Chapter 51

Alexandre: Spoil the Child

Madeline wavered between being quite impressed with my love for Alex and also muttering under her breath that my son was far too spoiled and would never learn to speak a word as I would not allow him to cry.

"His lungs will not properly develop," she said as though her words would somehow threaten me into allowing my flesh and blood to wail in despair.

I shot her a look as she stood in the doorway of my bedroom, which I had forgotten to lock. Alex sat perched on my lap babbling away as he kicked his legs and repeatedly hit the insides of my thigh with his heel. In his hand he held a silver rattle, which Madeline had bought for him recently, which he enjoyed hitting against whatever was closest to him while he screamed in delight. He often elicited a particularly high-pitched scream with his lips inches from my ear.

"Nonsense," I muttered as I rifled through unfinished music.

"He will be a mute."

Alex screamed as if he wanted to display his stubborn streak all the while hitting the rattle against my desk until there were sizeable dents along the corner.

"Clearly, Madame, he is nearly silent," I said over my shoulder.

She stormed out of the room in a huff and stomped down the stairs to the kitchen where I overheard her complain to her daughter about how Alex would be silent and immobile for the rest of his life. Apparently she was not through with her tirade and planned to direct her words at the only person in the house who would listen to her without complaint: poor Meg Giry.

"He is fine," Meg replied. "He is already starting to crawl."

Her words garnered my attention and I turned my head as I listened closely to their conversation, wondering how Meg knew such a thing.

"Crawl?" Madeline asked incredulously. "How? He never puts that boy down."

"In the parlor," Meg answered. "He places Alex on the floor and sits on the opposite side of the room."

Meg's statement made me realize that with Alex as my only concern I lost focus on the world around me. All of my life I had learned to look over my shoulder and keep my guard up. I had discovered the hard way from the Gypsies that if I was preoccupied with reading a book, someone would come up from behind and kick me in the kidneys or drive m face first into the dirt. If I lost myself to music at night around a fire, they would grab the end of the chain attached to my ankle and give it a hard enough tug where I lost my balance or was pulled several feet from wherever I chose to sit out of the way. I had learned to live on edge at all waking moments and to sleep lightly for fear of pain and humiliation.

Within my own home, however, I had truly not noticed Meg Giry's presence while I sat on the floor with Alex and encouraged him to test his strength. Nothing else mattered other than his grunts of determination, the way his head bobbed as he pulled himself forward, and of course the ear-splitting screams he could not contain once he reached me on the opposite end of the Persian rug.

We had known each other for a mere two months, but when he woke from his naps and gazed up at me, he grinned and cooed and fussed as though I were of great importance. I devoted myself to him as I had made myself a servant to my music-and to his mother as well.

Madeline tisked her daughter's words. "He spoils that child something awful."

"There are worse fates for an orphan," Meg replied.

I should not have cared what someone as meek and insignificant as Meg Giry thought of me, but her words settled into my gut. I wondered if she had expected me to cast my own son out onto the street, or if she thought I was capable of doing harm to a nameless infant. Given what had transpired a year earlier, I suspected she thought I was a terrible monster, especially since Meg and Christine were thick as thieves while they performed in the ballet together.

I wondered if Christine had told Meg how many times she had screamed for me within the chapel, how in a fit of rage she knocked over the candles and threatened to break the stained glass windows if I did not offer her a lesson right that moment. I wondered if she told Meg how I would grovel at her feet and beg of her to forgive me when I did not praise her sufficiently, or how in one breath she said my underground apartments were the most beautiful and peaceful of all places she had ever seen while in the next telling her precious vicomte I had delivered her into the bowels of hell.

Christine's sudden change of mood left me sick to my stomach as I attempted to appease her. There was nothing I would not do, no promise I would not make or gift I would not buy to earn her favor. I wanted desperately to make her smile and dry her tears. She did not deserve to be miserable, and yet the despair she carried heavily in her heart often felt greater than my own.

No, I told myself, Christine would not tell Meg of gifts and praise from the Angel of Music. Christine had told everyone she had been abducted by a faceless monster, by an unholy creature lurking in shadows. In one breath she called me an angel, her angel, and in the next I was the basis of her nightmares.

And now I was a living nightmare raising a child-the child we had created together.

I was certain Meg expected the very worst fate for Alex, the nameless child dumped into my home by his own mother. I realized Meg most likely felt as though Christine had been forced to make a terrible choice, and the one who suffered the most was the bastard son of a doe-eyed soprano and the embodiment of terror in opera house lore.

My mood would have plummeted without Alex sitting on my knee. He bounced furiously up and down while repeating the same sound over and over again. He lacked the coordination to synchronize his vocalizations with repeatedly hitting the rattle against the desk, but he seemed quite amused with his actions.

"That child is not an orphan," Madeline corrected at last. "He is destined to be a spoiled little boy if Erik has anything to say about it."

I smiled inwardly, somewhat surprised of how she defended me still.

"I cannot believe Christine left her own son," Meg said with a sigh.

With him, I half-expected her to add.

My eavesdropping, however, was abruptly cut short by Alexandre abandoning his rattle by tossing it onto the desk where it bounced and hit the windowsill. When I reached for the toy, Alex leaned forward and grabbed two fistfulls of paper, which he shoved into his mouth.

Immediately I dropped the rattle and reached for the papers before my son choked himself.

"Here, Alex," I said as I gave the papers a tug. "Let go right this minute."

In the span of two months I had not yet learned that there was no reasoning with infants.

His small, chubby hands were remarkably strong, and prying the papers from his grasp proved an impossible task. He managed to tear off the corners, which he had already stuffed into his mouth and began to chew until he started to gag.

"Alex," I said firmly as I turned his face toward me. My God, he was fast. "Open your mouth at once."

Rather than do as I asked, he merely giggled and stuffed his fingers into his mouth while drool streamed down to his chin. With a sigh, I turned him toward me and propped his back up against my desk. While I steadied him with my left hand, I inserted my index finger on my right hand into his mouth and swept from one side to the other until I pulled the paper free at last-but not before he bit down on my finger with his new and exceptionally sharp teeth.

I sucked in a breath, more out of surprise than pain. "That is quite enough," I grumbled. I flicked the soggy, crumpled corner of what had been my latest symphony into the refuse bin. "You will not bite, is that understood?"

The jovial expression on his chubby face immediately sobered. His wide, gray eyes stared at me, lips quivering, and without warning he threw his head back dramatically and began screaming at the top of his lungs.

His outburst startled me and I gawked at his unexpected transformation from content to inconsolable. Once again I turned his small body and pressed him against my chest, his head cradled in the palm of my hand in an attempt to comfort him despite my finger throbbing.

Alex pushed away, arms flailing as tears streamed down his cheeks and his heels kicked harder and harder against my thigh.

"Would you like this again?" I leaned over and grabbed the rattle, which I shook in a desperate attempt to garner his attention and cease his tantrum. "What do you think? You play for me this time? A bit of entertainment?"

To my surprise, Alex took a breath and paused. His eyes, which had been tightly pinched shut, opened once more and he reached out for the rattle. I sighed in relief as I placed the silver toy back into his open hand and hoped he would entertain himself.

I had yet to realize nothing involving a small child would be that simple.

Before I could register what had happened, Alex threw the rattle again, this time onto the floor, and started screaming as he reached toward his discarded toy, tiny fingers splayed and his face so red he looked ready to burst from anger. He kicked furiously and bounced with such force I thought I might drop him.

My jaw clenched, patience waning as I bent to retrieve the rattle. "You are being quite impossible," I said under my breath.

To my surprise, his tears ended swifty, and from the corner of my eye I saw him reach back toward the desk toward a new object that had caught his attention. I left the rattle where it fell as Alex wrapped his tiny hand around the inkwell, which I had not stoppered, and tipped it forward so that only the edge of the jar remained on the desk. He had not quite lifted the jar of ink off the table when my hand shot out and grabbed the glass container as well as his hand.

"Alex," I warned.

The sound of my voice startled him and his face crumpled once more. I loosened my grip on the jar as he started to cry again, and his hand-as well as the ink-shot forward. The glass jar hit me square in the chest, but the splatter of ink splashed Alex in the face.

His cries stopped immediately, more out of surprise than anything else, I wagered. Lips parted, he stared up at me as though awaiting an explanation of what had transpired-and I stared back at him, mildly horrified by the dark splotches covering his face, neck, and cream colored romper.

I chuckled to myself at the utter ridiculousness of what had transpired and shook my head, which made him laugh. For someone so small and helpless, my son had created havoc with impressive speed and left quite the aftermath in his wake.

"Erik?"

Madeline's voice startled the holy hell out of me and I glared at her from over my shoulder. "I do beg your pardon, Madame?" I said through my teeth. The empty jar rolled off my thigh and toppled to the rug where the last bit of ink spilled onto the wool.

Thankfully there was not much ink left in the well. I had forgotten to tell Madeline I needed a new bottle as I knew it was almost empty, which now seemed like somewhat of a blessing.

Madeline inhaled sharply, her gaze trained on Alex. "Mother of God," she said under her breath. "What has happened?"

Alex looked down at his ink stained hands and clothing, clearly mesmerized by the transformation. The look of surprise on his face turned into a wide grin as he flexed his hand and smeared ink across his flesh. Wide eyes met mine, still glassy from tears but once again filled with joy. He laughed as he pressed his hand against my chest and wiped his fingers on my lawn shirt before examining his hand once again. His nose wrinkled and he showed me his perfectly blackened, chubby fingers.

"What in God's name are you allowing this boy to do?" Madeline asked.

"The ink spilled," I answered.

"How?" she asked.

"By the bottle being turned upside down. How else would one think such a thing happens?" I asked sardonically.

Madeline shot me a disapproving look. "You are worse than him."

I ignored her words and grabbed my handkerchief from my pocket and attempted to clean off my son's face, neck, and hands, which he repeatedly wiped on my shirt.

"He will need a bath," Madeline said as if I were too ignorant to realize the ink would not come off with the use of my handkerchief. She walked toward me with her arms crossed and glowered at the two of us.

"And I shall give him one," I said, keeping my voice low.

"Why was he crying?" Madeline questioned.

I paused, allowing Alex to take the handkerchief from my grasp and wave it about. My jaw clenched, heartbeat stuttering as I considered her question. "A moment ago, Madame, you accused me of making my son into a mute. What would you like to accuse me of now?"

Madeline narrowed her eyes and turned her head to the side. "I am not accusing you of anything."

I turned my face so that she saw more of the mask and less of the acceptable side of my face. "A man so hideous on the outside," I said, daring her to admit she thought I had hurt my own child. "Most certainly there is something equally grotesque on the inside. Is that not what you expect?"

My voice emerged as a low growl, my chest heaving as I glared at my accuser.

"Your son is listening," Madeline warned. "Perhaps he does not understand your self-degrading words but he is fully aware of your belligerent tone."

I looked from her to Alex and found him staring up at me, his eyes searching my face and his expression of mirth turned pensive. In that instant I swore he stared through me, looked deep inside to the grotesque beast roving within me. My son saw the deepest, most reprehensible side of me without removing the mask I wore-and I felt quite ashamed of myself.

Out of all the people in the world, he was my chance at redemption, of being something greater than I had ever been. He was only six months old and yet I had already proven myself a great disappointment to him.

"I did not think you harmed him," Madeline continued. "Why must you be so defensive and cynical?"

I had no answer for her and I doubted she expected one.

Madeline took a breath and reached out to Alex. He squealed as he began kicking his legs once more, clearly delighted by her presence. "I assumed he hit himself in the face with the rattle considering how he waves it about. He has hit me a time or two with it and I must say it hurts," Madeline said as I remained silent.

I swallowed hard, my thoughts still reeling. As much as I told myself the opinions of others meant nothing to me, I agonized over Madeline ever thinking I had or would hurt Alex.

"And then," Madeline said, her voice noticeably higher as she looked Alex in the eye and spoke to him instead of me. "I heard your father laughing and assumed you were being spoiled once more. It appears I was correct, wasn't I, Alexandre? You have him wrapped around your little finger, do you not?"

"Indeed, Madame," I grumbled.

Alex reached out to Madeline and she lifted him from my arms and settled him onto her hip where she kissed the top of his head, which was the only part of him not covered in ink. Thankfully she wore a dark colored dress and the ink had mostly dried on his clothing and skin.

"I would not hurt him," I said under my breath as I studied his round face. "Not ever. I will not treat him like my…" The words refused to be spoken. I looked away from Madeline and Alex and felt gooseflesh rise along my arms.

"No, I did not think you would treat him as your father treated you," Madeline replied.

Her words made me shiver. After all these years, she still knew what I feared most in the world. Each time Alex frustrated me, I carefully curbed my temper and refused to raise my voice let alone my hand. Perhaps Madeline thought I spoiled the boy, but there was no other choice in my eyes.

"Erik, you cannot coddle Alex forever. He will most certainly fall when he attempts to walk, scrape his knees, bump his head and earn his fair share of bruises. He is a boy and he will act like one. Now that is able to crawl, he will not slow down or stop." She kissed Alex again, and to my surprise he turned his face and reached for me, apparently having enough of her affection.

"What would you have me do?"

Madeline rocked Alex back and forth. Covered in ink, he looked as though he were camouflaged and prepared to embark on a jungle safari.

"Put the lid on your ink," Madeline replied. She shot me a look and returned Alex into my arms once more. "He is very much like you."

I wasn't sure if that was a compliment or not.

"And do not take my words as an insult," she added with a shake of her finger.

"Da, da, da, da," Alex said as he settled into my grasp. His hands clutched my vest, head resting against my chest. I looked down and saw his eyes flutter shut momentarily.

"Worn yourself out now, did you?" I asked. That truly made two of us.

His eyes popped open and he smiled, once again mumbling the same phrase over and over again.

"Da da? Crawling and now on the verge of forming words," Madeline said as she admired my son. "What will he get himself into next?"

"A tub," I answered. I was not willing to think further past the moments we shared. Walking, speaking in full sentences, and whatever else made him more of a little boy than an infant would have to wait a while longer. Or at least I hoped for my sake Alex would remain an easily amused baby perfectly content in my arms. I was not prepared for the inevitable questions regarding the mask I wore...or why his mother was not in his life.

"I will take him," Madeline offered. "Clean him up before he naps."

"That is not necessary," I said as I looked from her to the ink stains on my own clothing as well as my hands and wrists. Clearly Alex was not the only one in need of a bath.

"He brings great joy to everyone within the house," Madeline commented as she smiled at Alex. Her gaze briefly settled on me, a warm smile still clinging to her lips. "Before I walked up here, it crossed my mind that it has been a long time since I've heard you laugh. Far too long, I should say. I am happy for you. For both of you."

I kept my attention focused on Alex as Madeline's words made me uncomfortable.

"There are worse fates for an orphan," I said before Madeline turned away.

She stood near me in silence but did not appear surprised by my words in the least. Arms crossed, she sighed and shook her head.

"Before Alex arrived, you spent days on end within this room, you barely acknowledged a simple knock on your door when your meals were prepared and yet you wonder after months of sharing a home in this manner why Meg would say such a thing?"

"I know why she would say such a thing," I answered as I turned away from Madeline.

"Then say it because I do not think you truly understand."

Teeth clenched, I silently cursed myself for being combative. Alex had stopped squealing, and I looked to find him on the verge of falling asleep with his mouth wide open and heavily-lidded eyes staring at the wall.

"Sit at the dinner table with us tonight," Madeline suggested when I offered no reply.

I looked at her from over my shoulder and saw the pleading look in her eyes. I knew the head of the table was always set despite my food being delivered dutifully ten minutes before Madame and her daughter sat together. Sometimes Meg failed to clear the silverware and dishes at the end of the night, and when I walked the house late into the evening while they both slept, I found the lone place setting waiting for me, the perfect place for a ghost.

For the first month in which we shared the same house, Madame had asked me to sit at the table each night and I never replied to her request. It was much easier to ignore her offer than explain myself to her. I was not surprised she inquired for a month, always knocking after she opened the bedroom door to tell me what was for supper as well as what time to be at the table. Indeed, I was more surprised when she stopped abruptly one day. My stubbornness prevailed and yet I was acutely aware I earned nothing for my efforts.

"Erik, please," Madame said.

"You are wasting your time on someone defensive and cynical," I said before I walked out of the room with Alex asleep in my arms.

My place was not with them. I looked down at my son, so content in my arms, and knew eventually he would sit with them and I would not.

Happiness was fleeting and I had no one to blame but myself.