I delivered parcels before I was a soldier. Enlisting was a clean cut, a diversion from my prior occupation. Everyone along my route knew my name and expected a conversation every time I rapped on their door. The familiarity made me nervous. I was, and remain to this day, a man with a mind that is infinitely louder than his voice. Being a soldier meant that I could remain mobile while sparing the demand for speech. A soldier's job, when all is said and done, is to be quick, accurate and silent and I knew that I would meet those requirements. And so I did. I left the dark, low-lying banks and the unkempt woodlands of New Jersey behind me for a cause and an identity that I adhered to but did not fully understand.
It was not in New York, but in Ballard Estate, five miles from where I was born, that my future was decided. Coincidentally, that building and everything around it was also a relic of my past. The steady, upward climb of the years has yet to rob me of my memories of the Ballard Family. Perhaps committing these painful scenes to the page will finally allow me to vacate my mind of their dark and lavish home on the hillside. Every day, it seemed, throughout my days of youth, I would carry hat and dress boxes up the footpath that led to their heavy wooden door. On the woodwork were deep carvings of swans in flight or gliding with weightless grace on the smooth indention of a lake. The door would swing wide open without fail and I would be welcomed in by their grinning maid.
"The dresses and the hats! The dresses and the hats!" A quartet of young sylphs would loudly chime as they flitted in from the surrounding corridors. The boxes grew along with them as they became older and taller. But their responses would remain the same. Not one of the four of the girls, clothed and styled like priceless porcelain dolls, would ask for my name or about my day. They would simply tear into packaging, remove their lacy, jeweled treasures and vanish like the perfect apparitions that they were. Sylvia, the youngest, would stay behind and complain to me when the items fell short or were damaged in some way. I ducked out the first couple of times that this happened and she quickly learned to scream for her father, thus forcing me into a corner that I would come to anticipate with dread.
The man of the house and adoring father to the four girls was General Lawrence Ballard. He struck such fear into my heart the day that he wandered from the lap of his elegant upstairs office to see what the fuss was about. The pieces of the quaking chandelier that hung just inside the doorway glistened and sang with every step he took. I nearly expected the thing would dislodge itself and send a million bits of ringing glass for my head like tiny guillotines. But the song of the chandelier halted to a stop, leaving only the noise of crying Sylvia as the General strode towards me. I bowed quickly and lowly, robbing myself of any glimpse of the man's face or build. He did not address me. In fact, he hardly seemed to realize that I was there at all.
"Papa! The hat arrived broken! I'd ask for Cynthia's but her head is so much fatter than my own!"
All that I could see were the heels of Sylvia's shiny shoes as her father scooped her up in his arms. He cleared his throat and I straightened out, fearing that he would blame me for the condition of the hat. But he did not. He turned his back to me and I witnessed the profile of the portly, balding man as he pulled one of the lingering young ladies from the floor where she had been doting upon her unbroken hat.
"Floors are for walking upon, not sitting," the articulate British General stated before leaving with his fitful daughter pounding her hands against his back and shoulders.
This pattern continued for weeks, then months. The eldest of the Ballard Girls, Celeste, quickly stole my fancy with the lovely, tender smiles that she gave from over the top of her ribboned parcels. Had I not been so distracted by her stare, I would have learned how young Sylvia would deliberately sabotage the items that I bore. A pair of small, metal scissors were stowed against the inseam of her dress. When she believed that nobody was looking, she would snip and tatter, hide "misplaced" rhinestones in her stockings and shoes, and throw a noisy tantrum so that I might leave the estate, bogged down with items that needed to be repaired or replaced. I obliged, of course. Not so much out of the fear of losing my job, but for the opportunity to share a wordless exchange with sweet Celeste on days that I would otherwise not be heading to the Ballard Estate.
General Ballard seemed impressed with my tenacity and commented more than once on how strong my occupation must have made me. At one point, he summoned me to his office to apologize firsthand for how greatly Sylvia was mistreating me. I wanted to explain what I had seen when my eyes wandered from Celeste to the child, who had "grown" into a childish teenager at this point. But I remained silent and did not disclose what Sylvia's parcels actually contained.
Being a poor boy who provided service for wealthy families, I witnessed my fair share of scandals. But none were so enticing as the one involving Sylvia Ballard. Perhaps I am biased because it was I who carried her parcels, thus mediating whatever secrets could be found in the small envelopes and boxes that were lodged between those seemingly innocent gowns and trivial bonnets. As I eased into my final years in the industry, I learned two important things about Sylvia, the first was that she never removed the expensive doeskin gloves from her hands and the second was that she worked by code. The snipping of a button on the righthand sleeve of an unworn dress produced a narrow box with its repair. A rip along the crown of headwear bore the promise of a wide envelope. The list goes on and on. But these items would always be hidden away before her father, the maid, or her sisters could uncover the secret behind her theatrics.
"Your leniency towards Sylvia is outstanding," General Ballard said to me before I departed, "my daughters are all I have in this world. The least that I can do is grant them their hearts' desires."
I only nodded, resorting to silence as was my way.
"I've seen you nearly everyday and watched you grow beneath the weight of a thousand boxed gowns that were destined to be worn only once before being discarded. Call me sentimental, if you will, but I feel almost parental towards you, Boy. Yet, not once have I asked you for your name."
"I am the man who delivers parcels to your homestead, General. Let that be enough." It was not. He pressed once, then twice until finally, I answered with minimal pride, "Boris Bordon."
His eyebrows shot up with such force that the entirety of his bald, smooth head creased along with his forehead. "Boris Bordon? Good Lord. That is simply awful."
"It was you who requested my name, Sir." I lowered my eyes and shared a quiet, bashful laugh with the polished floor.
"Do you intend on delivering parcels for the remainder of your life, Master Bordon? Forgive my intrusion, but can one truly support a family with such small funds?" He read the offence that had been innately plastered across my face by this comment and proceeded, anyway. "If you were given the opportunity to do something truly meaningful with your life, would you take it?"
"If you are speaking of recruitment, Sir," I replied, still staring deeply into the glistening floorboards, "both of my parents are dead and I have no siblings. I am able to provide for myself alone and would only risk death for an increase in pay if I had addition mouths to feed."
"You would not risk death for King and country?"
Blood began to thump loudly in my ears, the sound of the girls playing piano in the neighboring parlor distorted into a blur. Speaking or even thinking politically was so far beyond me, I delivered parcels, after all. That was my purpose, to scramble around from place to place without looking up or dealing with the world around me. My loyalties were to myself and no one else. "I am not a political man," I managed to say, feeling panicked and attacked. General Ballard saw this and felt guilted. If I had looked up, I would have known this sooner. Instead, I took my leave.
"I understand," his voice pushed in behind me like a tidal wave, "I only ask that you consider my invitation."
I thought on it during the walk to my quiet, lonely home. I thought on it during my rounds the next day and well into the next week, but the appeal of a new life was not great enough to persuade me. General Ballard's offers grew from constant to occasional, but my disinterest in changing my course was not great enough to prevent him from asking something else of me, something that I found to be terribly absurd. The need to apologize on behalf of the wailing Sylvia led me to his office once more. It had already been decided in the farthest, most humiliating corner of my mind that I would snap this time like a young reed against a torrential breeze. I would make the leap and become a soldier if only to remove the increasing weight of General Ballard's propaganda from my shoulders.
"I love my daughters," he began, much to my irritation, "Cynthia is the intelligent one, Celeste- the beauty, Celine is renowned for her kindness and then… there is my youngest. My little pet who always so truthful, even if her displeasure leads to the suffering of others," he gestured to me with a sympathetic grin before his tangential speech took an unexpected turn, "I am holding a ball this Friday night. Those attending are the finest military men in the colonies, many of whom have sought after my precious daughters to display on their arms like dazzling treasures. All have been accounted for, save for Sylvia. It is no secret that she has taken a shine to you over the years-"
"Surely, he means Celeste!" I thought to myself in dire desperation, "He cannot mean that infernal, spoiled, noisemaker of a girl." Then, curiosity stole away my better judgement. I'd spent years wondering why I had run to and fro all for the sake of those tiny boxes and envelopes that Sylvia slipped into her bodice under nobody's watch but my own. Once or twice, our eyes would meet and her thin, elflike features would shift into a foreboding sneer. She knew that I would never tell. Perhaps after all those years of silence, she would finally be able to indulge me. "It would be an honor, Sir," was my reply. I had nothing to lose, after all.
I stood out like a crow amidst cardinals, not only because I was the only gentleman, aside from the servants, who didn't don a uniform, but I also couldn't dance. The Ballard Girls, every one of them, seemed distant and vain. Despite the "shine" that Sylvia was said to have taken to me, she spent most of her time gazing at her own reflection in the windowed mirrors of the ballroom. General Ballard watched his daughters pridefully from a low-hanging balcony as a gardener might view his flowers. With their identical, golden locks bunned high on their heads and the billowing fabric of their dresses over the panniers on their waists, they looked quite like blossoms with upward-facing stems.
When the General looked away, I would search the ballroom for Celeste and every time, she greeted me with her typical come-hither smile. Halfway through the night, Sylvia strayed from my company for that of a violinist and Celeste stole away into the maze of hallways just outside the ballroom. I took this as my cue to follow. Around every corner, soldiers and women were pairing off. Some had arrived at the ball together, some had only just met while in that dizzying mingle of motion and song.
I expected at any second to see fair Celeste, awaiting my arrival in one of those darkened nooks, but that sight was not mine to see. When I found her, she was pressed against the wall in the arms of a dark-haired man. Her narrow face had twisted into a raw and stunning look that seemed to harbor both agony and pleasure. I meant to shield my eyes, but I remained staring just long enough for Celeste to realize that she was being watched. Her handsome, brown-eyed partner turned my way and laughed mockingly. "You'll have to wait your turn, mate!" He all but yelled, receiving a playful kiss from the woman I so adored. "We will require some fresh drinks, however. If you'd be so kind, Waiter!"
Those words were followed by laughter from all sides, a heavy hand jostled my shoulder. "Don't let Banastre cause you any grief," a tall and muscular soldier slurred drunkenly in my face, "he will have had a tumble with over half the women here before the night is through!"
At first I wanted to pry that dreadful Banastre character off of Celeste and beat his pretty face in until it was black and blue. Heaven knows, I was about to when a second voice spoke its part. "Ban makes a fair point. You won't have any luck with the ladies in that get up!"
My eyes combed through the rows of beautiful women and handsome men. First, my chest grew tense and then it grew numb. I started to walk, hardly knowing where my feet had decided upon carrying me to. I merely moved and watched, understanding on some subconscious level that I was about to remove myself from a place of deep misery, thus thrusting myself into uncharted waters. The exact words that I spoke to the General remain locked in my memory in a compartment that I have long since discarded the key to. All I know is that in one moment, I delivered parcels and in the next, I was a soldier.
The chair that I collapsed into in the vacant space beside the orchestra after stating my case to General Ballard had no rhyme or reason. I simply had to sit and hopefully alleviate the shaking in my limbs. In the corner of my eye, however, I found that the seat next to mine was not empty and a pair of familiar doeskin gloves appeared in my periphery.
"Grant me one answer and one answer only, Sylvia," I implored the young lady who had previously ignored and abandoned me. "You see, I am having a very trying evening and I would like to know why you never remove your gloves. Even in the heat of summer, when your sisters turned to lighter wear, you still-"
"That is your question?!" She interrupted, placing her hands at the edge of her knee and straightening her back like a lady of court. "I thought for certain you were about to ask me why I've kept you running amuck with parcels all these years! Unless, of course you truly did believe I was that spoiled!"
I retreated back into my shell and said nothing for a good, long while. But Sylvia did not leave my side and when I finally looked up, I saw the warmest, dearest expression upon her face. "I hate to disappoint you, Miss Ballard, but it would appear I have delivered my final parcel. Tomorrow is my last day in New Jersey. You will have to come up with a new tactic to keep your secrets safe."
Sylvia tugged lightly on the fabric of her gloves in what appeared to be contemplation. "You've enlisted, haven't you?" Her smile widened with my nod. "You're far too sweet to be a soldier. And quiet, too. That's the tragedy of quiet folks, I suppose. You trade speech for observation. All of those years of observing my behavior without any context must have been maddening for you!" With the slightest hop, she rose from her chair and quickly regained her regal stature. "Well, seeing as its very likely that you don't have much longer to live," she ignored my grumble, "I suppose I should be merciful and let you in on a little secret. Come." Her smooth, gloved hand reached for my own and before I could say anything in protest, Sylvia led me away.
A/N: It's not like I didn't warn you. With "The Butcher's Daughter" reaching its final narrative arc and all these new ideas bouncing around in my head at the most inconvenient time (finals week), a new fic was almost a given. You should be okay if you're not familiar with my work, but this story does pivot from my rendition of Bordon in "The Butcher's Daughter". He's a rather mysterious character in the film, really, with a lot to work off of and draw inspiration from. So, the possibilities are endless. As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts and am looking forward to sharing a new story with you all! X