by Kim Faulks
“I apologize. I had too much to drink. But now that I see you’re well, I’ll leave you in peace. But please know this, I have only your best intentions at heart.”
With a nod, she disappeared behind closed doors. Her words haunted me. If I was not myself last night, then who had I been?
Heavy footsteps edged along the banister behind me. Sniveling and snarling like a wildcat, the bitch slipped from my world, thundering down the stairs. I kept my back turned to her, enjoying listening to her run. “Goodbye, Charlotte.”
The slam of the front door moments later reverberated though the house. I turned to my room. I had many things to accomplish, none more important than to sign as beneficiary and executor of my father’s estate. I plucked a cravat from the rack, the same tone as my slacks and pulled on my socks and slipped into my square-toed boots.
Navy blue was the perfect color for a rich man. From this moment, on I vowed to look the part. I slipped into my jacket and fumbled with the buttons. The card on my dresser beckoned. I picked it up and stared at the spidery writing. Hansel, I have been so bold as to make arrangements for you to see me tomorrow. We have much to discuss. Yours sincerely, Norman Glenn, Bank of Blacksland.
The slick card shone as I turned it over in my fingers. Norman would be one of many vying for my time. One of many. I smiled and shoved the card into my breast pocket before turning to the door. Today was a great day, a magical day and I had much to explore.
***
I adjusted my coat and smiled at the receptionist. She was a little young, body supple, flesh sweet as a ripe peach. I ignored the harsh clearing of a throat, instead allowing my eyes to linger. “How old is she?”
“She’s my sister. And she’s far too young for you, Mr. Conray.” The accountant snapped.
“Your sister? I apologize.” I wrenched my head toward the older man. I remembered him now, all hushed urgency, as though he also wanted to get me alone. Maybe that had been this delicate ruse? Maybe our young banker had a penchant for buggery?
“I’m glad you were able to see me. I apologize for the urgency. But I expected that you had much to discuss. Please know that I will do all that I can to help your family make the transition.”
“Transition?”
“Yes, to more suitable lodgings. Of course you still have a small amount of time, if you sell most... well, probably all your belongings.”
I wrenched forward, my head banging like a damn drum. “What do you mean suitable lodgings and sell our belongings? That damn house has been in our family for generations and will remain so.”
His beady little eyes bulged. I watched him clasp his hands and wring his fingers as though this meeting were a painful stone he had to pass. “I’m not sure you understand the urgency of your father’s estate, Master Hansel. The contacts for the forest and the logging alone will eat more than you have per quarter. Unfortunately you’re tied into those until the end of the year. You’re required to take immediate action if—“
I shook my head, unable to hear another word from his stupid little mouth. “But, we’re rich.”
“Were rich, past tense. Your estate is failing and has been for some time now. The scoundrel William Scott cleaned out two of your Father’s accounts the day we heard of the murder, unfortunately no one has seen him since. I have bounty-hunters after him as we speak, but we are left with the cards we hold. Your father, God rest his soul spent a rather large amount for his trip to Boston, wining and dining. He had hopes of signing a new deal that would secure your family’s future. But as you well know, that never happened.”
“You’re lying. This cannot be true. My father... my father would never allow this to happen.”
“Your father was powerless I’m afraid. More logging companies meant tougher competition. Now if you owned the forest you logged, that would be a different story, you’d be a very wealthy young man. But you didn’t, so the lease must stay in place until the end of the term. No matter how kind he was, you father lacked a certain degree of ruthlessness. A trait that you seemed to have acquired, from your mother’s side no doubt.”
My face burned at the insult, but my mind was racing. “There has to be a way. I... I could secure the deal in Boston. I could arrange a meeting—“
The accountant shook his head. “It’s too late. The deal has already been done with another company. Business men are like hungry animals. They wait for no one. Besides you don’t have enough in the account for a week of meals, let alone a trip across the countryside.
“Sell my house.” The words filled my mouth with a sour taste.
“Sell some of your belongings. You can see if there’s a friend of your fathers who may take you under his wing teach you the business side of things. Maybe there’s a chance you could work from the ground up. In time you’d—”
“No. That’s not me. That’s not my path.”
“At the moment, your path is leading you and your family to homelessness. Be sensible, Hansel. Sell your belongings, pay your staff before you bid them goodbye, and we can discuss placing your house on the market. The money you’ll get will set your family up in a small, but modest estate. Your mother will be taken care of. I’ll see to it. And your sister. Is she of the working mind? Maybe a position as a governess, or a teacher?”
I clapped my hands against my head, stifling the boring, bloody drone. Sell the house. Buy a modest house. Work for another. The voice was one, but in my head, there were many. Our friends would laugh, smirk, gossip. Did they know when they crowded around me last night? Did they make fun of me behind my back when I spoke of wealth and opulence? I slapped my hand against the arms rests and shoved the chair backwards as I stood.
“Master Hansel?”
I stumbled from the room, gripping the doorway and I toppled down the single step. I bounced against the frame and reached for the reception desk, scattering business cards from the counter. They spilled at my feet. I raced from the building.
The damned hound at my heels followed me, calling as though I were the faithful dog and he the master. Sell the house. No money. No estate. Not even enough to pay the servants or the groundskeeper. Not even enough to fill the larder.
I needed a place to think and to understand. There had to be a mistake. There had to be another account, or another institution somewhere who had seen to father’s accounts. There had to be more than this. The tavern beckoned, dark and seedy. A place to think, a place to plan.
The dry dirt road was whipped up by a dust storm to spit into my eyes. I lifted my hand and blinked the grit away as I crossed the road. The open door to the terrace held sanctuary. Just one drink. They’d give me that, at least on reputation alone. One drink to clear my head and find away out of this mess.
The barman glanced up as I stepped through the doorway. The place seemed a little slow for midday, although I was not one to judge. The older man yanked a dirty dishtowel from his shoulder to rub a clouded glass. “What’ll it be?”
“Whiskey, straight up.”
He nodded toward a seat at the bar. “We don’t serve it any other way.”
I almost gagged at the filthy glass placed in front of me and opened my mouth to ask for another before I met the man’s hostile glare. I nodded and the barkeep filled the murky glass with the amber liquid. I downed the contents, wincing at the burn. I let it settle, only for a second, before I whispered, “Another.”
I kept him busy, downing one after another until the room wavered on weak legs and I could finally think. “May I take the bottle?”
“All yours, young sir. Would you like me to set up an account?”
A simple kindness, if only he knew. “Thank you.”
I gripped the neck of the bottle as I lunged from the seat, searching for somewhere darker, somewhere I could try to understand. Dust danced in the polluted air. I breathed in the filth of this place and stumbled toward the rear.
“Take a seat, friend. You look like you could use a quiet place to ponder whatever the fuck it is tha
t rich people ponder.”
I wrenched my head toward the slur and stared at the narrowed eyes of a man who’d seen too many bottles and not enough baths. “Thank you. I’m in need of some quiet.”
“Ponder away, my good man. Don’t let me stand in your fucking away.”
The vulgarity was abrasive, but the darkened corner called. I slammed the bottle on the table and fell into the seat. The pickled bootlicker shot his hand toward me, head cradled in his other. “If you’d be so kind friend. It seems my well has run dry.”
I swallowed hard and glanced at the bottle, merely three quarters full. There wasn’t enough for me, let alone anyone else. Maybe one for the poor wretch. I snagged the cup and filled it almost full before wrenching the bottle neck backwards. The stranger stared at the glass, keeping it out straight as I drew my arm. The swirling anger shot from my nose in flames as I snorted. “Fine.”
Whisky splashed against the floor as it crested the rim. His crooked smile had me wincing, lips slid backwards exposing black stumps that were once teeth. “I be thanking your kindness, young sir.”
The glass reached his lips with such a steady hand, I had to wonder if it shook when he was sober. Drunken scoundrel. I filled my own glass, downing the contents with one swallow, earning myself a grunt of amusement. “Drinks like a man, does he?”
I clenched my jaw, but the smile jerked the corners of my mouth. I filled the glass again, downing the contents. My belly was on fire. Hot coals replaced what little remained in the pit of my stomach. The more I drank, the more the bourbon warmed the icy edges of my mind.
“Another, friend?”
The glass wavered in my sight. I grabbed the bottle, chasing it with my hand before clenching tight. The stranger’s glass was filled and I had swallowed my own before I realized I’d moved.
“So, what brings you to this seedy establishment, if you don’t mind me prying?”
“Cecil, if’n you bitch about my place one more fucking time, I’ll kick your lying, no good ass to the goddamn curb.”
The scoundrel shoved his hand up, head craned seeking out the barman. “Sorry! Sorry, Herman. I love what you’ve fucking done with the place. It’s not a shithole at all.”
“Just drink or get the fuck out. I’ve had enough of your shit for the day. An’ leave the young lad alone.”
A chair scraped, the table knocked into my gut, shooting the poison into my throat. The filthy beggar had moved before I knew, riding the seat next to me. I slapped a hand over my mouth and gagged at the stench as he muttered, loud enough for anyone to hear. “We’z good friends, the lad and I. I am an ear to his woes. I’m his fucking confidant.”
He snagged the bottle from my grip, filling my glass, and then his own. I glanced into his godawful ugly face and realized for the first time how low my life had become. “You’re one ugly bastard, did you know that?”
The smile faded for a second, leaving a cruel expression. A darkness spread from the bottom of my spine all the way to the base of my neck. He leaned close. This time, I was too afraid to move away. “I did know that, but thanks for reminding me, friend.”
He reached out and I flinched from the movement before his hand clapped to my back. “It looks like my buddy here has drank the bottle dry. Another, Herman, and hurry the fuck up.”
“My money is gone.”
The words slipped out before I knew I’d spoken. The scoundrel next to me slapped my back with more force. “Quiet, friend. Keep those secrets just a hour longer.”
Herman slammed a new bottle on the table. I felt the steely gaze of the proprietor for a second before he grabbed the empty bottle and stumbled away.
Whiskey splashed the bottom of my glass and raced for the top. The stench filled my nose as the bootlicker shifted closer. “You smell like shit.”
“I had a case of the dysentery a while ago and haven’t the coin to get me some new duds. Now that we’re on friendly terms and that, tell me about your money worries, friend, and I will lend a good ear.”
“My father’s dead—”
“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear about that, lad. Consumption?”
The stranger nudged my hand. I lifted the glass to my lips. The words seem to fall so easy. “No, he was murdered in Boston. He’d been there on business, trying to save our sinking goddamn estate and was stabbed before the deal was signed. We have nothing left, not even enough to stock the larder, not even enough to pay the servants. We’ll have to sell everything, everything.... Dear God, how will I tell my mother, my sister?”
“Ah, yes. I’ve witnessed your sister on occasion, only in the background of course. I ain’t no peeping fucking Tom. She is truly a breathtaking animal. She’d hold any man spellbound, and she’s kind, too. Not that I’ve seen, but I’ve heard, you know....”
I nodded, not really listening, only needing to unburden this weight upon my soul. “The sonofabitch expects me to get a job, some lowly position, and work from the ground up. I’m not made for labor. I keep thinking there has to be another account, another bank where my father stashed away our money. There has to be more than an empty pocketbook. But it’s all gone, most stolen, goddamn fucking thieving bastard.” My tears came then, blurring my vision.
“Sell your stuff. That you can replace and no one needs to know. But, once you sell the house you may as well change your name, for you will be forever branded a failure. No one will be in a rush to employ a failure. I know how that backhanded blow is.”
I stared up into those clouded eyes. “But, the failure isn’t mine.”
He filled my glass and then his own. “It never is, my lad. It never fucking is.”
“So what will I do when the money runs out? When I have nothing left to sell?”
“Well, there’s always that pretty sister of yours. I know I’d give half a side of pig and two chickens just to talk with her.”
The hard breath left me as his words settled in deep. I shoved the chair backwards, the room swayed in a violent squall. Sell my sister? “That’s preposterous. How could you even think I’d enter such a vile idea?”
His hands shot up, mocking a surrender. “Just a suggestion lad. No need to get all worked up.”
I lunged forward, grabbing the asslicking cunt by the collar of his threadbare shirt, fist cocked. I swung, my aim blurry under a swirling sea of whiskey.
But, it was too late. His words... dear God, his words wormed their way inside my mind. I released my hold and stumbled, searching for the doorway as the fire filled my mouth.
“Get out. Out. Do not purge ye belly in here!” The bartender shouted. His damn voice thundering through my head as I plunged into the sunlight of the day and stumbled toward the side alley.
Whores pimped their wares at the rear of the alley. I glanced at the gentleman shoved hard against the wall while a buxom harlot fumbled with his zipper before the hot stream shot from my mouth. I heaved until there was nothing but air. I heaved until my knees buckled and the wooden slats of the tavern were my only support. I heaved until I tasted blood.
Laughter followed. I cared not for their ridicule, as I sniffed snot mingled with tears and knelt in my own mess.
Sell my sister.
I shook my head.
No, never.
***
“Beggin’ your pardon, Master. But I was wondering if I could have a word?”
A voice called me from the dark recesses of my mind. I shoved my hand out, pushing the sheets of my bed aside. “Go away, Maybelle.”
“I’m sorry, sir. This is important.”
“Can’t you see I’m asleep?” My growl was more a slur. I cracked open my eyes and stared at the empty decanters beside the bed.
“You’ve been asleep for five days now, Master. There are important things we need to discuss, if you’ve taken over the running of the household. We’re owed two months wages. We’ve waited for you to say your goodbyes, thinking you’d pass us our dues. But that was over a month now, sir, and we have mouths to feed back home.”
“Later. Please, now leave me the fuck alone.”
The sharp intake of her breath was followed by the slam of my door. I gripped my head as the sound continued down and down into the dark well where the world resided.
Sell all the furnishings.
Sell the land and the house.
Sell my sister.
Chapter Seven
Gretel
“Mother, please sit down and stop fussing.”
“I would appreciate a little more notice in future, Hansel, when you summon me. You may be the master of the house, but I still expect courtesy.” She touched her hair, sweeping the curl into her bun.
Hansel leaned against my father’s desk. He seemed so awkward, as though he were still the boy and yearned to be the man. But there was something strange about him, an illness that had befallen him in the past days. When he came home from Blacksland, I’d expected changes, parties and gatherings on a grander scale, much greater than this.
I took a closer look at my brother. Dark circles lay beneath his eyes. The whites were bloodshot. Even his skin that was once so perfect was now tinged with yellow and waxy. He looked ill. In fact he looked worse than ill.
“Mother, please. Hansel has something to discuss and your hair is fine.”
She shot me a look with daggers in her eyes, then in an instant they were gone. “Of course. Hansel, please forgive me. I’m all yours.”
“Thank you, Mother. This is going to be hard to hear, but I’m afraid I’ve been left with no other choice. Father’s left us virtually bankrupt, thanks to that bastard Scott. He was supposed to be our accountant. He was supposed to look out for our money, instead he lined his own pockets and ran. The logging contracts already in place will absorb any profit for the remainder of the year and then some. We’ll have to make allowances. These will be hard to swallow at first, but they must be done.”
His eyes never left mine, forcing out one word after another until he was hoarse.
“I don’t understand what you’re saying. We have money, plenty of money. They’ve made a mistake, Hansel, you silly boy. Sell the land.”