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childrearing in night vale: part iii.
Carlos, like the rest of Night Vale, was made aware of Emilie's arrival just minutes after it happened. He was listening to Cecil's radio show, as he did these days (because honestly, a man can only go so long without that radiant french vanilla voice in his ears), and tentatively interpreting the weather segment as 'it will probably be hot and a little bit windy, but it could get pretty chilly tonight.' It was hard to put a finger on precisely when he'd started understanding the weather in Night Vale, but it was hard to put a finger on anything around here, anyway. Carlos wasn't going to think too hard about it.
Cecil's voice chimed in post-weather, all lit up with sweet lemon and air.
"Listeners, I have some wonderful news," he said in almost a singsong. "Today is the second most joyous day of my life. I am so very proud, dear listeners, to introduce to you my daughter, Emilie Olivia Baldwin-Keyes. Say hello to our listeners, Emilie!"
Carlos awaited what he imagined would be a voice made of sunlight and honeysuckle. She was Cecil's daughter, after all. But the only sound that came over the air was the crackle of static, and then, abruptly, the high-pitched squeal of feedback. Cecil's voice returned momentarily, now the sickening sweetness of one slice of cake too many.
"She's feeling a little shy — she's only nine. She'll warm up, I'm sure."
It was obvious — to Carlos, at least, and he hoped for Cecil's sake that he was the only one — that Cecil was a little wounded by Emilie's lack of responsiveness. Of course, she'd just lost her father, and based on what Cecil had told him, she'd been less than a year old when she moved out of Night Vale, so Cecil was as good as a stranger to her. This wasn't going to be easy for either of them.
Any of them, Carlos corrected himself. Cecil had twisted his arm (in an analogy where 'twisted' meant 'murmured in' and 'arm' meant 'ear') to convince him to come to dinner at his house. He wanted Carlos to meet Emilie.
Carlos wasn't reluctant to meet the girl, or even (apprehensive though he was at the role) to be a part of her life as her mother's boyfriend, but neither was he looking forward to the painfully awkward first meeting. Still, Cecil would have to suffer through it, and work his way through the slow thaw of the mother-daughter relationship, so Carlos supposed he could stomach it, too.
They were set for dinner Friday night, so that Emilie would have some time to settle in. Carlos and Cecil met for lunch on Tuesday and Thursday, and both times, Cecil was dreadfully subdued. His smiles offered no teeth, his voice only a tired sort of warmth. On Thursday, Carlos nudged his foot beneath the table and asked if he was all right.
"Oh, you know," Cecil said, making indecipherable gestures with slow hands, "the adjustment period is tough." He was still smiling.
Carlos caught one of his hands and interlaced their fingers, a simple show of affection made complicated by the mismatched number of digits. Over the course of a month or so, he'd learned to slot their fingers together and leave Cecil's thumb free to move, stroking circles and lines on the inside of Carlos's palm. It came naturally now.
"It's not... quite going the way you expected, is it?" he asked, studying Cecil's milky eyes. The drop of all three eyelids confirmed it.
"Not... quite." Cecil's voice was low, a gradual drip of blueberry syrup. "She's a bit... distant."
Carlos felt his mouth twist with sympathy. He'd never made a habit of empty reassurances or condolences, so he didn't say 'she'll come around,' though it was the first thing that came to mind. Instead, he said carefully, "Give her time. It might get better."
Though Cecil offered a smile, Carlos was starting to wonder if he stood a chance at all. Cecil was charming, disarming, charismatic to a fault. Hell, he'd gotten under Carlos's skin, hadn't he? And if he couldn't break through this little girl's defenses, what were the odds that Carlos (fumbling, graceless Carlos, who still couldn't fathom why someone like Cecil called him perfect) could win her over?
Ready or not, Friday was hurtling toward them (figuratively, not literally, as Fridays and also Wednesdays sometimes did), and Carlos found himself more anxious with every hour. Too soon, it was seven o'clock, and he was standing on Cecil's doorstep with the salad he'd promised he'd bring.
He rang the doorbell, listening to the deep timbre of the bell tolling from far beneath the house, and brushed at the front of his khakis. When the door opened, he looked up, smiling, and was met not by Cecil's shimmering white eyes, but seven perfectly normal brown ones.
Emilie blinked, first the eye in the center of her forehead, then the other three pairs in quick succession — the two where eyes ought to be, the two on her cheekbones and the two just above her jaw. The uppermost eye stared directly, unnervingly at his face, while the other six roamed to take in his clothes, his shoes, his hair, the salad, each pair independent from the others.
"Hello," he said, vaguely aware that his smile had frozen like a deer in the spotlight of an ominous black helicopter. "You must be Emilie. I'm —"
"Carlos," she said, and there were three voices, all speaking in unison. "Carlos the scientist." One of the voices was exactly what he'd expected: songbirds and sunbeams and spring breezes, just what you'd imagine Cecil's daughter would sound like. Another was a rasping, husky alto with clicking consonants, and the last (by far the most startling) was a deep baritone, richer and lower than his own.
"Your mother's mentioned me?"
"Of course I have." Cecil's voice was an immense relief. Carlos looked up, over Emilie's head, and felt his smile grow. Cecil returned it, all bright white teeth, and took the salad from his hands, kissing his cheek. "Come in."
The table was set flawlessly, and as they settled into their chairs, Carlos saw Emilie stretch a tentacle across the table to adjust a fork near her mother's plate. The tentacle, a vibrant, glowing violet, retreated into the palm of her hand when it was finished.
"Do you like salad?" Carlos asked her, trying not to look as though he was stealing glances at her hands.
Emilie turned her eyes to the salad contemplatively. "Is there meat in it?"
"Chicken." Carlos was encouraged by the question.
"I don't eat meat," she answered. Carlos's face fell.
Cecil caught his eye. "The pasta is vegetarian," he said. Carlos could hear the nerves in his voice, and it was both reassuring and decidedly not.
Emilie ate in silence, consuming an alarming amount of pasta in an alarmingly short time. When her plate was clean, she snaked a tentacle over her plate to pick up her glass of something green and milkshake-like in consistency.
"What kind of scientist are you?" she asked Carlos when the glass was half-empty.
'A pseudoscientist' was the correct answer these days, but Carlos elected for the slightly less self-deprecating response. "I went to school for geology and seismology," he said.
"So you came to Night Vale because of the earthquakes?"
There was a brief, stunned silence at the table. Emilie shifted a pair of eyes to her mother, the rest focused intently on Carlos.
"Well... yes," Carlos admitted. "That was what drew my attention initially. But there are a lot of things to study in Night Vale."
Emilie snaked a tentacle into the salad bowl and it returned with a cherry tomato, which she ate with too many sharp teeth. All of her teeth were sharp. "Like what?"
Carlos met Cecil's eyes, which were, as usual, fairly indecipherable. His brows were knit, though, and he offered a shrug. Carlos returned it before he looked back to Emilie, who had now devoted two pairs of eyes to her mother, one of them narrowed in suspicion.
"Time passes differently in Night Vale," Carlos offered. "More slowly. Roughly eighty-five percent of the speed of the rest of the world. I'm not sure that it always has; I think it's been slowing down, but very gradually."
All of Emilie's eyes had returned to him now, and though Carlos should probably have felt anxious with seven eyes trained so dedicatedly on him, he found that he really wasn't.
"And there's a very small city beneath Lane 5 of the bowling alley," he continued, "full of very small people."
The eyes widened in the same order they blinked in. "Can we visit there?"
"No," Cecil and Carlos said in quick unison. Carlos cut a glance at Cecil, who had abandoned a sip of brandy in his rush to answer.
"No," Cecil repeated, less urgently. "It's very dangerous."
"Dad said this whole town was dangerous," Emilie replied, pursing her lips.
"That's how you know the underground city is really dangerous," said Carlos. "I almost died there." He watched as Cecil's eyes dropped to his glass and he took a long sip.
Emilie folded five-fingered hands, tentacles emerging to twine together between her palms, and rested her chin on them. "Tell me," she demanded.
Uncertain, Carlos glanced again at Cecil. He didn't mind telling the story, especially since it seemed to interest Emilie so much, but he wasn't sure Cecil wanted to hear it. He was met, however, with a reassuring smile and a voice like honey.
"Go on."
Cecil's voice chimed in post-weather, all lit up with sweet lemon and air.
"Listeners, I have some wonderful news," he said in almost a singsong. "Today is the second most joyous day of my life. I am so very proud, dear listeners, to introduce to you my daughter, Emilie Olivia Baldwin-Keyes. Say hello to our listeners, Emilie!"
Carlos awaited what he imagined would be a voice made of sunlight and honeysuckle. She was Cecil's daughter, after all. But the only sound that came over the air was the crackle of static, and then, abruptly, the high-pitched squeal of feedback. Cecil's voice returned momentarily, now the sickening sweetness of one slice of cake too many.
"She's feeling a little shy — she's only nine. She'll warm up, I'm sure."
It was obvious — to Carlos, at least, and he hoped for Cecil's sake that he was the only one — that Cecil was a little wounded by Emilie's lack of responsiveness. Of course, she'd just lost her father, and based on what Cecil had told him, she'd been less than a year old when she moved out of Night Vale, so Cecil was as good as a stranger to her. This wasn't going to be easy for either of them.
Any of them, Carlos corrected himself. Cecil had twisted his arm (in an analogy where 'twisted' meant 'murmured in' and 'arm' meant 'ear') to convince him to come to dinner at his house. He wanted Carlos to meet Emilie.
Carlos wasn't reluctant to meet the girl, or even (apprehensive though he was at the role) to be a part of her life as her mother's boyfriend, but neither was he looking forward to the painfully awkward first meeting. Still, Cecil would have to suffer through it, and work his way through the slow thaw of the mother-daughter relationship, so Carlos supposed he could stomach it, too.
They were set for dinner Friday night, so that Emilie would have some time to settle in. Carlos and Cecil met for lunch on Tuesday and Thursday, and both times, Cecil was dreadfully subdued. His smiles offered no teeth, his voice only a tired sort of warmth. On Thursday, Carlos nudged his foot beneath the table and asked if he was all right.
"Oh, you know," Cecil said, making indecipherable gestures with slow hands, "the adjustment period is tough." He was still smiling.
Carlos caught one of his hands and interlaced their fingers, a simple show of affection made complicated by the mismatched number of digits. Over the course of a month or so, he'd learned to slot their fingers together and leave Cecil's thumb free to move, stroking circles and lines on the inside of Carlos's palm. It came naturally now.
"It's not... quite going the way you expected, is it?" he asked, studying Cecil's milky eyes. The drop of all three eyelids confirmed it.
"Not... quite." Cecil's voice was low, a gradual drip of blueberry syrup. "She's a bit... distant."
Carlos felt his mouth twist with sympathy. He'd never made a habit of empty reassurances or condolences, so he didn't say 'she'll come around,' though it was the first thing that came to mind. Instead, he said carefully, "Give her time. It might get better."
Though Cecil offered a smile, Carlos was starting to wonder if he stood a chance at all. Cecil was charming, disarming, charismatic to a fault. Hell, he'd gotten under Carlos's skin, hadn't he? And if he couldn't break through this little girl's defenses, what were the odds that Carlos (fumbling, graceless Carlos, who still couldn't fathom why someone like Cecil called him perfect) could win her over?
Ready or not, Friday was hurtling toward them (figuratively, not literally, as Fridays and also Wednesdays sometimes did), and Carlos found himself more anxious with every hour. Too soon, it was seven o'clock, and he was standing on Cecil's doorstep with the salad he'd promised he'd bring.
He rang the doorbell, listening to the deep timbre of the bell tolling from far beneath the house, and brushed at the front of his khakis. When the door opened, he looked up, smiling, and was met not by Cecil's shimmering white eyes, but seven perfectly normal brown ones.
Emilie blinked, first the eye in the center of her forehead, then the other three pairs in quick succession — the two where eyes ought to be, the two on her cheekbones and the two just above her jaw. The uppermost eye stared directly, unnervingly at his face, while the other six roamed to take in his clothes, his shoes, his hair, the salad, each pair independent from the others.
"Hello," he said, vaguely aware that his smile had frozen like a deer in the spotlight of an ominous black helicopter. "You must be Emilie. I'm —"
"Carlos," she said, and there were three voices, all speaking in unison. "Carlos the scientist." One of the voices was exactly what he'd expected: songbirds and sunbeams and spring breezes, just what you'd imagine Cecil's daughter would sound like. Another was a rasping, husky alto with clicking consonants, and the last (by far the most startling) was a deep baritone, richer and lower than his own.
"Your mother's mentioned me?"
"Of course I have." Cecil's voice was an immense relief. Carlos looked up, over Emilie's head, and felt his smile grow. Cecil returned it, all bright white teeth, and took the salad from his hands, kissing his cheek. "Come in."
The table was set flawlessly, and as they settled into their chairs, Carlos saw Emilie stretch a tentacle across the table to adjust a fork near her mother's plate. The tentacle, a vibrant, glowing violet, retreated into the palm of her hand when it was finished.
"Do you like salad?" Carlos asked her, trying not to look as though he was stealing glances at her hands.
Emilie turned her eyes to the salad contemplatively. "Is there meat in it?"
"Chicken." Carlos was encouraged by the question.
"I don't eat meat," she answered. Carlos's face fell.
Cecil caught his eye. "The pasta is vegetarian," he said. Carlos could hear the nerves in his voice, and it was both reassuring and decidedly not.
Emilie ate in silence, consuming an alarming amount of pasta in an alarmingly short time. When her plate was clean, she snaked a tentacle over her plate to pick up her glass of something green and milkshake-like in consistency.
"What kind of scientist are you?" she asked Carlos when the glass was half-empty.
'A pseudoscientist' was the correct answer these days, but Carlos elected for the slightly less self-deprecating response. "I went to school for geology and seismology," he said.
"So you came to Night Vale because of the earthquakes?"
There was a brief, stunned silence at the table. Emilie shifted a pair of eyes to her mother, the rest focused intently on Carlos.
"Well... yes," Carlos admitted. "That was what drew my attention initially. But there are a lot of things to study in Night Vale."
Emilie snaked a tentacle into the salad bowl and it returned with a cherry tomato, which she ate with too many sharp teeth. All of her teeth were sharp. "Like what?"
Carlos met Cecil's eyes, which were, as usual, fairly indecipherable. His brows were knit, though, and he offered a shrug. Carlos returned it before he looked back to Emilie, who had now devoted two pairs of eyes to her mother, one of them narrowed in suspicion.
"Time passes differently in Night Vale," Carlos offered. "More slowly. Roughly eighty-five percent of the speed of the rest of the world. I'm not sure that it always has; I think it's been slowing down, but very gradually."
All of Emilie's eyes had returned to him now, and though Carlos should probably have felt anxious with seven eyes trained so dedicatedly on him, he found that he really wasn't.
"And there's a very small city beneath Lane 5 of the bowling alley," he continued, "full of very small people."
The eyes widened in the same order they blinked in. "Can we visit there?"
"No," Cecil and Carlos said in quick unison. Carlos cut a glance at Cecil, who had abandoned a sip of brandy in his rush to answer.
"No," Cecil repeated, less urgently. "It's very dangerous."
"Dad said this whole town was dangerous," Emilie replied, pursing her lips.
"That's how you know the underground city is really dangerous," said Carlos. "I almost died there." He watched as Cecil's eyes dropped to his glass and he took a long sip.
Emilie folded five-fingered hands, tentacles emerging to twine together between her palms, and rested her chin on them. "Tell me," she demanded.
Uncertain, Carlos glanced again at Cecil. He didn't mind telling the story, especially since it seemed to interest Emilie so much, but he wasn't sure Cecil wanted to hear it. He was met, however, with a reassuring smile and a voice like honey.
"Go on."