Tea Cups & Tiger Claws

by Timothy Patrick

  Funny how the invitations you expect never arrive, and the one you don’t expect turns up with your name exquisitely displayed in a frilly handwritten script. When Walter married the recently widowed Mrs. Emily Barnes and moved up the hill to her mansion, he didn’t expect a welcome party at the country club, but he did expect a chance to thaw out a few frosty millionaires with his warm personality. It never happened. He’d never made even a dent in the impressive address book that had belonged to his wife’s deceased husband. Now none of that mattered because Prospect Park had crowned a new queen who just happened to be his very own client, and had been for twenty years. Instead of starting at the bottom, he’d be right there at the top, the right hand man. It’s true, his professional relationship with Dorthea Railer had been a secret one, and he’d never formally met her, but he planned to remedy that minor technicality with the utmost dispatch, possibly as soon as that very evening.

  A nearby servant cleared his throat and held out a silver tray. Not knowing how these things worked, Walter just stared. The servant said, “Your announcement please, sir.”

  “Say what?”

  “Your white card, sir.”

  “Oh, that. Why didn’t you say so? I wondered what that thing was for.” Walter put his card onto the tray with a genteel flourish and a smile. The servant handed the card to another servant standing nearby. This servant looked at the card and yelled, “Mr. and Mrs. Walter Tubbs.”

  Hot damn, thought Walter, he yelled my name, just like in the movies. Then he regretted his early arrival. He could’ve made a real splash with a packed house. Resolved to make up for this oversight with some judicious hobnobbing, he grabbed the arm of the former Mrs. Barnes and scrambled down the stairs to the ballroom, where he stood beaming.

  Shortly thereafter, the servant at the top of the stairs became busy calling names. He filled the place with Danmores and Londales and Petersens and all the other Prospect Park bluebloods. Unfortunately for Walter Tubbs, these guests didn’t have the least inclination to hobnob; they stood around and looked miserable and did their utmost to avoid eye contact with every other human being.

  When the last name had been called, and the orchestra began to play in earnest, Walter looked to the middle of the ballroom but nobody danced. Not having any ball experience and not wanting to advertise that fact, he stood around with everyone else. For all he knew the thing didn’t start until someone blew a trumpet, or made a proclamation, or toasted the Queen Mother. So he waited. After a while, though, when his limited reserve of patience had been depleted, when the other guests began to look like stalagmites with ears, and when he didn’t have any half-hearted smiles left for the former Mrs. Barnes, he dispossessed her of her champagne glass and dragged her to the middle of the room. He’d never impress Dorthea Railer by twiddling his thumbs with all the other thumb twiddlers. He needed to be bold.

  Not one for slow waltzes and foxtrots, he doubled the beat of the milk toast played by the orchestra and launched into a spirited jitterbug. At first it seemed to go pretty well; he always held his own on the dance floor, and the former Mrs. Barnes loved to twirl after a drink or two. As for the nearby corpses, they still looked dead but maybe now they knew the difference between a party and a funeral parlor. But then, just as he’d warmed up, the music stopped right in the middle of the song. He looked around and saw everyone staring up to the top of the stairs. The conductor had turned away from his musicians to also look over at the stairway. Walter looked for himself, wondering what could be so captivating, and he instantly became a captive himself. He’d seen Dorthea before, from a distance, but never like this.

  Dressed in a midnight-black full length gown with clusters of sparkling gold strands that ran diagonally across the form fitting bodice, she looked down upon the gathering. Her black gown and shiny black hair complimented, bowed elegantly to each other, but what truly mesmerized was what came between the two: like a pearl nestled in black velvet, her pure white face cast a warm glow over the entire room. Everyone stared, none more than Walter Tubbs, whose eager smile had grown especially eager. Had her heavenly countenance never been chaffed by the sun? Had perfect beauty finally overpowered the relentless march of time? She had the radiance of a woman half her age, without the nervously darting eyes, or the mouth that shapes and reshapes itself in an endless search for perfect sensuality, and other such beauty queen protuberances, of which he considered himself somewhat of an expert.

  He could have gazed for an hour and marveled even at the little things, like the diamond tiara which graced the crown of her head, the crisp sheen of her black opera gloves, and the small, delicate embroidered white flowers which occasionally interrupted the clusters of shiny gold thread in her gown. It would have been a pleasure. Unfortunately, other things happened to be in store for Walter Tubbs.

  In a loud, clear voice the servant yelled, “Lady Dorthea Railer.”

  At first just a smattering of laughter greeted this strange announcement. That smattering, however, soon turned into a swell, which soon had the entire room within its power. Walter looked around and saw all the zombies alive with laughter. The man had said, “Lady Dorthea Railer.” Surely it had been a mistake. Dorthea didn’t come from royalty. Even Judith Newfield, the honest to goodness daughter of a duchess, had used the title with only the upmost propriety. And her sister, Abigail, had never attached such an appendage to her name. It really was a bit much. Walter laughed also, and so did the former Mrs. Barnes.

  Everyone laughed…except Dorthea Railer. She simply stared, not glaringly, but heavily enough for the merrymakers to know that her gaze had blanketed the room. Some of the revelers succumbed to this blanket and cut short their laughter. Others rode the joke to the end and laughed accordingly. One by one, though, whether smothered by Dorthea or exhausted naturally, all the eruptions in the room eventually became extinguished…except one: that of the former Mrs. Emily Barnes! His wife! For some unfathomable reason she kept laughing and wouldn’t shut her trap. There she stood, next to him, in the middle of the room, exposed, and she laughed like a lunatic. Everyone looked at them. Dorthea Railer, the new queen of Prospect Park, the one he’d hoped to charm, looked at them. Then she descended the stairway and walked straight toward them. He slid close to his wife and casually wrapped his hand around her plump arm. He squeezed and the laughing spasm abruptly ceased. She looked at him angrily. He smiled, looked intently into her eyes, and pulled her inch by inch off the dance floor.

  Walter thought about how to best affect a nonchalant retreat into the background. Meanwhile, the guests at the base of the stairway cleared away, while others, in more distant parts of the room, crowded forward, and in short order Walter found himself standing in the front row beside a path formed for Dorthea Railer’s benefit. She’d be walking right by him. And the laughing hyena! He looked over his shoulder for a way to scoot back to the second row or to the third row or to Cucamonga. No chance, everyone had pressed in to see her. He wiped the sweat from his red face, locked arms with his wife, and didn’t plan to let go until the danger had passed.

  Dorthea glided slowly through the parted crowd without saying a word. Maybe she’d walk by and let the unfortunate incident pass, he hoped. After all, everyone knew Mrs. Barnes didn’t come from the best stock. Why had she even been invited?

  Walter stood motionless as Dorthea approached. But not Mrs. Barnes. She fidgeted and looked around and hummed a ditty. Walter tightened his grip on her arm. She squirmed. Dorthea stopped in front of them. Walter wanted to close his eyes. Dorthea turned and stared at Mrs. Barnes. She stopped fidgeting and humming. And then Dorthea stared at Walter. Like a surgeon who explores with a scalpel, Dorthea explored with her sharp, steel-blue eyes. She peeled back his cover and revealed the depths of his humiliation. He knew it. He felt it. But it didn’t stop. She kept on staring.

  What did she want? Certainly not small talk. A hissing snake doesn’t care about rainfall totals or the current measure of snowpack in the mountains. Definitely n
ot charm. Buckets of the stuff couldn’t make him and Mrs. Barnes look good. How about surrender? How about debasement? That might put an end to it; nobody steps on a bug twice.

  He extended his left arm in an exaggerated motion, brought it across his waist, and bowed reverently—and as damned low as he could go—and did his utmost to drag Mrs. Barnes down with him. Miraculously, she followed suit and affected some sort of a curtsy-bow, not exactly ladylike, but close enough. He stayed bowed. Soon he heard a slight rustle and saw the skirt of Dorthea’s gown turn and walk on. But then he heard something else. He peeked to his left. The lady next to him had curtsied and the man next to her had bowed. He looked across the aisle and saw bowed tuxedos and curtsied ball gowns. He raised his head a notch and saw genuflection all around. When he stood up straight, along with those nearby, no one stared at him. They all had their eyes on Dorthea, who had stopped at the end of the path and had turned to face her guests.

  And she glowed like a light bulb! She liked the worship! And he’d given it to her! All of it! He’d pulled off a miracle!

  “Welcome, dear friends,” said Dorthea. “My son and daughter-in-law wanted so terribly to welcome you in person, but, as they are on their honeymoon, I’ve gladly been prevailed upon to stand in their place. And so, with humble gratitude, I welcome you and say thank you for your presence. It has been some years since this grand ballroom has received the honor it deserves but tonight, with your presence, you graciously bestow that honor, not only upon this ballroom but upon the family into which I’ve recently been adopted. Now, as the newest member of that family, I say to you, won’t you pay me the highest honor of all? Won’t you dance?” She looked at the orchestra, raised her arm and said, “Maestro.”

  The music played, and the people danced, perhaps not enthusiastically, but they danced just the same. Walter Tubbs, newly raised from the dead, eager smile not quite ready to show itself, escorted the former Mrs. Barnes onto the dance floor where they fell obediently in line with all the other waltzers. A small group of guests gathered around Dorthea, to curry favor, no doubt. “Boot licking hypocrites,” he said, under his breath.

  In this manner the evening shuffled forward, one sluggish minute creeping behind another, one stilted waltz indistinguishable from the other, and Walter couldn’t have been more content. Still mindful of the recent trauma, he danced without embellishment and, when not on the dance floor, stood resolutely in the company of stalagmites. He toned down the overtures to smart looking men and women of means who happened to look his way. He pretended to be ignorant of the positive impression he most certainly had to be making upon Dorthea Railer. In short, he comported himself with his usual style and charm but in more modest proportions. But then, as he and the former Mrs. Barnes took another turn on the dance floor, and as he contemplated the prospect of more invitations landing in his mailbox, another shell exploded. Fortunately this time it hit on the other side of the room.

  It started with an audible gasp and an awkward halt to the music. Walter felt a surge of cold air and saw the curtains billow over by the second story verandah. At first he thought a window or door had been blown open by a gust of wind but then the crowd, an animal that feeds on spectacle, especially human spectacle, came alive and went on the prowl, and formed a semicircle around some poor soul by the curtains. This theory got confirmed by the murmur that arose, first quietly, originating from those in front, and then spreading to the rest of the room. He easily deciphered two words from this murmur, two big words: Veronica Newfield. Walter hadn’t been keen on having his own humiliation put on display, but he didn’t mind gawking at someone else’s, especially someone named Newfield. He scooted and shuffled until he had a good view.

  “Where’s Dorthea?” yelled Veronica, if it really was her. Underfed and poorly clothed, she looked more like a hippy girl who’d eaten too many magic brownies than any Newfield he’d ever seen.

  “Here I am, dear.” The crowd re-shaped itself to reveal Dorthea standing some twenty feet away, calmly smiling at Veronica. “Are you still not feeling well, my dear?” she asked.

  From where she stood by the verandah door, Veronica sized up Dorthea with a sneer. “Nice crown, Dorthea. Did somebody die and make you queen?” The words had barely come out of her mouth before she busted into a strange fit of laughter. The crowd stared in utter silence. Then the laughter stopped. “Nobody died!” screamed Veronica. “That’s who! Nobody! Because I figured out what you’re trying to do.”

  Dorthea calmly looked up to the mezzanine and motioned with her hand. Then she turned back to Veronica and said, “Are you out of medicine, my dear? I can get you some more right now.”

  “I don’t need your medicine. I stopped taking it. I’m not taking it anymore.”

  Two servants ran down the stairs. Their fake pony tails bounced up and down. They pushed into the crowd and headed toward Veronica. When they got close, they raised their hands and approached slowly, as if trying to catch a dog—or a mental patient.

  “Get away from me Perkins! What are you doing?”

  One of them grabbed her arm, but she squirmed away. The other lunged, but she knocked his arm to the side. “Stop that!” she said, as she backed away, but then she reached the wall and ran out of room. The servants then latched onto her arms and dragged her through the crowd, toward the stairway.

  “I must apologize dear friends,” said Dorthea, as she tried to reclaim the peoples’ attention, most of whom still had their eyes locked onto Veronica Newfield. “As you can see, my daughter-in-law is not really on her honeymoon—”

  “And I never will be, Dorthea!” yelled Veronica from the base of the stairs. “I know all about annulments, Dorthea…and I’m getting one of them tomorrow. Did you hear that, Dorthea? You’re not going to be the big queen after all.” The servants hustled her up the stairs, her feet barely touching the steps, and out of the ballroom.

  Then everyone faced Dorthea. Her soft, other-worldly complexion had turned hard and shiny. Her commanding eyes now weaved an unsteady glare as they shifted from side to side. Her dignified mouth now started and stopped like a bad student giving a book report.

  “My daughter-in-law is not well…mentally, as you can see,” she finally said. “When she don’t…doesn’t take her medication it gets worse…but it’s not because of the marriage…it’s because her mother died…that’s what the doctor said….” She started walking. The crowd parted for her. “Please excuse me as I see to her needs.” And she left the ballroom, not by the grand stairway she had so magnificently descended, but by the ground floor servants’ exit.

  ~~~

  Perkins needed to act. He’d been called to act, by Nanny, who now followed him everywhere and continually barked into any ear that swung her way; by the plight of Miss Veronica, who’d embarked on her own death vigil, precipitated, it seemed, by nothing more than teenage unhappiness; and mostly by Dorthea Railer and her confusing assault upon the family and home he’d so faithfully served, against his family, his home.

  At first, on the day Dorthea took over, he could’ve put Miss Veronica into his car and coasted out the gate as easy as a Sunday drive—if he’d known that’s what needed to be done. Even when Dorthea brought in the armed guards, and when he learned of Miss Veronica’s poor health, he still could’ve done something. Now he had surveillance cameras, monitored phone calls, and searches at the gate. He couldn’t help feeling like the frog that had stayed too long in the pot of boiling water.

  Thankfully Sarah’s phone call had gotten through and had revived him. Maybe he’d waited too long, but he still had to try.

  Dorthea’s grand entrance, which he’d witnessed from the mezzanine, went down like rotten milk and wormy bread. Without so much as a word, she’d silenced the room, divided the sea of people, and lapped up their adoration. Perkins watched in disgust, until Veronica, sickly Veronica, got it into her head to bust in on the party and tweak Dorthea in the nose. That’s when Dorthea motioned up to the mezzanine. Perkins didn’t
know who she motioned to. Maybe to him. Maybe not. It didn’t matter. He had his opening.

  He grabbed one of his temporary servers and they ran down stairs to get Veronica. After some small effort, they hoisted her by the elbows, ran her up the stairs and out of the room, where Nanny fell on her shoulder with kisses and hugs. Perkins waited nervously for this outburst to run its course before he nudged Veronica toward the stairway that led down to the first floor hallway.

  “That wasn’t very smart, Miss Veronica,” he said, “if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “You leave my girl alone, Perkins,” said Nanny.

  “I don’t mind, Nanny,” said Veronica with an easy smile, as if the blowup with Dorthea had been nothing but a trifle. “Everyone knows I love to make a scene. How could I resist?”

  This surprised Perkins because it made sense. Veronica had said something that made sense…but that still didn’t make it smart; Dorthea would be coming to get her, probably very quickly.

  They made it to the bottom of the stairs and continued on to Parlor number two, where they stopped.

  “Miss Veronica….”

  “Yes, Perkins.”

  With one eye on the stairway and one on Veronica, he proceeded, “You need to leave Sunny Slope Manor until we get rid of Dorthea.”

  “Ok.”

  Ok? He hadn’t expected that. Where was the argument?

  “Perkins!” hissed Nanny. “We don’t have all day!”

  “Yes, yes. Nanny, you bring my car around.” She grabbed the keys from him and scurried away. He leaned into the parlor, over a writing desk that had been moved into the doorway, and pulled out a red servant’s coat and a servant’s white wig, which he handed to Veronica. “Please put these on…just until we get you out of here.” She eyed the wig with a smile and put it on, followed by the red coat. “Now step through here.” He pulled the writing desk away from the doorway, scooted her into the parlor, and then pushed it back into place. “Pull up that chair and sit at this desk. You’re our new coat checker.” She followed his instructions. Perkins looked her over and didn’t like what he saw. She still looked like Veronica. “Put your head down like you’re sleeping. That’s better.”