Chapter Four

THE ANDERCHRONICLES

By Me, Ellee

[WARNING: The following story has been rated FNF*]
*Fiction NOT Fact

screencap courtesy of bcfraggle

"The Beauty of Nature's Work"

I woke up the third morning to the musical strains of U2 playing on Anderson's state-of-the-art sound system, which accommodates each and every room in his apartment, and as I went into the breakfast room and found him reading several newspapers at the table, Bono was singing that he still hadn't found what he was looking for. I felt sad for him because I knew if he hadn't found it by now, most likely he never would. Still, some keep looking. As I approached the table, Anderson looked up and asked,

"Do you know how to cook other things besides chicken legs? I mean . . . don't take this wrong . . . they were good, but . . . like I mean . . . breakfast things?"

I assured him that my cooking portfolio was well diversified , and would probably yield something from the breakfast sector. I could see he was reading the investment section of the newspaper, and suspecting that he had little first-hand knowledge of anything to do with cooking, I decided to speak in terms he could understand. But, when I made a quick survey of his refrigerator, I found no foods that bore any resemblance to 'breakfast foods'.

"Anderson," I commented, "all I find here is Diet Coke and a half can of opened dog food. However, if you happen to have some olive oil, I might be able to pull something together."

When I said that, he immediately stopped reading, folded up the paper, looked at me with a strange look and stated,

"Diet Coke, dog food AND olive oil???? You can't make anything with that!"

"Yes, I can!"

“No, you can’t,” he countered.

“But, I can!”

“NO, you CAN'T!”

“WELL, I CAN!”

“ . . . WELL . . . I won’t eat it!!!”

“FINE!” I said, looking straight at him and folding my arms resolutely across my body, thereby ending the conversation.

“Ok,” he finally said, “hold on . . . wait a minute.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Ask Jeeves, of course.”

At which point he picked up his cell phone, pressed a key, and asked his doorman, Jeeves, to pick up a dozen eggs, a pound of bacon, a loaf of bread, and . . . OLIVE OIL. Then he folded the phone shut, and looked over at me.

“Uhhh . . . olive oil???" I questioned.

“Yes, olive oil," he mimicked.

I blinked a couple of times—he did too. Then his eyes narrowed slightly as he added,

“I . . . uhh . . . have a feeling you can do something with it later.”

After the delivery arrived, I cooked breakfast. The whole meal contained enough cholesterol on its own to take down the fittest of humans, but I added some butter I had found in the freezer, just for good measure. Anderson loved it! He ate voraciously, like he hadn’t eaten in days. Consequently, he didn’t seem to want to engage in any type of conversation. So, I just sat there quietly and ate my breakfast . . . and tried not to bother him.

After he was finished, he picked up his newspapers and started reading again, becoming totally engrossed in what he was doing. I, too, was becoming totally engrossed in what I was doing— studying his face. During the course of this, I noticed a smudge of dirt or something on his right cheek. So, my natural inclination was to wet the corner of my napkin with saliva and clean it off — which I did—but shouldn’t have. As I scrubbed, I discovered it wouldn't come off, so I had to scrub even harder, at which point Anderson grabbed my wrist, arresting my motion, and exclaimed,

“What do you think you are doing?”

“I was only trying to clean off that brown smudge,” I answered.

“That, I’ll have you know is NOT a smudge—IT IS MY BIRTHMARK!!!

“Ohhhhh,” I cowered, “I’m soooooo sorry—really I didn’t know. Please . . . oh I’m so embarrassed. Sorry, really sorry. I’ve never noticed that before.”

“Of course you haven’t noticed it before! I keep it covered with make-up!”

“You wear make-up! ?” I exclaimed, astonishment reverberating in my voice.

“Noooooooooo, I DON’T wear make-up! I mean . . . like I . . . well, yes I do wear make-up, but only in the studio—on TV.

The seeds of frustration I had just sown were now beginning to sprout. The thought occurred to me that maybe I should exit this scene while I still could. But I didn’t—unfortunately. He sat there for a few moments trying to collect himself by breathing deeply, and I could see he was counting. He finally stopped at twenty-five.

“I’m sorry . . . I got so . . . upset,” he apologized.

I could see he was trying to be sincere, but was having some difficulty getting the words to sound just right.

“No, you should have been upset.”

“No, I shouldn’t have. It was unkind of me, really,”he added.

“It was my fault,” I said, “I should have kept my hands to myself.”

“Well, that’s true,” he hurried to add, “you SHOULD have kept your hands to yourself.”

“I will next time,” I promised. “And I’m sorry about the make-up thing. I should have known.”

We sat there for a few moments looking at each other. I think maybe he was glaring, rather than looking. But I couldn’t be sure. And then he started reading again. And I started studying his face again. Well, what can I say, he was right there in front of me—in person—what else could I do? All of a sudden, his head jerked up, and his eyes caught mine staring.

“Are you staring at me?” he asked.

“Why would you think that?” I responded.

“Because, you ARE staring!”

“No, I’m NOT staring,” I refuted, yet I knew I was.

“Then what do you call it?”

“Call what?”

“What you are doing.”

“WHAT am I doing?”

“You’re looking at me.”

“No, I’m not looking at you”

“Yes, you are.”

NO, I’m not—I was just thinking . . . or rather . . . wondering . . .”

“Well . . . what were you WONDERING, then?”

His two hands, now out in front of him, were waving in an obvious gesture of impatience, while his eyes confirmed the annoyance he was trying hard to control.

“Actually, I was wondering what Nate would make of your . . . um . . . ” I wasn’t sure I should mention it again, “ . . . uhhh . . . your birthmark.”

“Who the h*** is Nate???!!!!” he exploded, losing a considerable amount of control at that moment.

“Well,” I hesitated, “you know . . . Hawthorne.”

“You mean Nathaniel Hawthorne?”

“Yeah, that’s the guy.”

“Well, what about him?” he yelled.

Impatience had finally overtaken him—his well-intentioned restraint, gone. I wasn’t entirely sure I should continue with this line of conversation, but I wasn’t exactly sure how to end it either. So, I continued,

“Haven’t you ever read his short story, “The Birthmark?”

“Of course, I've read it!" he shouted, "everyone reads it in high school. SO?”

Impatience had now given way to agitation. And then I watched as realization struck him.

“So . . . that’s it! You think I'm flawed, that I have a defect like . . . like . . . oh what IS her name . . . the heroine in this . . . this . . . story!?"

The veins in his neck were pumped up, and his Adam's apple was bobbing up and down as he swallowed hard to keep from exploding all together.

“Georgiana,” I supplied.

“Yes, Georgiana!!” he shouted.

His eyes had narrowed to slits, and had taken on a slightly crazed appearance. And as he spoke this lips were stretched thinner than bubble gum just before it explodes.

“You think this is a ‘defect’ that I have, or a mark of . . . of . . . something unseemly—an imperfection—something that needs to be excised, like Georgiana’s husband thought about HER birthmark?" he exclaimed, pointing to his right cheek. “Is that it!!? Is that what you've been sitting here thinking all this time you've been staring at me?” His look was one of disbelief.

“No, no, no, I wasn’t thinking that. I don’t think that . . . at all! I-I-I . . . DIDN’T think that. I WASN'T thinking that!! REALLY!!!”

Ohhhh! I did NOT think any such thing ! But at that point, he was probably thinking I thought such a thing! HOW could he think I thought such a thing . . . about HIM? Now I think this whole thing is past out of control, and I think I wish I had left when I thought I knew I should have . . . in the first place!!!!. Oh, you know what I mean, don’t you?

How was I ever going to get out of this one, I asked myself? But just to CLARIFY this whole thing, so YOU know what I was really thinking . . . Really, I don’t want you to think that I was thinking what he thought I was thinking, when I really wasn’t thinking that at all, because I REALLY wasn’t thinking what he thought I was thinking. Oh, maybe there is just too much thinking going on here. Do you think you know what I mean? Well, just so you know, what I was really thinking, was that a little mark like that makes no difference at all. What’s important is what is inside a person, not what is visible on the outside. AND besides, it's like what Aminadab, the servant, implied when he said,

“If she were my wife, I’d never part with that birthmark, but behold it as the beauty of nature’s work."

That was it! Anderson’s birthmark was the Beauty of Nature’s Work. But I realized I couldn’t very well explain that to him. I was in enough trouble already without adding anything else.

I knew I needed to come up with something right away that would extricate me from this unfortunate conversation. All of a sudden I had an idea. But I would need a magnifying glass, and I knew exactly where to find one—in the library by the six volumes of the Oxford English Dictionary. Excusing myself, I left and went there to find it, and then quickly returned to the kitchen where Anderson was once again absorbed in his work.

“Anderson,” I interrupted—I knew he wasn’t going to appreciate one more disruption, but this one was absolutely necessary, if I were going to make things right again.

“Maaan, I thought you had gone!" he complained.

Grabbing his arm and pulling him away from the table I urged,

“Come over near the window, in the light.”

“Nooooooooo, leave me alone!” he demanded, wrenching his arm free. “I want to read. Can’t you just go somewhere else?” But I latched onto his arm once again and continued pulling, and he continued resisting. “What are you doing, now?”

“It's absolutely necessary I examine your face with this magnifying glass,” I answered.

“What?”

“Your face . . . I need to see your—" did I dare mention it once again? "uhhh . . . birthmark.”

“Are you still obsessing about THAT? Why don’t we just move past THAT? Besides, my birthmark is none of your concern!”

Oh, yes it is, I thought. I couldn’t have him thinking what he thought I was thinking when he thought I was thinking what he was thinking I thought about his birthmark. If none of this makes any sense to you, it doesn’t make any sense to me, either, which is why I knew I simply had to clear it up!

As I continued pulling, he continued resisting, so finally I just got behind and pushed him all the way to the window overlooking New York City.

“There. Now don’t move,” I said as I positioned the magnifying glass in front of his face.

“Get that thing out of my face!!”

“No, I can’t . . . I mean, this will only take a minute. Just hold still.”

But he wasn’t going to hold still. He grabbed the magnifying glass away from me and emphatically stated,

“You are NOT going to examine my birthmark with this thing !!”

“ANDERSON,” I said firmly, both hands on my hips, “give . . . me . . . that . . . magnifying glass!!!!” and I swiftly snatched it from his hand.

He was so astonished at my actions, that he let go of it. After that, I held it securely in my hand, so that when he tried seizing it once again, he was unsuccessful.

“Okaaaay,” he finally acquiesced, as he rolled his eyes, and shook his head from side to side, resigning himself to this annoying scrutiny. He was probably thinking if he DID give in, the whole matter would be over faster than if he continued to resist—smart man!

I knew I would need to complete the examination quickly before he changed his mind. Once again I positioned the magnifying glass to focus on the birthmark, but noticed it had captured his right eye as well. There it was, staring right at me, and the signal it was sending out was not good. I could see his displeasure. In the bright daylight, the pupil was closed down to an f/stop of 22. Wow, I found myself thinking, that is the biggest eye I have ever seen—and sooooooo blue—just like the Carribean. I was tempted to dive right in and start swimming.

As I scanned down from the eye, I saw that the bag directly underneath it was in full deployment. I thought to myself that he must be tired. Poor, guy. He works too hard. So, I remarked—but shouldn’t have,

“Anderson, you must be tired.”

“What? . . . So now you've taken it upon yourself to assess my physical condition? When does this all stop? And just what leads you to that conclusion anyway?"

“Oh, really, it's nothing,” I quickly replied, hoping to nip the impending argument in the bud, wishing I had kept my mouth shut, but realizing it wasn't one of my stronger suits. "Now don’t move! I still haven’t found what I’m looking for.”

As I scanned further down the facescape, I discovered many crisscrossing wrinkles which reminded me of the surface of Mars, with all its dry river beds going every which way. And the pores in the cheek area were like huge volcanic craters, only more shallow and not quite so defined. Then while speeding past lots of little sharp facial hairs standing at attention, like little sentrymen guarding a national treasure, I finally arrived at the famous birthmark. But as I analyzed each aspect of this phenomenon —its size, shape, color, depth, etc., I realized this wasn’t a birthmark at all. There was no little ‘hand’ clutching at him causing deformity to either body or soul. This discovery truly gave me confidence I would receive total absolution.

“Anderson,” I said with relief, “I finally found what I was looking for!” My voice had taken on a buoyant quality now which spoke of hope for a positive closure to our dilemma.

“Well, believe me when I say that I, for one, am soooooo thankful you have found what you were looking for!”

I knew there was sarcasm couched somewhere in that remark, but I didn’t care because I was finally going to be able to exonerate myself. Then I asked him THE all-important question.

“Do you have a firm understanding of continental drift?”

“Well, OF COURSE I have a firm understanding of continental drift!!!.DOESN’T EVERYONE!!!! ???”

Again—sarcasm, but it was irrelevant, so I overlooked it. But as I peered through the magnifying glass, I could see his pupil was dilating— much more than it should, and the more sarcasm I detected, the more his pupil dilated. So I knew he was mad. I wondered if the other pupil was doing likewise. However, I didn't dare switch the glass to the other side.

And then it came—It caught me off guard.

“Do you have ANY idea just how infuriating you are!!!!???,” he yelled as he jerked the magnifying glass out of my hand and slammed it down on the counter top. “What in h*** does continental drift have anything AT ALL to do with MY BIRTHMARK!?? And how is it any of your business in the first place? And why are we even HAVING this conversation?”

Let me interject here that he was so mad by that time, his pupils had dilated to the point where his eyes were no longer blue—but black.

“If you’ll just calm down a bit,” I said, “and give me a minute I’ll explain everything.”

His chest was now heaving in exaggerated fits of gasping as he was trying to control himself, but I knew I had to press on.

“You see,” I continued, “two hundred million years ago, Earth’s continents were joined together in one gigantic supercontinental plate called Pangaea. As the magma underneath it bubbled up, it broke this plate into several pieces, and started carrying them away from each other. This is known as continental drift.

“Sooooo?????? . . . that still has nothing at all to do with my birthmark!!!

“Yes, it does.”

“Nooooooo, it doesn’t!”

“Yeeeeessssss, IT DOES!!!! Let me finish. Your birthmark is just continental drift—in reverse.”

It took a few seconds for this bit of information to sink in, but when it did he began yelling,

“THAT IS JUST NUTS!!!!! HOW DID YOU ARRIVE AT THAT????!!!”

I knew at that moment he had really lost it. His crystaline eyes looked shattered, and his breathing was erratic, at best. However, I had to push ahead explaining my findings,

“As I examined your birthmark with the magnifying glass, I could see that it is composed of dozens of little freckles that were probably once sprinkled all over your face, but have now drifted together into one big superfreckle. Instead of continental drift, it's called freckle drift.

There was total silence after my explanation. He appeared to be speechless—probably for the first time in his life. I could see he was searching for some kind of response, but finding none, he shook his head in utter disbelief, and just walked away, throwing his hands up in the air.

But I still hadn’t made my conclusion, so after a while I went looking for him and found him in the library, sitting with his head in his hands, hyperventilating and wheezing simultaneously. When he heard me approach, he lifted his head, and with a pleading expression in his eyes said,

“Please, I beg of you, don’t tell me any more . . . Okay?”

But, I had to tell him more, with the hope that I could finally put this whole unfortunate matter behind us. So I walked over to where he was sitting and got down on the floor, establishing eye contact with him, and then gently said,

“Don’t you see the significance of my research? Your birthmark is NOT a birthmark at all. There is no ‘little hand’ just waiting to seize your soul. And it certainly can’t be seen as a defect, or anything at all, for that matter. It’s just one big superfreckle, which has no meaning, whatsoever—It is simply the beauty of nature’s work”

Am I forgiven, I wondered, searching his eyes for a sign? But he didn't see me. He was staring straight ahead, still hyperventilating. After several minutes, I heard him sigh. I knew my point loss was mounting. And that is the sad truth.

Bye for now,
Love,
Ellee