The End.
Desmond
Winter came early that year, before Thanksgiving even. A beautiful sight, looking west out the parlor’s grand windows into Central Park. The snow glistening on the tree branches, piled on the tops of the stone walls, swirling in the light of the new electric street lamps.
The electric lights had been installed just that year, over the objection of the superstitious who thought electricity was a vapor that would eventually kill them if breathed in for too long. A thought that made Eloise Winters laugh. She understood electricity. She had gone to the World’s Columbian Exposition and seen the great man, Nikolai Tesla’s inventions. She knew it would change the world, which is why she convinced her husband, a well to do banker, to invest heavily with Tesla. She had even had the opportunity to speak to Tesla, a chance encounter yes, when her scarf had fallen to the floor of one of the exhibits. Tesla himself had chanced to be the one to secure and return it to her as he was passing by. The conversation short, a “Thank you” from her and a returned tip of the head and “Madame”, from him. But she looked in his eyes and understood his mind, she’d like to say at dinner parties afterwards.
Eloise was pregnant again in her fifth or sixth month, they thought. Thank God, she thought suddenly as she put her hand to her expanding belly. No respectable New York family has just one child. She had already miscarried two others, but this one felt different. She was sure this time it would all work out, as had her first, Desmond, named after her husband’s grandfather. An easy birth, but contrary to all known conventions of the time, Desmond was a wild, seemingly fearless boy. Easy birth, easy child, everyone knew but not Desmond. His tutors often quit in disgust, his nanny helplessly out maneuvered on most occasions, the household staff wary of his presence, the carriage horses even shied away from him. Though gentle Desmond would never harm a whisker on their heads.
Eloise’s husband wanted to get one of the new horseless carriages that are powered by steam, of all things. Eloise was skeptical. How would steam pull a carriage? The few she had seen seemed to be stopped more often than in motion. She gave them a wide berth at any rate, clicking her teeth all the while. Still looking out the window, she noticed the street was emptier than most nights. The weather she supposed.
A chill moved through Eloise, starting low and slowly rolling up and through her. She pulled her shawl closer around and glanced over at the fireplaces, just to see them burning gaily. A draft then, she supposed. She reached to ring for the servants in order to have them check that all the windows and doors were secure. Then she remembered they were all off to some carnival despite the unexpected weather, this being their half night off. What a bother it was. A spot of tea would be perfect right now, or hot chocolate. Desmond loved hot chocolate. She could hear him playing with his toy soldiers in the dining room, where he knew he wasn’t supposed to play. She suddenly didn’t know what came over her, letting all the servants go off at once, when usually one or two always stayed. She was just too soft, she clicked to herself.
Eloise supposed she could manage a tray of hot chocolate on her own, and maybe a biscuit or two for her and Desmond. Eloise’s husband was usually out late, stopping at his club for dinner and a game most evenings unless guests were expected, so he wasn’t at home either. Suddenly her stomach growled at the thought of some of Mrs. Baskin’s wonderful raisin biscuits. “Oh Dear” she laughed with a hand over her mouth. She headed to the back stairs to go down to the kitchens, clutching her shawl closed with one hand.
As she stepped onto the first downstairs landing she suddenly felt a little light-headed and stopped with her free hand on the railing for support. Oh My!, she thought, I hope I’m not coming down with a cold. She relieved her anxiety by determining that tomorrow she would spend the day in bed, with a steam pot – now there was a good use for steam, she clicked to herself.
She continued her downstairs journey, only to be suddenly brought up short by a brief, sharp pain lancing through her belly, like a fire running through her. She felt unaccountably hot and thirsty now. Fear immediately welled up in her. Fear for her unborn child, not herself. She was halfway down, should she continue down or go back up, she was caught in indecision. “Oh, where are those damn servants?” She uttered under her breath. The usage of the curse word, the strongest she knew, a sure sign of her growing desperation and fear.
The pain was brief, but scary. She should send for the doctor, but who would go? There is no one. He was all the way across the park and it was getting darker by the moment and snowing besides. Eloise didn’t know what to do, rarely had she ever had to make her own important decisions. Decisions about what cloth to order for a new dress, yes. What staff to hire, yes, how to manage a charity, easy things, but not this.
She realized for the first time that she could no longer hear Desmond’s little dining room war.
She could make it to the front door, she supposed and ask a passerby for help. Maybe there would even be a constable nearby. One of them could fetch the doctor. The plan stabilized and motivated her, bringing relief from uncertainty. As she turned to go back upstairs, she decided she could leave the door ajar and lay on the sofa in the parlor to wait for the doctor. It would be unseemly but she knew she just couldn’t make it up to the third floor master suite, and there were no servants to give the doctor egress into the house.
As she clung to the railing for support and turned to make the trek up, a warm, wet feeling invaded her thighs and legs. “Oh No!” she cried out. “Not yet, I’m barely six months!” Her water had broken. She felt faint, but she had to see if there was blood mixed in. She steadied herself, leaning against the wall and put her shaking hand down her under garments and pulled it back out, wet, warm and pink. She couldn’t help herself, she started to cry. Eloise now felt totally helpless, bereft and alone. It was going to happen again.
As soon as his mother had started out for the downstairs kitchen, Desmond set himself to stalking her. Going to the kitchen could only mean one thing, a treat was on its way. He snuck around corners and hid behind the dark, oversize furniture as his mother made her way through the Butler’s Pantry to the back stairs. The maids hated to be stalked by Desmond, occasionally shrieking in fear when he pounced out laughing, the nanny glowering when she finally found him. His mother enjoyed their little games. Desmond was just high spirited in her opinion.
Desmond knew something was wrong, right at the outset. Desmond was a watcher as well as a doer. He noticed things, like the way his Mother clutched her shawl tight and looked a little wobbly but not as bad as a few of the nights his papa came home from his club when Desmond was hiding in the dressing room, but wobbly none the less.
When his mother grabbed for the railing, Desmond knew deep down something was wrong. He almost shouted out, “Mama!” but withheld himself. She needed something more, but what? Desmond’s ten year old brain whirled furiously. What would papa do? He would shout for Baxter, their butler. But Baxter wasn’t even home. What would Baxter do? Think, Desmond thought to himself. And then like a revelation it came to him.
The doctor is what his mother needed, the smelly old Doctor Wallingsworth, whom Desmond hated, lived and worked almost directly across the park, Desmond knew as he had been there many times. But the park was big and dark at night. He was told to never, ever go into the park alone. Desmond, who really didn’t feel fear (he had a condition that would later become known as Urbach-Wiethe disease) knew he needed a plan.
There is only one way to get across the park on a snowy dark night in a hurry, the carriage. But the carriage was too big for Desmond to handle alone. Frustration, which Desmond could feel, was starting to kick in. Wait, Desmond thought to himself, the Sleigh! One horse can pull it easily and it fairly flies over the snow!
Now with a plan in hand, Desmond was energized. He bolted to the back of the house, pulled on his boots which were kept in a closet by the back door and ran out the door to the carriage house, slipping and sliding all the way with his white
breath puffing out from him, he ran to where the horses, carriage and the sleigh were kept, with no thought of personal danger.
Desmond suddenly realized he was very cold. Once in the carriage house the first thing Desmond did after lighting a lantern (the carriage house didn’t yet have electric lights) was put on an old fur coat of his, a long scarf and a hat. His mother would kill him if he got a cold and would make him lay in bed all day with a smelly steam pot.
There was the sleigh, gleaming smartly in the middle of the floor in front of the carriage, thank goodness. It was just today taken out of storage and readied for winter. There was only one horse Desmond really trusted, Old Lady, and that old nag should have been put out to pasture long ago, but Desmond insisted she stay, so here she still was. Desmond felt confident he knew how to get Old Lady hooked up to the sleigh. He didn’t actually but had seen it done many times in the past. There were just one or two little things he might have overlooked. Nonetheless, it seemed to work.
Desmond unlatched and pushed the carriage house doors open, got into the sleigh and whooshed for Old Lady to go, and go she did. She already knew the route into the park herself, as that is the only place she’s allowed to go anymore. Off she went into the park, towing an excited Desmond.
Desmond wasn’t scared but he was in a hurry, so he pushed Old Lady to go faster and faster and the old thing did the best she could. After several near-misses on the slippery stone paths, they exited the other side of the treacherous ride through the park a little south of where Desmond thought the doctor’s house was. He turned Old Lady north onto the street, stood fully erect and started calling out, “Doctor, Doctor”. The few people out stopped and wondered at the young boy in the fast-moving sleigh shouting for a doctor.
It was a miracle that Doctor Wallingsworth was outside just at the time, coming home from his surgery. Just as he saw, heard and recognized Desmond and just as Desmond saw the doctor and started to shout out about his Mother, a deep feeling of relief passed through him. Then a terrible thing happened. A steam powered car careened into the track of Old Lady, no doubt having lost control on the slippery street. Old Lady bucked and reared up in abject fear, throwing Desmond up and out of the back of the sleigh, his scarf waving like a flag in the wind, onto his head.
Though this story seems sad, the night Desmond passed, his bravery and Old Lady’s dash through the park did save his mother and baby sister. Once the doctor determined Desmond’s final condition he immediately turned to the constable nearest him and exclaimed, ”I have to get across the park right now my good man, lives are at risk! Take me in your police carriage!”
The constable obliged without further ado, with an “as you say, Sir” and another dash was made through the dark and treacherous park, but this time in the capable and experienced hands of the constable and police horses. When they arrived at Desmond’s home the doctor found the front door ajar and upon entering found Eloise half on and half off the sofa in the parlor in the throes of a difficult and nasty labor. For Eloise was wrong about what was happening and about how pregnant she really was. After a long and trying birth, Eloise had a daughter, who with her mother most surely would have expired had not poor, fearless Desmond fetched the doctor in time.
The End.
Ernest
There was never any official explanation as to how our poor little Ernest choked to death on his peach, but everyone had their suspicions I reckon.
Never to see him romp about the lawns again playing soldier or beg to be taken out in the boat. Never to see his face beam with delight when he spied his favorite dessert coming up from the kitchens, or the guilty look on his face when we would catch him in the cupboards late at night. It just tears my heart out, it does, to think of our poor little Ernest alone now, in the cold and unforgiving ground. Snuffed out at such a young, hopeful age. But poor little Ernest never had much hope in life, now did he? He was better off with God.
I guess I should start at the beginning, I should. Poor little Ernest come to us, oh nary on six months gone from then, I’d say. Come to us from the orphanage, where he was left after his mama passed on, God rest her soul. Alone and frightened, he was standing in that big doorway wearing his ratty old coat, leaky shoes and hat, clutching his one little bag for all he was worth. Voice quiet and shaky. That’s how I first saw him.
Not once in those six months, as the Lord is my witness, did any in the family cast a kind gaze on our poor little Ernest or speak a warm consoling thought to ‘im. Why the master even made the poor little tyke take his meals alone he did. And in that big dining room at that big table sitting so tiny in that big chair and not till after the rest of ‘em dined. He wouldn’t even let the poor little Ernest eat down with us when I asked.
“What?” the master gruffed through billowing clouds of blue pipe smoke, “He isn’t a servant, he’s in my fostercare. Can’t be done, wouldn’t be proper, hmpf”.
As if starving the poor boy for a glimmer of affection is proper. I may just be a cook, but I’m a Christian not liked thems upstairs. Not if Christian charity and feeling is any show of it. Forgive me Lord, but it’s the God’s honest truth, it is.
I cried for days after our poor little Ernest passed on, though I tried to ‘ide it from old Mr. ‘im. “Egads, woman,” the old Mr’d say, “Give it a rest” ‘e said to me with his white whiskers twitching looking jus likes a rat. Oh Lord forgive me, I didn’t mean to say that. I had my suspicions though, about who Ernest really was. Had a little ratty look to ‘is own face did he, made me love ‘im all the more, it did. Not like his other two, ratty faces and all. Can’t find not a thing in them to love. I knows we is all God’s children, but no siree, not them two. Nasty pieces of work, if ever there was.
They tormented our poor little Ernest from the git go. No wonder he was so keen on spending his time downstairs with the likes of us. What with putting critters of all sorts in his bed and hiding his one drawer of clothes so Ernest had to come down in just his small clothes on more than one occasion. He’d just come on in to the breakfast room and sit meekly down, not looking at a soul. His little face all red. Those nasty…, God forgive me.
What clothes he did have were nothing special anyway, old and torn up more like. I says to the master one evening, “Ernest, the little tyke, sure could use some different clothes, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“I do mind you saying so” he glared at me. I wasn’t backing down, not when it was for our poor little Ernest.
“I was thinking, mighn’t there be some older things of the young master’s he could have? I wouldn’t mind altering it for him.” I hurried in a rush to get out.
“What, give him hand me downs?” he spat. Then that look came over his face, the cheap bas… well, Oh Lord forgive me, but it’s God’s honest truth. “That’s a splendid idea, Mrs. Bakerson (I’s aint married but cooks and housekeepers is always called by Mrs.) Ernest is looking a little worn around the edges these days. Go on up to the attic and see what you can find.”
Afterwards, when I gave them to Ernest his little ratty face lit up like it was Christmastime morn come again. I had to run out of the room to hide my wet eyes. Had no one ever given that wonderful little boy a gift before? I determined then and there that as long as he was in this house, and I had a breath in my body, our poor little Ernest was gonna have the best I could beg borrow or steal for him. Lord forgive me if it aint so.
But I failed him.
Oh, I tried to protect him from them. Our poor little Ernest, bless his small heart, he wanted to keep every critter for a pet he found in his bed or in his shoes. Wouldn’t harm the hair on a fly’s head, no siree. He was forever asking for boxes and food for the poor creatures. Frogs, spiders, centipedes, it made no difference to Ernest, they was all loved. I finally convinced him they’d be much happier outside in the Lord’s free world, but as he was as near to tears as I’d ever seen ‘im, so I allowed he could keep his two favorite ones. He was so happy. He chose a lumpy old frog and a bat
that couldn’t fly, of all things. They were cared for and loved better than anyone else upstairs ever was. He even named the bat Mrs. Bakerson. When I found that out I cried for an hour. There it was written on the outside of the box in his little, shaky scrawl. I found it when I was cleaning out his things.
Ernest wasn’t allowed any learning, not like the other two with their tutors three days a week. When I found that out, I set our poor little Ernest up right outside the open door in a chair to listen in on the lessons. Old Mr. started to object but I just glared at him and he backed down, but he didn’t look on me all that friendly after that. Ask me if I cared. The other two sneered at Ernest when they found out, but it didn’t faze our poor little Ernest none. I don’t think his pure heart understood the concept of hate, but that is sure what I was seeing.
I made sure Ernest had everything I could give him. I cooked only his favorite foods and made only his favorite desserts. When the other two complained, “what, roast chicken, again” I just smiled and shrugged. “You don’t have to eat it”, I would mumble to them, so the Old Mr. couldn’t hear. Those two took to glaring at me too after that.
It was when Christmas time, that most blessed of days, came around for real that the straw broke the camel’s back, as they say in India, I suppose. Oh, there were many presents under the tree in the parlor that year. All shapes and sizes all brightly wrapped in store bought paper and ribbons and bows. But not a one for our poor little Ernest. I was livid! I felt a rage and a sorrow I have never felt and let me tell you with my hand to God, my life was never very easy neither. But this, this was unforgiveable in my mind. Imagine our poor little Ernest running downstairs Christmas morning to nothing. It was probably like every previous Christmas I reckon.
26 Absurdities of Tragic Proportions Page 3
