by M. R. Adams
“Are you going to stare out the window all day,” he said, “or will you come say hi?”
“I’m fine,” said Christopher, slowly turning his head to meet Robert’s stare. “But thanks for the invitation of inclusion.”
“Why don’t you try not acting as spoiled as you are for once?”
“Why don’t you try not acting as tyrannical as a tyrant for once?”
“Redundant word play? Cute–Immature–Seussical. You always resort to smartassness. I’m trying–”
“To be Grandfather. And failing.”
Robert flushed. The heat in the cheeks caused a buzzing in the head. God, he hated–“You self-centered little brat.”
“You highfalutin fucker.”
“I swear you need a lobotomy.”
“And you need an enema.” Christopher grinned. “Or a lay. I hear Cl–”
“Shut up you little shit.”
“Boys,” said Grandfather.
Robert turned: Grandfather standing, Jessica’s mouth agape, Stephen looking about the room, the occasional clearing of the throat.
“Excuse us,” said Christopher, sliding his legs off the sill and crossing them, “This is how we bond.”
Grandfather glared. “As I said, I think Mr. Dawes is prepared to leave. I assume you’ll be giving him a ride, Robert?”
“I can walk,” said Stephen. “I prefer it. I was actually looking forward to seeing the grounds.” Robert observed the fidgeting Stephen, a container of anxieties today, preferring Nightmare Manor over his own home, where surely Claire had left messages.
“Robert,” said Grandfather. “Give Stephen a tour of the new garden, then a ride home.” He turned to Stephen: “I’m sure your mother is expecting you. You know how trembling she can get.”
“Yes, Sir,” said Stephen.
Robert brisked through the living room, whisking passed the table, passed Grandfather standing before the patched chair, passed Stephen and Jessica, until he was in the foyer and then out the front door where he stood on the step’s edge, against a column. He waited. Creaking. A stumble. The door closed. He descended down the steps and headed towards the garden. Claire deserved better.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Dawes at Loften
Laura Dawes sat in her small writing room at her small writing desk, hand slightly trembling, hence calligraphy pen also slightly trembling, as she tried to place it on the tactile stationary with daisies growing along the edges. But she finally managed to write, “Dear Mother.” She observed the quivery letters, then folded the paper and placed it in the small wooden bin at her side. Stephen should’ve been home.
She unsheathed a fresh sheet of paper from the desk’s drawer. No, she’d wait. Until Stephen was home. And they had eaten. As a family. Then she’d write the letter, asking her mother for yet more money. Another loan–“business”–as her husband liked to put it. But surely it wasn’t that pressing; they–he–still must’ve had some leftover from the previous loan, the previous business. Perhaps she should’ve typed the letter when the time came. Her nerves wouldn’t’ve shown (at least not on the screen), but then there was the text. And it would’ve shown in the text, assuming she wasn’t careful. And she’d be careful. But still it should’ve been written, because A) it was her mother and B) her mother was the kind of woman who appreciated those kinds of gestures–personal gestures with personality. But maybe that was wrong: her mother being delivered this dainty letter with its daisies and calligraphy from her dear daughter only to find a request, particularly a monetary one, the most selfish of all requests, when anticipating of something intimate would deepen the disappointment all the more. She should’ve learned e-mail more thoroughly, but e-mail was generally tacky, reeking of avoidance, and the least she could’ve done was take as much responsibility as possible. If her mother had lived closer, she would’ve asked in person. But thankfully, she didn’t. Anyway, she was probably too old to judge something so new as tacky. She, herself, was probably the tacky one. But she could call. Yes, she could call. The voice outweighed the hand in this matter. And look, the hand stilled. She’d call. The stationary was sheathed–weeks of calligraphy lessons still put to no use. The small wooden box was placed once more in the drawer. With a sigh, she sat back.
After a moment of watching dust particles waft and wave, she stood from the small writing desk, changed from her heels to her ballet slippers, and left the small writing room. She pulled an iron key with a robin’s head as its head from her dress’s faux faux-pocket, stuck it in the lock, turned the quarter turn until she felt the click, then returned the key to its home in the faux faux-pocket.
Walking down the dark, narrow hall, she came out into the sunlit foyer and continued to head for the kitchen–she could’ve used a bite to eat–but she paused at the muffled sound of feet, which were surely running the living room rug thin with their pacing. Shouldn’t she have peaked in? Fulfilled her wifely duty? No, no. That would’ve been an insult. He was a grown man who could discern his own issues. Alone. Like an adult. And it was probably business oriented–what did she know about those things? He’d prefer to talk to Stephen. And she was no good to anyone hungry. She’d sit on the couch while he droned on, and she’d slip into a fantasy about her intended treat–but she had to hurry before the maid caught on and tried to make one for her or her husband’s pacing had its intended effect of inspiring a solution to his conundrum, leaving him to meddle in her affairs and ruin the ecstasy of her snack: two slices of thick whole grain bread toasted in butter on the stovetop, four slices of sharp cheddar cheese melted in between, shiny as a yolk, and then the icing on the cake, a third slice of buttered and stovetop toasted bread slathered with black cherry preserve and placed on top. Yes, she’d eat first, avoiding the raising of blood pressures for her and all those who had no business being involved.
She finished crossing the main foyer then through the dining room, through the swinging doors into the kitchen.
Meanwhile, Stephen Dawes Sr., pacing back and forth before the glass coffee table in the living room, occasionally stopping his motions in front of the portal to see down the small hall, half expecting his wife to be making her way down to check on him. But he knew to expect anything was foolish. He’d hear the clacking of her heels before he saw the daintiness of her walk.
He needed an ear–a sounding board–before Stephen got home from his work with Crawford. Plans were aligning. But Laura. Where was she? Everything had been fine before he found out about her private room. Now, the summer was progressing as planned but there seemed a cloud over the affair. She should’ve done a better job at keeping her secret. Everything was becoming uneasy.
He told her how insane it was. She acted like a prisoner in her own house. She had agreed, nodding as he encouraged her to not coop herself up, only to resume activity in that dark, damp, and dusty room when there were larger rooms upstairs with picture windows that invited the sun as opposed to windows half covered with shudders (and she wouldn’t even consider having the shudders removed). He’d suggest moving into something more spacious, she’d nod, then return to her room. He’d suggest again, she’d nod, then return to her room.
Ever since that restless night, 3 a.m., when he wandered downstairs to see a flickering flame float from the room, discovering his wife, the same wife who was supposed to be too frail to bear the cold of such early hours, had been keeping this secret from him for who knows how long, things had not been quite the same. And now, she didn’t even bother sneaking into the room as before: three hours in the early morning (according to the new maid), an hour before lunch, two hours after lunch, then another three hours when the house was asleep (well, when she supposed the house was asleep).
He had taken a week off to be with her, suspecting loneliness to be the dis-ease and this self-isolation a symptom, but even then she only shortened her time in the room by half an hour for each session. He should’ve at least gotten an emergency veto, like now, being able to call her out to dis
cuss matters that affected the family. This was a different time–a new age. No need for a man to bare all burdens. A family was a team.
But whenever he peaked in to call her out, she’d startle, he’d ask for her time, she’d nod, say in a minute, but ten passed; so he’d check again, she’d startle, he’d ask for her time, she’d nod, say in a minute, then thirty would pass; and this would repeat until 2:30 p.m., her established ending of her after lunch session. She was uncannily embracing of silence and stillness. And she always came out at her scheduled time. Even though there was no clock in the room.
Stephen Sr. came to his senses. He was paused at the fireplace, the reflection of matted blonde hair and gray-blue eyes stretched in the copper plate on the mantle. He resumed his pace. He needed an ear. All had such potential–Stephen would be home, Claire was home, and he had gotten the news, the vote for the Riverdale scholarship had been moved up.
It had taken months to lasso that mountain and rein it in. But it would be worth it. With Horatio, and thus Mertyl, distracted by the memorial and their usurping of summer for their grandstanding and powerplaying, they’d never see the vote coming, never have time to rally their troops, and they probably hadn’t even secured a stable funding source for the scholarship. No time to publicize, to soap box, to guilt people into right-doing–which was noble, but not democratic. For once, something would be handled without airs: the vote would come, the vote would go. It was time for Horatio to know his place, to understand the importance of team playing; community; interdependence. Take himself for example, living in Loften, the house of Luke and Lindy Loften, Laura’s parents. He did not take their offer to live in the home as an insult to his manhood. They were family, a team, working together to take care of one another.
With Horatio shamed (a terrible lesson for one man to put another man through given the season but necessary nevertheless), he’d have to accept he wasn’t the infallible god he thought himself to be, and the community could return to some sense of normalcy, no longer putting school board meetings on hold because Horatio was on some business or feeling mandated–coerced–to show up to a series of events or risk the hammer fisted wrath of the manor’s King. (A casino night–how the almighty doesn’t have to lower himself to social order–to feel the least obligated to exercise grief in a way befitting civilization.)
After months of pouring over the school’s charter and constitution, he had found what he needed, but none of it was in the documents. Yet, even though no one sentence triggered the idea, there must’ve been something there, a spirit of founding fatherdom moving him to liberate West Umpton, to squash Horatio’s proposed scholarship. He had Dant use his authority as board president to amend the voting by-laws, putting the votes (ten) and the time between the announcement (a tiny write-up in a local newsletter for ant aficionados) and the day of the vote (two months away) at their legal minimums. O’Connelly, Smynoff, and Guest were on board as well. He’d even considered Sleamton, who was righteously independent–but not from arrogance. No, his independence was more from a dignified solidarity, and a queerness in character. But he had always proven sociable, good company, one to enjoy a scotch and Cuban.
Stephen stopped in front of the portal: not a sound of Laura. But that was better. She’d fluster him. He had sorted things out much faster on his own. And Stephen should’ve finished with Crawford a while ago. He must’ve stopped by Claire’s. A good sign. Meant her leaving didn’t do much damage.
Stephen was so much like him, always putting aside petty differences for the long-term good. He and Claire were the characters that fairy tales were spun around: the prince and the princess overcoming obstacles, having their happily ever after, and beautiful grandchildren wouldn’t hurt, little blonde curly headed children (Stephen Jr.’s hair used to be curly, tight waves flattened against his scalp), and they’d have Claire’s green eyes.
Grandchildren would add a new light to their home, a light unparalleled to the sun that flooded the main foyer, a light that came with a lightness, lifting spirits. It was time for a new era.
Laura would be great with grandchildren–quirky as she was, noshing on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in bed, filling one of the cupboards up with microwave ravioli. Ha! Their grandchildren would love her. And she’d love them. A child-like spark was what she needed–would bring her out of her dank room.
Creaking: the door opening.
Mr. Dawes exploded into the hall, and into the main foyer, charging his boy–his light–and embracing him then holding him out, taking in the light hair and sea blue eyes so like his own. But something was wrong: his son wasn’t smiling. He was unhappy? No, that was absurd. The boy was probably just tired. Long day. Yes…tired.
“You look tired, son,” he said. “Of course you are.”
“Where’s mom?” said Stephen. He slipped off his moccasins and put them at the door next to two petite clogs. Then, he took off his khaki corduroy blazer and hung it on a hook next to a navy corduroy coat. As the coat swung, a faint breeze wafted into his face–burnt bread? “Never mind,” he said.
“Of course ‘never mind.’ Because you know exactly where she is. As do I.” His father’s lips kept the smile, but a droop in the eye.
“What’s wrong, Father?”
“Yes, let’s talk.”
Mr. Dawes grabbed Stephen by the elbow and brought him into the living room. Stephen looked down the dark hall leading to the dusty writing room and knew–felt–no one there. Another hint of burnt bread. Stephen smirked. He’d indulge his father, buy his mother time.
In the living room, Mr. Dawes sat in an overstuffed pale green chair, while Stephen took a seat on the off-white couch strewn with peonies.
“So Father, how goes it?”
“‘How goes it?’ I should be asking you. How’s my fair Claire. I know she’s back, Peggy told me the girl’s finally come to her senses.”
Stephen wiggled his toes, resisting a laugh as the carpet tickled in between them: “Achem. Umm…She and I haven’t spoken…yet.”
“But–?” Mr. Dawes sat back. “But–?” He slapped his knee: “Crawford. He kept you out all day. If you want–”
“No, Dad. Not necessary.” But his father had already begun mumbling to himself:
“Crawford…always…”
“Father.”
“…in time…in…”
“Dad.”
“…all things…”
Footsteps. But not sound. Soft steps. Again, he felt.
“I have to go,” said Stephen.
“What!?” said Mr. Dawes. “I just got you here. We–”
“Sorry, Dad.” Stephen stood. “But I have photos to develop.” He tapped the camera hanging from his neck. He had one photo in particular–“Robert’s counting on me.”
“But–?”
“We’ll talk at dinner. With mom.”
Mr. Dawes smiled. “That sounds like a plan.”
Stephen nodded; Mr. Dawes mirrored the gesture–and his son left off to that room upstairs shut off from the flooding sun, thinking about that image, that one image.
END
ACT II
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