August 1891
"Who was supposed to belay these lines to the pin rail and didn't?"
Two of the stage crew were watching the man uneasily. They knew he was famous for his tempers, and would have preferred not to be in his presence at the moment. But since they had no choice, they were more than willing to provide a name.
Andros, the shorter of the two spoke up. "That would be Buquet, sir. Joe Buquet."
"Where is he now?"
"I'm not rightly sure, but he was backstage thirty minutes ago."
He looked hard at the two men. "Get back to work."
The men, beginning to fidget under that penetrating stare, hastened to obey, glad to be away from Erik Archer.
Samuel looked at his boss with a wary eye. "He went home sick yesterday. Maybe he should have stayed there a little longer."
"Shoddy work could cause a disaster in a theatre, Samuel. You are well aware of that."
"We're short-handed right now, and he's been a good worker. It's the first time for something of this nature."
"It only takes one time."
"Please, Erik. It will be my responsibility."
"Why do you care so much?"
Sorelli shrugged. "He's been here almost as long as me, and he has been dependable. Taught some of the younger ones the ropes as well."
He stood with hands on hips, regarding Samuel long enough to make him uncomfortable. "All right. It's against my better judgment, but we'll let it go. This one time, anyway. But I still wish to speak with him... even if it is without your approval," he said dryly.
Erik went backstage, Sorelli following behind, and soon found the man in question near one of the ladders leading to the fly loft.
"What are you doing, Buquet?"
Joseph turned in surprise and looked at the tall figure dressed in black. "Just doin' my job." He pointed with a meaty finger into the shadows above, and cast a swift glance at the faceless man, swallowing nervously. "Sir," he added.
"I heartily suggest then, that you make sure one task is completed correctly before moving on to the next."
"Sir?"
"The pin rail, Buquet. Some of the lift lines were shoddy, stage right."
Joseph watched the man in front of him without looking directly into those strange eyes. He'd occasionally seen him in the house wearing a mask of some sort, just like the times when he conducted or played piano onstage, and today was no different. He swallowed hard. It was unnerving trying to remain still under that watchful gaze. A man should face another man, not simply a pair of hellish eyes and nothing else. In the dim theatre, they sometimes seemed to float there, as though anchored to nothing...no head, no face, no flesh and blood man. Just an it. He nervously licked his lips, glancing into the flies again.
"Beggin' your pardon, sir. It won't happen again, I'll be bound."
He studied the flyman, noting the red face and broken blood vessels on his bulbous nose. He stepped closer to the man, and frightened, Buquet shuffled back, the flask in his back pocket burning a hole there. The problem he'd had with strong drink over the years had come roaring back, and he required it now even when he worked. He kept it to a minimum; a few sips of gin were enough to get him through the day. So far. But it was always the reason for his eventual sacking, just as it had been when he worked at the Portage Theatre in Wathena. This time he thought it was under control. He damned well knew he smelled of alcohol, having just taken a little nip a few minutes ago. Afraid, he continued backing up until he was against the ladder with nowhere else to go.
Erik said nothing for a moment. His lip was curled in such a way, that Joseph felt a mixture of rage and shame at his blatant disgust.
"I give you one day off per week, Buquet. Sufficient time for you to drain a bottle, so I expect you to do your drinking then. Not on my time and not in my theatre."
A small crowd of stage crew had gathered in the wings witnessing Buquet's reprimand and loving it. Joseph was coarse and surly much of the time and most resented him for it. He was aware of them watching, and his anger and embarrassment over the dressing down caused him to act foolishly.
"Wait there just a minute now! How do you know it was me? I ain't the only flyman in this here theatre!"
He stepped forward in an ill-considered move, reaching out to grasp Erik's sleeve. The masked man gave him a hard shove backward, and Buquet hit the ladder behind him and slid to the floor. He cringed feeling the wetness of the liquor spreading on his backside from the broken gin bottle. Through a red haze of anger he was on his feet surprisingly quick, and launched himself at Archer.
Sorelli gave a shout of warning to his boss, but Erik was ready for him, halting Joseph in his tracks with a fist. Blood spurted from Buquet's mouth and he staggered backward, landing hard on the floor again. In a daze, he shook his head, working his jaw gingerly from side to side feeling the pain from the solid blow radiating up one side of his head. He put a shaking hand to his bleeding mouth.
Erik flexed his fingers against the sting from several knuckles where the skin was split. "You're fired, Buquet. Collect any remaining wages and clear out of here."
He addressed those watching. "That goes for the rest of you! You are well paid to get the work done cleanly and efficiently! I suggest you keep that in mind." He glanced at Joseph one last time before turning away. "I want you out of here within the hour and that is more generous than you deserve. Do you understand me?" he asked softly.
Buquet climbed to his feet on unsteady legs, careful now around this man with the dangerous eyes. Killing eyes. Fear kept him mute.
"I said...do you understand me, Buquet?"
Joseph nodded, wiping at the blood on his chin.
Erik looked pointedly at Sorelli. "So much for second chances, eh, Samuel?"
Sorelli's mouth thinned, but wisely he kept quiet. It had taken years, but finally he remembered where he had seen Buquet before. The afternoon Samuel applied for the position of manager at the Portage Theatre in Wathena, he had passed Buquet on his way out the door. Joseph's firing that day was one of the last duties the outgoing manager had performed- for the same reason he was being sacked today. And the memory had just now clicked into place.
"Give him what he's owed, and make sure he vacates the premises." Turning on his heel, Archer disappeared from sight.
The dirty, stinkin' whoremonger! Joseph's face crawled with sweat, and he armed it off of his forehead. That son of a bitch knew he was drunk yesterday, and he more than likely smelled it on him today. Knew and planned on firing his sorry ass for one lousy mistake. He followed Sorelli up to the manager's office thinking pleasantly all the while of the numerous and painful ways to kill the ugly bastard.
She stood in the hallway, head down on her forearms, leaning against the wall. She counted to fifty. Slowly. She could hear her son giggling as he ran down the hall.
"You won't find me, Mama!"
She grinned. She need only follow the laughter and she would find her son and Teeny. Quiet was not Neil's strong suit, for that was a trait he didn't share with his father. There wasn't anyone quieter than her husband. She could be completely ignorant of his presence in the room, and nearly jump out of her skin when he spoke.
Christine finished counting, and looked down at her youngest, sprawled on the floor with his wooden wagon of building blocks Erik made for him. Anyone observing the two of them would probably think her not much more than a child herself, with her hair in a long braid down her back and wearing one of her oldest dresses.
She was happiest spending time with her family, and looked forward to the evenings spent in the parlor while Erik and his sons built fantastic palaces and castles out of the blocks. The young boy which had been buried so deeply in her husband's subconscious; the sweet child whose vivid imagination had permitted him to escape the horrors of a brutal and sadistic man, was at long last allowed to come out and simply...play. With his wife and sons, he permitted himself that luxury. Her throat would get tight watching her children sprawled on the floor, their father's long limbs positioned in a similar fashion, his coat removed and cravat untied. He would become so engrossed in their construction projects, he would often forget their bedtime until she reminded him.
"Come, Harry. You must help me find your brother now. Which way did he go, I wonder?"
He looked up at her in all innocence, his blue eyes bright with excitement, and pointed down the hallway. "Nill, Mama."
"Show me."
He carefully took hold of the little pull rope, making certain all of his blocks were inside the wagon and grabbed his mother's hand. He headed straight for the nursery where both boys slept, and walking inside, stopped and tilted his head listening closely for his brother. His mannerism was eerily similar to her husband's.
"I have no idea where he is. Do you?" The little boy looked seriously around the room, getting down on his hunkers to look under Neil's bed. She smiled when she heard another giggle from her eldest son, and saw the tip of the dog's tail beating a tattoo of welcome from under the bed.
She laughed at the thought of Teeny getting wedged underneath the four poster, and trying to explain to Erik how he got in that predicament. She still wasn't sure how he managed to squeeze under there. She heard rustlings and the scrape of a shoe, and Neil speaking to the dog, then the sound of creaking wood.
She bent over and spoke into the space. "Ollie ollie oxen free! Neil! You can come out now."
Silence for a beat. "There's a piece of wood sticking up from the floor, Mama. Teeny did it. Not me."
"Come out then before you get splinters."
"There's a hole under here and something in it." She could hear his voice change as he bent lower.
"Erik Neilsson! Out of there now!"
When his mother used that tone, he knew it was time to obey. Christine watched as Teeny crawled out from under the bed first, actually moving it as his back caught on the underside. Her son wriggled out next, feet first; she grabbed his thin legs and tugged, noticing the yellowed sheets of paper clutched tightly in a grubby hand. He had a large smudge of dirt on one cheek, but excitement shone from his mismatched eyes.
When he was standing in front of her, he waved the sheets of paper. "Treasure! I got it from the hole under my bed. It's just like the story Papa read to us. Remember, Harry?"
Christine, despite her curiosity over the papers, had to laugh when her three year old nodded his head vigorously. Erik read Treasure Island to them when Harry was only a year old.
He jumped up and approached his brother. "Me, Nill!"
Neil shook his head. "It's mine. I found it. Me and Teeny. You have to find your own." He pointed to the other side of the large room. "Look under your own bed."
Harry opened his mouth to argue and Christine stepped in. "No one gets this treasure except your mother," she stated firmly, her hand held out. "Let me see what you have there, Neil."
Her son's face took on the mulish look that sometimes mirrored her own, and reluctantly he handed the papers to her. She glanced quickly at the faded writing, and squinted at the nearly illegible date in the right-hand corner- 1863 it appeared to be. Doing some fast subtraction, that would make it twenty-eight years ago. Intrigued, she grasped the tall, carved spindle of the bed and gave it a pull. Slowly, the four poster moved, both boys grasping the bedpost and tugging at it. Together they walked the bed away from the area where the floorboards had popped loose from their nails, Harry hindering more than helping.
Christine crouched down and looked inside the floor space that was now exposed. Both boys crowded close to her, peering into the shallow hole with great interest. Neil's sharp eyes spied some dark, lumpy shapes and pointed to them.
"Look. More treasure!"
She reached into the space, cringing at the feel of cobwebs clinging to her skin, and wondered squeamishly where its tenant could be. Her fingers closed over the piece of cloth and the small leather object beside it. Hastily, she snatched her hand out of the hole.
Again both boys pressed close, trying to see what she held. She opened her hand and looked closely at the thin book, a thick layer of dust dulling the blue and gold embossed cover, and realized she would need her husband to interpret it, for it appeared to be written in French. Next she studied the dirty cloth, identifying it as a lady's embroidered handkerchief. She felt a hard, diminutive object wrapped up inside and carefully unfolded the material. Glittering dully in the palm of her hand was a ruby ring in a heavy antique gold setting.
Neil took one look and grinned at his mother. "I told you, Mama. It's treasure."
"Tcheasure!" Harry shouted.
"It is beautiful, isn't it?"
Neil reached a finger out and touched the ring. "What are we going to do with it?"
"Right now...nothing. Papa will be home soon and you need to wash and get ready for your lesson."
Erik instructed his son in piano and violin, and he was turning out to be adept on both instruments. They were also teaching him his reading and math skills preparatory to him starting school in the fall. They had debated sending him, and decided that keeping him away from other children was not the way for their son to develop. She snorted. That was certainly whitewashing the truth. They hadn't so much debated sending Neil, as fought over it. Erik proposed to school him at home, and that would have been the end of it, for he was adamant. But she wanted her boy to have a normal upbringing and insisted just as strenuously against it.
As much as she loved her husband, she had no wish for Neil to be as isolated as his father had been- or as friendless. It had colored so much of Erik's life, making him independent and resourceful at a very young age, but also spiteful and revenge driven for any perceived hurt, real or imagined. Which helped to fuel one of their worst arguments. She tried pointing out that their son needed to learn how to interact normally with others, and Erik judged it to be a condemnation of his conduct. Which hadn't been the case at all, but their fight was off and running. After two very tense days of warily circling each other, exchanging harsh words, and Erik sequestering himself in the cellar during the long nights, he reluctantly conceded that Christine could be right- she too only wanted what was best for their son.
She was surprised and relieved when Erik began a rapprochement; her husband was not one to knuckle under easily, and she was never certain if his capitalization was from admitting her argument to be a worthy one, or simply the need for his wife's good will. Christine was only glad that the fight was over; she didn't want her husband as an adversary, even a temporary one. With her though, he never crossed the line into intolerable behavior; nevertheless, she felt a twinge of empathy for anyone who had known the full force of his wrath. Fortunately, he wasn't altogether inflexible, and at last was able to see reason. But if their arguing hurt her, she knew he was affected just as much, if not more. No matter how unmoved he appeared to be- it was a sham. He was used to frequent touches and caresses after a lifetime where there had been none, accepting each and every one as though it would be his last, and he grieved at the absence of the warmth and closeness he had come to expect from her.
All the same, it was a hard won battle, and one she never wished to repeat. Her husband could be a very unnerving opponent, his tongue lashings having never lost the ability to disconcert her.
But he worked tirelessly on masks beautifully crafted of kid leather. Buttery soft and pliant, they molded to Neil's face in such a way, that their appearance was natural enough, and from a distance fooled the average eye quite well. Leaving it on for long periods of time was a different story; a day at school wearing it would be possible as long as it was removed on returning home. Her husband became obsessed with creating a mask that would allow his son to fit in as well as humanly possible. Christine realized the guilt he still carried at passing on his deformity to their firstborn, and he wouldn't stop trying until he felt that he had achieved the best that could be offered to him.
Neil's voice intruded on her thoughts. "Can I have the ring, Mama?"
His mother shrugged. "I don't see why not, but it's a lady's ring."
"I'm not going to wear it!" he said indignantly.
She smiled and ruffled his hair. "Well, that's good to know."
The three of them left the room and Neil went down the hall to wash. Christine looked again at the papers in her hand. She was dying to read them, but it would have to wait until later. Her other hand tightened on the piece of old jewelry. The lady's ring could only belong to one woman.
Erik's mother.
When her husband returned home that afternoon, they accosted him the moment he came through the door. All three talked excitedly at once, and Harry quite naturally was making the least amount of sense. Erik with his usual logic insisted he could understand them better if they spoke one at a time.
He had his arms around Christine as both boys tried to out-talk each other. "All right, dear girl...you first." He turned to Neil and Harry, who were still talking eagerly, and caught the word treasure being bandied about.
"Quiet. The both of you."
They fell silent instantly. Their father's voice was never raised in anger toward them; it didn't have to be, but they knew it was in their best interest to do as he requested. One look from eyes that suddenly became forbidding, was more than enough for them. Pleasing him had become important to both boys. When he was angry with either one of them, there was no building going on with the blocks, or walks in the woods which they took nearly every Sunday afternoon with Harry usually perched high up on their father's shoulder. But what they missed the most when he was disappointed in them, was the look of pride when they did well.
"Excellent. Now then, what about this treasure?"
So she filled him in on the items found during their play, and was gratified to see a spark of interest in his eyes. They agreed to look at them after dinner, and for that reason alone, she was impatient all the way through the meal. She managed to curb her frustration as Erik and Neil headed for the cellar to feed the small menagerie they had acquired. The room for the wounded and orphaned Erik had first shown her years ago, was once again open for business. Christine had followed them one afternoon into the cacophony of chirps, meows, and squeaks. She watched as father and son changed the dressing on a young cat's paw, both dark heads bent over the scarred table in the middle of the room. Erik's voice was low and agreeable as he spoke to Neil.
It was plain to her that her husband after all these years, had finally found that one person who shared his love of discovery and observation. Neil was a willing student.
Nadir and Christine watched the three of them recently one afternoon, when Erik put both boys up on Copper's bare back, and led them around the yard. Her sons crowed with laughter, hanging onto each other as Teeny, renamed inadvertently by Neil, anxiously trailed the mare.
"He is a happy man, Christine. It may not always seem so, but he is. Never doubt it." He nodded at his friend. "Look at him! He is laughing. Laughing. I never thought I would see such a thing."
She smiled, pushing her hair back as it came loose from her chignon in the stiff breeze. "I told him before Neil was born he would make a wonderful father. I wasn't wrong, was I, Nadir?"
"No. You were not wrong. You have always had the capacity to see into his heart." The Persian nodded at Erik as they made their way slowly back toward them. "He loves those boys. No one shall harm them while he has breath in his body."
She shivered at his words and laughed uneasily, taking Nadir's arm and giving it a squeeze. "No one is going to hurt anyone, so stop that!"
She sat now with Anna in the parlor, doing a good job of hiding her impatience, and the two women discussed the upcoming trip to Trail's End they were making by rail. The new line had been completed that spring after the fits and starts made to get the backing needed, and the wheels greased to get the project up and running. Now the entire Archer family could travel to the farm. Neil would have his first pony waiting for him, and the little boy couldn't wait. Erik was well pleased with Raoul's efforts on his behalf, and the younger man was gratified to receive a hefty bonus for his work. With another child of their own, it was welcome.
Anna retired for the night and Christine had already put Harry to bed, when Erik and his son finally came upstairs. Neil walked over to her chair where she was sewing and leaned against her leg.
"We're going to let the rabbits go soon. Papa said they're not really babies anymore. Like me."
She looked over her son's head at her husband's eyes gleaming with amusement.
He shrugged. "I told him all young things eventually grow up, including small boys."
She smiled at Erik. "I can only hope it's a slow process."
"Yes."
After Neil joined his brother for the night, they took the papers, book and ring to the tower room. Settling on the sofa, she twirled a lock of her husband's hair, dropping her fingers to the nape of his neck. She leaned over his shoulder to look at the first page.
"Christine? Do you know a man named Joseph Buquet?"
"Mm. It sounds familiar. Is he one of the stage crew- a flyman maybe?"
"Yes, and he has been adequate up until now. Sorelli wanted me to give him another chance, which I had all intentions of doing. Today I reprimanded him for sloppy work; he had been drinking also. He decided to protest in a rather loud way, so..." He closed his eyes, enjoying the sensations she was evoking, "I fired him."
She removed her hand and sat up. "When you say, in a loud way, did you become physical in retaliation?" She well knew her husband's temper.
He mourned the loss of her hand. "Only a little. He grabbed me by the arm and I gave him a shove," he said quietly.
"Oh. That doesn't sound so bad. Really, it was..." She stopped speaking when she glanced at his eyes. She read them rather well now. "It was more than just a shove, wasn't it?"
"All right. I shoved him with my fist in his face," he replied gruffly. "There...happy?"
"Erik. Did it call for that? You need to set a better example for your sons, and that won't happen if you settle everything in a physical way." She took his left hand in hers and grimly examined his bruised knuckles. "Violence doesn't always have to be the solution, you know."
"Sometimes it is the only solution, Christine."
Her chin jutted out. "Violence begets violence."
He said nothing for a minute, and as he usually did when he was uncomfortable with a subject- he simply changed it. "Will you be ready to do Aida at the end of the month?"
"Yes. I'm looking forward to it." She reached out and removed the mask, dropping it in her lap, then put her lips to his ear. "Do you know what I would really like?"
She had his undivided interest. He grasped her chin, tilting her head up to his and kissed her. "Will I like it?" his hopeful tone suggesting he just might.
She nodded and gestured with a finger at the papers. "I want to read those."
Christine giggled at his growl of disappointment, knowing what he had been thinking. She would be making it up to him later. For now though, she really wanted to know the contents of those old pages. With a melodramatic sigh which made her smile, he began to read the words written by a hand long gone.
By the end of it, Erik's knowledge of his parents had taken a drastic change.
He tossed the whisky back, enjoying the smooth feel of it sliding down his throat. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and banged the glass on the counter. "'nother, Ern! I'm celebratin' my disemployment tonight, and I'm thirsty as hell."
Ernie approached him with the bottle of whisky and poured him another round, then held his hand out. "Pay up now, Joe. There won't be no cadging of liquor tonight. No money. No whisky. Them's the rules."
Buquet had just spent his last dollar, but he wasn't ready to call it a night. He slammed the counter again, only harder this time. "Hell, I need to get a bad taste outta my mouth- that, or scrub my eyeballs clean. That bastard what owns the opry house just fired me for some tangled fly lines."
Ernie peered closer at Buquet. "Looks like he did more than just fire you." He pointed the shot glass he was drying at Joseph's bruised face.
Buquet put careful fingers to his split lip. "The son of a bitch hit me for no reason. No reason, I tell ya!"
"That's nothin' to me. My boss said no free liquor, so if you want a drink, you'll have to pay for it."
"You never seen the likes of him. He's a ugly bastard, and meaner than a snake what's had his tail stepped on. Ya should see his wife though. You'd swear she was blind not ta notice what she's hooked to. But she's the prettiest lookin' blind piece of tail in St. Joe."
He put his head in his hands and took a sobbing breath. "What the fuck do I do now, I ask ya? I've worked there almost ten years. He canned me that easy. Starin' at me with those freaky yeller eyes of his. They shine in the dark. It's enough ta..."
"Yellow eyes, did you say?"
Joseph turned and stared blearily at the man beside him. He looked him up and down, not bothering to hide his annoyance."And you are?"
"The man who is going to buy you a drink if you can answer the question."
Joseph's attitude underwent a sea change and he nodded at the bartender. "Set 'em up, Ern. This fella's buyin'."
At the other man's nod, Ernie pushed the whisky toward Buquet. He drank it quickly and turned to the young man. "Yeah, yeller eyes that seem ta burn a hole right through a feller. He never shows his face neither. Wears a mask, and they say what's behind it is bad enough ta drive a man crazy seein' it."
He nodded at Ernie to refill Buquet's glass again. "Is he a tall man?"
Buquet smacked his lips as the bartender poured another round. He nodded and belched. "Tall...yeah, and skinny as hell. I don't trust him. He looked at me like I was somethin' nasty on the bottom of his shoe. It didn't take much ta set him off neither. He lost his best flyman today, I reckon. I owe that fucker big time. I ought ta just torch the place an' the hell with it."
Ernie looked at Buquet with unease. "Here now! Watch that kind of talk, Joe."
Joseph leaned closer to his bar mate. "Damned if he ain't got brats too. What woman in 'er right mind would allow him ta git that close with his wanger, I ask ya?"
"Bet you could tell me more about this character if you wanted to. Am I right?"
Buquet waggled his brows and banged his glass gently on the counter. "Could be."
The younger man nodded at the bartender, and Joseph's hand trembled as he held the glass out. He tossed it back and licked his lips slowly, glancing at the other man who was tall and had the muscular build of a laborer. His new friend wore the rough clothing of a dockworker- a breed of men that loved bending an elbow and raising hell on any day of the week.
Buquet scratched at his head. "Don' get me wrong. I'm grateful for the drinks, but why so nosy?"
The other man leaned forward and placed three dollars on the worn oak counter. "Have another drink...Buquet, is it? The night's young. Sounds like you have little liking for the man that tossed you out for no good reason. And I don't blame you one bit. He's rich and you don't even have a job."
The other man's sympathy nearly brought Joseph to tears, full of self-pity as he was. "Thass right, thass right. I ran that place jest like a ship, I did. An' how does he thank me?" Buquet looked at the other man and down at the untouched whisky in front of him. "Ya never met the bastard though, did ya?"
With one finger, his benefactor pushed the glass toward Joseph and chuckled. "Oh, but I have met him. I owe him a lot too. That's why we need to talk, Joe. Can I call you that?"
Buquet shrugged and belched again, rubbing at his belly. "Don' give a shit. Call me whatever the hell ya want. Didn' catch yer name, though."
"I didn't give it." He stared at Buquet with well hidden distaste. "Gabe. Gabe Rafferty."