Note from Author: By my book, this is the last chapter of the story. Please
read, review, and enjoy-
EPILOGUE
The note was small, insignificant, nearly undetectable in the voluptuous bedding of the goose-down bed. It was a maid that found it, as she came to rouse Darby Rockwell on the morning of her wedding. Yet the maid found no Darby, only the note. Her cries stirred the rest of the household, who readily came running to the room. Mrs. Rockwell was in her satin nightgown, her shiny face void of cosmetics, brown hair in curlers. Mr. Rockwell was in his pinstriped pajamas and graying hair all askew.
It was he who picked up the note cautiously from the bed for Mrs. Rockwell nearly fainted as she saw her daughter had up and vanished, and lo she did faint after Mr. Rockwell had concluded the reading.
It was a simple piece of white stationary with a spectrum of colors of wild roses on the borders and the name Darby Rockwell at the top. It was folded over only once, and as Mr. Rockwell opened it, he knew instantaneously that is was his daughter's scrawling script. He read, his pitch no more than a murmur and his ice eyes squinted:
Dearest Mother and Father,
As you are reading this note, I know that you are in a state of great distress. Oh, of course you are wondering where between Empyrean and Hades I can be, but you careless for my actual being than you do of the spectacular amount of capital that you are due to receive due to the union of David Van Wyck and I. No, you don't have to bother searching about the room or the grounds of the estate, I won't be there. Neither shall you find my frost-covered corpse dangling lifelessly from my balcony with one of my bed sheets about my neck, although the thought did cross my mind more than once.
No, you see I am gone. Yes, gone. And if everything falls into place as planned, I fancy that you shan't see me ever again. That notion, of course would not bring any impossible sorrow or despair to me. You see, Mother and Father, you are I are completely different people. You were born and conditioned to be one of the elite of the high class, yet I despise the high class with the utmost passion. Of course I always thought it grand when I was little to prance about in opulent cloths and covered in glittering diamonds and drive along in carriages, looking out and seeing starving children on the streets and sticking my nose up at them for I reckoned that I made them jealous. Alas, somewhere in my upbringing we parted ways most tragically. Oh, I still of course was your daughter, pretty little Darby Rockwell, daughter of John and Ava and I put on a masquerade that I delighted in all the parties with your wealthy friends.
But, you see, inside I was crumbling.
I knew that I was not like you. The only person I loved in the world was Katrina Van Witt when it should have been my mother and father. But how could I when all I felt as resentment and revilement when I heard you scrutinizing the Van Witts. And it was then that I began to wish that I were the daughter of a poor beggar man than daughter of John Rockwell, all- powerful attorney.
Of course, my destiny to marry David Van Wyck did not aid in my liking the upper class anymore. I declare, but I have never met a more despicable, odious bastard than he. Is your hair curling yet, Mother? Words cannot express the misery and pain that I suffered on his behalf, yet I took all his remarks of early impregnation with a bit tongue and said nothing more. Yet, a something infected me. An infection that began with I most agreeably tossing that apple pie in his awful face and ending now.
And that infection was a newsboy named Spot Conlon. Yes, Mother a newsboy. And what else can I say but I fell in love with him? Fell absolutely, impossibly stark head over heels for him. I, Darby Rockwell, David Van Wyck's fiancée pranced about town with a newsboy, experiencing the most breathtaking times of my life with him.
And I ask you now, how could you possibly ask me to sacrifice something that strong just so I can be utterly miserable the rest of my days so that you can lead happy content lives when you are old and senile-and I do declare but those days are not too far away.
No, I gave myself to the newsboy and David Van Wyck transformed it into an ungodly charge of rape when it had to be the greatest surge of over- powering, wonderful emotions that I have ever felt. And if Mommy is the one reading this and she is shaking her head and denying it, may I put it in blatant terms for you? I fucked the newsboy. Is your hair very curled now, Mommy? And I would have never changed it for the world.
Alas, Davey boy got him locked up in the House of Refuge and I of course balled my eyes out like an idiotic wreck. And it was only last night when I was sobbing and lamenting my Spot and had the bed sheet tied in a noose ready to hang myself when I guess you could call it nothing short of a revelation struck me. I did not have to marry David Van Wyck. Why, I actually had a choice, did I not? I had scampered through the wrought-iron gates may times before without your knowledge, so why should this time be any different.
I was absolutely elated at my breakthrough that was so marvelously simple that I felt idiotic for not discovering it sooner.
Yes, you see, if all goes well I will aid Spot Conlon in escaping from the House of Refuge. Oh, I'm sure the real criminals to it everyday and I shall have help-what guard would not be distracted by a beautiful girl crying hysterically why the other steals his keys? Hopefully, it will be that simple and Spot will be free and we can escape together.
You of course will probably scoff and say how can poor little Darby girl make it all on her own in the big city with a filthy newsboy as a mate? Well, I daresay, Daddy, but when you talk to Mommy should be a little bit quieter about it. Did you really think that I didn't hear she and you talking heatedly one day outside my room while you most likely though I was asleep about the firm and your involvement with the Mafia? And how you got so frightened that they were going to take all your capital away that you divvied it down the median and placed it all in Mommy and my names? Oh, you silly man. As you are reading this now I most likely have taken my rightful share of the money for all the misery you have caused me and the newsboy is my side and we are probably on a boat to France. Oh, I have always wanted to visit France. Don't worry, Mommy, I will send you a postcard when we are wed and have out first child. But do not fret, it won't be for a few years.
It saddens me from the deepest abysses of my heart to leave poor Davey boy at the alter, but I am sure that Airabella Arnside will suit him perfectly and since she is such a cold bitch she will enjoy the hotness of hell, as of course Davey is Satan. Please tell me you knew this.
Well, it is best that I am going. Tell Davey boy that Spot and I send our love.
Well, Ava, John. Adieu, sweet evil stepparents, adieu.
Yours,
Darby Lynn Rockwell (Conlon)
***
He stood listlessly, leaning against the weatherworn slate bricks of the First Federal Bank, inhaling quietly on a cigarette, his charcoal gray cap tipped over his features, one foot propped flat against the façade.
He cocked his head up only when he heard the faint clearing of a throat. She had exited the building, her expensive purse now considerably larger, and her smile considerably broader.
She looked stunning in a vermilion ensemble and she picked up her pace, as he took the cigarette out of his mouth and flicked it to the ground, snubbing it out, and matching her strides.
"Did ya git it?" he asked, keeping his vision straight ahead.
She only nodded, her smile growing, "Couldn't have been easier."
"So now what da hell ya gonna do?" he inquired. "I'se a crim'nal and you'se a crim'nal foah helpin' me 'scape."
She shrugged, keeping her head straight. "I don't know. Perhaps go to France."
He regarded her incredulously. "Jesus Christ-France."
"You of course will be going with me. Don't worry. Your reign as the fearless leader had to end sometime. Just allow Whitie to take your position," she said simply.
"Whitie? Whitie Wilson? Jesus Christ," he broke into disbelieving laughter.
"No, really. I think Whitie will make a good leader. He can be called-the Drunken Leader of Brooklyn."
"Oh, Christ!" His laughter became more audible as they passed the cathedral.
"Don't even," she said sharply.
"What? Did I say anyt'ing. Jesus-France."
"Why not? It's the city of love."
"Jesus, ya really love a romantic endin'."
"What girl doesn't? Besides, you are missing the sunset and horse. And if we don't want to get caught we have to buy the boat tickets right away."
"Whatever ya say," he said, abruptly halting and dropping his hand to her arm, stopping her and causing her to stumble and elicit a cry, before he pressed his split lips to hers. She struggled to stay balanced during the feverish kiss, as the heel of her fantastically expensive heel had snapped in two.
THE END
EPILOGUE
The note was small, insignificant, nearly undetectable in the voluptuous bedding of the goose-down bed. It was a maid that found it, as she came to rouse Darby Rockwell on the morning of her wedding. Yet the maid found no Darby, only the note. Her cries stirred the rest of the household, who readily came running to the room. Mrs. Rockwell was in her satin nightgown, her shiny face void of cosmetics, brown hair in curlers. Mr. Rockwell was in his pinstriped pajamas and graying hair all askew.
It was he who picked up the note cautiously from the bed for Mrs. Rockwell nearly fainted as she saw her daughter had up and vanished, and lo she did faint after Mr. Rockwell had concluded the reading.
It was a simple piece of white stationary with a spectrum of colors of wild roses on the borders and the name Darby Rockwell at the top. It was folded over only once, and as Mr. Rockwell opened it, he knew instantaneously that is was his daughter's scrawling script. He read, his pitch no more than a murmur and his ice eyes squinted:
Dearest Mother and Father,
As you are reading this note, I know that you are in a state of great distress. Oh, of course you are wondering where between Empyrean and Hades I can be, but you careless for my actual being than you do of the spectacular amount of capital that you are due to receive due to the union of David Van Wyck and I. No, you don't have to bother searching about the room or the grounds of the estate, I won't be there. Neither shall you find my frost-covered corpse dangling lifelessly from my balcony with one of my bed sheets about my neck, although the thought did cross my mind more than once.
No, you see I am gone. Yes, gone. And if everything falls into place as planned, I fancy that you shan't see me ever again. That notion, of course would not bring any impossible sorrow or despair to me. You see, Mother and Father, you are I are completely different people. You were born and conditioned to be one of the elite of the high class, yet I despise the high class with the utmost passion. Of course I always thought it grand when I was little to prance about in opulent cloths and covered in glittering diamonds and drive along in carriages, looking out and seeing starving children on the streets and sticking my nose up at them for I reckoned that I made them jealous. Alas, somewhere in my upbringing we parted ways most tragically. Oh, I still of course was your daughter, pretty little Darby Rockwell, daughter of John and Ava and I put on a masquerade that I delighted in all the parties with your wealthy friends.
But, you see, inside I was crumbling.
I knew that I was not like you. The only person I loved in the world was Katrina Van Witt when it should have been my mother and father. But how could I when all I felt as resentment and revilement when I heard you scrutinizing the Van Witts. And it was then that I began to wish that I were the daughter of a poor beggar man than daughter of John Rockwell, all- powerful attorney.
Of course, my destiny to marry David Van Wyck did not aid in my liking the upper class anymore. I declare, but I have never met a more despicable, odious bastard than he. Is your hair curling yet, Mother? Words cannot express the misery and pain that I suffered on his behalf, yet I took all his remarks of early impregnation with a bit tongue and said nothing more. Yet, a something infected me. An infection that began with I most agreeably tossing that apple pie in his awful face and ending now.
And that infection was a newsboy named Spot Conlon. Yes, Mother a newsboy. And what else can I say but I fell in love with him? Fell absolutely, impossibly stark head over heels for him. I, Darby Rockwell, David Van Wyck's fiancée pranced about town with a newsboy, experiencing the most breathtaking times of my life with him.
And I ask you now, how could you possibly ask me to sacrifice something that strong just so I can be utterly miserable the rest of my days so that you can lead happy content lives when you are old and senile-and I do declare but those days are not too far away.
No, I gave myself to the newsboy and David Van Wyck transformed it into an ungodly charge of rape when it had to be the greatest surge of over- powering, wonderful emotions that I have ever felt. And if Mommy is the one reading this and she is shaking her head and denying it, may I put it in blatant terms for you? I fucked the newsboy. Is your hair very curled now, Mommy? And I would have never changed it for the world.
Alas, Davey boy got him locked up in the House of Refuge and I of course balled my eyes out like an idiotic wreck. And it was only last night when I was sobbing and lamenting my Spot and had the bed sheet tied in a noose ready to hang myself when I guess you could call it nothing short of a revelation struck me. I did not have to marry David Van Wyck. Why, I actually had a choice, did I not? I had scampered through the wrought-iron gates may times before without your knowledge, so why should this time be any different.
I was absolutely elated at my breakthrough that was so marvelously simple that I felt idiotic for not discovering it sooner.
Yes, you see, if all goes well I will aid Spot Conlon in escaping from the House of Refuge. Oh, I'm sure the real criminals to it everyday and I shall have help-what guard would not be distracted by a beautiful girl crying hysterically why the other steals his keys? Hopefully, it will be that simple and Spot will be free and we can escape together.
You of course will probably scoff and say how can poor little Darby girl make it all on her own in the big city with a filthy newsboy as a mate? Well, I daresay, Daddy, but when you talk to Mommy should be a little bit quieter about it. Did you really think that I didn't hear she and you talking heatedly one day outside my room while you most likely though I was asleep about the firm and your involvement with the Mafia? And how you got so frightened that they were going to take all your capital away that you divvied it down the median and placed it all in Mommy and my names? Oh, you silly man. As you are reading this now I most likely have taken my rightful share of the money for all the misery you have caused me and the newsboy is my side and we are probably on a boat to France. Oh, I have always wanted to visit France. Don't worry, Mommy, I will send you a postcard when we are wed and have out first child. But do not fret, it won't be for a few years.
It saddens me from the deepest abysses of my heart to leave poor Davey boy at the alter, but I am sure that Airabella Arnside will suit him perfectly and since she is such a cold bitch she will enjoy the hotness of hell, as of course Davey is Satan. Please tell me you knew this.
Well, it is best that I am going. Tell Davey boy that Spot and I send our love.
Well, Ava, John. Adieu, sweet evil stepparents, adieu.
Yours,
Darby Lynn Rockwell (Conlon)
***
He stood listlessly, leaning against the weatherworn slate bricks of the First Federal Bank, inhaling quietly on a cigarette, his charcoal gray cap tipped over his features, one foot propped flat against the façade.
He cocked his head up only when he heard the faint clearing of a throat. She had exited the building, her expensive purse now considerably larger, and her smile considerably broader.
She looked stunning in a vermilion ensemble and she picked up her pace, as he took the cigarette out of his mouth and flicked it to the ground, snubbing it out, and matching her strides.
"Did ya git it?" he asked, keeping his vision straight ahead.
She only nodded, her smile growing, "Couldn't have been easier."
"So now what da hell ya gonna do?" he inquired. "I'se a crim'nal and you'se a crim'nal foah helpin' me 'scape."
She shrugged, keeping her head straight. "I don't know. Perhaps go to France."
He regarded her incredulously. "Jesus Christ-France."
"You of course will be going with me. Don't worry. Your reign as the fearless leader had to end sometime. Just allow Whitie to take your position," she said simply.
"Whitie? Whitie Wilson? Jesus Christ," he broke into disbelieving laughter.
"No, really. I think Whitie will make a good leader. He can be called-the Drunken Leader of Brooklyn."
"Oh, Christ!" His laughter became more audible as they passed the cathedral.
"Don't even," she said sharply.
"What? Did I say anyt'ing. Jesus-France."
"Why not? It's the city of love."
"Jesus, ya really love a romantic endin'."
"What girl doesn't? Besides, you are missing the sunset and horse. And if we don't want to get caught we have to buy the boat tickets right away."
"Whatever ya say," he said, abruptly halting and dropping his hand to her arm, stopping her and causing her to stumble and elicit a cry, before he pressed his split lips to hers. She struggled to stay balanced during the feverish kiss, as the heel of her fantastically expensive heel had snapped in two.
THE END