The Girl With Aquamarine Eyes

by Shelley Madden

  Bice whirled around. “Do you mind stepping back? I’m hoping not to get thrown into her room if she opens the door, only to find you on top of me again.”

  Harmon cocked his eyebrow at his manager. “Come now, you know that’s the most excitement you’ve had since you broke up with that skank you dated last year.”

  Bice struggled not to smile. He finally relented and broke into a chuckle. At the same moment, he heard a sound behind him. The door was slowing opening.

  A faded blue eye came into view through the crack, along with a bit of a reddened cheek beneath pushing out through the crevice. As a balloon might if squeezed in the hands of a small child.

  “Bonita?” Bice studied the maid. “Let me in.”

  “No.”

  “If you don’t let me in, I’ll kick the door down.”

  Harmon poked him in the back again. “It’ll come out of your paycheck.”

  The faded blue eye suddenly widened in horror. The crimson cheek quickly disappeared from view. Bice could almost hear the pop it might have made, as it was pulled free from its wooden prison.

  The door slowly creaked open. Both men walked into the room and gazed in dismay at what lay before them.

  Suitcases were lined up on the bed, another smaller one sat atop the vanity. The closet door was ajar, metal hangers stripped of their furnishings. Wet tissues were scattered across the bed and dresser. A few more had fallen to the floor, and the table fan was slowing marching them to the far wall. Drawers stood open and emptied. The room was complete chaos.

  “Bonita, What is going on?” Harmon asked.

  The Mexican woman pulled a tissue from the pocket of her rumpled smock. She blew her nose and shoved it back into its hiding place. “Your Majordomo fired me.”

  “Fired you?” Bice groaned. “Why?”

  “The vases. The moment you turned the corner and raced for the study to find Mr. Steele, Thornton came out the kitchen door. He saw the mess, turned frightfully pale and fired me on the spot. He was even kind enough to call a taxi on my behalf.”

  Harmon gazed at the maid. “No, Thornton can’t fire you.”

  Bice nudged the musician. “Harmon, he runs the household and has the authority. You gave it to him when you hired him.”

  “Well, I un-fire her.” Harmon gazed at the sobbing maid. “Bonita, unpack your things, you’re on my payroll now. You’ll answer to me in the future, not to Thornton.”

  Bice gave the kind woman a hug. He grabbed a suitcase from the bed, and began carefully placing its contents back into the dresser drawers.

  Harmon quickly followed suit, and hung her uniforms back in the closet. “Bonita, when you’re up to it, please take Heaven some dinner. She’s not feeling well enough to come down.”

  Bonita gazed at the two men as they unpacked her things. Bice carefully sat her perfume bottles back on the vanity. Mr. Steel had her under-garments held out before him, dropping them into her lingerie drawer as if they were on fire. He refused to look at her bras and panties, as he quickly let go of the articles. Soon, they were scattered on the floor where he’d missed his mark for fear of looking at the unmentionables.

  She dabbed the remnant of her drying tears once again. “Yes, Mr. Steele, I’ll take Heaven some dinner, right away.”

  “Nothing fancy, Bonita.” Harmon missed the drawer once again. “A sandwich will do. Afterward, take the evening off. You look like you’ve seen the other side of Hell.”

  “And his name is Thornton.” Bice muttered from the vanity, as he tried frantically to arrange the many bottles of perfumes in an orderly fashion.

  * * *

  Less than an hour later, Bonita carried a tray up to Heaven’s room.

  She’d combed the shards of glass carefully from her hair, washed her face and put on a clean apron. She was looking forward to a quiet evening. Maybe, she’d call her best friend and invite her to go to a movie. They might even visit a nice out of the way diner afterward. They’d laugh and joke like old times, into the wee hours of the night.

  She tapped lightly on Heaven’s door. “Room service!”

  “Thanks Bonita.” Heaven replied, briefly glancing in her direction.

  “What are you looking at?” Bonita studied the many colorful magazines scattered across the bed.

  “Fashion magazines. Oh, these dresses are to die for.”

  Bonita took a seat in the chair next to the bed. “You should ask Mr. Steele to take you to the mall someday, Miss Heaven. It is full of dresses exactly like those in your magazines.”

  Heaven finally pried her eyes away from the glossy photos, and gazed at the housekeeper. “What is a mall?” She studied the maid intently.

  Bonita chuckled. “That’s right, I remember now. You weren’t in a place that had malls. It’s a large store, full of many smaller stores and even fast food places. You’d love it there.”

  Heaven gazed at the housekeeper closely. Tiny lines furrowed her brow, her eyes were red and swollen. Traces of fading crimson still etched their way across her exotic cheekbones. Her graying black hair had recently been combed straight, however telltale wisps of stray locks clung to her damp cheeks. It was obvious she was very upset.

  “What is wrong, Bonita?” You look like you’ve been crying.”

  Bonita sniffed and looked away, her gaze falling on the majestic window overlooking the sea. “Don’t worry child, everything is all right now.”

  Heaven moved closer and gazed firmly into her eyes. “Tell me. I know something is wrong, it’s written all over your face. I know something happened.”

  A fresh tear rolled down the woman’s face. She sighed, and dabbed a tear away. “There was a terrible accident downstairs, and I’m afraid all of Mr. Steele’s heirloom vases were shattered.”

  “Harmon can buy new vases. He can buy anything he wants.”

  “Not like these vases. He and his mother went on a shopping trip to Mystique a year ago. He bought them for her in a tiny shop, and they watched as they were made. Harmon had the bottom of each etched with his mother’s name, and his dead sister’s name. The only reason they were here, is because his mother asked him to keep them safe for her as they are very sentimental. She travels a lot, and is away most of the year.”

  “How were they broken?”

  Another tear fell from the aged woman’s eye. She sniffed, pulled the soggy tissue from her pocket once again and dabbed it away. “Mr. Bice came around the corner in the downstairs hall a little too fast. It frightened me, and caused me to loose my grip on the tray. I had washed them, and was carrying them back to the display case in the grand ballroom.”

  “Oh Bonita, I am so sorry. Please don’t cry.” She leapt from the bed and threw her arms around the sobbing housekeeper. “This was my fault, if I hadn’t told Bice, he wouldn’t have fallen and…”

  “What do you mean Heaven?” Bonita sniffed again, peering from behind her tissue. “Bice fell?”

  A wave of confusion crossed Heaven’s face, shadowing her eyes. “Never mind. But it’s my fault those vases were broken. Please forgive me.”

  “No it wasn’t your fault.” Bonita slowly rose from the comfort of her chair and straightened her smock. “Mr. Steele gave me the night off, but I’ll be back in the morning to check on you. Eat your dinner, and get some rest. I’m sure Bice or Mr. Steele will be up soon to check on you.”

  Heaven watched as the housekeeper slowly ambled to the door. She leaned against the frame a moment, took a gulp of air and tiredly made her way down the hall. She rushed to the door and gazed at the departing woman. Don’t be sad Bonita, I will make this right. I promise.

  Bonita suddenly whirled around and stared at her. Her mouth fell open, as if she were about to speak. She thought better of it, stared at the girl a moment longer and slowly turned and made her way down the staircase, shaking her head in confusion.

  Heaven watched as the shadows of the evening enveloped the housekeeper, until the saddened woman finally disappeared into the downstairs gl
oom. She slowly closed the door, and gazed at the majestic bird forever entombed in the magnificent window.

  She would make this right.

  * * *

  Chapter Eight

  Harmon gazed at the war zone which was once his study.

  The room reeked of the sweet scent of tequila. Bonita had been through enough in one evening, he wasn’t about to ask her to clean it. Besides, it would take hours and he’d given her the night off.

  The fading sunlight streamed through the window and fell onto the shattered tiffany lamp. Yet another piece of his one of a kind artwork was destroyed. He picked up a few broken cabochons and held them in his hand.

  Amber and green, blue and yellow beads were now chipped and cracked. It was hopeless, the lamp was beyond repair. He gazed at a small bead he held, rolling it between his fingers.

  It was the color of her eyes. The color of Heaven’s eyes, the color of Rose’s eyes. Aquamarine. He raised it toward the falling sun. The last of the rays lit up the tiny gold flecks harbored deep within.

  He studied the phone. He couldn’t grasp what had driven him to murder it. At least it wasn’t a one-of-kind object d’art.

  Three holes in the wall beyond it stared at him, their triangular pattern reminding him of a bowling ball. Footloose and carefree, the many Friday nights he spent in the bowling alley, to get away from the hell his life had become after Rose died. Now once again, like the bowling ball as it swung recklessly down the lane, it seemed his life was quickly spinning out of control.

  He inhaled sharply as he waited for the blasted incessant ringing to return. He froze for a moment and finally exhaled. The God-forsaken sound didn’t return. He sighed in relief.

  He stared at his desk. The amber liquid had long since dried, his lyrics were now a permanent addition to the fine mahogany desktop. More pages were crumpled and lay in ruin on the floor.

  Rose’s face was completely missing from the photo. All that was left were the fading and running colors of her once navy-blue school uniform. Certainly his mother would have a copy of the photo. He’d give her a call in the morning.

  He suddenly realized he couldn’t call her. The woman’s vases were broken into a million pieces, and he’d have to tell her. It was out of the question. He wouldn’t call her, for now at least.

  Maybe he could fly back to Mystique and have more made. Certainly they still had the molds. No, that was impossible. He’d insisted they be destroyed, so the vases would forever remain one of a kind.

  He shook his head in disgust and stomped out of the room. He was in a mess now, and needed to sort things out. When things became to much he’d go to the beach. The sea was his place of peace and solitude. Often while staring out across the waves, he’d be inspired to write a lyric or two.

  He headed out the front door, and stepped into the settling dusk. A forgotten memory suddenly woke.

  He gazed down at his faded jeans and gasped. They were gone. Instead, he wore a pitcher’s uniform. The pants were much too short, the fabric dusted with grime of days gone by. In his ten year old hand, he cradled his dad’s pitchers mitt. He twisted the cap backwards on his head, chewed his lip and raised his leg high into the air. But he’d thrown the ball too hard.

  His aim was off. The leather sphere arced into the sunlight, momentarily disappearing. When it finally reappeared from its journey around the earth, it swooped through the neighbor’s window and crashed into their living room. He was proud in a way, it was one hell of a throw.

  He had to face his mother that day. Then, the neighbor.

  When he did get the nerve to call her about her vases, he’d explain he still hadn’t lost his knack for breaking things. Maybe she’d understand, and they might have a chuckle or two for old times sake.

  He knew he’d have to face her sooner or later. Hopefully, it’d be later. Much later.

  He slowly made his way toward the sea. The sun was gone, the last of its rays faintly etched fluttery prisms of orange-gold across the rolling waves.

  He took his usual seat on a jutting ledge at the base of the algae covered cliff. He gazed at the horizon, and thought of the mysterious teenager upstairs whom he’d searched so long for.

  * * *

  Bice stood at the kitchen counter, gazing at the remnants of the broken vases.

  The tiny butterflies which adorned it were now mere shells of what they were. Mortal wounds throughout their silvery wings glared in protest at him. Large pieces, small pieces, in-between pieces. He picked up a chunk of glass, and slowly tried to find to which vase it might have belonged.

  He whirled around at a sound behind him. He peered into the darkness, seeing a shadowy figure float through the pantry door. It was Thornton.

  The tall, thin majordomo might as well hang from the ceiling with a light bulb screwed into his mouth. He was never far from the center of the expansive home. Always peering down from his perch, in search of some sort of disorder in its midst. In search of a maid to reprimand, hoping to overhear a snippet of gossip which he’d quickly silence.

  Bice willed his heart to stop fluttering, lest it wind up forever stilled along with the remnant of butterfly he held in his palm.

  Thornton cocked his eyebrow and studied him. “What are you doing with Mr. Steel’s vases?”

  Bice carefully laid the broken piece back on the counter. He wasn’t sure why. It was beyond repair. He finally whirled around, his dark eyes ablaze. “Do you mind not sneaking up on me like that?”

  “My apologies, Mr. Bice.” The majordomo moved toward the shattered shards of glass, and stared at them. “I’ve terminated Bonita’s employment for allowing this to happen.”

  Bice was unable to control has already mounting temper. He grabbed the man’s neatly pressed cuff, and squeezed his wrist until the Majordomo’s eyes threatened to bug out of his head. Which would certainly make an astounding mess on the majordomo’s perfectly polished marble floor.

  “Bonita is no longer terminated, she works for Harmon now. You never gave her a chance to explain. I was the reason she dropped the vases.”

  “Miss Bonita knows quite well when moving about valuables, it’s a house rule to request assistance in order to prevent mishaps such as this. And, theft. “ Thornton glanced at his hand. Red and purple blotches were slowly surfacing across his stretched beyond capacity wrist. His fingers throbbed, and his fingertips were beginning to numb. “Would you kindly remove your hand from my arm?”

  Bice squeezed the man’s wrist even harder. Finally, he threw the butlers arm into the air, twisted it for good measure and let go. He watched as Thornton doubled over in pain, shaking his hand like one might shake a ballpoint pen which had suddenly ran dry.

  Thornton’s thick accent from across the pond was punctuated with anger. “I request of you, to kindly refrain from placing your hands on my person in the future.”

  “I request of you to go straight to hell. I answer to no one.” He watched as the butler whirled on his polished heel, and stormed back to the dark place from where he’d come.

  He glared at the majordomo as the man slammed the door behind him. He pressed his palm to his suddenly throbbing temple. He was getting tired. He’d go check on Heaven, find Harmon and let him know he was turning in early. He gazed at the vases once more, and sighed in resignation. He would ask Bonita to discard the remnants first thing in the morning.

  He eased open the refrigerator door, and gazed inside. He squinted at the amber light, and groped around for a moment or two. He pulled from the depths two fine beers. It had definitely been a two beer day. Tomorrow might have to be a three beer day. Back in the day when he managed a band in Philly, every day was a thirty or so beer day.

  It’d taken him months to finally gain control of the monster which slowly crept up on him in those days. Until one day he woke, and he was the monster. Now his limit was two beers a day.

  Harmon was a good man for keeping the fridge fully stocked with a plethora of the finest beers from around the world. Bu
t this knowledge ate away at him day and night, as a termite might chisel a freshly hammered board.

  He sighed as he gazed at the many fine beers. It was indeed tempting to take half a dozen or so up to his room, and indulge in them into the wee hours of the night.

  But he must resist. There were too many strange things going on in the household, things which he needed to sort out. Plus, Harmon would come up later, only to find him sloshing drunk and surrounded by empty bottles of exotic brew.

  Then the termites would come. They’d saw away at his bed and dresser and even his desk, until one took in its teeth his leg, while he laid in drunken abandon on the floor. He would awaken and be the Philly Monster once more, covered in sawdust.

  He wouldn’t do it. He couldn’t do it. He’d left the monster back in Philly, where it would stay.

  He slammed the door shut and quietly headed upstairs, gently cradling his two fine beers.

  * * *

  She lay on the bed and gazed at her hands.

  Moments ago, she’d watched the sun set while she ate her sandwich. Peering through the majestic window toward the beach, she’d studied Harmon as he slowly walked across the sands, finally taking a seat at the base of the glaring cliff which cut into the sky. The ocean wind churned his fiery hair into an inferno of blazing umber.

  She gazed at her hand. They showed no sign of the blistered burns. Bice had come and gone from her room. He’d lifted her palms, and had muttered illegible words when he too confirmed the wounds were no more. He told her he was heading for bed, and reminded her he’d be in the next room if she needed anything, He’d never shown any feeling toward her, until tonight.

  The handsome man then peered at her from the doorway, his dark eyes beseeching her for an explanation of what might have happened on the staircase earlier, yet his lips never moved.

  She told him with her eyes she honestly didn’t know. She had a gut feeling he would never call her a freak again. He’d smiled warmly at her, almost as a father might smile at his child and left the room.

  She gazed at the beautiful door. Swirls of colorful woods seemed to melt together. The patterns drifted and whorled, creating a road map of the tree’s former life for all to see.