He doesn’t know who I am, Garret thought. He extended a hand. “Hello sir, I’m Gar—”
“Pleeashed,” Mr. Malvern was slurring a bit. “Pleeashed to meet you.” He took Garret’s hand as if he were a long lost best friend.
“Well Colleen,” he said loudly to his wife. “Are you going to leave the boy sshtanding there til he catchhhes his death of cold?”
Mr. Malvern hiccupped and weaved a bit heading back into the house. Mrs. Malvern was suddenly aware that she looked like a bad hostess. Garret found himself seized in her powerful grip and propelled into the house.
His first thought was, I’d have to work for a year just to buy that chandelier. Suddenly, reality fell back on him like a lead blanket. Men in dark suits strode here and there, and ladies in frilly dresses talked politely or sipped champagne from goblets held in gloved hands. Garret tried hard not to look down at his own secondhand suit.
What was I thinking by coming here? Garret felt a flush burn into his cheeks, which only humiliated him further. Around him, ivory and precious stones were worn casually. Two ladies strode past him without looking. When Garret shied out of their way and said “excuse me,” he realized for the first time how coarse and thick his draw sounded. The fucking conversation was too expensive for him.
When he moved out of their way, he stepped up next to a full length mirror hanging in the foyer. It was carved in flowing scrolls and whorls and painted silver to match the sterling decorations around it.
Garret’s own reflection bounced back at him. His suit wasn’t just old, it was from another era. His vest was faded, the threads showing wear in three paces. He heard the muttered word “vagabond” behind him, but in reality, he looked worse than that. He looked like what he was: a blacksmith’s son trying to pretend like he belonged somewhere he didn’t. Garret turned and, making himself as small as possible, went for the door. He had a hand on the knob when he heard Molly.
“Garret?”
Hearing her voice didn’t make him happy like usual. It mortified him. He didn’t want to turn around. In fact, he thought about darting through the door and running away. But that would only make things worse. Humiliated, he turned around to face her. Her face broke into a big smile, and it brought a small one from him.
“You came!” She ran for him and threw her arms around his neck.
He totally forgot himself and hugged her back. But the hug only lasted a second.
“Ow.” Molly pulled back, rubbing her collarbone.
Oh Christ. She’d hurt herself on the gift hidden under his suit jacket. He reached out and gently rubbed her collar bone, easing away the pain. Suddenly, Garret became aware of everyone in the mansion staring at he and Molly. While he was rubbing her collar bone. In front of her mother. He heard the sound of boulders creaking. Or maybe it was Mrs. Malvern grinding her teeth. Or maybe it was the sound of the walls leaning farther away from the devastation that was about to ensue.
Molly laughed, easing some of the tension out of the air. “I’m fine, silly. You still think I’m a fragile flower.”
Garret thought his mortification couldn’t get any worse until the world “flower” left her mouth. He felt himself shrinking.
“What is it,” she asked, pointing to the oblong lump under his jacket.
There was nothing else left for it now. As his heart fell into his feet, Garret reached into his jacket and pulled out his gift for all to see.
“Happy birthday, Molly,” he said hoarsely.
It was a single rose. As he stood there holding it, he caught sight of the vase full of real roses sitting on a nearby table, with gifts heaped around them. His embarrassment redoubled. His rose was formed like all the others. Its stem and leaves looked like the ones in the vase, each of its petals were hammered thin, cut to life-like shape and folded into place. Garret had done the work as he intended, but now he had no idea why he had done it. His rose had no vibrant shades of green and red, no smell for her to enjoy. But he held it there between his fingers, not knowing what else do to.
A single rose of black iron.
Molly stared at it, her brow furrowed. “Garret,” she said. “Where did you get that?”
“I made it,” he said hoarsely.
“How? It’s perfect.”
He dared to meet her eye. She was amazed. A couple knots popped loose in his chest. “You like it?”
“I love it,” she breathed, taking it from his fingers.
“Thank you Garret!” She flung her arms around him again and laughed. “It’s beautiful!”
He wanted to collapse, but settled for hugging her back instead. As soon as she stepped back, he hid his hands in his pockets to cover the fact that they were shaking with relief.
“Look at this!” Molly crowed, spinning away from him into the circle of onlookers. She grabbed one of the real roses out of the vase and held them side by side. Some of the ladies and men looked down their noses, but several of them stepped closer as Molly held the two up for comparison. They were identical in every respect.
One of the men was pursing his lips to hide a smile, but Garret heard him mutter, “They’re not the same. The real one’s lopsided. The iron one is perfect.”
One of the ladies asked politely if she could see the rose, and Molly handed it over, with the admonition to be very careful with it. Women glittering with money gathered around to inspect the oddity. Molly laughed and spun back to Garret. She caught him by the hand and pulled him into the satiny, glittering glamour of the dining room.
“You have to tell me how you made it!”
Garret was too relieved to act like he normally did, or even make up something professional like his Pa would have wanted, so he just told the truth instead. “Well, the stuff we do in the shop has to be made fast, and made for hard use, but iron wants to be all kinds of things. The trick is just to listen to the metal. Don’t force it. Let it tell you what it wants to become. It almost makes itself.” He flushed again as soon as he realized he’d said it in front of everybody.
A lady with stuffed birds on her hat, and a not-stuffed little dog under one arm asked, “Could you do this again?”
Garret shrugged, still embarrassed. “Sure, I guess.”
“Could you do other flowers?”
“I do grape vine hangers for Mrs. Dodrill, sometimes,” he said.
“Can I hold it?” asked another girl. She was a few years younger than Molly and was wearing a plainer dress than anyone else there. Her hair was plaited and unadorned.
As soon as she’d asked, she closed her mouth and her eyes opened as if she’d regretted saying it. Molly laughed and handed it to her. “Of course. And where were we? Ah yes.”
Molly stepped to the side and whipped a light blue dress out of a pile of boxes and brown wrapping paper. She held it up between them. “Scarlet, you have to let me see you in this.”
“Oh no, certainly not,” the girl said backing up. “That’s nice of you but—”
Molly used her infectious laugh again and seized the girl by a hand. “Nonsense, I’m small for my age so it will fit you perfectly, come on.”
The rose had changed hands a couple times by this point. Molly snatched it back with a grin. “It’s my rose and it’s my party, and I want to see Scarlet in this dress.”
With that, she started for the stairs, tugging Scarlet with her. Several other better-dressed girls followed. Or at least they would be better dressed until Scarlet was wearing the blue dress. She’d also be leaving with it, Garret knew Molly would make sure of that.
At the top of the stairs, Molly turned and called back down.
“Garret, can you wait for us? We’ll only be a few minutes. Please?”
“Sure! I’ll be here!” he said with the maturity of a five year old.
Mrs. Malvern was looming somewhere nearby.
Let her loom, Garret thought. I’m gonna help myself to some of that meat pie.
* * *
The party had ended hours ago. Molly climbed
the stairs towards her bedroom, leaning heavily on the banister. Her father had allowed her a first taste of champagne with her birthday cake, but that wasn’t why she was having trouble with the stairs. Her feet were heavy because her heart was heavier.
She wanted to keep hold of the joy of her friends and family, the fun, the gifts and the care they represented. She tried to hold the picture of Scarlet in her head—the younger girl flushed with pride and exhilaration at her first peek at herself in a dress worth more than her father could earn in a month.
Molly stopped at the top of the stairs and sank her feet into the wool carpet. The hall was semi dark, lit by a few lanterns with the wicks turned low. She wiggled her feet and concentrated on the feel of the coarse fibers around her toes. She thought about how she and Lysander used to gallop around the house together on those carpets. She still remembered how it would turn her knees and palms pink, and make them super-sensitive to touch, as if they were craving texture. But the memory was dull now, tarnished. She sighed.
At least she hadn’t let the creeping despondency affect her party presence. She had laughed and chattered with the guests, being the perfect hostess until the last person left. After that, she’d talked and drank hot cider with her mother and Daddy while the servants cleaned up after the frivolities. She’d done all that she was expected to do. She’d done all that her wonderful, broken big sister could never do.
But on the inside, Molly had wanted to do nothing but cry since Garret had left. He’d been one of the last to go, and he’d stayed until Molly’s mother was on the verge of throwing him out, but if only he could have stayed a little longer. Or maybe all night. She would have told him how much she liked his suit, and asked him to hold her in the loveseat in front of the fire. He looked so handsome and unsure of himself in the threadbare little outfit. She hated how embarrassed he’d been, and when Mrs. March had muttered something about dirt under his fingernails, Molly had nearly snapped at her. His fingernails were clean. Except for the thinnest rim of blood under one. He’d probably done that trying to remove all the black grit from under them. He was vulnerable, why couldn’t Mrs. March see that? Why couldn’t anybody see that? When he was embarrassed, that was when he was real. She’d had a few brief hours to spend with the real Garret Vilner, but the Mrs. March’s of the world kept getting in the way.
“Why Antonia, you are growing into a fine young lady.”
“Oh, Charles, come look at Colleen’s little Antonia, isn’t she just a doll?”
“Miss Malvern, you have become quite the strong young lady, yet so unlike your late sister, God rest her soul.”
I hate you. I hate you all.
Garret, on the other hand, was a wonderful person, thoughtful and kind, sweet as a child when given half a chance, and so vulnerable. There was no other word for him. And none of you will touch him. These crazy self-centered people would never harm him, they would never destroy him as they destroyed Charity. Molly would make sure of that.
Go ahead and buy me stuff, she thought. I’ll laugh and dance in little circles and act girly. Keep telling me how cute I am, and I’ll titter and make you think you’ve got me all figured out. You’ll never see me coming. I’ll save Garret. I’ll save all the Garret’s you people want to destroy with your careless stupidity. And then I’ll own this whole damn town. Watch and see if I don’t. You think my mother’s a bitch? Just you raise a hand to Garret. You arrogant, selfish people have poisoned this town. You’ve poisoned this whole country, you destroyed my sister and now you’re trying to destroy Garret, and I’m going to make you pay.
She felt herself standing up taller as her temper began to seethe, as she thought of all the suffering she’d seen in her life. No one cared about anyone else. No one bothered to pay attention to how the other person felt. Mrs. March had muttered it because she was disgusted, not because she cared if she hurt Garret’s feelings. Mrs. March would worry about her social standing before she’d care whether he went to work the next day with his head hanging because of what she said.
Molly was fuming. Men may be stronger than I am. They may make guns and go to war. They may destroy each other’s lives. But I am a woman, Mrs. March. Raise a hand to anyone I care about, and I’ll destroy your soul. You simpering, lying, gossipmongers think I’m nothing like my sister? Just wait until my Daddy is gone. I’m hiding in plain sight, right under your nose. You’ve got it all backwards, Mrs. March. Charity was nothing like me.
But Garret was gone and she was alone with her temper. The frightened, good hearted little boy in a young man’s body wasn’t with her. His suit was off, and his armor would be back in place now, cinched down tight. Like a wave breaking on the shore, Molly’s anger crashed out of her.
She remembered the first day she’d met him. He smiled and laughed, and shuffled his feet, and acted awkward, and while he was insecure, that was not her dominating impression. When she looked at him, even though neither of them were more than children, she saw someone in terrible pain. At first, she’d thought he was trying to hide it from her. After a while, she’d thought he was hiding it from himself. Eventually she’d realized he honestly didn’t know how badly injured he was. He couldn’t see himself at all. And so, in an odd twist of fate, she bore his burden alone. He suffered for it daily, but so did she, in a different way.
Molly knew that the choice to love was also the choice to suffer. She’d borne it with her sister, Charity, and she bore it daily with Garret. A distressing number of people thought he wasn’t worth it. The rough, rude, angry blacksmith’s boy was only an act, and a poor one. They didn’t see because they didn’t care. Molly knew they didn’t care, but she didn’t want to believe it. Despite her temper flare from a moment ago, she resolutely saw people as being generally good and kind.
Although those temper flares were happening more and more frequently. Maybe she was just running into Mrs. March too often.
She sighed again, and this time it seemed the sigh carried away part of her spirit. She sagged against the rail and opened her eyes. The wool carpet still tickled her toes, but she couldn’t have called Lysander to her imaginary side if she’d wanted to. She trailed into her room. She still talked to Lysander sometimes. He’d been her friend through the toughest times in her life. Molly knew her mother would tell her how foolish that was. In this area, Molly didn’t care what her mother thought.
Mother would never understand that reality wasn’t something you could touch or hold. Reality was created by the heart. It lived and breathed in all people according to their needs, their loves, their hates, their joys and fears. Mother hadn’t understood reality, or any other part of Charity, no matter how beautiful Charity’s was. No matter how many ways Molly had tried to explain it.
Molly opened her bedroom door. The glass knob was cold in her hand, and the thick panels of the door resisted her like the heavy stone of a treasure chamber. And a treasure it was, to her at least. Not because of all the expensive things her parents had stuffed into shelves or all the nice dresses they had packed into her closet. Oh, she loved dresses. She loved her kaleidoscope and her gramophone, and she adored each and every book she owned. She loved all the pretty dresses her Daddy bought for her. She loved showing up at parties in them, with her hair done beneath a gorgeously decorated hat—and the bigger and more outlandish the hat, the better. So maybe she and Mother weren’t completely different. She smiled wryly at the thought.
But her bedroom wasn’t her Aladdin’s Cave because of any of the items it contained. She treasured it because it was her sanctuary. She could talk to Lysander whenever she wanted. She could climb out her window onto the roof and watch the stars and no one would ever know.
She went to the window as her eyes filled up with tears. Charity, I miss you so much. You should be here. I need you here. I want you here.
The night was crying too, pouring down in a quiet rain. Molly sat on the reading bench under the window and opened it. The air was cold and damp. A heavy afghan lay on the other end of
the bench, but she didn’t reach for it. She let the cold soak into her skin, and she laid her chin on her hands on the sill.
She had no idea how long she was there before she said it: the words she had needed to say for so long.
“Charity, I’m so sorry I didn’t listen to you. I always thought it was Mother. Now I see. I know why you weren’t here today. Nobody listened to you. Not even me.”
Minutes later, a soft sound came from above, maybe of a little claw clicking against the slate, or the hiss of wet fur as something slipped away. Molly wouldn’t have known what it was even if she’d heard it. Probably no one would have known. There were so many animals in the Appalachian hills. After all, the hills were wild and unknowable. Much like the human heart.
Molly didn’t move for a long time. She lay on the sill as the rain fell on dark, iron hills.
* * *
Garret arrived home floating on happy bubbles, and he hadn’t had a drop to drink. He had walked all the way from town on the bubbles, and had just set foot in his yard when his mother’s shrill voice popped them. It rang across the yard and the road, echoing away into the trees. In the dim glow of the lamps, falling at angles out the windows, Garret could see Babe lying in the lean-to, her chin between her paws, her ears limp, her eyebrows twitching as they did when Garret was angry with her, or when she’d chewed up something she wasn’t supposed to. Or when there was strife in her master’s house.
Garret stood in the yard, listening to the screaming and yelling. His warm and winging heart came back and landed in a cold puddle. Suit or no suit, he crossed the yard and knelt in front of Babe. She dragged herself a little closer to him and laid her head back down. Garret glanced at her food and water. Both were empty. For some reason, the sight of his dog’s bowls, chipped and empty in the twilight, made him more angry than the senseless screaming indoors. What had Ma done all day while he was working in the shop? Was it so damned important that she couldn’t feed his dog?
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