Taken

by Edward Bloor

  Patience and I had heard enough. We shouted in unison, “No! No!”

  The Pattersons looked pretty alarmed, too.

  Mickie returned the card to the pile. “Okay. The people have spoken on that one.”

  Patience whispered, “Can you imagine sitting on Sterling Johnston’s lap?” and I doubled over in laughter, gasping for air.

  By the time I straightened up, the Pattersons were on their feet. Mrs. Patterson told Mickie, “That was fun, but we really must be going. We have a long trip ahead of us tomorrow. We’re driving to Atlanta.”

  Mr. Patterson added, “We’re going to let Hopewell drive part of the way. We want to make sure he gets enough sleep tonight.”

  Mickie waved the cards at Mrs. Patterson. “Wait a minute. You can’t leave until you pay the forfeits.”

  I guess Mrs. Patterson had forgotten, or she hadn’t been listening, because she asked, “What are the forfeits?”

  “The penalties! The losers must pay the penalties.”

  “Who were the losers?”

  “Well, we only played one game, thanks to some giggling girls, and Hopewell lost that one.” Mickie flipped through the pile until she found the forfeit cards. “So Hopewell gets to perform one of these.”

  My father spoke up again. “That might not be a good idea.”

  “Oh, it’ll be fun. And authentic. You were never allowed to leave a party in Edwardian times until you paid your forfeit.”

  The Pattersons sat down again, grudgingly.

  Mickie winked at Patience and me. “Now here’s one for the giggly girls. Lena found some naughty forfeits. Naughty for 1900, anyway. Are you ready, girls?”

  Patience and I linked arms, pulled each other close, and nodded solemnly.

  “The first one is called ‘to kiss a lady in rabbit fashion.’ For this you need a cotton ball.” At the word “ball,” we both sputtered. “The lady takes one end of the ball in her mouth, and the gentleman takes the other. They then both nibble toward the middle until they kiss.” She stopped and looked at us, surprised. “You’re not giggling, girls?”

  Patience answered, “No. That’s gross.”

  I added, “And germy. Very germy.”

  Mickie shrugged. “Okay. How about this one: ‘to kiss every lady in Spanish fashion’? The man thinks he’s getting off easy with this forfeit, but he has a surprise coming. A volunteer lady leads him around the table to each of the other ladies. But then the volunteer lady bends and does the kissing herself. After each kiss, she wipes her mouth with her handkerchief and then wipes the man’s mouth with that.”

  Patience muttered, “Isn’t that ‘to kiss a lady in lesbian fashion’?”

  Mickie turned our way. Her smile was wavering. So was her tone. “What was that, Patience?”

  I froze, but Patience didn’t. She looked Mickie, our parlor-game bully, in the eye and answered, “I said, ‘Have a gay Edwardian Christmas.’”

  I knew Mickie was mad, but she wouldn’t show it. She shuffled her deck of cards methodically. “Okay, then. There’s one here called ‘to kiss a lady through the back of a chair,’ but I think we should skip it because it’s not appropriate for our group.” Mickie produced a card from the bottom of the deck. “Here. Here’s the one! We saved the best for last. Get up and join me by the fireplace, Hopewell. This is your real forfeit.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Patterson stood up, but Hopewell did not. Mr. Patterson finally said, “Come on, son. It’s getting late. Get over there and do your forfeit so we can go.”

  Mickie announced, “While Hopewell is working his way over here, I want to thank you all for helping me test out these parlor games. They’re fun, aren’t they?” She didn’t wait for a reply. “This one is called ‘Choose a card.’ The person with the forfeit, in this case Hopewell, must stand facing the fireplace while I hold up three cards behind him. One says ‘a kiss,’ one says ‘a pinch,’ and one says ‘a box on the ear.’”

  Mickie showed us the cards to establish that that was indeed what they said. “Now, Hopewell, you have to reach one hand behind you and pick a card. If you pick ‘a kiss,’ you get a kiss.” She turned to me, causing my throat to tighten. “Get ready, Charity.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re the only young girl who is not a relative. So it will be up to you to do whatever Hopewell picks.”

  I didn’t move. And I wasn’t going to move.

  Mickie told Hopewell, “Come on, now, reach back.” She took his hand in hers and guided it backward toward the three cards. His fingers opened and he picked one. Mickie held it up for us all to see. “Oh no! Unfortunately, you picked ‘a box on the ear.’” She playfully slapped his hand. “That’s the worst one! What’s the matter with you?”

  She turned back to me. “Okay, Charity. You have to come and give him a little tap.”

  “No! Never!”

  My father spoke up. “Stop it, Mickie! You’ve gone too far, even for you. Stop it!”

  Mickie stared at us all, clearly not understanding.

  Everyone looked away uncomfortably until Mrs. Patterson muttered, “Hopewell had to have an operation on his ear, to repair some damage.” Then she added one word: “Kidnappers.”

  Mickie whispered, “Oh! I’m so sorry. I didn’t know that.”

  The Pattersons gathered themselves together and walked to the door.

  Mickie asked Mrs. Patterson, “So what happened to Hopewell? He was…he was taken?”

  “Yes. I thought everybody knew that.”

  “I’m sorry. No. All I can think is that my ex-husband didn’t tell me. But please, you tell me now. What happened?”

  My father assured the Pattersons, “You don’t have to tell her anything. This isn’t vidcontent we’re talking about here, it’s your real life. Tell her no.”

  Mrs. Patterson was red and flustered, but she replied, “I don’t mind sharing this. It’s important. Everyone needs to know what can happen, what does happen.”

  Mickie continued as if there had been no interruption: “Did you pay a ransom?”

  Mr. Patterson answered, “Yes, of course. Immediately.”

  But Mrs. Patterson contradicted him. “It wasn’t immediately. He tried to bargain with them.”

  Mr. Patterson turned red. “That’s not fair. I went right to the vault. I took out all the currency we had.”

  Mrs. Patterson shook her head adamantly. She told Mickie in a soft voice, “If it ever happens to you, God forbid, just do what they say. Do exactly what they say. Immediately.”

  Mr. Patterson opened the door and stomped out onto the flagstones. The rest of the Pattersons followed him, silently and sorrowfully. I walked with Patience as far as the gate. She turned and hugged me goodbye. Then Hopewell stepped up to me. He leaned forward, awkwardly, and did the same. I was surprised, but not grossed out. It was a sweet thing to do.

  Daphne and Herbert came around from a side door and joined us. They helped the Pattersons climb into the sleigh. Then they trooped off behind the Pattersons, stepping carefully in the slush, as the sleigh jingled away into the night.

  When I got back inside, Lena and Kurt were setting up to vid the next phase of the celebration—the Christmas readings. Mickie instructed them: “We’ll all gather in front of the fireplace. I’ll read some classic passages and then we’ll discuss them. We’ll edit the content later.”

  Lena pointed my father to a seat by the fireplace. He was definitely drunk by then but, surprisingly, he did cooperate. He flopped into the leather chair, and I sat on an ottoman next to him.

  Mickie stood on the other side of the mantel, in front of Kurt, and held up a book. She began: “Our first Christmas reading is the Robert Louis Stevenson poem ‘Christmas at Sea.’” She cleared her throat lightly and read some lines from the poem that I didn’t understand at all. She then stopped and looked at me. “Charity, what do you think of that poem?”

  All I could think of to say was, “Didn’t he write Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?”

&nbs
p; “Yes.”

  “I think I would like that better.”

  “What?”

  “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”

  “What about the poem?”

  “I didn’t understand it.”

  Mickie moved on. She laid the book down and picked up another. “Okay. The second reading is from Leo Tolstoy’s Shoemaker Martin.” She looked sideways at me and added, “In a scene where he realizes that he has met Jesus.” She held the book high and read a scene where a guy realizes that all the people he had met that day were really Jesus in disguise. At the end, she turned back to me. “So, Charity, who do you think he met?”

  I sputtered, “What?”

  “Who visited Shoemaker Martin that day?”

  I looked into Kurt’s lens and just shook my head. “Are you kidding? It was Jesus! You just told me that.”

  “It sounds like he had met Jesus several times, but he didn’t recognize him. Why was that?”

  I threw my hands up.

  My father stretched and stood. I thought he was leaving the room, but he was only replenishing his drink from the wine decanter. He pointed his glass at Mickie. “You know, Tolstoy turned his back on his success. He walked away from it all.”

  “He did?”

  “According to what I read.”

  “What you read? Where?”

  “Richter.” He explained to me, “The U of Miami library. It had the definitive biography of Tolstoy.”

  Mickie switched books again. She muttered, “When do you do all your reading? When it’s raining on the golf course?”

  “No. That one was required in college. I was quite a reader in college.”

  “Oh? I didn’t know that.”

  He sat back down, slurring his words. “There are a lotta things that you don’t know.”

  Mickie faced the camera again. She held up a small green book. “Finally we turn to the father of the Christmas story, Mr. Charles Dickens. This scene describes Ebenezer Scrooge’s encounter with the second spirit, the ghostly spectre.” She lowered her voice dramatically and read:

  “From the foldings of its robe, it brought two children; wretched, abject, frightful, hideous, miserable. They knelt down at its feet, and clung upon the outside of its garment.

  “‘Oh, Man! Look here. Look, look, down here!’ exclaimed the Ghost.

  “They were a boy and girl. Yellow, meagre, ragged, scowling, wolfish; but prostrate, too, in their humility…

  “‘Spirit! are they yours?’ Scrooge could say no more.

  “‘They are Man’s,’ said the Spirit.”

  Mickie closed the book. “What do you think the spectre is talking about there, Charity?”

  I was ready for her. “I think you should ask my father. He knows a lot more about this sort of thing.”

  Mickie smiled tightly. “Fine.” She turned to him. “Would you care to comment?”

  Dad sat up in his chair and spoke, as if thinking aloud. “Let’s see. Mr. Charles Dickens. As I recall, he was a troubled man. He walked compulsively, sometimes all night long, for miles, very rapidly. Near the end of his life he developed a bad foot, so he had to limp compulsively for miles, very rapidly. He never stopped until he died.”

  Mickie tossed the book down. “Thank you. That was enlightening.”

  “Wait. I’m not finished.” He twirled one hand next to his temple, like a swami. “I’m remembering a college course from long ago.” Mickie signaled for Kurt to stop shooting, but my father kept talking. “Ebenezer Scrooge changed because his eyes were suddenly opened by the spirits. He saw the obvious. He saw that we are all fellow passengers to the grave.”

  Mickie told Lena, “I think we have enough for a show. Let’s wrap it.”

  Lena and Kurt packed up their equipment with practiced efficiency. They were standing at the half-opened front door within a minute, getting the next day’s instructions from Mickie. Mickie then returned to the living room and said to me quickly, “Okay. Do you want to open presents now, honey?”

  I shrugged.

  “Let’s open them now. I have to leave very early tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  Mickie pulled my embroidered stocking down from its hook on the mantel and handed it to me. There was a card inside. I opened it, and a gift certificate fell out. Mickie explained, “It’s for Harrods in London—for their satstore, anyway. They have some great things there.”

  I mumbled, “Thanks.”

  My father pointed at the mantel. “Look in my stocking. I hid your present there in case you were snooping under the tree.”

  I obediently reached inside the Hank stocking and pulled up a soft, floppy gift wrapped loosely with blue paper. “What’s this?”

  He shrugged comically. “Open it and see.”

  I pulled off the paper and unrolled an article of clothing. A strange one. It was a set of gray thermal pajamas with a black-and-white golf ball on the chest and, at the ends of the legs, a pair of thermal feet. I couldn’t help myself. I blurted out, “Feet! What am I, two years old?”

  My father shook his head. He assured me, “No. No. Kids your age are wearing these now, especially up north. They’re definitely in style.”

  Mickie interrupted, sneering. “Where on earth did you find those?”

  “Myrtle Beach.”

  Mickie fingered the material with disdain. “They’re what? Golfing pajamas?”

  “No. They just have a golf ball on the front. Everything in Myrtle Beach has a golf ball on it.”

  Mickie concluded, “It’s a donation-bag item. I’d put it straight in the Kid-to-Kid Day bag.”

  But I wasn’t as dismissive. I did get very cold at night, and I might give the pajamas a try, provided that I could be absolutely sure no one would ever see me in them. I delivered a polite “thank you,” and my father returned a “you’re welcome.”

  He then reached over, picked up my Harrods gift certificate, and read the amount. He looked at me, but he was really talking to Mickie. “I hope this comes from the right account. From your ex-stepmother’s money, not mine.”

  Mickie snarled, “How dare you suggest that!”

  Albert entered to clean up. Normally my parents stop talking as soon as that happens, but my father continued. “We have a clear division of assets. It is also clear, to those who know how to see, that you are not respecting that division.”

  “I’ve heard enough of this.”

  “The funds are supposed to be frozen, like our marriage.”

  “If you make any more irresponsible statements in front of witnesses, I’ll sue you.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Mickie stomped over to the mantel. She pulled two envelopes out of her Mickie stocking. She turned and handed them both to Albert with the brief explanation, “Here’s one for you and one for Victoria. Merry Christmas.”

  Albert made a slight bow. “Thank you, Ms. Meyers. Merry Christmas to you.”

  Mickie then walked straight out of the room, calling over her shoulder to me, “Good night, Charity.”

  By that point, I was so disgusted that I didn’t answer. And she didn’t notice.

  My father drained another glass of wine and stood staring at the fire. He muttered to me, “You only get one chance to choose your path in life, Charity. I want you to think about that.”

  I had nothing to say to him, either. Not out loud, anyway. Inside my head I was saying, You are pathetic. Both of you. What do you want me to do, feel sorry for you?

  For the first time in a long time, I thought about my mother. What had she ever seen in this selfish, shallow man? And what would she think of this woman, this video performer, who he had chosen as her replacement?

  Not much, I was sure.

  Dr. M. Reyes

  Time in the ambulance passed incredibly slowly. I watched the blue numerals fade from 17:10 to 17:11 to 17:12. Dessi was seated with his back to me and his head against the metal wall. I couldn’t tell if he was staring at the two-way, doing his sentry duty, or
sleeping.

  I wondered again: Did I dare to try an escape? Could I slide off the stretcher, moving very slowly? (I thought of a Mrs. Veck moment as she described the killer in “The Tell-Tale Heart” moving more slowly than the minute hand of a watch.) Could I do that until I eased open the door, jumped down, and ran for it? Maybe. Maybe I could.

  But I was still wearing footed pajamas.

  And I had been trained to cooperate fully with the kidnappers.

  And I was, at heart, a sniveling coward.

  I soon abandoned any such thoughts and turned my mind to a safer place, Christmas Day at The Highlands.

  On Christmas morning, I stayed in bed until 09:00, wishing that both my father and Mickie would leave without feeling compelled to say goodbye. When I got downstairs, my Christmas wish had come true. Mickie was off to her Orlando parade, and my father was off somewhere, too.

  Victoria asked me if I had slept well. Then she asked me what I wanted for my Christmas breakfast. I slid onto a stool at the kitchen counter and answered, “I don’t care, as long as it’s not Edwardian. Something twenty-first century, please.”

  A few minutes later, Albert served me a cranberry muffin, scrambled eggs, and grapefruit juice. After I finished eating and washed my own dishes, I invited both Victoria and Albert to join me in the living room. They resisted the idea at first, especially Albert, but they ultimately gave in.

  Victoria and Albert perched themselves on the edges of two living room chairs like they were ready to run at the first sound of a door opening. I sat on the floor next to our beautifully decorated three-meter Norway spruce, breathing in its sweet scent. Only I knew that there was a present hidden beneath the tree, stashed in a place where no one would ever look.

  After some polite chatter with them, I crawled under the shiny boughs and pulled that present out. It was wrapped poorly in some plain green paper, the only wrapping I could find at the time. I handed it to Albert, saying, “It seems that there is still one Christmas present to give out.”