CH 4
Annie dragged her arm across her eyes to wipe away the tears forming as she chopped the onion for dinner. At least the offending root gave her an acceptable excuse for crying. She had been feeling unbearably melancholy since returning home after witnessing the gypsy master slam Erik against the bars of his cage. Undoubtedly, at today's shows, there would be further physical evidence on Erik's poor face that he was, indeed, the devil's child—more excuse for women to scream; more reason for the crowd to scramble. Little did any of them know that the bruises and marks that would certainly be passed off as some satanic seal, truly were put there by a devil. Only this demon wore a circus suit and top hat, collecting money as profit for his torture. And for this latest torment, Annie was the cause.
Erik had tried to tell her it had not been her fault. Of course he did. Since that early autumn night when she had first displayed the courage to sneak into his tent, she had come to know Erik not only as a brilliant, talented musician, but as a kind, sensitive soul, who would never want to see her sad. His frustrating teasing about her stature aside, he had always treated her sweetly—complimenting her on the homemade treats she would sneak into his tent at night; reading aloud to her when she would smuggle in one of her father's old books; playing the lively tunes that he knew she preferred on the violin, just so that she could dance. The horribly scarred and disfigured young boy she had seen displayed on the stage that night had become, for Annie, a dear friend, and seeing him so mistreated at the cruel hands of the gypsy master had been nearly unbearable.
She thought again about the apple core. How could she have been so stupid? Why had she not shoved it in her pocket, as she scurried across the tent to safety? Why had she simply dropped it in her cowardice? She thought of Erik's face, newly swollen and blackened, as it must be, behind that abominable mask the gypsies thrust upon him. She had been the one who had sneaked in and given him food. She had been the trespasser. Why had she let him take her punishment? Why had she not fought back?
She scraped the bits of onion into the pot with the meat, setting it on the stovetop for browning, as she reached for a potato to continue her chopping. She pressed down on the knife, the sharp blade making short work of the starchy vegetable, when she felt a weighty hand clasp her shoulder. Annie stiffened and closed her eyes, as the acrid smell of alcohol invaded her senses.
"What's for dinner?" her stepfather asked, already imbued with too much liquor, as he peered into the pot.
"Beef stew," Annie supplied simply, not looking up from her task.
The grip on her shoulder tightened, to become a bit uncomfortable. "Mind your manners, girl," came his warning reply.
Inhaling deeply, Annie said, in clipped tones. "My apologies. Beef stew, Monsieur."
"Much better!" he approved robustly, slapping Annie hard on the back, as he made his way to the kitchen table and noisily pulled out a chair.
Annie did her best to keep her skin from crawling, and continued to prepare their evening meal. She heard a soft rustling behind her as her stepfather perused the month old newspaper that had finally made its way south from Paris. He had been reading it for about the past week, but his alcohol addled brain barely noticed.
"You know, girl," he said, just as she had assumed he would be too blessedly distracted, by the paper's listing of not-so-current events, to bother her with small talk. "You have done a fine job of taking on your mother's duties, since she left us." With a hearty chuckle, he added, "I've barely noticed she was gone."
Annie's knife cut through the carrot she was now chopping with more force than necessary, emitting a loud crack against the butcher block. He had barely noticed her mother was gone, but Annie could never forget. "Always be good, my little Annie," her mother had bid her in thready tones, as she lay weak in her bed. Her fingers had trailed to wipe the tears away from Annie's cheek, her own soft dark eyes mirroring her daughter's with so much love. "Whatever life should give you, whatever hardships should befall, you must always be good. You can never let the world change that about you."
"I cannot do it alone, Mother," Annie had sobbed. "I need you with me, to keep me good."
"Oh Annie," her mother sighed, shaking her head as sorrow crept into her gaze. "I fear I cannot stay long—for I am so weak. So … tired. I will stay as long as I can—but soon, I know, I must join your Papa in sleep."
"No Mother," Annie shook her head back and forth, new tears streaming down her face, etching rivers of sadness that she knew would never truly fade. "I am not ready."
"You are, dear daughter," her feeble hand squeezed Annie's shaking one. "Just remember all I've taught you. And be who you are. Be good."
Her mother had lasted a week. A few days after that, she had stood alongside her stepfather, as the priest read prayers over her grave. And then, when they had left her behind, with only a single flower to mark her final resting place, they'd returned to the cottage, where a sponge and a bucket were immediately thrust into Annie's hands.
"You are the lady of the house now, miss," her stepfather had told her in gruff, detached tones. "Its upkeep and its administration shall be left to you. If there is anything that needs be done, that is left unfinished, you shall answer for it—to me. Do I make myself clear?"
With a trembling voice, Annie answered, "Yes, Monsieur."
"I enjoy a clean house," he informed her, as he grabbed a glass and a bottle of brandy from the liquor cabinet. Turning toward the parlor, he added, "See to it that dinner is on the table by 6:30." Annie had heard the clink of the bottle hitting the glass, as he sat down on the settee and began to pour.
Coming back to herself, Annie stirred some homemade stock into the stew, and set the cover on the pot as the heat rose slowly to a boil. Using a cloth, she wiped down the kitchen counter, before taking the butcher block and the knife to the sink to wash. Am I ready, mother? she wondered. Am I ready to always be good, in response to the cruelty that I see every day? Dipping the cutting board into the soapy water, she used the sponge to wipe it clean from any traces of their evening meal. I am trying mother. I am trying to remember what you taught me. She lifted the knife from the water, watching the suds slip away. But there are times I am afraid the lessons are fading.
Drying the knife with a kitchen rag, so that she could place it back in the drawer, she heard her stepfather command "Annie! Girl! Fetch me some brandy—and make it quick. I'm thirsty."
And wrapping the blade in the rag, she secreted it into the little satchel she always kept tied around her waist, before reaching for the bottle.
"Was it much worse than usual today?" Annie asked, as she sat by Erik's cage, leaning her chin on her knees, her arms wrapped around her legs.
"It was no more embarrassing than usual," Erik answered her matter-of-factly, from where he sat immediately on the other side of the bars. "Same screams—same shouts. The master did point out his handiwork, though. Called them the burns branded in by the devil's very horns. He grows ever more dramatic."
"Oh Erik," Annie moaned, tucking her head more tightly into her knees, her long black hair falling forward and shielding her face from revealing her shame. "I am so sorry about that apple."
"Annie," Erik asked surprised by her reaction. "Are you still upset about that? I told you last night it wasn't your fault."
"But it was my apple that caused him to hurt you," she countered.
"It was only his excuse. He has done worse for less. I am merely an exhibit to him—a money making tool. Sometimes he treats his things roughly."
"You are not a thing!" Annie snapped miserably, welled up tears in her eyes. "And he is a beast."
Erik gazed at Annie quietly for a moment. She was not herself tonight. She looked tired and tense, and her words reminded him of something she'd said yesterday. "Annie," he asked her in a quiet voice. "Last night, right before the …unpleasantness… happened, you said something that I didn't quite understand."
"What was that, Erik?" she asked.
"You said you had seen monsters…" his voice trailed off when Annie looked away, her eyes becoming haunted, her jaw set. "Annie…"
"My stepfather," she answered simply, a dark tone in her voice.
Erik's eyes narrowed in confusion, "Your stepfather?" he asked. "Because he is a drunk?"
"Because he killed my mother," she spat.
"Annie," Erik asked, shocked at her revelation. "How…"
"My mother—Clarice Laramie…oh, Erik, she was beautiful—long black hair that hung to her waist, and deep brown eyes that were so soulful, so kind. She was a dancer—long and lithe—she had once danced on the stage in Paris! But by the time I was born, she and my father—Luc Laramie, my real father—used to dance in the evenings by the fireside after dinner. Sometimes they would take my hands and I would dance with them. Other times, I would simply watch, happy just to see their smiles.
"Papa died when I was five years old, and my mother and I were by ourselves. It was hard, Erik, for my mother to be a widow with a young child. For a few years, we tried to make it on our own, each of us doing odd jobs here and there. But eventually, it became too much. When I was about nine, my mother remarried.
"Randolph Morelle owned a small farm and was looking for a wife to help him maintain it. My mother agreed, and soon they were legally bound. When we moved in, we soon discovered why he needed help. The house was in disrepair, and it seemed that the only things that grew on the land were weeds. My mother slaved day and night, to try to make the rundown cottage a home. She and I planted a garden for vegetables, and scrubbed the house from top to bottom—but it was never enough. There was always something more he wanted—some new demand he saw fit to make on her, as he lay around on his settee, drunk out of his mind most days. And he beat her, Erik. I would hear the crashes as I lay in bed at night, and my mother hurtled to the floor. Her kind, shining eyes were overshadowed by cuts and bruises, earned, he explained to the neighbors on Sunday, through her own clumsy behavior and carelessness on the steps. Her once vibrant smile became tight and closed mouthed—to hide the fact that she was missing teeth—and her dancer's body moved only slowly and with great difficulty, due to the soreness she experienced every day.
"Last winter, she began to cough. My mother used to be strong, Erik. She was never sick when I was young. But she could no longer fight it. He had weakened her too much. She kept working for him at first, until the illness became too great, and she could no longer get out of bed. I tried to stay with her as much as I could, but there were chores to be done, and now he expected me to do them.
"I was with her, Erik, when she passed from this earth. Her last wish was for me to be good. But I don't know if I can do that, Erik. I don't know if I can be good." Annie lowered her head to her knees again, as sorrowful tears rolled down her cheeks.
"Annie," Erik said her name quietly, almost tenderly. "You are good."
"No, Erik," she shook her head still not looking at him. "I didn't do anything to stop him. I didn't do anything to make things better for her."
"You were a child, Annie. What could you do?"
"I could have told someone. Maybe if I had told the neighbors…"
"The same neighbors who believed that your mother—a dancer—was suddenly so clumsy that she cut and bruised herself regularly?" he pointed out. "Please, Annie. You have to know that they knew. And they did nothing."
"I let that beast—that monster—hurt you." She said, turning suddenly to face him, her eyes filled with agony. "I didn't try to stop him. I didn't fight back."
"The whole time, I was praying, Annie, that you wouldn't," Erik told her, in earnest. "I am so glad that you didn't. Annie, if he had hurt you…"
"He hurt you!" Annie spat. "How is that any better? How could it have been worse if it had been me?"
"It would have hurt me far worse!" Erik responded, his voice rising momentarily. Once he had her attention, he quieted his tones and continued, "Annie, you are the first person in my entire life who has seen me for more than a monster. Even my mother denied me because I was not beautiful. Yet you saw my face and didn't run. You come back here, night after night, and you dance for me, you talk with me—you even bring me food. You see me, Annie. Me, and not my face. You cannot tell me that you are not good. You have shown me what good is."
Annie gazed deeply into the golden eyes of which she had grown so fond. She saw so much honesty there, so much sincerity. She knew that Erik was not lying to her—that he believed everything he said. She wished that she could believe, at that moment, everything that he believed of her—everything her mother believed of her. The goodness they each saw inside her—she wished she could see it too. But she knew, even if they didn't, that there was something missing.
"I wish I could be strong, Erik," she murmured, plaintively.
"You will be, Annie," Erik simply told her. "You are."
Annie smiled at him tiredly before once again resting her head on her knees. Without saying a word, Erik picked up his violin and began to play a soft, soothing melody—one he'd hoped would ease her troubled heart and soul. When he was finished, he knew that it had worked, because Annie was breathing steadily, peacefully, and deeply as she sat there curled around herself, fast asleep. He knew she could not stay there. He knew he had to wake her up and send her on her way. But he also knew just how exhausted she was, and there was at least a little time to let her rest.
He watched her while she slept, her mouth partway open, her long black lashes covering over soft, troubled eyes. Her wavy black hair cascaded forward, covering her cheek. "You must look so much like your mother, Annie," he observed quietly, his voice barely a whisper. "So good," he murmured, "So strong." He gazed at her a moment more, and though he knew he shouldn't—that he had no right—he tentatively and slowly reached out a shaking hand to touch a lock of her hair. It was so soft—so silken—in his fingers, and he felt his breath catch and his throat go immediately dry as he added, "And so very beautiful."
AN: Awww, I think Erik might have a little crush! So sweet. Please leave a review and let me know what you think!
