“Veronica.” It is Grace, standing behind me, holding my sweater. I turn back to the ocean, watching its beautiful, serene violence, wondering if I should just dive in. If I did go forward, and the ocean swallowed me whole, would that be the answer? Farnsworth would be out his personal donor, but then I’m certain he’d turn to the girls. He’d keep them locked up in a dungeon somewhere, waiting to Let them whenever he felt weak. My stomach aches with the thought, and I know this would be too easy an out for the likes of me. I need to spend more time on this earth, righting my wrongs. I can’t let the ocean swallow me up, and I can’t let Farnsworth, either. Deep down I’m relieved to have a reason to stay and fight. I don’t know if Phoenix and I can ever happen; I don’t know if he can forget what I’ve done, or if I can ever forgive myself, but the truth is, I want to be here to find out.
“Veronica?” Grace’s voice is soft and I can barely hear her over the roar of the ocean. I turn back to face her. “Let’s get you ready for dinner,” she says, smiling.
****
The room Farnsworth has assigned me is larger than the entire camp base. It’s decorated in red flowers and carved wood. There is a massive bed on one end of the room, with ornately carved bedposts and billowy netting cascading over the top, falling gracefully into a canopy. To me it looks like mosquito netting and I’m surprised they have that problem here, in paradise. In another corner, there is a tall dresser with large doors instead of drawers. That too, is made of carved wood. Everything is made from carved tree trunks and has bold red accents. There is so much excess that even at my height I feel overwhelmed. Grace walks to the large dresser and opens the doors to reveal several evening dresses. “This armoire has been filled for you,” she explains. I make a mental note of the word “armoire.” “See if there is something in here you would like to wear to dinner.”
“Can’t I wear my shorts and sweater?” I ask, surprised.
“No, dear.” She pulls open heavy red velvet window curtains, so I can see the ocean from my room. “You need to wear a dress. You’re in his palace in the New World. You need to dress appropriately.”
“Oh, okay.” I look back into the armoire. There is nothing in here I would ever want to wear. And there’s certainly nothing appropriate. What does a secret assassin dress like anyway? I pull out an emerald green gown. “This?” I ask Grace.
“I think it’s a lovely choice.” She nods her approval. Truthfully, I don’t care. I simply grabbed the green gown because it was the closest thing I could find to my army green fatigues. “Now why don’t you take a bath and we’ll get you to dinner?”
The bathroom alone is larger than any of the cabins at camp. It is long, with opulent fixtures and mirrors lining the walls. I step in and see two delicately crafted sinks with luxurious towels folded next to them. I walk a few feet farther in, sincerely hoping I can navigate my way to the bathtub. First, I see the shower, a giant stall framed in gold with two seats and a fresh array of soaps and shampoos. But, it’s what is next to the shower that grabs my attention: the bathtub. The bathtub that appears to be as large as my lake. I’m grateful I’m a strong swimmer. The tub is held up by golden claw feet and has already been drawn and filled with luxurious bubbles that look like they’re made of silk.
“I thought you may need to relax,” Grace offers. I jump, startled. I had no idea she was in the bathroom with me. She takes me on a mini-tour to show me a towel warmer and the separate room for the toilet. “And here is a dressing area.” She takes me to a separate wing of the bathroom. “Enjoy,” she adds before scurrying away. I waste no time stripping and jumping into the bath. I have no idea what’s in the water, but it smells heavenly. I lean back and I’m amazed to find I am able to stretch myself out in the tub. I sink down, submerging as much of me as I can, and feel the bubbles tickle my nose. It all feels way too good. Although I know I should feel guilty, I take a few minutes just to enjoy.
Five minutes into my bath, I am ready to go. I can’t lie here all night and I want to get to dinner so I can face Farnsworth’s ultimatum and get back to my girls and Phoenix. And right now, for some reason, I cannot get Lulu off my mind. I keep wondering how she is and where she is. I wonder if she’s scared, and if Gretchen is taking care of her. The longer I lie here, the more determined I am that I will make that trek back to camp tonight. One way or another. I pull myself out of the soapy water and towel off. I go to the dressing area and find my gown and shoes waiting for me. I slip into my dress that fits me perfectly, but as well as it fits, it is equally uncomfortable. The material cuts right across the top of my breasts and dips low in the back. It is fitted through my waist and hips, and hangs loosely near the ground. It flows when I walk. It is absolutely beautiful, but it’s so not me. Then I see a rectangular box about twelve inches long and open it to reveal a pair of matching green satin heels. This makes me smile. Not because of the thrill of wearing a pair of shoes like this, but because Farnsworth thinks I need heels. I slip the shoes on and stand tall. I wobble slightly; I have to be at least six-foot-four in these heels. With these on, I’m probably even taller than Phoenix. Grace walks in and smiles at me. “You look beautiful,” she declares.
“Really?” I ask, looking down at myself. It never occurred to me to look in a mirror.
“See for yourself.” She turns me to face a full length mirror in my dressing room. One look at myself and I burst out laughing. “What is it?” Grace is genuinely confused. I laugh until I can calm myself. Then I speak slowly, in between gulps of air.
“I look ridiculous.” I snort as the laughter comes back. I have to flop myself down in a chair to keep from falling over.
“Actually, Veronica, you look quite stunning,” Grace assures me.
“Well, thank you, Grace.” I am suddenly aware she may have picked out the gowns in my armoire. “It’s just that I’m not used to looking like this. I’m used to old ripped jeans and stained tank tops.”
“I understand.” She looks up at me, suddenly serious. For the first time I see her eyes are a beautiful shade of gray. Her lashes are long, and she blinks several times before she speaks. “But do you think you could get used to this?” she asks.
“Probably not.” I know she’s asking about so much more than the dress I am wearing.
“That’s what I thought.” She sighs and walks over to me. She places a hand on my arm and pats me. “He’s not well, you know. He pretends to be healthier than he is. He plans to Let you again. Soon. Maybe as soon as the day after tomorrow. Maybe even tomorrow. But you have an advantage. He’s in awe of you. He thinks you’re a superwoman who possesses super blood and he wants it. I just don’t know how fast even Superwoman can recuperate.” Her eyes water, and it looks as though this conversation is truly bothering her. “Please,” she whispers. “For all of our sakes, don’t tell him you know.”
“I won’t.” This time I take her hand and squeeze it. “Thank you, Grace.” She just nods. She is certainly the embodiment of her name.
“Could you sit please, Veronica?” Grace asks, and I do. Slowly she brushes through my long black hair. “So lovely,” she murmurs, and she begins to hum a song I have never heard before. As she brushes I close my eyes and suddenly I am seven years old, sitting in our kitchen with my mother brushing my hair. The feeling is so intense I lose myself.
“They’re not at camp, are they?” I ask. She keeps brushing but her humming has stopped abruptly. “My girls. If he’s that desperate, he has them here somewhere, doesn’t he?” Her humming starts up again as quickly as it stopped. She finishes brushing my hair and turns me to face her.
“Have you ever worn makeup?” she asks and I shake my head. “That’s what I thought.” She slicks something greasy on my lips. “There.” She takes a step back. “You look magnificent.”
“Thank you,” I mumble, frustrated that she won’t tell me what I desperately need to know.
She leans over me and looks me straight in the eyes. She places her hand gently on my chin and tilts my
head upward. “Veronica, things may not be as complicated as you think they are. Above all, just remember who you are.” And then she is gone.
I look back into the mirror and stare at myself long and hard. “Remember who I am,” I repeat, closing my eyes. Just remember who I am. It would be so easy if I had a clue. There is a knock on my door and an escort with a wheelchair waits to take me to dinner. My first impulse is to refuse the chair, but then I remember Farnsworth may want to Let me tomorrow and think better of it. This way, if I go to dinner in the chair, he may decide I’m not ready to Let, yet.
****
My escort pushes me down a hallway lined with portraits and filled with more opulence. Surprisingly, there is what looks like sports memorabilia—things like a set of black leather thick gloves and a baseball bat—placed on pedestals, sporadically lining the hall. And everywhere, in complete juxtaposition, there are soft chairs and couches waiting to absorb one’s exhaustion and ease the endless journey to dinner. Finally, I am wheeled into the dining room and greeted by a staff of four. One helps me into my dark wooden carved chair and glides me up to the thick solid wood table. I am struck by the fact that my wheelchair is immediately removed from the room. Another of the staff lays a red lace napkin on my lap. A third pours water into a gold rimmed glass. All stand by, waiting for Farnsworth to enter. I look around the room, hoping something in this overstuffed room will spark an idea, a plan. There’s nothing. Nothing except proof that Farnsworth lives in pure luxury.
Moments later, Farnsworth enters. He’s wearing a dark suit that is perfectly tailored to his thin body. His shirt collar lies casually under his suit, and a loosened tie dangles from it. His shoes are shiny and angular, jutting out from the tight hem of his pants. His face is glowing and he looks happy. He reaches up and pushes a stray piece of very blonde hair into place. “Veronica,” he nearly giggles, holding out his hands for me to join him. It just now occurs to me I should be standing. I struggle to push my chair back and rise onto my heels. I wobble when I stand and he looks at me, perplexed. “I was hoping you were feeling better.” A frown clouds his otherwise chipper demeanor. So he thinks it is still blood loss, and not these ridiculous heels, that is making me unsteady.
“Much better, thank you sir.” He walks to me and I have to suppress a laugh when I realize in these heels, he comes up to my chin. He squeezes both of my hands.
“Maybe those shoes are a bit much for you, huh?” He looks up at me and smiles in his shifty way.
“What shoes?” I ask, suddenly remembering he has only ever seen me lying in bed, or when he was confined to his wheelchair. We have never before stood toe to toe. His eyes widen with shock. There. I have the upper hand, if only for a minute. His look turns dark, and I can tell he doesn’t like to be made a fool of. Wrong approach. Quickly, I slip out of my shoes and stand flatfooted. Now he is only an inch or so shorter than me. It’s barely even perceptible. I smile at him and he softens slightly. He checks his anger and smiles back.
“You are everything I had hoped you would be, Ms. Veronica Billings.” He holds out his hand. “Shall we?” Once again, I am helped into my chair and within minutes the food begins arriving. Our first two courses are a bean soup, and artichokes dipped in drawn butter. They are served on thin porcelain dishes with a flower pattern. I have no idea what the flower is, but it’s large and purple. He sees me staring at it. “It’s a giant allium. Pretty, aren’t they?”
“Very,” I agree, savoring the taste of real butter. At camp, we eat grease from a can that is supposed to taste like butter. Because none of us has ever tried butter before, we never knew the difference. I do now.
Then our steaks are served, each one overflowing its plate. I cut into the steak and eat away, and slowly, the plate becomes visible. This plate has a long white flower that is shaped like a folded sleeping bag, atop a long thick stem. “Calla lily,” he informs me. “One of my favorites.” After a few more bites, I push my plate away, feeling uncomfortable by both the food and him. “Saving room for dessert?”
“Dessert?” I am unable to imagine stuffing in anything else. But no sooner do I ask, and the servers bring forth small, delicate plates with tall brown towers on top. I gasp when I see mine, not because of the confection, but because of the plate it is balanced on. This time the flower needs no explanation. These tiny yellow flowers are the flowers of my dreams. They are unmistakably dandelions. I can feel Farnsworth eyeing me.
“Something interesting?” he asks. I look at him, trying to remain calm.
“I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Really?” He raises an eyebrow. I don’t know if it’s paranoia or if he is truly skeptical. But how could he know about my connection to dandelions?
“Do you eat it?” I ask, looking up at him, my eyes wide. I am praying he buys this.
“Ah, the chocolate tower.” He sounds relieved.
“Yes.” I do my best to sound innocent. “How do you eat it? Where do you begin?” He smiles at me in a way he never has before. He looks almost…loving. The thought of his love threatens my ability to keep food down. He picks up his fork and taps into the side of his dessert.
“Like this.” He cracks into the tower with his fork.
“It’s too pretty to break,” I say. And he just smiles at me.
“Believe me,” he baits, “it’s worth it.”
I pick up my fork and stab straight down, into the tower. It crumbles at my touch. I shove a large piece of the thick, gooey, earthy chocolate into my mouth. After Phoenix’s kiss, this is the best thing I have ever experienced. I am just sorry it has to be in the company of Farnsworth.
Farnsworth looks at me, his eyebrows raised. “When will you ever stop surprising me, Veronica?” he asks. I wish I had a clever response but instead I find myself scraping the bottom of the empty plate with the back of my fork. The dandelions are lying there, looking up at me, waiting for me to find the answer. I push them aside.
“Let’s go for a walk,” he decides and he holds out his hand to me. Reluctantly, I place my hand in his and he pulls me to my feet. I leave the silly shoes under the table, and we walk out of the dining room. I slip out of his grasp as soon as possible. We walk down another long hallway, and I notice a very definite trend in the decor. Everything is opulent, and there are even more pieces of sports equipment hanging in this hallway. There’s a bow and arrow, several guns, and more balls than there are sports I know of. All are hanging or placed on pedestals with dates underneath them.
“Do you play all these sports?” I ask him.
“When I can,” he mumbles, and we walk out double doors that lead to a large flower garden.
“Oh,” I hear myself exclaim as I look around. Lights are placed all around the garden, and the flowers are shining like it’s midday. I can feel him beaming at me.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I whisper, thinking of the grass at camp that is often more brown than green. I look around at a white picket fence with large flowering bushes and I am awed by its beauty. “Why do you love flowers so much?” I ask him.
“Because they are so very capable, yet so very fragile.” He stops for a moment, looking lost. “They stand tall, reaching for the sun, shining in all their glory, providing food, pollination, and profound pleasure…” He draws in a labored breath. “But they have no defenses. No strength, really. Something as unimportant as a strong wind can decimate my entire garden. The flowers bend and try to rally against the storm, but they have no inherent strength at all. They have nothing to fight with.” If I didn’t know he was a tyrannical murderer who pities himself and analogizes himself to a flower, I might almost feel bad for him. But as it is he just sounds weak. And he is all of those horrible things and more. And what’s worse, he made me a horrible thing too. And for that, I will never forgive him.
We walk through the garden and out onto the beach. I keep a comfortable distance so I’m certain he cannot hold my hand. The bottom of my gown drags as I wa
lk, and little clouds of sand burst up over the hem of my dress. He stumbles on the sand but I feel remarkably strong after the dinner of iron, iron and chocolate. He watches me move, my body returning to its normal state, growing stronger and stronger by the second. I can’t help but run a little ahead of him, and the next thing I know I am splashing in the ocean, laughing. I wait for him to join me but he stays back.
“The water’s surprisingly warm.” I don’t know why I’ve extended the invitation.
“Thanks,” he replies. “I’ll pass.”
“Guess when you see it every day it’s not such a big deal.” I slow my splashing.
“It’s not that,” he explains. “I can’t swim.”
“Really?” I stop and stare at him. “You live here. Why not?”
“Well, you are straightforward, aren’t you?”
“Sorry,” I mumble, hoping I didn’t just send myself to a premature Letting. “I just mean with the ocean here…”
“My mother was always afraid I would hurt myself,” he shares. “She sheltered me from…well, everything.” Even in the darkness, I can tell his face has grown very, very sad.
“So learn now.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Why not?”
“Because everyone is afraid and no one will teach me.”
“I’ll teach you,” I offer before I realize I’ve said it.
“Really?” he asks, sounding genuinely interested. Then I remember Gretchen telling me Farnsworth wants nothing more than to be strong and to partake in all of the activities his constituents play. And then I realize there could never be a battle of strength with Farnsworth because he will not play it. There will only be a battle of the minds. Unfortunately for me, I am deficient in that area. But it can’t matter, because I’m all any of us has. No one else, not Phoenix, Gretchen, Gunnar or any of the girls can get as close to Farnsworth as I can. If I’m going to fight with Phoenix in his revolution, I need to be brave and face my biggest fear: the fact I may not be smart enough. The truth is I’m just going to have to be. Starting now.
The Letting Page 14