Author's Note:I don't own Corpse Bride or its characters. So, back again. After I wrote "Lavender," a few people wondered what had happened to Mary, Victor and Victoria's youngest daughter in my stories. This story is an exploration of just what happened. And also, a little bit of a cross-over Easter egg because I thought it would be fun. And funny. This was supposed to be a one-shot, but, as ever, got away from me, so it will be in serial fashion even though it's almost done. Please enjoy, and feedback is always welcome!
Orphans
"Oh, Dad," Mary whispered. "Dad, you silly idiot. Why weren't you more careful?"
Mary sat alone in her little kitchen, the morning newspaper spread out on the table before her. Usually she skipped the business section. This morning, though, a headline had caught her eye as she flipped through the pages. In a tiny corner box, bolded letters announced:
VICTOR VAN DORT, OWNER OF VAN DORT CANNERIES, DEAD AT 83.
Mary read the little article over again. Not much to it, really. Only two paragraphs. Dad had been crossing the street on a rainy day. He had been hit by a bus, not a hundred yards from the house. Nearly a week ago. In addition to the news of her father's death, the article also let her know that Lydia Van Dort, who had apparently gone back to using her maiden name, was now owner and CEO of the business. Also, donations in Mr. Van Dort's memory could be made to any local branches of lepidoptery societies.
Mary rubbed at her eyes. This was unreal. Dad was gone. Why hadn't anyone called her?
"Morning, dear," said Walter, Mary's husband, as he strolled over to the coffee pot. He was stout and comfortable-looking, easy-going and quiet. Ten years older than she.
"Dad died," she announced. Mary hoped it would feel a bit more real if she said it out loud.
There was a clink as Walter set his coffee cup down. He made a sympathy noise and came over to stand at her shoulder. Mary pointed to the article.
"Oh, Mary, I'm so sorry," said Walter, clumsily patting her back. Mary shrugged him off as delicately as she could, and then reached for her own stone-cold coffee.
"It's fine," she muttered. She was trying to remember the last time she'd seen Dad. She'd spoken to him on the phone a couple years ago, after Mom had died. But the last time she'd seen him? Staring into her cup, she thought back over the years. Had it been after Dorothy was born? Decades ago. That couldn't be...
"What a shame," Walter remarked, settling himself with his coffee and the sports section. He shook his head. "Your father was a good man. I'm sorry we found out like this. Why didn't your sisters let you know?"
Mary shrugged again. Come to think of it, she wasn't sure if she'd let anyone know she and Walter had moved. Did Anne know? Had Mary sent Christmas cards this past year, the year before? Mary stared into the dregs at the bottom of her coffee cup. Life was so busy. Particularly since Dorothy had left for college, and since Susan had had her baby.
Just then the kitchen phone began to ring. Mary jumped up and caught it before it was halfway through.
"Hi, Lydia," she said, twisting the telephone cord around her fingers. "Yes, I know, I just read about it. Uh...no, don't worry about not calling sooner..."
0—0
There was no avoiding a trip back this time. The funeral was scheduled for later in the week. So Mary had to rush. Thank goodness she was retired and had the time and cash to spare.
Walter had offered to come with her, but Mary had refused. The girls, for whom Dad had always been just a hazy source of birthday and Christmas money, had also offered in a half-hearted way. Mary had refused them, too. Susan had a toddler. Dorothy had classes. Walter had work. Those were the reasons she gave for refusing all three. She did promise to pass along their condolences.
Yet the truth of it was a bit more complicated. For the past thirty years she'd carefully constructed a life for herself completely separate from her old one. So separate, in fact, that Mary Van Dort-Stieglitz seemed like a character from a novel. Who knew what would happen if her present and her past were to meet? Mary didn't want to find out. She'd do this alone.
Fly in, go to the funeral, fly home. No fuss. She'd only packed her nightgown and her serviceable black dress, a toothbrush and a change of shoes. That was all. Walter, not one much for physical affection, had simply waved and wished her a good trip on her way out the door. If he was worried about her traveling unaccompanied, he had the sense not to mention it. She'd only be away for a few days, anyway.
Mary had loved to travel, once upon a time. Fred had traveled often for his photography work. Once they'd married they'd gone all over the world together. After Fred, though, Mary stayed put. The wanderlust and adventure was gone. Mary shrugged away these thoughts as she boarded her plane. This was the first time she'd traveled since they'd moved to New Holland. Before that had been the ship to New York. Thirty years ago.
One would think that in these modern times getting to the village would be easier than in the past. Mary found the opposite to be true. Not least because the country of her birth technically no longer existed after the war. Cartographical or treaty error, Mary wasn't sure. Either way it made passport stamping a headache. The airplane got her halfway there overnight. Then the train. Then a taxicab from the station to the village. Quicker than a ship, at least, if a lot less romantic.
The following day, she arrived at the little train station, larger and neater than she remembered. Only the taxicab was left. It idled by the station house, waiting for her. Soon she'd be back in the village. Worry began to gnaw at her stomach, and she felt deeply uncomfortable. Try as she might she couldn't shake the feeling. So she decided to ignore it. She owed Dad, and the family, this trip. This last goodbye.
When she climbed into the back of the taxi waiting for her at the train station, Mary found herself thinking fondly of the Death Trap, and the time so long ago when Grandmamma had picked her up at the station in it. How she and Catherine had loved being seen in that thing. She'd not thought about Grandad's old touring car in years. Her smile faded, and a coldness settled on her. There was a lot she hadn't thought about in years. Mary settled back in her seat and stared out the window, watching the scenery pass by.
The roads were different. Fewer trees in some places, more in others. A lot more houses along the way, neat little neighborhoods which, like the one she and Walter lived in, had the air of new beginnings, turning over a new leaf. Only as they neared the old familiar forest, following the road that ran more or less parallel to the river, did Mary begin to feel as if she was in some sort of time warp. The feeling got worse when the taxi pulled up along the curb of the new sidewalk before her childhood home on the outskirts of the village. She'd arranged to meet Lydia there upon her arrival. From there they'd go to the service later in the day. Where, Mary had no idea. She'd noticed that the old stone church was gone. Maybe there was a new one somewhere.
Mary paid the driver, grabbed her bag, and stepped out onto the sidewalk. She stood there, gazing up at the house she'd grown up in. It hadn't changed much in thirty years. A comfortable old place that looked like St. Basil's Cathedral and a stately American Queen Anne had gotten together and had a baby house. There was a tall iron fence around the property now, helping to separate it from the houses that had sprung up on either side. A tall gate opened onto the circular drive. Even from the street, Mary could see a black mourning wreath on the front door. Plainly they still did things the old-fashioned way around here.
Hesitantly, Mary approached the closed gates and gave an experimental push. Unlocked. Clutching the bars like a prisoner, she looked up at the house, at the garden. Mother's garden. It was still well-kept and vibrant. Mom would be happy about that, if she knew. The last time Mary had spoken to her mother on the telephone had been about two weeks before Mom had died. It was summer, and the conversation had been a lot about gardening. Mom had told her how she wasn't up to doing all of the work she used to, and how she missed taking care of her flowers. One of Mary's nephews helped her, and it gave her pleasure to share, but it still wasn't the same.
"I miss my roses," Mom had said wistfully, but still with a smile in her wavery old voice. And then Mom had been gone, shocking everyone. Mary hadn't even had the chance to tell her about her new great-grandson. Mary had missed Mom's funeral. She'd simply been unable to get away. Dad had been sad. Lydia, had she been able to, would have killed her over the telephone. Probably Lydia still hadn't quite forgiven her. Not attending the funeral was just the latest infraction.
Mary stepped back. She wasn't ready to go in there yet.
Quickly she snatched up her suitcase and, waving her free hand, made a mad dash back to the curb. The taxicab, which had already begun to pull away, screeched to a decidedly sideways halt.
"Listen, can you take me into the village instead?" asked Mary, pulling a fiver out of her handbag. The driver just glanced at the bill and shrugged.
"I can take you to the gate," he told her. "Cars aren't allowed inside the walls."
"Never mind," said Mary. "I'll walk."
Bag in hand, Mary set off. Down the street there was a little makeshift memorial for Dad. Villagers had set out a few tired-looking bunches of flowers. That was nice of them. Mary slowed and looked them over, but didn't stop. A bus rumbled by, clattering as if it was going to fall apart at any moment. She wondered if that bus had been the one Dad had had his final run-in with. Heavy-hearted, she watched it turn the corner into what was left of the forest.
Mary felt so strange, walking this way, familiar but not. She came to the walls of the old village. There was even a plaque designating it as such. "The Old Village." Right above a smaller sign which read, "Closed to Motor Vehicles." Mary took a deep breath and stepped through the open gates.