Castle Juliet

by Brandon Berntson

  “No pun intended,” Jane said, who was pleasantly enjoying this scene, two men partaking of all the appetizers like children.

  “Oh, of course,” Phillip said, stepping aside to allow room for Gerald. “Very good, sir!”

  “Phillip?” Gerald said.

  “Yes, Gerald?”

  “The salsa!” Gerald said, nodding to the dish of fresh salsa. “Try the salsa!”

  “Is it homemade?” Phillip inquired.

  “It is,” Jane said.

  “Oh!” Gerald said, his knees weakening, and he, too, looked Heavenward.

  Jack, Alice, and Jane continued to survey the scene with bemused smiles on their faces: two grown man standing at the table, sampling something different every time. They munched, dipped, plopped, chewed, swallowed, and partook of something new, relishing each burst of flavor.

  “Gerald, you are quite right,” Phillip said.

  “What’s that?” Gerald asked.

  “The salsa! The salsa!”

  “Oh, I almost forgot!” Gerald said. “Yes, the salsa is amazing. Amazing, I say. So fresh, so robust and flavorful, so spicy and sweet at the same time. Packs a wallop, a kick, and punch! An almost fruity aftertaste! A work of sheer brilliance, is it not? I dare say, a work of absolute brilliance!”

  Jane was thinking these men must’ve consumed more beer than she’d thought, but their noses were not red, and their eyes were not bloodshot. They were, however, giddy as children.

  “Oh, my goodness! Oh my goodness!” Phillip exclaimed. “That is a smack, fine, dandy-dollop of sauces! What a miracle!”

  “Thank you, sir!” Jack and Alice said again, because they all must’ve had a hand in that, too.

  “And we haven’t even gotten to the main course yet!” Gerald said.

  “You don’t mean to tell me there’s more, my good fellow?” Phillip said, eyes wide.

  “Oh, but I do! A succulent main course with all the trimmings! Biscuits, sauces, stuffing, gravy, potatoes, and the juiciest, most succulent bird you’ll ever sink your teeth into, dear Phillip!”

  “Surely, you’re pulling my leg, sir!”

  “I wouldn’t do that! I wouldn’t do that at all! And still, I haven’t even mentioned dessert!”

  Phillip choked on a deviled egg and looked at Gerald in obvious surprise. “On top of all this! You don’t mean to tell me there’s dessert?”

  “Well, it might not be on top of all this. It will be served to the side. But yes! There will be dessert! I meant it the first time, and I mean again now. I will say it twice. Dessert, dear Phillip! Dessert!”

  “Well,” said Phillip. “I’m at a complete an utter loss. An utter loss! This must be the finest, the grandest, the most sublime of feasts in all of Storyville! I feel very lucky to be a part of it! Very lucky, indeed!”

  “I thought as much,” Gerald said.

  “Gerald, my good man?”

  “Yes, my dear Phillip?”

  “Would you be so kind as to inform me…of the kind of dessert we shall be partaking of? The kind of dessert, I say, that will be gracing this glorious table?”

  Alice clapped her hands at all this, smiling wide, her cheeks—like her mother’s—rosy red. Jack watched this harmless parody, unable to keep from laughing. Jane, it should be said, had tears in her eyes. It was quite the scene.

  “Well, I could, dear Phillip,” Gerald went on, “but you may have trouble controlling yourself. You may, in fact, my good sir, faint right here, dead on the spot, and if I tell you, I’d want you to regain your equilibrium, sir. There it is.”

  “I will control myself, Gerald. I will, if only you will tell me. I will keep my equilibrium about me.”

  “You promise?”

  “I do indeed.”

  Gerald looked around, smiled at everyone, paused for effect, then looked at Phillip. “Pie,” he said.

  Phillip choked on a deviled egg. His eyes bulged, watering with tears. He coughed politely into his fist, cleared his throat, and asked:

  “Did I just hear you correctly, sir?”

  “That you did.”

  “You said, ‘Pie.’”

  “If you would like me to say it again, Phillip, I will. ‘Pie,’ I said the first time, and ‘Pie’ I say the second. Thrice, for record. ‘Pie.’ There it is; there you have it, and that is the end of it.”

  “Magnificent,” Phillip said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Splendiferous. Obsta-triperous, and over all, Wonder-iferous. Splendid, Gerald. Splendid! I think I shall cry!”

  “I thought you’d like that, Phillip. But it is the kind of pie sir, in which you really should control yourself. It might, in fact, send you into delirium.”

  “Please, sir,” Phillip said. “Be merciful.”

  “Three kinds,” Gerald said.

  “Oh, dear!”

  “Chocolate.”

  “I think I’m going to faint!”

  “Pumpkin!”

  “Wooziness coming,” Phillip said, putting a hand to his brow. “Need to sit down.”

  “And raspberry,” Gerald finished.

  Phillip closed his eyes and sat down in the nearest chair. “Someone get me a glass of water,” he said. “I can’t take it anymore! Equilibrium shattered.”

  This warranted a round of loud, hearty laughter and applause from Jane, Jack, Alice, even Gerald.

  “Bravo!” Jack cried, clapping his hands. “Bravo!”

  Everyone was clapping now. Jane wiped tears from her eyes. Alice simply glowed with radiance.

  “Stand up, dear fellow,” Gerald said, helping Phillip to his feet. “And give them a bow! We are in the presence of greatness!”

  Phillip stood, and together, he and Gerald bowed. Alice, Jack, and Jane were all maniacal with jeers, shouts of praise, whistles, and laughter.

  “Thank you. Thank you,” Gerald said. He turned to Phillip. “Really a marvelous performance, my friend. You are quite the entertainer, sir.”

  The two men shook hands, clapped each other on the back, and accepted the praise around the table.

  “Couldn’t have done it without you, my good fellow,” Phillip said.

  “Now, if you don’t mind, dear Phillip,” Gerald said. “I’d like to continue sampling the finer arts of these exquisite delicacies.”

  “In other words, ‘To finish what we came here for.’”

  “Well said, my good sir,” Gerald said, clapping Phillip on the back. “Well said, indeed!”

  *

  Jane used her finest China for the feast. The potatoes steamed from a large, ceramic bowl beside a plate of also steaming hot rolls. Cranberry sauce, gravy, stuffing, steamed carrots in garlic and thyme surrounded the golden, juicy bird, which sat perfectly centered in the middle of the table alongside a plate of sliced ham. The pies sat on the counter in the kitchen.

  Gerald, at the head of the table, grabbed his wine glass—filled with grape juice—and proposed a toast. He stood up, pushing his chair back and held his glass out. Everybody grabbed their glasses.

  “Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “I would, of course, like to thank you all for coming. The Lions lost, and I think the Cowboys are playing now, but we’re not here for football games, at least some of us. Phillip,” he said, turning to the man sitting beside Jack. “You and Jacky-boy have been in Storyville for a long time now, and Jane and I have only just now gotten to know you. Let me say, it was well worth the wait. It has been—as far as I can tell—a budding friendship, to say the least. For this, I am immeasurably thankful. It feels very natural having you here. You are part of the family as far as I’m concerned. So, this toast is to quaint visits, to the warmth we share in our home—with you, my good man. Here’s to celebrating the holidays with family and close friends. But then again, I mentioned you’re already one of the family. Did I say that already? Yes, I think I did. I must say, my dear fellow, it has been a privilege, an honor, an absolute joy getting to know you and your little Jacky-boy. To you and yours this Thanksgiving Day! Thank yo
u for coming. Jane, Alice, and myself have been truly blessed. This toast is to all of us! This glorious feast in which we are about to partake. Jane and the little ones went far and above the call of duty, I believe!”

  “Here here!” they all cried at once. The sound of clinking, chiming crystal resounded over the table as they touched their glasses together. The sound, like a holiday melody, foreshadowed more festivity.

  They finished the toast, drank, and Gerald began to carve the bird. The food was passed around. Soon, they were all feasting, complimenting the meal, laughing, and getting along splendidly. Second helpings were served. The butter dwindled bit by bit with each biscuit taken. The gravy was poured in generous amounts on mountainous piles of potatoes and succulent slices of turkey. The ham, too, was relished with glee. The carrots disappeared, the green bean salad, the cranberry sauce, the stuffing, yet the rosy-cheeked revelers still made room for pie. Phillip, of course, surprised everyone by having a slice of each. Though he was gorging himself to his limit, he was ready for a nap by the end of it all. He sat on the couch afterwards, his legs out in front of him, while the Cowboys played the Dolphins, his hand on his belly, unable to believe how much he’d eaten. Jack continued to nibble and snack, the sight of all this food too much to enjoy in one sitting. He was a machine, shoveling in buttered biscuits, slices of ham, deviled eggs, carrots, more stuffing, slices of turkey and gravy, like a wheel going round and round, wondering what he should partake of next. Minutes after he was full, Jack went back to the table and made another plate much to the surprise of everyone there.

  The football game moved into the fourth quarter, and everybody helped Jane clear the table and wash the dishes. She made coffee and cocoa afterwards, and they sat around the television in the living room, not saying much, but chatting idly to the television, or to each other. Jane made a hearty plate of leftovers for Phillip and Jack to take home. It was and had been a wonderful holiday, and Jack and Alice would remember it for a long, long time. They smiled at each other, made faces, crossed their eyes, giggled, and did all those goofy, ridiculous things kids do to amuse themselves.

  And with that, autumn came to a close, making way for the snows of winter…

  PART III

  A WARMER THAN USUAL WINTER

  CHAPTER IX

  FROSTY RAISES THE PINK FLAG,

  AND PHILLIP FINDS ANGELS AT HIS TABLE

  Winter came before its designated time. Though, December was officially the winter solstice, the snow came earlier in Storyville that year, and as anyone will tell you, snow is the true sign of winter’s arrival. In Storyville, once the snow fell, rain was not seen or heard again until April or May. The snow was falling now. It fell in large, ticklish flakes the size of silver dollars. It stuck to the ground and piled high across lawns, meadows, rooftops, streets, storefronts, and parked cars. It lay heavy, white, and cold on the branches of every tree. It sparkled blindingly in the sun when the clouds parted; it stuck in powdery colossal depth under a leaden, overcast sky. Once dormant snowplows clanked to life and cleared the streets. Storyville’s brethren pulled out their snow shovels, snow blowers, cleared their walks as best they could, and still the snow fell. It was a beautiful snow, a fresh, virgin snow, and more people than most smiled gleefully as it fell. Boys and girls jumped from rooftops into the drifts piling alongside their houses. They built snowmen and forts.

  Like the Halloween decorations, the Thanksgiving decorations had been taken down, put in their boxes until next year, making way for another anticipated holiday. Colored lights hung, adorning the eaves, bushes, and windows of every house in Storyville. Wreaths hung on every business door. The local Supermarket sold an entire lot of Christmas trees. Nativity scenes, reindeer, sleighs, elves, and Santa Clause—in his round, red, jolly, and jelly-like glory, stood on rooftops, windows, doorways—reputed to make an early visit to Storyville that year. Christmas lights lined Main Street. Cars drove with Christmas tress strapped to their roofs. Hot cocoa, soup, cider, and peppermint tea flew from grocery store shelves. The wood that had been chopped in autumn was kindling in fireplaces now. Smoke rose from every chimney. And still the snow fell. The meadows outside Storyville and the mountains lay in vast, unbroken, stretches of white. When twilight came and the clouds parted (if only briefly), the stars shone radiant in a town glowing under a pale blue moon.

  In town, the denizens tipped their hats, nodded, and greeted one another cordially. Christmas was everyone’s favorite time of year, and goodwill to all resounded through the streets. They purchased their gifts and carried them by the armloads in bright, colorful packages to their automobiles. School closed for three weeks; the children laughed and played, and still, the snow continued to fall.

  So much for frozen, slushy, bitter cold! Bells clamored and echoed through the streets! Every season owned its special magic, and winter was no different. Spring budded with the brightness of life. Summer was a lazy reflection, timeless imagination before the rustling of autumn. But here, winter joy was visible in every visage. Blinding ripples of gaiety moved outward in all directions. Light warmed every man, woman, and child. It rejuvenated the frailest bones, turns the bitterest and hardest of hearts inside out. It clamored and blared! What dark and frigid season is this? Surely, not winter! But winter it was, and it was holiday time! It melted stone. It rebuilt everything from the ground up and made it new. It built…castles!

  *

  And because of the snow, Jacky-boy played. It was Christmas vacation, after all, and that meant—in its own right—a return to fantasy and imagination. Jack couldn’t be happier. He’d labored enough this year, and it was time to make the holiday burn bright, so a snow-filled celebration was in order. Phillip was in town at the shop, despite the deep snow, and Jacky-boy was left to tend the cottage alone, which was fine with him. He had endless amounts of time to fill in the space, plenty of adventures, and countless characters to pretend and play with. Needless to say, Jack never got bored. He loved winter in all its pure white glory. Nothing was more beautiful to him than the falling white snow and the dark, gray skies. It made his heart swell. Sometimes, he could stand out here for hours just looking at the snow. He never got cold and he never grew tired of it. Hours in the snow, days in winter, never seemed enough. He loved the Christmas lights as well, the trees, the scenes in the yards, everything that Christmas was, and everything Christmas represented. Jack Bristol had no trouble getting in touch with his spirit. It danced, hollered, and jumped for joy. It threw snowballs high into the air, giggled, and laughed. This year seemed different than years past, too. Maybe it had to do with school, Alice, how well things were going for him. He certainly had a lot to smile about, and overall, Jack was a very happy boy. He’d gone away for a time, turned inward like he sometimes did, but having Alice near had pulled him out. She refused to see him fail.

  What was not to love after all with Halloween, Thanksgiving, and the times they’d had together, and with their parents so far? It was shaping up to be a good year, he thought. And, in winter, Jack felt more child-like than ever.

  What a silly thing to think, Jack thought, and laughed at the idea.

  But there was more truth in that statement then he realized. He believed he was immortal, a lasting child filled with glee. Jack would never grow up, he told himself. It was his personal doctrine. He refused to conform to the world’s progression. It began inside; as long as he kept his heart young, never allowing life to embitter it, he would live forever. He would never grow old. Yes, he thought. His heart had a face, a boy younger and more imaginative than Jack himself. Warm winter made his heart, colorful spring, imaginative summer, and restless autumn. Jack hummed with energy, a low sound just beneath his skin. It breathed with intensity.

  Jack laughed at this thought. Snowflakes tickled his nose as they fell. He was dressed in a large, winter coat, boots, hat, and gloves. He was in the first stages of building a snowman, and the snow—after such a deluge of white—was finally tapering off, sometimes in sporadic s
purts, sometimes nothing at all.

  Despite it being noon already, Jack had left the Christmas lights on. Along the eaves of the house, the lights were tiny stars of color. The tree—also lighted—was visible in the living room window. The lights and the decorations added to what was already a festive feeling for Jack. He wished the month of December could last forever.

  While building his snowman, he looked to the lights, to the tree in the window, and smiled. His eyes sparkled. Looking at Jack, despite his cold, red cheeks, you could say a light was emanating outward from deep within. Jack could feel this light; he was quite aware of it. He felt it on his fingers, making him feel like he could perform magic. Jack was a tiny cherub, bundled beneath layers of shirts, sweaters, and winter clothes.

  He’d been rolling a giant snowball across the yard for the last hour. Now, it was so big, he couldn’t push it anymore. He panted for breath, clouds of breath pluming from his lungs. Now, he had the daunting task of rolling another ball, half the size, and lifting it onto the one he already had.

  He was thinking this when he saw Alice standing by the fence, wearing a lime green coat, gloves, and a knit hat to match. Jack’s back throbbed from pushing the snowball, and he was still trying to catch his breath. Alice opened the gate and made the short trek across the yard where Jack stood knee deep in the snow. The clouds were low and dark, and a light snow began to taper through the air again.

  “Hello, Alice,” Jack said, surprised. “What brings you here?”

  Alice was also panting for breath, apparently from the long trek through the deep snow as well. “I’ve been cooped up in the house, so I thought I’d come by and say hello. So, Hello. Thought maybe you’d want to play.”

  “Fantastic, Alice. You can help me build Frosty.”

  “Looks like you got Frosty started already.”

  “My back hurts,” Jack said. “Building a snowman is hard work.”

  “I’ll say. You’re still panting for breath, and your face is all red.”