by Ari Rhoge
My surroundings started to slow down. I said, curiously, “hey, it's working. Weird.”
“I'm not wrong about this, you know,” Darcy insisted. He looked at me again, and I smirked, rolling my eyes. I wasn't having a spell anymore — and I think he knew this — but it took him a while to drop his hands. Darcy suddenly stared at me very intently, and looked like he was just on the verge of saying something — but then he got up, quickly and in one fluid motion, and I nearly stumbled forward, catching myself at the last moment. Graceful.
“Where did that come from?” I mumbled, rubbing my forehead. I wasn't really sure which incident I meant.
“It helps to focus on a central point,” Darcy explained, quickly, burying his hands in his pockets. “It gives your brain more visual perception and gets your balance back.”
“Oh.” Okay, then. “Thanks.”
• • •
Weary and exhausted, I finally climbed into bed around eight o'clock, a generally unthinkable hour back home. But the day had worn me out, so I took a long, hot shower, accessed cable TV, and dialed up Jane while watching a rerun of Seinfeld while I lay upside down on my mattress. Kramer's entrances were more interesting to watch this way. Then Jane picked up.
“Finally, you called,” she said, happily, and I grinned. “I was going to call — but you know me, Lizzy. Making the first move is too much of a commitment.”
“Of course,” I said, dryly. “It's a big step in our relationship. And I miss you. What's going on?”
“I'm a little sunburnt. It sucks,” she sighed, sounding fidgety. “Otherwise, it's all pretty fantastic. Benny and Trish are being so sweet to me, Lizzy. This place is absolutely gorgeous. I didn't realize how much I missed the beach until now.” There was a happy, carefree spark back in her voice. Something still seemed to be weighing her down, but it didn't seem quite as affecting. “How are things at Rosings? Braving Collins still?”
“Well, I haven't murdered him yet,” I said, laughing, rolling my eyes. “It's honestly not that bad. I barely even saw him today. I can't say much about the rest of the week, but, you know. We'll be back by Christmas. I have no intentions of spending it here.” I had been considering it for the past couple of days. I wanted nothing more than to spend the holidays back in our squeaky clean, Clorox-scrubbed townhouse, with a stack of Christmassy DVDs and hot cocoa. It would be cozy. Jane interrupted my thinking:
“You've been spending time with Charlotte, then?”
I winced, propping myself right-side up. And the lie slipped out before I had any chance to challenge it in my head — “yeah. I've been with Charlotte.” I suppose my first instinct had been to mention Richard Fitzwilliam. Which would have meant mentioning Will Darcy and his relation to Catherine de Bourgh. Which would have triggered questions about Charlie, the topic I would least prefer to burden my sister with on her winter holiday. It was a slippery slope. But good intentions don't always prevent you from feeling like shit. I moped for a good 30 seconds.
“I miss you,” Jane sighed. “I miss you so much that, when you're not around, there's a Lizzy-like voice in the back of my head making snooty social commentary on everything you would find stupid or pointless. It's all your fault.”
“That sounds so sci-fi. And creepy,” I said, laughing, leaning my back against the headboard. “But it's nice to know that I would be your alternate personality if you were ever diagnosed with schizophrenia. You'd be mine —— just saying.”
“Aww, that's sweet.” A beat. “God, we're weird. Seriously.”
“Let's blame Dad's genes,” I offered, smiling.
“Whatever sounds convenient to you, Lizzy,” Jane said, laughing.
15 minutes later, I let her go. Having a three-hour time advantage also means impeding on somebody else's bedtime. So, I settled in under the covers myself, and drifted off. I dreamt that Wickham and Georgy were trapped at the highest point of the rickety Ferris wheel at Pickwood. Georgy had tears streaming down her face, and Wickham was staring off absent-mindedly, unable to hear her. When I woke up in a cold sweat, I blamed exhaustion for warping Richard's story, and I forced it from my mind.
17
—
We Pine for Higher Ceilings
Nine o'clock, Saturday morning, halfway between a poppy seed bagel and an infomercial, it occurred to me that I was about to endure a very strange day. First came the three consecutive raps on the door. I got up, checked myself (yee, pants) and squinted into the peephole. Collins' face, rounded and bug-eyed, stared back.
If the first person you see on a particularly placid Saturday happens to be Billy Collins, rest assured that you're going to have a strange, ominous day. I suppressed a shiver, and unlatched the door, leaning against the frame.
“Good morning, Elizabeth,” he said, pertly, lacing his hands in front of himself.
I took a whopping bite out of my bagel, and gave a loud, crumb-spewing hello. He smiled bitterly, and fished a piece of cloth from his front pocket. “You're just doing this on purpose, aren't you?”
I cocked my head, inspecting what he held. “Wow, you carry a hanky. I thought those were extinct.” I leaned in closer. “Is that —— it is! Embroidered initials. Well, I'll be. Not only do you have a vendetta against Kleenex… but it's stylin', too.”
“Are you just about finished?” Collins asked, slowly, jutting a thumb backward into the hallway. “I have to be back at Rosings in 20 minutes to assist Mrs. de Bourgh with a very important financial matter.”
“What's your point, Billy? I'm fresh out of medals.”
“I need you to stay with Charlotte.” I guess my death glare was seeping in, because he suddenly corrected himself with, “please stay with her. She seems a little, ah, worse for wear this morning. I'm sure she could use your company.”
“Is the lady shit-faced?” I asked, pleasantly, picking a crumb from my tee. “Because that's what I'm getting out of this conversation.”
Collins looked strained. “She may have had a couple of cosmopolitans last night.”
“And you let her?” I asked, disgusted. “Charlotte's the champion of lightweights, Collins. She gets one whiff of a wine cooler, she falls on her ass. She's tiny.”
“Regardless,” he said, holding up his hand. “She's next door. Goodbye.” At that, he turned smartly on his heel and walked (but mostly pranced) back to the elevator lobby. And this was one of those token moments in which I really wish for a telepathic ability to lift people into the air and hurl them 50 feet away. But, on that occasion, no dice. I sighed, and closed the door.
• • •
Charlotte Lucas's face had imprint marks from the wrinkles of her pillowcase. Her eyes were screwed shut, her auburn hair looked like it had been nested in by a small animal, and she writhed in absolute pain when I happily shoved the curtains open, flooding the room with light.
“Wakey, wakey!” I beamed, flinging a sweater at her from the coffee table. It landed on her face. She didn't move. “Eggs and bakey!” I prompted, nudging the room-service cart to the side of the bed. I was a woman with a plan — I had come prepared.
She made no response.
“Actually, I lied. No eggs and bacon. But we have oatmeal.” I waved the Quaker Oats package in her face. Finally, a glimmer of a reaction — she extended her middle finger. “Oh, come on, Charlotte. Don't give me that. This is some bitching oatmeal. You see this Quaker? This Quaker has a duty. He wants to feed you peaches and cream. He wants to nourish your epic hangover.”
“He can go fuck himself,” Charlotte bit out, shoving her head under the pillow.
“Take that back.”
“No.”
“I don't think we can be friends anymore if you're going to be blatantly disrespecting my breakfast guys like this,” I said, sitting by her side. “What's next? A shot at Cap'n Crunch?” I tried to unknot the ends of her long hair. She turned meekly on her side, smeared mascara rimming her gray eyes.
“I feel like shit.”
“You loo
k like it, too.”
“I feel like something chewed me up and spat me out last night.”
“Would that have been before you downed the cosmos? Or was it tequila…” I grinned, smoothing her hair back. Something occurred to me, and I snorted. “Ha, tequila. Tequila mockingbird. —— Get it?”
She opened one eye blearily. “Lizzy?”
“Yes, Charlotte?”
“Shut up.”
I had come prepared for this, too. My temper was shelved. Leaning over beside the cart, I withdrew from a mug a teabag that had been steeping for a couple of minutes, ordered Charlotte to sit up, and carefully shoved the mug into her hands. “Okay, Cranky, drink up and tell me what in the hell possessed you to drink like you did. Did it have anything to do with the fact that you spent nearly the entire day with Catherine?”
Charlotte instantly scowled, and examined a strand of her red hair wordlessly. She tucked her knees under her chin, and wrapped her arms around them. After a moment, she said, “do I really have to recount the entire day to you, or are you satisfied with the CliffsNotes version?”
“Well,” I considered. “Half of my genetic makeup is Faith Bennet's. As a direct result of that, I'm part itty-bitty prying gossip-whore. Respectfully, of course. But I feel you. The CliffsNotes version can be tolerated.”
“You know, a simple yes or no would have sufficed,” Charlotte said, smiling crookedly. She sighed and looked down, tracing circles on her knee. “So, basically, by yesterday evening I wanted to stun-gun myself. This woman was just constantly outlining how mediocre I was. I swear to God.” She straightened primly, and sneered, a perfect likeness, her tone steely and high-pitched — “honestly, Charlotte. No recommendations? A barista. Not even volunteering work at other schools? And you expect me to give you a free ticket to this elite position? Why. Because you're dating my godson?”
So, I know this makes me a bit of a bitch, but I couldn't help but smile a little at this. It was just painfully ironic. After all, Charlotte had gotten what was coming to her. Not only had Catherine de Bourgh seen through her plan like she was a gossamer curtain, but she had inspected and prodded at it with a magnifying glass.
Of course, the delivery was about 60% Cruella de Vil and 40% Miranda Priestly, to which I offered Charlotte nothing but my deepest sympathies. I sat next to her with my back against the headboard, her head falling onto my shoulder. I wrapped my arms around her shoulder, and kissed the top of her head. “Sorry, kid. That bites… Now, what about Collins?”
“What about Collins?” Charlotte said, wearily. At my raised eyebrow, she said, “oh. Oh. You think I'm going to take him out like yesterday's garbage.” A thoughtful pause. “It'd be typical of me, wouldn't it?”
“What do you want me to say?” I asked, quietly.
She slumped, scratching her forehead. “The thing is,” she tried, flustered. “I don't think I was lying, Lizzy. He's not the typical guy I go after — true — but he's been very good to me. I guess sometimes all a girl wants is some loyalty and companionship. And support — that backfired in my face.”
“How do you mean?”
She extended a hand. “You saw him bolt for Rosings like a bat out of hell. He sides with his godmother, Lizzy. She doesn't approve, he doesn't approve. He's like a fucking trained poodle.”
I wondered if he pisses on command.
“Forget it,” Charlotte sighed, twirling a split end absently. “I just want to get back home. I miss my apartment. I miss Scout — I feel bad for dumping him on my neighbors. I forgot to tell them that he wets the carpet.” I snorted, and she continued, “I even miss the cold. You know the feeling when your knuckles are tingly and raw because it's so freezing out?”
“I hate that feeling,” I mumbled, folding my arms. “It's like the wind is raping your face.”
“… That's disturbing, Lizzy.”
“Yeah, well, you know me best.”
She smiled, and winced suddenly, pinching the bridge of her nose. “God, I need aspirin.” When I made a move to go get some, she suddenly snatched my hand. “Oh! I never asked. How was your day with Richard and Darcy yesterday? Considering we didn't get a report back home about an assassination attempt.”
“Oh. It was… unusual.”
“Unusually good or unusually bad?”
“Unusually unusual,” I said, cryptically. I got off the bed, and stretched. “I don't know. I enjoyed myself. I like Rich —— he's kind of an asshole sweetheart. You know the type. Also, Will Darcy skeeves me out because he's got split-personality disorder. And there was that whole lacking-pants fiasco. Oh, and we should take you to Pickwood. They have good cotton candy. Like, not the gummy, starchy kind, but the good kind.”
Charlotte's face looked apprehensive. She raised one finger. “Okay… One — back up. Two — I'm not even going to ask about the pants. And three — what do you mean by Will Darcy having split personalities?”
“Just that he does,” I said, thinking it obvious. “One minute he's reigning shithead supreme — and the next… you kind of —— well, I guess you —”
“You like him,” Charlotte finished, smiling slowly.
“I do not,” I said, angrily, crossing my arms over my chest. “He was just freakishly nice for a rare second or two. Threw me off guard.”
“Yeah… God forbid somebody you pegged as an asshole starts to be nice. What a curveball.”
“Whatever,” I mumbled, rubbing the back of my neck. “I figured it's all because of Rich. You know how Jane has that crazy talented way of mediating just by being in the room?”
“A catalyst for peace,” elaborated Charlotte, yawning into her hand.
“Exactly,” I said. “Rich is kind of like that. He mellows people out.”
“He's a good guy, I think,” she replied, rubbing her forehead. “Fuck, Lizzy, I'd really appreciate some Advil. Stat.”
“Stat?” I snorted, reaching over her coffee table. “What is this? Grey's goddamn Anatomy? —— One or two?”
“Three, please.”
“I'll give you two.” I shook out two liquid gels, and disappeared into the bathroom, filling up a glass from the tap. When I returned, I sat at the edge of her mattress, watching her. “You know,” I said, hugging my knees to my chest. “We should go back home. Just snip the holiday short. Don't get me wrong — I'd like a couple more days of get away time.”
“I don't want to leave just yet.” She gulped her last pill, wincing. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and looked up. “We could just hang out on the beach and stuff. I could move to your room.”
“That would be pretty excellent. As long as you don't kick me off the bed or anything,” I grinned. “I should call Rich, and ask him if there's anything else fun to do around town. Shopping and restaurants get a little mind-numbing after a while. —— I should call him.”
“How about the beach?”
“Not now, though.” I winced. “I hate it in the middle of the day. It's crowded and hot. I like it at night.”
“Evening shore walks?” Charlotte smiled, taking a gulp from her glass. “That's one thing we don't get back in the city. Unless you go wading in the Schuylkill, but something tells me it's not the same. —— A little unsanitary.”
I smiled, picking threads from the coverlet. And suddenly a random thought popped into my head. I didn't know where it came from — maybe bottled-up curiosity. Maybe because of my strange dreams. But I looked up and asked, tentatively, “Charlotte, have you heard from George Wickham?”
She looked up sharply. “George? Not since he quit a month ago.”
I felt dull shock. “Sorry? I thought he just took a separate shift.”
“You didn't know?” asked Charlotte. “He quit. Came in on a Thursday, handed in his uniform, took his last paycheck, and bolted. He didn't even say why. I haven't seen him since.”
I didn't know why this was making me feel so anxious, but Charlotte noticed, and laid a hand on her shoulder. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I'm fine. I've just been having weird dreams lately, and… it's stupid. Forget it.” I smiled, getting to my feet. “You know what? I'm going to go see if I can call Rich. We need to do something non-sucky today. It's our vacation, too.” Truth be told, I was just eager to distract myself.
And just to reaffirm my beliefs that the day was going to be unusual (“tore up from the floor up?” suggested Charlotte) the notes began to arrive around noon. Completely unexpected, neon-green bits of stationery were jammed underneath both of our doors, each with the same spidery handwriting. I had been in Charlotte's room, catching up with reading. She was curled up, sleeping away some queasiness. Suddenly, two knocks were heard, followed by the crumpled sound of paper being stuffed against carpet. I got up and unlocked the door, but nobody was there. I scanned the note:
Lizzy.
Proceed to lobby. Ask concierge for package #1749. He will have further instructions waiting.
Fichard Ritzwilliam
P.S. — Don't be alarmed by my cleverly coded name. It will come to you eventually.
I snorted, grinning. The mountain had come to Mohammad. And I wasn't patient enough to let Charlotte sleep off remnants of her hangover. I nearly shoved her off the bed and forced her to get dressed, chasing her off into the hallway. She might have wanted to murder me by the time we got into the lobby, more excited than we should have been. The concierge was a man with slicked-back, graying hair, who smiled secretly when we rattled off the number, and presented us with a slip of a package sealed in colorful wrapping paper. Charlotte tore it off, exposing a voice recorder.
“Not very original,” the concierge scrutinized. I laughed, and pushed play, Rich's static-wrapped voice filling the place — I'm so good, aren't I? I mean, who needs Sean Connery? I am James Bond. I'm pretty much the shit. There was a pause, then, I hope you waited to take this into your room before you played it. I hope you're not in the lobby or anything. God, you probably are, aren't you? Fine. We'll make do. What you need to do, ladies, is meet me at the address my good friend Harrison has so nicely set aside. I have also disclosed a separate package. Ask for that, too. Oh, and wear sneakers — 'kay? Thanks much. There was a click, then nothing.
