EXCUSE TIME: This took a while, because I had to consolidate 15 years' worth of action into a single chapter in a manner that is readable and cohesive. A good alternate title for this would be "Fleck's Sad Life", but in the next chapter, our finale, all of the sadness will be over!

ALSO! Remember the posters that Ariel tore the eyes out of? You find out why in this chapter. I didn't forget….

Chapter Twenty-Five

Fleck's Memories

Abandonment

He had abandoned us, after ten long years of something like friendship, and he erased everything he'd ever made. Mr. Y and Gustave were gone. Daddy was dead. The world as I knew it was nothing but ashes on a windswept plain. Gregory, the Fleck family photographs, and Daddy's journal were the only things I had in the world.

Our only home thus destroyed, we freaks were forced to go our separate ways. Some of us would sign on to a circus or another freak show, some of us would seek out relations, and the less freakish among us, like me and Gregory, would have to see about getting actual jobs and holding down an apartment or something. But first there was the heartbreaking task of laying Daddy to rest.

He had purchased his own plot along with Mama's back when he had to plan her funeral, which preserved a lot of our meager savings, but the engraving, a simple coffin, and the actual internment almost wiped it clean. Thank God we had enough. To not be able to bury Daddy next to Mama would have broken my already broken heart into dust.

The funeral was the very last time we were all together. One by one, we knelt beside Daddy's casket and told him goodbye. Oh, that was so hard for me, that funeral, so hard, but Gregory didn't let me go for a moment.

"Good bye, Daddy," I told him, kissing his tattooed cheeks one last time. "I love you. Say hello to Mama for me."

Then we freaks were scattered abroad. There was one last moment of togetherness, one last kiss from Mrs. Beardsley, one last prayer from Aggie-Ann, one last handshake with all the men, one last sad smile from Genevieve as she got into a cab with Damien, and then off we all went.

Our First Home

Signor and Signora De Rossi managed to get a cheap room in a boarding house, and when I say "room", I mean it. That was basically all there was. A main room with a cook-stove that only seemed to work at intervals, a closet, and a tiny bedroom, and all throughout the place there were chinks in the plaster and rips in the faded wallpaper. Still, it was something, and it was here where Gregory and I made our first home, where we would remain for three months.

There were very few jobs for women in 1907, but I actually managed to get a job as a telephone operator at Bell Atlantic. Easy work, connecting wires and saying "number please" all day, but I had to lie and say that I was single, which was a half-truth. Married or otherwise involved women could not work for my company. As for Gregory, he got hired to work as a custodian for a local grocery store. Over the span of three months, we amassed a teensy little fortune to keep us alive, and we made a special little fund for our future wedding. We never did eat very well, and all the dinners I ever made for Gregory were scraped out of jars, but we had each other. A week after we moved in, I bled, confirming that I was not pregnant after all, but it certainly was a strange period. Very light, and it couldn't have lasted more than a day or two. Furthermore, I didn't bleed again through October or November. I chalked it up to the unhealthy, sparse diet and thought nothing more of it. Perhaps we shouldn't have, but Gregory and I had sex a lot. After work, we ate whatever god-awful meal I could make with the jarred goods on hand, cleaned up, and took it right to the bedroom. You'd think we'd have backed off after the pregnancy close call, but take it from me: practicing complete abstinence in a small shared bed just doesn't happen, especially when you love the man you're sharing it with. Even so, Gregory's extensive experience produced a great many homemade contraceptive methods, and we assuaged our consciences with the thought that we would surely be married soon.

Then something dreadful happened.

Losing Gregory

It was late November or perhaps early December when we were evicted. It wasn't that we hadn't made payments or anything, but I guess word got to the management somehow that "Mr. and Mrs. De Rossi" weren't actually man and wife, and in the interest of keeping a "respectable" boarding house, they threw us out, very abruptly, on the coldest night in December. We were literally forced to the curb with our things, although Gregory certainly didn't go silently. If there had been any hope of perhaps kindling any pity in the management's heart, he ruined it with a good half hour of screaming and threats.

It was all in vain. Out we went, onto the street, into the biting cold. Miserably, I sunk onto the pavement beside our bags and wondered how I was going to be able to go to work in the morning.

"Oh, Gregory," I moaned. "What are we to do now? We've got to get another room somehow, and we haven't even had dinner…"

Eyes still gleaming with fury, he looked at the door from whence we had just come. He clenched his fists. "Ariel, I'll fetch you dinner." He cracked his knuckles. "And a little more. Okay?"

I'd been with him long enough to know that this meant something bad.

"What do you mean? Dear, you're not going to do anything…drastic, are you?"

"Nothing drastic," Gregory replied slowly, watching the windows. "I am just going to sneak in and get us all the food we need. Also, I saw one of them buy a big cake; I'll nab that too."

"So you're stealing it? Oh, no, Gregory, that would..."

"Serve them right!" he finished for me, and after cautioning me to remain hidden the alley, in he snuck.

There was silence for a long time. Shivering, I wrapped my coat tighter around myself and wished that he would hurry, or cut it out and come out, but all at once there was a cry, a clatter, and then I heard furious screams.

"Father!"

"Drop that, you! Drop it!"

"Get off me, you son of a…!"

"Murder! Call the police, someone! Murder!"

Murder? I staggered back, stifling the scream in my throat. Gregory had murdered someone? Oh, what had happened? What were they going to do to him?

It turned out that when Gregory snuck in to steal the food and cake, the landlord's elderly father had been getting a cup of water, and sight of him emptying the cabinets in the darkness startled him, causing him to fall down the stairs and be killed. The noise had awoken the son and his brothers, and they grabbed him and called the police. When I hobbled in, frightened, this was the scene I was presented with, and when they recognized me, they seized me too.

"Threw 'em out tonight, we did!" cried the landlord to the police chief. "Greasy wop and his girlfriend put up quite the riot on the way out, too! Just look at my poor father!"

Both of us were arrested. The police contacted the Italian Embassy, who contacted the Milanese police, who verified that a "Gregory De Rossi" was a suspected accessory in a whole slew of Mafia murders and robberies. What in the world could be said? There wasn't anything we could do.

Away we went to court. On one side of the courtroom sat a whole regiment of angry family members, and on the other side sat me, alone, trying not to cry at the sight of Gregory handcuffed between two police officers. BANG! Down came the gavel, with the cruelest words I ever heard: Fifteen years in Brooklyn City Prison, no parole. One closed visit allowed per two weeks. Fifteen years! As for me, I was to be sent to prison for three weeks.

Before I was to be taken away, I was allowed to see Gangle in prison for an hour.

My Promise

It ended up being our first prison visiting session, and easily the most miserable we've ever endured. There he was behind the glass, his head bowed, his voice trumpet hanging uselessly to the side. He looked as though he'd lost weight already; there was leanness in his cheeks and a visible darkness shadowing his eyes as he looked at me, as though seeing me from a long way off. It seemed he couldn't find anything to say. I couldn't either. Oh, what were we going to do? Fifteen years!

"Ariel," he eventually muttered in despair, cutting into my desperate thoughts, "I am so sorry."

What could I say? I just gazed back at him like an idiot, hopelessly tongue-tied.

He swallowed and closed his eyes. "I would not hold it against you, Ariel, if you…" He paused, grief-stricken, but went on…"If you were to marry someone else, someone who can give you a place to live and food to eat…"

"No!" That shocked me out of my stupor. "Oh, Gregory, how could I ever do that?"

"To survive," came the defeated reply. "How could you survive for fifteen whole years with no home, no food?"

"And lose you? No, no, I couldn't!"

But it seemed as though he had already decided upon this course of action; I could see it in the way he was avoiding my eyes, as though he wanted the break to be as clean as possible.

My eyes burned with tears and rage. "So it isn't my decision," I just managed to spit out, jumping up. "You've already decided to let me go."

He shook his head, still not looking at me, but I could see the moisture starting to pool on his lashes. "Ariel," he said, "If you die, I will be ruined."

"But I won't die. I know I won't." Resolve flared up in my chest. "There's the uncollapsed part of the tunnel; I can keep warm in there. This is a big city, and I always manage to find something to eat, on top of what people will give me. By golly, if Johnny Appleseed can hoof it across Pennsylvania barefoot with a pot on his head, I guess I can survive in the city where I was born!"

Rather than inspire confidence, every word seemed to make Gregory more distressed.

"Gregory, please listen to me." I pointed to the plain old prison calendar, hanging over on his side. "I'm making you a promise. It is 1907 now. It will be 1922 in fifteen years. When that year comes-" The Twenties seemed so ridiculously far away that I trembled, but went on-"I will still be here, ready to marry you, and no one else."

He lifted his head and looked at me.

"Cross my heart, dear," I intoned solemnly, sealing the promise.

Gregory wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "I will never understand how someone as good as you ever gave a damn about someone like me, Ariel," he mumbled, quite overcome. "I love you."

Fleck In Jail

Too soon, our time together was over, and off I went to the Brooklyn City Womens' Prison, where I was given a black prison dress, a white cap, and a cell, which I shared with two sickly prostitute girls. One was a fair haired, thin little thing called Clara, and a swarthy girl with a rash called Theodora. When the matron pushed open the door to admit me, they sat up from a game of cards and stared at me most interestedly.

"This is Ariel Fleck," the matron informed them. "She's only serving three weeks, and until then, she will share this cell with you."

A grinding scrape, the clank of a door being shut, and then I was alone with those two girls, who wasted no time in introducing themselves, offering me cigarettes and candy, and generally being quite accommodating. All I wanted to do, however, was cry. After giving them a bare bones description of myself and tasting a lemon drop, I sunk onto my cot and sobbed.

"Hey, Ariel," said Clara soothingly. "Don't take it so bad. Three weeks are gonna fly, and then out you'll go."

"That's just the thing!" I cried. "I have nowhere to go. I have no parents, no home, no nothing, and my fiancé is going to be in jail for the next fifteen years. I don't have anything!"

Theodora moaned in sympathy. "Fifteen years, huh? I'm real sorry."

"You know, once we're out of here, I can ask the head of our brothel to give you a job," offered Clara. "You'd be shocked how much money Theodora and I make, even on a slow night."

Me? A prostitute? Oh, no, banish the thought! Those girls tried so hard to comfort me, but that night was destined to be one of tears and heartache, and at length they were forced to just leave me alone. I wondered if Gregory were feeling just as bad on his first night in prison, the first night of what would be our fifteen-year separation. If only I could drift to his side like a spirit, to watch over him. If only this had all turned out right. That first night was terrible.

A Delicate Condition

For one beautiful moment in the early morning, I imagined that I was in my bed, home in Fleck Manor, and Daddy was just rumbling to his feet to make tea. The sun was warm. Another day at Phantasma was beginning. But clanks against the metal snapped me right out of it, and the matron's heels clacked as she strode up and down the corridor, crying, "Rise and shine, ladies!" Clara and Theodora grunted and hopped out of bed. I opened my eyes. Here I was, Ariel Fleck, in jail with other bad girls.

The three of us hustled into our dresses and caps, preparing for our breakfasts. I squinted. My stomach was uneasy, and there was a cold sweat creeping up my back that I couldn't shake, not even after taking a sip of sink water.

"Wonder what slop is on the menu today!" chirped Clara, trying to keep the mood sunny. "You'll get used to the oatmeal, Ariel, I swear. I'll let you have my share of the brown sugar today."

But I suddenly couldn't move. I clenched the sides of the sink, feeling as though the world were draining away, and all at once the floor seemed to rock.

"Ariel!" cried Theodora, grabbing me. Her bosom against the back is the last thing I remember before the blackness enclosed me.

I awoke upon a white bed in a white room, with a white-clad nurse over me. Fancies of Heaven filled my mind, but were swept away when the lady commented, "Now she's coming around. How do you feel, Miss Fleck?"

"I have a headache," I heard myself complain through the daze. "And I'm nauseous."

She sat down beside me and took my hand. "Very normal, very normal. Miss Fleck, you've had an examination by the doctor while you were asleep, after we were certain that you were stable."

"Have I?"

"Yes, and it seems that you're expecting a baby."

There was not a trace of duplicity in her matronly brown eyes, which terrified me out of my wits. What? No! There had to be a mistake!

I struggled to sit up. "That's not possible," I insisted feebly. "Why, I have had a period. You can't be expecting and have that happen."

She blinked in surprise, and I told her about the short bleeding three months ago, but rather than bamboozling her, she only shook her head. I had been mistaken. It hadn't been a period. It had been the fertilized egg implanting on my womb, and when it had a little blood had occurred. I was approximately ten weeks into my pregnancy!

Oh, what was I to do? Before it had been such a beautiful thought, but how could I have a baby when I was homeless and orphaned?

Clara had a rather simple answer.

"Don't," she said, patting my back sympathetically. "You just have to get yourself to bleed again; it'll end it. I've done it before, a whole bunch of times."

She said it so casually, but the idea still frightened me. "But I'd be killing the baby, Clara," I protested in confusion. "I would, wouldn't I?"

She frowned. "Baby? Whenever I did it, all that came out of me were gobs of blood. I didn't see much that was alive in the first place. Hmm. How pregnant are you?"

I told her ten weeks, which brought a shadow of deep thought to her eyes. "Hmm. And in three weeks you'll be thirteen. I never waited until that long. I always did it immediately. Still, I wager it'd turn out all right. It isn't all that much longer."

"Pennyroyal pills are what you need," chipped in Theodora, sitting beside me. "They'll set you back two dollars, but they work. At the druggist, they come in a scarlet tin with lots of writing on it. I've done it too. We take precautions at the brothel, but sometimes it doesn't work."

There I was, on the cot, Theodora and Clara on either side of me, chirping advice as I wracked my brains for an answer to this moral dilemma. They said it was blood, gobs of blood, and gobs of blood couldn't be alive, could they? But that was early. What was it like this late? It really could be alive now. But I was homeless, orphaned, crippled! But it wasn't right! But they'd done it so many times, and they'd come through unscathed…

"It's best to have a towel around when you do it," said Clara. "It's like having a big period. It can hurt something awful, but it does work. Besides, what could you possibly do otherwise, Ariel?"

She wasn't looking for an answer. It was one of those questions where you know there's only one option and you've got no choice but to take it.

Baby De Rossi Dies

Straightaway after my release, I did precisely what Clara instructed. At a local druggist, I exchanged two precious dollars for a small scarlet tin of Pennyroyal Pills; elegant calligraphy across the lid assured me, in suspiciously vague terms, that the enclosed drugs would "quickly cure those distressing irregularities particular to ladies". Within, printed instructions instructed me to take one pill an hour until the whole supply was exhausted.

After I was settled back in my tunnel home, I did just that. The first cramps started not long after the final dose, right on cue, just as Clara had said. At first they were barely noticeable. Unfortunately, they progressively worsened, and soon they were twisting my insides with pangs that made me break into a cold sweat. Remembering Clara's advice, I lowered myself onto a little towel, and keeping as calm as I could, I let my knees drop open and waited for the blood to come. It was like being in labor, I guess, lying there, groaning with pain, awaiting the end of my pregnancy.

Eventually, warmth bubbled out of me, and the pain lessened. It had worked! I lay back, closed my eyes, and relaxed, waiting for the bleeding to run its course and cease. It was all over. Once I felt comfortable enough to sit up straight, I decided to clean up. That was that. I looked at the towel, expecting to see a lot of blood.

What I saw lying there lifeless will haunt me until the day I die.

It's too heartbreaking for me to describe, even all these years later, but this I'll tell you: one look at that towel, and I knew I had made the most horrible mistake of my life. I had made a baby with Gregory that night in the carriage, and now, in this tunnel, I had murdered it. Had I truly believed that only blood would come out? Truly? Or had I just wished it? Shaken to the very soul by the enormity of my crime, I gently folded the towel over, and Baby's receiving blanket became its funeral shroud. I never found out if it was a girl or a boy.

That night, I took a stone and dug Baby a grave right between Daddy and Mama, in the churchyard of Saint Anastasia's. It felt laying a little angel grandchild in their arms, placing that bundle into the warm earth. They would love it, yes, love it deeply, as I knew they would have on earth; that was the only consolation I had in all the world as I pushed the dirt back into the grave and said goodbye.

"Daddy, Mama," I asked them softly, "Please take care of my little baby."

I remained there, eyes closed, feeling as though I ought to pray, or say something, but I couldn't. There was nothing more to do. Dimly, I knew I must tell Gregory, knew that retribution would surely come, knew a whole lot things, but all I knew was complete numbness as I walked back to my little tunnel home.

There was still blood in the dirt where I had lain, smeared there like an accusing, scarlet witness. I became aware of it when I stepped off the ladder. Grabbing a stick, I stabbed it, mixed it, scattered it, blending it into the rest of the dirt, blending and blending until it was reduced to nothing but a pile of brown dirt scrapings.

Then I sunk down into it and screamed myself hoarse, as only a mama who has lost her little one can.

Those Eyes

The next morning, the day after Baby's meager funeral, marked the start of my descent into alcoholism, an issue that would plague me for years. This time, when a sad-eyed gentleman gave me a couple beers, I didn't even think twice. I tore the caps off with my teeth and downed every last one. It was dangerous. I was hurting myself. But I hated myself so much that I didn't even care. Bottle after empty bottle soared into the gutter, and I, too inebriated to even walk straight, fell over against the fence and just lay there.

Gregory was absolutely devastated when I told him what I had been through. He'd sniffled around me a good couple times before, wiped his eyes and all that, but that day marked the first time he ever out-and-out cried. We both did. It was the saddest meeting we ever had. By the end of the story I was a sobbing pile of nerves, begging for forgiveness.

"I forgive you," he assured me, putting his hand on the glass so I could touch it. "I am so sad to lose Baby, but you were afraid, Ariel, and you didn't have anywhere to go, anything to do, and it's my fault this happened at all anyway."

As much as I knew it didn't make sense to beat myself up over it forever, I couldn't help it. Grief immobilizes you, makes you unable to be rational, and there's nothing more soul crushing, more mind-numbingly painful than losing your child. You never move on. I still haven't. I never will. If I am blessed with the chance to be able to have more babies with Gregory, I'm going to be a wreck throughout the whole pregnancy, remembering Baby.

The fading posters, on which were the faces of the friends I'd once known, made it worse. Their eyes seemed to follow me. On a day when I was particularly wild with smoke and beer, I took a rock and blinded them-every last one. Whether I screamed or cried, I can't recall, but I was vicious and thorough, scraping and scratching until every last face was eyeless. Genevieve, Damien, Christine Daae, Aggie-Ann… They could not stare at me in my sin anymore.

Speaking of sin, I bet Daddy was weeping in Heaven, watching me get drunk every night and puking in the gutter every morning. I ought to have wept for myself, frankly, but I was too far gone. Before long, it was no longer a crutch. Alcohol soon became my one true love, a cruel but satisfying master, and soon cigarettes jumped on the bandwagon, after someone tossed me a pack of Lucky Strikes. Smoke, sip, smoke, sip, burp, repeat. That's what I did for the next five years, in a nutshell. I sold all three feet of my hair for the money, came close to selling my molars, but I never sold the use of my body. That was off-limits. Everything else was fair game.

The Titanic

Gregory had been corresponding with Giovanni ever since the beginning of his sentence. Quite a few things had happened that were of note: for one, he had married Maria. Their marriage hadn't produced any children yet, but they were hoping for one soon, to inherit the restaurant they had successfully opened in the south of Rome. Financially, they were making decent profits. They were so kind as to send me money whenever they could.

For their fourth wedding anniversary, they decided to take a cruise back to America on the Titanic, the largest and most luxurious steamliner in the world. They could only afford a third-class ticket, but it would be the ship's maiden voyage, and it would be fun. There was a lot of buzz about it in New York at the time; I overheard innumerable conversations about how so-and-so was going to go down to the harbor to watch it come in, and it excited me so much that I decided to join them.

Mr. and Mrs. Giovanni De Rossi promised that when they arrived, they would visit Gregory and me, and see what they could do for me in my situation.

So, early in the morning on April 14, 1912, I went skipping down to the harbor with an unopened bottle of beer to give them, thrilled at the prospect of seeing that great big ship come sailing in. There I waited, watching the horizon. I hadn't seen any newspapers, nor heard any scuttlebutt; it was too early, and after a good long time passed, I became both confused and impatient. Was it running late?

"What are you standing about for, Miss Fleck?"

It was Mr. Hansen, a man who had to pass by me often on his way to the docks, who often gave me candy. He was a fisherman.

"Waiting for the Titanic to come," I replied.

"Take it you haven't heard, then."

"Heard what?"

He sucked in his lips regretfully for a moment, and then his sympathetic eyes met mine. "The Titanic's gone. Struck an iceberg yesterday and sank."

Oh, if only he were joking, but he wasn't. Before the day was much older, newsboys took to the street, their signs emblazoned with the grim declaration: TITANIC DISASTER; GREAT LOSS OF LIFE. Other headlines declared: 1,500 TO 1,800 DEAD! BAND PLAYED UNTIL END! J.J. ASTOR LOST. I went down to the harbor with a great many others to wait for the survivors, who were coming on the Carpathia. When at last those poor, ragged people disembarked, I witnessed the most beautiful reunions, the most wondrous displays of humanity and selflessness, the most heartbreaking disappointments a girl ever saw, but I never did see either Giovanni or Maria.

I didn't give up right away; perhaps I simply hadn't seen them, but as time wore on and they did not appear on survivor lists, fear began poisoning my hope. The death blow came two days later, when I was finally allowed to see Gregory. His clenched jaw and the dullness of his eyes, which had clearly been shedding tears for days, confirmed my worst fears.

"Ariel," he said before I could even say anything, "Both Giovanni and Maria are gone."

He had seen the headline in the newspapers provided at breakfast, and telegram inquiries, along with their failure to contact him somehow, confirmed that Giovanni and Maria had died at sea along with the majority of the third-class Italian passengers. I remembered how I had scorned Maria for misquoting Poe, as though it had been a crime, and as I reached to touch Gregory's hand my eyes burned with grief and shame. Oh, what did it matter? I had been such a spiteful little ninny.

Gregory was and still is tremendously hurt by their loss, even to this day. We'll be talking, and right out of nowhere he'll explode, furiously, "The most advanced ship in the world, and they couldn't figure out how to make it safe! Branco di idioti!" Nowadays, up in Halifax, there's a graveyard for those who perished on the Titanic; among the graves, a stone was erected for both of them. I have never seen it, but Gregory and me plan to take a trip there when we are married at last.

Memories Of The Past

Two years later, The Great War began. Crowds lined the streets as our boys marched bravely off to war, and I, the fabled Miss Fleck, was there as well, my trusty pack of Lucky Strikes in my pocket and a beer in my fist. The war would ultimately mean three things to me:

I'd have less food.

I'd get fewer donations from folks.

Gregory and me would actually have something to talk about.

I'm not trying to sound flippant, mind you. I'm just being truthful. Bums care little for the philosophical and spiritual ramifications of war, not when there are "big picture" needs to be fulfilled, like food, shelter, and counting one's nickels.

Gregory was big on talking about the war, particularly when Italy got involved. Yap, yap, yap. I can see him in my mind, one hand flapping around while the other held his voice trumpet. If there hadn't been glass between us, I might have shook him.

Madame Giry came back not long after that. She returned completely out of the blue, sans Meg, dressed in black, her features more shrunken, soft, broken, as though she were possessed by a wandering spirit. I was taking a post-cigarette snooze when I heard her voice, narrating the contents of the posters in a strange monotone.

"Phantasma, city of wonders." She sounded as though she were reading it to someone, although no one was there. "Mr. Y presents marvels, astonishments, human prodigies…"

Something about her voice made all my memories of Phantasma come rushing back, and when I sat up and beheld her face, illuminated by the moon, I was speechless, frozen somewhere in time and space.

The sight of me affected her similarly. I understood. I'd certainly changed in seven years.

"You!" she gasped, backing up, meeting my eye unsteadily. "You! Miss Fleck…you're still here?"

I rose and stretched. "Of course I'm still here. The freaks, the monstrous, the bizarre…where else could I be but here? Cigarette?"

A stare was all I got in reply, so I felt no qualms in simply going on. As a matter of fact, seeing this face, this other person who once knew Phantasma as I had, filled me with a nameless sort of desperation. If only for a moment, someone who understood was with me.

"And after the tragedy, after the Master…" (I faltered in surprise at my own reverence towards him, even then) "…after he disappeared with the child…and after the fire that consumed everything…"

"His dream," she murmured sadly, closing her eyes. "Our dream."

Our dream. Yes, it had been, hadn't it? Tears sprung into my eyes; I couldn't help it. The memories were too powerful to resist.

"Remember how it all was?" I grabbed her arm and looked towards where it had all once been. "Remember?"

Standing there in the darkness, two refugees upon an old battlefield, we brought Phantasma and Coney Island back to life with nothing more than whispered memories. It was surreal. In the darkness, our imaginations gave free rein to pictures and stories, until it seemed we could conjure it all back. Once more, I walked through Phantasma's grinning gates, danced through the streets, ate breakfast with Daddy and Gangle, and soared through midair on my hoop. We remained in this state for what may have been hours; there was a horror in leaving Phantasma again, even if it all had been a dream, and when weariness at last overcame us I nearly cried with the pain.

"Here," I sniffed, lighting her a cigarette, which she accepted, and we sat down.

If you can even believe it, there was little discussion after that, not about Christine Daae, Mr. Y, Meg, anything, although she did wonder what I was doing alone. "Where are the other two?" was how she phrased it. I pulled no punches: Daddy had died shortly after the fire, and Gregory was in jail. I knew nothing about the others.

That was a strange meeting, seeing Madame Giry again. I have never seen her since. Perhaps she has died. Perhaps Meg did. I never asked. Something about her made me not want to know anyhow.

It was the reliving of those old memories that induced me to read my Daddy's journal at last. I'd always had it, along with all the old photographs, but I never could bring myself to read it. The pain was still too raw, even after seven years. The night after Madame Giry left, however, I dug through the stacks of photographs and pulled it out. It took me only two days to read it all. Rather than break my heart, seeing Daddy's own words in his own handwriting was so soothing. I cried when there was no more to read.

He had written the last entry on the day Phantasma burned down.

"September 4th, 1907. Ariel is to be married to De Rossi. I haven't the time to write down all the particulars and why and how; I am too overwhelmed with tasks to do. I will write about it later. But this I will say: it's really indescribable, sitting in this house and seeing none of Ariel's things in it anymore. I know very well that she's going to live only a walk away, and I ought not to put on such a routine over it, but I feel as though I have come to the end of an age, with very little warning, and I feel very old. Shall Alf become a grandfather? We'll see."

Just under that entry, I wrote my own little message of goodbye to Daddy, and then I wrapped the journal and put it away, knowing that I would always cherish it.

The Twenties

Five more years passed, and then the war ended in an explosion of confetti, screaming, and what almost amounted to a joy riot in the streets. I'll always remember it because some sailor-looking fella kissed me. There I was, minding my own bum business, cheering for our victorious army, and this kid swings me back and kisses me square on the lips. I might have excused it if that had been all (what with the overjoyed atmosphere and whatnot), but then he started talking about treating ol' Miss Fleck to a little sex, and I was obliged to punch him in the teeth.

"Two and a half more years until I get to hug you," smiled Gregory when I went to see him. "And I will marry you right after that! Twelve years have gone by, Ariel, can you even believe that?"

Sitting there, the thought was astounding. Back in 1907, it had seemed insane, but here I was. In two months, the year 1919 would be a dream of the past, and we'd enter the fabled Twenties. Up until that point, the Twenties were something we discussed in hushed, reverent tones, as if discussing an impending birth. What would they be like? How much would we, as well as the world, change?

Well, for one, I was thinner, older-looking, missing a few back teeth. A lot of my former beauty had drooled down the drain. Gregory's hair was a bit thinner, grayer, and there were definite lines around his mouth and on his forehead, but he was still Gregory, and I was still Ariel, and we still loved each other.

"We've changed on the outside, but we're still the same inside, dear," I told him cheerfully. "Speaking of which, they're playing jazz at the Gypsy now, can you believe it? And I believe there is not a single woman left in Brooklyn who has not bobbed her hair; it's quite respectable now, I understand."

Yes, the ol' morale did get a boost once the Twenties rolled in, so much that we starting having conversations about our future, and one day Gregory even confessed something surprising to me.

"It's been working, Ariel," he told me, looking a bit humbled. "Did you know that got so scared for you once, that I prayed?"

Boy, he must have been scared.

"Really, Gregory? When?"

"I don't remember. All I remember is that I was watching you leave from my room. It was snowing out, and you were just about to go around the corner, but you stopped. It was as though you were afraid, didn't want to go on, and all at once you puffed yourself up and marched, as though telling yourself that you must."

"Then you prayed?"

"No, not then. I thought about it for a long time." His eyes met mine. "I realized how vulnerable you were, how I couldn't help you even if I wanted to. It hung over me like a shadow. It made me so depressed that I didn't even want to eat."

The thought of my poor depressed Gregory not eating melted my heart. "I'm all right dear," I assured him, pressing my hand to the glass so he could touch it. "Truly, I am."

When he touched my hand back, he shut his eyes, and his English grew lousy. "I 'ope so. I always so afraid that you get sick, maybe with new-moan-ee-ah or something, and you die…"

"You're getting yourself upset, dear, please don't worry."

"An' that is when I prayed," he went on, eyes still closed. "Because I not able to do anything else. And I promised that if he kept you okay through all-ah dese years, I would pray everyday until I die."

I was rendered speechless for a while, not only by Gregory's sweet and uncharacteristic behavior, but by my own sudden grief. I realized that Gregory, who hadn't even believed in praying, was doing it more than me.

"I'm so glad, dear," I told him. "I'm sure it will come true."

That evening, after my traditional round of alcohol and cigarettes, I was thoughtful. As I grew drowsy, watching my cigarette smoke mingle with the stars, concerns about the future came to the forefront of my mind. Once Gregory was free, where would he get a job? What if we got into a hole again, and he had to steal food, and got into trouble? What if I became pregnant by him again? I would never abort another baby, so I would raise the child, and it would need feeding…

I prayed for the ability to help both myself, and Gregory, and if I couldn't, I prayed for someone who would be so nice as to help. It felt incredibly irreverent and awful, praying for the first time in years with a cigarette in my teeth, lying in the dirt, drunk as a skunk, but I was very sincere.

Meeting Jay

My prayers were soon answered, for I met you, Jay!

You know how you met me. There I was, lying in the street after nearly getting creamed by that car, grateful that I had not died as my mama had, and you came rushing over with a Coke and a turkey sandwich. I'm sorry that I was so suspicious and mean at first. I didn't mean to. I suppose that the years of having to watch my back have made me into a suspicious old pigeon.

You were (and still are) so nice to Gregory and me; I can't possibly thank you enough. Here we are, at last, at the end of my story. You've heard it all, from my childhood to this very moment. As far as I know, there isn't any more to tell.

(This concludes the story of Fleck, Squelch, and Gangle.)

Mr. Whittington made one last notation, smiled, and set down his pad. It was three o' clock in the afternoon. The golden rays of the sun were illuminating his little parlor and shining in the teacups. The normal uproar on the street carried on as both he and Miss Fleck let out an elated sort of sigh, feeling as though they had come full circle on a great adventure together.

"Thank you very much, Ariel." Mr. Whittington, said, leaning forward to shake her hand. "That was the longest story I've heard yet, but I truly appreciate the time you've taken to tell me of it, and Mr. De Rossi too."

"It was the least I could do." Miss Fleck's eyes drifted dreamily over the piles of notes. "This whole experience of telling it has been something else, I'll tell you. It brought back a lot of pain, but so much happiness as well."

"And there's more story ahead, of course."

"Naturally. I guess it can only go up from here."

But Mr. Whittington detected a trace of shiftiness in his companion's eyes, a stiffness to her chuckle, as though she were toying with an idea.

"Jay," she blurted before he could ask. "I've kept it, you know. After all these years, I've never been able to let go of it, as much as I've wanted to."

"What?"

Her eyes closed, as though she were confessing something shameful. "Mr. Y's mask. The very same that I found lying in the tunnel, the day Phantasma burned down. I've kept it wrapped at the bottom of my bags. Let me show you."

It was indeed the mask, slightly chipped and evidently old, but the porcelain still gleamed in the light, and as Miss Fleck lifted it from the linen, it reflected in the darkness of her eyes. She turned it so that it was facing her, as if she were conjuring up the spirit of Mr. Y. Her aspect softened into her old "Miss Fleck" reverence.

"It's same one he wore every day. And sometimes, Jay, I think his spirit is still inside it."

Mr. Whittington watched in silence, fascinated by the mask but somehow unable to intrude upon Miss Fleck's strange, almost religious reverie.

She pressed it to her cheek, and when the cold porcelain touched her skin her body tensed. "When he kissed me, it brushed up against my cheek, like this," she breathed. "Just like this."

"So you're not bitter?"

She stopped and seemed to realize just what she was doing; he mask lowered, her cheeks flushed, and she smoothed her hair.

"I guess I'm not," she confessed, putting the mask aside. "I'm angry, yes, very angry, but not bitter." She couldn't resist letting her eyes fall upon it again. "I can't seem to ever feel bitter towards him, or even…"

"Even what?"

She swallowed and hastened to wrap the mask up again. "It's wrong," she said. "And I'm a fool to feel it. Why, if Gregory were to come in here right now and see me nuzzling Mr. Y's mask…he'd feel slighted by me, and I guess he'd have every right to."

Mr. Whittington sat next to her and took the wrapped mask, choosing his words carefully. "You still love him, even now?"

"Perhaps I'm not acting rationally on account of how sudden the break was," she began confessing, lips trembling, "But, Jay, I must tell you…when you told me that Mr. Y and Gustave died, I hugged his mask and cried all night. Anyone else might've said good riddance, but I cried."

"It's understandable. He was the last living link to the past for you. Don't feel so bad about it."

"It's more than that." Miss Fleck took the mask back from Mr. Whittington and hugged it to her heart. "It's a disgrace, frankly. It's true, what he wrote. Love never dies, Jay. Mine hasn't. It's been changed, and buried, and dug up, and pressed down, but it's never died. I love Gregory desperately, please understand, but I can't ever really let go of… Erik."

The sudden, unexpected usage of Mr. Y's true name halted the conversation, in which time Mr. Whittington reached out to comfort Miss Fleck, and she in turn wiped her eyes and endeavored to move on.

"Tell me about him, please," she almost whispered. "It was part of our deal, remember? I tell you about Phantasma, and you tell me about him."

"Of course, but are you sure you want to hear it tonight? All this story-telling seems to have worn you down…"

She shook her head. "I'm fine, really I am. Do tell me, please."

At this, Mr. Whittington looked towards his bookshelf and then at Miss Fleck, with the slightest of smiles bringing an air of concealed mystery to his countenance, "I could tell you. Or I could let Mr. Y himself do the talking."

Miss Fleck froze. "What do you mean, Jay?"

"Exactly what I said." He went to the bookshelf and opened a folder, in which was a yellowed envelope, tucked in layers of tissue paper, along with a larger orange one. "He never forgot you, Ariel. No, never. In all the time I knew him, he always regretted Phantasma, how he left, all that sort of thing, and he told me that if I ever should find you during my travels to America, I must give you this letter and this packet."

"Oh!" Miss Fleck cried, tears welling in her eyes as she recognized the elegant handwriting, the graceful cursive that was spelling her name across the envelopes. "For me? Oh, my goodness. After all this time…"

"I confess myself excited," said Mr. Whittington, sitting next to her. "I have never opened either one. I haven't the slightest idea what he has written or given to you. Come on, let's look at them together!"

NOTES FROM AUTHORESS:

Well, ladies and gents, next time is the finale! My one-year adventure of writing this story is coming to a close. Thanks for tagging along!

NOT SO FUN FACT: Pennyroyal and tansy are two herbs that can induce abortion, and back in Edwardian times there really were shady "pills" and "remedies" frequently used to cause it, made with those herbs. Abortion itself was illegal.

Sorry for the cliffhanger. NOT. I'm so mean!