by M. R. Adams
She wouldn’t apologize to Horatio for the apathy that had led to the Keeters’ downfall, and her half attempt to help by convincing Horatio to place them at his manor, which would now lead to his, and his family’s, downfall. He would say blame was useless, that she had the new purpose of managing Sally, and she would just make herself look weak, and at her age, senile, for losing even an ounce of composure and rationality–so she wouldn’t apologize. Yes, no apologies. But to think she was ready to just drop the news–drop the news that she had found out just two days ago, news that had taken its course, originating in observation and spreading through gossip until it reached Grace, one whom, like all the others, never spoke to her when she had left, always with downcast eyes when passing each other at uptown Riverdale’s superstore but, unlike the others, when the name–the only name–blazoned into her mind when she had woken up that night drenched in sweat with one pulsating feeling: Call her, call her, call her…; so, at 3:14 in the morning, she had called, and was told that Sally had taken up with Pembry Brooks, that drug hound, that infected needle-sharing tramp. (Grace had said she was up all night with the news and was just heading to bed, finally resolved to keep her professional duty of silence after hours of debate, until Mertyl had called, which she took as a sign.)
Mertyl placed her hand on one of the manor’s columns and inched down, feeling a hollowness in her stomach, until she sat on the Crawfords’ steps. She used her palm to wipe the tear that had slid down her cheek. Sally, taking up with Pembry, she must have had a death wish but was too vain or stupid just to end her own life, continuing to cut the Crawfords’ vegetables and, which she also learned from Grace, taking up with Richard, knowing very well that she had taken up with him, Pembry, that degen–
Mertyl keeled over. Thinking that she could just end her term as dean. She just assumed long ago the Keeters would’ve been taken care of, that any one of the people educated in the field could just take her place. And now she had just assumed enough had been done so Christopher would’ve been taken care of his final year. She underestimated how she, with her intelligence and capacity to act (she no longer cared if thinking highly of herself was arrogant since it was the lack of arrogance that led her to think anyone could do what she could do which led to all this trouble) had the power to create change beyond most people’s comprehensions, their imaginations. Oh, her thoughts were all a jumble, turning over on themselves. What had she been thinking, coming here, leaving her news of Sally’s condition, and expecting she could be off, leaving them to cope then deal? And just leaving the Crawford boy to the mercy of whoever when he was so close, one year left, to graduating? She blamed the cottage, and that river–that stupid, infernal river–beckoning her, calling her, but why now–after all these years? Why become so fogheaded now? She knew. It was all those months she spent meditating upon her life at the river’s bank, at first frazzled by her being suddenly useless, without function, then growing more accustomed to it, then valuing it, longing for it, only to be called away, back into service, and then, upon returning to serenity once more, having to stir the pot due to a blasted intuition that had once again brought her back into West Umpton for more service. She had reflected, but left out so much to be considered…
Silence: her head emptied of all thought and her body emptied of all emotion, Mertyl stood and smoothed out her navy blouse. Standing on Crawford Manor’s steps, framed by its columns, seeing these men place such machinations in God’s wonderland, and for the first time truly feeling the weight of what she had to do, away from the river and its inducement of fancy thought, she had returned to her senses. She had her wits about her. She’d have to see the final Crawford through Laurel, to continue helping Riverdale’s gifted bang down the academy’s doors, and hope that the Crawfords could, on some level of mind, accept the apology underpinning her newest action: to contain Sally.
She erected herself, walked over to the door, and knocked.
CHAPTER FOUR
An Unexpected Visit
Sitting behind his large, oak desk, Horatio turned to see his son-in-law, who was looking out the window at what he presumed was the bird’s nest in the tree, also of oak, whose growth had surpassed the window.
“What is this about you leaving?” said Horatio.
“I think we should take advantage of the buyer’s market. Go out and see about assuming some of these foreclosures and dirt cheap properties.”
“Where?”
“Tampa; Atlanta.”
“We aren’t exactly in need of new income sources.”
“Well, one day we might be.”
“Hmmm…I see.” Horatio rested an elbow on his desk and began stretching and contracting his hand into a fist. He had an idea where this escapism came from: “Where did Sally run off to this morning?”
“No clue.”
Horatio waited. The veins in his hand pulsed.
“Family emergency I think,” said Richard.
Horatio turned back to his desk. He wished Richard would have confided his affair to him so that he may help remove any trail–paper or stench–that may lead to their discovery, but no matter, he’d find ways, albeit how unnecessarily cumbersome, to help Richard keep his affair secret while maintaining his dignity, assuming he was delusional enough to think he had any left.
“Would you care to know about your children?” said Horatio, running his fingers on the desk and tapping his foot as if keeping time to a ragtime.
“Sure.”
“I think Jessica’s pesky problem has reared its head. Again.”
“Why?”
“Twenty clean plates.”
“So?”
“They used to display twenty cake samples.”
“Maybe Sally–”
“I checked the trash.”
“Talk to Christopher.”
“He was practicing.”
“Robert?”
“Out. Still out as a matter of fact.” Horatio looked to see Richard still staring out the window. He opened a drawer and took out a pad and pen. “I discovered them with Miss Dunn. I told her the dog must’ve come up onto the counter.”
“We don’t have a dog.”
“That’s what she said.”
“So I need to bring a dog home.”
“I told her you bought one for Christopher. An early birthday present.”
“He’d like a chocolate lab. I’ll get–”
“No. We could never have a dog. The cake incident proved that. You returned him immediately.”
“Sure.” Richard pushed himself off the window and walked around Horatio’s desk where he sat in a chair with gilded arms, placing his elbows on his knees. “What do we do about Jessica?”
“We’ll do what we did last time: call Dr. Hibbert.”
“That doesn’t seem to be working.”
“Eating disorders are like alcoholism or gambling, there are no cures. He has helped Jessica manage her condition and find relief, but it is up to her to take it a day at a time. What’s more important to her character is how she rises, not how she fell. She has a lot of life left to live–she was bound to make a mistake.”
Richard looked to Horatio: “And of course he makes house calls.”
“An added bonus, but I’d never sacrifice quality care over convenience.”
Richard sat back in the chair. Horatio also sat back, taking in Richard’s stare, his yellowed eyes, yellowed like…like…mellowed urine–
“Ha ha.” Horatio’s head fell back.
Richard folded his arms.
“Ha ha ha ha.” Horatio held his stomach as he gave short breaths. He didn’t find it that funny, “ha ha HA ha,” but apparently, “I’m going mad,” he needed the release. “Pheeew.”
Seeing Richard half out of his seat, he raised his hand and Richard descended. Richard should’ve known by now that everyone on his side was at least half mad. After a quick exhale, he said:
“It’s settled. Dr. Hibbert will be staying with us.”
&nbs
p; “Staying?”
“Yes. It’s about time that, after all of these darkened years, the Crawfords have a bit of a resurgence. I’m opening the manor again; it is about time these halls bursted with life once more. And Dr. Hibbert can make sure the family is fairing the transition well.”
“This isn’t a bed and breakfast.”
“No, not so much any more. It’s a shame.” But ultimately, it would always be their home, their home field, their power center.
“The kids are older, they might not–”
“They don’t get a say.”
“And if they decide–”
“They’ll stay. Robert has research. Where would Christopher go? And Jessica has no position to negotiate. Leave it to me. I’ll handle things while you once again take flight.” Horatio waited, studying Richard for the slightest sign of remorse. But the man had become so pitiful it was difficult to tell one cause of his droopy visage over another.
He waited.
Richard averted his eyes to the floor and said:
“Anyway, I’ll be back in a couple of days, maybe a bit longer, but–”
“You’ll be back to continue your planning of Christopher’s birthday.”
Richard nodded.
Horatio nodded.
And Richard walked out, closing the door behind him.
Horatio wrote, “Tampa,” and underneath it, “Atlanta” on his pad. On the next line he wrote, “Birthday.” Richard was always there on some steed to win his children’s affection, only to dash off before they could ever display any of it. What would it be this time for Christopher’s birthday? What could top the tango demonstration where the entire ensemble room was transformed into a bull ring with sand imported from Argentina, which took days to clean and weeks before he could walk about the manor without finding a grain of sand in the living room’s Persian rug, or in the gravy, or in a copy of A Tale of Two Cities (and he still had no notion of how the sand grain had traveled across the first floor, upstairs, and all the way down the second only to slip under his office door and float up the book shelf and into the book)?
Horatio enclosed one hand in another and touched his lips to the balled fists. He was the one always left as the disciplinarian, the “bad guy”…the parent. Richard should’ve been the one calling Dr. Hibbert on Jessica’s behalf, encouraging Robert to not become discouraged by his research (or lack thereof), while being the guardian of Christopher’s education while he was the one comforting Christopher, telling him that he was indeed a misunderstood artist, incomprehensible to the generic American reader due to his eclectic and artistic eccentricities–one day he’d read one of Christopher’s stories to see if this had any merit–and buying Jessica scarves longer than the trains on many wedding gowns, and taking Robert horseback riding in the most dangerous trails where no log was where it was the day before (and Richard had talked about putting targets in the woods for shooting–shooting on horseback!). Richard was the grandfather to his own children.
But no matter. He was pittling again. And he had meetings to take. As a matter of fact:
The clacking of heels–he unfolded his hands. The door opened–he stood.
“Hello, my dear,” he said, taking his seat again.
“Hello, Grandfather,” said Jessica, closing the door, then pushing her fresh ponytail, full bodied and curled, behind her.
Sitting in the chair with gilded arms, she tucked under her cherry covered dress then crossed her legs. She prayed this wasn’t about the party last night and Rich–it was one fuck, and had she not been so drunk she never–well maybe–no, never would she have–but maybe it would’ve been fun pissin’ off his racist father who, according to Claire, had said that “that negro family” was “compensating by living in that manor.” Compensating for what? For being black? If they truly were trying so hard to make people forget the color of their skin then would Grandfather and Dr. Dunn have spent year after year trying to set up a scholarship fund for Riverdale High School, which, let’s be honest, was just translation for “black scholarship fund” since Riverdale high was ninety percent black, at least. Moron.
“Everything okay?” said Grandfather, smiling.
“Uh huh.” The only problem with this Rich situation was that he was the one who got to make the statement, “Look at me. Banged Jessica Crawford. Totally got one over her. Owned her. Dominated her,” which was full of it: his eyes spent so much time curled into the back of his head she had to flip him over like a flapjack. She was the one who owned him. Dominated him. She’d have to spin this before–
“Jessica?”
“Yes, Grandfather.”
“What’s on your mind?” He rested his elbows on the desk: “Something you’d like to say?”
Yes. There was something she’d like to say: Rich Cleeson loved every minute with her and if he tried to act better than her she’d find a way to destroy him. She was being stupid. Now that the hangover had settled and she had a shower and felt so fresh and so clean all the memories were returning–she was just having fucker’s remorse. He wouldn’t tell anyone. He’d be too ashamed. Hmmm…maybe she should tell.
“Jessica. What is it?”
“Huh?” Grandfather was hunched over the desk, eyeing her. “Oh, I have nothing to say.” Yet.
“Really? Perhaps you are sitting over there knowing perfectly well what I’m going to say and feeling a little guilty?”
He knew.
“Guilty? For what?” she said.
“So no apology for the cake samples?”
“Oh. Those. The kahlua was the best.”
Horatio sat back. “I’ll note that. And I’ve called Dr. Hibbert, he’ll be…” Excellent. She could use a man’s opinion, a man sworn to confidentiality. She’d seriously have to get a hobby; she’d return to painting. She had time before heading off to school, and Claire had flown off with no warning to England to get acclimated before starting–this was Claire’s fault, leaving her like this. (She had a voicemail from her–she needed to check.) Oo, she’d fly to Europe–“so you’ll be staying here under observation.” She should’ve seen that coming.
“Yes, Grandfather.” She’d call Rich. No, wait for him; be in control. What if he didn’t call? He’d call. Rebellion and orgasm were a dish best served twice. Thrice. She’d be his fetish, then once he was hooked, ruined with revelation, she’d watch him get shipped off to the KKK concentration camp. She was insane. “When is Dr. Hibbert getting here?”
“I’m glad you are being proactive about your recovery. You’ve come a long way.”
“Thank you.” She switched her crossed legs. “What’s Christopher’s deal with him?” She looked into his eyes. That should buy her some more time to think.
“Ahh yes. Well, apparently he was teaching psychology courses but with the demand, but not the budget, for writing courses, he assumed that position without a lick...” Obviously, Rich liked a booty. It was so obvious. Like homophobia. The worse it was the gayer you were. He loved the dark forbidden fruit. Exotic. Juicy. A taste of the different. It was like ditching the apple a day for a sweet mango–no, pomegranate. This was a great opportunity for her to make a social contribution: she’d change him–make him better. She was already like a goddess to him; savior was the next logical step. And she’d get a good lay in the process. Humanitarianism with benefits, “...and I expect your full participation.”
“Okay.”
“Excellent. You may go.”
Standing, Jessica ran her hands over her dress, rolling out the wrinkled cherries. She walked out, composed, only mentally worse for wear, closing the door behind her.
With the click of the door shutting, Horatio wrote, “Discuss Christopher’s writing with Dr. Hibbert. Dispatch Eliza to Jessica. Effective immediately.” He had gotten word that Claire had returned from England. Surely Jessica would be heading over to the Covington’s. Eliza could meet her there.
He sat back and let out a deep breath. His granddaughter hadn’t heard a single word he ha
d said. But no matter, she had consented to everything he had asked, including befriending Eliza and letting Eliza be of use to her, a personal assistant of sorts, helping her pick out dresses for the various events he had planned for this summer, which Eliza would have to keep her privy to as things rolled along. There would be the casino night, the archery demonstration, and the art exhibit–all a celebration leading up to the greatest celebration of the summer: his daughter’s memorial.
But it was time to move forward–he had heard hollowed steps. He needed a heavier door. Sound proof. But then again, he did have the advantage if he could hear on-comers.
The door opened and Christopher walked in, taking a seat in the chair with gilded arms once he had tucked his earth toned, robin’s egg blue silk-lined tweed coat under him.
“Christopher, my boy.”
“Grandfather.” Christopher crossed his legs.
“How are things?”
A brightness in his grandfather’s eyes. Between that and the prompt for chitchat, his grandfather had officially unsettled him. Any more, and he’d be fast approaching unnerved.
“I’m fine,” said Christopher.
“Glad school is out?”
“Always.” Because he loved three hours of enforced piano practice and being judged every time he walked through the door.
Grandfather pulled himself up to his desk and, resting his elbows on top, said:
“I wanted to alert you to some of the going-on’s that will be taking place this summer.”
“Father told me.” Not really. But this would end things promptly. He’d ask Jessica later.
“You spoke with him?”
Uhhh. “Yes.”
“Excellent. And you have no complaints?”
Christopher shook his head. Complaints? Was that a general question or was it done with the insinuation that he had a tendency, a disposition, for complaining?
“Excellent,” said Grandfather, “I was expecting for you to dig in on how you and Jessica and Robert had to prepare a piece for end of summer.”