NOTE: It's fluffy cuddly-coo-coo to the EXTREME in this here chapter, but it's high time for a heartwarming change of pace.
Chapter Thirteen
One-Armed Angel, Part II
"Ariel dear, I know ladies who would just about die for black hair like yours. Mmm-hmm. Just about die."
It was mid-morning in Bernice's favorite salon, Millicent's, and Miss Millicent herself was taking an appreciative look at Miss Fleck's hair. Miss Fleck herself sat propped on a salon chair in front of the big mirror, and examined her own face where it gazed back at her, framed by all manner of glass bottles and comb cleaners and hair tonics.
Bernice's face intruded upon the glass as well. "That's what I said, Mill. Black hair! Black as ink!"
"Not all of it," countered Miss Fleck, bending and flipping up her roots. "Take a gander at that!"
For underneath, her hair was streaked with silver, the doing of malnutrition.
"Well! Can't say I'm not suprised. But don't worry. I've got plenty of black hair dye," said Millicent capably. "Easiest color on earth to do. After that, I'll put a nice wave in it for you. You'll be just delicious!"
Meanwhile, Mr. Whittington was reading more of Mr. Fleck's journal.
(Mr. Squelch journal starts here.)
I tried to begin this earlier, but right in the middle of the first sentence my "aura" of dizzy coldness gripped me, and before I knew it Ariel was telling me I'd had a seizure and herded me to bed. And dang it, I completely lost track of what I was trying to say in the first place. The seizure, as they usually do, wiped my memories out a decent ways. From this point on, I'm writing in sub-headings. That way I'll be able to pick up if I forget.
Flecks make a sensation at breakfast
The day after Polly left for Greece, my father thought it good to inform our fellow freaks of the challenge before us involving myself and my prospective bride as soon as possible. It sounded perfectly reasonable aloud, but as I tapped on my glass for attention at the next day's meal, seeing the eyes of the freakish assembly fix curiously upon me, I felt like the biggest ass who ever pulled on a pair of mens' underpants.
At last I got their full attention, and, with a stomach that felt laden with rocks, I stammered out my story, from the time Polly first came ambling into the restaurant, to the time we finished Treasure Island, to the times we went about to see the sights, and the confrontation with Polly's parents, the challenge, and all the way to the present moment. At my side, my father gave his grim-faced, serious nods of assurance.
The effect on the diners was comparable to stupefying gas. Food grew cold on the plates as they all stared at me.
"Al," sputtered Dog-Faced Derek. "You're pulling our legs."
I assured him I wasn't, and to prove it I pulled out something that Polly had given me the day before she left: a long, black lock of her hair, tied with a pink ribbon.
Little Mr. Geddes slapped his thigh. "Jim-in-ee crickets! A lock of hair to remember her by! What do you think of that!"
Laughs and gasps of amazement rippled all around as folks gathered around to see it.
"So what you're telling us," the snake charmer said, "Is that by this time next year you've got to essentially have an entire Catholic cathedral wedding financed, trimmings and trappings?"
"Down to the last speck of confetti," I assured him gloomily.
"We'll all help," promised 600-pound Eliza, her wobbling fat and shiny eyes making her look doubly sentimental. "As best we can. Oh, just think of it! Al getting married!"
And every red-blooded romantic woman at the table burst forth in breathy oaths and swore their allegiance to the "marvelous" cause, while the men pulled out pads and paper and embarked on a decidedly more financial course. As nervous as we were, my Dad and I got drawn into the excitement too.
"About how much is your estimate, Estevan?" Mr. Geddes asked my father. "Just a rough estimate."
Dad sucked in a gust of air, rolled his eyes, and ventured, "Considering we're also purchasing the bridal ensemble and the rings, I believe fifteen hundred dollars would be a modest guess."
The ladies stopped gabbing abruptly in the middle of a discussion about lace, and the men's moustaches twitched. That really sucked the wind out of a couple sails. Nowadays, fifteen hundred dollars is a lot of money. In 1883, it was even more. To top it all off, it was a modest guess. Who knew what they'd try to charge us for certain supplies? (AUTHOR'S NOTE: $1,500 in 1883 would be roughly equivalent to $35,000 today)
Mr. Geddes nodded slowly, but his eyes darted about in intense wonderment. Dog-Faced Derek looked like a nervous Yorkie.
"Well," sighed someone eventually, "Let's start brainstorming."
2. It's All Greek To Me
I had to get cracking on Condition One: Become a Greek Orthodox! All I knew about it was that it was Greek, and it was Orthodox, and the fact that there was a Greek Orthodox cathedral called St. Anastasia's in Brooklyn. Other than that, Alfred Fleck the Presbyterian didn't have the damndest scrap of a clue. I dragged myself into that church like the very prince of the asses. Compared with the majestically high ceilings, the icons, the gold, the splendor, and the general air of holiness and magnificence, I felt particularly defective, like a mistake, or a blot in God's big picture. That place, now that I think about it, is a lot like the Ayrie.
The robed priest was putting candles in order when I approached him and gave a polite little cough.
"Yes, sir? Do...?" He looked me up and down, and his bushy white brows furrowed in concern. "Are you quite alright?"
"Yes, yes," I quickly assured him. "I always crawl. That's how I was born." I extended my hand. "My name is Alfred Fleck. I live at Coney Island."
He knelt and shook hands. "Well, greetings to you, Mr. Fleck. I am Father Nicholas. Can I do anything for you?"
I decided that I liked Father Nicholas right away. True to his namesake, he reminded me of Santa Claus, with his snowy beard and ornate robes, and I guess he was very nearly as friendly, too. The sight of me didn't seem to disturb him. His eyes glimmered with an ancient, pious wisdom. I felt free to confess my situation.
"Ah," he said sagely. "You're marrying into the Church. Very well, very well. Is the young lady a member of this church?"
"No, sir. She's actually not in the United States right now. Er, I don't know if you've ever heard of the Flying Papakonstantinau family from Greece..."
His face immediately illuminated in recognition. "I certainly do!" he cried. "They came to Mass here every Sunday while they were here. Delightful people, and their daughter Apollonia is a sweetheart." He lowered his voice, a sad tenderness entering his tone. "From what they told me, the poor dear's always been feeble-minded. But how she loves to talk, once you get her going! Sometimes she pointed to the designs on my stole and went on about how it reminded her of this "Alfie" character..."
He must have caught the look on my face, for at that moment he seemed to grasp the whole situation.
"Why, young man!" he exclaimed. "Are you that "Alfie"? Why, of course you are! Your name is Alfred, and what a decorated fellow you are!" Then he was serious. "You're engaged to Miss Papakonstantinau? Her parents gave absolutely no indication of any such arrangement."
And so I had to explain the rest of my ridiculous tale, after which Father Nicholas sat back, folded his hands on his bejeweled lap, and took it in.
"Well, son," he eventually said. "This is unlike anything I've ever heard, and I can tell you right away that I have a few concerns."
I knew this would happen. I nodded glumly and consented for him to continue. He touched upon a variety of very valid points, from the short length of time I'd known Polly to the apparent reluctance on the side of her parents. But his biggest concern involved Polly's age and mental state.
"At the moment, Miss Papakonstantinau is sixteen," he said. "By this time next year, she will be seventeen. She is well within legal marrying age in New York, but I am more concerned about her state of mind. She's not severely feeble-minded; indeed, she could chat on and on about all sorts of subjects, but I'm not convinced that she quite understands everything that marriage entails, and how very dramatically her life would change."
I nodded again, more glumy than ever, for now he'd touched upon something that I myself had considered.
"I'm not trying to knock you down, son," he said quickly, seeming to sense my mood. "Truly, I'm not. But marriage is a very serious and holy thing, not to be entered into lightly. She must understand what she is promising to you. I fear she may be only seeing the lovely, romantic wedding half of marriage, and not everything else. She is quite childlike."
I understood. Father Nicholas then rose, and asked me to follow him to his office. I crawled solemnly through the bowels of that palace-like church, arrived in a book-lined, musty little room, and hauled myself onto a chair. Thus established, we had a serious discussion about marriage, Polly, myself, and my acceptance into St. Anastasia's congregation. He signed me up for their confirmation classes, and our meeting ended amiably.
"Alright, Mr. Fleck. Provided everything goes smoothly, and there's no reason why it shouldn't, you will become an official member of our church on Easter."
I left the place with a packet of papers and the satisfaction of knowing that I was on track to knock out at least one condition.
I also left with a little something the church provided: a Greek/English newspaper, so that the congregation (many of whom came from Greece) could see how things were in their native land. I half hoped to see Polly inside.
3. All The World's A Stage
When I arrived home to Coney, I expected that some of the intial excitement over my potential engagement would have died down, but it was only getting started. In fact, while I was gone, two committees had been formed, with my father and myself installed as the unofficial chairmen. I came across the combined meeting as I entered the dining area.
"How did the church thing work out, son?" inquired Dad pleasantly, his wrinkles defying gravity to form a happy smile. "I declare we have a whole system worked out here! Two committees! One for the gentlemen and one for the ladies."
Why the committees were gender-segregated has never been satisfactorily explained to me, but no matter. The men, led by Dog-Faced Derek, formed the "Money And Necessities" Committee (M.A.N. for short), and the ladies, led by Sword-Swallowing Selma, formed the "Womans' Organzation for Mr. Alf's Nuptials" (W.O.M.A.N. for short). While I had been gone that afternoon, both parties had been feverishly concocting plans.
"Picture it with me, Al," pitched Dog-Faced Derek, throwing an arm around my neck and extending his other into the horizon. "Your name in lights."
I asked him what the dickens he was talking about.
"A play, Al!" he cried. "A fundraising play! It's one thing to simply ask for donations, but it's quite another to do so with a song and dance!"
"A song and dance!" I cried back. I was one for new ideas, but this was unreasonable."And how do you propose I dance? I can barely move!"
"It's just an expression, Al, don't split your drawers. What I really had in mind was a heartwarming romantic play, based on the real-life drama of you and Polly! Then at the end, we ask for donations!"
"I came up with the idea," one of the ladies giggled. "Isn't it just great? People can feel like they have a real hand in a true romance!"
"Suppose they find the notion of a rich girl marrying a freak distasteful?" I felt compelled to add. "It's a good, reasonable idea to us, but to the people who come to see us?"
Derek had an answer to that, too. "We'll make it so damn plucky and cute that they'll love it. C'mon, Al, take a chance. What if Shakespeare didn't write Romeo and Juliet because he thought folks would find goofy love-at-first-sight distasteful?"
Before I could say anything, someone else chimed in. "Mr. Astley would likely love all the free publicity."
"Who's going to play Polly?" a lady asked irrelevantly. "Which of us looks most like her, Al?"
"The man hasn't even agreed! Give him a chance to..."
"I think she does, with her curly dark hair, but they'll never know anyway."
"Won't this be great, Al?"
I didn't have much choice but to agree. "Alright! I'm in!" I practically had to roar. "You hear me? I'm in!"
4. Missing Polly
My consent thus given to produce an autobiographical romance play, the two committees began banging away at the script. M.A.N. insisted that "time was of the essence", and that the quicker a script could be made, the sooner we could begin reaping profit, whereas W.O.M.A.N. stressed "quality, not quantity", and that a quality script would make up for lost time with the sheer spectacle of the well-organized show. M.A.N. heaved a sigh and said that people scarcely went to a freakshow to see Shakespeare, and W.O.M.A.N. moaned that if it were up to M.A.N., the show would be hardly more than a popsicle puppet show.
At age seventy-five, Dad couldn't tolerate the arguing and retired to bed early. I gave the quarrelling committees a bedtime salute (they cheerily chirped goodnight and then immediately kept roaring) and retired as well. I had religious studying to do. After I made sure that Dad was settled, I went into the parlor, sat on the couch, and pulled out the papers Father Nicholas had given me to study.
As I looked at the papers and prayers, I remembered Polly's little platitudes about God: the ripping off of her arm, the designs on my face, the tenderness in her eyes whenever Jesus came into the conversation.
"Alfie!" she'd bubbled one night. "I don't think I ever told you about, about, about how God's going to make up for ripping my arm."
"I don't think you have, Polly," I replied.
"Well, then I'll say how." She sat up and wiggled her stump. "When I die, He's going to give me my arm back." Then she leaned forward, and whispered, for this was best of all, "And, and, and He's going to make me not be an imbecile anymore. And then, Alfie, I'm going to read books to you."
Back in the present, I suddenly realized how badly I missed Polly. Up until that moment, I hadn't had the time to miss her, what with all the religious studies and financial pondering, but now, sitting in the dark, the pain gripped me like a vice. I knew I had to keep studying, but I couldn't. I slumped over on the couch. I didn't know whether to cry or yell, and ultimately did neither. This year of separation was going to hurt something awful.
I was sorely tempted to engage in my deepest, darkest, most secret behavior, something I had done since I was an adolescent to handle pain or intense anger. I would take a knife to some unseen part of me, like an ankle or an elbow, and make a long, non-lethal slice in my flesh, for the purpose of sitting back and watching my blood flow. It was very bad, but over the years it became a sick sort of security blanket.
Tonight, however, I resisted.
"I love you, Polly," I told the darkness. I wished she could hear. "I love you."
5. Show Business
I have no desire to recall the interminable debates and tantrums that preceded the completion of our script, so I won't bother writing on it. I do, however, enjoy remembering the comedy involved in its early stages, particularly casting and our first read-through. M.A.N. and W.O.M.A.N. finally compromised on a script (although some folks were no longer on speaking terms) and began the task of casting.
The title of the play was "Beauty and the Freak". The blow to my self-esteem notwithstanding, it was really a decent little script, designed to be performed with little scenery and a few props. To set the scene for the audience, Derek informed me -and I am not joking - that he had written a "Greek chorus" into the show.
"It's perfect, Al!" he gushed. "Polly's Greek, so there's your social context, plus it reduces the need for scenery. To top it all off, the costumes couldn't be cheaper! All you need are branches and bedsheets!"
And at that precise moment, the freakish "Greek Chorus" strolled in, modelling their makeshift togas. They even had fake harps. One had an old banjo.
"Swell, ain't it? Anyway, here's your script, Al. Better start studying!"
The story behind the play, of course, was true, and...well, I guess I'm better off just writing about how the first show went, some time later.
6. Show Time
In the main room of "Astley's Astonishments", chairs were set up in a horseshoe formation around the performance area, which was essentially a big canvas backdrop of Coney by the sea. Mr. Astley delightedly charged everyone an extra nickel and showed people to their seats. Behind the canvas, I mentally rehearsed my monologues once last time, Dad got comfortable on his chair, and Dog-Faced Derek strolled out to address the crowd. He had slicked his facial hair into a poodle-esque look, just for the occasion.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" he announced. "Mr. Astley and his freaks are pleased to present 'Beauty and the Freak'!"
The ladies and gentlemen politely applauded and then chuckled as the admittedly goofy-looking Greek Chorus took the stage, strummed their fake instruments, and sang:
Coney Isle, glistening and glimmering!
Rising bright, drenched in light!
See it smile, beckoning and shimmering!
All agleam, like a dream!
At this point, "Apollo" and "Frances" came onstage with suitcases, followed by the horrifying nightmare version of "Polly", played by the contortionist, Ethel Harris. Her hair was big and frizzy, her eyelids were blue, her mouth was pink, and to imitate Polly's little stump, she had tucked her arm back into her sleeve and wrapped it with linen. If the real Polly had looked anything like that, our relationship would have ended shortly after our meeting in the restaurant, away from which I would have run like a tattooed gazelle, shrieking.
"Ah, mama, what a crowd! It's like the Olympics!" Ethel declared in a mildly offensive imitation of Polly's voice, wagging her "stump", and then the Papakonstantinau family got ready for a "performance". Of course, nobody could do real acrobatics, so the story was altered to make Polly a contortionist, like Ethel herself.
Then I took the stage and sat in the fake audience to watch "Polly".I had my very first monologue, which, frankly, read like a paid public service announcement about the sad life of freaks, but I did read it with conviction. Then "Polly" did her contortions, which greatly entertained the crowd. After that, I had another monologue that was not unlike Romeo's spiel about Juliet. I blathered on about "Polly" and my newfound love for her, but mourned "the class divide" that "hopelessly destroyed my dreams of romance."
Then our meeting in the restaurant. As I read Treasure Island, "Polly" watched from a distance and had a rather horrendously-written romantic monologue of her own. If I took a sip of whisky every time I wanted to cringe, I'd be reduced to a cackling drunk, taking a piss on the Ferris wheel and singing "When Johnny Comes Marching Home". Anywho, then came the "meeting", which involved a lot of love-sick staring. We both sang a little and promised to meet again in secret tomorrow.
The Greek Chorus sang again:
Love's not always beautiful
Not at the start...
But open your arms, and close your eyes tight!
Look with your heart, and when it finds love
Your heart will be right!
"Polly" and I went on a number of little fictional adventures, eating ice-cream, going through tunnels of love, and even doing some concealed, strongly implied petting. But there was this dreadful, vulgar line meant to get laughs that I had to do, because Derek insisted that "sex sells", and I can't even believe I said it. It was completely unreasonable.
"Oh, Polly," I said. "After I got a load of how far you can put your legs over your head, I knew you were the woman for me!"
There was a loud, distinctly masculine roar of laughter from the crowd. I don't believe the women laughed at all for the whole rest of the play.
Then, after a backdrop of the sea was hung up, I had to propose marriage to "Polly". In real life, I'd had a seizure and all that sort of nonsense, but there was no way I was going to fake a fit in front of a crowd.
"Oh, Alfie!" wheezed 'Polly'. "I love you more than olives and the Olympics combined! You may have the body of Hephaestus, but the heart of Zeus! Of course I'll marry you! Just let me ask my parents!"
"Apollo" and "Frances" took the stage shortly after, in high, overblown fury that nevertheless was reasonably accurate.
"If you want to marry Polly," boomed the father, "You must fufill all of my conditions!"
And from his pocket he unfurled a parchment scroll, on which the conditions had been painted in Gothic calligraphy, for drama. After reading them aloud, he handed them to me, grabbed Polly (who comically resisted) and left, saying that he'd be back next year to see how I'd succeeded.
The Greek Chorus sang:
And so you see, the game is on!
And we will see, who wins out!
He who wins, wins it all!
Devil take the hindmost!
And so the play ended, to a polite spattering of applause, and then Dog-Faced Derek made the announcement:
"Ladies and gentlemen, the play you have just seen is based on a true story. Mr. Fleck here-" Here he gestured to me-"Is in love with a girl like Polly, but unfortunately, her Dad's got conditions he wants him to fufill. One of the most pressing is money. He needs fifteen hundred dollars!"
There was a sympathetic sighing all around, mixed with suspicious sounds and shifty eyes.
"If you please," Derek said sweetly, "A monetary donation would be deeply appreciated."
The ladies unanimously reached for their husband's wallets, while the fellows' moustaches twitched and folks muttered that "this wasn't what they'd been expecting", but I saw a lot of bills and coins going into the tin can Derek brought around. After we gave Mr. Astley his cut of it, we counted.
"Oh!" cried Eliza. "Ten dollars!"
That's a great start!"
"Ha! This was all worth it!"
"We only have to do this 150 more times, and we'll have all the money we need!"
7. Other Schemes
Of course, we could hardly expect ten dollars for every performance, so other schemes were set up by M.A.N. and W.O.M.A.N. The men started a campaign of simply asking for the necessary funds, and then decided to make a pact among themselves to give a certain amount of money a month to the cause. The ladies, ever fond of a chance to crack out beloved recipes, held little bake sales whenever they could. By December, we had 700 dollars, about half of what we needed, and if things kept up, we had a good chance of reaching our goal!
But then came the terrible blow.
8. A Terrible Blow
The terrible blow came after one of my weekly sessions with Father Nicholas. Like I usually did, I took one of the Greek/English newpapers on my way out and brought it home. I made a cup of tea, some toast, and sat down at the table with Dad. I scanned it, looking for amusing news. Greek politics bored me, so I headed over to "Society".
"Anything interesting, son?" asked Dad.
"Not particularly."
Under "Society", there were things like engagement announcements and that sort of thing, telling of debutantes and weddings and girly gossip, and I was just about getting ready to shut the paper and eat my toast when the phrase Apollonia Ismene Papakonstantinau leapt up at me. I thought I was going mad, but I examined it again. Yes, that was her name! I was thrilled. It was like an unexpected postcard. What was my darling up to that would merit a mention in the "Society" section?
I read it. This is what it said:
Apollonia Ismene Papakonstantinau, 17, daughter of Apollo and Frances Papakonstantinau of "The Flying Papakonstantiau" fame, has been seen in the company of renowned polo champion, Hieremias Dukakis, all throughout the fall and several times this winter. She has accompanied him to several games, and both have made visits to the others' family home. Friends of Dukakis admit that he has deep affection for her which is mutual, and it is expected that an engagement announcement will be made sometime in the spring.
Every trace of joy was sucked out of my soul. I felt like I was being torn in pieces. What did it say? I looked at it again, and again, wildly, but the story never changed. There they were, the most hateful, horrible words ever printed on paper. Apollonia Papakonstantinau. Polo champion. Deep affection. Mutual. Engagement announcement.
She promised me she'd never forget me, but poor stupid Polly had been tricked, almost certainly with the help of her parents. Once home in sunny Greece, among all the eligible, handsome, non-deformed young sports champions...
"Al, what's wrong?" cried Dad, his old unfocused eyes widening at the sight of me. "Are you sick? What's wrong, boy?"
I creased the newspaper and slapped it in front of him.
"Al!" cried Dad again.
Silently, I crawled out of the ktitchen, into my room, up onto my bed, and put my head on my pillow. I felt like there was a plug in my throat that wouldn't let me cry, but my eyes burned and overflowed, flowing straight down my nose and wetting the pillowcase, and it kept coming and coming. I had never been so hurt in all my life. I felt as though I would go on weeping forever, until I had no more tears, and then I would weep out all my lifeblood. I wanted to die.
I heard Dad crinkling the paper as he picked it up, heard a sharp intake of breath, and then he made a loud cry of indignation and disbelief. I wept on as I heard him rise slowly to his feet. His tottering footsteps got closer, the door creaked, and all at once I felt his trembly old hands on my back.
"I just read it," he said falteringly, "And, Al, I...don't even know what to say."
The choke in my throat made it impossible to respond. Everything we'd ever done, all the money we'd raised, useless!
"I'm sorry, son. I'm just so terribly sorry about all this."
And so Dad wept with me until it was time for dinner. He then dried his weathered old face, gave me a final back rub, told me he loved me, said he would tell the others, and promised to bring me back dinner. I didn't even respond to him. I just sort of lay there, too tormented to feel anything but pain, and after I heard the door shut behind him the temptation overpowered me. Vivid little streaks of red scattered around my ankles as I wildly tore my flesh with the sharp tip of a paring knife, vivid little stings of pain, and then the blood flowed. I lay back onto my pillow and watched the outcome of my self-hatred oozing out onto a stray piece of paper.
I was not willing to blame Polly, so I laid it squarely upon myself, and punished myself accordingly.
9. A Use For The Money
My fellow freaks were absolutely devastated by the news. The ladies wept, the men jumped up, shouting oaths and indignant curses, and even Mr. Astley seemed saddened.
"Everything we ever did - a waste!" cried Dog-Faced Derek, his face like an angry wolf.
"It's just not fair!" wept Eliza. "Oh, it's not fair at all! Poor Al!"
"Poor Al indeed! What a way to find out! In the dang paper!"
Over the next few weeks, they tried their best to cheer me up, really they did, but I was in no state to be cheered. The world to me had lost all of its beauty. Even when everyone unanimously decided to give me all the money we'd raised, I still could not find it within myself to be happy. In fact, I didn't even want the money. To me, it was a painful reminder of what I had lost, like looking at a cradle meant for a baby who had died. I wanted it gone.
I still went to see Father Nicholas, who comforted me for the loss of Polly and still offered me the opportunity to join his church, be a friend, that sort of thing. He had been so kind to me that I decided to still learn lessons from him, finish the course, even though the desire was no longer alive.
On the way back from the church, I passed a sad young man. He wore a shabby suit, an air of hopelessness, and sat, slumped, on a bench, watching the birds eating crumbs on the sidewalk. I never talked to strangers, but I felt as though I had to talk to this man. He was sad, like me.
"Hello," I greeted nervously. "Are you feeling alright?"
He was initially surprised by my strange appearance, but his sadness prevented him from becoming overly so. In the voice of the truly downtrodden, he sighed and said, "It seems to me that the whole world runs on money." He looked at me, and then back at the birds. "I've been working on this project for so long, and I can't seem to find enough money to push it forward. You ever feel that way?"
I nodded seriously, and pulled out my checkbook. I knew what I had to do.
"What are you doing?" asked the man, puzzled.
"Helping you," I replied, and handed him a check for seven hundred dollars. He didn't look at it immediately, and instead stared at me. I began to crawl away.
After I'd gone a little distance, I heard him jump up and cry, "Sir! Is this a joke?"
"No," I replied, not looking at him. "That money was to finance my wedding, but the woman has left me for another man. You take it now."
"Seven hundred dollars! Why, I can't...I don't see..."
I kept crawling. "I don't need it and I don't want it. Take it."
"But, but, sir!"
"Take it."
After a few disbelieving moments of silence, the man cried, with tears in his voice, "Oh, I do thank you, sir! Is there anything I can do for you?"
"No," I said, "Except spend it wisely."
"You have my oath! Oh, sir, please allow me to..."
"Just go. Forget me. Take the money and do what you will."
The man tried to take me to dinner, and bestow all sorts of favors on me, but at last he gave up. But I'll never forget what he said before he departed.
"Sir," he declared. "In a world of thieves and cowards, you are the only stand-up guy I've ever met. A stand-up guy! May you find a worthier woman!"
My heart was warmed to help this fellow, but the grief of my lost love didn't go away. And not a week later, in the midst of a particularly nasty cold snap, I became very ill.
10. The Letter
It started as a cold and progressed rapidly into a dangerous fever. I was never one to get sick, but my grief, combined with my physical deformities, caused me to become very ill, very fast. During my confinement to bed, I had two large seizures and became too weak to move. My zest for life was gone. Call it weak and pathetic, but I gave up. What did I have to live for? Another thirty or so loveless years in a freakshow? Better to die.
In hindsight, I'm ashamed of how severely I frightened my friends and family, but at the time I was not thinking reasonably. I lay, wrapped in quilts, accepting tea and broth with no real enthusiasm, spending what felt like days sleeping and waking up and having cold sweats and dying. It all started blurring into a single endless trial.
Fearing the worst, Dad telegraphed for Edgar to come from Albany to see me. He came, along with aunt Fanny. I don't remember much of their visit. I just know they came. A lot of folks visited me, bringing food and treats. M.A.N. and W.O.M.A.N. came on a daily basis, mourning my loss of Polly and weeping over me, for the doctor said that my illness was becoming very bad. Treatments were proving ineffective. It wasn't a cold that was killing me. I was dying of love.
One bleak morning, I awoke to a gray, cold sky. My mouth was dry. My eyes were bleary. Life was appalling to me. From where I lay, wrapped in the same old quilt I'd been sweating and drooling on for who knows how long, I looked up into that vast nothingness and asked God for death. I hadn't done that yet. A tear escaped me, and I made my request. Take me now, please!
At that moment, Dad ambled in. I heard the tapping of his cane.
"Al, can you hear me?" he asked feebly, circles under his eyes. "There's a letter for you here. I don't know from who."
There was no return address, but many stamps, as though the letter had come from afar. Some of the postal markings on it were in Greek. My heart stopped. I took it, opened it, and looked at it.
The handwriting wasn't very good, and the spelling and syntax were no good either. It said:
Alfie!
I maniged to find a person who kin write Inglish, becus I cant write as you know alridy. She wont tell on me, so I can send you this seecrit letter. Do not do NOT write back! This must be seecrit or dad will know and it will be rooined. so do NOT do it. Well Alfie my dad keeps sending me to meet all kinds of fellows, there was one who was a polo champeen. We went out together alot and people thot we were engaged, but i did not let him. And then I met a book-riter and I told him he reminded me of Alfie. They were nice but they were not you. and I said that.
Dad was mad with me and found more fellows. there was a docter and one who owned a museem. I liked them but they didnt like to reed books and talked to me like I was a imbecile. I hate that. So I didnt want to see them anymore. Dad was madder and said i hadnt any brains at all if i was to turn down men so rich. That made me cry alot.
He ast me why I still lovd you after all this. I said that Alfie loves me and even if he looks like a bear and his brane hurts him hes nice. Just like God lovd me and took my arm He must have realy lovd Alfie too. That made dad think. Than I said that Alfie and me are like baklava and honey. and i said that I would marry him no matter what because we had such a big love for each other. i think he unnerstands a little now.
So like i said Alfie DONT write back because this is a seecrit. But Alfie I love you very very much and i wish I could kiss you. We will soon i hop. Then we will be marryed and then have babys. but we must wait til then. I love you Alfie so dont give up. I will never love anyone but you.
Polly.
writ December 23 1883
It was as though the words were breathing life into me, lifting me up from my sheets; indeed, I was sitting up in bed, ecstacy welling in my heart.
"Al!" cried Dad. "Who's it from? What does it say?"
I looked at him, tears in my eyes, and said only four words. "She still loves me."
He immediately knew what I meant. He read the letter himself, cheered, and hauled me into his arms. Polly didn't love a polo champion, or a doctor, or an author, or a museum curator. She loved me!
I think it goes without saying that my health improved substantially. Within a week, I was able to leave my bed and eat with the others, and not long after that I was okay again. And to think I had asked God for death! Thank Heaven that our foolish mortal wishes are not indulged!
11. One Good Turn Deserves Another
Of course, there was a major problem: I had given all the wedding funds to that sad young man, thinking I'd never need it. Boy, did I feel like an ass admitting that to everyone.
Dad nodded his head gravely. "There's one thing we can still do," he said. "Or, rather, what I can do. I can always take out a loan for fifteen hundred dollars..."
"Dad!" I cried in distress. He'd be in debt for the rest of his life if he did that!
"Don't 'Dad' me," he retorted. "Didn't I say I'd make this happen one way or the other?"
"But even the interest alone would be staggering...!"
He could not be persuaded otherwise. He was going to take out that loan, the very next day if he could, and I kicked myself all the way home. Oh, why had I been such a fool?
Now, if you don't believe in God, or the fact that 'one good turn deserves another', this will do it...
We received a letter that very evening. It was a fine, well-crafted, well-written letter, and this is what it said:
Dear Mr. Fleck,
I am the man to whom you so generously gave seven hundred dollars some time ago. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Thomas Kearny, an avid researcher of North American birds, and with the money you gave me I was able to finance the publication of my very first bird-watching guidebook, entitled "Birds", and it has been a smashing success; I have made a respectable amount of money, and have even been given a significant advance for the publication of a sequel, entitled "More Birds". I owe my success to you, as well as my very sincerest thanks, but of course that is not enough. You did not tell me who you were, but your name and mailing address was on the check you gave me, and that is how I knew where to send this letter and the enclosed check.
Thanking you once again, very sincerely,
Thomas Kearny.
Dad and I said the same thing together at once: "Enclosed check?"
We dug it out. I believe everyone within a three-mile radius heard me scream. It was a check for three thousand dollars, double what we needed for the wedding! That evening, the whole lot of us, freaks, non-freaks, and occasional terrified bystanders had a celebration, for the next day we had tremendous shopping to do!
12. The Glorious Proposal
We had done it. After I became a confirmed Greek Orthodox that Easter, we had fufilled all of Apollo's conditions, and according to a curt telegram sent by the man himself, he and his wife (and Polly!) were returning in a week. I can't write anything about that week, because I don't remember, but I'll always remember the heart-pounding anticipation, the flurry of excitement, the marvelous way all of my freak family worked together to arrange the big Fleck Greek wedding. It was just wonderful. I was half-mad with joy at the prospect of seeing my precious Polly again. I could scarcely wait.
At last the day came. Dad, myself, and the whole freak gang waited at the docks in our best clothes. I held the ring-the diamond wedding ring-in my trembling hand. When the ship at last came into sight, I almost fainted of nerves. It seemed it would never dock. At last, of course, it did, and the moment the gangplank was lowered I grabbed Dad's hand. My freak family giggled and patted my back. I scanned the crowd wildly for Polly.
Half an eternity passed, and then, suddenly, I heard the most beautiful sound on earth.
"Alfie!"
And there she was in the crowd, in a dress of pink challis, her little stump just the way I remembered, her hair topped by a little crown of white straw and ribbons, her sweet eyes widening and watering as they met mine.
I couldn't move, but she came running and crying to me, and all at once she was in my arms again. I smelled her beautiful smell and was so overcome with love that I cried too. The world around the two of us fell away.
"A-Alfie," she quavered. "I thought about you all the time, and, and, and I...love you!"
My Adam's apple felt like it was going to punch right out of my throat. "I love you too, beautiful, so much that I...here, let me show you."
I wiped my eyes and pulled out the diamond ring. Polly's eyes were perfectly round when she saw it.
"Alfie," she breathed. "Is that mine?"
"It will be," I said, poking her nose. "But I've got to propose to you first."
My Dad, the fellows, and every lady worth her buttons and bows craned their necks and gathered around. This moment was what those two relentless committees had been working for all those months, all those long nights and big debates.
"Polly," I asked, taking the only hand she had. "Will you marry me?"
She bounced, and her smile almost cracked her face in half. "Yes, Alfie! Yes, yes!"
I put the ring on her finger, took her in my arms, and kissed her as 600-pound Eliza wailed and everyone else applauded and sniffled. My joy was complete.
If you're wondering where Apollo and Frances Papakonstantinau were during this emotional reunion and proposal, here's the explanation. See, Polly was so excited to see me that she actually ran away from them, jumped a deck, scooted down a few levels, and got off the boat almost first, leaving her parents to scramble about searching for her, which took them a while. In fact, we had finished admiring each other's rings and crying for the second time, and had even got into discussing wedding plans when, at last, the sweaty and irritated parents came staggering into sight.
"Ooh, Daddy!" screamed Polly, holding up her hand, ignorant of any wrongdoing. "Alfie got me a ring, and, and, and a dress, and a whole wedding celebration!"
And there was nothing the man could say. My father was pleased to tell him of just how much money we'd raised, and how excited our Greek Orthodox church family (as well as other families) was to see the big wedding. We took him back to Coney and showed him the dresses, the finery, everything we'd bought. We told him all the ways we'd made the money, all the ways people had pitched in. And I told him how lucky I was to be engaged to the most wonderful woman on earth.
At last the man spoke, as though deeply dazed, looking at his wife. "It's...amazing, actually, how... I mean, I didn't actually think this would ever..."
"Daddy," Polly said, taking his hand, in a voice that could melt any Daddy's heart. "I'm the happiest girl ever."
It worked. As much as I hadn't liked Apollo before, the emotion that tugged on hs mouth made me half forgive him. Frances hugged Polly to her and kissed her cheek.
"And that's what I've always wanted for you, precious," the mother told her quietly.
13. Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Fleck
A week later, St. Anastasia's palatial interior was made even more beautiful by huge sprays of white roses and ribbons. One half of the pews were filled with mildly confused Papakonstantinau relatives, and the other half was filled with thrilled freaks from all the neighboring freakshows, donning their best clothes. In the front sat my ancient father in an equally ancient old suit that he had meticulously dusted and ironed, and beside him sat Apollo and Frances, the former in a stiff, impeccable emsemble, and the latter fashionably attired in velvet, with real lilies pinned on her bosom. Thomas Kearny was there too, by the way. The man financed the wedding, after all, and I do believe that merits at least an invitation.
Me? I was at the front, in a chair because of my hunch, in the nicest suit I'd ever wear in my life. It was Polly, however, who was the real center of attention. I can see her in my mind. It seemed almost as though she'd been clothed in light and crystalline designs of frost and flowers. She held a luxurious bunch of white roses. From her toes to her fingertips (and her little stump) and all the way up her throat she was covered in whiteness and lace, and her peach-and-cream face was obscured by a misty veil. A more beautiful sight had never been seen.
Father Nicholas cleared his throat and solemnly intoned, "Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God – and in the face of this company – to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony..."
On and on we went through the ceremony of that great and awesome covenant that was mystically making Polly and I one. I promised to cherish and continually bestow upon Polly my heart's deepest devotion, forsaking all others, keeping myself only unto her as long as we both would live, and she promised the same to me.
Father Nicholas put a crown of olive leaves on Polly's head, and then mine.
"And so, by the power vested in me by the State of New York and Almighty God, I now pronounce you man and wife...and may your days be good and long upon the earth." And then to me..."You may now kiss the bride."
I didn't need telling twice! I gave my wife a hearty smooch, and then Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Fleck departed down the aisle, the latter on the former's back, to a great cheering, organ playing, rice-throwing, and plate-breaking. (It's a Greek thing) Away we went as if in a dream to our big after-wedding party! Cake, music, happiness, and a signed copy of Thomas Kearny's "Birds". It was almost too much. It was there that M.A.N. officially forgave W.O.M.A.N., and vise-versa, and everyone was just giddy, myself and Polly the giddiest of them all.
It wasn't until the revellers were gone, the confetti swept up, and a quietness reigned wih the stars that it all became real to me. I was on my way back to Fleck Manor, with my new wife on my back. My wife! I was a husband!
"Apollonia Fleck," chirped Polly to herself, thrilled with her new name. "Polly Fleck. Polly Fleck."
We crossed the threshold into that old, familiar home, and it wasn't long before I discovered that some cheeky church people had taken it upon themselves to cover the bridal bed with flower petals. (Dad, by the way, was not home. He made a point to inform me, with a wink, that he'd be bunking with the neighbors that night so my bride and I could have plenty of - wink wink - privacy.)
"Ooh, Alfie!" cooed my dear, hopping on the mattress with an energy that sent the petals flying. "This is our home now, and, and, and this is our bed, and I...love you!"
14. Mrs. Fleck Makes Mr. Fleck A Very Happy Man
(I debated within myself whether writing about this was really necessary, but since no one's ever going to read this journal but me, what have I to be squeamish about? This is a very precious memory. I want to remember it.)
You'd think marrying a gorgeous Greek girl would do wonders for my self-esteem, and it did, but once Polly was quite through amusing herself with the petals, she brushed them away and looked sweetly into my eyes with a "Take me, Alfie!" expression, and I felt downright scared.
It wasn't that the idea of having sex with Polly was intimidating or anything, (banish that thought) but "No Self-Esteem" Al recognized the fact that one of us was very attractive, and the other one looked like a reject from a graduate-school production of "The Hunchback of Notre Dame". My whole life in a freakshow had been one, giant, perpetual rejection, and in a way I had actually come to believe that it had a real basis in reality. So this whole up-close-and-personal thing called sex scared me, even though I, being a young man, wanted it badly.
"Alfie dear," whispered Polly cutely as though telling a secret to a lady-friend. "You have to close your eyes."
I closed them, and presently heard the delicious ruffling and swishing of stockings coming down and skirts being pulled off and the thud of a wedding dress being tossed onto the floor, and at length it stopped. I heard the relative silence of an unclothed body reclining slowly onto the pillow beside me. My heart pounded.
"Okay, Alfie. You can look now."
I looked. Holy mackerel.
I must have looked as excited as I felt, for Polly blushed and smiled proudly, wiggling her now-naked little stump.
"Now it's your turn," she said, giggling in anticipation. "I'll close my eyes."
"No Self-Esteem" Al dimmed the gas lamp. Hopefully that would soften the blow. It was with an intense sensation of lust and fear that I disrobed, and at last it was time for Polly's appraisal.
I was as ready as I was ever going to be. "You can open your eyes, darling." I croaked.
She did. It was like two brown spotlights were shining on my pathetic nakedness. They started on my face, then my chest, and then they darted swiftly down south and stayed there, becoming as wide as dinner plates, as her cheeks flushed pink.
"Ooh, Alfie!" she cried in obvious approval, and then she murmured, earnestly, "It's awfully big."
(Which, funnily enough, made it bigger.)
Out of everything she could have said, she said that. Years and years later, I remember and laugh my tattoos off, but at the time I was so relieved by her wholesale acceptance of what I deemed to be an ugly, scarred, malformed body that I could've wept. This unconditional love was so sublime; what had I ever done to deserve it? But I didn't weep. Instead, I joyfully tossed up the blanket, went under it with Polly, and, as I have said in the sub-heading, Mrs. Fleck made Mr. Fleck a very happy man.
And five years later, the product of our love and happiness, a little lady called Ariel, was born. And another thirteen years later, right to this very moment, she's up in the Ayrie singing with Mr. Y. Myself? I am on the couch, finishing this up. Good and Night!
(The journal stops here for now)
Mr. Whittington's reading was interrupted by sound of clattering on his stoop, and a few moments later Bernice and Miss Fleck came shuffling in with bags of shampoo.
"Look at 'er, Jay!" gushed Bernice, poking her companion. "Isn't she downright charming?"
After only an hour or two with Millicent, Miss Fleck's general appearance had become greatly improved. There was a healthy sheen to her freshly-dyed hair, and the wave really was becoming. It swooped across her forehead, curled cutely onto each cheek, and fluffed lightly all around.
"I'm really pleased with it," Miss Fleck admitted, sitting on the couch cheerfully. "When that Millicent lady started hauling out chemicals and tools, I was pretty worried, but she knows her stuff! I'm happy, very happy."
"You ought to be," said Mr. Whittington. "Sit down, ladies, and we'll have lunch."
Out onto the table came ham, toast, and soup, which Bernice partook heavily of, congratulating herself on a makeover job well done. Mr. Whittington spoke quietly with Miss Fleck about her father's journal.
"It is lovely, how hard he worked to marry Mama, isn't it?" said Miss Fleck, regarding the journal with tender eyes, but then she blushed. "But I'll admit that once they started getting friendly at the end, I skipped a page or two. I mean, nobody wants to read about their parents..."
"Obviously."
She chuckled.
"He wasn't obscene, though."
"Never was."
Bernice looked up in the middle of making a new sandwich. "Who's obscene?" she asked curiously.
"You are," Miss Fleck declared. "You are obscenely good at this whole makeover thing. Pass the mayonaisse."
Notes From Authoress:
1. I told you it was fluffy. Next time, it's the Fourth of July at Phantasma! And a party at the beach! Woot!