Chapter 4

Monotony and Tragedy

"Morning, everyone!" Levi's loud voice exclaimed clearly one breezy and cool October morning, one month after the four friends had come to the Academy. George didn't open his eyes yet, but lay still for just a few minutes and listened to the others wake up.

"Aw, Levi!" Theo exclaimed, sitting straight up and, still half-asleep, glaring slightly in the direction he thought Levi actually was. "You woke me up from a great dream I was having!"

"It's not my fault you're still dreaming when you wake up!" Levi exclaimed. "Say…what was the dream about, anyway?"

"I was a world-class artist," Theo mumbled in an embarrassed tone, looking down at the mint-green sheets.

"Same dream again?" Levi asked rhetorically. A few minutes of silence passed except for rustling of clothes as the others put them on.

"Georgie!" Levi shook George's shoulder with a start. "Get up already!"

He sighed. "Okay, okay…I'm up! I'm up!" he sat up and sat on one side of the mattress. "I said I'm up! You can stop poking me!"

"Sorry," Levi snickered, walking back over to his bed to make it in his usual messy and hasty way.

As he did every morning, George stretched his limbs for a few minutes, and then slipped on his pants, then his socks, then and his shoes. While the others would fight over who would get to use the restroom first, George slipped on his upper torso clothing: white shirt, vest, necktie and coat. He'd comb his hair delicately, never minding if a hair or two would resist being flattened.

"Will you three kindly hurry up? I'm getting hungrier by the minute!" George called as he could hear them all shoving each other around in the restroom.

"Be right out, Georgie, as soon as someone stops hogging the sink!" Levi called.

"I am not hogging it! Besides, you were here almost twice as long as I was!" Theo exclaimed.

"I'll believe that when…when…when houses start falling off the edge of the earth!" Levi exclaimed.

"You moron! The earth's not flat," Theo said authoritatively, like he knew everything there was to know on the subject.

"H-he's ri-ight, L-Levi," Rustin said shakily.

"Okay, then…when, uh…when…hmm…" Levi was silent for a moment.

"When you get that brain of yours sorted out is when you're gonna believe it," Theo said. "Now, let me at the sink already! Ungh!" he made a slight grunting sound and shouldered Levi out of the way.

"W-ell…I'm going to go down and have breakfast without the rest of you now, I guess," George called, even though he was sure his voice was drained out by the sound of running water.

"Don't worry, Georgie! We'll be down in a minute!" Levi called.

"Those witty boys," George said to himself part-sarcastically, but part out of self-humor as he walked down to get some breakfast.

Over the next few weeks, which soon turned into months, life fell into a pattern for the four friends: Get up at eight o'clock (based on Levi's waking them up, even though for a couple of them, this was too early), have breakfast downstairs, go to the morning classes, have dinner, go to afternoon classes (their morning classes would switch simultaneously, as did their afternoon classes), have supper. Of course, that didn't mean that they weren't enjoying life at the Academy.

But everything changed one day for George.

That morning, George slipped on his outer vest and tucked in his tie. He combed his hair slightly and walked down the stairs to the Cafeteria to sit in his usual spot with Rustin, Theo and Levi.

"Good morning, everyone," George said, sitting down. "What's for breakfast?"

"Standards," Theo leaned forward in his chair. "By the way, I had a strange dream involving a black cat and a man wanting to kill it…it must have been from that story you told us last night, Levi; by that, uh…Poe man."

"Sorry 'bout that," Levi sat up in his chair. "His stories can really do stuff to your head, I guess. I didn't know they'd cause nightmares."

"Well, neither did Mr. Poe," George leaned to one side in his chair.

"You got that right," Levi said.

George sighed, getting up from his chair. "Mr. Edgar Allan Poe—" a few people looked over their shoulders at him, "—was one of the most misunderstood writers of his time. People thought him insane, drunk…and a few other things I shouldn't mention. But most of all, I would call him disturbed. Highly disturbed. He wrote stories of sadness, madness and murder…mostly from the narrator's point of view. He barely made any money—unable to support his young cousin wife. He eventually became an alcoholic and was found unconscious in a bar on a rainy day in 1849."

"You know quite a lot about him, don't you?" Theo asked.

"Oh, no; I just learn a lot from my study time in the library," George explained. "Fascinating things, libraries. It's amazing the things you learn in them."

"That's probably why you spend most of your time in there," Theo sipped from his cup of orange juice.

"How anybody could spend countless hours in front of books is beyond me," Levi took a bite of his biscuit.

"Having an imagination helps," George smirked.

"True, but not having one is why I never get past the first few pages in anything I read," Levi put his palm to his cheek and leaned on it.

"It's a little something called perseverance," George said.

"I like stories that start off with more of a bang," Levi glanced at him.

"Ask the librarians if there's anything in your interest range that they have," George suggested.

"Sounds like an idea," Theo smirked. "But what are your interests, Levi?"

"I like romance novels, and I've been looking for an instructional book on ballroom dancing," Levi smiled. The three other members in the group just stared at him blankly. "What? I want to learn to dance!"

"Nothing; sorry," Theo shook his head, looking just a touch horrified and shocked at the image of Levi twirling some girl around madly and ungracefully in his mind.

George cleared his throat. "If you'll excuse me, I'll go and get this week's paper," he got up from his seat and went to the library's window. An elderly-looking female was sorting books behind her. "This week's paper, please," he slid some money on to the counter.

"Of course," the bespectacled lady took the money and put a nearby newspaper in front of George, then got back to sorting books.

"Thank you," George said quietly, taking the paper. He read the newspaper's title, "The Atencio Heralder," like it was the most impressive thing he'd ever read. He tucked it under his arm and walked back to sit with his friends.

"…So he says to the guy, 'Hey! That ain't no gentleman! That's a chimpanzee!'" Levi said in his joking voice, and George knew he was telling the other two something funny.

"What's so funny?" George asked once Theo had finished his laughing and Rustin had finished laughing very softly.

"Levi just told us this great joke! You want to hear?" Theo asked, still giggling.

"I think I'll pass," George raised a hand. "Now, if you don't mind, I'll just sit back and read the paper now." He sat back, crossing one leg over the other, and propped open the newspaper.

"All right, Georgie," Levi smiled at the newspaper.

After a few minutes, Theo leaned over and asked, "Say! Any interesting-sounding marriages?"

"I haven't checked, but I'll take a look now," George turned to the Marriages, Anniversaries and Obituaries pages. "Hmm…Eudora Silverson and Peter Carter…Frances Kerry and Archibald Smithee…Here; why don't you just take the Weddings pages?" George took the page and handed it to Theo, who looked very pleased.

"Thanks," he smiled, and got busy reading, leaving George facing the Anniversaries and Obituaries page. He skimmed down the list of Anniversaries, thinking how happy the couples must be to have been married for however-many years. Then his eyes drifted over to the Obituaries.

George's blood turned cold.

"What's wrong, George?" Theo noticed the blank, ultimate-deer-in-spotlights look on George's face as he stared at the page. Slowly, he leaned towards the table and placed it down so all three friends could see. He shakily pointed to an Obituary that read:

George Alan Gracey, Sr.

1809-1876

Died of unknown causes to some on January the twenty-sixth, 1876, though he was found in a grisly state with an axe to the head. Mr. Gracey had one son, George Gracey, Jr., and a wife, Mary Gilbert Gracey. He had no grandchildren. He now leaves his entire fortune and estate to his beloved son and devoted wife.

00000

The mob of black followed the all-black hearse up the dead grass-covered hill. The women all carried small bouquets of lilies tied with black ribbons. Mary's black veil fell to nearly her dress's hem. George had put a lily in his buttonhole earlier and now followed his mother, who was leading behind the pallbearers. Following George Jr. were George Sr.'s brothers and sister, George Jr.'s cousins. A distant church bell rang after the service the family had just been at. The Gracey family's church's minister lead the way in front of everyone to the plot of land; the Gracey family plot where ancestors and relatives were buried. It wasn't too far from the large, whitewashed mansion; in fact, private enough that many locals didn't even know about it. But it was far enough to show the family didn't like to dwell on their loved ones for horrendously long amounts of time.

When they'd reached the gravesite, and the minister began preaching blessings unto the casket, everything became a blur to George. Even when his cousin, Savannah, put her arms around his neck and bawled in an unforgiving manner, he only subconsciously slipped his arms around her tiny waist.

"Please don't cry, Savannah," George pulled out his handkerchief and offered it to her. She took it and turned away from him, blowing her nose. "Don't worry; he's much happier now." George only wished he could believe that himself.

"Well, why aren't you so sad?" Savannah sobbed, glancing at him suspiciously. "He was your father, after all!"

"It isn't exactly proper for a gentleman to shed his tears in public," George said, but she could hear a slight sob in his throat and his eyes had gotten a far glassier look to them.

"Oh, go ahead and cry!" Savannah exclaimed. "No one's looking, or cares!"

"All right; just let me have my hankie back!" George took the handkerchief from her hand just as a big wet tear fell down his cheek. Savannah could hear George letting out appalling sobs from deep within him. He was breathing deeply and sounded out of breath. He had completely covered his face with the handkerchief.

"It's a good thing I didn't need that piece of cloth so badly, or I would have just let you keep it!" Savannah said harshly. She calmed herself. "There, there, George."

"He was the only father I ever had," George sobbed very unhappily, "And now he's dead!"

His sadness suddenly flashed to anger. "Well, I'm glad he's dead! He wasn't ever home when I needed him, so…good riddance!" George scuffed at the ground with his polished black leather shoe.

"Glad you finally see things my way," Savannah's brother Owen walked to his sister's side. "Always knew the old man was a cheat or a two-timer. Why else d'you think he got an axe to the noggin?" he tapped his cranium.

"It's a good thing words aren't made of food, or I'd make you eat yours!" George said with bitter contempt, flashing his head around at his cousin.

"Calm down, George. I was only kidding," Owen put up his hands to show he didn't mean it. "Well…partly."

"Oh, and I'm sure you know far more about my father than I do, right?" George said sarcastically.

"George! Please! Show some respect for your father!" Mary hushed her son bitterly. He and the others had been standing at the back of the group so they had the least chance of being heard.

"When did I ever not show respect for him?" George asked rhetorically.

Mary took his hand. "Oh, you've got to start growing up sooner or later, and it may as well be today!" she led him to the front of the group to where George didn't especially want to be: watching his father's casket being lowered into the ground. His lower lip started quivering again and small puddles of tears formed beneath his eyes; he was twisting the handkerchief tightly in his hands.

Mary slipped her velvet-gloved hand through his arm. But her hand wasn't gripping his sleeve like George almost expected it to. Instead, it felt almost artificial; not the normally kind hand his mother had.

"Now, George," Mary turned to him as they walked back down the hill, "You read what the Obituary about your father said. You are now the owner of the entire Gracey estate, as well as a good amount of the fortune left behind. I'm not saying you should come home and quit school, but request that you take a few days off to sort out financial issues. Do you think you'll be able to do that?"

"Of course, Mother," George said obediently, looking down at his slightly scuffed and dulled shoes. "I'll ask the Principal about it."

"Good," Mary turned back to the path. She had a smug look on her face that made George uncomfortable.

"So do they have any idea who murdered Father?" George asked with a hint of suspicion.

"W-ell…they think it might have been an old and bitter business partner of his," Mary said quickly and to the point.

"I see," George sounded mock thoughtful. "But he wasn't there when the police force arrived?"

"Jumped out the back window and ran away across the lawn," Mary said in her most unconvincingly melancholic voice. "I ran downstairs when I heard a shattering of glass, but he was too fast for me to catch up with. I spun around and there lied George, on his favorite couch—"she pretended to turn away and wipe away a tear, "—with an axe to the skull."

"Sounds a bit brutal for someone holding a grudge," George was contemplating everything he was learning about the crime as he heard it. "I'm sure he could have just reasoned with father."

"Y-Yes, but, you see, some people just hold grudges for so long, that their anger just becomes too strong for them to control," Mary tried explaining.

"True," George sighed. "But how did he get in to the house?"

"I don't know," Mary said, her eyes darting left and right. "I was upstairs working on some – some embroidery. Then I heard the glass crash and –"

"But was the front door open? The door leading from the dining room? The Servants' Quarters?" George asked.

"I – I didn't bother to look," Mary stuttered.

"Didn't the police wonder as well?" George asked, becoming a bit more frustrated with his mother's story.

"They didn't bother to ask," Mary's breathing was a bit shallow.

"I'd think they would. Police tend to investigate every aspect of a crime scene," George said. "But my estimate is, it was someone who's hated father for years; someone who couldn't stand him and hated the sight of him. And I don't think they were a business partner of his."

"Will you please open the door for everyone?" Mary exclaimed, and George realized that the group had been standing at the back doors of the Mansion for quite some time.

"Oh…sorry," George leaned forward and took hold of the gold handle and turned it, opening the door and letting his mother inside. She cast him a scowling look before retreating inside. Everyone else gave him either a wary or a reproachful look, while some didn't bother to look at him at all.

Disclaimer: See first chapter.