Vogel House

by John Forrester

  We pack ungraciously, tossing only the most important things into our suitcases. Oscar, our former butler, agrees to drive us to the airport after negotiating with Father regarding the title to the old Mercedes S600.

  We arrive at the airport to a strange scene: commercial flights. Instead of driving directly to our private jet, Oscar drops us off in front of a sign labeled “Departures.” How poetic. I gaze at the throng of people, luggage in tow, their faces tense and expecting. Children are throwing tantrums, writhing madly on the concrete, and kicking their parents’ shins. Oscar dumps our bags on the curb, scoffs at us, and squeals the tires as he drives off.

  So this is the entrance to hell.

  I loop my arm around Phillip’s and stare in bewilderment at the screens communicating departing and arriving flights and the long lines snaking around to petulant, angry-faced airline employees. There are lines for first class and business class, but Father, head sagging, traipses towards the end of the economy line. After waiting nearly forty minutes, we finally arrive at the counter to face a surly-looking airline employee who is gazing, perplexed, at a screen behind the counter.

  “Excuse me.” Father’s voice is low, polite, and atypical compared to the other screaming, flustered customers around us. “I said excuse me, could you help us? We need to purchase a ticket.”

  After a long while waiting while the airline representative ignores Father, the woman finally raises her eyes, squints, and says contemptibly, spittle flying from her wrinkled mouth, “Ticket purchase is not available from this counter.” She stabs the air with her chubby finger, pointing down the way at another counter, her fat, pockmarked arm bouncing like Jell-O.

  Father nods and leads us like a pack of nomads in the wilderness. The ticket purchase counter is empty. Apparently nobody buys tickets at the airport. A gaunt man with a hawkish nose stands at the counter while staring absentmindedly at the clouds outside.

  “We’d like to purchase tickets to Boston: economy class, please.” Father withdraws his wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket.

  The man at the counter snaps to attention, the pupils in his sad blue eyes expanding like a storm.

  “Boston Logan?”

  “Please.” Father hands him a credit card.

  “I’ll need ID for the four of you.” The man taps the counter and hums an odd tune that sounds like the theme from Spider-Man.

  Father is about to protest, but the tension in his arms and neck releases. “Oh, right, you need identification here. How silly of me.”

  The man wrinkles his face into a scowl that says, “Are you a fucking moron?” Father watches Mother dig through her oversized purse. Finally, she retrieves a small, shiny pink bag containing our passports. The man at the counter seems mollified as he accepts our documents, then glowers maniacally after he swipes Father’s credit card.

  “Declined. It says I need to confiscate the card.” The man retrieves silver scissors and slices the card in half, tossing the pieces into a bin under his legs.

  “But—” Father is interrupted by the man’s shriveled finger.

  “Do you have another card? Otherwise I need to help other customers.”

  Father glances behind at the empty line. A hunchback wearing a service uniform shuffles along, sweeping nothing into a dustbin.

  “I have other cards, but I suspect they’ll all be declined.”

  “Well, in that case, move along. We don’t allow vagrants at the airport.” The man eyes Mother’s enormous diamond ring and grins with fiendish delight.

  “Wait!” Father’s eyes implore me. “Clarise, don’t you have a debit card linked to your personal account? Just get us home, please, darling.”

  Me? Get the family home safe? I quickly open my purse and withdraw my Chase card. The man at the counter inspects the card dubiously, but swipes it anyway. His face falls, disappointment in his eyes.

  “Approved.”

  As the man pecks away at his keyboard, Phillip strokes my shoulder and whispers, “You’re the best.” Mother saunters up to the counter, staring curiously at the man as if he’s performing some mystical rite.

  “Next available flight leaves at 2:30 p.m. You’ll have to hurry to make it. Go back to the check-in counter.” He hands Father four tickets and my debit card. I flip off the man and change my hand to a wave when he glances angrily at me.

  Father leads us back to the economy line, and I’m thankful the crowd has thinned quite a bit. We check our luggage in after discovering that I need to pay extra for every piece of luggage. I miss our private jet. How much money did Father and Grandmother place into my account? I’ve never even had the desire to check until now. Does Phillip have money of his own stowed away? Can he still go to Yale? Can I still afford to go to prep school? Other than Keary, I could care less about ever returning to that hideous place.

  When we reach the front of the security line, we’re greeted by a brown, balding man with a flaky scalp proudly wearing a uniform mysteriously labeled “TSA.”

  “Iddy and boring pass pease.” The man’s accent is so thick I’m uncertain which language he is speaking.

  “Excuse me?” Father says, bending down as if that will help translate.

  The man intelligently points at the tickets and passports still clutched in Father’s hands.

  “Oh, you want these.” The man smiles like we’re a bunch of idiots, flips through the tickets, shines a blue light on the passports, and hands everything back to Father. He waves us into the security pit like he’s welcoming us into a brothel.

  Father strides confidently up to a four-hundred-pound man who looks like his last job was a bouncer at a club. The man grunts and raises a fat hand to stop Father.

  “Back up, sir.” When Father stands bewildered, the goliath sullenly says, “I said back up!”

  “I’m sorry, did I do something wrong?” Father glances around, a confused, hurt look on his face. “I’ve never been through one of these.”

  The man scoffs. “What? You’ve never been through security before? You crazy or what?” His previously scripted voice breaks down into his natural slang.

  “Actually, I never have. We usually fly private.”

  “Move over there. Take off your shoes and put your stuff into those baskets. Remove all belts, loose change, metallic objects from your pockets.”

  What kind of a barbaric place is this? I can’t imagine how people tolerate this kind of inhumane treatment. It’s how I have always imagined prison. I take off my shoes and put my purse into a security bin. After the man waves me through a metal detector, another security woman with a gleeful grin motions me to the side and starts touching me.

  “What are you doing?” I pull my arms protectively over my chest.

  The woman’s perverted face twists into a scowl. “Are you actually resisting a standard pat-down search?”

  “But I just went through the machine. Why are you touching me?” What I wanted to say was, “Why are your hands molesting me?”

  “Standard security measures. Lift your arms like this and spread your legs. This won’t take too long.”

  As if to deny the part about taking too long, she takes a painfully long time probing every inch of my body, including the most sensitive parts around my crotch and breasts, as if I’m hiding carbon knives and plastic explosives inside my skinny jeans and slinky top. I glance to the side and feel revolted by a poor grandmother in a wheelchair being worked over by a pair of thuggish security personnel.

  I wonder what the hell the world is coming to.

  Inside the airplane, I stare out the window, my mind a haze of daydreams of Keary’s lips against my lips, my neck, and my nipples. In a fright I think of texting him, so I rummage through my purse and retrieve my iPhone. I think for a moment what to text, and then finally tap out: Father’s business in trouble. We’re returning to Vogel House. I’ll miss u. Summer sucks.

  I take a picture of myself staring out the window and send it along with the text.

 
; I never got my summer with Keary after all.

  As the plane takes off, a soft rain begins to fall, lashing the window with rivulets of water. My heart feels all wrenched up in a twisted knot and my gut churns with the sudden upward movement of the plane rising into the sky. We enter a storm cloud and tears suddenly fall from my eyes. It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair. Just when I fall for Keary. Why do I have to leave now?

  But then the plane soars above the low clouds and the sun pierces through, igniting the world in a blaze of brilliance. It’s so beautiful. The world is filled with wonder and mystery. And I realize in that moment that I only want to feel the beauty and pleasure of life, because the world is so beautiful and amazing. As I stare out over the sea of velvety clouds rimmed with shimmering light I realize that life is better spent in joy and pleasure, not lived in fear and pain.

  I feel it deep in the marrow of my soul.

  In my determination, I pull the flimsy blanket over me, ignoring the old man slobbering and snoring next to me, and close my eyes and picture Keary’s beautiful fingers. The sun is hot on my face, neck, and shoulders as I reach down underneath my panties and touch the wetness between my legs. Keary’s long, slender fingers are touching me there, stroking softly, stimulating the small, sensitive place that causes my eyelids to flutter in egregious pleasure.

  I find myself rising in my seat, my knees squeezed together, legs extending, until the sun’s heat chars my chest and neck, causing tiny drops of perspiration to bubble up along my skin. My mouth opens unconsciously and a low groan escapes from my lips. Keary’s fingers continue their earnest effort. A blue light pierces inside my mind’s eye and I feel myself floating upward into a blanket of stars that wrap around my small figure. The stars caress me, lulling me with ancient words that penetrate my skin and squirm in through my blood vessels, sending electric jolts snapping through my body until I scream in delight.

  Every face in the airplane turns to stare at me.

  There are muffled giggles and suppressed laughter and knowing eyes. I gape in horror at Phillip’s grin rising from the seat in front of me. I want to crawl into a cave and disappear. Luckily for me, a flight attendant comes and waves the people back to their seats.

  “That was quite a howl, missy.” The old man next to me smiles wistfully. “Reminds me of how my darling Betty sounded. The Lord bless her soul and keep her.”

  “Not quite the thirty-thousand-feet club,” Phillip whispers, “But truly memorable.”

  I kick his seat and he chuckles wickedly, making low groaning and moaning sounds in response.

  Fucking moron. I swear I’m going to install a hidden camera in his bathroom and post a video of him jacking off on YouTube. Or then again, maybe he doesn’t need to jack off considering how much action he’s getting at school.

  Soon we’re circling on our approach to Boston Logan Airport and my thoughts drift to Vogel House and the trouble with Father’s business. I remember Grandmother’s words, spoken to me many years ago; I believe I was ten, when she said the words to me on her deathbed. She insisted that we be alone:

  Never let your father know we’ve spoken. Be careful and protecting of Vogel House, I bequeath it to you. Father is weak, he always was; he pretends to be strong but inside he is weak and far too trusting and I fear that will be his downfall. These are difficult financial times and I fear for the future of this family. I’ve set things in motion in my will that involve you, to ensure the continuity of the family despite the wolves that lay in wait to harm us. Your great-grandfather Cornelius Chambers was a difficult and brilliant man with many enemies—enemies that exist to this day, living as sheep in disguise among society. Beware and be wise, and if trouble comes, remember this box I now give to you. Only open it when the need is great and the family is in peril.

  I’d completely forgotten about it: the intricately carved jewelry box that my great-grandfather had given her after his many travels through Asia. In the years that followed her death I was obsessed with the box, longing to discover what was hidden inside. But I kept my promise to her and never opened it, despite my overwhelming curiosity. I studied every inch of its surface, the ivory carving of Chinese princesses strolling amid an immaculate garden: a pond covered in lotus flowers, a curved bridge, rocks with auspicious faces, the pines, the plums, the bamboo along the edges. In the middle of the pond was an island that held a pear tree with fruit dangling from its limbs. Intertwined dragons ran along the front and sides of the box.

  I had hidden the jewelry box deep within the bowels of my walk-in closet, inside an old teak chest with a cedar lining. The question is, where did I hide the key?

  CHAPTER 10

  THE DISCORDANT SKIES above Vogel House fall low and gloomy, casting a web of shadow and light upon the wet slate roof. I stare at the familiar entrance, now sad and lonely, unadorned by the servants that once graced our home. Now it’s just the four of us, humbled and silent after the unexpected journey. Today is the first day in a life I never dreamed I’d be living. I extend my arms, close my eyes to the twilight wind, and feel the duty to protect my family sink deep into my bones.

  Father’s face is nearly unreadable as he gazes up at the old house: flickers of sorrow and regret, the tension of holding back emotion, eyes like the void of midnight. I want to scream and kill and die all at once. But instead I take a deep breath, tense my stomach, march up the stairs, and lead my family to safety.

  The grand foyer where Keary first kissed me is dark and cold, greeting us with the faint shimmer of marble. Glittering particles of dust float in the air. For a moment I want to go back to that time, when Keary surprised me at the door, before the sadness and betrayal. Then the moment passes and I propel myself forward into Vogel House, into whatever lays ahead for our family.

  Phillip is somber and morose as he slumps down onto my bed. Covered in silk pajamas, my skin feels cool and sleek, cleansed from the bath that has washed me of the day’s impurities. I feel like a battlefield commander preparing to go to war. And Phillip is a wounded soldier, lying at the altar of redemption, waiting for a blessing.

  I tell Phillip to go to bed, that everything will be all right, that tomorrow is another day, that I’ll figure out something to bring hope to our family. His eyes believe me. I pull him off the bed, draw him into me for a long, soothing hug, and pat his back like a toddler. He whispers in my ear that he loves me and that I’m the best sister in the whole world and my smile spreads so wide it’ll probably break my face.

  When he squeezes my ass I shove him away and tell him he needs to go get a girl and a glass of wine to wash away his worries. He laughs at that, adjusts the erection in his pants, and lumbers off to his room to no doubt finish his business. My brother, the ultimate pervert.

  Mother and Father have drunken themselves into a filthy stupor; they’re passed out in bed like derelicts. I pull the covers over them, kiss Father on the forehead, and gaze wistfully at Mother’s peaceful expression, untainted by pretense. If only one day she’ll return to me, like the mother she once was, before the bitterness, before the quarrels, back to the time when she was sweet to me, pouring out her unconditional love.

  My iPhone buzzes and I pick it up and read a text from Keary: wtf is going on? call me!

  I can’t deal with him right now; my mind is in too many other places, and there are too many questions I have to answer. So I head back to my room and stare inside the darkness of my closet, wondering what’s inside Grandmother’s box. The key, where did I put the silver key? I rummage through dresser drawers; old, glittery princess boxes (and scoff at the fact that I still keep them); and Native American baskets that Father bought for me on our trip to Santa Fe. Despite searching my entire closet, my bathroom, my desk, the boxes under my bed, chests, and even inside the safe that Father built for me behind the Renoir painting on the south wall, I can’t find it. Nothing. It’s nowhere to be found.

  Sighing, I ramble around my room some more until I give in and sneak over to Phill
ip’s room and rap on his door. It’s unlocked so I enter the dark room and call out to him.

  “Whaa? Go away, Clarise.” He rubs his eyes and stares blearily at me. “And I was having such a good dream.”

  “I’m missing something important. I need to find it tonight. A silver key. Remember the one I always wore around my neck after Grandmother died?”

  Phillip pushes himself out of bed, stretches, and tries to shake the sleep out of his head. His voice is low and thoughtful now.

  “A silver key…yeah, I remember, you wore it as a necklace.” He swallows and runs a finger slowly along his chin. “What do you want with it?”

  I shake my head like that was the wrong question to ask. “Do you know where it is? I’ve searched my entire room and can’t find it.”

  “Even your safe?” He says the word “safe” with a tinge of greed tainting his voice.

  “I said I searched everywhere.” I turn to go, figuring maybe Mother knows where it might be.

  “Wait a minute—my brain is working now. Of course, that’s it.”

  “What? Come on, tell me. Stop grinning perversely like that. Tell me!”

  A hungry smile spreads across Phillip’s face.

  “You want something, don’t you? Just tell me, I’m not going to let you build it up like that. I hate it when you do that.”

  He raises his hands in surrender. “I’m just a little short of cash, that’s all. Father’s business going down the dumps is crimping my style.”

  “Are you fucking serious? You’re only thinking about yourself at a moment like this, when our family is in crisis? I can’t fucking believe you.”

  “Hey, chill out. You came barging in and interrupting my hot sex dream.” He closes his eyes and caresses his underwear-clad crotch. I want to freaking punch him in the nuts. He’s such a bastard.