by Ari Rhoge
“What the F. Scott Fitzgerald do you feed this kid?”
“Thanks for the censor, Charlie.”
“You're welcome.”
“He's really friendly,” Lyssa elaborated. “And I might have let him have a candy bar earlier.” Georgy laughed, and hugged Simon back, smoothing his hair.
“Leave Georgy alone… come on, Sy.” Charlie attempted to pry him off, causing Simon to insist on a piggy-back ride. “Oh, for the love of God,” he sighed, obliging him nonetheless. Simon beamed brightly, and climbed onto the back of his uncle, who left the room shortly. I couldn't help but think that maybe a few years from then, depending on his plans, Charlie would make a pretty adorable father.
When dinner time finally came around full-swing, I was a little surprised by how many people were at the Netherfield home. The house was so large that the party had pulled apart to their own separate hideaways for the last hour or two. Charlotte entered the dining room, talking cheerily with Jane, and Collins followed mutely after. Darcy I hadn't seen since the library — he took a seat at the edge of the table, and Carolyn Bingley (looking polished as ever, of course) took the seat nearest, prattling on about something he didn't seem to hear. Or maybe he did. Sometimes it seemed like he had only one expression.
“Lyssa, dear, you've gained a bit of weight, haven't you?” Carolyn implied, sweetly, when her sister came around. “You do know that we don't have Thanksgiving outside the States?”
“Oh, Carolyn,” her older sister said, laughing merrily, sitting across from her. I don't know if I expected an underhanded makeup gag or a friendly quip. What came from Lyssa's mouth instead was, “good Lord, you look old.”
Carolyn's fingers flew to her face quickly, and Darcy nearly spluttered water back into the glass from which he was drinking, trying to conceal laughter. “I think Darcy just snorkeled,” I said, taking a seat beside Lyssa. He met my eye quickly, and looked down, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
“Things never change,” Charlie murmured, good humoredly. Jane smiled a little beside him. He pulled out a chair for her, all old-fashioned grace — but she promptly wrenched it out of his hands, moved it herself, and took a seat. He snorted, and she grinned widely at him.
“Mr. Bingley, this really is a beautiful room — the Haziza sculpture is an authentic, I'm guessing?” Collins suddenly launched himself into a well-timed chunk of silence. His voice was unnecessarily loud, and everybody glanced up without really wanting to.
“Uhm, yes, it is. A gift from a friend, actually. And thank you,” Charlie responded, wincing a little. Collins was determined to call him Mr. Bingley throughout the evening, even though he had been corrected three times. We weren't really sure why. Collins has a misplaced sense of social climbing.
“My godmother has two gifts from the Israeli sculptor himself,” said Collins, proudly, taking a hearty spoonful of stuffing before anybody had helped themselves. “She's got extraordinary taste. I know the first one is in her foyer,” he said, trilling the French pronunciation of the word (foy-ay). “It costs around 800, without the pedestal. Worth every penny. Is yours lacquer?”
“Would you pass the potato salad?” Charlotte suddenly asked, elbowing him. He turned to face her, a little surprised and caught off guard — but he obliged her nonetheless. She unwillingly caught my eye across the table, and cleared her throat.
Carolyn gave a whinnying little chuckle, and wiped the corners of her mouth daintily, looking at me. Her direct understanding was probably that I was to blame for his ridiculousness. Charlotte was my best friend. Collins was dating Charlotte. Hence, Collins was my warped responsibility.
Soon after, Charlie gave a lacking but very appreciated first toast before he tried, and failed miserably, to cut the turkey. At which point Jane snorted and took the knife from him, and Darcy got up to help, slicing as she held the bird in place.
“Dang, Will… I don't remember you being an experienced turkey cutter,” offered Georgy jokingly, reaching across the table for juice. “Where is this hidden talent coming from?”
“I unleash all my pent-up frustrations on poultry —— don't you know?” Darcy smiled a little from across the table. Simon suddenly dashed into the room and watched without interest. His mother had made an effort to feed him before dinner. He would be hopeless to keep in his seat at the table anyway.
“Is it dead?” Simon asked, to nobody in particular.
“Very much so,” answered Darcy.
“You want some?” Jane asked, forking a slice into a plate and handing it to him. He took the plate gingerly, and took a seat by his mother, who blinked twice but said nothing.
“Are we going to do that awful tradition of going around in a circle and listing what we're thankful for?” Carolyn suddenly asked, finding this amusing and awfully clever.
Charlie looked up and grinned, completely missing her sarcasm. Or maybe not, because he said, “that's a wonderful idea, Carolyn. Who wants to start?”
“Start with the misanthrope first,” Lyssa nodded happily, to Will, who looked up, startled. “I'm just teasing you, Will. I'm trying to embarrass the quiet ones at the table.”
“No, Lyssa's right. Take the stage, Darce,” Charlie said, laughing and clapping. Darcy's uneasiness was clearly felt. Georgy snorted and rolled her eyes at him, and Collins across from us whispered something urgent into Charlotte's ear.
“You do know that I was kidding, right?” Carolyn insisted, but nobody was really listening to her. Then, in a second, Georgy rose from her seat, took Will's full glass of wine, and cleared her throat regally. That was the thing about her. She was either shy and buttoned-up, or extremely outspoken. There was no gray area, and it turned on and off like a light switch. We were pretty partial to the latter.
“Will Darcy would like to announce that he is exceedingly thankful this year. For friends and family? Maybe. He is most appreciative of industrial-strength Advil. He is also grateful for Bush leaving office soon. He definitely salutes the makers of Grand Theft Auto IV.” She then laughed as Darcy tried to wrestle the glass away, but he was grinning and she pulled back. “Lastly, he is grateful for his beautiful younger sister, who is a beacon of light and needs no further description.” Laughter broke out (except from Collins and Carolyn, who looked a little disapproving) and she gave a little bow.
“Like hell you are,” Darcy snorted, promptly messing up her hair. She swatted a hand at him, laughing. If there was one thing that didn't play against Will Darcy it was that, between bouts of manic protectiveness, he was pretty cute with his younger sister. Maybe that was the lone tally in his win column — he was good to Georgiana.
Who apparently didn't see fit to cut her toast short, because she suddenly said, looking across at me quickly, “Will is also very thankful for Lizzy Bennet. Every other sparring partner he has met in his life has failed epically when compared to her.”
I really didn't want them to, but everybody suddenly stared at me, and I didn't understand why. Nobody laughed, either, because Darcy's discomfort was that tangible. Georgy looked at him quickly, and her smile faltered. Ye gods, this was awkward — where the hell had that come from? I made the effort to clear the air, and raised a glass. “Thanks, Georgy?”
After dinner and just before dessert (after the awkward had a chance to marinate) I found Georgy, Jane and Charlie out on the terrace, which wrapped around the entire house like a protective coating. We were just by the stone pathway, and Jane and Charlie sat on the porch swing, her head on his shoulder and her legs curled up underneath her. Charlie had thoughtfully draped a quilt over her so she wouldn't be cold. I couldn't tell if she was sleeping or not.
“You two are so frigging adorable,” Georgy declared, almost as if it was insulting. One of Charlie's eyebrows shot up, and she shrugged. “Just look at that. If I took a black-and-white photograph right now, you'd find it in sample picture frames across the country within a couple of months.”
“Are you suggesting that somebody get their camera?” I as
ked her, balancing a mug of tea while I took a seat on the wooden bench beside her. She beamed at me, and I took the opportunity to ask, “hey, what was up with your mega-uncomfortable speech earlier? Last time I checked, your brother isn't thankful for any spiteful Bennet here. I think most of us died a little inside at that bit.”
Georgy didn't look at me, then — she looked at Charlie, who busied himself in fixing Jane's quilt, who I discovered probably was asleep from a couple glasses of wine. Georgy finally turned back, but her answer was strange — “I don't know. I was just cracking a joke.”
As if on cue, Will Darcy himself suddenly sprang in onto the terrace, shocking us all. Jane even glanced up sleepily. His hair was a little ruffled, and he loosened his tie irritably, cursing under his breath. He stopped when he saw me, and quickly closed his mouth.
“What's got your panties in a twist?” asked Charlie, smiling slyly. Darcy was about to take a seat beside him, decided against it, and sat at Georgy's side, running a hand through his hair.
“You know the little guy, Collins? He keeps following me, talking about his godmother. He insists that he knows me from somewhere, and I'm just keeping the fuck away at this point.”
I burst out laughing. Hysterically, even. I didn't know why I found it so funny. It was probably because I imagined tall Will Darcy weaving around the halls, scared shitless, as the troll-like Billy Collins chased after him with the desperation of a Jonas Brothers fangirl. In this nugget of a mental image, Flight of the Bumblebee played as stellar background music. Actually, the Benny Hill theme song worked better.
Darcy looked bewildered. “It's not funny. I can't believe your best friend is dating that guy. Did you hear him at dinner? He's awful.” At this, I sobered and looked down into my lap. Yeah, that sucked the laughter right out of the equation. It was too tragic.
“Don't talk about Collins — he may pop up in a second and overhear,” Georgy advised, smiling when I cracked up. “—— Seriously, he'll just randomly stick his head out of the hedges over there.”
“You make him sound like a whack-a-mole.”
The younger Darcy re-enacted banging a mallet viciously, with just the right amount of psychotic edge you could probably find in a character like Patrick Bateman. I started giggling so much that my side started to hurt.
“How much wine did Lizzy have?” Charlie murmured, to Jane, who shrugged her shoulders sleepily. She was past napping with present company — so she got to her feet, quilt snugly around her, and motioned for Charlie to stay put when he followed suit. Down, boy.
“I'm just going to go get some coffee,” she said, yawning into her fist. “It must be all that cooking. Stick around.” At that, she opened the screen door and disappeared inside. Charlie sat back down very uncomfortably, crossing his leg over the other, ankle resting on knee. It shook nervously.
“You're going to go in after her — aren't you?” asked Darcy, dully. Charlie winced, got up, and dashed inside. Georgy started to laugh, and Darcy sat back and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He's kind of like a lovesick puppy — you realize that, right?”
“It's cute,” suggested Georgy, wrapping a finger around one of her curls. “I think he's absolutely in love with her.” I smiled at this, getting warm, girly fuzzies inside. Kind of like the ones you get after that rain scene in The Notebook, even if you don't like the rest of the movie. It's just how we are.
But something about Georgy's statement seemed to rub Darcy the wrong way. He looked at his sister skeptically, then to me, then out toward the yard again, leaning forward until his elbows rested on his knees.
“I'm going to go see if they set out the cake yet.” Georgy rose to her feet, giving a short stretch. “I heard it's this delicious, layered Sara Lee thing, and I'm PMSing like a bitch.”
“Thanks for that, Georgy. That's my favorite topic,” Darcy said, wincing at her, looking pained.
Georgy grinned, and leaned over to kiss him stoutly on the cheek. Then she frowned, rubbing the side of his face. “Dude, this five-o'clock-shadow thing? I get that you had a flight and a long day, but it hurts. Like a bitch.”
“I'll shave when I get back to the hotel.” A beat. “Is 'like a bitch' your new favorite catchphrase, or something?”
“Just be thankful that it's managed to replace all variants of 'your face' and 'tu madre' comebacks, okay?” I snorted, slumping so that my head rested on the back of the bench. Georgy agreed heartily, and Darcy rolled his eyes.
When she left, I was alone with her brother. It was one of those things where you both want to leave, but neither person wants to seem affected by the discomfort. You're both desperate to retain a mood of nonchalance. Like nothing has changed. And so, I mentioned this, because there was nothing better to do.
Darcy looked over curiously. “I didn't realize that you were in the habit of observing social scenarios. Is this for a class, or something?”
“No. I'm just the observant one, remember?” I smiled a little, crossing my arms as I looked out over the property. “And stop saying 'in the habit'. According to you, I'm in the habit of 'stealing personal possessions' and analyzing 'social scenarios', so far — are you composing a list?”
“It's not like I'm lying — you've done both of those things,” Darcy said.
“Yeah, I know. I just don't like the way you say it,” I pointed out. He looked confused, but looked away. After about 30 seconds, I said, casually, “so, what's up next?”
“Meaning what, exactly?” he asked. His speech was tired, but I wasn't really insulted. I could understand that mix of being a stick-in-the-mud and having an earlier flight that day. This was standard Darcy.
So, I humored him — “you have to bring up a topic so we can pretend to continue being laid-back. —— Or maybe erase the fact that the majority of our conversations have leaned toward the negative side.”
Not that I was eager to be nice to him. But the more opportunities for being nice there were, the less tempted I would be to blurt out something in anger. Like my manuscript. Or the fact that Georgy was pretty credibly in love with his arch foe (I've always wanted to say that). Or that he had dicked-over George Wickham so horribly. No, surface conversation was so much safer — he just didn't make it easy.
“This conversation's not negative,” Darcy brought up, pausing. “Not that it's an actual conversation. It's kind of a conversation within a conversation. About several conversations.”
“No, I got that. But I should just leave and save myself the trouble before one of us brings up something we both don't want brought up,” I said, quickly, making an effort not to look back at him.
“And what do you think is going to be brought up?”
“George Wickham.”
Oh, fuck. Fuck it. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck you, Lizzy. I clenched my eyes shut. I wondered if 'George Wickham' was, like, one of those access terms that caused a spark of a metamorphosis. Like I would look over and find The Incredible Hulk towering over me instead of Will Darcy, all “you won't like me when I'm angry!” and shit.
“I heard you were supposed to bring him over here,” Darcy managed. I looked over, and he was looking across the yard again. His jaw was tight and his posture rigid. But at least he wasn't green. He added, “I'm glad you didn't, by the way.”
At this, I laughed. The hell? “Sorry, Dad. Should I have gotten your seal of approval beforehand?”
“I'm just warning you to stay away from him.”
So much for keeping it light. Every sentence from here on out was pretty icy. Me? I was just fantastically amused by how seriously he took it, considering the fact that he had ruined George Wickham.
“Are you trying to scare me?” I asked, and the grin might have ticked him off. “Because I'm not exactly shaking in my little boots here.”
“I'm serious, Lizzy,” Darcy suddenly snapped, his stare so intense that I actually couldn't hold it. And he had called me 'Lizzy', which was strange. It was always 'Elizabeth' or nothing, almost like an unspoken r
ule.
“Look, if you want to tell me what happened, that's fine. I already know the story, but I'm pretty open to hearing the defensive side of the argument. It's probably fair game.”
That struck him. “Sorry?” he said, smiling bitterly. “The defensive side. Fucking defensive side? As if I should be defending myself for something I did wrong in this situation? What kind of bullshit did Wickham spoon-feed you, anyway? It must be potent.”
“Yeah, I'm sure,” I grumbled, tired and totally unwilling to argue. “Look, this always ends the same way. But at least I can understand why you never even told Georgy about him. Who would want her to know what you did?”
“Excuse me?” he asked, wide-eyed. “Okay, this is ridiculous. You have to tell me what he said to you.” At this point, he was sitting very close to me, very urgent. I backed up a little. When had this happened? And why hadn't I noticed?
“Look, what does it matter to you? It's not like I'm any less confused about you by what he's told me,” I said, irritably, narrowing my eyes. “Everybody says something different, Darcy. It makes it ridiculously hard to understand your character.” And it was. Sam Hutton's words — and even Georgy's — were fresh in my mind. Darcy's a complicated guy. Yeah, okay.
“And what have you gathered up so far? I already know that I'm an asshole by your standards, but enlighten me,” Darcy requested, voice thick with bitterness. He was still glaring, but it wasn't anger anymore. It was worse. It was — God, what was that? Disappointment. As if I had fucking wounded the poor guy. Unbelievable.
“I've 'gathered up' very little — don't worry,” I replied, crisply. “So, you can sleep soundly tonight, 'kay?”
Darcy then got to his feet, facing the yard again. I saw the muscle in his jaw relax a little, his fists clenching and unclenching. He was trying to compose himself. I didn't understand any of it. I opened and closed my mouth a few times.
Will Darcy glanced back at me, all heavy glare and clipped words — “let's just hope you get things cleared up at some point, yeah? For all our sakes.” Then he left me out on the terrace. I heard the door click shut behind him. And I felt angry and confused and bitter and cold. I wished that Jane had left the quilt behind.