by M. R. Adams
Christopher looked at the old man. Something was off. Something in the eye: an unconscious scrutiny, or anticipation. Grandfather was bluffing. Or was he? He wasn’t the bluffing type:
“Father didn’t mention a composition.”
Grandfather collapsed his hands together and raised an eyebrow. Rubbing his thumbs together, he said:
“Come to think, I didn’t tell him. I had this idea moments after his departure. My mind truly isn’t as sharp as it used to be.” Grandfather sat back. “So you have no critique of this summer’s events?”
Christopher switched crossed legs. There it was again: that notion that he should have something to say.
“I think it’s a travesty,” said Christopher.
“There we go. Some honesty. It’s good to have these things all out on the table.” Grandfather stood, walked around his desk and sat on its edge. “I do expect to get some...” he nodded his head, “to get some...grief, let’s say, for having a casino night, but your moth–”
“I get it.”
“But she–”
“I got it.” Christopher sat up in his chair and looked over to the bookshelf lining the wall. He should get something to read.
“Christopher.”
The Mayor of Casterbridge. Depressing.
“Christopher. I think we need to talk–”
“No, no we don’t. I’m fine. And I don’t want to keep you from–” Madame Bovary. Ugh. How overdone. When starlets carry it around to seem deep, you know it’s time to give it a rest.
“You’ve never asked...inquired...you must–”
“I don’t need to be pitied over memories that aren’t mine and don’t concern me.” Christopher returned his gaze to his grandfather who, with arms folded, looked at him: criticizing him with the beady eyes between lids in an open squint, judging him, giving him even more reason to keep this meeting short by keeping his mouth shut. Every summer the same routine, why didn’t the old bat just get that he didn’t care–that he was missing an emotional chip and–
“I feel perhaps I’ve been giving your tongue too much slack,” said Grandfather.
Christopher’s mouth trembled. A tingle in the back of his head that pushed into a burning under the skull of his forehead–his jaw clenched, his shoulders tightened.
Grandfather slid off his desk and returned to his chair: “We’re done here. And I’ll be seeing you later for our family time, our first session.” He took up his pen and let it hover over his pad. “As I’m sure your father has shared with you.” He wrote.
Christopher saw wrinkles in his pinstripe slacks; so he grabbed the fabric at the thigh and pulled, then smoothed out his shirt, then pulled his tweed coat around him. He just hoped Mr. Timpleton didn’t take it too far for there was a line, not as fine as so many seem to think, between a titch of repartee and a stifling of the–“Shut up.”
“Excuse me?” said Grandfather, looking up from his pad.
“Nothing,” said Christopher.
“Gather yourself, my boy,” said Grandfather. “I said we were done here.”
Christopher stood. He should’ve made a trip to Main Street. He could’ve used the air. That old boarder took at least three naps a day which one would’ve thought been wonderful, making things as if he hadn’t been living there at all, but just the feeling of his presence radiating through the floor boards, just the potential of interaction created an itch for a spot of fun.
He yawned. Looking around, he found himself down the hall. Behind him: Grandfather’s office door, shut. He wondered what Grandfather had been writing, but never being the kind to dwell on issues he was in no position to solve, he continued down the hall, trying to feel where he was to go before he made it to the opened double cathedral doors that led to the central hall, the central stair.
Meanwhile, Horatio was in the position of seeing what he had written: “1:23. Outburst: Shut up.” It was a good thing Dr. Hibbert would be taking up temporary residence, for the summer seemed to be taking its toll on all of them, and with him taking up as a writing mentor it would be easy to get Christopher to get the help that Christopher himself would never have approved of receiving: Dr. Hibbert would come, help his grandson with his writing, and if in the process the boy, connecting artist to artist, felt so comfortable around the doctor as to begin confiding in him, then all the better. Maybe he could even enlist the good doctor to talk some sense into Richard, getting him to end his relations with Sally–he had considered the repercussions of this, but Richard was becoming foolhardy, carrying out his sordid deed about the manor in such a family destructive manner (especially during such an important season)–and, with Richard onboard with terminating his rendezvous, not latching on to that parasitic woman as some way to keep his fingers grasped onto some delusional sense of free-thinking, Sally should openly make her exit from their lives with her mouth and legs shut, along with the ever cliché sum of money. Never having more than a hundred dollars at one time, Sally would surely underestimate the Crawford’s financial situation and at some point would ask for more than they could give but no matter, because by then he would’ve already come up with a measure or two to deal with her.
Perhaps if Richard had remarried to a suitable young woman–he was a man, surely he knew marrying for true love was a luxury lucky to have happened once–but if Richard had years upon years ago remarried to a decent woman for at least the sake of his family instead of resorting to his self-indulgent, self-serious moping while everyone else picked up and carried on, then perhaps Jessica would’ve had a role model and confidant, and Robert would’ve experienced more of a motherly affection (even if it was step-motherly, at least it was feminine) and he wouldn’t confuse someone’s sympathy for a power play (a trait he regretfully felt he had passed on to his grandson), and Christopher would’ve had a mother’s softer hand, too young to recollect Anna, and too something–stubborn?–sensitive?–to even venture an inquiry. In other words, if Richard had been a parent, everything would’ve been perfect, not in an idealistic way of course, just perfect in the way that Life is, where despite all bumps and bruises, there is always a sense that everything, for the most part, has worked out.
The tapping of shoes–Horatio watched the door. The tapping louder. Clearer. He wasn’t expecting anyone.
A knock.
Horatio turned over his pad. “Come in.”
The door opened, and Mertyl Dunn walked in.
“Mertyl. Surely you haven’t been waiting.” Horatio stood and held his hand out to the chair with gilded arms.
“Yes, I have been,” said Mertyl, raising her hand to Horatio and standing behind the chair, “I know you had meetings. If I didn’t want to wait, I would’ve come at a different time or made an appointment.”
“True. And thank you.” Horatio took his seat once more. Mertyl was never one to visit–and now, unannounced? By the way she stared off into the distance, she was either in thought, or pretending to be in thought while actually staring at the crystal vase filled with darkened roses on the circular end table under the window in the corner.
Mertyl rubbed her thumbs along the back of the chair.
“Forgive me,” she said, “I need just a moment to compose my thoughts.”
“Take your time.”
“No, no. I’ve had enough time. Enough time to do so much. And I’ve done so much. And yet so little.” She looked back to the door as if someone had entered, then, swinging back to Horatio: “I have horrible news.”
“I assumed.”
“I’ll be direct.”
“Preferable.”
“Sally Keeter has the human immunodeficiency virus.”
“HIV?” said Horatio, unsure if his voice had come out as steady as he wished. If he were more prone to giving in to his emotions, he’d think Mertyl could see the thump of his chest.
“It sounds dirty when you put it that way.”
“In this case, it is dirty. The situation was dirty before this consideration, and the stigma
gives it an almost unbearable stench. Like green eggs on green ham. Ha ha.” Jessica used to love that story.
“If you need humor to deal with this, I understand.”
“Thank you, Mertyl.” His chest constricted. He monitored his arm, it was tingling, but he assumed the sensation was from the awareness and it would’ve been more numbing, or more sharply tingling, if from a heart attack.
“Oh, Horatio. I-I am so–”
“Silence, Mertyl.”
“But–”
“Don’t speak. Sit.”
Mertyl swirled her body around the chair and sat. She was so dignified in public: back straight, lips taut, but with him she always showed glimpses of that girl taking on her first social work case, determined to save the world, one client at a time.
“Poor Richard,” said Mertyl to herself.
“No ‘Poor Richard.’ He made his bed, above and below ground, and he’ll choose whether or not to tuck himself in. And I will not be the one giving him more reason to pittle about like a dog missing its chew toy.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’ve no intention of telling him anything. Yet.”
“What?”
“What’s done is done.”
“But there may be some chance he hasn’t contracted the virus, but if relations continue–and she cooks–the children–one cut–she’s so reckless–and what if by some miracle God feels that we’ve done enough, accomplished enough, been through enough to warrant a blessing–but to continue–”
“Compose yourself, Mertyl. We’ve been through worse.”
“No we haven’t. No issue of life and death has ever come up. We may act as if life is always on the line, but that’s just to more greatly ensure success in our endeavors to pry Laurel’s jaws open.”
“I’ve already decided it is time to have Sally removed. Should’ve been done years ago. A lot has slacked, but it’s a new season, a time for change. As for Richard and the children, they will submit to blood tests under the guise of drug tests. My grandchildren will readily believe I’m being a tyrant, and Richard will comply to keep them from carrying on about unfair treatment.”
The corners of Dr. Dunn’s lips raised, slightly.
“The blessing of this,” said Horatio, “is that I now have the strength to have that woman removed immediately and I will assuredly act with a conviction that I didn’t have before. I will call her once you leave to notify her, she no longer warrants the etiquette of being released professionally, in person. And as I said before, Mertyl, I don’t need Richard sulking in a dark, manic-depressive cloud, so no word until the results are in. If Richard has dodged a bullet, I will reveal the truth to him so perhaps he will understand the importance of keeping his poker out of hell’s fires, and if we find ourselves with some misfortune, well–”
“You’ll surely tell him at some point,” said Mertyl, standing.
“Yes. Perhaps in the fall.” Horatio sighed. The idea of opening Crawford Manor only to have to close it again was one not ready to be entertained. He had thought he had caught Richard at the pass of his self-destruction. Maybe he hadn’t. But he’d choose optimism until further notice.
He looked up to see Mertyl watching him. She nodded. He nodded in return. She took her leave, but stopped half way out, and said:
“I will be of service any way I can in containing Sally. And–” Her speech had thickened; she cleared her throat. “And I have some plans for how to expand funds for the new scholarship proposal. But that can wait. For the fall.” She completed her exit.
With the door shut, Horatio wrote, “The Keeters,” then he flipped to a previous page in his pad and, under “Merlot roses,” he saw “Mertyl’s replacement. Eliza?” and crossed it out with a laugh and a swoop of the wrist. He should’ve foreseen her return all along.
CHAPTER FIVE
Claire Gets a Bullseye
Eliza, Jessica, and Claire Covington stood, respectively, on a dense mat on the sprawling plains of Covington lawn, practicing their archery on targets pinned to hay stacks a distance out: red bullseye surrounded by violet ring, surrounded by orange, surrounded by indigo, then yellow, then blue, and finally green–a pattern hand-designed by Claire when she was eight for its prettiness (inspired by the rainbow) and its plethora of rings which made it more likely for even the novice to score.
Claire raised her bow and arrow, pulled back, and released...the arrow sailed through the air...and planted itself in the orange ring.
Eliza raised her bow and arrow, pulled back, and released–the arrow hopped into the grass five yards out, the bow going boooiinnngg.
Jessica raised her bow and arrow, pulled back, and released...bullseye.
“Wonderful, Miss Crawford,” said Eliza, scratching her knee through her jeans.
“Yes, Jessica. Excellence as usual,” said Claire. She never understood why Jessica was so good. She barely took lessons, and she had confessed to Claire years ago, when they were ten, that she only took up archery because her grandfather wanted them to become close, upon which Claire readily admitted that she only took up ballet (her father going through pains–bribes–to have her put in Jessica’s private lessons with some legendary Madame Hussein) for the same reason. Two years later and her father was still paying for these pains which delayed the arrival of her horse, Buttercup.
Anyway, their patriarchs had succeeded so well, Claire and Jessica had become so close, that they refused to turn on each other by dishing dirt. Claire maintained the secret of Jessica’s father and their cook, and Jessica maintained Claire’s secrets, like how her father had been running the family into the ground financially with poor investments. In their youth, the two became conspirers, pulling books from Jessica’s grandfather’s bookshelves hoping when the right book was unlodged (she had betted on The Sun Also Rises) that a secret passage would’ve been revealed: a stone path leading to a rickety metal spiral staircase leading to another stone passage lit by fire torches leading to a cavern with a lagoon, a canoe on its shore, which would lead to some dungeon where they would’ve found Fargus Sleamton paying for his atrocious use of the n-word.
She had missed Jessica the first week she left for Oxford (leaving under the pretense of acclimating to the new culture before attending university) and that fondness grew stronger as it was even more justified by Jessica’s true display of friendship: not calling her out after leaving, and returning, so abruptly, without word. She was sure Jessica had already worked things out in her mind, giving her the benefit of the doubt like when she gave her the fifteen thousand dollars to cover her loss on Lover’s Wish at the track, blaming her excessive behavior on Stephen for allowing her to get tipsy on chardonnay and betting the money in the first place. A good friend indeed.
Claire’s surroundings came into focus. She was unaware she had even drifted. Jessica’s target had a second arrow pointing out of the violet ring and a maid, as thin and erect as a propped ironing board, had gone past a haystack to fetch Eliza’s arrow.
Steadying herself, she raised her bow and arrow–but she didn’t really care–release…this was pointless, she should’ve just made tea, she was too distracted to…bullseye.
“Oh, oh,” said Claire, clasping her hands.
“Beautiful,” said Jessica.
“Thank you thank you.”
“Good job,” said Eliza, sighing.
Claire frowned. Eliza. What business did she have socializing with teenagers? Granted each generation was growing up faster than the last–perhaps some too fast, soon they’d revert to the dark ages where it was normal for one to be knocked up and betrothed at fourteen: the curve would go down only once again to go back up–but enough. Eliza was twenty-six. Maybe older. Hard to tell: the au naturale look could at once age and regress, like the optical illusion where you can see either a young beauty or a hag.
Claire turned to her dear friend: “Jessica?”
“Yes?”
Booooiiiiing. An arrow stuck up in the ground between Eli
za’s feet.
“Hmph,” said Claire, “How about we just free range it. No turns necessary.”
Jessica nodded, then took up another arrow from the silver cylinder slung across her back. Claire followed suit. When Jessica’s arrow was released into the air, Claire instead looked at her own target. Competition, even if unintentional, was just inappropriate at this moment.
“Let me apologize,” said Claire, raising her bow and arrow, “for having left and returned so abruptly.”
“You don’t–”
Boooooiiiiiing.
“–have to explain,” said Jessica.
“Of course I do.” She released the arrow...There was a constriction in her throat that she hoped didn’t corrupt the statement, but she wished Jessica would’ve sensed her earnestness (fine fine anxiety) and stopped being so blasé. It wasn’t like her to be so off, which surely Jessica must’ve noticed, so clearly the gravity of the situation should’ve been weighing heavily on both of them. Jessica probably did feel it, but considered it appropriate to keep up appearances in front of Eliza. She looked out: an arrow shaft shooting out an indigo ring. She was getting worse.
“If you didn’t tell me, it must’ve been serious. Everyone’s entitled to their privacy.”
Claire smiled. That was an improvement but it wouldn’t suffice. She was still being too nonchalant. She should’ve seen that Claire needed to talk and stopped shooting her arrows, looked at her, and assured her they would talk once she came up with some means of getting rid of Eliza.
Claire leaned over. “I had something taken care of,” she said.
Jessica perked up. She lowered her bow and squinted as she waved her head from side to side.
“What on earth are you looking at?” said Claire.
“I knew your nose was different,” said Jessica. “It looks great.”
Goodness. “No. Something more important than vanity was tended to.” And what was wrong with her nose?
Claire widened her eyes and jerked her head towards Jessica hoping to transmit human thought between them. Jessica surely wasn’t this dense. No, she just never would’ve imagined that–
