A/N
Alex's train obsession. Other than being a little boy who likes toys with moving parts, if you remember from earlier in Giver of Life, Alak is trying to get Erik to a train station so that they can travel faster to Paris. As everyone already knows, they never make it. The train/toy train was my link between Erik's uncle and his son. In this chapter, Alex has something new to play with that has another significance.
Also, I am starting to rewrite some of the chapters for this story before I go through and do the same thing for a few others, so, if you're thinking about re-reading this one, check out the top of the page and it'll have a date with "edit" next to it to show where I've gotten so far. It's mostly for continuity in the stories and also because there were some details I wanted to add.
Now on to Erik showing some of that darkness that leads up to A Heart that Waits.
Chapter 58
Madeline became insistent that I take one meal a day at the table for Alex's sake. Her preference was supper; mine was breakfast. To compromise, I ate breakfast at the table on the weekends and supper five days a week alongside Alex, Meg and Madeline.
It was two weeks before Christmas and Meg had received word that Charles was healthy enough to travel and had been moved from an army tent in Africa on the first of December and onto a ship returning to England where he would recover in the comfort of his childhood home.
The check I had given Meg in secret was not cashed, and she said nothing of it so I did the same. I was somewhat surprised she did not wish to travel to London given she had the means to do so, but I did not ask. She was more skittish than usual whenever she came to retrieve Alex from me, her eyes averted and words mostly mumbled or said under her breath.
"How is he doing?" Madeline asked Meg one evening at the dinner table.
"I would not know considering there has been no mail delivery for three days," Meg said, her reply much more curt than I had ever heard her speak before.
"What about the last letter? I don't think I heard you say anything about it."
"Then perhaps there is nothing to tell."
"May, no," Alex said sharply as he pointed at Meg. He twisted his mouth into a scowl.
I was beginning to severely regret my decision to sit at the table, at least in the midst of a snow storm in Paris.
The four of us had been confined to the house due to inclement weather, and while the snow glittering from the bare trees and along the sidewalks and streets was inspiring to my composing at first, after three days of being confined inside, mother and daughter irritated one another to no end. Their bickering replaced any semblance of peace and also my creativity.
To my knowledge, the only time Meg stepped out of the house was to shovel a path in the back to visit the neighbor behind us. I had overheard Meg state that the husband had not been home in several days and that the wife asked Meg and Alex to keep her and her daughter company for a few hours in the early afternoon. Those visits, however, were not near long enough as it seemed the moment Meg returned, she and her mother were at each other's throats once more.
If it did not stop snowing soon, I feared the two of them would strangle one another. Or I would push them both out into the snow and lock the door until the two of them ceased their pointless quarrel.
"I hope he writes again soon," Madeline casually commented. "It will lift your spirits."
Meg glared at her mother but kept her tone light if not somewhat mocking. "My spirits are only being dragged down by your constant need to ask if I have received another letter when no post has been delivered."
"May I have the salt," I interrupted.
"There is enough salt," Madeline said. She did not spare me a glance when she spoke. "A little too much if you ask me."
Meg, who did all of the cooking, grabbed the salt and slammed it down in front of me, all the while keeping her murderous gaze trained on her mother.
Alex, with a wide grin on his face, slammed his hand on the table and looked to Meg, who did not so much as blink let alone acknowledge him imitating her.
Frustrated with the two of them, I salted my food, drank the rest of the water in my glass, and lifted Alex from his seat. He snatched his bottle from the table and held it to his chest while Meg and Madeline sat in momentary silence as they turned to face me.
With my plate in one hand and son in the other, I walked out of the dining room without a word. To hell with them, I said to myself.
"Where are you going?" Madeline asked.
"Where do you think, Madame?"
She scoffed at my words. "No need to be rude," she said under her breath.
"None at all," I said over my shoulder. Judging by her expression, she did not expect I would hear her.
I walked into the parlor, set my plate on the desk and Alex on the floor, and locked the door. Madeline and Meg stopped muttering to one another once I left the room and Alex seemed nonplussed by our abrupt departure.
For a long while I sat unmoving at the desk. The exchange of words between Madeline and Meg conjured images in my mind of being a child sitting in darkness, forced to listen to my parents and their constant disagreements turned to physical violence. Many times I would make every attempt to still every part of my body. I closed my eyes so I would not blink, I sat not moving a muscle and breathed slow, deliberate breaths as though somehow I would be invisible to their wrath. If my father forgot I existed, he would not hurt me.
Alex called to me, and the mirth in his voice snapped me from treacherous memories. I leaned to the side and saw him belly-down on the rug with one of his newest toy, a smaller set of connected train cars, in his grasp that Madeline had bought him for his birthday.
Despite my son's great strides in speaking, he was still fairly immobile. He could crawl, he could stand with the help of chairs and clinging to the windowsill, but he made very few attempts to walk.
According to the physician, whom Alex saw once a month, there was no cause for concern. The doctor seemed to think Alex simply had no desire to walk on his own yet, and that we should focus on his remarkable ability to imitate words. Walking, he said, would come soon enough and then there would be no slowing him down.
Still, I could not help but think of my uncle's son who had died of pneumonia. He had been three or four years of age when he passed, but my uncle had said the boy was unable to walk and dragged himself due to a twisted spine. When I looked at Alex from behind, I often studied his spine for a hint of him growing crooked.
"Daaaaa," Alex said impatiently. He had mastered a furrowed brow and bottom lip jutted out, no doubt thanks to Meg making the same expression at him.
I left my seat at the desk, took my plate with me, and sat on the floor beside him. Almost immediately he abandoned the train and craned his neck to see what I had.
As he often did, Alex reached for the plate and took the rest of my bread, which he proceeded to stuff into his mouth.
"Small bites," I reminded him. I held my cupped hand in front of him and he managed to spit out most of the bread he could not chew on his own. It landed as a gooey, warm clump in my palm, and had it come from anyone's mouth other than my son's, I would have undoubtedly wretched from the sight of it.
"May," he said. He scrunched up his face and looked to me for approval.
"Yes, that looks just like her," I said to him as I broke off smaller pieces of bread and fed him like a little sparrow. "She would be quite ashamed of herself if she saw how you imitated her."
I turned my attention from him in order to break off another piece of bread and did not see him reach for the train, which he slammed onto my knee. Teeth gritted, I sucked in a breath and looked down at him.
"That hurts," I said firmly. "Do not do that again."
Alex stared back up at me and blinked, his expression of amusement fading away as he registered what he had done. He frowned, leaned forward, and kissed my knee, then offered a gentle pat as an apology. I smiled back at him, impressed by his compassion despite how my knee throbbed.
"Meg, please understand I do not wish to see you upset, but I must ask why don't you respond to his letters?" Madeline asked, her tone considerably more gentle.
At first I thought perhaps Meg whispered her reply, as there was a long silence that followed Madeline's question. The two of them had to realize whatever they said in the house I typically overheard.
"Why would I bother? He made it clear he does not wish to marry me."
"He still writes you. He still cares."
Meg scoffed. "I don't know why I open them."
"I was going to wait until Christmas morning, but I want you to have this now."
"Mother, no," Meg protested.
Alex perked up at his favorite word. "No, May!"
"I insist," Madeline replied. Either they didn't hear Alex or chose to ignore him. "Please, spend a week in London and see Charles. That is all I ask. If after a week of visiting him he stands by his word, then you will have peace in knowing this was not meant to be."
I listened to their every word with unabashed interest and wondered if Madeline offered a train ticket or cash.
"He already gave me a check," Meg replied.
"Who? Charles?"
"No. Him."
"Erik?" Madeline said, making no attempt to hide her astonishment.
I fed Alex another piece of bread to keep him quiet a moment longer. Either he had no idea I was buying his silence with each morsel or he also wanted to eavesdrop.
"When?" Madeline asked.
"On Alex's birthday. He asked me not to tell you."
"Oh that man," Madeline said with an exasperated sigh. That man indeed, I wanted to say, that nameless ghost haunting this house.
"I don't know if I want to cash it."
"How much did he give you?" Madeline asked. Her voice dropped lower and I suspected she knew I listened to them.
"He left the amount blank."
"I will speak with Erik tonight."
"No, please," Meg blurted out. "I promised I would not say anything."
Madeline sighed. I heard her begin to clear the table. "That was quite generous of Erik to do."
"I know." Meg's tone was undecipherable. "I have no idea why he would do such a thing."
"For Alex, I'm sure." Madeline walked into the kitchen and Meg followed. "And clearly for you and Charles."
"But you said he does not want me to leave Alex," Meg pointed out. "Why would he do such a thing?"
Another long pause, followed by Madeline clearly whispering to prevent me from hearing the rest of the conversation. I suppose I should not have been surprised by Madeline telling her daughter I had reservations about the two of them moving to London while I raised Alex alone.
Alex took the last piece of bread from me in exchange for his empty bottle. He finished the rest of my supper and turned his attention toward several toy soldiers scattered across the rug, which had been gifts from Meg on his birthday. Rather than lining them up, he enjoyed knocking over the small army with his trains, which horrified both Meg and Madeline.
While my son massacred the toy soldiers with his train, I stood, placed his empty bottle and the plate on the service table, and returned to my desk to look over music while Alex was preoccupied for a moment.
I pulled open the bottom drawer and a letter jammed inside fell out and landed under the desk. I glanced at the envelope addressed to Meg, the handwriting somewhat curved and feminine in nature. A letter from Mrs. Lowry, I assumed, as I proceeded to stuff it back into the drawer.
The return address, however, caught my eye. C de Chagny, Ostend, Belgium.
My breath caught in my throat as I pulled the letter from the envelope and carefully unfolded the single page note. The message was brief and contained nothing of interest, but still I cradled the sheet of paper in my hand as though it were made of glass.
I wondered how long Meg and Christine had been writing to one another, how many notes from the woman I loved more than life itself passed through my doorway unnoticed. I read through the letter several times as if I had missed a pertinent detail, but it was little more than a recount of what the weather had been like and how she enjoyed Ostend. She mentioned being more content than ever.
The doorknob rattled and I jumped, my heart stuttering as I stuffed the letter back into the envelope and tossed it back into the drawer, which I slammed shut.
"Erik? The door is locked," Madeline said as she tried to open it repeatedly.
"Nooooo," Alex said as he looked toward the door.
I took a breath, composed myself, and unlocked the parlor door.
"What were you doing?" Madeline asked as she looked me over, her gaze filled with suspicion.
"Do I answer to you, Madame?"
She remained unphased by my reply. "Meg is leaving tomorrow at noon as long as the snow stops," she said.
"For London," I commented, which I suppose only confirmed her suspicions that I heard their conversation.
"Yes," Madeline answered. "I have given her enough money to stay for a week and visit with Charles."
I stared at her briefly, my jaw twitching at her words before I looked away. "She does not wish to stay with him for Christmas?"
"I did not ask."
That was a lie. I was certain the two of them whispered in the kitchen while cleaning the dishes and went over every last detail of Meg's trip to London to see Charles.
"She can afford more than a week if she so desires," I said, making no attempt to keep my voice down.
Madeline glanced over her shoulder into the hallway momentarily before turning back to me with a hardened look in her eyes. "Your offer is quite generous."
"But unwanted."
"That is not what I said."
"Words would be quite unnecessary. After all, the check came from him, did it not?""
Madeline released a heavy sigh and dropped her shoulders. "I told her you would be offended if she did not accept."
"I am not…" I turned from her, my voice trailing away. "Why would I ever be offended by someone like Meg Giry?"
I was offended by Meg's rejection of my offer, but that was only part of what galled me. I was aggrieved that she refused to refer to me by my name. It did not matter if I extorted funds from a foolish Opera House manager or attempted to offer a gift to the woman who spent hours a day caring for my son. Nothing I did brought me closer to the rest of humanity. I was an entity of fear and loathing with no chance of ever finding redemption. Quite frankly I did not know why I bothered.
"Why don't you tell me?" Madeline asked. She remained calm and diplomatic despite my words. "She is not in the house. You may say whatever you wish."
Heat rose along the back of my neck and I straightened my spine. My hands balled into fists, and when I spoke, I swore the walls trembled.
"Tell your daughter she may write whatever amount she wants on the check and that she is not required to return here," I said.
Madeline blanched at my statement. "Erik-," she whispered. Even her voice submitted to my wrath.
"And she may give Christine her forwarding address so they do not lose touch. Or did you think that was a clever secret you and your daughter kept?"
I regretted my words as soon as I spoke them, but the look in Madeline's eyes was satisfaction enough for me to hold to my acidic statement. Although I was not fond of the fear on Madeline's taut face, I wanted her to experience my shame, to feel as small and dejected as I did nearly every damned day of my life. Between Meg never using my name and the letter from Christine stuffed into the bottom drawer of my desk, I felt as though her daughter had not a single ounce of respect for me. If anyone was to blame, I wished to pin all of my frustration on Madeline.
Madeline looked from me to Alex, who had stopped playing and sat on the floor with a soldier in one hand and a train in the other. I doubted he understood what I said, but he clearly recognized the anger in my voice. He dropped the train and quietly asked for Meg. His wide, dark eyes were filled with trepidation as he avoided my gaze and looked pathetically at Madeline. I realized far too late that I had frightened my own son.
"She is gone," I said, keeping my gaze trained on Madeline. Despite the dread I felt inside, I clung to my obstinate ways as if it were the very blood in my veins.
Without another word, Madeline bowed her head and turned away. She exited the room and did not speak to me until Christmas Eve.