NOTE: Jay Whittington is back! And I've got to say, there is not a single moment of joy in this whole chapter. That's why it took me so long to write. It was so emotionally taxing that I had to watch Jeff Dunham skits on Youtube after each 20-minute writing stint. That said, have a swell time!
Chapter Nineteen
One-Armed Angel, Part III
Miss Fleck examined her hair in the bathroom mirror, trying to fluff it in a way that would withstand the flattening of her cloche. It was a reasonably warm day, bright enough to keep the electricity off, and in the main room Mr. Whittington sat in his jacket, ready to take her down to the prison for another visit to Mr. De Rossi.
"How many days left until his sentence is up?" he asked.
She did not even have to think. "One month and six days," came her voice, echoing off the tile, and then she appeared at the door. "When you're a bum, you've got plenty of time to scratch tally marks."
"Ready to go?"
"Mmm-hmm."
Once on the street, Miss Fleck did not engage in her usual conversation. She walked along, eyes lingering on the alleyways and trash cans with a pained sort of look, as if she were somehow afraid of them.
Mr. Whittington felt it. "What's wrong? You're usually much more excited."
She drew her coat tighter around herself. "Jay," she asked softly, "How much longer are you staying here on vacation? I mean, when are you leaving?"
"I planned to head back to England about a month from now," he began uncomfortably, but at the sight of her face he quickly added, "But I could always extend my stay some. I mean, I just can't...leave you flat before Mr. De Rossi even gets out of jail."
"Even if you were to leave right this instant, Jay, you've already done too much for me." She wiped her eyes and sniffed. "And that's just the trouble."
"Now, we've been through this before, Ariel. I'm helping you because I want to."
"I know, I know," moaned Miss Fleck. "But you can't do it forever. You've got to eventually leave. And if things get bad again, Gregory..." She trailed off and stopped walking.
"What about him?" Mr. Whittington asked.
The very notion of trying to explain seemed to overwhelm Miss Fleck. She closed her eyes and trembled.
"He has a terrible temper. Not towards me, but when he gets mad or threatened he becomes completely irrational. If I started starving, I can guarantee you he'd do whatever it took to feed me, even if he had to kill someone, or rob someone. That's just how he is. He always tells me, if anyone does anything to you, find out who they are, and when I'm out of jail again I'll hunt them down and kill them. He talks like he's in the Mafia again."
Mr. Whittington remembered the calm, supremely confident gleam that occasionally flashed in Mr. De Rossi's eyes, and did not put such behavior past him.
"It's the love he has for me." Tears gathered on Miss Fleck's eyelashes. "It makes him stupid. And he can't afford to act like that, not anymore! If he commits any more crimes after a fifteen-year sentence, I can't imagine what they'll do to him. But he won't let me starve, so he will. He must. And if something bad happens, and I lose him, I don't even know...what..."
"Ariel." Mr. Whittington gently grabbed her shoulders and looked into her eyes. "I won't let that happen. We'll figure something out. Do you understand? I won't let anything like that happen."
"I'm just...so afraid...of being homeless and alone again..." she quavered helplessly.
"I know. But you won't be. I promise. Now wipe your eyes and smile." Mr. Whittington dug out his hanky and gave it to her. "Your friend will be upset if he sees you sad. Alright?"
She nodded and obediently brought a little joy back her countenance, and once they got to the prison she turned to him, a tender gleam in her green eyes.
"Jay?"
"Yes?"
"This."
She leaned forward and lovingly kissed his cheek, then his temple, then his eyelid, as gently as she could, and then she bit her lip and averted her eyes, pinkness rushing to her cheeks as she fiddled with her hair.
"Well, Ariel," Mr. Whittington managed to say after a moment of flustered surprise. "You make your point quite...er, vividly." He smiled. "But you're welcome."
Once back at his apartment, his face still warm where Miss Fleck's lips had kissed, he decided to continue reading her father's journal.
(Mr. Squelch picks up the story.)
The Birth of Ariel
The birth of Ariel is one of those major milestones that have left a tremendous impression on me. It was-and I do hate to be schmaltzy-a miracle. I remember my courageous Polly, propped up on a pile of pillows in bed, her hair down in a long braid, a nervous concentration in her eyes as she looked at the bedside clock. It was May 31st, 1889, and it had just turned seven thirty in the morning.
Not long after the big hand ticked past the twelve, her eyes shut and her face tightened, just like it had five minutes ago, and five minutes before that, and yet another five minutes before that.
"That's right, Polly," I whispered softly, letting her squeeze my hand. "Don't hold your breath through it, breathe deep."
Dad poked his wrinkly face through the door. I raised a finger, cautioning him to be quiet. He remained there, obediently silent, until at last Polly's contraction was over.
"I've told the others," he wheezed. "And Mr. Astley, too. Is there anything I can do?"
For even at age eighty-one, old Dad was ready to take marching orders. I'm so glad he was there; it felt reassuring knowing that a man who had witnessed five births (including mine) was on hand to help until the the doctor arrived.
I couldn't think of anything we needed at that moment, but Polly reached an arm towards him. "Grandpa," she groaned.
"Yes, dear?" Dad came ambling over and took her hand. "How are you?"
Her chest heaved as she earnestly complained, "Grandpa, it feels like...it feels like my insides are getting twisted."
"Yes. I know, dear," he said, for Polly had said that twice already. "But you'll be alright presently."
It was hard for me, seeing Polly in such pain and not being able to do much more than wipe her forehead and rub her back. When at last the door to Fleck Manor opened to admit the doctor, who arrived armed with his medical bag, I heaved a sigh of relief. He was a capable-looking fellow: sharp eyes, confident walk, a touch of gray at his temples. Here was one who'd seen innumerable births. He'd get us through. I was seized with the maudlin urge to weep and tell him I was so glad he was here.
Out of his bag came a big bottle of chloroform and clean rags, followed by stethoscopes and other things.
"Hello, Mrs. Fleck," he said pleasantly. "Don't worry, I have something here that will make you feel much better."
The unscrewing of a cap, the swishing of liquid, and the room was filled with the strange, heavy odor of chloroform. It made my nostrils crinkle. The doctor dampened a rag with it and brought it to Polly.
"This will take away your pain. I'll just place it here, on your nose, and you just breathe it in."
She did. For a moment she blinked, then her eyes unfocused, and then she dropped off into a sedated sleep. The doctor gently tucked another pillow under her head to support it and propped her feet up.
"She'll just nap until the child is born," the doctor reassured me, slapping my shoulder. "Don't worry about a thing."
With that, he sent Dad and me into the parlor, promising to call me back in to see Alfred or Ariel (depending on what gender the little one ended up being) being born. Until then, it was a lot of waiting. In came our freakish well-wishers with oranges and cigars, but I was too nervous to partake in any of the festivities. Today, I was going to be a father, after a long, nerve-wracking, excruciating wait.
I suppose the doctor thought he was assuaging my nervousness by giving me regular updates, but that made me even more nervous, and it wasn't until the sky outside was dark that the moment of truth arrived.
The doctor's pleasant, ruddy face appeared around the door. "Hurry in, sir!"
Nearly as soon as he finished I was in, having taken the 'hurry' part very literally. Dear Polly was still sleeping her unconcious sleep, sunk prettily into the pillows, although there was no longer a rag over her nose. The doctor sat on a stool situated between her propped-up feet. I grabbed her hand even though she couldn't feel it, my heart within me fluttering with nervousness.
It was the most precious moment of my life, seeing Ariel's tiny body slowly come out of Polly. First the wet little head, then shoulders, and all at once she was out, pink, wrinkly, and beautiful. A quick suctioning of her nose and throat, and she inhaled and let out her first squealing cry.
Polly was still fast asleep, but I kissed her cheeks and wept like an ass. "A girl, Polly!" I wept. "We've got a daughter, you and I!"
"And a fine healthy girl at that!" laughed the doctor, but then his eyes drifted down to her legs. "But this leg here..."
Ariel's one little leg was deformed, bent backwards, it seemed. The doctor gently bent it back and forth, watching her face for signs of pain, and at last he conceded, "That's bizarre, but she doesn't appear to be suffering from it."
It was with a truly overwhelmed heart that I accepted Ariel into my arms. I looked into her crumpled little pink face, shaped so much like my own, and couldn't believe how intensely I could love someone so fast.
I kissed her head. "You are beautiful even with a funny leg, Ariel."
"Ariel, hmm?" said the doctor. "That's a unique name. Spell out her whole name for me, will you, please? I've got to write out a birth certificate."
In graceful cursive, her name, Ariel Frances Lavinia Fleck, was written carefully in ink and set to dry by the window, and I sat beside Polly. Dad was soon allowed in, and he wept and rejoiced to see his little granddaughter. Then he stumbled off, cane in hand, to spread the happy news.
Mama Polly came out of the chloroform an hour later, blinking and confused, and I explained to her that she'd had the baby in her sleep. When she was coherant, I carefully gave her Ariel. She looked at the little bundle in her arm and was affected just the way I was, speechless and happy. Her eyes watered.
"Ariel," she cooed, her brown eyes looking down into tiny green ones. "You...You're so little, and, and I love you. But, Ariel..." Here she pulled a wry face-"You made my insides hurt a lot."
And so the Fleck family gained a new member.
The New Fleck Family Patriarch
Fairly soon after she was born, Dad started feeling weak. It became hard for him to move about, and he became progressively more confined to his bed as the days wore on. Soon he couldn't get up at all. The doctor couldn't make an exact diagnosis, but suspected that Dad's nervous system, which is affected by the spine, was finally starting to degenerate. Eighty-one years of being malformed was finally beginning to wear him down.
"It's amazing he's come this far," the doctor said. "He's had a strong constitution; that's what's pulled him through."
And so, in addition to having a newborn daughter, I had to take care of nearly all of Dad's needs. Eating, drinking, other things too disagreeable to list. It strange, taking care of the man who'd taken care of me his whole life, and seeing him become so weak and confused. I looked at his exhausted, wrinkly face, with faded tattooes, spots, and veins, and remembered a much younger man, a man who liked to yell about the Civil War and sing to himself in Hungarian, a man who often whipped my disobedient rear.
Now he was a helpless old man who could barely move, who didn't stand a chance at whipping my rear. Wheezing and coughing, he frequently called me "Wilbur" and asked where "Johnny" was. Once he confusedly asked for a cup of water, and then peed on the bed. Other times, he'd get grumpy and not want his dinner. Poor old Dad was becoming senile.
But one afternoon, as I gave him some tea, his unfocused eyes fixed on me.
"Al," he wheezed, his wrinkles quivering, "I want to tell you that I...have finished... the race."
I was getting used to strange declarations by now. "Of course you have, Dad. Good work."
He took my hand into his shaking, wrinkly one, and looked at me very seriously. "And I...I've fought the fight...and kept the faith."
Something in his eyes made me feel as though this wasn't just any senile rambling. I took his other hand and stayed with him. It was like holding the branches of a dried, hollow tree. He closed his eyes and trembled.
"Are you feeling alright, Dad?" I asked quietly, sensing something I couldn't describe.
He didn't seem to hear, he was so weak. "Al, she...keeps...coming in."
"Who?"
"And she...keeps...leaving through the window." His eyelids, thin and veinous, remained shut. "Leaving...me..."
"Who, Dad?" I went closer to him. "Who keeps leaving?"
"Lavinia."
A rush of fear and amazement trembled in my heart. He was seeing my mother, the mother I never got to meet. She was coming to him.
"I wish..." Dad's voice grew soft, almost hurt. "I wish she'd come back."
I looked across the cluttered bedroom, with its familiar knick-knacks, and watched the curtain blowing in the summer breeze. A spiritual sort of something was in the air. I felt unreal.
"Mother," I said to the silence, "If you're listening, please come to him." And to Dad, I quietly said, "And if she wants you to go with her, it's alright for you to go, Dad. We're all fine here. Me and Polly and Ariel are all fine. You've done everything you've needed to do. You finished the race."
He didn't open his eyes, but his grip on my hand loosened. For a while he murmured to himself, seeming to sense something from another world, growing weaker and weaker, and then he was silent. It was as though he had one foot on earth and the other in heaven.
I kissed his old head. "Go in peace, Dad."
And a few moments later, he did, with a final, almost triumphant last breath. I looked at the curtain. The breeze stopped blowing it. Dad lay, at peace at last, sunk into the bedclothes.
On a human level, I immediately felt his loss and sat weeping for a little bit, but on a spiritual level I was completely uplifted. He was alright. For over thirty years, he'd mourned the loss of Mother, mourned his three dead sons, mourned the loss of his brothers, mourned and mourned, and now he was finally alright, seeing them all again. He was in Heaven. He would never mourn again.
And so Estevan Fleck went to his well-deserved rest, and Alfred Fleck became the new Fleck family patriarch.
Al the Hunchback raises a daughter with the help of Polly the One-Armed
Ariel was a perky, curious baby who loved to ride on my back and look at books, even though she couldn't read them yet, and when she learned to talk, "book" was one of her first words.
"Book!" she'd gurgle, bouncing on my back, causing her diaper to crinkle. "Daddy, book! Alice! Alice!"
And so, I'd read a choice chapter out of "Alice's Adventures In Wonderland" for the eight-billionth time, until the happy day came when she could read it herself, and then I had to listen to it for the eight-billionth time. It was monotonous, but it was precious to see my little green-eyed girl so happy. I can now recite "How doth the little crocodile" in my sleep.
Then she went through her "gift-giving" stage. She liked to take old household objects and turn them into presents: googly eyes on peach pits, glitter and paint on malted milk canisters, dried bean mosaics, and rocks. So many rocks. More rocks than, frankly, you can imagine. Ariel would give me something, and I'd smile and grit my teeth, looking at my chest of drawers and wondering where the dickens I could fit it.
My dear child-like Polly never felt like that. She loved it all.
"That's so beautiful!" she'd scream, looking at Ariel's pile of glue-covered twigs. "Oh, Alfie, look at it!"
Those were the days, days of stuffed animals and tea parties, days of trying to get Ariel to use the potty, days of putting on paper crowns and hitting pots with wooden spoons, days of pretending that glitter-covered rocks were the best gifts ever, days of trying to teach Ariel to play chess, only to have her organize the pieces into black and white "families" and having them "get married". Those were precious days.
As she got older, however, she started to wonder about our particular brand of life, as any perceptive child would inevitably do. She began to realize that not all daddies crawl and have tattooes, not all mommies have one arm, and most people don't sit in cages with other funny people and get stared at all day.
"Daddy," she asked one day. "Why do people come and stare at us? Are we very strange?"
The subject had to be explained so gently. I told her that we were special people who were born different, and people thought we were so amazing that they paid to look at us. That's how special we were. That seemed to make her happy. The realities of it all would come later, I reasoned within myself, zealous for my daughter's innocence, and when Ariel went about her little life as normal, I did not press the subject.
Mr. Y and Mr. De Rossi were hired by our sister freakshow in 1897, when she was eight, and not long after that, Ariel almost succeeded in committing suicide. It was completely out of the blue. One day she vanished after dinner, and when I went into her room to look for her there was a note on her bed, written in her babyish handwriting, informing me and Polly that she hated her life and wanted to die, and that she would miss us. After an hour of frantic searching, we found her in a closet with a knife. She had slit open her palms, mistakenly thinking that palms, not wrists, were where the major arteries were.
When she awoke later, bandaged up, she cried and told us that some girls had said that all of us freaks were "poor people" and the sight of us "made them appreciate their normal lives". On and on my little Ariel cried and cried, saying the most heartbreaking, morbid, terrible things, things I never thought a little girl could even understand. Polly and I were completely horrified.
She was never the same after that. Her childhood seemed to end, and from that point on she was a serious little girl. She still read books and played games, but the old-time innocent twinkle never returned. A thoughtfulness entered her eyes. She talked less, and when she did talk it was filled with thoughts and deep feelings. Whole afternoons were spent reading books and writing things, star-gazing and brushing her hair.
Our bookshelves were slowly emptied of toys and replaced with volumes of Austen, Dickens, and Poe. The years rolled on. Before long, Ariel's body started to reflect her mental maturity. The chubby, childish cherub became curvy and womanly with the onset of her menses. Her face was beautiful instead of adorable. Her dresses got longer, her figure became corseted, her hair went up, she wore hats instead of hairbows. Before I knew it, her sixteenth birthday was fast approaching.
Party Preparation
We freaks love a party, especially milestone parties. In preparation for Ariel turning sixteen, everybody worked together to get a big pink cake covered in strawberries, cucumber sandwiches, shortbread, chicken salad, dilly beans, marinated carrots, turkey and cheddar rollovers, and two big pitchers of lemon-lime punch and sweet tea. In the icebox it went, to be saved for the party.
"I'm going to be grown-up at last!" sighed Ariel, grabbing Polly's hand. "Sixteen! Now I can finally dress like one, and be taken seriously like one!"
Polly playfully swung their joined hands, ever the enthusiast. "Yes, yes. Sixteen," she sang. "I remember when I was sixteen." She looked over at me. "That's when I saw your Dad, and, and I thought he looked so nice, and I loved him all at once."
Now, twenty-two years later, I was almost fifty and Polly was almost forty. I looked into my wife's ever-gentle eyes and still saw the pleasant youth in her face. Time had made her a bit chubbier, a bit wrinkled around her eyes, a bit grayed in her hair, but she would always look beautiful to me, even as an old lady. Me? Well, that's a tale for another time.
"Sixteen," said Ariel, becoming contemplative. "And you were only a year away from getting a wedding ring!"
Polly proudly poked her diamond ring, the very one I'd slipped on her finger on the Coney Island docks. "Yes! And you will too, someday."
"Perhaps." Ariel shrugged. "But if I get a wedding ring, I don't think I will settle for anything other than an emerald."
I chuckled at my daughter's notions, but Polly's face became an earnest mask of seriousness.
"An emerald?" she asked. "Um, are emeralds the green ones?"
"Yes, Mama. Emeralds are just like my eyes. Green? See? Sapphires are like the night sky, and rubies are like roses."
It was never a good idea to give Polly too much information at once. "But, but emeralds are green?" she repeated.
"Yes." Ariel hugged her. "You just have to remember my eyes."
Polly Acts Funny
After the "emerald" discussion, Polly started acting different, as though she were thinking deeply about a confusing subject. Usually quite chatty, she was quiet at dinner, and even when it was time to get ready for bed, she looked at the closet and paced around the room, her simple face filled with tension.
"Something wrong, darling?" I asked.
She put some things in her handbag. "No, Alfie dear."
That evening, she went through her closet and looked over her dresses, then she set out a hat on her vanity. She re-arranged the order of her dresses, hanging them on her stump and pushing things around, and when she was through with that she did the same with her shoes. After she pulled on her nightdress, she looked at her re-arranged little dressing area with the air of someone looking for a problem, and then she crawled into bed beside me. She let herself sink slowly into her pile of pillows.
"Everything organized?" I asked her, amused by Polly's funny habits.
Her voice was deeply serious. "Yes."
"Tomorrow is Ariel's birthday. Sixteen years, Polly-Wolly." I snuggled close to her, hoping to loosen up her gravity with some teasing. "Cake and ice-cream, too. What do you think of that?"
She smiled. "I think I'm happy." Her one arm wrapped around my neck, and we looked into each other's eyes in the dim lamplight. "I'm the happiest ever, Alfie, and, and I love you."
Even after twenty-one years, she could still melt my heart. "And I love you."
And, well, things got increasingly passionate after that. Polly pulled her signature "run the hand down my twisted spine" move, I kissed her little arm stump, and before long Mr. and Mrs. Fleck were in each other's arms, making love of the "here's to twenty more years, darling" variety.
When we were through, Polly lay against me, flushed and drowsily happy. I listened to her heartbeats and kissed her. This just never got old.
"Night, Alfie," she said softly, closing her eyes. "I love you."
That was the last time I ever heard her voice. The very last time.
Polly Vanishes
When I awoke, the warm sunlight was shining in my eyes and illuminating the bedroom. I yawned and stretched as much as my spine would allow. The bed felt unusually large. When I sat up, I realized why. Polly was not in it. Chuckling, I got out of bed and got dressed, just imagining what my excited wife was up to. Likely snuggling with Ariel, the birthday girl.
"Good morning, Daddy!" the girl herself sang when I crawled into the parlor.
Mrs. Beardsley had sewn Ariel a birthday dress of maroon silk with a collar of ivory lace, and made certain that the length just skimmed the tops of her shoes, just as a dress ought to fit a grown, sixteen-year old lady. In addition to the dress, Ariel had put her hair up just like something out of Charles Dana Gibson's sketches. She had never looked so demure, nor so completely ladylike.
"Happy birthday, dear!" I kissed her cheeks. "I take it your mother has seen you already?"
Her eyebrows raised. "I thought she was in the bedroom with you. I haven't seen her at all today."
It seemed as though Polly had perhaps gone to the bathroom or went to help set up the food, early as it was. I couldn't think up any other explanation. Still smiling with pride at the beauty of my beloved child, I went to go look for her mother, only to be almost immediately intercepted by Mr. Astley.
"Fleck!" he said hurriedly. "You need to come to my office. The Brooklyn police are on the phone; they say it's extremely important to speak to a Mr. Alfred Fleck."
"The police?" came Ariel's bewildered voice behind me. "What would the police want with Daddy?"
That's what I wanted to know, and so I hustled to Mr. Astley's little back office, where he kept his telephone, and upon answering it I was immediately interrogated by a sharp voice.
"This is Mr. Fleck?" inquired the policeman briskly.
"Yes."
"Mr. Fleck, your name and employer's telephone number was recovered from a card found on a Mrs. Apollonia Fleck..."
My heart leapt in recognition. Because Polly was illiterate, I always put a card with all her information in her handbags.
"Yes! Yes, she is my wife." Then I remembered that I was speaking to the police. Where had silly Polly wandered off to, that the police would be calling? "Er, where is she now, sir?"
"In the Brooklyn City Hospital. She was admitted approximately two hours ago after being struck by an automobile on Second and Main-"
"What?" I cried. "Struck by...?"
"An automobile, and her condition is very serious, sir. You must come immediately. We'll wait for you at the door."
I mindlessly nodded and spat affirmatives in a panic, and after I hung up the phone I felt numb. I had to hurry to the hospital. Polly was seriously hurt. By a car! Two hours ago. But how? Why was she in Brooklyn alone, of all places?
Mr. Astley peered at me. "What did he have to say? Anything wrong?"
"Polly's been hit by an automobile." The words sounded horrendous on my lips. "I've got to get her right away, and, and Ariel too!"
Mr. Astley hastily granted me permission to use his automobile, but I hadn't any idea how to drive, and as he himself couldn't abandon his business, I went hurrying to my fellow freaks, my heart in my throat.
"Oh, hello there, Alfred!" gurgled Mrs. Beardsley when I burst into breakfast. She set a cake down on the table, along with a whole slew of pretty decorations. Preparations for a lovely sixteenth birthday were well underway. The food from the icebox was being set up on lettuce bowls and china, and gifts were being piled in a corner.
"Good morning," greeted Mr. Y, and Mr. De Rossi waved, smiling. "Where is the birthday..."
Then he noticed my face.
Before anyone could inquire, I almost yelled, "Please! Can anyone here drive? Polly's been hit by an automobile in Brooklyn and she's very badly hurt! I have to get to the hospital..."
"Hit by an automobile?" Mrs. Beardsley gasped, and all the party set-up froze as a roomful of shocked faces turned to me. "When? How..?"
"There's no time! Please, is there anyone..."
"I can!" Mr. Y jumped up and tossed on his coat. "Where's the automobile?"
"Mr. Astley has it..."
"Right! Mr. Fleck, get Ariel. I'll get the car ready. The rest of you keep someone near the telephone. Tell Mr. Callahan there was an emergency, and tell the others."
Mr. De Rossi grabbed Mr. Y and nodded, wordlessly indicating that he was coming along too, and after hastily informing a completely bewildered Ariel, all of us hurried to the hospital, all thoughts of parties and birthdays forgotten.
Losing Polly
When we arrived, a doctor met us at the door and rapidly updated us as we hustled through tiled floors and went down harsh-scented hallways. Mr. Y and Mr. De Rossi were detained in a waiting-room.
"According to the driver and the traffic officer, she made eye contact with the officer while he was permitting pedestrians to cross, and then she looked at some shopping bags she was carrying," he informed us. "She was still a ways off. He signaled for pedestrians to stop and traffic to advance, but she was still looking at the bags and didn't stop, and walked right into the street. The automobile that struck her was still a good distance away when the officer signaled for traffic to move, so he was nearly at full speed when she walked out in front of him. He tried to swerve, but she panicked and froze, and he hit her."
The mental image was too terrible to envision. "Did any of her body parts get run over?" I asked feebly, almost not wanting to know the answer.
"No. She was facing the vehicle when it hit her," the doctor explained grimly. "It struck her in the middle and caused her to go over the bonnet, and her head hit the windshield. They braked, and she fell off and hit her head again against the pavement. That is what the eyewitnesses are telling us."
We arrived in a long, dim, shadowy hall with benches against the wall. There were many doors, many dark rooms, and in one of them was my Polly, badly injured. I had never been so afraid.
"Is..." Ariel's voice was as frail as a child's. "Is Mama very hurt, sir?"
The man closed his eyes and nodded, a gesture as pained and solemn as the death it foretold. "She has suffered catastrophic injury to the brain, not to tell of the internal bleeding, and judging by the uneven dilation of her pupils, she..."
This terrible chill swept across me. I don't remember much more of what he said, nor did I understand much of the medical terms, but I knew a hopeless situation when I heard one.
"So," I interrupted him, bracing myself for the reality I could not change, "She's going to die?"
He heaved a regretful sigh and nodded again. "We've done everything we can do for her. I don't expect she will live much longer than a few hours."
Ariel moaned and hugged me. I think the doctor patted my shoulder and said he was sorry. I don't remember. Everything faded and lost its meaning when he told me that Polly was going to die.
"Here." The doctor gently gestured to the door. "You can come and sit with her, you and your daughter. She looks bad, I must warn you."
In the plain white room, Polly lay limp and half-covered on the bed, and for a long, awful moment, Ariel and I just stared at her. She appeared as though a sudden frost had frozen her, depriving her of any flush, sinking her poor eyes into a face that was scratched and swollen where the glass had pierced her. Only her chest moved, at labored, ragged intervals, to force out a shuddering gasp of air.
Ariel went pale and grabbed hold of the doorframe. I went to steady her but she dropped, thankfully into the arms of the doctor, who led her, half-fainting, to a chair. As they attended to her with juice, I took her cold hand and kissed her forehead.
"I'll tell Mr. Y and Mr. De Rossi to take you back, Ariel." My own voice sounded frail and strange to me. "It's too much for you. It'll be a long night tonight. I'll stay here with Mama."
She grabbed me tearfully, still dizzy. "Oh, Daddy, you'll be alone. No, I can't...leave you alone!"
"I won't be alone. Mama's still here. I'll come straight home to you after..." The words stuck and burned in my throat-"Later. You need to lie down at home and take this quietly."
For a moment it seemed she would refuse, but she nodded slowly. "Okay, Daddy." She wiped her eyes and looked over at her Mama. "But let me say goodbye to her."
When she was completely able to get up, my courageous birthday girl took up her crutch and hobbled across the floor to the bed, me following behind, and once there she gently laid her head on Polly's unfeeling shoulder, but when she tried to say goodbye she cried. That is something I could never stand, seeing Ariel cry, and seeing her cry at her mother's deathbed broke my heart, like a sword piercing my soul. I just can't describe it.
At last she rose, her poor face tearstained, kissed her Mama's forehead, and I took her out to Mr. Y and Mr. De Rossi.
They rose from their seats when they saw us, questions in their eyes for only a moment. The tears in our eyes said more than words could.
I had to break the silence. "Polly," I told them, "Is dying."
Mr. Y sunk back into his chair again, but Mr. De Rossi rushed right over and wordlessly embraced the two of us, and the three of us huddled miserably together for a while.
"I can't tell you how sorry I am," said Mr. Y. He rose and came over, his face pale and stricken. "To lose her like this...I am terribly sorry, Mr. Fleck. How long does she...?"
"Not long," I managed to say. "Please take Ariel home and take care of her. I'll stay with Polly. And when...it's time for me to come home..."
"Of course," said Mr. Y, anticipating where I was going with this. "You'll telephone us, and we'll fetch you, no matter what the hour. And we'll tell the others."
The nurses put Polly's torn clothing and shopping bags in a sack so Mr. Y could take it home. Mr. De Rossi put his arm around Ariel and led her away, and after a last moment of commiseration, Mr. Y followed. I returned to Polly's room. The attending nurse was taking her pulse, and when she saw me she sadly shook her head and told me, "It's getting weaker. Her breathing is becoming labored. She hasn't got much longer now."
As it turned out, Polly lived for only a few more hours, and I did not leave her for a moment. I spent those two hours with her in that dim hospital room, reclining against her shoulder with her limp arm wrapped around me, too heartbroken to even speak. Twenty-one years ago, Polly had come into my life like an angel-a one-armed angel-and gave me the only tastes I joy I ever knew. She loved me when I didn't even love myself. She gave me a precious child and two decades of the most tender love that a poor hunchback could ever hope for, and now she was dying. I shuddered, wanting desperately to be able to cry, but I couldn't.
What was I to do? Ariel, on her birthday of all days, was going to lose her mother. And Apollo and Frances! How could I even begin to break this news to them? To say nothing of the Christmas times and birthdays and anniversaries we'd face without her, and all the unknown years ahead, two parents without their daughter, Ariel without her mother, me a widower...just like Dad was.
Dad! I still couldn't cry, but my eyes swam and burned. In that moment I felt the loss of his guidance, and was astonished at his endurance. This had happened to Dad, too, but not after twenty-one years of marriage, but nine, and Mother left him with five little sons, not a grown daughter. And then, to have more than half of those boys die, one after the other! Lying there against Polly, I couldn't even conceptualize how the man was able to get up in the morning and face the world with anything akin to peace if this was how he felt.
Of all the things I could've inherited from him, looks, disease, anything, why couldn't it have been that endurance?
"I'll just give her a shot of morphine," whispered the nurse gently. "It will make the transition calmer for her."
In went the syringe, to which Polly did not react, and almost immediately I noticed a quieting of her breaths. They were still ragged and forced, but now they were weaker, and getting weaker every minute. Her chest rose with great difficulty, then fell, over and over.
At last, at around four o' clock in the afternoon, she breathed one last rasping breath, and then exhaled, like a sigh, and was gone. I was still hugging her when it happened. When her chest fell but did not rise again, I waited, dread twisting my stomach, but it never rose again. She was perfectly, perfectly still. I rose, trembling, and looked at her. Hours ago, this frozen, battered woman that was supposed to be Polly had been making love with me last night, cooing about how wonderful it was that our daughter was going to be sixteen, excitedly discussing cake and ice-cream, calling me "Alfie". I would never hear her say that again.
Even then, I could not make a sound, but inside me I was nothing but one devastated scream, watching them declare her dead, covering her face with the blanket, writing down official documentation. I was so lost that I couldn't even remember the number to telephone for Mr. Y, and they had to get me a directory. In fact, they practically had to do everything for me. At length, I crawled numbly out of that hospital with Mr. Y, leaving Polly behind.
Polly's Sign of Love
We were almost completely silent on the drive back. All around us, outside of the car, I saw people crossing the street, reading newspapers, laughing, waving to friends, living life as gaily as they always did. They knew nothing of Polly's death. The world, by and large, would never know, and carry on as always without her, as though she had never existed at all.
"Where is Ariel?" I suddenly wanted my child desperately. "How is she?"
Mr. Y turned onto our street. "When I left her, she was with Mr. De Rossi, in your parlor." His voice lowered somberly. "I made a point to keep others away from her. She is being very brave, but she needs to be alone."
We passed through the main gate, driving very slowly around the throngs of delighted vacationers, who were entering and exiting with all sorts of giddy little parasols and picnic baskets. Men laughed as their children dashed ahead, and sneakily kissed their wives. I closed my eyes, which had begun swelling with tears, and prayed that they would all have long, beautiful marriages, and never have to feel like me.
We arrived back to find Astley's Astonishments closed and filled with all the surrounding freakshows' freaks, grieving and standing about, stunned. The men muttered solemnly amongst themselves and comforted the weeping ladies, but when I entered they broke away and hurried over to me, mourning as loudly as ever.
"Alfred dear!" Mrs. Beardsley took me to her bosom and sobbed. "Oh, Alfred! That this should happen to the two nicest people I've ever known!"
"If there's anythin' we kin do fer ya," sniffled Aggie-Ann, both pairs of eyes bleary, "You'll tell us, woncha?"
"To lose a mother on one's birthday!" Mrs. Beardsley wept on.
"We'll handle all the arrangements for you," promised Tom, his piercings quivering.
Little Mr. Geddes, who had been on the M.A.N. committee and seen Polly and I marry, stood silently, tears in his eyes, and the two Pennysworth siblings sat sadly to the side.
"Please!" said Mr. Y to everyone. "I think it is best to let the Flecks alone tonight. As for all of us, we must help them by getting arrangements in order. Come, let's do as much as we can before closing."
Back at Fleck Manor, Mr. De Rossi was still with Ariel. When I finally broke away from the mourners and crossed the familiar old threshold, they were on the couch, grieving together. What would have been Ariel's birthday cake sat on the table, cut and on two plates, along with two half-drunk cups of tea. A card lay on Ariel's lap. Polly's shopping bags lay nearby.
"Daddy!" she cried, taking up the card with tears in her eyes. "Oh, Daddy, it was...all for me!"
I hurried over to her and took her in my arms before I even ventured to ask any questions. For a while, there was nothing in my devastated world but Ariel, my big girl, my precious child, the only link I had left to Polly, and I kissed her warm little head and cherished her existence. Mr. De Rossi poured me some tea, but I didn't want it. I just sat and held Ariel. As unreasonable as it seems now, I was terrified that something might take her away too, and then I would be utterly undone.
"It was all for me, Daddy," Ariel whimpered again after some time. "The reason she was out this morning. Look at this ring!"
A ring? I wiped my eyes and looked at her hand, and upon it was the most beautiful emerald ring I'd ever seen. It was a pure, glittering green, like Ariel's eyes. It was set in silver. Mr. De Rossi gestured sadly to the shopping bags and bowed his head, trying to help explain.
"It was going to be a birthday surprise." Ariel handed me the card. "Look at what she had the man at the jewelry store write for me."
On a cheery die-cut card decorated with flowers and fruit were the elegantly written words:
Happy Birthday, Ariel!
I am so happy that you're grown-up. Sixteen years have gone by so very
fast. I can still remember when you were born because you made my
insides hurt so bad that I almost yelled. But you didn't mean to, so I
forgive you. Well Ariel I wanted this present to be a big secret, so I
sneaked away and got it. I think this ring is wonderful. I like it
because it looks like your eyes, because emeralds are green.
It makes me feel happy when I see it. I hope you will look at it
and remember how much I love you.
Love, Mama.
This final expression of Polly's unique brand of love ripped my heart in half. By the time I got to "Love, Mama", I could barely see, and when Ariel hugged me I was finally completely overcome by grief. It was the first time I ever cried in her presence. How long I did, I don't know. Time lost its relevance. All I could understand was the pain.
"Don't worry, Daddy," murmured Ariel softly. "I'll take care of you now. Boys bore me anyway, so I'll never get married and take care of you always. I love you."
I couldn't even speak, nor raise my head.
"And..." Here Ariel's voice choked-"We'll always look at this ring and remember how much Mama loved us."
Where I am now
Two years later, I'm "The Mighty Mr. Squelch", a performer in the "City of Wonders", and etween Polly's death and this tremendous promotion from freak to strongman, my life is completely changed. People seem to like me, even admire me. Any freak would die to leave their cage and enjoy the prestige I now have. I can walk, not crawl. I can claim a reasonable amount of human dignity. I can get a dish from a cabinet without having to get a step-stool and ask for help. Newspapers publish my picture. People ask me to sign their programs. Even with a recurring seizure problem, I'm something of a king as far as freaks go.
And I'm miserable.
I would never tell this to anyone, especially not Ariel, and certainly not Mr. Y, but the unadorned truth is that I would gladly-very gladly-go back to being a hunchback in a cage if only I could have Polly back. It was she, and not this fame, that brought me real joy, and now that's gone I have never felt that old joy since. All I do is wish she could share in all the fortune that has befallen me. The only thing that keeps me going is the thought that Polly is at peace in heaven, reading and enjoying a second arm and meeting all the people who have gone on before. That, and Ariel.
That was a hard night, lying down to sleep in the bed Polly and I used to share, but Ariel snuggled next to me so I wouldn't be so lonely. In fact, she still sleeps beside me to this very day. I don't have the heart to kick her out. In the days that followed, going through the pain of the wake, the funeral, the burial, the packing away of Polly's dresses and hats, the nights I couldn't do anything but weep, my precious daughter was a tremendous consolation to me. She still is. She's my little rock. Nobody can make me as happy or as miserable as she can. There is so much of Polly's love in her, and so much of her goodness, too.
Just once before I die, I'd like to do something to merit the "Mighty" in my stage name, because, frankly, I don't think I've earned it. I don't find lifting hard and don't have to train much. When people call me amazingly strong, I feel like I did when Polly used to praise me for my reading abilities. It's not hard. I don't have to try. There's no real challenge.
But if this cannot be, then I wish that I will die just like my father did, and have Polly come, her mind free from the shackles of the mental issues that plagued her so terribly, to lead me away.
(The journal stops here for now.)
NOTES FROM AUTHORESS:
1. And now you know the significance of Ariel's emerald ring. Sorry for sucking the joy out of your universe.
2. BUT BUT BUT Christine n' Gustave are comin' right up next time! And Raoul, I guess. It'll be fun. You'll like it.