Chapter Four
"Mr. Whittington Meets Mr. Squelch"
When Mr. Whittington arrived at the old boardwalk the next morning, Miss Fleck was leaning against her fence with two grocery bags, her crutch, and a drawn, sick expression on her lips. There were dark circles under her eyes. The remnants of the previous night's drinking binge lay scattered and broken on the ground. The previous day's warmth had evaporated back into biting cold, and so she had put on Mr. Whittington's old scarf.
"G' morning, Misser Whittington," she mumbled, her face about as pale as the white scarf. "I've thought it over and...I guess I...wanna go w' you. Wanna...go w' you."
Mr. Whittington let out a sigh of relief and threw his arm around her. She smelled atrocious. "I'm so glad you do. Are these all your things? Are you ready to go?"
Her bloodshot eyes darted to her grocery bags. "That's...all of it. You got the sandwich?"
"Yes, I do. It's at my house. We'll have lunch there, and then we'll set you up, alright?"
"Right."
She didn't look very steady, so Mr. Whittington let her lean on him, and together they walked slowly down the boardwalk and onto the street, where they were met with interested stares.
"Did you see Greg' ry?" she asked after they had walked a respectable distance.
"I did," replied Mr. Whittington, remembering the anxiety in the man's eyes. "He was very kind. I think you're lucky to have a fellow who cares about you like that."
Miss Fleck's eyes suddenly teared up. "I...bin drinkin' again. He dun' like that. But I did anyway." She grabbed her companion, which caused her to stumble, and a tear rolled down one cheek. "Do...I look like I bin drinkin' again, Misser Whittington?"
"Well, just a tiny bit," admitted Mr. Whittington. She looked so pitiful that he couldn't bear to tell the truth."But never mind. Don't cry. It's all right now. We're going to have some lunch, alright?"
But she cried miserably the whole way there, as though he were leading her away to be executed. Strangers occasionally stopped to ask Mr. Whittington if she was sick and needed help; he thanked them but told them to go on. She continued to cry in the taxi that took them to the corner of Mr. Whittington's block.
"My...my Da-dee wouldn't...he wouldn't like it eee-vurr, Misser Whittington," she moaned incoherantly. "He didn' bull-eeve in alc' hol...but I dun' ever stop!"
As they climbed out-Mr. Whittington reassuring the driver that she was alright-he dug out a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes.
"Hush. Calm down. We're here now," he said, making sure she was looking at him. "I'm sure your Daddy and Mr. De Rossi would be glad to know you're alright now, wouldn't they? See? Here's my house. Let's go in."
They ascended the little staircase, but as Mr. Whittington was pulling out his keys, Miss Fleck grabbed the handrail and swayed dangerously. The color drained from her face. He got behind her just in time to catch her, for she collapsed into a dead faint. As quickly as he could, he carried her into his living room and onto the couch, where she lay like a pile of rags with a white, white face, and he ran to get water.
Oh, why did he make her wait for the food? He should have brought it with him, and let her eat it immediately. Fool that he was! He scolded himself ruthlessly as he rubbed her wrists with the water, noting with alarm that her pulse was weak. She did not respond to his voice or his shaking. Quickly, he undid her coat and tossed it aside, and loosened anything that was even a little constricting, but she still did not come around. How frail and thin her poor body was! It seemed that fifteen years of starvation had finally crushed little Miss Fleck, all at once, and she was going to die here on his couch. His heart beat wildly. No! That couldn't happen!
Without even thinking, he ran to the icebox and got a cup of milk. He pushed it up to her lips.
"Go on, dear, take a sip. Go on, drink it. Please?" He looked desperately at the street and wondered if he should run for a doctor.
And then, to his great relief, her lips weakly began to suck a little sip of milk.
Mr. Whittington let out a long sigh of gratitude. "Yes! Good job, dear," he told her, as though she were a baby. "Keep it up."
She did keep it up. She kept drinking, more and more, her thin throat rippling with that good, wholesome milk, and as she drained the last dregs of it, her eyes fluttered open. They were unfocused as she looked around, dazed and dizzy. She licked a little drip of milk from her lips.
"Misser Whittington?" she mumbled.
"Yes, it's me, Mr. Whittington," he replied, the relief washing over his soul like a warm wave. "You're in my house now. You got sick for a minute. Are you okay?"
"I fink so."
In a moment of inspiration, he leaned over and kissed one of her dirty cheeks. "Thank God." He pulled himself together and rose. "I'm going to get you something to eat this very instant."
Out came the turkey sandwich. He broke it into bits and sat by her side, feeding her. She was too weak to sit up. It seemed that she had to concentrate all of her energy on the business of chewing and swallowing. Mr. Whittington patiently fed her, bit by bit, his mind reeling at would have happened if she had fainted the day before, when he was not there! As he grimly contemplated her malnourished face and rubbed her bony hands, it was clear to him that she would have died. If she hadn't been in his house when she suddenly took ill, she might have died before he could get help, and been buried in a common grave, and poor Mr. De Rossi would never know what had happened to her. The idea of how close she'd come to disaster amazed him. But he must concentrate on taking care of her now. Fate had made this his duty.
When she finally finished eating, her cheeks were slowly becoming pink and her eyes brightened. Her breaths were deep and steady.
"I feel better now," she said. Even her voice sounded better. It sounded as though her normal personality was coming back. "Thank you for taking care of me. I'm...sorry I cried so much."
"Why, it's quite all right. Don't think about it any more."
"I guess I was feeling pretty bad about last night," she murmured glumly. "You see, I promised Gregory I wouldn't drink anymore. But I couldn't get any food, and the only thing someone left me was a case of liquor. I told myself I wouldn't do it, but I eventually cracked and drank every last damn bottle. Puked and fell asleep after that. Probably wet my drawers too, but I'm not sure. I think so."
So that was the atrocious odor that Mr. Whittington had smelled.
"And now," she continued, her eyes beginning to water, "Here I am, stinking up your house and disturbing your business. I'm real sorry."
"Please, please, don't worry about it," insisted Mr. Whittington. "Don't even think about it. I want to help you. You needn't worry that you're interrupting anything. Would you like more milk? I think you should just rest and eat today, and not do anything else."
Miss Fleck accepted more milk as Mr. Whittington explained where he was going to set up her things, and where she could bathe, and the clothes he would give her. She seemed genuinely baffled by his interest in her welfare, but smiled in weak gratitude nonetheless.
"If my Daddy could see this," she said, "He would be so happy."
Mr. Whittington had a feeling he knew the answer, but hesitantly asked the question anyway. "Is your father...?"
She understood. "No," she replied sadly. "No. He's dead. But if you want, you can see his part of the story."
This was not the reply Mr. Whittington had been expecting. "Really? How?" he asked.
"If you go into my second bag," replied Miss Fleck, rising on her elbows and pointing, "You'll see a leather book. That was his journal. He wrote all about Phantasma, and my Mama, and everything. You can read it while I nap."
The journal was right where she said it would be. Mr. Whittington gave Miss Fleck a blanket to nap with, and sat down beside her to read yet another take on the Phantasma story.
(Mr. Squelch's journal begins.)
Well, if I am to start a journal, which I've never done before, it seems reasonable to start it off with my reasons for doing so and a little Fleck history.
MY PURPOSE: To keep track of all the extraordinary goings-on, ever since Mr. Y set his plans for Phantasma into action.
FLECK HISTORY: I am Alfred Ivan Fleck. My birthday is January 3rd, 1857, so as of right now I am 49 years old. I am a widower; Apollonia Ismene Papakonstantinau, my wife of 21 years, passed away last year. I have only one child, a daughter whom I love dearly, called Ariel Frances Lavinia Fleck. (Frances and Lavinia were her grandmothers) My parents were Estevan and Lavinia Fleck; they are both deceased now. They had five children, all boys, and I am the youngest. In order: Edgar, Charles, Wilbur, John, and Alfred. All of my brothers are deceased now, except for Edgar. I am the only son who ever married.
My father told me that my grandfather was part of a Hungarian freakshow. Our last name was "Felek" then, but when he was sold to an American freakshow, the immigration officials botched the name up and turned it into "Fleck". Skeletal deformities run in my family. My father, my brothers, and I were all born with twisted spines or disfigured limbs. My mother was born with an extra leg. My wife had one arm. My daughter, Ariel, was born with her left leg twisted and bent backwards, but her spine is fine. I have been in freakshows ever since I was born, just like my father and grandfather before me. I even helped to build parts of Coney Island, carrying supplies on my back. I bet I can carry anything.
THAT SAID, I BEGIN.
Well, it's Christmas Eve, 1906, as I write this. From where I'm sitting in our little eating-area, I can see my daughter, Mr. De Rossi, Mr. Y, and the Pennysworth siblings decorating a Christmas tree with popcorn. Mr. Y is quite the perfectionist, the way he keeps adjusting everything. That slob Damien keeps eating the popcorn that Ariel is trying to string. I've got a half-mind to say something. Ah, never mind. Genevieve is beating him with a giant candy-cane. Our little suffragette has got brass in her to make a pair of candlesticks, and no mistake!
De Rossi 's helping Ariel pick up the slack by stringing on the other side. He can't talk, but he's still a reasonable fellow. He's taught Ariel a lot of Italian, and over the course of these many years they've become great friends. He was also a tremendous help during our first year without Polly. Poor Ariel was taking her mother's death very badly, but somehow, even though he couldn't speak, he helped her get through the grieving process. I'm so grateful. I wish I were through it. I guess I'll always be mourning to some degree, even if my year of wearing black is over. Anyhow, I'd trust Mr. De Rossi anywhere.
What a year 1906 has been! My little girl is practically a lady. Seventeen! Next May, she'll be an adult! In in a couple days, I'll be fifty. Half a century old, for Pete's sake! Where'd the time go? Ha! Aggie-Ann has just come in to inform us that the automaton nativity scene is acting up. Apparently one of the wise men keeps whacking Virgin Mary in the head with the frankensence. Blasphemy! Off goes Mr. Y now to fix it. He is very particular about his automatons!
These past six months have been something else! It feels almost like a dream. The ultimate Phantasma is not open yet-it won't be until next year-but the foundations have been laid, the streets laid out, and the structures are due to go up the moment spring rolls in. We've been financing it with "Phantasma 1.0", as we call it amongst ourselves, with help from the money-wise Girys, Mr. Y's helpers. Rather than flaunt our deformities for money as we did before, we showcase our talents and sing songs. Mr. Y is probably the most accomplished musician I have ever seen. He's composed a theme-song for Phantasma called "The Coney Island Waltz", and it's unbelieveable to me how he managed to think something like that up. One day he just sat down and wrote out a bunch of sheet-music. Just like that! That man is a genuis. I always knew it!
Ariel has been doing aerial acrobatics in Phantasma 1.0, just like her mother used to do. (By the way, I maintain to this very day that her name was a complete coincidence! I found it in "A Midsummer Night's Dream"!) It's so beautiful to watch. I wish Polly could see. I can't believe she's been gone for a year and half now. This is our second Christmas Eve without her. A lot less painful than the first, but still, I can't help organizing my life into two sections: the time was Polly was alive, and the time she wasn't. It's as though a line was drawn the day she died, forcing everything to be defined around it.
We've gained a lot of investors, thanks to Phantasma 1.0. The whole notion of taking freaks and helping them develop marketable talents is an idea that, interestingly, has never been attempted before. If nothing else, we're selling our idea on sheer curiosity; it's nothing if not original! Even if freaks aren't the public's cup of tea, a City of Wonders with every imaginable entertainment has simply got to sell. Mr. Y has such excellent business sense. At first, I thought he was getting unreasonable with his crazy ideas, but I guess I take it back now.
Ah! The automaton nativity scene is fixed. Turns out Aggie-Ann was positioning them wrong. You'd think a body with two brains could have figured that out. Ha! But I am ever fond of Ms. Hansel (Hansels? This confuses me to no end.). They are respectable and reasonable. Talented, too. Mr. Y is teaching them to play the banjo. They have to work together very precisely, Aggie controlling the frets and Ann doing the strumming. He's even teaching them to sing in harmony as they play, Aggie singing alto, Ann singing soprano. Listening to them is a real treat. They're going to sing carols tonight.
Oh dear. The conversation has turned to me and my writing. They're calling me Alfred Lord Tennyson-Fleck. Ariel is laughing at me. She wants to write something. MERRY CHRISTMAS DADDY AND A HAPPY '07! AS EVER, ARIEL! Well, she got that out of her system. Oh dear again, now Mr. Geddes is taking pictures with his camera. I suppose I must say cheese. There! Ugh, I don't like flash powder. Where was I? Well, I was on the subject of our talents. So Aggie-Ann is doing the banjo, Ariel's doing acrobatics, Genevieve is doing contortionist tricks, Damien's doing fire-eating and fire-breathing, Three-armed Della is doing juggling, I could really go on and on.
Automatons, too! Mr. Y has single-handedly built a whole slew of automatons. Famous folks from history, fantasy creatures, and even a chandelier made of of talking Medusa heads! There's also a curly-haired lady in a gold dress who can walk about-I don't know who that is. She's got a little container she stays in. There's also a walking automaton of my own little Ariel. She's cute, in a fake, robotic way. And she's not a very good listener. Once she just kept walking into a wall until Mr. Y had to shut her off. He keeps the automatons in storage now, but he'll eventually install them in the Ayrie. I can't wait to see that get built.
As a matter of fact, I can't wait for tomorrow: Christmas Day! Mr. Y specifically told me, De Rossi, and Ariel that he has "special gifts" for us. Everyone is getting gifts, but ours are "special". I keep thinking of that sketch of me-"The Mighty Mr. Squelch". I wonder if the gift will have anything to do with that. Also, he says that the three of us are going to have special duties, too. That's also a surprise for tomorrow. I declare I haven't been this excited for Christmas in years.
Ah! They're bringing out the eggnog now. Soon we'll be having a fine meal, and... what? Oh, for Pete's sake! Damien just poured a whole decanter of brandy into the eggnog! How do you like that? Doesn't he think of anyone but himself? How unreasonable of him! I absolutely detest alcohol. The smell, the taste, the effects on the constitution...I think it is just vile. It ought to be illegal. Now I can't drink the eggnog. If he and Genevieve start smoking those loathsome cigarettes as well, I'm going to have a fit! On Christmas Eve! For shame. Hmm. Well, it seems Genevieve is having a lollipop instead. I'd sooner see her rot her teeth out than to smoke...or worse, go off on another of her rampages. I think it would be fine for women to vote, but gee whillikins! All this parading around and making a production about it is most unattractive, and certainly not nice! I thank God that Ariel doesn't bother with it. She is very good. Always has been.
Speaking of Ariel, she's pulling out a big book.
"Say, Ariel," Mr. Geddes says, "Are you going to read to us to-night?"
"Indeed I am," she replies. "I'm going to read The Night Before Christmas after dinner. We'll resume Mansfield Park tomorrow."
She's our intrepid little reader. Reads to us every night. I don't want to brag, but my daughter is among the most accomplished speakers I've ever seen. Crisp, clear, excellent diction. It's all those years of reading to her mother that taught her that. Poor Polly, she could never read. But how she loved being read to!
The Christmas tree is complete! It looks very cheery. Mr. Y seems pleased with it, but he's got to run off to the next order of business: the glass one-horse open sleigh! We're all going to ride in it tomorrow. Aggie-Ann is tuning the banjo. The Pennysworths are headed out...and Genevieve just slapped Ariel across her rear again. It seems to be her way of saying hello and goodbye. I don't like that. I think it's bizarre. But ha! Ariel just slapped her rear in revenge, probably to disguise her embarrassment.
It seems that the festivites are going to begin in full swing soon, so that's all I'm writing today.
(At this point in the journal, it seems that Mr. Squelch has tucked in some relevant newspaper clippings, with such headlines as "Mysterious Mr. Y To Open Phantasma Next Summer", and "Rehabilitated Freaks To Feature In 'Phantasma'." and "Former Freak Purchases Coney's Sideshows." and "Daughter Of Former Greek Aerialist To Star In Phantasma".)
(Mr. Squelch's diary concludes here for now.)
Mr. Whittington looked up from the journal, letting his mind absorb everything he'd read. At his side, Miss Fleck lay wrapped in his blanket, sleeping peacefully on the couch, her color hearty and her breathing steady. A star-shaped clock over his door informed him that it was two o' clock in the afternoon. Two o' clock already! He decided to let Miss Fleck sleep while he set up her things in the spare room and made lunch. He took a piece of paper from his typewriter and marked his place in the journal.
Setting up the room was short work. Miss Fleck barely had any possessions. Her two grocery bags were filled to the brim with stacks of old photographs, some in frames, some without, some yellowed, some wrapped in paper and twine. He decided to leave them be in the bags, lest he cause any damage. His little room was plain, with only a bed, a dresser, a mirror, and a wash-stand, but it was clean, and a great deal better then a cold, dirty boardwalk. He was just airing out the linens when he heard a weak sing-song voice saying something.
"Yes?" he called, coming to the door.
Miss Fleck was sitting up, still wrapped in the blanket, a nervous expression on her face. "I hate to be a pain," she said, blushing embarrassedly, "But drinking all that milk is making me really have to..."
Mr. Whittington needed no further explanation. He helped her up, being mindful of her bent leg, and directed her into his bathroom.
"Perhaps after this," he suggested, making sure she was situated, "If you want, you might like to have a bath...if you want it, of course."
"No need to stand on ceremony with me, son," she reassured him, her old dry humor back in full force. "Just say, Get it in the tub, slob! I'll understand. Now hurry out of here before I wet myself for the second time in 24 hours."
Mr. Whittington chuckled with amusement at how quickly she'd recovered as he went about, throwing a lunch together for the two of them, a pleasant affair of canned chicken soup and tomato salad. It seemed that she could bounce back from anything. Still, he must make certain to give her plenty of healthy food, and vitamins too. He'd buy some the next chance he got.
He heard the toliet flush, and then Miss Fleck's head poked through the door.
"That's a relief!" she sighed. "I thought my bladder was going to pop. Er, I think I'll take a bath now. Can I have the clothes bag? And how do you work this bathtub?"
Mr. Whittington filled the tub with warm water while Miss Fleck went rummaging through the bag of Bernice's old clothes. She sat cross-legged on the sea-green tile, her countenance cheerful as she examined the stylish little garments, as enthusiastic as a child on Christmas.
"Gee!" she gushed. "They're all so clean! Pretty flashy, though. My! Look at the cut on that neckline! Bright red, too! In my day, we wore more underwear than that! Daring, isn't she?"
"Indeed," chuckled Mr. Whittington, seeing Bernice clearly in his mind's eye. "She's quite the little flapper. Hopefully you'll find something suitable."
"Ooh! This one's nice. And so is this one! Hmm. Do I like blue, or brown? I didn't guess I'd ever get a choice! Hey, there's even one of those sporty little cloches in here..."
"Well, I'm sure you'll look fine, whichever you choose," said Mr. Whittington. He turned off the tub. "There. All filled up. I'll just leave you to it, then. When you come out we'll have lunch."
She took her sweet time, which was understandable, because she hadn't had a warm bath in fifteen years. Mr. Whittington was dishing out the lunch on two plates when he heard the slurp of the drain, some fumbling, and the rattle of the bathroom's doorknob.
"Everything alright?" he called.
"Yes!" came Miss Fleck's voice, and then she emerged, clean, damp, and rosy.
Without her usual layer of flith, her skin was very pale, her hair was black and wavy, and her countenance was greatly improved. Mr. Whittington was amazed at the transformation that a mere bath had wrought. As for clothes, she had selected Bernice's two-tone lounge dress, a smart affair of blue and grey wool that had a fashionably dropped waist, an ankle-grazing skirt, and nice little snaps at the wrists. Despite her handsome array, however, she looked faintly embarrassed.
"Do I look okay?" she asked timidly, a pink spot blooming on each cheek.
"You look very nice," Mr. Whittington assured her, smiling. "Sit down and eat!"
She didn't need to be told twice. Away she went, slurping soup, chomping tomatoes, and loudly praising everything.
"Gee, Mr. Whittington, you're a real sport!" she chirped. "I've never had such fun. Yesterday I was a piss-scented bum, rolling through broken bottles, but look at me now! I'm fashionable! Why, that Bernice girl gave me everything, even one of those new-fangled brassieres that squeeze your tits flat! And this soup! And these tomatoes! And..."
She continued in this way for some time, but eventually the subject changed to her father's journal.
"You read about the Christmas Eve of 1906, did you?" she inquired pleasantly. "I've got photographs of that in my bags. Let me dig them out for you."
They sat down together on the old red couch, and Miss Fleck went deftly through the variegated piles of old photographs, leaning slightly on Mr. Whittington. Her skin was still moist and soft from her bath. When she chuckled or squeezed closer to him, a warm, powdery sort of smell puffed out of her.
At last she found her picture. She smiled at it tenderly. "Here's my Daddy. This is the snapshot Mr. Geddes took of him."
And it was. The lighting in the room had been a bit dark at the time of photographing, but Mr. Whittington could clearly see the hunched, tattooed form of Alfred Fleck leaning over his journal, pencil still on the paper, looking up with a wry smile. There were Christmas decorations behind him. This must have been just after he wrote, Oh dear again, now Mr. Geddes is taking pictures with his camera. I suppose I must say cheese.
Miss Fleck also pulled out a photograph of herself and Mr. De Rossi. They both held candy canes and were grinning cheekily into each other's faces. On the bottom of it, Mr. De Rossi had written, 12/24/1906, L'ultimo giorno del silenzio.
"The final day of silence," Miss Fleck translated. "That Christmas Eve was the last day he had to endure without a voice. We didn't know it at the time, though. I'll tell you all about our Christmas tomorrow."
Mr. Whittington remembered Mr. De Rossi's little trumpet-like device, which made him think of Mr. De Rossi himself.
"You know, Miss Fleck," he told her, "You're very lucky to have a fellow who cares about you the way he does."
She smiled and gazed out the door into the street, as though she were seeing him. "I know. He's very precious to me. You know, I've got a lot of photographs of him and I in these bags. We did all sorts of things together. I bet they'd look great in your book."
They spent a long time looking at the photographs together. Miss Fleck sat plumped up on the couch, eyes shining, her life's pictoral history spread out across her lap. Mr. Whittington watched her as she talked and sorted. He compared this thirty-something year old Miss Fleck with the young lady in the photographs. The pain and hardship of being a crippled, homeless orphan had taken a visible toll on her face and body, but it had not taken away the tender beauty of her eyes, or the dignified tilt of her chin. It seemed that something infinitely greater than himself or Mr. De Rossi was upholding her, preserving her, not letting her give up, leading her to people who wanted to help her.
It was with real regret that he had to leave her and go to dinner. He had promised Rodger and Bernice.
"Don't worry, Mr. Whittington," she said pleasantly. "I'll be fine. I ought to wash your bathtub anyway."
He blinked. "Wash my bathtub?"
"You'd better believe it." She propped herself up on her crutch and headed for the bathroom. "If you saw the way that bathwater looked after I bathed in it, you'd say, 'Clean it up, slob!.' So that's what I'll do."
Mr. Whittington shook with laughter for a moment. She was so concienscious; it was cute. "Alright then, ma'am. But be careful, and don't tire yourself out. I'll bring home some dinner for you."
"Thank you very much," said Miss Fleck, her voice echoing off the bathroom tile as she turned the tub on. "Oh, and don't bother calling me ma'am. I guess you've earned the right to call me Ariel. You can even call me Slob if you like."
"Very well, Ariel. In return, you can cell me Jay."
"Okay, Jay! Hoohoo, that rhymes. Have a good time!"
And off Mr. Whittington went down the street, tugging his coat and scarf closer around him as he went, for tonight seemed destined to be particularly frigid. As he went along, his breath steamed around his face like fog. The other people on the steet were making a point to hustle to their destinations, and even the light underneath the street lamps seemed to be vibrating with cold. Freezing though it was, however, Mr. Whittington felt a definite sense of relief. Miss Fleck was warm and safe in his house.
At last the familiar painted sign with its golden letters appeared through the mist. THE GYPSY CAFE, EST. 1907. Through the doors, down the stairs, into the flashy, smoky, music-filled room, and the bottom of the stairs stood Rodger Garland and his girlfriend, Bernice Fowler, who was vibrantly attired in a big fur coat and a shining turquoise cloche that was pretty against her reddish-blond curls.
"Right on time, Jay!" crowed Rodger approvingly. He looked particularly jolly in his smart coat and some fashionably baggy Oxford trousers. "What did I tell ya, Bernie? Right on time, that's the way they do it in Europe!"
"Europe nothin'!" Bernice's face was rosy with rouge, nestled in her big fur collar like a berry. "Not based on what my little sistah's been tellin' me. But good evenin', Jay. It's always a pleash-ah!"
Off they went to a booth, ordering ham, fried potatoes, and apple pie. Rodger had a big portfolio with him, filled with pictures and things to show his friend, but Bernice dove right into the latest news about her younger sister, Rita.
"She's a Fowlah again!" she announced, the crystals on her wrists clattering about. "Just divorced that Tom Flit fella. Told her never to trust a Frenchman. Nevah! Now she's workin' for someone in Paris. She's evah one to bounce back, my Rita! But whatta 'bout you, Jay? I he-ah that you're interviewin' Miz Fleck, that lady bum who's always makin' a spectacle of herself. Kinda like Charlie Chaplin, but not as funny. How's it goin'?"
Mr. Whittington wished she could see how very unlike a bum Miss Fleck could be, under better circumstances. But he just smiled and said, "It's going very well, Miss Fowler. She's very cooperative."
"That's a relief. Rog told me that she threw a rock at him once. A rock! She could-a really hurt him! Well, at least she's civil with you. Oh, and did ya drop off my old clothes at the Salvation Army, Jay?"
He smiled. "Technically."
As they ate, Rodger pulled out some old snapshots that his father had taken at Coney Island, and the evening was spent poring over them. They were mainly shots of the actual park, not home photos like Miss Fleck's. It was interesting to see how the different places corresponded with some of the places in her shots of herself and her friends. For the rest of the evening, Mr. Whittington actually found himself wanting to go right back to his new room-mate. Rodger and Bernice's frivolous yapping about divorces and dances seemed so out of place, especially after he'd spent the day saving a life and reminiscing with Miss Fleck about another time in history, when cars were a recent invention, the world had never seen a World War, and women still dressed with some semblence of propriety.
It was with a feeling of true relief that he bid Rodger and Bernice goodnight and headed back to his rented place, a take-out box of food in hand. He and Miss Fleck could eat and talk some more.
But as he went up his stairs and approached his door, he heard Miss Fleck's voice. It was throaty, full of pain, moaning something. Was she hurt? He rushed in to find her unharmed, but hugging some photographs to her heart, tears dripping down her thin cheeks.
"Oh!" she gasped upon seeing him. "Oh, never mind, I'm..." Here she started mopping her face-"I'm fine. I'm really fine."
"Are you alright?"
"Yes, yes." She swallowed and smiled a little. "I was just doing the Orthodox prayer for the dead. I do it every night for Mama and Daddy. I usually don't get all shaken up, but I was feeling so grateful for...everything, and I thought about how they were probably near me, helping me."
Mr. Whittington sat down beside her, and patted her back. "I bet they are."
"I also mentioned Mr. Y and Gustave, tonight," she added softly.
"That's very nice of you. How does the prayer go? If you want me to, I can pray for your parents as well."
"Oh, would you?" she said, her voice trembling with gratitude. "That would be so great. Well, it goes like this: Into Your hands, O Lord, I commend the souls of Your servants Alfred and Apollonia Fleck, and beseech you to grant them rest in the place of Your rest, where all Your blessed Saints repose, and where the light of your countenance shines forever. Amen. You see, Jay, it helps them somehow. And I don't have to have a dime!"
It took Mr. Whittington some time to memorize it, but he did, and promised that he would do it. Thus promised, the two of them ate their ham and potatoes, a reverent quiet more profound than idle chatter over them.
NOTES FROM AUTHORESS:
1. I am Christian but NOT Greek Orthodox. For the purpose of this story I've done research and made every attempt to portray their traditions accurately, but if I've made a boo-boo somewhere, please inform me.
2. Apollonia is pronounced Apple-LOW-nee-yuh. Just in case it bamboozles you.
3. Thank you for reading "City Of Wonders"!