The Man Who Shot Out My Eye Is Dead

by Chanelle Benz

  We said in one breath that we believed Adela to be lonely and thought perhaps it would cheer her to have a worthy friend near to her in age in whom she could confide. Quilby, breaking off a chunk of bread said, betwixt his chews, that he was not adverse to such a meeting. The second oldest of us deplored the profusion of Quilby’s crumbs, hissing that Quilby was not capable of being the understudy’s understudy let alone the rival. But Quilby, unmindful of this sally, inquired, How do you think you could lure such a confirmed hermit?

  But we were there well before him. The next evening, the youngest of us was meant to take part in a glee at the chapel, a recital to which Adela had long been promised to attend. In this fashion, was Quilby gulled and the first act of our accursed cabal complete.

  On the day in question, we were trembling in our boots and slippers, shaking in our corsets and caps, when at long last Adela slipped in at the back of the church. She was a trifle haggard, but we conjectured that if our Star was noticeably dimmed, Quilby would only be made less shy on his approach. In the final applause, the oldest of us mimed to Quilby that he should come make her acquaintance, which Quilby did with a genteel air, bowing and being so courtly as to bestow a light kiss atop Adela’s hand. The second of us was obliged to yield an approving nod. That blush which we ourselves had beheld only the other day returned and we pursued it down Adela’s throat and across her breasts. Bobbing a sketch of a curtsey, Adela made to turn, fretful for her carriage, but Quilby was quick to inquire, M’am, is it you that lives in the old Nelson place?

  Why yes, sir, I am a Nelson. My father passed it on to me when he died.

  You see, I am an architect and I thought it quite a rare specimen of local architecture.

  Very likely, sir, she mumbled.

  M’am, I do wonder if I might take it upon myself to intrude upon you, and pay a visit to view the interior?

  Feeling the weight of the eyes of the village bearing down upon her, Adela flung out her consent and fled.

  Mother appeared at our sides, peeved we’d been seen speaking to Adela, though she would not shew her displeasure before Mr. Quilby with whom she became something of a coquette.8

  But we, with the newly acquired address of Percival Rutherford in our combined grasp, sent our hero an invitation for Adela’s forthcoming, fictive nuptials to Quilby, thus setting the stage for a disastrous second act.

  He was not what we expected. No, he, who burst into Adela’s parlor inarticulate and unannounced, in a mode of dress which was slightly outmoded. He, who had not even donned a white, frilled poet’s shirt to our thronged disappointment. On first perusal, his chin flapped, his considerable belly paunched and his forehead accordioned. It was a rum go,9 his hasty shuffling to the pianoforte, where moments before we had been in concert, ranging from soprano to falsetto, the boys of us having dropped neither balls nor voices, while Adela played and Quilby turned pages with gusto.

  Adela got to her feet, crying out in wonderment, Percy? But this, too, was a disappointment: an unsatisfactory sobriquet. It would have been better had he been named Orlando or Ferdinand or Rhett, even calling him Rutherford we thought would have more than sufficed.

  I apologize for coming without so much as sending my card, but I find I must speak with you, his breaking voice inviting despite the want of delicacy in his manner.

  Adela flushed, confirming that we had made no synchronized misstep. Pray Percy, this is—you sir, are unexpected. I have guests.

  We sensed it was not us to whom she was referring and used this vexed pause to reexamine our attempt at a retrieved Gallant. Percy did have a thin black mustache of which the second oldest was mightily pleased, and waves of disheveled black hair of which the oldest suspected the application of curl papers, but we contemporaneously disregarded this, for Percy displayed the requisite lock-clutching. His skin was appropriately pale, a near silky iridescence and we could forgo, on this occasion, to note the plump shadows beneath both his eyes. Lips ruby, chin cleft, sadly brown not blue eyes—yet he was the owner of a fine aquiline nose that any Antony10 might have had. We would have continued to be encouraged by our mustered précis as we concomitantly plumbed our imaginations in order to restore the bloom of his cankered youth, had not Percy abruptly swooned, causing Adela to bid us: Fetch me the smelling salts!

  To this very day, we are haunted by the image of Percy splayed unceremoniously across the divan, his black curls crushed in Adela’s lap whilst she wafted him awake. Mr. Quilby, mumpish, hovered, desperate to comment on the impropriety of Percy’s head resting so near Adela’s nether region. But Quilby bit back his tongue, bided his time and played his part, inquiring, Should a doctor be fetched?

  Adela brushed back Percy’s hair as he blinked awake and struggled to sit. I do apologize, Percy blenched. I am not altogether well.

  Ashley Quilby, declared Quilby coming forth to shake hands, How do you do?

  This is Percy Rutherford, said Adela, then looking down meaningfully, Percy, no doubt you are fatigued. Why don’t you retire to the guest bedroom while you are thus indisposed?

  Percy staggered up, nodding vaguely, his greatcoat slipping to the carpet, his stare fixed but not seeing, a rolling intensity in that mad, reckless eye.

  Percy having taken his leave, Quilby signaled to us. We affected to be admiring the parlor’s wood paneling. He then asked Adela with the utmost civility, I take it that he is known to you? Does this gentleman come unannounced often?

  Percy is—we were, you see, childhood friends, wavered Adela.

  Friends, repeated Quilby.

  Well to own the truth, when I was very young and very silly, we almost eloped.

  Good God, ejaculated Quilby, laughing.

  Adela’s smile did not reach her eyes. Yes, well never fear, we were caught by Percy’s mother, and we outgrew such . . . pranks.

  Quilby asked Adela to take a turn in the garden. She put out her hand, That does sounds agreeable. Will you excuse us, my angels?

  Of course, we curtsied and bowed. But as the joint benefactors of her fortune, we naturally followed, concealing our youthful limbs in the bramble.

  Once in the garden, Mr. Quilby pumped her palm, saying, Adela, my darling girl—I mean to say, dear madam—I am compelled to confess that since making your acquaintance, I have felt myself enraptured in your presence. This has not happened, nor did I imagine it ever would, since a mild case of calf-love in Virginia almost thirty years ago!

  Adela looked pained but primly amused. I thank you. I expect at our age it does seem that it is past all hope.

  I suppose it is all too soon but I feel the expediency of—Mr. Quilby dropped to one knee crushing the toes of her slipper and she yelped. Oh sweet heart, forgive me! I am all nerves. Ahem, Quilby cleared his throat, Adela, my pet, I would like permission to pay my addresses to you.

  We shuddered in the shrubbery. We had not expected this hasty realization of our fiction. Adela’s expression remained bland, as if Quilby had merely inquired about the weather. Eventually, she made a movement, lifting her chin, looking up at what seemed to be the heavens, but we side by side saw to be the guest bedroom window, and with a gleam in her eye, she said: Why, yes.

  After Mr. Quilby had departed, we stationed ourselves at the parlor windows, which looked out onto the garden. Ensemble’d, we watched Adela while she read, or rather tried in vain to read, flinging down novel after novel. Hearing a heavy tread on the stairs, she paused and we shrank to the sill, pushing the windows open an inch. Percy came striding through the parlor doors, promptly accosting her, So he’s the man you are going to marry? Foisting himself upon her where she lay curled on the divan, he lifted up her skirts to administer some tutor-like touching, from which Adela, no governess, tore away.

  You’re being a dead bore, she cuffed him.

  I find myself unable to resist, came his protest.

  You hypocrite, Adela said. What would your betrothed have to say to this vulgarity?

  Percy began to turn wildly about the
parlor. I don’t care! I got the invitation!

  Adela watched him from beneath heavy lids. What invitation? You haven’t changed. Do I not have a right to happiness after all this time? I’m not a girl in the first blush of youth.

  But I am meant to be the one, Percy sobbed, tearing at his corkscrews.

  We, Adela included, were similarly disconcerted; we did not expect that our Gallant should blub.

  Pray Percy, don’t be vexed. How did you get here? she asked, leading that sad romp11 back to the divan.

  Putting his head on her shoulder, the ramshackle Percy wiped his nose against her sleeve. I suppose you’ll think it ill-judged of me, but I borrowed my mother’s carriage, he said.

  Your dibs out of tune12 again? she asked.

  Percy shrugged, tracing the plunging neckline of Adela’s gown. I’m at a stand save for Mother’s coin. She leaned back languidly, watching the movement of his fingers. Percy slipped a hand between cloth and flesh. Is that it, Adela, he groped, pinching, You’re marrying that man for his money?

  Adela was rueful with an air of recklessness we had never witnessed. Pooh, I’m not going to keep correcting you. Though Quilby is a kind, most obliging man. One could not wish for more. In a husband.

  Percy kissed down the side of her neck. I may not have Quilby’s fortune, Adela, but you shall always be She and I am He.

  Adela seemed to collect herself and fobbed him off. Oh, fetch me a drink.

  He spied the Madeira, Your father’s brand? You think me a fool but I will not let you get away with this, he growled, pouring.

  Behind the window, our mouths were watering.

  Whatever do you mean? she stood and we ducked.

  I won’t, he said and polished off the Madeira, holding out an emptied glass. If your precious Quilby knew what you really are, do you think he would still countenance the nuptial?

  Nuptial? Stop it. You wouldn’t. Adela filled his glass and handed it to him but not before dipping in her little finger.

  But I would, he countered. Depend upon it. Percy took that finger in his mouth and suckled. Adela tried to pull away.

  She frowned. Your mother would not permit us to be together now as she did not permit it then.

  Percy threw her hand from him: O blast your secret! tossing his glass in the fire, almost rousing us to burst into applause. He shall not have you! our summoned Gallant roared and flew up the stairs, leaving Adela with the arduous task of picking up hundreds of shards of glass.

  This too was not what we had expected. Adela had a secret. And this secret was spoiling our plot. We bunched under a marble cherub to consider a concurrent abandoning of ship. But the second oldest leapt up on the angel’s knee, a hand round its marble neck and holding a penknife high, condemned us roundly as traitors to the cause, rasping, We must needs rally! Each of us must take a blood vow to help Adela no matter what the twist!

  Hand in hand, we solemnly rose to the penknife and were poked, suckling our little fingers as hard as any Percy. In line unbroken, we marched and orbited Adela who was still kneeling in the shards.

  Weep no more, we have come! But before we tell you the wrongs we wish to undo, you must tell us, Adela, what is your secret? What are you?

  Adela brushed her mussed dress with shaky fingers. Oh no. Oh my dears . . . You see, my father, was not a gentleman but a pirate, and he saved Percy’s father’s life. His sole request was that Percy’s father keep watch over me, his motherless daughter born on the wrong side of the blanket. Yes. That Merry-begot13 was myself.

  Till then we had never met a Two-legged Tympany!14 We inspected her anew for signs. Why did your father jilt your mother? Was it at the altar, we asked, our eyes filling with the image.

  Adela turned to gaze into the fire, muttering, It is abominable that this should happen now. I thought I should be safe! Oh but why did I ever hope to escape?

  Will you toss Quilby aside, Adela? we asked rubbing our hands together. You must! The second oldest averred, Quilby will certain not want you, Adela, if you are a base-born.

  But Mr. Quilby has been all tenderness. Dear children, please be kind, please endeavor to understand what you cannot possibly . . .

  We moved as one to tug her skirts but exchanged this tactic for a rough shake. Percy knows your secret and still loves you, Adela! We will go and fetch him and he will whisk you away!

  No, she cried, You will not! I will not!

  Is there something more that you are not telling us? we inquired.

  No, don’t be silly, little ones, she said.

  You would unburden all to us, wouldn’t you? You wouldn’t want to wound us by keeping more secrets. Mother might ask what we’ve been up to all day and why we look so bluedeviled. It makes us ever so sad that you do not trust us as we thought. Why, we are positively sick! we choked. We’re about to have spasms! On cue, the youngest of us started sobbing. Oh won’t Mother wonder why all our eyes are so red, why our complexion is so wan? Shall we unburden ourselves to her, Adela, shall we?

  Adela stared at us as if we she hardly knew. I am so tired, she said in a strangled voice not quite her own. No. Don’t, please. I will tell you. I will have done.

  We laid on our fronts, our chins on our fists, rapt to receive!

  My father was a tawny-moor15 of the West Indies and because of it, Percy’s mother would not allow us to be married. He is badly dipped and lives practically on her purse-strings.

  We will here divulge that we were jointly taken aback. We had never seen the daughter of a tawny-moor before, let alone stood in the daughter of a tawny-moor’s library. We did not desire to think of Adela differently, but we could not deny that she had become someone quite Other.

  You have been unfaithful to us, Adela, we quavered and asked if we could touch the hair of a black base-born.

  She lowered her head, saying, But you must believe that I had no intention of breaking your trust.

  The oldest of us traced her cheek as if a slight swarth should rub off.16 Our fingers fingering her, the second oldest speculated, Her moorness merely lends her character—the secret was only an error in judgment. And she does not look yellow-pined, the oldest approvingly replied. No indeed, she is perfectly fair, the second urged and concluded, Why the curtain is not down, but we are in another tale entirely!

  All the while Adela stood, unmoving, watching us from far back in her eyes.

  However, we all must agree she is metamorphose’d17 and that for this she must suffer, the oldest said feverishly kissing her hand in the manner of a Percy.

  Adela flushed, snatching it away rigidly, How dare you! Do not touch me! You are but still in the Nursery!

  The oldest climbed on Adela’s desk, clapping us to attention, declaiming, quill aloft:

  • Suiciding by poison or suiciding by knife!

  We were dubious as to what this would achieve and thus we struck it off.

  • Bake her children in a pie, then invite her to the feast!

  Not only did Adela not have children, but we were uncertain as to whether we wanted to be in a Revenge Tragedy.

  • Be strangled, be drowned, have her eyes gouged out?

  While there was no doubt in our collective minds that Adela could, if put to the test, achieve a nobly gory end, we did not know how to go about it.

  The youngest of us tripped forward, opening Troilus and Cressida. Zounds! cried the oldest, Adela’d make a beautiful prisoner of war. We can sell her and our early idyllic notion of the ownership of love will remain ours evermore. False as Cressid, concurred the second.

  Just then Percy, the Percy whom we ourselves had procured, whom we had selected as the hero of our hobbyhorse,18 leaned in the door with a pistol cocked. You naughty children, he smiled yet snarled. Now since you are so anxious to be a part of Adela’s fate, I will prevail upon you all to tie up my darling girl with the curtain cord.

  We shall not, we sputtered. We haven’t sold the Negress so she is not yours!

  The Devil she isn’t! He shrieked
, lifting the pistol.

  Percy, you fool, they are but children! Adela exclaimed.

  Percy pointed his gun at us. I suspect it is these brats who have entrapped you. I wouldn’t have taken you for such a milksop, Adela. O my sweet martyr, Percy cackled. My little devils, shall you help your bit of ebony to her cross?

  We did not want to do it but we altogether did; the sum of us helped the villain. Adela offered us no violence, not even when some of us, being fascinated by her whimper, tightened the cord so that it bit into her breast.

  So my underlings, how would you choose this story to end? Love or Death? Percy pointed the barrel at the oldest: You, choose.

  The oldest of us looked to the rest of us, but we shook our heads, having come to no unanimous answer. We had not had the time to parley.

  Come child, let me see how well Adela has magicked19 you, he said.

  L-l-love? stuttered our oldest and the rest of us, knowing it necessary, absolutely necessary, to preserve an absolutely unified front, followed suit: Love! Love! Love!

  Percy crowed. Well I do believe Love has conquered all. Adela, my sweet, Percy congratulated her wryly, You have taught them so well.

  Not I, replied Adela. For I would have chosen Death.

  Don’t be such a ninnyhammer, spat Percy, shaken.

  No, she corrected, You cannot think me so chicken-hearted. All these years I have done without you, what makes you suppose I should want your uneven tyranny now?

  All were silent. Then Percy drawled: It would be best to gag her mouth, she’s ruining my arc. We, wrenching down more curtain rope, pushed it into the wetness of her mouth.

  However, Quilby, unheralded, unexpected, taking us by unawares, burst into the parlor, bellowing in horrified accents, Adela, my poor girl! Damme, what has this blackguard done?