Silhouettes Chapter 9
Wow. That was quite a response. I surprised a lot of people.
Thank you very much! This is a bit of a shorter piece, and doesn't contribute much to the plot, but it is an interlude focused on Viola.
-XXX-
That evening, I come to realization that while I have been wallowing in my own grief and confusion, my father hasn't been much better off. I am ashamed to realize I've significantly lacked in giving him support and comfort – while I had lost a shadowy figure in my life, my father's wife, the woman he still somewhat loved, had vanished, once and for all, from his.
So I made an effort to be sweet. I made dinner, brought him a beer, spoke at dinner. Instead of disappearing upstairs, I hung around the sitting room to watch the evening news with him. I sit on the floor knitting, back against the couch while he rests at the other end, eyes glued to the screen. The weather report and sports news goes unnoticed by me, the anchor's voice a mere background noise. I'm not paying the least bit of attention. Until –
"—And rounding out tonight's report, we've been informed in a press release today by local police officials that a new lead and a new suspect has arisen in the McLarney case. For those of you unfamiliar with the circumstances, the body of Susan McLarney of Carlisle was found here upon our East Head beach just under two years ago. Police announced today that a lead from a private investigator has reignited the case. A suspect is now in custody. More details on that in the coming weeks, I'm sure. And now onto Jill, who has our health watch for the week -"
"Well, that's brilliant," Dad says. "Give her family a bit o' hope. Pity. That case has been going on too long."
"Yeah," I agree. My throat feels suddenly dry. I focus on my stitches. "It's good, definitely. I didn't realize PIs were involved in that sort of thing."
"Oh, it was probably some bloke her family hired, once they saw the police weren't making any headway. It's what I would do."
Later, in my bedroom, I'm forced to consider Ben. Was he a private detective? Was that the reasoning behind all the weird, disconnected experiments? The files I'd found? Had he moved here simply because he was hired to find out the truth behind Susan McLarney's brutal passing?
More questions than answers surface over my musings. I decide that Saturday, after I've returned from visiting the lawyers in London, I'll bring these questions to Ben. It's none of my business, true, and I have no right to know. But we're friends. Surely he could tell me.
-XXX-
Dad drops me off at the station the next morning. On the drive, I casually bring up our mysterious tenant.
"Did Holly ever mention what he was doing before he moved here?" I ask lightly. "What kind of job he held?"
Dad looks at me sideways, slightly frowning. "No, he didn't. Don't you know? I'd figure after all that time you spend with him, he'd have told you something."
"Oh, it's just never come up."
-XXX-
I meet the lawyers at a very posh and very imposing brick building near Postman's Park. A receptionist in a pink skirt-suit smiles at me blandly before asking me to sit. She calls in my arrival, and several minutes after sitting uncomfortably on their stiff white couch browsing a copy of Architecture Today, I am ushered into a conference room and seated at a long black granite-topped table. The room is dark, with heavy wooden panels and shelves stacked with thick, leather-bound tomes. A small team of lawyers and paralegals sit beside the window at the very end, almost blending into the dark damask curtains.
Sitting lightly, I smooth my pencil skirt of its imaginary wrinkles and pray my hair in its chignon isn't too stuffy. Everyone smiles at me. I offer a tentative smile back.
"Ms. Carters," the man known as Mr. Webbersays. "It is a pleasure to meet you, though the circumstances are unfortunate. Your mother often said you were a beautiful young woman and I can see she was too right."
I highly doubt Irene ever said such a thing, if she mentioned me at all. But I thank him anyways.
"As you know, we are here today to discuss and review your mother's last will and testament. If you wish, we can also make a visit to her final resting place. It is entirely up to you. Now, if you will allow me to explain how this process works in regards to her will and your inheritance…."
It is all a blur of legal terms and figures. I do my best to keep up. What I manage to make out is that she has left my quite a complex estate. There are papers to review, later, but the biggest thing is the will itself, naturally, which is read to me in the gravest of tones by Mr. Webber, while the others look on with grim expressions and eyes of sympathy.
I am being left a house (one that Webber promises me we shall also visit, if I so choose), a car, and a tidy inheritance. The exact number is overwhelming. Enough to get me to New York and keep me their comfortably for quite some time. The estate is far nicer than I would have guessed. My mother did well for herself.
There are things to sign, of course, but I ask if I can first see the house and the grave. Webber is completely on board with this idea, and insists two of his paralegals – a slip of a blonde thing named Tiffany and an awkward boy in an ill-fitting suit who goes by Lyonel – escort me, as well as take me out for lunch.
We head out to the company car, and Tiffany asks what I would prefer. I tell her anything is fine, really, as I don't know too many restaurants down here. She takes us to a sandwich shop where we eat in relative quiet. I answer a few questions about my mother.
Did I know her?
"No, not in the least, so this is a great surprise."
That's a pity, they both agree, she seemed like a nice woman.
A bit scary, Lyonel interjects. He promptly blushes. But I grin, and ask him to go on.
From what I can gather, she seemed very, very aware of everyone and everything and her effect on people. She was sharp. Shrewd. They'd only seen her a handful of time. She had made an impression.
We finish our sandwiches and make for the car. Lyonel explains as Tiffany pulls away from the parking garage, that we will first be going to Irene's house. I hold my breath and smile.
We pull up before a smart white row of house, each with black iron fences and Grecian columns sitting beside the door. We enter number forty-four. I take in the lavish foyer, it's marble floors and the hardwood stairs, the gold mirror and hand-carved running table. We move into the upstairs parlor, a creamy beige room with sheer curtains and antique, ivory upholstered furniture. We visit her bedroom, which is a dark affair of lace-patterned black and grey wallpaper, a four-poster bed sitting in the middle of the room. My fingers skirt the vanity, which has a thin film of dust on its surface. Rows of lipstick sit in a silver stand. Lotions, makeup, perfumes. It fits with the woman I remember. I lift one crystal bottle up and inhale the scent of peonies. I move to the huge closet and let my hands wander about to caress the aisle of silk, satin, cotton, velvet, leather…the materials are rich, the clothing well-kept. We move to a small corner office, with a window that looks out on the street below. A laptop sits forlorn on the desk. It's otherwise quite bare, save for a few framed canvases of flowers, oils that seem to shimmer with an ill-possessed life. From here we move downstairs to the kitchen, which is stark, tiled black-and-white, and looks as though it's seen little use. I wander through another few rooms – a downstairs parlor, a bathroom, coming to several conclusions:
A) There are no personal touches, I note as I pass through each room. No framed photos. No mail lying about. Not even a few plants, or any sign of pets.
B) All in all the house is very, very lovely, but feels even more lonely. I am informed that my mother kept a personal assistant, and a maid who came 'round once a week. But that seems to be all. There is never any mention of family or friends.
While this place is very beautiful and grand and well-established, it saddens me. I pass through it once more, then inform my guides that I am ready to leave. Tiffany presses the small brass key that belongs to the house into my palm. I pocket it.
We then drive to the cemetery.
I am lead through the rows slowly. The walk give me time to think, time to consider all that I have learned today and all that I must now do. With every measured step a new wave of confidence floods my heart. I never thought I would ever want to resemble my mother in any kind of way, but today her boldness, her fierce nature swells within me.
Tiffany halts our small caravan. With a light gesture, she indicates my mother's grave. The paralegals hang back as I move forward.
It is a simply black headstone. Rectangular. Polished. Inscribed is her name – Irene Elizabeth Adler. Then her dates. No mention of my father.
Towards the bottom, in a sweeping script, reads:
"I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gapèd wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill's side.
And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing."
I quickly recognize the ending verses to "La Belle Dame sans Merci." I am struck with the memory of Ben's words. Had he known? Has he visited my mothers grave?
Perhaps, I reflect, it is a little odd to have such a cruel poem inscribed upon a headstone. Then again, it could have been within my mother's wishes. I shall have to ask Webber, when we return.
For several minutes I stand before my mother's resting ground in a solemn silence. I petition her spirit, if it be lingering, to give me a little more courage. And then, I turn to go, saying goodbye to my mother for only the second time in my life.
-XXX-
I did research as much as I could about Irene Adler's house. Number 44 is right, so at least I'm good there. But there aren't too many photos of the interior out there, so I just had to improvise.
For the record, Irene isn't dead. This is simply picking up the ending of "Scandal" - she is in hiding.
The poem is La Belle Dame sans Merci by Keats. I think fits with Irene quite nicely. You should give it a read.
Questions, comments, concerns, critiques, I answer them all - at some point.
