The Death of Mungo Blackwell

by Lauren H Brandenburg

  Gideon had been the first to jump into the project. Seeing his father’s excitement and fearful The Rooning had squashed his chances of owning the latest edition of Pirates of the Cosmos, he had plopped a stack of old comic books down on his father’s desk and said, “Dad, I’ll split the profit with you fifty-fifty.”

  It took Velveteen a little longer. Charlie would never forget the look on her face the day she walked into his home office to find his latest pickings.

  She gasped and slapped her hand over her pink lips – eyes wide, shaking her head in disbelief. “Oh, Charlie! Are these truly our belongings? It all looks like piles of cheap junk!”

  “Funny, isn’t it? I guess we can be thankful we have enough junk to sell.”

  “I have to hand it to you, Charlie Price. You’re keeping the lights on.” She shot a glance down at her chipping Flamingo Fiesta nail polish.

  He saw her.

  “How much longer do you think we have?”

  “Before we starve?” He tried to make a joke.

  She frowned.

  Charlie took a deep breath. “We have at least three months before the house goes to auction.”

  “I see.”

  Charlie had nearly been hit in the face by a flying Lucetta Vacher clutch after a series of thuds sent him sprinting to their bedroom. Just outside her closet lay four purses, a pair of boots, two pairs of designer blue jeans, and a mink shrug Charlie had given her on their tenth anniversary.

  “Outdated! Out of style, and useless! I won’t wear a piece of it. It’s closet filler. All of it! Sell it all, Charlie.”

  Charlie had listed her “useless” items, covering their groceries for the next month, and insisted Velveteen have her nails done. He had created this lifestyle for her, given her more than her modest upbringing had ever allowed her to dream, and no matter what, he was going to take care of his family.

  It wasn’t long before the Price family had become reclusive – avoiding social events and close encounters with country club companions. Velveteen had sent word to the ladies that she would not be hosting book club the following month as their Maltese, Barnaby, was ill. Fortunately the ladies were too wrapped up in their own concerns to recall that the Prices didn’t own a Maltese.

  They sold everything that had resale value – even stripping the walls and cleaning out the cupboards – and did quite a number on Velveteen’s jewelry boxes as Charlie continued to unearth bargains in the darker corners of the city.

  What came next was the hardest.

  Charlie had received word their house was going to auction mid-June, the day before his birthday. They would barely have two months to move out. He had dreaded the conversation with Velveteen – he purposefully put it off – partly because of her prior antics with the foreclosure agent. The idea of being whacked in the head with a macaron – or worse – haunted him. He had known she hoped their days of picking up random objects for resale would produce enough income to save the house, but it wasn’t enough. He had planned to tell her, suggest they lease a modest house in a nearby suburb. He could continue looking for work in the city. So many times he had wanted to suggest she join one of those home-based network-marketing companies – sell plant-based facial products or imported jewelry. But she hadn’t worked since Gideon was born – he didn’t want to ask her. He couldn’t ask her. It was not the life he promised her, no matter how bad things had gotten.

  He had prepared his speech, researched affordable properties in the suburbs, and practiced ways to embellish them by calling the pantry “the butler’s closet” and the family room “the hearth room”. He jotted down words like “charming”, “quaint”, and “chef’s kitchen”. But the conversation had never happened.

  On his way back from his weekly Friday pawnshop visit, the cover of Wayfaring magazine had caught his eye. In brilliant blue letters it read: “Shop the Coraloo”. Charlie had heard of Coraloo. Not too far from the city. He had thumbed quickly through the article – hidden wonders… treasure hunters – and used what little gas he had in his car to make the trip to find out for himself what the place had to offer.

  Charlie Price raised his head, looked out upon the historic market, and tried to replace the memories of a regret-filled past with hope of life in the town at the bottom of the hill. They would find a new house. It would be the adventure of a lifetime. It was a long shot, but what other choice did he have? Living in the city was not an option. The Prices would make this work. Unless… What if…? Another Rooning? Failure.

  He breathed in the cool air of the open market and listened to the gentle silence – the peace of Coraloo settled him, replacing doubt with possibility. This could be it – our fresh start. What was it Velveteen had said they needed? A “quelque chose de nouveau”?

  A something new.

  CHAPTER 2

  Velveteen Price gazed out the window at the passing homes – sprawling manor-style estates bordered by rolling green hills and limestone walls. Last month’s issue of Country Life magazine lay open in her lap, flaunting images of brilliantly colored canned fruits sitting on a table with auburn vials of homemade oils surrounded by shiplap-covered walls and freshly picked flowers. She sighed.

  Charlie had visited Coraloo once more before he’d sat her down and proposed the drastic move.

  “Vee, I want to be completely honest with you about Coraloo. No surprises. I didn’t see a salon, and I think the hardware store might be the grocery. But I’ve done some research, and if what the articles say is true, their market is going to turn that little town into the country’s next hot spot. They’ll line the streets to draw in tourists – high-end stores, those retro barbershops that are popping up all over the place, and most likely a restaurant or two. We’ll have to wait for it, but it will come.”

  Velveteen watched her husband’s eyes dart from one magazine to the next. He held up images of the picturesque town, pointing out the stone church and rows of historic brick homes with gated courtyards. She could envision it.

  “There is one restaurant already… it’s more of a tavern.” He pointed to a two-story building with red shutters and a heavy wooden door. “The locals call it The Beaver’s Beard. And get this, their specialty – deer meat nachos, but only if it’s deer season.” He chuckled. She gagged. “See here – it’s surrounded by farmland and woods. And on the hill, that’s the market. I’ll pick there. I’ve seen it in action, Vee. The place is packed. I could find something to flip every weekend if I wanted. Those people don’t know how much money they have sitting right in front of their noses, but I do.”

  She hated it when he used those words: pick and flip. Velveteen had no intention of digging through piles of junk and had already informed Charlie she would rather not partake in his financial dealings at the Coraloo. If her mother were alive, she would have forbidden it, saying, “I worked too hard cleaning Mrs Vanderschmidt’s toilets for you to go rifling through rubbish. That woman made you a debutant!” Velveteen missed her mother, but was thankful she wasn’t around to witness their Rooning.

  They sat in silence, Charlie watching her every breath, Velveteen’s mind whirring as she tried to absorb Charlie’s excitement – deer meat nachos, tavern, old, vintage… his grandmother’s Christmas ornaments…

  “Vee, are you okay? Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  Velveteen pulled from her musings. “I’m thinking about Christmas, Charlie.”

  “Christmas?”

  “Wouldn’t a vintage Christmas be absolutely lovely?”

  “What’s Christmas have to do with Coraloo?”

  “Surely we will still celebrate Christmas in Coraloo, won’t we Charlie?”

  Charlie shot up from the upholstered wingback chair and nearly slid into the marble fireplace. “So you’re okay with it?”

  “Of course! Oh, Charlie! Don’t you know? It’s absolutely fabulous. It will be an adventure. Just like Melba DuMont!”

  “You mean Melba from your book?”

  “Of course, Charlie.
Who else?” She took pride in the fact she had read The Countess of DuMont more than sixteen times. “Are there sheep, Charlie?”

  “Are you looking for your sheepherder?” he joked.

  “Charlie Price, you know you are my one and only. Besides, Melba only ran off with him because of what that evil Count Horace did to her. Oh, Charlie! This is it. You found our quelque chose de nouveau.” She threw her arms around his neck. “But Charlie, I’d rather not… ” – she chose her words carefully – “go to the market. It’s just that…”

  “But it’s so much more –”

  “No thank you, Charlie. I’ve tried my hand at it. You know I have, but there’s something so… Oh I don’t know, what if those items belonged to a dead person?”

  “Then I guess they won’t mind me selling them, will they?” He laughed at his cleverness.

  Velveteen did not.

  She said yes to Coraloo. She’d warm up to the market when she was ready.

  “Okay, no market.”

  She squealed. “I can’t wait to tell the ladies! Mary Beth will be absolutely green over it. Who would have thought it, Charlie? The Prices are moving to the country!”

  In that moment, the quest for the light of simplicity brightened the darkness surrounding The Rooning. Velveteen embraced their oncoming move like it was her new life mission. The feelings of defeat and fear surrounding Charlie in the days after the food truck debacle were now replaced by a sense of purpose – a mission – and a new family motto: “Simplicity.” They would start over, this time living with much less. Not just because they had to, but because they wanted to. They would drastically downsize their lifestyle – living on what Coraloo could provide without looking back on life in the city. And they would be happy.

  Velveteen twirled a string of pearls around her pointer finger, pulling them closer to her neck, and glanced back down at the staged scene gracing the glossy pages. Simplicity. She could live like this; surely it wouldn’t be that hard. She and the book club had talked about it often. The ladies were entertained by her obsession with the tragic life of Melba DuMont – the heiress driven to servitude who falls madly in love with the prince disguised as a sheepherder. For Velveteen Melba’s misfortunes represented a blissful escape from the constraints of their upper society life – though, she had to admit, she already missed the gourmet pastries from Francine’s on 5th.

  Maybe Coraloo will be good for all of us. She passed a glance back at Gideon whose head was jammed inside another one of his comic books. Maybe he would make some friends. Maybe she would make some friends. She hardly called the ladies in the city “friends” – “acquaintances” was a more suitable word.

  As Charlie drove, Velveteen flipped through the pages of fresh white minimally decorated kitchens, herb-filled gardens, and articles on repurposing tool shed finds into home accessories. She imagined herself with her dark hair pulled neatly into a ponytail and a monogrammed linen apron wrapped around her waist as she waited for the homemade vanilla to ferment so she could use it to make her own bread. Her daydream was briefly interrupted as she tried to recall whether or not one would put vanilla into dough.

  The warm sunlight wooed her back into thoughts of hand-painting her own greeting cards, drying herbs for homemade teas, and decorating their new home in Charlie’s flea market finds – at one time she had liked doing her own decorating; she could do it again. And the all-natural cleaning products she would make – it would be much more affordable to make their own. She could see herself flitting across the pages. It would be lovely.

  The car bumped. A gorgeous image of a rhubarb tarte Tatin with accompanying recipe scowled at her. She glared back, stuck out her tongue, and tossed the magazine onto the floorboard. Who was she kidding? She had not cleaned her own home in ten years, and the closest she had come to baking a pastry was opening the box from Francine’s. And flea market finds? She would have to pass on those. There was no way Charlie could convince her to step foot in the flea market. She’d gone with him on one of his adventures before, and by the grace of God, narrowly escaped the flapping tongues and horde of phone calls that would have followed if Mary Beth Rogers figured out why she was really at the church rummage sale.

  “Are you okay?” Charlie reached over and placed his hand on top of hers.

  Velveteen forced a smile.

  They had spent weeks sorting out the order of their new life – deciding what to sell and what to keep and scouring online real estate sites in search of a home that would not only fit their budget but would fit inside Velveteen’s workable parameters.

  Workable arrived on a Tuesday from a Coraloo real estate agent who referred to himself solely as “a Toft”. The online image revealed a brick cottage nestled among other similar homes on a winding side street in Coraloo. Delicate vines grew around the front doorway, and a picket fence outlined the front flower garden. The description said, “Gilded by the morning sun, the historic cottage beckons lovers of simplicity with its Highland charm.”

  “Well… what do you think of the place?” It was their only option. The realtor had assured Charlie there were no other available residences in Coraloo.

  Velveteen squealed. Destiny. Charlie signed the lease.

  She glanced at the time on the dashboard and tried to re-enact a series of breathing techniques she had once learned in a yoga class. She laid her head against the headrest and closed her eyes. Despite her fears and self-doubt, Velveteen was giddy to enter a world she had only read about in her novels. She had even taken comfort in bragging about their new residence to the acquaintances.

  “In Coraloo? My decorator says the place is a riot!” The acquaintance had gone on: “I think it is absolutely fabulous! How on earth did you convince Charlie to move?”

  “Simplicity,” Velveteen had told the woman over the phone, knowing full well this one call would spread faster to the acquaintances than if she had phoned them herself. “I told him we needed simplicity.”

  “Just like Melba! Oh, Velveteen, I am entirely jealous! Who are you having do the remodel? Let me give you the name of my…”

  Velveteen didn’t listen. The woman on the other end of the phone had visions of a charming estate surrounded by gardens of lavish green grass and a handsome sheepherder at her beck and call. Velveteen purposely withheld explaining that their two bedroom, single toilet home in Coraloo was no bigger than the quarters occupied by most of their nannies.

  “This is it!” Charlie Price pulled the car to a stop.

  Velveteen sat up straight. I can do this. This is what we want. She slowly opened the car door and stepped into the presence of her new home. “Are you certain this is the right place, Charlie? I’m not quite sure this is correct because… well… it’s yellow, Charlie.”

  “Yes, it is a tad yellow, isn’t it?” Charlie laughed. “Not quite gilded.”

  “It looks like a baby puked on it,” Gideon added.

  “The realtor said the owners had made a few upgrades.”

  “It’s yellow.” Velveteen fought the emotion birthed by the bold color.

  “You like yellow.”

  “I like Lemon Chiffon, Pineapple a la Mode, Meyer Spritz, and Optimistic Yellow,” she muttered, reciting the paint swatch samples from memory. “This is –”

  “Puke yellow.” Gideon pushed past her.

  “Puke yellow,” she repeated.

  The cottage that stood in front of the Price family was a far stretch from the Internet image. Not only was the brick structure painted a garish yellow, falling somewhere between brown and orange, but the mossy mold growing up the side appeared to have eaten and spit out what plant life had once accented the doorway and paned windows. The small front garden was overgrown with a stalky wheat-like plant and smelled as if someone’s cat had relieved itself near the dying hydrangeas on more than one occasion.

  Charlie reached for her hand and kissed her on the cheek. She had willingly agreed to start over in Coraloo – all for him – all so they could have a seco
nd chance at life, so he could have a second chance – a do over, an opportunity to live a different, less complicated life than the one they had led in the city.

  “This cannot be it.” She coughed. “Oh… the smell. It’s horrid!”

  Charlie let go of his breath and exhaled. “The mailbox says, ‘31 Odenbon’. This is definitely it. Let’s go inside. You can’t judge a book by its cover, right?”

  “What about the smell?”

  “I like the way books smell.”

  “You like books that smell like vinegar and death, Charlie?”

  Velveteen crossed the threshold and took a look around. No sooner had her petal pink pump landed on the orange shag pile carpet, than a small, involuntary gasp escaped her and she fainted. Hitting her head on the doorframe, Velveteen landed face first on the mercifully fluffy, vertigo-inducing carpet.

  The next thing she knew, she was waking up in the Coraloo County Hospital with two magnified eyeballs looking over her. She pulled the crunchy one-hundred thread count sheet up around her neck and yelled, “Charlie!”

  A pair of nurses appeared at her side, followed by Charlie and Gideon – his nose in his fifty-third read through of Pirates of the Cosmos.

  “It’s okay, Vee. The car ride, dehydration, stress… nothing serious. It’s just a bump.” Charlie gently squeezed and then kissed the hand he was holding.

  Velveteen reached up and felt the mass of taped gauze on the side of her head. “Flowers,” she mumbled. “There were so many flowers.”