The Astonishing Life of August March

by Aaron Jackson

  August napped and drank and cavorted his way through the next couple of months, enjoying every moment of his newfound freedom. Being an adult was marvelous, he thought when he awoke shirtless on his couch one Wednesday at three in the afternoon. Scratching himself, he grabbed the post and smiled when he saw a letter from London. He and Sir Reginald had been enjoying a bombastic correspondence, and he was eager to hear news from fair Britannia.

  The typeface on the letter gave August pause; Sir Reginald always wrote in longhand. He read on.

  Dear Mr. March,

  It is with deepest sympathies that I inform you that Sir Reginald Percyfoot has passed away due to complications with his heart.

  He has named you as his sole heir. Please secure passage to London as soon as possible, so we might square away any outstanding details.

  Sincerely,

  Martin Brown

  Brown & Baker & Burton & Bunderfink

  Everyone is simply walking on a frozen lake. Sometimes we’re lulled into a false sense of security; the ice feels so solid, it might as well be bedrock. But there are always dark patches, and August had just misplaced his step. When he did, his world cracked, and the cruel, glacial waters dragged him under, filling his lungs, laughing as he drowned.

  * * *

  August hated London. He found it a dreary, dismal, depressing sort of place. That he was visiting for a funeral might have colored his opinion of the city, but he was in no mood for the knotty rationalizations of introspection. He was not in the mood for much of anything, in fact.

  He sat through the ceremony in a daze, and once the songs were sung and the eulogies uttered, the mourners, of whom there were hundreds, left the church to bury Sir Reginald Percyfoot under a gray London sky, black umbrellas popping like maudlin champagne corks as the rain that had threatened all morning finally began to piss down. As August uncomprehendingly took in the scene, he was shaken out of his stupor by the profuse weeping of one particular man, standing hunchbacked at the gravesite. Much to his surprise, August realized that the one shaking with sobs was none other than the headmaster of Willington, Archibald Richmond. August had known that Richmond was Sir Reginald’s friend, but this histrionic display of emotion, especially in the presence of so many typically stoic English mourners, was shocking. August watched his former headmaster’s sloppy spectacle with envious bafflement, for August couldn’t seem to muster a single tear, and surely he had more of a claim to Sir Reginald than a stuffy old boarding-school headmaster.

  As Percyfoot had no immediate family, August was named his sole heir, and he headed back to New York a wealthier young man than the one who had left, though not by much. During the era of Reginald Percyfoot’s fame, the Hollywood studio system wasn’t exactly renowned for its generosity toward actors. Additionally, Percyfoot had squandered many years of his career when August was missing, taking on any part, no matter how small, so that he might stay in New York and search for the boy. So while there was some money to hand down, it wasn’t as if August had suddenly become flush.

  Along with his meager inheritance, however, Percyfoot had also left August a letter.

  To the indomitable August March,

  Rotten luck if you’re reading this, but I suppose everyone has to go at some point. I’m not much good at this sort of thing, so I’ll keep it brief.

  Hopefully you’re perusing my penmanship as someone very old and gray, or at the very least you’re well settled and all that, but if, god forbid, you’re still brimming with youth, pardon me while I dole out some unwarranted advice.

  You are a child of the theatre, August, and in some capacity, there you must stay. The plays you staged at Willington were truly stupendous for someone so young. You were born in a theater. You were raised in a theater. You belong to it as much as it belongs to you. I hope you find happiness in whatever it is you choose to do, but I know you’d find happiness near the stage.

  I’m afraid I’ve been rather a disastrous friend to you, and god knows I’ve made a wretched parent, but please know this: you are the most spectacular person I have ever met, and it’s been bloody fun knowing you all these years.

  Typically, his signature filled the rest of the document.

  It was too much, this contact from beyond the grave, and August’s grief swelled like a great cresting wave, threatening to engulf him. He needed to escape this sadness, this stark loneliness that always seemed to find him and ransack his heart. August shoved the letter into a rarely used desk that stood tucked away in the sitting room, where it might be forgotten.

  As to the letter’s contents, August couldn’t have disagreed more heartily. The thought of having anything to do with the theatre, the art form that so reminded him of Sir Reginald and the beloved Miss Butler, made August sick with mourning.

  But what would he do? August remembered his declaration that he’d take some time to enjoy himself. Had that really only been a few weeks ago?

  To console himself he drank. Frequently. Always. Months and months of liquor-induced stupor blurrily passed, and the alcohol was so successful in numbing his pain that August became a career drunk. He was quite committed to this new course until one night at a party, the host of the event lost his patience and socked August in the face. After being tossed onto Madison with a black eye, August decided to lay off the sauce for a bit.

  Without the constant haze of drunkenness to distract him, August was forced to take a look at his life. Just what on earth was he supposed to do? He wouldn’t survive past the age of twenty-two if he kept up this besotted lifestyle. But though August had no prospects, family, or friends, he did possess a certain animal instinct that urged him to keep living, even if just to stubbornly prove that he could.

  Sitting in the squishiest and most favored of armchairs in his brownstone on East Twenty-Third Street, August, with the help of a restorative Sazerac (though he was cutting back, he still allowed himself a drink or nine a day), finally succumbed to the inevitable: he would revert to a life of crime.

  Not that he would become a no-account pickpocket again. He’d be something classier. A great art thief, perhaps, looting New York’s finest museums of their most valued treasures. Or maybe he’d work his way up to stealing government secrets from foreign nations and become America’s most celebrated spy.

  Until then, he’d shatter windows and steal people’s money. He could still scale any building with ease, and though his lock-picking muscles had grown slack as of late, it wouldn’t take too much practice to relearn the skill.

  True, August didn’t need money. The inheritances bestowed on him by both of his surrogate parents would carry him through a few more years at least; if he lived prudently, he could possibly remain unemployed until he was thirty. But August had come to realize that when he remained idle, he took to drinking. And when he took to drinking, he turned rash. And when he turned rash, he got punched in the face.

  So he’d be a cat burglar. And why not? After Willington, the myth that the upper class had somehow earned their wealth or status had been disproved. Surely some had worked hard to get their money, and others born to fortunes did much good with their inheritances, but the majority of the wealthy resembled the majority of the poor: greedy and stupid. So why not skim off the top?

  * * *

  Though August had never been that popular among the Willington set, there were a few boys he’d struck up a convenient camaraderie with during his years at school. A tainted few were as disillusioned with their lifestyle as August was, or at least claimed to be in the name of teenage ennui, and after August had elevated himself out of the category of social leper, it was to this type he gravitated.

  Though it hadn’t been long since graduation, he’d fallen out of touch with his school chums, but due to Willington’s exhaustive alumni association, it wasn’t difficult to regain contact. After dashing off a few letters, August was given the telephone number of Gregory Ashford, a boy who had appeared in nearly all of August’s productions. Though August was sur
e Gregory was either entrenched in an Ivy League school or enjoying a cushy, nepotistic position at his father’s law firm, the two had shared a few good laughs throughout August’s school-age perdition, and therefore Gregory was August’s best bet to becoming reacquainted with the cabal of high society.

  “August!” Gregory shouted over the phone. “What the hell have you been up to?”

  They exchanged some brief pleasantries before August finally got around to mentioning that he’d like to see some of the old crowd again.

  “Of course,” beamed Gregory. “You should come to the club on Friday. There’s going to be loads from our class there.”

  “The club?”

  “Yes. Willy’s. Don’t play dumb.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Gregory laughed. “Willy’s! That’s what we call Willington’s clubhouse in New York. All the old schools have one.”

  Of course a place as self-important as the Willington West Academy for Gifted Boys would have a clubhouse in Manhattan. After many assurances that he’d attend on Friday, August hung up.

  He smiled. For the first time since Percyfoot had passed, he had a sense of purpose. The club promised to reintroduce him to some old acquaintances, who would in turn introduce him to new acquaintances, who August would in turn rob. He felt no guilt whatsoever about any of this. It wasn’t as though he would be stealing enough to ruin these aristocratic morons. Besides, he planned to steal only from the wealthiest and most wretched of the lot—a modern-day Robin Hood who, instead of giving his earnings to the poor, would keep them for himself. Morally ambiguous, perhaps, but nothing compared to some of the more unethical scams he’d pulled with Sycamore all those years ago.

  Friday arrived, and he met Gregory, who ushered him into Willy’s impressive bar, where they traded reminiscences while August scoped out the rest of the men assembled. The place was a gold mine. Literally. Aside from the young set whose fathers hadn’t done them the favor of dying off so that they might enjoy their inheritances, the poorest person present probably owned at least three residences. August had hit the jackpot.

  Whistling all the way home, he was already planning his next trip to Willy’s, a trip he intended to make in disguise.

  * * *

  Sir Reginald had left August his money and the blasted letter, but he’d also left August all his possessions. In those gray mawkish days August had spent in London, settling his benefactor’s estate, he’d ordered almost everything to be donated to charity or thrown out, but even in his sorrow, he had managed to hold on to a few of the more interesting effects Percyfoot had accumulated during his lifetime. Among the salvaged was a chest that contained what seemed to be hundreds of costumes. Smoking jackets, breastplates, ascots, breeches, kilts, kimonos, and wig after wig burst from the opened chest. The sight of it had made August laugh, and for that reason he’d ordered the chest to be sent to New York, a jolly reminder of his departed friend. Now he was thanking his lucky stars for his grief-stricken sentimentality.

  Though he couldn’t very well walk into Willy’s draped in a kimono, Percyfoot’s chest was full of other treasures: makeup, prosthetics, and spirit gum, to name a few. To make any real money, August needed to ingratiate himself with a more established crowd. The boys his age were either still in university or living off allowances allotted by their parents; he wouldn’t make much off them. To meet the older set, however, he needed to appear older, and he would do so using all the tricks of transformation inside Reginald’s chest.

  For the next few weeks, August practically lived in front of a mirror. His first efforts were amateurish to say the least. In an attempt to add convincing wrinkles and crow’s-feet with an eyebrow pencil, he made his face look nearly identical to a basketball. The wigs and prosthetics did little to aid him either. It was all so tacky, so very Halloween.

  He needed authenticity; he needed truth. Onstage, the actors had to play to the very last row of the mezzanine and make every gesture and expression read; reality was heightened. But August would have to pass in close quarters.

  After much trial and error, he learned the fine art of subtlety. No one would ever believe he was a man of fifty, no matter how good his makeup. He’d need to stick close to his actual age. A dab of clay here to add a droop to his earlobes, a light application of pencil to darken in his eyebrows and make them slope upward ever so slightly, a plug in the nose to flare out the nostrils. These minor touches did wonders when collectively composed. A fine wig slicked with hair gel, and August looked just different enough to be an entirely new man.

  Then there were all the added modifications of performance. August normally walked with a slight slouch, having just exited his apathetic teenage years. But the character he played had the ramrod posture of entitlement and led with a puffed-out chest. He also painstakingly practiced modifying his voice, so he now spoke with a slight dialect, that affected New England drawl that belonged somewhere between Katharine Hepburn and the Kennedys.

  With all his alterations, August didn’t look fifty, but he certainly didn’t appear to be twentyish. He could pass for a very young thirty, which suited him just fine. His peers might not be fooled up close, but he planned on keeping his distance; he wasn’t going to Willy’s to make friends.

  * * *

  Soon he settled into a comfortable pattern of befriending rich men in gentleman’s clubs and then robbing their homes. True, August could’ve simply picked their pockets at the clubs and made an easier living, but the rich prided themselves on stealing from one another only under the guise of business. To rob them forthright in their midst would’ve eventually been noticed, and August didn’t want to bite the hand that fed. Besides, being a cat burglar was fun. It gave August a chance to use the skill set he’d accumulated through his unorthodox upbringing.

  Willy’s had taught him the ropes, but he quickly discovered that there were clubs that made Willy’s look like a soup kitchen. It wasn’t long before he was hitting every club in the city, alternating between them so as not to arouse suspicion.

  All in all, August was enjoying the new shape of his life. True, he didn’t have any friends. Or rather, he had hundreds of friends, but none that he actually liked. But when August got too lonely, he consoled himself with some of the haunts of his past; the oldest profession showed no signs of going anywhere, and now that his income was far steadier than it had been all those years ago, August could afford some of the classier bordellos the city had to offer. The women who worked these establishments were witty and captivating, the perfect charms to ward off the curse of isolation.

  * * *

  And so passed August March’s twenties. But now that he’d entered both his thirties and the 1960s, August yearned to make a bigger score. He was a genuine adult now. He’d grown tired of swiping whatever spare cash was sitting on top of desks; he wanted to make a splash, join the big leagues. Poking around through all his networks, both legal and otherwise, August learned of one Charles Kingsley, a stupidly rich man in possession of a stupidly large emerald named (rather stupidly) Greener Pastures.

  Simon Helmer, a character August had retired some time ago, was brought back into circulation, with a few minor adjustments to age him slightly, namely a large mustache. One last look in the mirror, and August (Simon) was off to the club in search of the fabled Charles Kingsley.

  August was an old hat at this sort of thing now, but he decided to be cautious in the name of Greener Pastures. This was by far the biggest theft he’d ever attempted, and he didn’t want to spoil it with haste. The first night, he settled simply for an introduction to Kingsley. The next time they met, Kingsley initiated the conversation.

  “There you are, good fellow,” said Kingsley, sidling up next to August, dressed as Simon Helmer, at the bar. “Rum swizzle, was it?”

  Two drinks later, August, also known as Simon, blushingly accepted an invitation to Kingsley’s home, where he would endure a dreadful party and learn that a giga
ntic emerald sat nestled inside a terribly out-of-tune guitar.

  * * *

  The wretched evening at the Kingsleys’, full of limp conversation, uninspiring redheads, dissonant harmonies, and thinly veiled marital strife, was now situated blessedly in the past tense. With the newfound knowledge of the emerald’s hiding place, August took to tailing the Kingsleys, waiting for them to go off and summer somewhere. He knew they had houses in the Hamptons, Newport, Provence. The trouble was, they never seemed to travel. As June surrendered to July and the heavy, oppressive heat of the New York summer drove all sensible people out, the Kingsleys went about their daily lives, flitting from event to event, seemingly oblivious to the humidity that was causing even the most tropical of vegetation to droop with etiolated despair.

  Though he despised Kingsley’s dull conversation, August (Simon) eventually forced himself to meet the man for drinks so that he might milk him for information. They chatted about nothing for a bit until August, an annoying flutter in his heart, gently steered the conversation toward the particular brutality of this summer and how he longed to escape the confines of the city.

  “Well, then, you must come out to Newport with us this weekend,” Kingsley offered. “We’re leaving early Friday morning. I won’t take no for an answer.”

  August concealed his jubilation with staid regret, claiming he had family in from out of town who were positively itching to see the city’s sights.

  Kingsley rolled his eyes. “Nothing as dreadful as family, is there? Well, next time I’ll make sure you get an invitation.”

  Good fortune! August ripped his cursed mustache off and danced his way home, swinging on lampposts and doing strange imitations of a bell kick, a talentless Gene Kelly.

  Saturday seemed the best night for emerald snatching. Regardless of how late they left for Newport, or even if they decided to return a day early, the Kingsleys would most assuredly be out of their apartment Saturday. And August had gleaned from his careful conversation with Kingsley at the club that the staff would be out of town or dismissed for the weekend as well. Saturday would give him free rein, so Saturday it was to be.