Willie spent the next few days mopping floors and hauling sopping wet oriental rugs down to the kitchen where he strung them up before the fire and scrubbed them down. When the ceilings dried out he could sand and spackle and repaint them. It was back-breaking work, but the damage was his fault for not putting the buckets out when he should have.
His nights were spent hauling cauldrons of hot water from various fireplaces so Miss Josette could bathe, after which the young woman spent additional hours choosing gowns and primping at the vanity.
Barnabas would spend these endless evenings pacing in the parlor or library in anticipation of her arrival, only to lose patience and storm out of the house to take out his frustration on some unsuspecting blood source—but he wasn't killing anybody. Maybe a human victim would make him feel unfaithful to his bride. He was probably out in the woods, thinning the herd.
When the lady did grace Barnabas with her presence, it was even worse. Josette would hold court from her settee, complaining incessantly in her broken French of the master's shortcomings, the state of the house, the quality of the food, and the living conditions with which she was forced to cope. How could she possibly be mistress of a household with one slovenly servant? Then she would begin a listing of Willie's inadequacies.
Barnabas became one miserable, sullen, pussy-whipped vampire. Willie kept his head down and said nothing. He was pretty sure Maggie was pulling a long con, so he would play along. Did he catch the slightest glint in her eye?—the one that said, gotcha, sucker.
During this time Barnabas had ordered Willie not to leave the Old House for any length of time because Miss Josette needed his attention during the day, lest she awaken and wander away. Or escape. But he had obligations to Mrs. Johnson, and the handyman had to constantly replenish supplies from town because Miss Josette ate like a horse. So he locked the doors during the afternoon when she would most likely stay asleep and took off. After all, it was well established that she knew nothing about picking locks.
Willie's workday began midmorning with a fire in the kitchen, some hot coffee and a can of breakfast. That was followed by making rounds to the various mice and rat traps, which were emptied outside now because Miss Josette disapproved of rodent consumption. Next he would haul a bucket and mop to the dining room to clear the previous evening's dishes. If the meals had pleased his mistress, they lay scattered on the table; if not, he found them on the floor or stuck to the wall amid broken china and crystal.
On the master's desk in his study would be a list of chores for the day, including his lady's dining preferences, and the necessary cash. So, by noon, Willie would head off to the coffee shop, or the Blue Whale, or the pizza parlor, or the Chinese restaurant, and pick up two or three hot meals to go, along with a newspaper, before completing his other errands.
Josette's suppers were stored on silver domed platters, ready to be reheated during the course of the evening, while Willie spent his afternoons working on the mansion which was decaying faster than he could patch it. Except on Tuesdays and Fridays, when he snuck away to Collinwood for a few hours.
Mrs. Johnson was royally pissed when Willie finally showed up after a long absence because chores put aside for him had piled up. She slammed a sandwich on the table and returned to her dishes, mumbling to herself. Willie ate in awkward silence, hoping she wouldn't break their agreement. He had grown quite spoiled by the bathroom, laundry and kitchen privileges extended to him at his semiweekly visits.
"Get out."
Willie's head came up. "I'm sorry!" he blurted out. There was no response. "What?"
"I said, if you know what's good for you, you'll get out." Mrs. Johnson was abusing a roaster pan in the sink. "Go back to sailing boats or whatever it is that you do, before you're old like me and it's too late." She turned to him angrily. "We're just servants to them. Something they can use, with no more feelings than a toaster. They insult me and laugh at me, and what can I do? Where can I go?" Leaning on the counter, the woman buried her face in her hands.
Willie rose and crossed the room to the old lady, feeling very uncomfortable. To his experience, you didn't cry in front of someone unless you wanted something, and he had no idea what to give to her. Mrs. Johnson was not of type of person you hugged, and Willie was not good at the hugging thing anyway. He guided her to a chair and poured the housekeeper a glass of water.
Mrs. Johnson cried softly for a few minutes while Willie busied himself at the sink, scrubbing the pan. He had always thought of the lady as a pretty tough cookie, not the type to break down and get all weepy. Maybe he should leave, but dammit, it was laundry day, and he desperately wanted a hot shower.
"You can have it if you want. I'm just going to throw it out," the housekeeper said finally, wiping her eyes with her apron.
"What's that?" Willie started to rinse. This place had hot water and Brillo pads; talk about luxury.
"Last night's pot roast with potatoes, carrots and parsnips. No one even touched it. Mrs. Stoddard ran to her room, Miss Winters never showed up, Mr. McGuire made some insulting comment and took off, and I heard Mr. Roger laughing with the children; then he took them out to dinner and just left my meal sitting on the table. They have no respect."
Willie shook his head as he started to towel dry the roaster. "Bunch a' losers, if you ask me. I'll take it; I respect your pot roast."
"You're the only one," she retorted.
"Yeah, well, I've eaten in places all over the world, even once had a steak in a fancy hotel. And I think you're a damn good cook—even better than my mom." Since Willie had never sampled his mother's home cooking, he assumed that to be a fair statement.
"And your Mr. Collins is no better when he comes to dinner. Never touches a thing on his plate. Does he eat yours?"
"My what? Oh, cookin'. No. He's, uh, on a special diet. It's a doctor-medical thing."
"Could use some red meat in my opinion; the man looks unhealthy to me," Mrs. Johnson snorted as she lit a cigarette. "Three generations of my family have worked for the Collins' household; my mother was the cook here for years, back when they had an actual staff to run this house, and didn't expect one person to do everything." She gave Willie a knowing look and he nodded in commiseration. "She taught me everything. And her mother became the assistant cook when she moved here from the Old House."
Willie sat next to her. "Your grandmother worked at the Old House?"
"Oh yes, she was a parlor maid, and her husband was a footman. She left service when they got married and returned here at Collinwood after Grandfather died in World War I. By that time the Old House was closed up."
"What was her name?"
"Berte, and my grandfather was Franz Fleischer. I never met him, but I remember grammy so well."
"Ya know what? I have stuff I think belonged to them. Some letters written in German and a picture of a lady. Almost used them for kindlin' a few times. I'll bring 'em with me next time I come, okay?"
That brought on a fresh wave of tears as Mrs. Johnson reached over and hugged him. "You're such a good boy."
"Yeah, everybody tells me that," Willie joked as he shied away and pulled on his jacket. "I can't be talkin' to you all day; I got work to do. Now don't forget to pack up my pot roast. I'm eatin' that for dinner and I ain't sharin'."
Fluffy snow fell as Willie worked in the rear of Collinwood preparing firewood. He brought logs from the Old House to do at the same time in order to utilize the chainsaw. The young man was bundled up in work gloves and boots, red scarf, and hoodie (pulled up) under his windbreaker. It would have been nice to have that old parka again, but he was grateful to have his jacket back.
The handyman looked up at the great house and noticed a tall figure watching him through the curtains at a second floor bedroom window. It had to be Jason or Roger; someone with nothing better to do than watch other people work. Willie picked up the pace so he would have time for a quick shower before heading back home. As he pulled out of the driveway, a delivery truck drove up with an eight-foot evergreen tied in the back.
Willie secured his contraband cuisine against rodent invasion and concealed it in coldest corner of the basement. Not allowed to have possessions, huh? Fine, he was prepared to devour the entire meal at one sitting rather than forfeit this feast to his vindictive vampire.
Oh, shit. Willie heard the coffin lid creak open in an adjoining room, and he hadn't even started the evening chores. He raced up the back stairs and threw a Duraflame log into the parlor fireplace. Next, the candles. They were burned down stumps, each holder was covered with messy waxcycles—and the replacement box was empty.
Back in the basement kitchen, Willie rummaged through the storage cabinet when he heard harsh voices coming from the parlor upstairs. They were at each other's throats already. Willie grabbed a carton of blue tapers and sprinted back to the battlefield.
Josette's shrill voice followed Barnabas as he burst through the entrance and barely missed colliding with Willie as the servant was about to enter.
"Where do you think you're going? I am not finished talking to you!" the woman shrieked. Barnabas shook with rage, but instead of responding to Josette, he backhanded his servant across the foyer and stormed down the hall, disappearing into the ballroom, from which, a minute later, some mutilated Mozart was heard.
Willie sat dazed in a heap of scattered candlesticks, wiping the trickle of blood from his cheek. That always happened when his face made contact with the big, black ring. He started to pick up the candles, returning the unbroken ones in the box, setting aside the others to take later for his personal use. The young man was on his hands and knees as his mistress watched him from the doorway. Josette seemed thoughtful, even sad for a moment, until she realized he was looking back; then her face hardened with distain.
"Clumsy idiot, clean up that mess," she sneered. "I want to eat now."
"Okay. I mean, yes, ma'am."
"What are you smirking at?" she demanded. Over time, Willie noticed her French accent was fading.
"Nothin'." He looked away. Except I'm havin' pot roast for dinner and you're havin' a hot dog.
Willie managed to complete his chores and avoid both bosses for the rest of the evening, but when he retired to his third-floor bedroom at three o'clock the next morning, he could still hear their heated voices and slamming doors, even with the cover pulled over his head.
Mind your own business. Don't get involved. Just ignore them.
Josette and Barnabas were fighting again. Willie tried to ignore the shouting match coming through the closed window as he shoveled snow from the front porch.
"Not the vase!" Barnabas hollered. Crash.
"Don't come any closer to me! I know what you want! I will not become a monster! I'd rather die than let that happen!"
"A monster, madam? You are the definition of the word!"
The young woman screamed and threw another fragile artifact. Willie jumped at the sound and decided to move away from the window (just to be safe) when the front door crashed open. His mistress tore through the portal, down the steps and disappeared into the night, her cloak flying behind her. Willie waited for Barnabas to appear in pursuit. He peered in the window to see the master picking up the broken pieces of a treasured heirloom.
The servant cleared his throat. "Uh, Barnabas?" He stuck his head in tentatively. Your prisoner just escaped. "Miss Josette ran out the door. Aren't ya gonna catch her?"
"She's going to jump from Widow's Hill," he replied matter-of-factly.
"What! B-b-but—ya gotta stop her!"
Barnabas sighed as he settled into the wingback chair, massaging his forehead with two fingers. "On the contrary, I thought she would never leave."
Willie dropped his shovel and ran out the door. He leaped over the steps, skidded on the ice and raced toward the cliffs yelling, "Maggie! Maggie!"
The young woman was nowhere to be found. Her footprints in the snow ended at the edge of the cliff. "MAGGIE!"
Willie fell to his knees and looked over the brink but it was too dark to see anything. Waves crashed on the shore below. Snow fell in his hair. He dashed back and raced the truck around the hill to the beach, searching with his flashlight among the rocks and calling her name over and over.
Her cloak washed up on shore. When the servant drove back to the Old House, Barnabas was waiting for him.
"Well?"
Willie threw the sodden cape on the floor of the main hall as he kicked the snow from his boots.
"That's all I found." He peeled off his jacket which was drenched in wet snow.
"Take that away; burn it. And tomorrow I want you to remove all traces of her; destroy any evidence."
"I thought it was a scam, but she's dead…"
Barnabas sighed at his simple-minded servant. "It was inevitable, Willie. The woman was mentally unstable."
"No, Maggie was fine before she came here. We turned her into that crazy bitch." He picked up the cloak, which was forming a puddle in the foyer. "She begged me to help her, begged me, and I wouldn't do it. Not because a' you. Because, deep down…I didn't want her to go. I didn't wanna be alone again. I was selfish, and now she's dead." He started to cry.
"There's nothing to be done about it now." Willie buried his face in the water-logged cape as the vampire cleared his throat. "That is quite enough. If you cannot control yourself—go to your room." Barnabas' tone was dispassionate, though he looked uncomfortable. "I have—other, important matters to tend to." The vampire put on his coat and almost tripped on the snow shovel on his way out the door. "Do something with this spade!" He barked and exited into the frostbitten night.
Willie picked up the shovel and was about to put it on the porch. Instead, he swung it full force into the marble statue, knocking it to the ground. The naked lady lost her head.
"There. I bet now you'll be sad."
