WARNING: Calling all Sigmund Freuds and psychologist wannabes! This is a doozy of a chapter (just look at the title), for Miss Fleck is starting to have certain adult-themed "feelings" for Mr. Y. I wouldn't be honest to my interpretation of her character if I were to edit it out, but rest assured that while it is candid, it is not obscene. That is not "the way I roll". Here 'tis.
Chapter Eleven
Fleck's Awakening
Miss Fleck watched Mr. Whittington at work, deeply interested in the ways of typewriters and the various aspects of writing. Today the young writer was stationed upon his old red couch. Around him were leaves of paper. There were outlines, and crumpled notes, and strewn among this disarray were sticky mugs of coffee, paperclips, typewriter ribbon, and the remnants of a great many dainty dishes, lovingly prepared for Mr. Whittington by Miss Fleck herself.
Watching from another chair, looking thoughtful in a dress of sober gray, she cleared her throat.
It took the deeply contemplative Mr. Whittington a good thirty seconds to respond.
"Yes, Ariel?"
"You should take a break for a bit," she chuckled. "And hear some more of my story. We're getting to the juicy stuff. It's not for the faint of heart. Are you faint of heart?"
Mr. Whittington yawned. "Another cup of coffee should give me the strength I need."
She produced the coffee and stuffed a pillow under his head.
"There you go, Jay. Take a load off. No, no, don't bother to take notes. This won't make the book, trust me."
(Miss Fleck continues the story.)
After securing the help of Gangle in taking out a New York Times advertisment, it was time for bed. I went home, corralled Daddy into bed, and settled down beside him so that the two of us could pray together: for each other, for ourselves, and for Mama's immortal soul. Daddy grabbed my hands, bringing them to his heart the way he always did when praying for me. His hands were big and rough, but as gentle as a kitten's whenever they touched me, whether it was to lead me, or cross the street, or wipe my tears, or pray like this. I remember the way they used to feel, even to this day.
Our prayers thus finished, I smothered Daddy's tattooed face with kisses, and we both snuggled into our blankets. Off Daddy drifted into sleep. I lay beside him, knowing that I must sleep, but I couldn't. My thoughts were too loud. I let my eyes wander around the room, looking at the way the flame from the gas lamp cast shadows, long, distorted shadows, over the familiar patterns of the wallpaper and the many frames. I thought of the Phantom of the Opera. I thought of a dark figure lurking in the shadow of the bureau, breathing raspily, his gnarled hands twisting a terrible, blood-stained rope. My scalp crinkled. I shut my eyes.
I thought of Mr. Y rescuing me from him. Yes, he would rescue me. He had rescued me from the degraded life of a freak, rescued me from despair, and now he would rescue me from my own demented imagination, an imagination that had dared entertain the thought of himself and the Phantom as being one and the same. He rescued me once, and he would do it again. That's the sort of man he was. He was a man who built up, and glorified, and fixed broken things, not a man who killed, and degraded, and destroyed at whim. If ever he did wrong, it was to help someone, perhaps an underdog, a victim.
I did not know everything about him, or the Phantom of the Opera, but my heart would not accept the conclusion that the two men had anything in common. The Opera Ghost was the garish light of day, but Mr. Y was the cool, kind tranquility of night, both he and his music.
Mr. Y! A thrill began in my heart, and I felt like my ribcage held a wildly fluttering bird that was inflicting such terrible, beautiful, obscene pain upon my heart in its attempt to be freed. I moaned. Oh, how I loved him, and how hard it all was! If only he would look at me the way he did that awful doll. What would that be like?
My eyelids closed, dropping a warm brown curtain upon the scene before me. I mentally adorned my freakish nakedness with a golden gown. No corsets, no nothing, just the delicious, divine sensation of the cool silk wrapping itself around my bare breasts and thighs. Darkness, warm darkness, surrounding me in my little box. Then something stirs. A velvet curtain parts. Into the small, warm sanctuary comes an arm, Mr. Y's arm, the sleeve rolled up and the gloves removed to expose his bare flesh. The same loving touch applied to his piano keys gently touches me...
My heart pounded with a ferocity that could've woken Daddy, but I was too thoroughly lost in the dream, and I fantasized on.
Yes! He would touch me, very lovingly, very tenderly, for I was his heart's desire, a beautiful dream with no defect. Skin touching skin. Soul touching soul. Lips, with warm breath whispering words of love, pressing against mine. And those hands...!
I stroked my neck, and my face, and then all over myself, as though my hands had suddenly become Mr. Y's hands, healing hands that were seeking and destroying everything that was hurting me. How good it felt! How my cold, neglected flesh became warm, the nerves tingling as though I were sinking into a warm bath. I felt the softness of my chubby belly. There was nothing to fear; he loved it the way it was. He loved me the way I was. Mr. Y! And all at once my hand took a decidedly southern course to somewhere I cannot say, and I gave this unexplored part of me a tentative little feel. It sent a surprisingly nice shiver through me.
Daddy suddenly gave a deep snore.
It was as though his tattooed head had popped into the curtained chamber like a balloon, and it all fell away. My hand flew out of there so fast that I nearly punched myself in the face. Daddy slept on, but I came quickly and completely back to reality. I put my arms neatly at my side. Looking around the shadowy room again, feeling the comforting presence of Daddy at my side, I was not conscious of any guilt, but I was filled with a very innocent sort of shock. Why, Ariel Fleck. What was all that about, dear?
I know you won't believe me, but I actually didn't understand what that had all been about. Nowadays I do, but not then. In my day, that sort of thing wasn't discussed unless it was necessary. Heck, I remember one time when I was five, and I asked Daddy what sex was. There was a long, long silence as he examined his shoes, and then he said, a little too breezily, "Sex? Never heard of it."
I rolled over and covered myself tightly with my blanket. Well, that was quite enough of that, whatever it was. Time to go to bed! Mustn't disturb Daddy! But my dreams were filled with shadowy phantoms and blooming roses.
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What is it about the daylight that makes our nighttime behavior seem so repulsive? I awoke the next morning, and after a weary moment of gazing around the light-filled room, noting that all the shadowy phantoms were gone and the birds were singing, I remembered what I had been fantasizing about. A chill of disgust made me cringe, and when I looked at Daddy I was even more appalled at myself.
"Good morning, Ariel," he yawned pleasantly. Unable to look at him, I stammered out my morning greeting and went immediately to dress.
Onto the dressing area's little stand went my feathered black dress, stockings, panties, and corsets. Off went my nightgown, and when the cool air went swirling around my nakedness, I felt moved, despite my mental inhibitions, to look at it in the mirror. Two bleary eyes looked back at me from the reflection, and a colorless, unpainted face, sitting atop an awkward body with a dumpy belly, a twisted leg, and round little breasts circled with blue veins. I was the antithesis of Venus, standing seductively in her clam shell as ladies rushed to cover her with silk, obviously jealous.
As for me, I needed no encouragement from any ladies to dress, but a thought, profound and wonderful, flitted across my mind. This ugly body, imperfect as it was, could make another person. I forgot my clothes for a minute and imagined that dumpy belly of mine much bigger, round and great like some fertility goddess, a tiny baby napping in my warm darkness. And then, that second body, with its unique soul, coming out of mine and loving me at once, latching its tiny lips upon my breasts and drinking. I would love the baby, everything about it, from its crumpled pink face to the tiny toenails. It would be a girl, and I would name her Vivian. Or perhaps Lucy.
I grabbed my clothing and hustled into it. Pull yourself together, Ariel, I told myself exasperatedly. You're acting like a fool. You. Having babies.
It was with a feeling akin to desperation that I got into costume, firmly lacing my dumpiness into the strict discipline of my corsets, strapping the metalwork of my brace around my leg, covering myself in feathers and darkness, and carefully painting the sallow face in the mirror. Last of all, on came the glossy wig of raven hair, and the transformation from Ariel to Queen Fleck was complete. I puckered my lips, red as a bleeding gash, and looked into the striking eyes of my reflection, the person Mr. Y invented. She was beautiful, so strange and beautiful. Like a diamond.
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The day was shaping up to be lovely. The dining tent was illuminated with a honey-gold glow, and through the flap the sky was a clear, crystal blue. The smell of sun-warmed earth, sausage, and worn grass soothed my melancholy heart and filled it with a nameless but uplifting emotion; when I saw the faces of my freak family around the breakfast table looking towards my returning Daddy with happiness, it multiplied tenfold, as if to remind me that no pain is insurmountable when there are people who love you. Gangle seemed to feel it too, for I felt his hand touch my back.
"It's so nice to have you back among us once again, Alfred dear," cooed Mrs. Beardsley when the Three of us arrived at breakfast, a Trio once more, and there were smiles and a polite spattering of applause that made Daddy blush.
"Prayed for ya, Ah did," Aggie added as we sat down. "Ann did too."
"Can't imagine the joint without you, Alf," wheezed Mr. Geddes atop his booster seat of newspapers.
Even the Pennysworths siblings nodded politely, any past grudges temporarily forgiven in the happiness of the moment. Sickness and life have a funny way of uniting people through little more than their common humanity.
"It's nice to be back," Daddy replied politely to his fellow freaks. "You've all been so kind over the past week, bringing over food and helping Ariel with her work, and we're both very much obliged. Thank you."
Mrs. Beardsley's care-worn, misty eyes made me forgive her at once for her constant meddling and interminable casseroles.
"Yes, thank you indeed," I echoed.
Today the platters were piled high with steaming links of sausage, fluffy curds of eggs, English muffins, and elderberry jam in little pots that resembled lotus buds, and it was from this friendly arrangement that I filled Daddy's plate, and then mine.
"Mmm," said Gangle, pointing to the jam approvingly. "Mmm. That I like. That is good jam. The fool cooks have finally done something right."
"Done something right?" I cried in mock surprise. "So I take it we won't get the table flipped over today, Signor?"
"Si, si! Not today, Signorina! I will wait until Giovanni and Maria taste what they call marinara sauce, then we will all take turns flipping the table over." But before we could even laugh at that, a look of concern crept into his face, and he dropped his tone. "You feeling better since last night?"
The shadowy night, with its phantoms and fantasies, intruded sharply upon the homey breakfast table atmosphere like a raven descending upon a daisy. I blushed. As if in remembrance, I felt an echo of those strange, pleasurable new feelings in my body, but with Gangle right in front of me they were mortifying.
"Ah," he said quickly, possibly sensing my embarrassment. "Not trying to say that there was anything wrong with you, but you just weren't acting like you usually do..."
"You're right," I replied, determined to conquer myself. "I was feeling a bit...odd, wasn't I? Well, don't worry. I'm fine. I guess I was just caught up in stress over...Mr. Y, and...everything."
He brought his comforting hand around to pat my back, a thoroughly masculine but tender expression of care that both soothed me and made my heart flutter. I felt myself becoming silly.
"I'm fine," I assured him again, but after I took a sip of tea I heard myself continue, distantly, "You know how it gets at night."
He blinked in what appeared to be confusion, then in comprehension, his friendly face growing faintly pink with a sort of sympathy, or compassion, or perhaps at least a deliberately unfazed facade to mask his surprise. My blood went cold as I looked helplessly at him, shocked at what I had just blurted. What had I just said? My face burned. The dishes clinked as I clumsily leapt to my feet, knocking the table, and with a hasty "I'm-going-walking" excuse, I managed to dash out of there before anyone had the presence of mind to call after me. I went whooshing through the tent flap into the vacant streets of Phantasma.
Once safely ensconced between two concession stands, I leaned against one and let out a strangled moan of humiliation. I hadn't the strength to cry, and judging by that little breakfast performance, I hadn't the strength to control myself either. Oh, what must Gangle be thinking of me? They must be asking him why I ran off, and he would be telling them-and Daddy-what I had said! Moaning ever more miserably, I stamped my feet and shook my skirt of feathers, wanting nothing more than for the ground beneath me to consume me in my shame.
I couldn't possibly return to breakfast, so I decided to go to the Ayrie early. Twenty minutes early. I wondered if Mr. Y would mind.
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Round and round those dark stairs I ascended alone, slowly, for far above me I heard the echoing strains of my Master at his piano. It was that untitled melody that Christine Daae was going to sing. The mere suggestion of its melody would have tormented me if it weren't being played by Mr. Y himself; as it was, it brought an exquisite, painful thrill to my heartbroken soul. I kept climbing mindlessly, led by the music in a sort of trance, and it was not until the sudden vision of the Ayrie door that I stopped, stricken, wondering what I was supposed to say, how I was to answer for being twenty minutes early. I supposed I would not say anything. The music played on, and I sat. I would sit down in the darkness until it was time to go in.
But the music abruptly ceased.
"Who is there?" called Mr. Y.
I hadn't any choice. Straightening up, I nervously called back, "Miss Fleck, sir."
There was a sound like the rustling of rubbish, and a creak from his piano stool. He was likely turning to examine the clock.
"It is 8:33, Miss Fleck," he called again slowly, a sound of wariness in his tone. "The other two aren't with you, are they?"
A miserable coldness clutched my heart. "No, sir."
"Is something the matter?"
Everything was the matter. "No, sir."
There was a long, awkward silence, both inside the Ayrie and without, and then Mr. Y broke it with a cautious, "Please come in."
He was reclining on his piano bench, wearing an Oriental-style robe and reaching for a steaming mug of coffee, which he sipped as I entered. There was a plate of half-eaten bacon and muffins on top of the piano. I was clearly interrupting his last couple minutes of morning music, food, and tranquility with my stupid presence. I wanted to die.
He swallowed his coffee and looked at me in amused confusion. "Well, this is unlike you, Miss Fleck. I confess myself surprised. Are you quite certain that nothing is the matter?"
I looked at the floor and let out a lie. "I just finished early, and I...had nothing...else to do."
"I see." He sipped some more coffee and cleared his throat. "How's your father?"
"He's feeling very well, thank you. He's pleased to return to work today."
"I'm glad." Mr. Y put his mug on the piano and turned to his music. "I'm actually quite pleased you're here, Miss Fleck. I've just about finished composing Miss Daae's aria, but I'd like to run it by a female voice, hear what it sounds like, and I know you can hit the B flat. You wouldn't mind doing a little singing, would you?"
And suddenly I remembered the music of the night. I remembered kneeling in the darkness outside the dance hall, letting wave after wave of music shudder through me. Mr Y's music seemed to reside on a higher plane of reality, unreachable by mortal hands, and now he wanted me, Miss Fleck, to help give it a voice? My rapture equalled my fear. I barely felt worthy to hold the sheets of music in my hands, let alone sing them, but the notion of Mr. Y's piano and my voice melding together into music filled me with a thousand thrills never felt before.
I agreed, and I received the hand-written sheet music into my trembling hands. "Love Never Dies", it said at the top of the first page.
"I shall play it through once," said Mr. Y, "And don't sing. Just follow along with the sheet music to see how the notes and lyrics go together."
His fingers gently stroked the keys, and the piano issued forth one of the loveliest songs I ever heard. Standing close by the piano, I could feel the music rushing up my arm and into my heart. He may as well have been playing on my heartstrings. I followed along, as instructed, and these were the lyrics:
Who knows when love begins?
Who knows what makes it start?
One day it's simply there, alive inside your heart.
It slips into your thoughts, it infiltrates your soul.
It takes you by surprise, then seizes full control.
Try to deny it, and try to protest.
But love won't let you go,
Once you've been possessed...
Love never dies, love never falters.
Once it has spoken, love is yours.
Love never fades, love never alters.
Hearts may get broken, love endures.
Hearts may get broken, love endures.
Love never dies. Oh! The music and lyrics were even more beautiful when I got to hear the composer himself play it, and see the words written in his elegant handwriting. As the last note faded into silence, I was breathless. I stood in awe of this man, from whose imagination came music as beautiful as this, and in the warm rays of light streaming through the Ayrie windows Mr. Y seemed to become an angel of music, clothed in glory. He turned to me and smiled, as though he knew it.
"Think you can do that?" he asked.
My heart still humming with melody, I nodded.
Once more the piano began, but now I too became a part of it, and I sang, the pounding of my heart making my voice tremble. At first I was horrified, lest I somehow mar the beauty of the piece, but my fear melted as I began to hear how my voice, frail though it was, harmonized and blended with Mr. Y's skilled accompaniment until it seemed that the two had become one. Our separate parts united, almost mystically. One could not be as good without the other, no matter how exquisite; in this way I could lay partial claim to the wonder of the music, and this revelation spurred my voice on, clearer and ever more confidently, until the music of Mr. Y and Ariel Fleck rang majestically through the cathedral-esque ceilings of the Ayrie.
It was saddening to approach the song's end, but I gave no sign of sorrow. I ended it as gracefully as I had begun. I closed my lips, and Mr. Y's fingers left the keys. I felt as though somewhere, deep in my ungainly chest, a cage had been torn open, and Mr. Y seemed to feel similar exultation. He turned to me.
Just then, a sudden smattering of applause startled us, and we spun around to see Daddy and Gangle, our unexpected and impressed audience, grinning widely. I blushed and turned back around. I felt as though they had intruded into a secret garden whose location only myself and Mr. Y were supposed to know.
"Ah, sorry to burst in," apologized Gangle. "But it was time to come up, and we couldn't bear to interrupt your music. Magnifica, Mr. Y, and you too, Signorina!"
"Yes, beautiful," seconded Daddy.
Mr. Y looked as though he were a bit disturbed by their surprise entrance as well, but he bowed politely.
"Thank you. This is the aria for Christine Daae, and when Miss Fleck here turned up early I decided to run it by her voice, which, as you can hear, is excellent." He turned to me and rubbed his chin, as though he had noticed something pleasant about me that he'd never seen before. "Her voice has the sound of an immature Miss Daae, even though the qualities in their voices are not alike. Miss Fleck's voice is much lighter, fairly agile, very bird-like. It did the song justice."
I did Mr. Y's music justice! He thought my voice was excellent! I don't even remember what happened next, I was so full of joy. The only other memory I have of that moment was when the Three of us were dismissed with our keys and cards. Mr. Y had seated himself back at his piano. The honey-hued rays of light from the windows illuminated the particles in the air, transforming it into fairy-dust that surrounded Mr. Y like a halo, giving him the appearance of a saint on an icon. It was so delicious that I could've fainted. Then the heavy Ayrie door swiftly closed it away.
Mr. Y. The Phantom of the Opera. What nonsense.
We descended in silence for a little while. I felt as though I'd had a glimpse of heaven, and now must be led away, down through the darkness, back to mundane earth.
"Ariel," Daddy growled softly but firmly. "Why did you run away from breakfast like that? You startled the dickens out of everyone. They thought you were dashing off to be sick somewhere, and then you never came back."
So he hadn't heard what I'd said?
"Si, si. You said something quick to me, but I didn't hear," added Gangle. "Then I looked for you, and you were gone, and we thought we would have to tell Mr. Y that we couldn't find you."
"Oh," I replied weakly.
Daddy's voice assumed a severe tone. "I believe we are owed an explanation and an apology, Ariel."
I mumbled some dumb excuse about wanting to go catch the air and get an ice or something, and then see some things in the Ayrie. I don't think neither Daddy nor Gangle believed it, but since they couldn't fathom any other plausible reason for my hasty withdrawal, they seemed content to be satisfied with that and accepted my apology.
"Very well then, Baby Fleck," said Daddy. "But I expect more reasonable behavior from you in the future."
"Yes, sir."
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High upon my hoop, floating and falling in that intoxicating memory of music, I felt lighter than air. Even if only in a musical dimension, Mr. Y loved me! My every movement sang the joyous refrain. He loved me! I forgot the steady drone of the crowd and became lost in the dream. There was nothing in the world but the warmth of the lights, the bouncing tension of the rigging, and the fluidity of my unbound, unrestrained body flying through space, through memory, through music.
Distantly I heard the music stop, and when I stopped and gave my traditional wave, I do believe the crowd had enjoyed my reverie as well. Down I was lowered.
"Bella! Meraviglioso!" I heard an Italian voice different from Gangle's cry. "Splendido! Sorprendente!"
It turned out to be Giovanni, Gangle's older brother, applauding with great fervor. Beside him stood Gangle himself, and that old friend of his, Maria. They too were clapping, but that Giovanni character seemed bent on showing everyone up in the enthusiasm department; in fact, he approached me with his hand outstretched.
"Ah! Mees Ah-ree-ella!" he crowed, shaking my hand in a vise-like grip. "I am-ah so pleased to be seeing you again! You are very tahl-een-ted lady, si, si! Gregory tell-ah me you are, but now I see for myself! Ees so en-spy-ee-ring, the way-ah you perform. Splendido!"
All this he said extremely fast while pumping my arm and staring at my breasts. I felt like he would soon try to kiss me or something.
Gangle came to my rescue. "Giovanni!" he exclaimed. "Tu sei suo inquietante. Sii educato!"
The man gave me a final smile and then shrugged insolently at Gangle. "Non essere un ipocrita, mafioso. Io non sto cercando di preoccuparsi di lei."
The Maria lady shook her head in exasperation. "Ay, ay! Non bisticciare! Andiamo a pranzo."
Don't ask me what all that Italian meant. And so I was freed to go to my dressing room, although Gangle shot me a pained, apologetic smile before he and his bunch left. I was glad to get back into my clothes.
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It felt as though "Love Never Dies" was playing in my mind all that day, as though someone popped a cylinder in my ears, and it provided a serene backdrop to everything I did, even the Pennysworth act. It was amusing to hear such a heavenly song while Genevieve and Damien contorted and breathed fire in the dim, smoky red lights.
Speaking of Genny, she was becoming amazingly good at the precarious art of bodily contorting. I watched her. While the crowd around me murmured and bit finger nails, Genny seemed to defy gravity and the very limits of the human frame, with a cocky, almost smug pride, as though she knew it and loved it. Up went her body, onto a wooden peg, where she did a handstand and brought her legs over her head, more, more, almost to the breaking point, to the verge of screaming, to bring her toes against her frazzled hair. There was nervous applause.
It was obviously strenuous; in the glowing torchlight I could see the sweat illuminated on her forehead and the tightness of her lips, but she carried on, an inspiring mixture of grimness and determination. She lay on her stomach. I knew what was coming. This was the most awe-inspiring trick she knew, and it never failed to send a chill of fear through me, for it was potentially deadly if done wrong.
Still on her stomach, she bent her legs, tensed her muscles, and raised her hips off the floor. Slowly, her body began arching completely unnaturally, completely against the usual restraints of the spine. The crowd held their breath, lest even a sound should throw her off. She was bending herself in half, until at last there she was: still on her stomach, but with her rear on top of her head and her legs pointed out in front of her. Genny, defying nature in a pose that could snap her spine and kill her if she pulled a wrong move.
I closed my eyes and did not open them until she was on her feet and bowing, and the relieved crowd at last felt free to applaud her, loudly and without abandon. Both Pennysworth siblings bowed and exited. As was my custom, I went to see Genny in her dressing room.
"So, Ariel," she inquired chattily, teasing and pinning her big head of hair back into perfection, "Do you like that book? The Awakening, I mean?"
If you don't know already, that book is about a married lady called Edna who becomes dissatisfied with her life as a wife and mother, and eventually has an affair with a fellow. Things fall apart, resulting in the woman losing both men, husband and lover, and she commits suicide, walking slowly into the ocean and allowing it to overpower her. I actually did like it for its stark reality, although it made me unhappy, and I said so.
Now finished with her hair, Genny sat cross-legged on her dressing stool, grinning, with her head propped in her hands and the stick of a lollipop bobbing about on her lips.
"Well, that's to be expected," she chuckled expertly around it. "The book's far from cheerful. But I'm surprised you like it; Della said it was horrid." She rolled her eyes, clearly thinking that Della was seven shades of a fool. "Why do you like it, Ariel?"
"I like it because it's honest," I said truthfully. "Edna is a very honest woman, even if the thought of adultery makes me cringe. And it's not the fact that she dies, necessarily, that I am made unhappy by it. I'm unhappy because I don't think she entirely understood what she really wanted."
Genny's eyebrows raised in interest. "I declare I've never heard of a reaction like that before. Do continue."
It was hard to explain, but I tried. "I believe she ultimately wanted independence," I said. "Or something like independence. Perhaps to be taken seriously, but instead of being truly independent, on her own, she gravitated towards a man who seemed ready to provide her with it. And that's not really independence. At the end both men are gone, but because she hasn't managed to perceive of independence apart from men as something possible, as her one friend did, she felt hopeless, and then she died, all because she couldn't completely understand what she wanted."
The lollipop stick in Genny's mouth stopped bobbing, and she looked at me like I was some sort of literary genius.
"Cripes," she marveled. "I've never even thought of that. Edna, not fully understanding herself. Equating independence with suitable men. Land sakes, Ariel, I declare you never fail to stun me. I daresay you ought to go be a professor and leave all us freak hicks behind!"
We laughed together and kissed each other's ears affectionately until Damien's head, like a floating phantom, popped into the room.
"You comin' to lunch, Genny?" he demanded. "C'mon, let's get going."
"I'll come when I feel like it, Scarface!" she shot back with an almost irrational nastiness. "I don't need a damn escort. Scram!"
She punctuated this last word with a dismissive wave of her hand and a toss of her great head, but Damien didn't leave, nor did he answer angrily back, as I supposed he would. Instead, his eyes softened, his flame-seared mouth closed, and he straightened up.
"You try so hard to make me hate you, Genny Penny," he said with an injured tenderness completely unlike him, "But you ain't succeeded yet."
And with that, he shut the door and left.
The cocky tilt of Genny's chin deflated, along with all the rest of her arrogant facade. Her brother's usage of her pet name, along with his evasive (and obviously unexpected) way of telling her he loved her had completely disarmed her. She spent a few minutes staring at the door, blinking rapidly, and then she bowed her head and let out a pitiful, weeping moan.
The whole situation confused and disturbed me. "Genny," I cried, going to hug her. "What...?"
"It's alright," she quavered, shooing me away. "I'll be fine, Ariel. Never mind. Just go to lunch. I'll come along. No, there's no need to be guilty, just go."
She dropped into a chair in the corner and continued sniffling. I knew I had to let her be, despite my desperate longing to help.
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Saddened, I went to lunch, where Damien was already seated, his usually smug face made alien with an expression of genuine grief. He ate his shepherd's pie as though it gave him no pleasure, pushing it around and taking small, unenthusiastic nibbles. I decided not to say anything to him.
Daddy entered with Gangle, the second and third to arrive to lunch. The others would come trickling in soon after. I could already hear the rumble.
"Ah, Signorina," sighed Gangle as he sat beside me. He looked tired. Even the rubber snakes on his jacket seemed to droop. "I love Giovanni, but he is just as stupid as ever. I apologize for his behavior before. Forgive him, please."
"I'll forgive him if he promises to quit speaking so fast," I replied, smiling, to let him know I was being a tease. "Pass the tea."
Daddy also looked tired and droopy. "I think it's true, what they say about taking time off in exercize. Once you go back, you feel beat."
I received the teapot, filled my cup, and then set about making Daddy a cup as well, with extra sugar. I would never forget how frightened I was that day he'd had a seizure at lunch.
"Daddy, you're not getting too tired, are you?" I felt compelled to ask, knowing his maddening capacity for shrugging off discomforts.
"Tired, yes, but not too tired. Don't panic, I'm not dying. I just need to re-adjust to the way things are."
I looked intently at his face, searching for signs of dishonesty.
He felt it. "I am not lying, Ariel," he said calmly. "Now eat your lunch."
I did. It was not until the meal was over, however, that I realized that Genevieve had never come.
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)
I wanted to find her, to see if she was alright, but I had to get to my Aviary. King Charles was waiting. I'm telling you, being a Queen isn't all it's cracked up to be. I touched up my makeup in a mirror, replaced my hat with a crown, and entered the glass Aviary that was my palace.
"I have returned, ladies and gentle-fowl!" I announced dramatically, and I strode to my throne among a great outcry of giggling chirps and adoring squawks. The leaves of the trees shook. Wings flapped, feathers flew, and beady eyes, filled with love, blinked and twitched. Larks looped, nightengales nipped, partridges pooped, and with a grand extension of his blue, aristocratic neck, King Charles strutted solemnly to my side and opened his fan of tailfeathers. The rest of my fine-feathered subjects held their peace.
"How do you do, King Charles?" I asked.
He let out a dignified honk, shook his feathers, and sat at my side. Decorum is very important in a royal court.
The dear silly ignoramuses thus satisfied, I motioned for my (human) helpers to open the Aviary doors and let in the patrons. You'd think sitting on a throne and taking pictures with people would be a no-brainer, easy job. Truth is, it was the most stressful time of my day. Regardless of my feelings, I had to sit like a serene queen, smiling and radiant, as though there was simply nothing more I wanted to do but suffer fools, most of which were men, for two hours.
"Miz Fleck!" came a familiar, gurgling exclamation, and little Toby's freckled face popped up between two shrubs. "I got food for yer birds!"
Toby was eight, a dirt-poor kid with no one in the world. He tended to Coney's horses and elephants for a living, and when he wasn't doing that he was looking after all the other animals, including my birds, for he loved them. I was always so happy to see him. Whenever I could, I bestowed little treats upon him.
I ignored the backwoods boor at my left and extended my arms to Toby.
"Food for my birds! Well, isn't that dandy?" I looked into the grubby little sack and saw that it was filled with bits of dried bread and fruit, obviously (and this made my eyes water) taken from his breakfast. "Thank you, Mr. Toby. You are very nice. Isn't he nice, Charles?"
Charles was rarely anything but coldly polite to men, even little boys, and so he gave Toby one of his curt nods. I dug about in my pocket and gave him a much more satisfactory offering of three butterscotch candies, which he took with perfectly round eyes.
"Thanks, Miz Fleck!" he cried. "That's reg'lar dope! Well, I gotta beat it; there's lot's more animals to see. G' bye!"
I looked after his retreating little body through misty eyes. He was a "reg'lar chap", as he would have put it.
Suddenly Charles leapt up shrieking, throwing his tailfeathers erect violently, causing the patrons to look over in agitation. This could only mean that Gangle was within the bird's eyesight. Scanning the walkways beyond the glass walls for a man with snakes on his coat, I was able to locate him easily; he was walking along with his grandiose brother and that Maria lady.
I sized Maria up. She was lovely in that Mediterranean sort of way, with dark hair, dark eyes, and slightly tanned skin, just like Gangle. Her posture leaned forward with the unmistakenable help of an S-bend corset. Her hair was fashionably large, topped by a wide-brimmed straw hat whose ribbons matched the piping on her wrists and skirt, as well as the pattern on her gloves. This lady had it together.
Giovanni made a gesture towards a food stand and motioned for Maria and Gangle to wait for him. I kept watching. Away went the older brother, but once he was out of sight, Maria and Gangle looked cautiously after him, as though they needed to make sure the "coast was clear" for something. Maria then smiled mischeviously, and twaddled the snakes on Gangle's coat. He took her into his arms and touched her face. She kissed his cheek, he kissed her back, and they stood, as though no one else could see, looking into each other's eyes.
I felt as though a sword were piercing my soul. From where I sat, trembling in my glass palace, I watched them, as pretty as a picture, a beautiful vision of love that anyone would have been touched to look upon. But I felt suddenly and irrevocably destroyed.
Why had I always assumed that Gangle and I would always be together, watching stars and solving mysteries? The man had a life of his own. At thirty-two, he had every right in the world to love a woman. We were not exclusive. Mentally, I had no reason to be upset, but emotionally I was heartbroken, lost, betrayed. He told me that they were friends. Why had he lied?
More importantly, what did I care? What was Gangle to me? He was a friend.
Maria noticed Giovanni and quickly straightened up. Gangle adjusted his snakes. Back came the older brother, his hands full of steaming meatball sandwiches. He gestured towards an eating pavillion and nodded his head, clearly wanting the two to follow him there. Giovanni led the way. Gangle took Maria's hand. When it was clear that Giovanni could not see, he placed his hand on her lower back and snuck in another kiss.
I couldn't look anymore. I turned back to my palace of birds, feeling as though I'd witnessed a death. Charles watched Gangle walk away calmly, noting that he was with Maria and therefore no longer posed a threat. He put down his tailfeathers and sat.
I stayed in the palace for the rest of the day. I don't even remember what I did. Everyone was just one big blur. I remember closing time, though. The tree branches filled with fluffed, feathery bodies that huddled together for bedtime. Beady eyes shut, and legs were tucked in.
"Well, King Charles," I told him, looking out at the setting sun. "I do believe you've won."
He honked, and I laughed, along with all the rest of the birds, until the sky was filled with stars. It wasn't until I felt the tears on my neck that I realized I had actually been crying.
)
(
)
Gangle didn't come to dinner. He left me a note on our door that explained why. This is what it said:
Signorina!
Giovanni and Maria have invited me to dinner, and so I am going with them. We will be out late, so don't wait about for me. I remembered that you wanted me to take out an advertisment in the NY Times, and I did, under the name "Vincent Vellazio". All I said was that anyone with information about the Opera Populaire's "Phantom of the Opera affair" that could be useful for an upcoming book should state a meeting place and time in another personal ad, and that they will be paid three dollars and fifty cents for their time. I also mentioned that a Miss Puckett (you) would be a secretary, doing the actual meeting. Never mind contributing any money; I am pleased to do it myself.
-Gangle.
PS. And I also want to say that you have a beautiful singing voice. You must have been so happy, singing with Mr. Y. Together, you make wonderful music!
)
(
)
Since there would obviously be no star-gazing that evening, I decided to take a hot bath. Off came the corsets, releasing my chubbiness. Off came the brace, and my leg resumed its crooked twist. Off came the dress, revealing the milky, blue-veined flesh. Off came the wig and makeup, and the beautiful face of "The Fabulous Miss Fleck" drooled down the sink in streaks of black and red, and when I looked into the mirror there was ol' Ariel, plain and frazzled. I carefully removed Mama's ring and set it aside.
I sunk into the bath and relaxed, releasing my muscles, allowing myself to become weightless and numb. My mind went blank. All there was in the world were the pearly tiles above my head, the steam rising from the tub, and the shadowy image of my submerged nakedness.
I looked at it, my mind still hazy. It wasn't very attractive, but it was mine. I wiggled the toes on my bad leg. It was amazing how Mr. Y had been able to discern the beauty underneath all this ugly, when I couldn't even see it for myself. I wished he could see the love underneath, too. It had been so vibrant and real when we'd made music together. I closed my eyes and let the image of Mr. Y surrounded the gold fairy dust fill my mind. That memory would never fade, never alter, and I would remember it and be glad for the rest of my life. It was like the song. How did it go?
Love never dies
Love never falters
Once it has spoken,
Love is yours.
I dreamed on, weightless and warm, the water lulling me into a deep calm. In my mind, I was once again in the Ayrie. Mr. Y was playing the piano. We sang and played together, the rays of light from the window wrapping around us both, enveloping us in glory as harmonies floated and notes danced. I loved his music, and he loved my voice. There was a vase of roses on the piano, red with black blushing the edges, for those were both our favorites.
"Ariel," said his musical voice, "How I love our music."
"I love it, too," I replied.
On and on I dreamed, my mind filled with song and light, no phantoms, no fear. If I were to have slipped beneath the surface of the water and drowned, it would have been the most divine death in the world. Just giving in to the warmth and allowing it to consume me...
I became aware of a plump softness under my fingers. It didn't startle me, but when I opened my eyes a little, I saw that my fingers were curled around my breasts. I had been feeling them. I was only a little surprised. Baths are almost like the night; both take you away to an alternate land of dark and quiet, and such things don't matter. So I returned to the dream and kept on. I smiled a bit. My body was ugly, but these parts were okay.
)
(
)
I walked home to Fleck Manor wrapped in a heavy bathrobe, feeling contemplative. The stars were out. If Gangle were here we'd be reflecting on the day, but I had done some rather interesting reflecting myself, and I was still unsure of how I felt about it. Had it not been night, I'd probably have panicked the way I had the previous night, when I had also done some curious bodily exploration. But it was night. I could think it through.
It's hard to come to any real conclusions when you know no facts, but I came to one. It occured to me that for some reason I had never really seen myself before. It didn't occur to me that Ariel Fleck, the soul, was really inhabiting a body of flesh and bone. It didn't occur to me until Mr. Y helped me free my soul. Once the soul was awakened, the body wanted to awaken too.
I thought of the Christine Daae automaton. I thought of Gangle touching Maria's back. I thought of the times Daddy and Mama would look around sneakily and then kiss. I thought of Charles and his habit of throwing open his tailfeathers. I thought of everything I knew about sexuality. It was true! Once the soul awakened...
I opened the door to Fleck Manor.
"I'm here, Daddy!" I called, seeing his patterned head poking over the arm of the parlor chair. "Reading?"
He didn't answer. I wondered if he was sleeping.
"Oh, Daddy, dear. Do you want to go to bed?"
Still, no reply, and when I hurried over to investigate my heart clutched, for he was seizuring, the journal he'd been writing in on the floor, his poor face twisted into a tight, blue-tinged grimace. I cried out in panic. No, no, I mustn't panic! This was normal for him, even if it looked horrible. I quickly recalled Dr. Lawrence's instructions and sprung into action.
Daddy was so big that I couldn't drag him sideways too well, but I tilted his head and let all that saliva drain onto a nearby cleaning rag. I did not try to restrain him, but I had to hold him sideways because of the couch. And that was all I could do. There was nothing to do but wait, which I hated, for seeing Daddy in such a condition was terrible. It looked painful. Sometimes the air being forced through his throat caused him to make litle sounds, too, which made him seem even more pitiful, and it was all I could do not to burst into tears. Poor Daddy!
And then the shaking stopped and Daddy's eyes opened, but they were glazed, uncomprehending. I wanted so to hug him, but Dr. Lawrence said that I must stay away from him until he was entirely himself again, for in this state his mind was as blank as an infant's, and his first instinct would be to lash about in fear and protect himself. If I tried to restrain him, he might panic and attack me without even knowing it.
I retreated to the stove and watched him. He sat up, groggily, and fell over again, feeling stupidly at the air, then at the couch. Once again he struggled to rise, and this time he smacked the armrest before falling back again. Then he was still. He felt his face clumsily and blinked, and looked around.
"Daddy!" I cried, and ran over to him.
He looked sleepily confused, but not completely out of it.
"You had a seizure, Daddy," I told him clearly, wiping his mouth. "Do you understand me?"
He tried to talk, but only succeeded in making a growly jumble of sounds. He squeezed his eyes shut and almost looked like he was going to cry. Then he rolled over, and after a few moments he spoke.
"Air-yull," he mumbled. "Dun...dun get the doctor. Dun go. M' fine. I wan' go to bed. M' fine."
I hugged him and wept in relief. He was back to his old self.
"Okay, Daddy," I sniffed. "Let's go to bed. But we'll have to tell Doctor Lawrence in the morning."
"Mmmmph."
He thumped down heavily on the bed, put his tattooed head on the pillow, and promptly began snoring. I took a deep breath and lay beside him. Good work, Ariel. Disaster averted.
But then another voice in my head blared forth. Yes, it's a good thing you bothered to come when you did. Any longer, and he would have been left to shake all alone! Poor Daddy, all sick and alone, while you take your precious time feeling yourself in the bath. Really, Ariel!
I pulled the covers around myself, feeling terrible, but not in guilt or shame, but with the helpless feeling that a door had been unlocked and opened deep inside me, and I had lost both the key and the willpower to want to shut it again. I wished Gangle would come home, so we could sit under the stars together, and I could feel sane again.
(Miss Fleck stops here for now.)
Miss Fleck stopped and laughed to mask her embarrassment. "I apologize for the frankness, but it's all true. Sorry if I've permanently tained your idea of Edwardian women."
Mr. Whittington was still on the couch, reclining on the pillow, resting. He sat up on his elbows and shrugged. "No, you haven't. But you have confirmed a few suspicions." He frowned slightly, and ventured, carefully, "Have you ever told Mr. De Rossi about any of this?"
"Only indirectly," she replied. "But please don't tell him any of what I've said. Poor man's in jail. Don't want to drive him mad, you know?"
"Of course not."
"Very good." Miss Fleck rose and headed for the bathroom. "Now, if you don't mind, I could use a nice freezing bath."
Notes from Authoress:
1. Well, little psychologists! You survived! Put away your notebooks.
2. IMPORTANT: I didn't mention this before, but the day on which I go on Thanksgiving Break (Nov. 17) there will NOT be a new chapter. (Would have been 13) Waaah! I need that extra week to do the conclusion to the other thing. It'll all be better on Dec. 1st.