by Peter Ponzo
Chapter 5
Charles poured another coffee for himself. He and I were sitting across from each other in the living room, the coffee urn on the small oblong table between us, a slow fire flickering in the hearth. Penny, dressed in a loose gown much too large for her small frame, was sitting on the floor before the fire. Her long black hair was pushed into a bun atop her head and tied with a red ribbon. She was rubbing her hands in the warmth of the fire. I was quite surprised at how well she had adapted to this life. Charles looked after her: feeding, washing and dressing her. He had bought some loose fitting outfits in pale pink and lavender and she seemed pretty pleased with the gifts and with his attention. It was a far cry from her village. Yet, somehow, I felt she should have expressed some misgivings, some sign of longing for her jungle home. I imagined her staring out the second storey window, nostalgic, seeing the green jungle, the bubbling streams, listening for the cries of the wilderness. She reaches out, touches a leaf, pensive. A warm breeze, the leaves rustle ...
"And you believe that Mr. von Oerschott had some mischievous purpose?" Charles was saying.
I came out of my reverie. "Mmm," I mumbled. "Hans sure as hell wasn't in the lab to check on the plumbing."
Penny just wasn't normal. She acted so helpless, but she was hiding something, wasn't she? She took all of Charles' profferings and ... and just smiled. She was good at that: smiling. It was unnatural. When I think of it, she smiled a lot, too much. A curious, mischievous smile, like she knew more than she was letting on.
Charles was staring at me. He was talking about Hans, then stopped, waiting for some response. "He has all my reports," I said finally, returning Charles' stare. "I left nothing out."
"The hair doesn't grow back. That's the problem, right?" Charles sipped his coffee, speaking to me but now staring at Pelvis. The glow from the fire silhouetted her body within the thin gown. It had not gone unnoticed.
"In part. But the blemish grows. I've got this great little salve made from the boiled leaves. We're calling it Dermafix, made from the juices of the miracle weed. It feels good, silky. It looks good, sort of lemon-colored. It smells healthy. Oregano and lemon. Works like a charm … usually."
"But the hair doesn't grow back," Charles said, still staring at Penny. "I knew it would be like that."
"I can't understand why the Chokli didn't have great cream colored blobs all over their body, " I said. "They used it, didn't they? It should have eliminated their hair, covered their bodies with a smooth creamy skin. And did you see any natives with bare patches, without hair? No ... so what am I missing?" I leaned back into the sofa, stared at the ceiling, then frowned at Charles. "You knew it?"
"I beg your pardon?" Charles said, now looking at me instead of Boobs. "Knew what, Miss Fleetsmith?"
"You said you knew it would be like that. Like what?"
"Yes ... like what?"
I jumped to my feet. He could be so frustrating. "Charles Clayton Curran!" I shouted. "Pay attention to me and not to that little tramp!" Penny, who had been huddling before the fire, rose quickly and slipped out of the room. "You just said, and I quote, I knew it would be like that. What did you mean?"
"Miss Fleetsmith ... the hair, not growing back," Charles stuttered. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. It's just that your father had mentioned that and—"
"What! My father knew of this! Why in God's name didn't you say that before! You just let me struggle with this bloody problem and you knew all along that—"
"Miss Fleetsmith, your father had no cure for this problem, the absence of hair, the patch of creamy skin. He just mentioned it in one of his letters. I didn't think it would be of much assistance to your investigation, knowing that your father had made a similar observation."
I was now pacing about the room. Did I say anger was an unfamiliar emotion for me? I lied.
"Shit! Shit! Shit! You have letters? Shit! Get me those bloody letters," I said in my most menacing voice. Charles immediately left the room, returning momentarily with a small bundle of letters tied with a string.
"They are personal letters, Miss Fleetsmith." I ripped them from his hand. "I believe that I should extract just those letters which allude to the skin problem." I tore off the string. "The personal nature of the remaining letters are best left—"
"Screw you, Charlie boy." And I plopped into the sofa, put up my feet and began reading the letters, one at a time, in chronological order.
