The Colonel

by Beau North

  Anne glanced at Ben and then back at Charlotte. “All right, Ducks. I’ll be back in two shakes.” She turned and pointed a bony, paint-splashed finger at him. “You don’t wear her out, and if she says she doesn’t want to talk about something, she damn well doesn’t want to talk about it.”

  And with that, Anne left the room, her back and shoulders straight as a general’s. Charlotte watched her with a soft smile.

  “She’s more like her mother than she likes to admit.”

  “What were you two so worried about, if it wasn’t finding out you were married?”

  “Technically, I’m a widow,” Charlotte said with a good deal of cheer. She lowered herself onto the recliner he’d bought her when she’d had her fall. It was one of the chairs that, with the push of a button, would slowly lift the sitter into a standing position.

  “Sit down, Benny.” She pointed with her cane at the older, far less comfortable sofa next to her chair. Ben sat down, resting his elbows on his knees.

  “Now, to confirm your findings as you journalists put it. Yes, I was married to a man. He was your aunt Lizzie’s cousin, Leland Collins. He was an awful man, and he treated me poorly. I left him. What else do you want to know?”

  “Did you love him?”

  “No.” Her answer was instant. “Not even when he went through the pretense of courting me, when he was less of a monster than what he became.”

  “Why did you marry him?”

  She shrugged. “Because it was 1949, and that’s what women did.”

  “Did you know you…?”

  “Liked women? Of course. My first crush was Jane Bennet, truth be told. But then, ask anyone within ten miles of Meryton, to this day they’ll all say the same. Jane Bennet was everyone’s first crush. Yes, Ben, I always knew I liked women. It tortured me for years, because I wanted all of the things women were supposed to want back then. I wanted a home and a family.” She smiled at him. “Children.”

  “And you never had any with this”―he searched his mind―“Collins?”

  “No, and I can’t say I would have been happy to have children with him. I would have been afraid of putting innocent lives in his path. I would have been afraid―”

  “Afraid they’d turn out like him,” Anne said, coming into the room. She put the tea tray down on the coffee table with more force than was strictly necessary. She glared at Ben.

  “Some apples don’t fall far from the tree.”

  “Annie—”

  “He never saw what that bastard did to you. It still makes my blood boil to this day.” She turned to Ben, her thin frame vibrating with rage. “I lived next door, since you want all the gory details. We fell in love. But he found out, and he beat the everliving hell out of her.”

  “That was the worst day of my life,” Charlotte said, looking serious at last. “The day when my brother John—you never really met him, Benny. He died in Vietnam—he came and got me and took me home to my parents.”

  Anne wiped angrily at her face. “I hate thinking about that day. It was the worst day of my life too, though your mother had it much worse. That day, and the day we found out Richard had been hurt in Korea.”

  All the air seemed to rush out of Charlotte, deflating her. “God, that was awful. All the waiting and not knowing.”

  “So if you went back to your parents,” Ben asked, trying to keep them on track, “how did you end up together?”

  Charlotte smiled. “It was all Lizzie’s doing. She and Will Darcy, Jane Bennet, Old Tom Bennet. They came and took me home with them. I became a Bennet that day. It’s why I wanted you to have the name. And Lizzie and Will and your father…they made all of this happen, too. I was able to make a life here. I had a home, a place where I felt safe and loved. And then when I had you, it really was perfect.”

  “And what happened to him? Your husband, I mean.”

  “Oh, ha, ha. Well. He tried to come fetch me from the Bennet house, and Charles Bingley made an example out of him. Jane was a lucky woman. A wise one, too. Lee sort of vanished after that. We tried looking for him, and a friend of your dad’s, who was a PI, eventually found him preaching down in Florida. He’d taken up with another woman, much younger than him.”

  “How did he die?”

  Charlotte shrugged. “Snakebite. He’d turned his old brand of fire and brimstone into snake handling and speaking in tongues. The thing about those snake handlers is they milk the vipers before services so when they bite, there’s no poison in it. Only he missed one—”

  “Or someone slipped it in before services,” Anne interjected. The fine hairs on Ben’s arm raised.

  “And he took a full shot of coral snake venom,” Charlotte finished. “Or maybe it was timber rattler? It’s been so long. It didn’t take long after that. I was informed a few days before when we had planned to go down there with divorce papers.”

  Ben sat in stunned silence, seeing nothing but the past. “Wow,” he said finally. “That’s…quite a story.”

  Anne shrugged and poured tea for everyone. “The truth is often stranger than fiction, Benny.”

  “I think it was the young woman he’d taken on who did it,” Charlotte mused. “Put the snake in with the milked ones. I met her briefly when I went down there to make the arrangements.”

  “You arranged his funeral?”

  Charlotte’s eyes were also unfocused. What did she see? Ben wondered.

  “Me and your father and Anne. They were against it, but I had to,” she said, blowing on her tea to cool it.

  “Why? Did you feel obligated to him in some way?”

  “Obligated? Lord, no, Benny. I went because I had to make sure he was really dead.”

  Ben strode down Flatbush on a clear spring night, the kind of evening where the air didn’t feel quite so gritty, one of those nights where the crowds seemed to part for him. Sidewalk conversations slid past him, brief glimpses into the lives of others as they drank and smoked and talked and laughed. Ben imagined himself a shadow, slipping across all these lives.

  It was Anne who’d told him to go to the Borderlands Bar that night. “You might find something that’ll help you,” she’d told him with a twinkle in her eye but would say no more.

  So Ben had embarked on this mysterious errand, giving himself over to the novelty of it. The bar had been easy to find, “Borderlands” stenciled across the big glass window in ornate gold letters. A bearded man with sleeve tattoos sat outside, checking ID’s and collecting the cover charge from patrons.

  “How much is it?” Ben asked.

  “Fifteen.”

  Ben surpassed an urge to scoff and handed over a twenty. “Who’s playing?” he asked.

  Tattoo guy looked taken aback. “Tom Darcy. Have you heard of him? He used to be the front man for Amber GrisGris.”

  Ben took his change and stuffed it into his pocket. “The name sounds familiar.”

  “Enjoy the show.”

  Inside, the bar was dark. Not just the lighting but the room itself. The walls were painted a velvet black with gold damask stenciling. The bar was a massive slab of ebony wood that gleamed in the dim light. The crowd was an older one in ripped jeans and expensive shoes, except for a few younger patrons clutching well-loved CD’s and albums, hoping for an autograph. Ben ordered a Coke at the bar and found a spot against the wall, waiting for the show to start.

  The stage, set and ready, remained empty. Ben drank his Coke and watched the crowd, feeling unfashionably old and out of place until the lights on the stage went all the way down. The bubbling voice of the crowd died down to a murmur as the lone sound of a keyboard rang out. Three notes repeating in a delicate pattern. A brief smattering of applause rang out before the crowd settled. Ben felt the gossamer pattern of those notes like butterflies, fluttering in the pit of his stomach. A throaty inhale into a microphone was followed by a familiar voice, high and silken, vibrating with emotion. A single light bloomed to life onstage, illuminating the man who stood there, dressed down in jeans and
a t-shirt that still managed to be impossibly glamorous. Tom Darcy had somehow inherited the best parts of both of his parents: the tall, broad frame of his father; the black-eyed mystery of his mother. Not to mention that voice, a voice that could burrow under the skin, straight to the soul.

  Ben hadn’t seen Tom in years, since the Met Gala in ’96. They’d exchanged polite greetings, Ben introducing a charmed Fiona while Tom had arrived with the designer he’d been seeing at the time, Christiano Russo. It had seemed strange to Ben at the time that they should be such strangers as adults after those never-ending summers chasing each other across the wide greens of Pemberley or sailing across the Chesapeake Bay with Ben’s father at the helm.

  The delicate melody suddenly erupted into sound, an explosion of chimes and synth, an exultant choir of voices all crying out one ecstatic note. Perfectly timed with this assault of glorious sound, light flooded the stage, showing the other performers. Tom drew out the last note, back bent like a bow. Ben sucked in a breath, feeling like a bit of cracked china; and through the cracks, there was light, so much light, pouring out of him, from every follicle and pore. It was devastating, and it was joyous; never had a song reached down his throat and pull his heart out of his chest the way this one did. The lyrics were rote, nothing special if you looked at them on paper. But the presentation, my god!

  The note ended and the same graceful pattern repeated itself. Ben felt himself slump back into the wall. His trembling hands brought his glass up to his lips to find it empty, ice clinked against his teeth.

  Even knowing it was coming did little to prevent the onslaught of emotion Ben felt when the room once again crescendoed into sound. Light and light and so much light. He wasn’t surprised to find his face was wet with tears as Tom bent and swayed with the music, face contorting, pulling the sound out of some deep well of emotion. Ben wasn’t sure what the song meant, but it was clear that it meant something to Tom.

  He felt shaken by the performance and considered getting a drink. Instead, he stepped outside, taking deep lungfuls of the thick Brooklyn air, the smells of exhaust and the river filling him. It brought him back into his body, made him himself again.

  He took out his Nokia and checked the time. It was late but not too late. He pulled up Keisha’s number in the directory and punched the call button.

  “Hey, it’s Keisha. I can’t come to the phone right now, so do the thing.”

  “It’s me,” Ben said in a quaking voice. “I, ah…I know it’s late but I just really wanted to hear your voice. I’m in New York for a few days and I just…Okay. Call me later if you like. I miss you.”

  He killed the call and ran a hand through his hair.

  “Good, right?” The man who’d taken his money spoke to him. “I never was much one for the glam rock but this guy…” He shook his head and used his hands to mime a head explosion.

  “Do they have CDs for sale inside?” Ben asked.

  “Just the new ones. Not the back catalog.”

  “Thanks.”

  Ben went back inside, purchasing a few CDs. On the cover, Tom reclined bare chested on black velvet, streaks of silver painting his face and torso. Onstage the band was playing a grinding rock anthem, Tom’s hips whipping in time with the pounding of the drums. The rest of the show featured similar arena rock sounds, a few ballads, a gorgeously stark rendition of Cohen’s, but nothing affected him the way the first song had. He hung back after the show, watching the band make the rounds, accepting drinks and handshakes from patrons, signing autographs, or stopping to take an occasional photo with some who’d thought to bring their cameras.

  Ben saw his chance when Tom made his way up to the bar.

  “Great show,” he said.

  “Thanks,” Tom said without looking at him.

  “Think I could get an autograph?”

  He sensed his cousin was about to turn and tell him to fuck off, but, when their eyes met, he froze, cocked his head, sweat dripping from his mop of brown curls.

  “Holy shit.”

  Ben grinned. “Tommy.”

  “Benny?” Tom blinked, shook his head. “It’s been forever. How the hell are you?”

  What to say to that? He was great? That was so far from the truth Ben would need to book a flight to get to it.

  “I’m a fucking mess, Tommy. You?”

  Tom nodded, a grin spreading across his handsome features. “That about sums it up.”

  The two men embraced, clapping each other on the back.

  “What are you doing after this?” Tom asked. “I need carbs, and I need them now.”

  “You pick the place. I’ll buy.” Ben considered, after the fact, what an incredibly stupid thing to say to anyone with the last name Darcy.

  If he ever saw another pancake, it would be too soon.

  Ben leaned back in the cracked vinyl booth, feeling the top button of his jeans straining against the feast of carbs and grease he’d just consumed.

  Across the booth, Tom was still eating, spearing a sausage link with his fork, biting into the salty meat with relish.

  “So, a book about the Fitzwilliams and Darcys. Dusting off the old family skeletons, huh?” Tom leveled the question at him, pointing with his fork. “Does Maggie know?”

  Ben nodded, feeling sleepy from the late night and the big meal. “I went to Pemberley to see her not too long ago.”

  Tom’s brow arched. “How is Mags these days?”

  “Good, I think. She seemed busy.”

  “That’s Maggie. Always busy running the Darcy Empire.” There was an edge of bitterness to the words.

  “And you?” Ben asked, wondering at the prickliness that seemed to thrive between the siblings.

  “Busy enjoying the Darcy Empire.” He pointed a finger at Ben. “Are you still living with that gorgeous Irish woman?”

  “Ah, no. Fiona took a job with the BBC and moved to London months ago. I moved too, back to the house in Annapolis.”

  “Oh yes.” Tom sighed. “I have fond memories of that place. There was one of the Naval Academy cadets I remember very well.”

  “You’re welcome to come back any time,” Ben offered. “No shortage of men in uniform.”

  “Hmm, don’t tempt me.”

  Ben put his coffee cup down, thinking about how to proceed.

  “I won’t lie to you, Tommy. There are some things that may come out with this book, and I need to know if you’ll be okay with that.”

  Tom grinned and signaled for another coffee. “You mean I’ll be outed? I think that cat is out of the bag, Benny. Maybe I should be asking if you’ll be okay with that.”

  “Of course I am,” Ben said, defensive. “You’re my family.”

  “Well. Not all families are alike.”

  “This isn’t what I was asking for, anyway.” Ben leaned forward in the booth. “Did you know…about my dad and your mom?”

  Tom laughed. “Of course I knew. Dear old Aunt Lydia told me when I was fourteen after one Harvey Wallbanger too many.” He made a face and shuddered.

  “Why am I always the last to know?” Ben muttered more to himself than his cousin.

  “To be fair, your dad wasn’t the most forthcoming guy.”

  “So you’ll be okay with it? There are letters between them I’d like to include.”

  Tom waved him off. “Do what you want. Send me a waiver and I’ll sign it. We all have our peccadilloes, and Mom was no exception.”

  “Hey, I meant what I said. I’d love it if you could come out and visit.”

  Tom smirked, eyes narrowed at him. “Are we friends now, Benny?”

  “I’d like to be,” he said honestly. “I don’t see why we can’t be.”

  Tom picked at some invisible speck on the sleeve of his leather jacket. “Can I be frank with you?”

  “Please.”

  Tom sighed and met his gaze. Ben could see it then; the shadows of Will Darcy in his face.

  “We don’t really know each other. A few summers as kids and running i
nto each other every now and then. And I know you were always closer to Maggie. She still hasn’t forgiven me for the last time my name showed up in the tabloids. I think she’s always resented me for who I am, or thought I was only…how I am for the attention.”

  “She can be a little old fashioned, but I’m sure she loves you.”

  Tom wagged a finger at him. “See that? That is exactly the sort of campaigning I don’t want to hear if you and I are going to be pals.”

  Ben spread his hands. “Understood.”

  Tom sighed and then looked over at him with renewed interest.

  “So these letters. Anything juicy?”

  The sky was lightening into gray dawn by the time they stepped outside, having talked away the small hours over cup after cup of coffee.

  They decided to walk a bit before hailing a cab back to the city. Ben would return to his mother’s house in Gramercy Park; Tom would go back to the SoHo loft he shared with his current boyfriend, an aging punk singer and artist who went by the unlikely name of Toledo Red.

  “He didn’t come to your show?” Ben asked. His cousin had a penchant for older men with a flamboyant disdain for the status quo.

  Tom rolled his eyes. “And jeopardize his sunrise yoga class? Perish the thought. Don’t believe everything you read about him, Benny. He’s very domestic.”

  Ben laughed. “Are you settling down, Tommy?”

  Tom looked thoughtful, watching the joggers running though Sunset Park as the sun came up over the city.

  “I’ve considered it,” he said, raking a hand through his hair. “I’d almost hate to disappoint Maggie by acting like an adult for a change.”

  “Tom,” Ben said soberly. “You and Maggie don’t know how lucky you are to have each other. When I lost Pop…I didn’t really have anyone to share that with. Mom, Anne…but it wasn’t the same as it would have been if I’d had a sister, or a brother.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t make it down for the funeral.” Tom kicked absently at an empty beer bottle that someone had abandoned.

  Ben waved him off. “It’s fine. I know how busy you were, and how things have been weird with you and Mags.”