Just to give you an inkling of what's yet in store for our attractive young couple, I've added a link to a tiny bit of Chapter Five. And please, if you find this enjoyable, I wish you'd leave a comment. Incidentally, if I had named my chapters, I'd have called this one 'Getting Acquainted.' And now, without further ado:
“It’s funny how things simply seem to happen,” the old woman said, while at the stove preparing dinner. “On a whim and only yesterday, I fixed my dear departed Henry’s favorite meal. And though company drops in all but never, yet I had the feeling someone soon’d come knocking on my door. And so, with that in mind, I put the food on ice while patiently awaiting their arrival. Sit down, children. Dinner will be ready in a moment.”
“Wow, stuffed cabbage,” Clara said, surprised at the delicious aromas rising from the food so elegantly laid out before her. “Dad used to fix this years ago; my mother’s favorite, he used to say.”
“Indeed, child,” remarked their hostess. “I hope this measures up.”
“I’m curious,” Jack said, studying his steaming hot dinner, “how you were able to heat this up so quickly. You couldn’t have been in here more than a minute.”
“There’s that curious cat again,” she said, giving him a smile that would have sent a snake crawling out of its skin six months ahead of schedule.
Jack took the hint; with a swift change of the subject he asked—for she’d made herself comfortable at an empty place setting—if she weren’t having something to eat tonight as well.
“Alas no,” she replied. “My diet, I’m afraid, can include none of what you see before you. But please don’t concern yourselves on my account. Watching others enjoy that which my culinary skills have wrought is food enough for me.”
While Jack warily eyed his dinner, Clara, having realized she was starved half to death, dared brave a nibble or two.
“It’s ‘Mrs. Trollope,’ right?” Jack said, feeling it incumbent upon himself to raise the curtain on the evening’s performance.
“If truth be told,” she said, “it’s ‘her Ladyship, the Countess Constance Trollope,’ with whom you’re breaking bread this evening. But I’m not so finicky as once I was. Tonight ‘Mrs. Trollope’ will suit me just fine.”
For a moment, Jack thought about extending his hand in friendship. But decided he’d just as soon forego that experience. “I’m Jack Gallagher,” he said, holding firmly to his fork, “and this is my wife, Clara.”
“Enchanted, children. And may I take this opportunity to formally bid you welcome to my home?”
Jack gave her a polite nod; and Clara, attempting to leave out the sarcasm, voiced a semi-pleasant ‘thank you.’
“I continue to be struck,” the old woman had turned to Jack, “by what a charming young man you are. May I ask—from where do you children hail?”
“New York,” Jack said. “The city, to be exact.”
“My, my,” she said. “My, my, my. Such serendipity doesn’t occur every day of the week.”
“Why’s that serendipitous?” Clara inquired.
“Because I’m in the midst of moving there; into a splendid apartment in lower mid-town. Which means that in a few short days the three of us will be as good as neighbors.”
“You’re right,” Jack said. “Pretty serendipitous.”
Clara, not having been struck dead by the cautious few nibbles she’d taken, had set about devouring her food. She swallowed what she’d been chewing on, looked Mrs. Trollope square in the eye, and said, “I just had a wonderful idea. Once you’re settled, why don’t I throw you a housewarming party? With all the friends we’ve got, you’ll practically be assured of never having to go through the loneliness of the newly transplanted New Yorker.”
“Thoughtful as well as lovely,” Mrs. Trollope said. “I believe I mentioned something to that effect earlier, even before I’d heard her speak two words together; didn’t I, Jack?”
“You’re too kind,” Clara said. “Now what’s the address?—and as soon as we get home, I’ll get everything started. Oh gosh, I just can’t wait to show you around.”
“Number One Fifth Avenue is where you’ll find my penthouse suite. A place I hope you’ll make your own, as much as I shall make it mine.”
“That’d put your apartment right where Fifth Avenue starts,” Jack said. “I’ll bet you’ve got a great view of Washington Square Park.”
“You’d win that bet, for the sights from my living room window are stunning; and never more so than at this time of year when the fall colors set my incurably romantic heart to racing. Gazing down upon yon Romeos and Juliets, whilst beneath the trees they speak of love, I’m reminded of a time—more years ago than you’ll get me to admit—when I and one suitor or another strolled arm in arm through verdured countrysides, whilst pastel shades of autumn leaves made carpets of themselves beneath our feet.”
“Why Mrs. Trollope,” Clara said. “You have more than a bit of the poet in you, don’t you?”
“My Henry’s sentiments as well. ‘Constance, my dearest darling,’ he used to say to me; ‘Erato’s gifts were never so generous as on the day she placed them at your feet.’”
“Erato?”
“One of the nine muses, my love. From nigh on Mt. Olympus’ summit, she showered inspiration down upon all mankind, resulting in such wondrous bards as Keats, Shelley, Byron, and my favorite of them all, Elizabeth Barrett Browning.”
“She’s mine too,” Clara said, astonished that she should have had something so personal in common with the witch.
“Why am I not surprised? And what a picture I’ve just now conjured up—of Henry reciting her poetry for you; how utterly he’d have enjoyed it. You’d have liked him, Clara. And oh, how he’d have adored you. It was his greatest regret, you see, that we’d never had a daughter of our own.”
“My father’s got two daughters,” Clara said, smiling, for she’d forgotten she was just a player in a play. “He’d have been glad to disabuse Henry of his regrets.”
“Child, how you speak. But I know you are joking; for how could a father of yours feel any other than boundless pride with such a daughter by his side?”
Then, and for quite some time, Mrs. Trollope spoke of hers and her dear departed Henry’s unbridled love, and the long and tempestuous road they’d traveled down together. A Shakespeareanesque soliloquy, with kind and compassionate remarks from Clara injected here and there. And as the old woman spoke, it seemed the strangest thing—as if in search of an accessible path to Heaven, the pervasive evilness surrounding her began to fade. Not nearly enough to sway Jack at all, but Clara actually began to feel a kinship for the old woman who spoke with the great poet’s prose; the virtuoso violinist’s phrasing. For she’d never heard such eloquence; she was dazzled.
“I remember, so long ago it seems a distant, even separate lifetime,” their hostess continued, “when I was pregnant with our third child. Two strong and handsome boys I’d given to my darling; but now he longed so for a little girl.”
Through a rain-soaked window Clara gazed. With a softened heart, she listened.
“When I think back on it now,” Mrs. Trollope said, several minutes later, winding up a passionately rendered tale of monumental tragedy, “it puts me in mind of Scarlett O’Hara’s great love, Rhett Butler. Did you read Gone With the Wind, Clara?”
“Yes, of course. Twice. And I still cry rivers whenever I think of it: poor Rhett, sitting for days and days, close by his daughter’s little dead body. Oh my God, do you see what I mean?”—pointing to the tears welling up in her eyes.
“Imagine then living it in real life. For that’s how it was with my poor Henry when our last chance for a little girl arrived, lifeless, at our doorstep. That dear, dear man. I felt more sorrow for him than I did for my dead infant. I confess I did and feel no shame in doing so.”
“You must have loved him so terribly much. So terribly, terribly much.”
Jack waited a few moments for this touching scene—which he could see Clara was actually sharing in—to dissolve before chiming in with his own two cents.
“Do you mind if I ask what made you decide to move there? To New York?”
She replied, “You have a knack for presenting questions the answers to which some amongst us might find discomfiting. Let us wait to see how strong our friendship grows. If I’m right, and a bond of extraordinary strength soon connects us, you’ll then find me as forthcoming as ever you could wish.”
“That settles it,” Clara said. “We’re going to help you move in, and by the time we’ve finished showing you around town we’ll have become such good friends you’ll have no choice but to tell us all.”
“You’re a comfort, child. Having my new young friends close at hand can’t help but ease the transition. I confess I’ve not been unconcerned; from what I understand, New York can be an intimidating place.”
“For newcomers,” Jack said, “that’s undoubtedly true.”
“But we’ll make sure it won’t be for you,” Clara said. “I promise.” At which she could have sworn she saw a glassy film appear over the old woman’s eyes.
“I wish to thank you both,” Mrs. Trollope said, getting to her feet, “for a most pleasurable evening. But, alas, I regret to say that as the hour grows late, so these old bones of mine grow weary.”
“We’ll see you in the morning, won’t we?” Clara said, while she and Jack got to their feet as well. “To see us off?”
“Wild horses couldn’t hold me back, my dear.”
“Good-night, Mrs. Trollope,” Jack said. “And I know I speak for Clara when I say we’re looking forward to a long and enduring friendship.”
At which the grande dame of that evening’s performance said, while showing off her most impressive curtsey yet, “Until the dawn and new beginnings, I wish thee both good-night.”
“See?” Jack said, once they were back upstairs. “Still alive.”
“The night’s far from over.”
“What can happen? The door’s bolted, the window can only be accessed by the likes of Spiderman, and I swear to you, my eyes won’t close tonight; not even for an instant. So don’t worry. Okay?”
“Okay,” she said, so softly Jack could barely hear.
“And another thing. Your performance at the dinner table?—Academy Award stuff.”
“Yeah, I was good. But she was awfully good too. You know, she actually had me feeling sorry for her—with that whole deal about her dear departed Henry; and poetry; and miscarried daughters. I hate to say it, but she’s left me with the impression that she was a wondrous and wonderful being—a long time ago.”
“Well, it’s hard for me to conceive of how long ago that would have been. Centuries, if not eons, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Didn’t you ever read Gone With the Wind?”
“Why? You think I’d feel any differently if I had?”
“Actually, knowing you, probably not.”
“Was that a dig? On my macho insensitivity perhaps?”
“No. Just reality.”
“Yeah,” Jack said, “you’re right. Because I did read it. And I still think that old lady’s about as evil as anything I‘d care to conjure up.”
A true vampire story. I applaud you for lack of sparkles and conscience on the part of your villain.
most certainly will be buying this when published, and pointing others over.
Posted by: Jaym Gates | May 21, 2009 at 07:17 AM
Alas, a human side of Mrs. Trollope. I'm so glad Jack and Clara did not fall for it because I certainly did. This chapter adds more questions to the long list I've already started regarding the plot and fates of the characters (as it should). The time and energy you have spent polishing can be seen in that the writing is exquisitely executed. Delicate and refined as well as captivating. Very well done!
Posted by: Courtney Odell | May 07, 2009 at 03:01 PM