen to invite in the beautiful spring air.*

She gestures with a thumb toward the kitchen, “Can I get you anything?”



*

"Oven's can be a little picky about who they like and who they don't like," offers Billy simply. "Considering my composition and dietary choices, I have started steering clear of them. Best not to take risks."

Billy takes the seat provided, and considers Eden's question carefully. After some internal debate, Billy answers "Tea. Preferably something spicy or with lemon. The more aromatic the better. I'm just going to sit here and smell it anyways, so having something you think I'll enjoy will have pretty much the same effect as it being something I actually like the smell of."

Because that's not an ambiguous and strange way to answer that question. Still, Billy's demeanor is cheerful enough, and he gives a slow scan of the place. His eyes linger next to the sink, and he chuckles.

"I think I was standing there the first time you left me alone with that extremely creepy book, Eden. Right there. I can remember that book... probably too well. Parsons has it these days, doesn't he?"

"Had it," Eden replies with a faint grin but declines to elaborate.

She excuses herself for a moment to put the kettle on. Eden placed far too much importance on hospitality to question a guest's dietary preferences as long as they were not harmful to others.

Returning, she settles herself down on the couch. "So, what sorts of trouble have you been getting into these days, Billy St. Francis?"

"Oh, you know, the usual," offers Billy with a wry grin. "Sending letters of explanation to concerned parents on why their daughter wound up dead on a reservation. Keeping the media coverage on contagion outbreaks to a minimum. Figuring out how many of my people died from the latest corporate 'accident'. Planning the spring festival at the high school and the summer barbecue for the tribe. Contemplating how inevitable our death and destruction is. Nothing extraordinary."

And there's the deadpan snark that Billy so rarely gets to employ these days. There is a flicker of enjoyment in his expression as he blithely rattles off terrible thing, after terrible thing, all with the same care and concern someone might comment about planning for the next fishing season.

"Yourself, Eden? Anything new in your life?"