What a Club


delilah_icon.gif sable_icon.gif

Scene Title What a Club
Synopsis Some small fringe benefits of motherhood.
Date May 8, 2011

Eltingville Blocks - Trafford Residence

Twelve Holly Avenue is not the biggest nor most impressive of buildings, but it sits nestled along the street with a comfortable quality and cottage-like appearance that sets it apart. The tan paint and brown roof envelop a rather slim two-bedroom house, and with the daintily flowered front lawn under the face of a bay window, it leaves a very quaint first impression. There is a side driveway and a backyard, which itself is one of the only yards along the neighboring ones to not have a pool. Instead, it has a small rear deck and a green lawn, a flower garden along part of the fence, shadowed slightly by a maroon-leaved maple that also shadows the deck in the afternoon and evening hours.

Inside the home, the decor and utilities are a mixture of vintage and classical retro; while not from one decade of influence, there is much influence from between the thirties and sixties. The inside is primarily in different pastel shades, though all rooms have a steady stream of crisp and warm yellows and whites, mixed with green in the downstairs and blues with the upper level. There also seem to be a lot of flowers- not always real, though the fragrance of a bouquet can find space to waft its way through the house.

The furniture is always comfortable, everywhere in the house; there is a distinct lack of pointed corners on tables and chairs, and a surplus of big, squashy pieces in neutral earth tones for the others. The dining room overlooks the front lawn, whereas the den has a wide window looking out over the backyard. The kitchen is at the rear entrance, a sliding door going out onto the deck. Up the stairs is the bathroom, sitting nearly parallel, and the bedrooms are next to one another, yet still able to overlook either patch of grass outside.

The ramble to the King Kullen Grocery takes about fifteen minutes, twenty if you tend to ramble, as Sable is wont to do, making passing percussion on fences and signs, giving bright, loony smiles to strangers just to see how they'll react, and resisting temptations to heckle the security forces at the checkpoints. It's not such a struggle to resist giving the grunts a goading - she has business to attend to, and getting waylaid for her smartassery is not on her docket.

Perhaps the produce could be crisper. And while a few flickering florescents in the fifth aisle may not effect the quality of the food, but it doesn't exactly make for an appetizing environment. Still, HRH Kullen has something going for his kingdom - it's right near the florist, so Sable is able to pick up a (admittedly quite modest) bunch of daffodils on her way out, arms laden with white plastic backs that look a little strained around their contents. Burdened though she is, she makes it back in better time, much more scrupulous with her pacing and purpose now that she is too laden to saunter and strut.

Sable uses her own body to keep the door ajar as she transfers the goods through the entrance. She's careful, like really careful in an absolute sense, not just by her own standards, but nevertheless by the time she's gotten herself and her bags through the door, one of the yellow trumpet blooms is hanging sadly from a broken stem. Dammit, but why does that always happen? She leaves the bags on the floor - if Samson wants to do a security check, now would be the time - and hustles into the kitchen where she fills a tall glass and sets the flowers inside. Her one small effort to right the flower on its broken stem is futile from the start, finger lifting only to let the flower flop back down again. Aw, hell. Whatcha gonna do?

Of course he's going to do a security check! What kind of dog would he be if he didn't? Samson is around the corner when Sable walks away, so by the time she comes back, he has busied himself with snooping through all the grocery bags. At least he doesn't steal anything, or spill something on the floor. It is a very careful process. Morning is a careful time, after all. And usually Sable doesn't bring him anything in the mornings. When she comes back, he lifts his head and snorts at her, as if to say that he is finished, before he trots out to the kitchen to see what she was up to in there.

Delilah, as in most Sundays, wakes up plenty late and gets moving plenty slowly. Being the exact six-month mark since Walter was born, when she eventually does roll out of bed and get dressed- the next thing is to go to his room- Sable is away at this point- and teeter her way over to the crib. Walter has better things to do than sleep, evidently, as when she does get to him he is sitting up playing with some of the spinning objects inside one end of the bed.

"Guess whose half birthday it is? That's riiight-" She doesn't expect an answer, that would be Silly. Delilah hoists the baby up into one arm, letting him keep hold on the stuffed ginger fox he is now prone to sleeping with. "Where did Sable go? Did you see her?" Walter responds with something, though his mother doesn't exactly speak baby fluently.

"Nothin' f'r you, chum," Sable informs Samson, hauling the bags into the kitchen and beginning to unload them. And there is, indeed, little for Samson to be found in here. Instead, Sable has seemed to take it upon herself to restock on baby supplies. Diapers, powder, wipes, &c. - things you cannot, at this stage, easily, have enough of. When the bags lie empty, plastic ghost lying limply on the counter, she turns towards Samson, descending into a crouch so as to get on eye level of with the dog. "Le's go see if th' lady 'f th' house is up, eh?"

And so up the stairs, she goes, pausing only to grab the drinking glass from which the flowers sprout. The broken bloom bumps against the side of the glass as she pelts up the stairs, pattering quite audibly over to her and Dee's room, her slight form glimpsed only briefly in the doorway to Walter's on the way, before skidding to a halt, then doubling back and appearing, smile half sheepish, at the stop she skipped moments ago. There she is.

"Mornin', beautiful," Sable says, easing into the room and clasping the ad hoc vase between her hands, "I think someone mentioned 't w's Mother's Day t'day. If it ain't, 'n' I'm just confused 'bout it, well," she shrugs, then lifts up the flowers, "well, don't need no special 'ccasion or nothin'."

Yellow eyes dart over to Walter. Sable cracks a grin. "Wasn't interruptin' no private type conversation, was I?" Fluent though Dee may not yet be, Sable isn't about to underestimate any Traffords.

Samson sits himself down on the floor to watch Sable, eyes following her hands around. He only looks right at her when she stoops down to look him in the face. When she goes upstairs, he doesn't follow her- the dog just stares up at her back before snorting again and wandering into the next room. No reason to tramp all the way up there if they're gonna come down at some point.

Delilah is setting Walter down to wriggle him out of his pajamas when Sable slips in- he wants to get up and do something, judging by his reaching around for the air. No! I don't care about clothes! Something like that.

"Oh? No… " Delilah double takes a little at the bundle of daffodils, and though the splash of color against Sable catches her by surprise, she smiles regardless. "I dunno, I think it is." Go figure, she either forgot- or really doesn't pay attention to holidays she wasn't raised with. "I think its a month after the one I'm used to, so it must be- imagine that. Six month birthday on Mum's Day." Delilah lets out a sudden laugh.

"Lookit me, I qualify this year! What a club, right?" She's still laughing as she tugs Walter into a onesie of shorts and half-sleeves, picking him up again after and heading over to Sable- who promptly gets a kiss on the head.

Nuh uh. Delilah isn't getting away that easy. The moment she feels Delilah's lips leave her head, Sable bounces upwards in a well practiced motion to snatch another kiss from them before they escape.

"No honor high 'nuff," she states when she's back on the ground, beaming over her spoils, "but I'm hopin' y'll lemme wait on y' hand 'n' foot a little," she points a thumb over her shoulder, "went over t' th' store, keepin' us flush with baby stuff. I wanna make sure y'all c'n take a load off, darlin'." Her arm sticks out, offering the flowers. "Find somewhere t' put this, look proper pretty. I'll take th' hay-birthday boy."

Though Sable figures she should check with Walter first. "If that's arright with you. Drool on me f'r a bit, change 'f pace?"

Walter just peers at her with a bit of a confused look; Delilah tickles her fingers at one of his feet, before she kisses him next. "Put it down on the dresser just for a sec- here, of course he don't mind." Presuming Sable does as she is told, Delilah lifts the boy up to pass him over to her. He may be a bit big for his age, but Sable can handle the big genes that are Laudani-Trafford well enough, surely. "I wouldn't mind the day off.."

"I'm gonna have to wait a bit til I start getting macaroni pictures though, huh?" Unless of course, Sable wants to.

Sable negotiates the transfer, taking steady hold of Walter, the once strange particulars of his motion becoming easier and easier to predict as he grows. And he is growing, Sable giving a theatrical heft and casting her eyes heavenward, comically seeking mercy.

"Figure he'll have 'n artistic-type temperament?" she wonders, turning her gaze to Walter, searching him for protean signs of creative physiognomy. Vivaldi was a redhead, after all. "Be fine if he could grow up 'n' be useless 'n' free, eh?" she says, with a small chuckle. Then she looks up at Delilah, head slightly tilted.

"Whatall wouldja wanna see him grow up t' be?" doesn't sound like and idle question, indeed, "'n' don' say nothin' like 'whatever he wants t' be'. Mebbe true, but that's too easy. What'd do you proud, d' y' figure?"

Delilah opens her mouth to answer as she picks up the flowers, but she closes it when Sable catches it before anything even comes out. The redhead rolls her eyes a little, sniffing at the daffodils and picking out the one that is hanging so forlorn, bent out of place. "Maybe he can be president or something, I dunno, it's too early for me to be hoping for anything…" She gives Walter the daffodil, and he is at least able to grasp the stem in his fist, bringing it closer- and into his face, thank you baby perception.

"If he's creative, good. I have the feeling he'll be a bit like his father, though." That at least fits what she's heard- at least from others, like Francois. "Teo is kind of a renaissance man, I guess. But you know I'd be fine with anything, this isn't really a fair question!" Delilah laughs and slips away from them, out into the hall.

"What y'all hope for ain't 'bout what's fair, not 'nless yer an honest t' God saint," Sable says, facing Walter still, but looking at Delilah sidelong, "comes t' those y' love, what we want c'n be more th'n a mite unfair." Sable's eyes slide back to Walter when he gets the daffodil in his grip. She closes one eye and peers at him with the other, curious in both registers.

"But y'all are right, 'f course," Sable concedes, lifting her head and turning towards Delilah, even as she makes her way towards the door to the hall, "it'd be fine if he could be whatever he wants t' be. But I hope, also, he's got it in 'im t' be what he needs t' be- like it or no."

Sable pauses at the side of the doorway. Ladies first. "Figure, though, we got macaroni paintin's aplenty b'fore we gotta trouble our head's 'bout that," she adds.

"I sure hope so." Delilah says this with perhaps too much gravitas, heading down the stairs with the daffodils. "I do have extra vases, under the sink." She chuckles up at Sable without looking, and when she gets downstairs that is what she goes in the kitchen to find. "Thank you for getting things at the store, I wasn't sure if I'd be able to get there on the way back home this week."

Walter eyeballs the flower at his face, lifting it up to Sable's face when she pauses in the doorway. Showing it off or offering it, hard to tell, cause he keeps shaking it around. That's no good for the well being of the rest of the stem- it kinks in almost no time. He frowns at it when it keels over sideways in his hand.

"Y'all learn somethin' from that?" Sable asks Walter quietly, tone instructive - a little like how she tells her occasional madcap Bible story, "don't treat careless somethin' beautiful," she makes a shifty eyed perimeter check, before confiding, in a whisper, "heartbreakers like us gotta use our powers f'r good."

This is all performed at the top of the stairs, and Sable takes a bit to catch up to Delilah, since holding a baby precludes bounding down like she often does. "No trouble, darlin," Sable replies, weaving her way to the couch and taking a perch on the arm, spying Delilah framed in the kitchen doorway, made a picture. Pretty as. "Been meanin' t' ask y', love -" she quirks her brow, expression visible even at a distance, dark against pale, "should th' spirit take me, would it please y', 'r not, if I wrote a song f'r you?"

Walter holds onto both his fox and the daffodil on the way downstairs, and only when Sable sits does he drop the fox in her lap to pick up the flower with both hands, getting puffs of pollen on his fingers. Her wise words are lost on him, for today, but hopefully one day he'll know what they mean.

Delilah hums as she relocates the glass of flowers to a proper vase, skirt swinging at her knees. She looks over her shoulder to Sable, letting the vase sit on the kitchen table, yellow fitting in quite nicely. "What? You mean you haven't already?" She teases, smiling and looking away in some odd, mocking expression. But in all seriousness- "It would be lovely, I'm sure." Though her voice intones a question of why Sable even asked- it's something that should just happen, right? Songs?

Sable gives a real shifty eyed look this time, conspicuously suspicious. Of course, it's not as if this portends silence - it almost always means disclosure. "Well- course I already had some- like- ideas," she admits, "that's part 'f how y' know. And sure," her bashfulness disappears as she cracks a smile, "ain't sayin' I haven't wrote songs 'bout you."

For is for. For- it's- different," and verbose though Sable may be, she's having trouble finding words for once - what she wants to convey she experiences as an instinctive understanding, nothing she's ever had to explain, even to herself, "it's about- it's a dedication, dig?" This, she hopes, will convey what she means. Dee's usually good at interpreting her, but this is a particularly foggy example of Sablespeak.

Sable lifts the fox, glancing down at its gleaming eyes, dark pupils and ruddy gold irises. Guileless, as plush animals always are. "And I like t' ask first, y' know?" she looks up from the fox to Delilah, "'cause if I got th' least say, it's gonna be on a hit album." Her mirth is squinty-eyed. "Gonna be ridin' the airwaves, darlin'. Fair warnin'."

"As long as Walter won't be 'the kid whose mom had a dirty song about her'-" Warning, though with a laugh- "-I'd be honored if you chose to dedicate a song to me." Not that she wouldn't anyway, but there's a fine line that she needs to watch for. Delilah wanders out into the living room, flopping down as lazily as possible on the couch, feet askew. Sable said day off!!

"For is for, I do get it." Dee assures her, smirking a little as she goes.. "And like I said, I'd be honored to have you write something for me. Though now I'm curious as to what you mean by 'not saying I haven't wrote about you'."

Sable pushes her shoes off and turns to nudge Delilah with her socked feet, back settling against the arm of the couch. Walter is taken along for the reorientation of course, but it's relatively smooth sailing, held securely against the threadbare white of her tanktop. "Darlin'," she says, dipping her head in a gesture of respect, "I love y' dearly, and would never hold no secrets from y', but some things an artist's gotta keep a mystery." And Sable actually tips Delilah a wink. "You listen t' th'm yerself, see what y' figure."

"Oh, you." Delilah scoffs lightly, nudging back with bare feet, toenails painted a glittery pastel green. Walter lies against Sable, for a moment trying to reorient himself rather than allow her to do it for him. "Artist's secrets have been a small bane of mine so far. Hope you do it justice if I can't find out til I listen." If she was gonna say something else, it is disturbed when Samson ambles over to the sofa and puts up his front legs onto the cushions, half of him suddenly trying to climb up with them.

"What are you doing- you're not a lap dog-" Delilah pretty much disappears under the top half of her dog, her hands wrangling at his boxy face.

Sable gives a big toothy grin as the fourth member of the household attempts to join the rest o the couch. "Figures y' finally got time f'r him, now. Figures if y' ain't busy with Walter-" she pulls her legs back, drawing them into a cross-legged Indian sit, help make some room room, "come on, y' great big lug. She don't have t' fuss or fret over none 'f us today. Sit proper 'n' be civil, dawg."

Sitting straighter, posture much improved by the support to her back, Sable tries her best to discern Delilah around Samson's bulk. "Well, y'all wanna be right there on th' spot, y'all c'n come t' meetin's 'n' practice. Though y'all may risk seein' me be an awful tyrant," she taps her chest, "I run a tight ship, rocker 'f th' high seas," a glance down to Walter, "ain't that right?" back up to Dee, "see, he knows!"

Samson is a good dog! And listens when he is summoned up, climbing up onto the couch and setting down with half of himself on Dee's legs, head in her lap. "I still love all my boys, yesss-" She smushes the dog's cheeks and rubs his head. "Sable included, right?" Tail wagging in affirmative.

"Oh, so you're a diva?" Delilah raises her eyebrows at Sable next, looking expectant. Walter doesn't really know the answer to questions yet, instead reaching for Sable's bottom lip, other hand a fistful of mutilated daffodil. His fingers taste like pollen. "You know I like to come to practices and things."

Sable scoffs, protest writ large. "Diva! Girl, I'm a monster 'n' a monarch, but I ain't no queen!" Seeming upset not at the allegation itself so much as its formulation. She might have more words, but she'd have to talk around Walter's grasp. Sable sputters and glowers down at Walter, and it is only because this is a half-special day that she refrains from sticking her tongue out on him. If Samson can be civil, so can she.

"Jus' that I'm gonna try 'n' drum up a big grand meetin' real soon," she explains, finally giving the information a little needed context, "first since- like-" she performs a remarkably lifelike rendering of a O_o "-we found out 'bout Adel. So it's a, like, sorta a matter 'f destiny. 'F chartin' a new course so, like-" she looks up at Delilah, "be cool if y'all were there. If y' ain't busy workin' t' put th' roof over m' head, 'n' food in m' belly, that is…" Grin as rueful as it is teasing.

Delilah wraps her forearms around Samson's neck, and the dog seems content to lay there, tail hitting Sable's legs. Walter giggles at Sable's sputtering, reaching up with his fistful of daffodil to grab at her nose. It of course drops on her collar in the process.

"I see. Yeah. I can be there if you want me there. Especially if it's as important as it sounds." She watches Walter create a small whirl of chaos in and around Sable's face, smiling mischievously. "Are you sure about that whole- handling him thing?" At this point he is practically trying to crawl upwards, though of course it isn't met with much success.

Sable snickers as she grasps Walter and lifts him up, leaning back against her bent legs and giving him a canny smile. "Yeah, gal, don't you worry. Me 'n' him got 'n' understandin'-" she squints, "plus I think I'm ont' his tricks."

She deploys a variety of strange expressions and various distracting hand waves to try and distract Walter from his previous climbing mission - a good chance he'd have just tried again, the tenacious little critter. She stops before she risks her face sticking in any one mask - that can happen you know! - and peeks up at Delilah and her dog, picking daffodil from her collar and setting the yellow mash between Walter's feet. "Think that's yers, eh?"

A quick rub of her nose clears it of pollen, and Sable manages to get away with just one short sneeze into the crook of her elbow. "'scuse me." She sniffs.

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