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Genevieve Smith << continued from Part 2 "What song would you care to hear?" Mascarpone inquired gingerly. He seemed to be as comfortable in his station as a naturist would be in an icehouse. "Is there anything in particular you would like to hear?" Wesley turned to her. "A-anything would be fine." "One of the old ones, Mascarpone." The butler cleared his throat, and with head aloft and eyes fixed ahead, he extended forth a gentle, tremoring hand. Instant as lightning, a great, electrified shrill distended through the room with volcanic intensity and a comparable volume. The note, unlike anything she had heard before, perhaps q minor or some sort, some unknown from a fateful minor key-how fitting for the soundtrack-reverberated through the room, gently rattling the tesserae of the chandelier above their heads. It was electric, it was shrill, and Caelia wasn't entirely convinced that they wouldn't be listening to a broken radio for the duration of lunch. "Do forgive me," Mascarpone apologized, slightly flustered. Wesley served himself a bowl of cucumber soup with little regard and even less concern, unfazed as though Mascarpone had simply petitioned for a ham sandwich to be saved at his behest. Mascarpone occupied himself with adjusting his perfidious device, each revision having the distinct sound of a radio knob being frantically redirected through channels. It was unclear whether he was playing the instrument or exorcising it. "Do you . do you play anything, Miss Wayelin?" "Not in the way of instruments, I'm afraid," Caelia said, adding quickly, "Poker. I play poker." "Ahh, yes. You play with that rather colorful Mr. Rollins, correct?" She looked down at her plate, her appetite now absent. How had he known about the poker club? Unease settled in her throat. There was a feeling in her stomach too-the moiling nausea of tangible terror. Mascarpone continued to work with his instrument from his corner, looking up occasionally as its electric shrills and intermittent squeals punctuated the silence. If butterflies were the digestive disruptions of eager anticipation, Caelia was certain she had a stomach full dusty-winged of moths. Wesley poured himself a drink. "Aha!" Mascarpone exclaimed. Further startlement. The butler now straightened himself, his coat, his lapels. Again he extended a hand over the innominate contraption with a confident mastery. A gentle vibrato emanated from the corner this time, warm and wistful. His hands seemed to be directing invisible marionettes-touching keys of nothingness before him and hitting all the right notes. She had heard this song before-yes-it was R.C. Coppollo's "Daffodils." It had been one of her favorites from before, back in the 20s when Coppollo was still composing music and time to her was a gift and not a sentence. "It's a fairly new instrument," Wesley explained. His voice drew her back in. He must have deciphered the look of vague intrigue upon her face. "The etherphone. Invented in 1928 by Léon Theremin. An arresting resonance, isn't it?" "Quite." Arresting. Like handcuffs. Bars across windows. Wesley offered her another tray-the ham and prosciutto parcels-and then the meal was continued without words. Wesley kept his fixed downwards as he ate. Caelia's eyes wandered over the grand spread before them, to the flowers, the muted windows, and to the direction of the minstrel in the corner, watching his hands deftly draw out each note smooth as saltwater taffy. As he finished one song, he would seamlessly continue on to the next. After a while, the songs faded into those less and less familiar, until all the melodies were new. She watched the butler as he played. There was one instance when he looked up and met her gaze for a moment, and as they regarded each other, his widened eyes implied that the malaise she'd felt was mutual. The entire transcription of their lunchtime dialogues could have been recorded on the back of her hand. About halfway through desserts, Caelia had knocked over her mimosa, turning its champagne flute to a tumbler that shattered into a typhoon of crystal shards and juice upon the marble floor. Wesley had told her not to worry-that he had more cups than he did companions-and Mascarpone eagerly saw to the mess while the two excused themselves, per Wesley's suggestion, for a walk in the gardens. Caelia had never been to Europe, but the grounds that lay beyond the frosted windows of the estate were as entrancing and enchanting as the postcards Phin would send home from his many trips. Everything in sight was manicured to meticulous pluperfection-clipped and contoured as though they were tended to by a pack of geometrists equipped with both hedge cutters and compasses. Topiaries twirled and curled up from behind stone embankments like springs that had sprung in curious synchronicity, and plants were shaped and styled as though they were Bernini sculptures more so than humble shrubbery. All of this beauty in a single spot, and all of it encased away from the world all but for the eyes of only two individuals. "This used to be the location for many of Miss Stavello's lavish parties," Wesley explained, answering an unasked question as the two made their way down the shallow steps. "Unfortunately . the caretakers of her estate neglected the gardens following her death." "You restored them?" "Yes." "Well, ye gads. I wouldn't have pegged you as a horticulturist." Her hand was still residing gingerly on his arm that had been offered and reluctantly accepted back at the house. "It's a pity to misspend something that's beautiful," he said, lost for a moment in some thought he seemed to had lost before and just found for the first time in years. Something brought him back. "It was quite overgrown." "Like a woodman's eyebrows, I'll bet." He looked at her, whether amused or bemused she couldn't determine, but didn't care. They walked on now to the cadence of their familiar silence. The musical score of the entire afternoon would be nothing more than measures upon measures of rests, an eighth note here and there for coughs, and a single, crescendoed whole note for Caelia's rather hearty sneeze. Caelia tried to imagine the same scape in springtime, when it must be bursting with the colors of all types of flower. They soon came to a less kempt part of the garden-a large maze that had crocheted itself into the landscape. A cobblestone path ambled its way between botanical borders, a path clearly untraversed for sometime. Its age showed in ulcers of broken and buckled cobblestones and the tendrils of weeds which wrinkled their surface. "I never did get to the restoration of the maze," he said. They stopped by its entrance, framed by the years of overgrowth-the dead leaves, dead branches, and dried buds of an erstwhile life reaching out in all directions like the scraggy, menacing fingers of Nosferatu. It seemed that this, this lingering near the entrance, the potential for an invitation to pursue what lay beyond, could be the precipice of some very adverse outcomes to this engagement. Nerves played the notches of her spine-a chromatic scale up and down her vertebrae. Wesley was looking pensively at the maze, and she was hoping he wasn't considering a journey down its path less traveled by. Perhaps she should have written Charles where she was going. Slipped a note under Rolly's door. Pasted a note to the bottom of Samson's bourbon bottle. Let someone who would have valued her absence know precisely where she was going. It might take a few days before the Ludwins even noticed her absence. Wesley sighed, and they continued on their route around the garden. ". beautiful." His voice was caught up in a breeze. "I beg your pardon?" "I said," he led them to a marble bench that looked back onto the house. He propped his cane along its edge and invited them to rest for a moment. Leaves were now rustling in the winter breeze and the soft banter of sparrows played in the distance. Wesley gazed ahead. "It's never been in winter that this garden has looked most beautiful." Each edition of the man's speech was a syntactical torment. ". How do you mean?" "It's . it's never had you in it." A stronger breeze rustled the hedges behind them now, a low note held for a long time. "I-" Caelia started. She played with her locket between her fingers. "I . I bet I've nothing to match the daisies that come in springtime." She turned to him, brushing away a lock of hair that was again dancing across her cheek. "I guess only time could determine that." They sat again in silence. A stone caught Caelia's attention, a small, sparkly thing, and she picked it up and turned it over in her fingers, first in nervousness, and then contemplation. Who is this man-what brought him here? And, ultimately: Why has he brought me here? After a time that felt like minutes, she tossed the stone into the hedges in front of them, and out flew a small flock of sparrows, calling to one another, flapping their wings in a great cacophony overhead and into the sky. Caelia popped up to her feet. "Well, ups-a-daisy." She burrowed her hands in the depths of her pockets in that mobster fashion Hildegarde so often scolded her for. It was getting colder, and the wind was more persistent now. "You said that there were once parties here?" Caelia asked over her shoulder. She began to retrace the walk that led back to the house. "Yes." Wesley rose to his feet as well. "I imagine it would have been wonderful to be a champagne-squiffed starlet bashing around such a shindig. It'd be just like life in West Egg." The drive back home was little different than the drive which had led them away, save for the baking pan in her hands which had been emptied and washed and then dutifully refilled by Mascarpone with a fresh chocolate cake. It was dark by the time they sidled up alongside the boarding house, and the scant stars suspended in the sky glistened as if to replace snowflakes that couldn't fall due to the cold. As the car slowed to a standstill outside her happy little hellhole destination, Caelia prepared herself for a hasty exit. "I would like to thank you for joining me this afternoon," Wesley said. And I should like to thank you for returning me in one piece. "Yes, well," Caelia said, gathering herself and finding the door handle. "The invitation had me at "catered." Although it would have made for a nice engraving, a possible death by dismemberment: Caelia Cora Wayelin "I should like to do this again sometime," he continued. It was hard to tell in the dark, but Caelia was fairly certain a small smile was reflecting his sentiment which she was so set upon deflecting. "I-," her breath disagreed with the chill and tussled with the wind like a cigarette's wispy smoke. "Please thank Mascarpone for the cake. He's incomparable." She was out of the car now. "Goodnight, Mr.-" "Are they really your parents?" he asked suddenly, leaning forward to catch her eye before she fully closed the door. "I beg your pardon?" "I-I am sorry to be so forward," he explained. "It's just . they . this place . none of it seems to be anything like you." "The birth certificate seems to find it all very fitting." "Are you happy, Caelia?" Caelia. This was the first time he had used her first name in conversation. In that instant a car drove by, its driver gawking at the incongruous gleam of Wesley's car. "I have to go," she said, and quickly closed the door. He idled at the curb for a moment as she made her way to the stair and then gently pulled away. She turned just to see him go, and hugged the pan closer to her chest as he disappeared. Either direction now had little incentive. She knew Hildegarde would be ready at the door like a tomcat stationed at a mousehole, waiting to pounce on her prey-to disembowel every detail and devour each granule of the afternoon's events. Sarah would be crying. Two of the girls would be squabbling, Thackeray would be engaged in bemoaning some monotony, and as a great epilogue of this ebullient predictability, a boozed and belligerent Hank would return home late, and likely break the remaining china plate. A single tear escaped from her eye, arcing itself down the delicate contour of her cheek. Are you happy, Caelia? Wesley's question echoed through her mind and into the wind as she made her way up the stairs. When was the last time someone asked her that? The last time someone's shrewd eyes could incise the careful facade she used to cordon off the things she didn't want to see-didn't want to feel-from all the things she wanted to remember? But then again, she thought. When was the last time someone had curled a carrot for her, or fashioned a dozen roses from radishes? Are you happy, Caelia? She paused for a moment before she mounted the stairs. No, she thought, as she took the first step. Not yet. >> click to read: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 _ _ Genevieve Smith is a writer and artist and 2019 graduate of Lake Superior State University where she studied creative writing and communications. She writes predominantly about the past and has published work in Border Crossing and Snowdrifts. She spends her spare moments writing and drawing, and her greatest inspirations besides life itself include Robert Benchley, Boo Radley, the lives of her grandfathers, and the lavish lore of the Algonquin Round Table. The story appearing in this issue is an excerpt from her novel-in-progress. Connect with her via Instagram or her author website. |
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ISSN 2150-6795 |