The Astonishing Life of August March

by Aaron Jackson

  After offering a few windowless pubs his patronage (including the adored Beggars Can’t Be Boozers, the most reputable Beer Hole, and the aptly titled Drinks), August eventually entered a whorehouse.

  The deed done, August quite literally tripped down the stairs and out the door. He was attempting to whistle as he made his way home, and there his night might have ended but for the sultry interruption of a voice.

  “Hey there, handsome,” came the call, full of innuendo.

  At this stage of his life, August had few positive attributes, so when an attractive woman catcalled him, though he was freshly postcoitus and logged with drink, the virile youth felt nature stirring him to answer, which he did with the imaginative quip “Let’s go upstairs, baby.”

  Who’d ever heard of the so-called vice department? August was leery of the whole operation and kept demanding to speak to a representative from internal affairs. All he received, however, was a cursory explanation that ever since climbing off the roof earlier that evening, he’d been tailed by two cops who’d thought it suspicious that a teenage boy was shimmying down the wall of an apartment building.

  Though August was officially charged with soliciting prostitution, he was at the time guilty of several other offenses, including but not limited to intoxication in public, underage drinking, resisting arrest, carrying a concealed weapon, larceny, and throwing a ball at someone’s head for pleasure (a favorite pastime of August, who’d mastered the game after years of development). Still under the powerful influence of drink, August railed and scorned each indictment, employed the use of every swear word he knew, and tossed off more than eight death threats.

  This is standard behavior for an incarcerated drunk, as is that blessed state they all succumb to eventually, commonly known as “sleeping it off.” August seemed unfamiliar with protocol, however, and shrieked throughout the night, not even stopping when he’d shouted himself hoarse.

  Finally, well past midnight, a gentleman came in and paid August’s bail, demanding to take the boy out of the station immediately. He needn’t have commanded with such bluster; the police were more than glad to be rid of him. They led the man to the boy’s cell.

  At seeing August, the gentleman cried out, “Good lord!” He was British and more than a bit overblown. “Absolutely wretched! Makes Caliban look like the Duke of Cornwall.”

  “Who are you?” August intended to say. What he actually said was, “Ruuggah borscht?”

  After much prodding, the meaning of the question was eventually discerned, and the gentleman answered. “You don’t remember me? Or perhaps you’re simply too befouled by drink to make a proper identification. A horrid habit, my friend; don’t make a custom of it.” A flask from the man’s coat pocket tinkled as he squared his shoulders. “It is I, child, Sir Reginald Percyfoot, beloved star of stage and screen, knighted by the King of England and recipient of one Academy Award nomination, though I wouldn’t have accepted such rubbish even had I won, not with the cinema being the morass it is these days. Do you know they’re filming yet another remake of Little Women? Honestly, how much progress must those poor pilgrims attain before we’re granted amnesty?”

  August, not understanding a word of this, vomited a spew of rank bile onto the cell floor.

  “My sentiments precisely,” Percyfoot said. “Now come along. We’re leaving.”

  “Hey! You gonna clean that up?” asked the attending officer, gesturing toward August’s sick.

  “Of course not,” Percyfoot snapped. “It was no doubt nothing but a response to the police brutality the child underwent through the course of his hellish evening. In fact, I have three-quarters of a mind to press charges.”

  August, stirring from the lull vomiting had caused, caught sight of the officer. “You fucker!” he screamed, regaining some of his former flair. “I’ll string you up by your dick and piss in your eyes! May the devil rape your soul for all of time!”

  “My heavens what a disgusting mouth you’ve grown into,” said Reginald, hurrying August out of the building and into a cab. “Though that last bit about the devil was rousing, I’ll grant you that.”

  August was plastered and hadn’t fully registered Percyfoot’s presence. “Where we going?” he asked.

  “Home,” came the reply.

  “I live downtown.”

  “We’re not going to whatever den of depravity in which you currently dwell, my boy. We’re going to your home. The home bequeathed to you.”

  August got so confused, he puked again.

  “No need to fret, dear lad,” said Percyfoot, heartily slapping August on the back. “Everything will make sense in the morning. Or most likely it won’t, but at least you won’t be gushing putrescence with such frequency.”

  * * *

  As it turned out, Percyfoot had been searching for August ever since the boy had disappeared.

  “Came running as soon as I heard they planned to demolish the Scarsenguard, and a damned ordeal it was, too. Had to storm off the set and break my contract, a true calamity. They replaced me with a drunken old character actor, the ghastliest sort of creature. You know the type, still pining for vaudeville and juggling pins. Mucked up the whole picture.”

  August sat in an ornate wooden armchair, drinking tea and feeling enormously awkward about where to place the porcelain saucer the teacup had been served on. Balance it on his knee? Place it gingerly on the floor? Tuck it into the crook of his armpit with measured nonchalance? A dilemma to be sure.

  Percyfoot, indifferent to August’s struggle, continued. “Haven’t left New York since. Been playing the most sickening material. All anyone wants to do after a war is laugh. I’ve no aversion to comedies, but these rip-roaring slamming-door farces do tend to grate on the nerves after a time.”

  For all his pomp and circumstance onstage, Percyfoot was not very demonstrative in his civilian life. Yet he was trying to relate to August how much the child’s disappearance had affected him. How he’d tossed for hours each night before succumbing to fitful sleep, how he’d walked the streets of New York canvassing strangers about a young boy with an unusually prolific vocabulary. He was trying to describe the quagmire of maintaining proper American citizenship. Demanding that his agent find him another part, any part, as long as it was in New York. And how could he divulge to August, now a total stranger, the agony of his mornings? How he would steel himself before flipping to the obituaries. How he had learned to hate hope. What were the odds that August could possibly still be alive? Percyfoot would think as he leafed through the paper, ignoring the hammering of his heart as he scanned the ages of the dead.

  82.

  Good.

  64.

  Probably drank too much.

  11.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  Peter Summers, 11, survived by his father, Grant Summers . . .

  Oh, thank God. Thank Christ. Just some foolish boy who was struck by a car. Thank you, God. Thank you, you abhorrent evil God, just let him be dead, let him be dead so this can stop, all this unknowing, this chasm of ambiguity, this endless, ceaseless—oh shit, I’ve ruined the eggs.

  Instead of revealing these feelings, all Sir Reginald could seem to do was moan about the state of Hollywood, complain about the tripe he’d suffered through. But what to say? What on earth to say to this lost boy, or was he a man now? Neither. He was so terribly betwixt. What to say?

  Reginald had stalled as long as possible before getting the police involved. Too long? Most definitely. So much time had passed, in fact, that he’d had to pretend to be a distant sort of uncle who’d only just realized, through years of miscommunication due to his busy schedule, that the boy had been misplaced. Didn’t help that he was a semi-famous actor.

  “Weren’t you in Night for the Reich?” they’d asked, eyes aglow.

  “Of course I was in Night for the Reich. The most important film made that year, if you can call any film important. These composers overdo it so. I don’t need my death scene undersc
ored by scads of sentimental violins. Just point the goddamn camera at my eyes. I’ve played Shaw, you fools. You think I can’t manage this drivel, penned by a screenwriter who only just started wearing long pants?”

  Of course he’d never say that. He’d simply smile graciously, sign an autograph or two, and then gently steer the interview back to the fact that a child had been missing for over three years, and Percyfoot thought it would be such jolly good fun if he were found.

  Though it had taken them years, the police actually did locate August, and were able to successfully confiscate him at a whorehouse, of all places. Percyfoot, whose bosom had ballooned with cancerous hope when he was awakened by the phone call, was certain that a mistake had been made, but went down to the station at any rate, trying with all his soul to kill the longing optimism that quickened his step, to run it through with a serrated knife.

  Miracle of miracles, however, it was August! The police weren’t entirely incompetent! The prodigal son had returned! But he was more than just prodigal. Skinny, drunk, swearing, mean. Still, he was alive. Alive! Breathing! Tangible! Percyfoot popped him in a cab straight to East Twenty-Third Street, where he was now attempting to explain everything.

  “This brownstone is yours, my good boy. Left to you by none other than Miss Butler. You do remember Miss Butler, of course?”

  August nodded in the affirmative, causing him to drop his saucer, where it promptly shattered on the wood floor, which was apparently his wood floor. Feeling stupid, inelegant, and at a loss for words, August spit to fill the horrible silence.

  Percyfoot reddened. How does one respond to spit?

  It turned out that he would say nothing at all, for after shattering the saucer and spitting, August stood and said, “I need to take a piss.”

  Percyfoot blubbered out directions to the facilities, utterly scandalized.

  For his part, August was unused to the softened likes of Sir Reginald. The streets, as they are wont to do, had hardened him. Not wanting to offend his benefactor, but unused to the complexities of polite conversation, he had asked about the bathroom simply to escape.

  Once free, he found the nearest open window and climbed out, seeking refuge on a rooftop.

  Percyfoot waited a full half hour for August to return. When it finally became clear that boy didn’t intend to, Sir Reginald attempted to dust off his bruised feelings and busy himself about the brownstone. But he wasn’t one for housework—he’d never held a mop—and cooking was as foreign as Finland, so he ended up pretending to read until it was time for bed.

  Tucked into a cozy guest room, Percyfoot extinguished the lamp and sighed. He’d finally found August, but now that he had, just what in the hell was he going to do with him?

  * * *

  Late that night, Percyfoot awoke with a start. He smelled smoke. Was there a fire? Good god: August!

  He rushed through the house, following the smoke to the sitting room, where August stood emptying a vase of water into a flaming trash bin. This did the trick, the fire immediately extinguished.

  Percyfoot, however, stamping on a dying ember, was still inflamed. “What in damnation happened here?”

  “I was having a cigarette,” August mumbled.

  “And why, might I ask, was the rubbish bin aflame?”

  August stared at the floor. “I couldn’t find an ashtray, so—”

  “So you thought you’d toss your lit cigarette into a bin filled with dry paper? Good lord! Why not pour in some kerosene while you’re at it?” Percyfoot was aghast. They both could’ve been killed because August had no more sense than a Neanderthal, and even less manners! “Now see here, young man, I’m happy to have found you safe and sound, living the carefree life of a street rat, but setting fire to rubbish bins? And spitting? I assumed I’d have to play a bit of Higgins to your Doolittle—I remember all the key speeches, of course—but this is absurd!”

  This reference to Pygmalion, a play he hadn’t thought about in years, shamed August to his core. He was able to see himself for what he’d become, and Percyfoot was right. He was as foul and uncouth as Eliza Doolittle, the flower peddler.

  “Sorry,” he muttered.

  “Sorry?” Percyfoot shouted, sounding rather impressive as he employed his years of theatrical training. “I’ve been looking for you every day for five years, and all I receive is the mumbled apology of a simpleton? And to commit yourself to that most torrid cliché: a life of crime. Really, my boy, with a mind like yours, you could’ve applied yourself to so many other things!”

  A heavy silence followed Percyfoot’s speech.

  “You weren’t there,” August finally said.

  “What was that?”

  “You weren’t there,” August snapped, scarlet from rage. From embarrassment at his rage. “No one was.”

  And there it was. The truth. Percyfoot hadn’t been there when the boy actually needed him. But that was the whole arrangement, wasn’t it? Miss Butler was the untraditional mother, and he, Sir Reginald, the offbeat father. Who needed convention? Who needed society? August was their experiment, and together they’d show the world how to create the perfect boy through an intentionally unorthodox upbringing. But only when they wanted to, of course. Only when convenient. The child was cute when he was cute, and unnecessary when anything else. On to the next project. A movie, perhaps, where he’d play an avuncular old bachelor while some talentless ingenue walked away with the picture. That had seemed far more preferable, far more important, than raising a child at the moment.

  Percyfoot was mortified. They’d done wrong by August, he and Miss Butler, and standing before him, a hangdog child, was the proof.

  “I tried, my boy,” Sir Reginald sputtered. “Please know that I tried. I thought that you wouldn’t be able to keep away from the theater, having been reared in one. I asked every usher, every ticket taker, every janitor, if they’d seen a boy. I thought perhaps that you’d . . . that you might’ve been crushed in the Scarsenguard. I thought—” Here he broke off, trying to conceal blustering sobs, but failing.

  August watched the heaving shoulders and didn’t know how to feel. His emotions were coiled into confusing knots. For years he’d nurtured the hope that Percyfoot might come and find him, rescue him, and take him away to a fabulous life of theatre and gaiety and security. And now he finally had come, but August found resentment and anger where he’d dreamed he’d find joy. He no longer knew this man. Sir Reginald, along with everyone from his former life, had been given up for dead. Even the boy that had been August March had perished. Now he was someone new. But who?

  Sir Reginald eventually stopped his uncharacteristic display of emotion and looked up to see August flustered and uncomfortable. “Please forgive me,” Reginald begged, his eyes red.

  “I’ll try,” August replied with perfect honesty.

  * * *

  Their relationship on tenuous footing, Percyfoot set out to shape August into a proper young gentleman, though he took careful steps to ensure he wouldn’t offend him. In turn, August tried to be receptive to his tutor’s lessons, but found Percyfoot to be a ridiculous old codger. Still, in the name of peace, he was trying his best to please.

  Sir Reginald never rose before noon, so August took to exploring the brownstone he’d been bestowed in the morning hours. Though a five-story building can never be conceivably called humble, due to the decorating style of Miss Butler, the whole place did have a quaint and cozy feel. Lace and frills and rugs dominated the landscape, and any surface that could facilitate the display of bric-a-brac did the work of Atlas, shuddering under the weight of saccharine glass figurines. August knew his tastes ran to the spartan (he’d decorated his apartment with nothing but a mattress on the floor), but still, this was all so very . . . close. However, he had to admit it was comfortable; there was many a nook in which to share some private companionship with a book.

  Reading was what he’d missed most. It was hard to justify spending what little money he’d stolen on books, and when
he did splurge, his peers, most of whom were illiterate, subjected him to vicious torment. One can only be called Poindexter so long before the habit of reading is dropped. The fading of the pastime had been lamented, despite the jeers, and August sank back into books with the desperate joy of the relapsing addict.

  August read often. Percyfoot noticed, and let the boy be. He also let the boy be when he stumbled home past two in the morning, reeking of gin. He also let the boy be when he swore, pissed in inappropriate places, or unexpectedly shattered one of the knickknacks that cluttered up the house. (Reginald had shattered a knickknack or two of his own. There were thousands!) In short, Percyfoot found he was letting the boy be most of the time, for when he faced facts, Reginald realized he didn’t know how to deal with his new charge. He was good with young boys and adults; this intermediate stage was not his forte.

  That was always abundantly clear during their scheduled lessons. Sir Reginald was already in a foul mood, as a solicitor had the audacity to ring for him at the ungodly hour of eleven in the morning. “Don’t these people have any decency?” he grumbled as he aggressively smeared his toast with butter. “Learn this, if nothing else, my boy,” he said, gesticulating with the knife. “Morning people are detestable villains. Condescending, sanctimonious bastards. I guarantee I accomplish more in a day than they do during their precious sunrises. I’ve no objection to mornings, mind you, but morning people? Was there ever a more self-satisfied, holier-than-thou race of man? Goddamn Pecksniffian hypocrites! Pardon my French, lad. Oh, but don’t get me started on the French.”

  But it seemed he had started, and there was no obvious way of damming the flood of his tirade. After a millennium of French disparagement, August was able to force in an interjection during a rare breath from Percyfoot. “Are we done?” he asked, as politely as he could.