The Death of Mungo Blackwell

by Lauren H Brandenburg

  Her face was white, her hands shaking. What else did she not know about the Blackwells? Were they royalty in disguise, hiding from the paparazzi and the duties of palace life? Or were they like her, a bouncing ball ping-ponging from simple to socialites and back to simple again? Simplicity.

  She surveyed the room with a newfound sense of despair. “It’s not enough! Charlie, you have to go to the store… fresh fruits… cheese, whatever you can find.”

  “Stop! It’s perfect. You’re perfect. They are coming to see you, not the house.”

  “Why would they come to see me, Charlie? I’m just the host. The food, the atmosphere – it’s all-important. What if they’re uncomfortable or they’re hungry and my cookies don’t taste good, then they don’t eat them, and then they faint from starvation!”

  He put his hand over his mouth to hold in his chuckle.

  “Don’t make fun, Charlie Price.”

  “Sweetheart, we’re not in the city anymore. You don’t have to impress anyone.”

  “I know…”

  He had forgotten, despite her insistence hosting a social event such as a book club did not cause her extreme anxiety, that she was always a complete wreck the morning of. She would allow herself to get so swept up in every detail, from writing lists of “questions for discussion” to deliberating on which pastry would be best for each woman’s particular dietary requirements, that she would elevate a simple social gathering to a black-tie affair. Before The Rooning, he would go to work, leaving her mid-tizzy, and return that afternoon to a wife beaming with confidence over her beautiful success. She did have a flair for entertaining, he had to admit, having attended more than one of his wife’s events – though never a book group gathering. The laughs and easy conversation said it all: he knew that not a single attendee would deny they felt like the most important person in the room. Any CEO would have given their left arm to have her knack for entertaining; a successful soiree à la Velveteen was the equivalent of a completed deal or an “attaboy” from the higher ups. However, when she had canceled all further meetings of her book club following The Rooning, she hadn’t seemed upset, but relieved.

  “What did you tell them?” Charlie disguised his relief behind genuine curiosity.

  “I simply explained that Barnaby was ill.”

  “Who’s Barnaby?”

  “Our Maltese.”

  “We don’t have a Maltese.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Charlie. The ladies don’t know that. They believe Barnaby is facing in-home care. Of course I would have to postpone our gathering until he is well. Poor thing…”

  The sight of her frantic attention to the frivolous had brought up memories of the pretentious back and forth they had played with their acquaintances. But this was different – she was different. Hosting the book club wasn’t even her idea; it was Granny’s, and no one argues with Granny. Without Velveteen even realizing it, she had entered the arena, fighting to find her normal in Coraloo.

  The book club will come to a close, and tonight she’ll tell me how wonderful it was. “I’m going upstairs. You won’t even know I’m here.” His mind now bounced between his empty schedule and Velveteen’s book club. This will be good for her. She’ll love it. “You’ve got this.”

  There was a knock on the door.

  She had carefully written out the invitations on her monogrammed stationery and tied each one with hand-dyed ribbon Charlie had procured from the market. The ribbon had been an extra, a surprise she was confused to receive. Did they have money for extras? She never knew. She had felt selfish even thinking it and quickly brushed the thought away, grateful for the gift.

  “I know just how I plan to use it!” she had squealed.

  Already? That was fast.

  “It’s perfect, Charlie.”

  “I thought you would like it.”

  And now they were here. This may have been Granny’s idea, but it was a Velveteen Price exclusive.

  Velveteen glanced in the mirror to brush down any stray hairs and purse her lips together. You can do this. You can do this. She had chosen a fitted pair of blue jeans and lightweight sweater. Remembering Clover’s casual style on their visit to the camper vans, Velveteen took off her heels and dropped them into the umbrella stand by the front door. She felt naked and uncomfortably exposed, so she pulled her size six pumps back out and slipped them on. Much better.

  Velveteen opened the door to find the same Blackwell ladies she had seen a month ago at the camper vans cleaned up and dressed nicer than any of her acquaintances from the city had ever dressed for her book club. Clover’s ripped jeans and baggy shirt were replaced by a smart sheath and a pair of floral heels – Velveteen had a similar pair in black.

  Granny had wrapped a thick braid around her usual bun and sat a pillbox hat on top.

  Very Jackie-O.

  Granny’s purse hung across the crook in her arm. In her other arm she held six copies of The Heiress of DuMont.

  Velveteen bit her lip. Of all the billions of books in the world, Granny had chosen her favorite.

  “Lord, don’t let us catch whatever that Toft left in this hole of house. Amen!” Granny snarled before she crossed the threshold. She stepped inside and examined the house from right to left. “You should have painted those walls by now, Velveteen.”

  For a moment, Velveteen forgot what was going on. How was she to reply to this woman? She swallowed the lump in her throat and regained her bearings. “Please, have a seat.” Velveteen set the event in motion by offering cups of tea served in her wedding china and complimenting the ladies on their floral frocks and sparkling jewelry. Soon she was in her element, gliding across the room doing what she did best: entertaining. The cottage was welcoming, warm, and smelled of bergamot and lavender – it was the way she had envisioned it when Charlie floated the idea of Coraloo, minus the bumblebee in the kitchen.

  Granny shoved a piece of cake in her mouth. “More lemon zest, Velveteen,” Granny practically shouted. “It needs more zest!”

  Clover tugged gently at the sleeve of Velveteen’s sweater. “Don’t let her fool you. It’s not because she’s hard of hearing that she speaks louder than everyone else in the room. She has to be the center of attention, and your lemon cake is divine.”

  Velveteen sat down in the armchair across from Granny, staring at the emerald-eyed woman on the cover of the book. She had the very same book resting on her bedside table – except her copy was bookmarked, had underlined passages, and was well worn around the edges. Its sequels – two, three, and four were lined up neatly behind it.

  She looked up at the ladies. What had she expected? Had she really thought they would arrive in their everyday clothing with Granny in her apron and Clover in her tattered jeans? The ladies sitting around her coffee table in their finery could give her acquaintances in the city a run for their money.

  Velveteen straightened in her chair – a tinge of normalcy, hints of their former life inching their way through her soul. She liked it.

  She felt her anxieties disappear as the ladies pointed out the detail of a hand-painted family portrait commissioned shortly after Gideon was born and complimented her on how the Toft cottage was much improved from their first visit.

  Their first visit. Velveteen caressed the tips of her hair in remembrance. She would need to touch up the color in another week or two. For the first time since The Rooning, she had a semblance of control. In this moment, she was not dependent on Charlie. She was on her own. Nothing could change her Melba moment.

  “Ladies –” Velveteen started, holding Melba firmly.

  “We’re going to read this one!” Granny took command of the room.

  Velveteen froze, her body unwillingly falling deeper into hiding among the plush fibers of the armchair. She had always been the one to lead the discussion. She had planned to give her well-memorized speech on the importance of being prepared and ready to participate. It was why, after the former group’s discussions repeatedly steered in the direct
ion of monogrammed accessories and charity balls, she had declared the book club invitation only.

  “It looks like a good one!”

  A good one? Velveteen thought, not paying attention to how much sugar she was adding to her tea. It’s a great one. It’s my favorite!

  “It made me think of you, Velveteen.”

  “Granny!” Clover interjected.

  “Well, it did! Rich girl has to move to the country. It’s what it says on the back of the book.”

  At this point another cousin leaned over and forcefully whispered something in Granny’s ear.

  Velveteen’s hands shook.

  “What do you mean offensive?” Granny said to the cousin. “This Melba sounds like our Velveteen.”

  Velveteen set her cup on its matching saucer. She straightened her back and glanced at the tray of break-and-bake cookies. “Granny, would you like a cookie?”

  “Did you make them yourself?”

  Velveteen smiled, picked up the silver tray of Rooning fame, and walked it over to Granny, an unsavoury cocktail of anger mixed with a sudden nausea churning inside her. How dare this woman mock their situation? Velveteen stopped by her side and debated her next move.

  Granny reached for a cookie and took a bite. “Needs salt. How about I cook next time?”

  Velveteen clinched her teeth and tightened her grip on the serving tray. Images of flying chocolate chips filled her head, and then another thought – if she chucked a cookie at the old bag, would it kill her? Would she fall over backwards in her chair with her stocking feet dangling in the air exposing her undergarments? Velveteen grinned. These ladies did not know the Melba that she knew. They did not know the Melba that took matters into her own hands.

  Granny looked into the rigid eyes of Velveteen. “For certain, I don’t want anymore. Sit back down.”

  “Granny!” Clover jumped up from her seat on the sofa to take the tray from Velveteen’s hands. “Velveteen, she’s not well; please look past this.”

  “What do you mean I’m not well?”

  “It’s okay, Clover.” Velveteen’s stomach tightened and her breath shortened. Not well. “Melba is my favorite. I think, I think…” She could no more than speak than she vomited straight into the lap of Granny Blackwell.

  Clover ran to the kitchen.

  Velveteen couldn’t move. “I’m so sorry…” I’m not sorry.

  Granny stood up – the mess of regurgitated attempts of multiple pastry samplings sliding in clumps to the floor – and waddled off, seemingly unconcerned, to peer the wall of photos. “Told you they needed more salt. We’ll meet in the market next week.”

  Velveteen hardly noticed Clover wiping her face with a warm washrag. “I’m so sorry. I think I just got so caught up in everything. Really, I’m fine. The book club must go on. I made a cake, Clover. I made you all a cake.”

  “We’ll do it another day.” Clover put the strands of hair attempting to stick in Velveteen’s mouth behind her ears.

  “You own a house, a real house, but you live in a camper van. Why do you live in a camper van?” Velveteen fell back into the chair where Granny had been sitting. The smell from the vomit overpowered the bergamot. The heat of sickness returned to her throat. “How do you all fit in there?”

  Clover laughed and continued to wipe Velveteen’s face. “Where’s Charlie?”

  Velveteen pointed to the ceiling. One of the cousins went up and came back down with a concerned Charlie Price, while another diligently tried cleaning the floor. A vomit-covered Granny perused the room examining the belongings of the Price family as another cousin followed behind her attempting to scrape the rest of Velveteen’s distress off her dress.

  Charlie placed a hand on the forehead of his wife. “Are you okay?”

  “I don’t think so. I need to go lie down.”

  “I think that would be a good idea.”

  “Charlie, I… what was it Gideon called it – puked. I puked on Granny Blackwell.”

  “I can see that. To avoid puking on anyone else, you’d better go upstairs.”

  Granny took a picture of Charlie and Velveteen off the wall, blew on it, wiped away her breath with the back of her sleeve, and hung it back. “I think you could have found a better place, Mr Price. You know old Toft lived here.”

  He still had not heard the full history of their little house. “Yes, Granny.”

  Her voice softened. “You have a real gem – you know that, don’t you? She just hasn’t found her shoes yet.”

  “Her shoes?”

  “But don’t worry; she’ll find them. She’s looking for them.”

  Charlie couldn’t help but wonder if the old lady was well and truly out of her mind. All Charlie could think about was their closet in the city – the closet where Velveteen had lined her shoes up by heel height and color. She had sold several pairs online and donated another load to a rummage sale where he ironically had seen them the following week while picking.

  “I think she’s wearing her shoes, Granny. Can I get you anything?”

  Granny examined him from his blue jeans to his Rust Feeds My Wanderlust t-shirt. She ignored his question. “I don’t think you’re wearing the right shoes either, Mr Price. I like the ones you wore with that fancy suit much better.”

  “You thought I was a spy.”

  She leaned in to him. “I still do, Mr Price… If that’s your real name. My Shug has his eye on you.” It was suddenly clear. Granny hadn’t had Charlie arrested. It was Shug. “She didn’t wear her scarf today. Tell her to wear it next time. Oh, and don’t let her make a fuss out of nothing. I’ll host the book club at the market.”

  What was going on with Granny’s strange obsession with footwear and accessories? Of what concern were Velveteen’s wardrobe choices to her? He wanted to tell Granny that Velveteen would rather go barefoot than step foot into the Coraloo flea market. Instead he said, “I’ll remind her about the scarf.”

  CHAPTER 13

  1887

  Mungo Blackwell circumnavigated the world twice until his journey found him at the foot, actually the feet, of the Maharaja of Kuru. The maharaja had sent for the infamous cobbler after learning there was no finer shoemaker in the world. Mungo talked with the portly man at some length before determining the maharaja’s slippers were to be hand-beaded with gemstones found in Colombia and sewn with silken threads from China. Mungo even added minuscule bells to the tips of the upturned toes so the maharaja’s feet would jingle when he strolled through the halls of his palace.

  The maharaja was so taken by the handmade foot coverings he invited Mungo to stay for a feast in his honor and, as a gift for his services, presented Mungo with crates of cardamom, black pepper, cumin, coriander, and cinnamon. Mungo had no desire for exotic spices; he did, however, long for conversation. While he had met many souls on his travels, Mungo Blackwell was lonely, so he gratefully accepted the maharaja’s invitation.

  The aromas of the feast – fenugreek, mint, and masala – filled the air. Arranged before Mungo was a vast array of lamb, chicken, vegetables, and sweets prepared by the maharaja himself. It was said the maharaja’s culinary skill was so praised in the kingdom, the former maharaja had stepped down and named Maahir maharaja of all Kuru.

  But it was not the sumptuous feast that caught the eye of Mungo; he was captivated by something – someone – else. Sarra was the most beautiful creature he had ever laid eyes upon, and he would make her a pair of the finest shoes, if she would allow him, just to be in her presence. In all of his travels in all of the lands of the world, there was none as beautiful as the future Maharani of Kuru.

  The curse had kept Mungo wandering ceaselessly, but the nineteen-year-old daughter of the maharaja gripped his heart and paused his quest. Captivated with the stories of his travels to faraway places and his brave, adventurous, gentle spirit, she had fallen in love with the cobbler – a man who had seen farther than the gardens of her father’s kingdom.

  Mungo thought it would be easy to wed the
daughter. His father had told him the story a hundred times of how he had wed Mungo’s mother because of a pair of shoes. Mungo would make a thousand pairs of shoes for the maharaja, if that was what it took to marry his daughter. And for one thousand pairs of shoes, the Maharaja of Kuru agreed.

  For three years Mungo served as Maahir’s personal cobbler. Every morning he woke, watched the princess walk through the garden, and, his heart aflutter, he set out to create that day’s pair of shoes. He had leathers imported from the States, fabrics imported from Europe, dyes from the east, and jewels from the west.

  But the maharaja did not intend to let his daughter go so easily. She was his only heir, and should he die, his kingdom would pass to his lazy brother, Sust, and Sust’s beast of a wife, Beakal. Maahir would rather drown in a bowl of curry than see Sust at the head of the table. So, unbeknownst to Mungo, the maharaja devised a plan.

  On the one-thousandth day, Mungo presented Maahir with a pair of white slippers. As Mungo had quickly learned with the presentation of each new pair, he inhaled the incense burning beside the throne, held his breath, and gently removed the pair from the previous day. Before exhaling and taking a new breath, he slid the new pair onto the feet of the Maharaja of Kuru. Once the stench of his unearthly foot fungus was covered, Mungo bowed, exhaled, and stepped back. The princess and Mungo stood in desperate anticipation of her father passing his blessing; instead, Maahir clutched his chest and pretended to fall to the floor dead.

  Sarra, now the Maharani of Kuru – forced by law of the land to reign and one day marry her cousin, Prince Parth (who was presently twelve and resembled a plump squirrel) – grieved for her father as his epitaph was read: it noted worthy accomplishments, his collection of shoes, his milk dumplings in sweetened pistachio milk, and how much the kingdom loved him. It was in this moment, to the shock of them all, the maharaja, realizing his selfishness and dishonesty, stepped out from behind a silk curtain and gave his blessing to his daughter.

  Mungo and Sarra married right then and there at the funeral of the Maharaja of Kuru.