Victor was sitting at his desk in the room of his house. No. Mansion. It was as if the Van Dorts were living a vision; it was simply beyond belief that William Van Dort's crackpot canned-fish idea would be a hit. Now they were rich. Now they had money. Lots.
Mr. and Mrs. Van Dort were thrilled to live in such a fantastic village, home to some very significant people. However, Victor wasn't the kind of child who is easily spoiled. He felt lost in the creaking mansion. It was big compared to the little place he had just moved from, and for seven years, was raised in. It, not surprisingly, made him very anxious.
In order to cope with Victor's feelings of unhappiness and faint terror with the enormous and sudden changes, Victor's father William Van Dort gave him a small dog. 'Scraps' was the name Victor had lovingly christened the little mutt with. It simply fit, because Scraps ate only table-scraps. And now Scraps lay on the floor beside Victor's bed, as a silent companion while Victor thought deeply about something.
Time always seemed frozen while Victor was concentrating, or what his mother called 'zoning out.' And nothing but the shrill voice of his mother, Nell, could penetrate his thick self-generated shield of thought. And now, this ability was exercised as Nell shouted up the hall for Victor to come down.
"Victor! Come down here!" She, in all of her hefty ferocity was standing at the bottom of the steps in the garish main entrance hall. "What the devil is he doing up there?"
Victor, now wrenched from his train of thought, jumped from his spot at his desk and sprinted as fast as his legs would carry him to where his mother indubitably stood. Now he stood, or rather cowered beneath her. "Someday, I'll be much bigger than her-and then I'll be the one in charge." He thought deviously to himself with a slight smile forcing its way onto his young, anxious face.
"What's so funny?" His mother demanded. Victor immediately snapped into about-face.
"N-nothing… mother…" he stuttered. He'd had a submissive stutter ever since he realized the hold his mother had over his life, which was pretty much since he was born. The day his mother had rhetorically inquired, "are you sure he's a boy?"
Nell cleared her throat. She was waiting… waiting for Victor to ask what was needed of him.
"What's wrong?" asked Victor.
"It's time for you to practice playing."
"Yes mother." Victor said as he walked over to the large piano positioned in the corner of the parlor. He sat down on the bench, and began the irksome scales. C D E F G F E D C…
William and Nell required the possession of some sort of artistic ability in their son. They'd given Victor a choice of what he wanted to learn in the arts. He chose music, and played the piano with ease at age four. He was a smart boy, a good boy. However, his mother often inwardly thought, he was clumsy. He was too withdrawn and he was a bit careless with his appearance, not to mention how small he was. His father swore, "don't worry, Nell-dear. He'll just spring up once he's fourteen or fifteen… or sixteen. Somewhere in there, but he'll not be such a pipsqueak for long. Don't worry. I know-" and at that point of the conversation, Nell had smacked him in the gut for rambling about pointless matters. Ever since Victor was a tiny boy he showed signs that worried Nell. He might've been acutely autistic. And just think of how an autistic child would make the Van Dorts look in the eyes of the aristocracy!
Nell couldn't bear to think of it. It was simply unheard of that the Van Dorts were anything less than the gentry among which they now resided. They had the money, it didn't matter that the Van Dorts were newly rich!