Chapter Twenty Six

Long White Veil

Miss Fleck's fingers fairly flew over the envelope, and when she pulled out the letter, which was stiff and creased with age, her heart fluttered into throat. That elegant handwriting! There it was, curling and dancing in lines and paragraphs, just for her, a message from beyond the grave. The scent of old roses and paper still lingered it. She closed her eyes. If the scene hadn't been so different, she might have been eighteen years old again.

She was only dimly aware of Mr. Whittington's hand on her back.

"Are you alright, Ariel?" he asked. "I can read it to you, if you want."

The mere sight of "Dear Ms. Fleck" written in her Master's hand had stirred up emotions almost too strong for the already overwrought freak to take, and so Mr. Whittington took the letter and read it aloud, slowly.

May 15th, 1916

Dear Ms. Fleck,

I cannot know where, when, or in what state you are receiving this letter, but I hope you are well and very humbly offer my greeting. I may as well begin by confessing that I do indeed have a tremendous amount of things to explain, answer, and apologize for, and I begin by admitting how very much I have wronged you and everyone who ever worked with me.

I was never honest with you, I'm afraid, neither about my past nor in my dealings with you, and for this apologize. As you likely know by now, I destroyed Phantasma myself, and took Gustave with me, the morning after Christine was shot. It was a knee-jerk, frightened, possibly insane move on my part, but one that I had always planned for in case of a crisis, and in my grief-stricken state all I wanted was to wipe the slate clean and move on.

What such a decision would mean to you and the others, I did not contemplate at the time. I actually remember very little of it; Gustave has had to fill in the blanks for me. The breakthrough came once the two of us found refuge in England, and I realized that Gustave was wearing your mother's ring. He had never told me until that moment, and I hadn't noticed, but when I saw this sweet gesture of sacrifice I was shaken to the core. Even until the very last day, you were nothing but loyal. Forgive me, please, for never truly seeing it.

From that point on I always wondered about you, your father, and the others. Where had you gone? What were you doing? What were you feeling, having been abruptly deprived of everything by one who ought to have rewarded you instead? And the years wore on. I thought of you whenever I saw the ring, or tasted honey (I remember the baklava yet), or put things in order, or played certain tunes. Soon, strange as it seems, your face came to represent all of the freaks, as a flag represents a country. Miss Fleck, somewhere, and how I longed to make amends.

I remembered, of all things, your confidence in a better day, an ultimate better day. You showed me only a bit of it, that day in the hot air balloon, but I have never forgotten. At the time, I thought you naïve. It takes a tragedy, I've discovered, to induce a man to think on these weightier things, and I suppose you'll be pleased to know that pondering them has helped me. Perhaps I will yet be vindicated. At the very least, I hope to behold the spectacle of your mother with two arms.

I have written this letter in the hopes that one day it will find you, through someone I can trust to deliver it, and with it I have included a mere tenth of what your years of loyalty have earned.

If I never see you again, my dear Miss Fleck, I was truly privileged to have known you.

Sincerely, Erik ("Mr. Y")

Silence reigned as the letter was placed upon the coffee table, interrupted only Miss Fleck's small, stifled hiccups of emotion. Quite affected himself, Mr. Whittington sat back and patted her.

"I'm fine," she insisted, ending her brief cry with a deep breath. "It's a lot to take, that's all. Very final, but sweet. And I helped him. I'm so glad I was able to help him. That's what I was meant to do, I think. Perhaps I'd confused it for the wrong sort of love."

"Hmm?"

"It's like this." Wiping her eyes, she took up the wrapped mask again. "Love is when you want to do right by someone, not for your own good but theirs. That's what I always wanted to do for Mr. Y, in return for his helping me. I was young then. I mistook it for romance. But love doesn't have to be romantic to be real." She brought the mask to her lips again. "It's likely the strongest of all, because there's nothing in it for you, not at all, except to glory in their happiness."

"The greatest joy is to give and not receive?" Mr. Whittington took a stab at summarizing it.

Miss Fleck nodded and tenderly wrapped the mask again, with the air of someone looking upon an old beloved photograph. "Yes. Our love is complete now, Mr. Y's and mine. I'm going to tell him that, after I die."

All that remained was Mr. Y's gift, the big envelope, within which was a cigar box. On the front was another note, much shorter:

To Ms. Fleck, for her years of service, from her former employer.

"But it doesn't feel like cigars," mused Miss Fleck. "Only thing to do is open it…"

And when she did, she froze for a moment in disbelief, and then she shrieked. Mr. Whittington leapt to his feet, equally amazed.

For in the cigar box were bound stacks of one-hundred dollar bills.

Miss Fleck picked them up, bunch after bunch, the color draining from her cheeks, her eyes wild with disbelief. "This…this can't…"

"Count them!" cried Mr. Whittington. "How many are in a stack, and then how many stacks in all!"

When all the mathematics were worked out and the sum was calculated twice, the number almost floored Miss Fleck. Ten thousand dollars. (equivalent to 200k today)

"Ten thousand dollars." She just stared at it, tears welling in her eyes. "He's given me ten thousand dollars, Jay, ten thousand! Oh, this is more than enough for Gregory and me to be settled for a good long while. Why, we're practically rich! I can't believe it…"

Mr. Whittington slapped his knee and laughed. "Ha! I'll tell you what! That's just like Father, to…"

The word hung in the air, as shocking as any swear word. The jubilation came to screeching halt. There was silence. Mr. Whittington trailed off, froze, swallowed, and said no more. Ariel rose to her feet, eyes widening.

"You finish what you were going to say this instant," she demanded hoarsely. "Just like who to what?"

He laughed softly at himself and looked to his companion with a gentle, embarrassed smile. "What a time for an expert like me to muck up my lines, eh?"

'Miss Raven' stumbled back around the couch, flabbergasted, jaw dropping. "You…are not… I don't believe…"

But 'Mr. Whittington' silently reached into his pocket, and from it he drew an emerald ring that Miss Fleck thought she'd never see again.

"I never forgot you, Miss Raven."

"No! I…don't…"

"Am I going to have to start reciting 'The Raven'?"

Astounded, teary green eyes were reflected in that old emerald for a long moment, and then Miss Fleck ran to her little poetry buddy-now a grown man-and embraced him again.

"I should have…" she sobbed, "Should have known… by the way you knew so much of Mr. Y…oh, Gustave! You were a little boy then, and…look at you! A grown man, and I'm an ugly old hag."

"You are perfectly lovely," Gustave contradicted gently, hugging her. "Every bit as lovely as you were in 1907. You don't seem as tall, though."

"Why…have you lied? All this time, I thought you were Jay Whittington…"

"I lied because I wanted to know the whole truth, ironic as it seems. I knew that if you knew I was truly Mr. Y's son, there would be aspects of your story that you'd gloss over, not be completely truthful about, to spare my feelings."

"Were you ever going to tell me your true identity?"

"Yes," Gustave chuckled. "But the shock of seeing all that money made me slip up. Father would've been disappointed."

Miss Fleck reeled at hearing him call Mr. Y 'father', and with the return of her senses came a slew of questions. "So you didn't die in an air strike. You were away, as you said, but not as Jay Whittington, but as Gustave."

"Correct."

Sadness settled over them as the reality of this truth sank in.

"Losing him was terrible," Gustave said.

"I can only imagine." Miss Fleck lifted her face from his jacket and looked into his eyes. "Oh, Gustave, how did you ever get by? How did you get to America?"

"Father always kept money and valuables in the basement, so they survived the air strike; I was able to live off that. When it began to run out, I played piano and saxophone wherever I could. People liked me." He smiled. "I had the greatest teacher."

"Yes. You really did. Oh, but Gustave, why… I mean, are you actually writing a book? Or was that a cover? He entrusted you with that letter to me, didn't he?"

"He did. Truth is, he always wanted to find everyone from Phantasma, but he never could, so I sort of picked up the torch. There were questions about the past that I knew only you people could answer, and I did want to see father's dream fulfilled. As for the book…I could write one. I've certainly got a lot of material."

Their eyes drifted to the pile of notes for a while. It was practically enough to write a novel.

"I found you almost by accident, you know," Gustave told her. "I was in the Gypsy Café with Rodger, and as fate would have it, I heard that song about you. Ariel Fleck, he said your name was, and I almost jumped out of my chair. And then, to have Rodger tell me that he passed you every day…to think!"

"To think," Miss Fleck added, with an almost petrified little laugh, "That I told Mr. Y's son that I would shove my crutch up his ass if he didn't get away from me. Good Lord."

"I do have to admit you had me worried. It had been fifteen years, after all, and I wondered if time had perhaps spoiled my dear Miss Raven, made her bitter." He kissed her cheek. "It didn't.

She sniffled. "And you're every bit as darling as you were back then, too."

"Glad to hear it." He looked from the money to the world outside, and his face illuminated with a glee comparable to Mr. Y in a creative fervor. "Now, if I'm not mistaken, Miss Raven, we've got a wedding to plan and all your old pals to invite."

All her old pals? Ariel demanded an explanation at once, and Gustave was pleased to tell her that she and Gregory were the last freaks he'd found. Over the years, he'd found and helped the rest. He had all their addresses.

Before the week was out, the apartment was filled with all of Phantasma's freaks, except for Gregory, and of course, the long-deceased Mr. Fleck. Ariel received them all into her arms again: she cried as she kissed Genevieve, shook hands with ancient Mr. Geddes, hugged Aggie-Ann, and went to each old friend. It was like a dream. Together, they all pitched in and prepared for the long-delayed De Rossi wedding.

The only person not in the know was Gregory De Rossi himself!

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Gregory did not sleep the night before he was to be released. He lay down on his cot for what he knew was going to be the last time and trembled, sheer anticipation making his heart pound, wanting desperately for time to go faster. He was going to hug Ariel again, marry her! It had been years, so many long, anxious, heartbreaking years, but at long last he felt truly alive again, changed, ready to be everything he knew he ought to be. During his final interview, Mr. Whittington told him that Ariel wanted to surprise him, and that he would take him to his apartment to see her. Every minute, she had a surprise; that was just the kind of girl Ariel was.

Morning dawned upon a man ready to leave. Even before the sun had risen, Gregory had dressed meticulously in a suit he'd been saving for years, shaved with utmost care, and agonized over what fifteen years had done to his appearance. Ariel, of course, knew exactly what he looked like, but he couldn't resist mourning the ever-increasing crop of gray hairs. Where had his youth gone? Forty-seven. Over the hill.

Papers were signed, prisoners cheered and slapped his back as he was led out the door to the waiting Mr. Whittington, and as he descended the steps of the prison and walked into Brooklyn again, he breathed deeply. He was free. Then his desire for Ariel leapt up in his breast like a licking flame.

"Take me right to her," he told Mr. Whittington, as though he had been originally planning to stop at the grocery store. "How is she?"

"Beside herself with excitement. Come, this way."

It was a ten-minute walk to the apartment. When Mr. Whittington pushed the door open, he was almost overwrought with anxiety, and when he stepped over the threshold his heart pounded so furiously that he was dizzy, knowing that any moment she would appear, and run into his arms again…

There she was, at the window, where she'd been rocking in a chair, and the sight of her transfixed him. From head to toe, she was dressed in white. The mannequin at Celine's Bridal Salon was empty. The dress and veil of lace now adorned Ariel, who perfected their beauty and infused it with her own lovely spirit, and when she rose, trembling, to her feet, he couldn't move, nor speak.

There was no glass to separate them, nothing between them but air. He couldn't move, but she did. Slowly at first, then faster, and all at once the distance between them was bridged; letting out a cry of joy, Ariel ran to him, and then she was in his arms again, and he was in hers, and her lips were pressing against his neck, and he was kissing her little head. Tears bubbled out of each eye and kept falling; he couldn't help it. Fifteen years of crushing fear lifted its wings and flew away, and the reunited lovers became aware of nothing but the other.

"Oh, Gregory dear," wept Ariel, marveling at the sound of her fiancé's heartbeat, so close to her at last, "You're just as I remember."

With his voice trumpet tossed uselessly over his shoulder, Gregory couldn't speak, nor would he have been able find the right words anyway. At long, long last, they were together, and the world was all a song.

Gustave stepped out of the room, smiling happily, to allow the reunited lovers to have their moment, which lasted for a long time. After hugging, they sat down on the old red couch together, reclining on each other, drying the other's tears, and quietly basking in the wonder of it all.

"Ariel," Gregory was finally able to say, murmuring it softly into her hair, "I dreamed of hugging you like this every night, when I had to sleep all by myself, and now, here we are. Ah, I love you so much."

"I love you too."

At this moment, Gustave re-entered the room with tea on a tray.

Gregory lifted his head and looked at him. "And you, Mr. Whittington," he said gratefully, "Helped this all to come true. Thank you, thank you; I cannot ever repay you."

Ariel exchanged a little look with Gustave, and then patted her soon-to-be-husband. "I think you mean 'Mr. G', dear."

"Eh? His name is Mr. G? Not Whittington?"

Gustave sat beside him. "Forgive me, sir, for concealing my identity from you for all this time." He extended his hand. "Allow me to re-introduce myself. My name is Gustave De Chagny, son of Mr. Y."

"Cosa?" cried Gregory, leaping up out of his seat, shocked out of English. "Come puo essere?"

"He says: What? How can this be?" translated Ariel serenely.

Gregory's eyes darted wildly from Ariel to Gustave, but settled at last upon the latter. "You…" he sputtered. "That little boy. After all these years. Gustave!"

Ever the interrogator, Gregory spent a solid half-hour demanding specifics and answers, until at last he sunk back beside Ariel, smiling the smile of a thoroughly amazed man.

"Little Gustave, now a grown man," he marveled. "And with a secret identity, just like his father! And the others! All these years!"

"There's more, dear, if you can even believe it." Ariel showed him her hand, with the beloved emerald ring. "Look at what we have for a wedding ring again."

"Your Mama's ring! Ah, Ariel, you got it back from him, how wonderful!"

"That's not even the best part. The two of us have been given a tremendous wedding gift from Mr. Y himself. He'd been intending to give it to us for years…"

Gregory's scream of amazement was loud enough to momentarily halt the outside traffic.

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That evening, in the presence of God, Gustave, Rodger, Bernice, and all their old friends, Gregory De Rossi and Ariel Fleck were married. The wedding took place in a humble but beautifully decorated little church not far from the Gypsy Café, and the small assembly gathered there to witness the mystical covenant was the happiest anyone ever saw.

"Oh!" Pink-clad Bernice was heard to whisper feelingly. "Look at them, Rog! Isn't this all so romantic?"

But she was sternly hushed, for the vows were being spoken. The emotional couple promised their love and devotion, said 'I do', sealed it with a kiss, and then they went prancing down the aisle as everyone flung rice, flowers, and just about anything they could grab at them, and away everyone went to the Gypsy Café for the reception party.

Bernice and Gustave had outdone themselves with both decorations and food: the interior resembled a charming Italian festival, with big bowls of roses, vines on the pillars, lights on the ceiling, a big white wedding cake, and a whole table of Italian food, the like of which almost made Gregory explode with joy upon seeing it.

"Christ!" he cried, as he looked from his wife to the lasagna, almost unable to process all the joy. "I'm so happy!"

Aggie-Ann, though mellowed with age, could not resist cocking their eyebrows at this breach of propriety.

Gregory noticed. "I am not swearing, Aggie-Ann," he was pleased to clarify. "I am actually addressing the man Himself. Like a prayer, see?"

"Ah do see." Aggie-Ann's faces creased pleasantly. "You shore do got blessins t' count."

"Yes ,yes! I have Ariel, all of you, this money to help us get started. Come! Now we celebrate!"

And celebrate they did. Mr. and Mrs. De Rossi cut their cake and stuffed each other's faces, ate the best food they'd had in years, accepted gifts, and even had a go at learning "The Charleston" from Bernice. The greatest part of the evening, however, was the fact that they were together. The hours fairly flew.

"Eleven o' clock," sighed Ariel, looking like a tired white rose. "Oh, Gregory, this is the best day I've ever had."

He kissed her, but one hand went down her belly and suggestively stroked her thigh. "And now it is night."

Ariel got the message, but could not resist teasing. "Ah, yes. Night," she agreed. "Today was our wedding, but the day is over, and now it is our 'wedding night'. Mmm-hmm. Indeed. And apparently, the customary thing to do is…"

He raised his eyebrows cheekily.

"…is to play chess." Ariel sat down at a nearby table and crossed one leg politely over the other. "So there."

But Gregory would not be put off by teasing. "Ah, chess?" he purred, bringing his cheek up to her own. "Mmm, I capture your Queen? Or better yet, you capture my King?"

A wild giggle shook in her throat, but she kept on. "I hear they do whale-watching now, over in Coney, now there's a fine activity…"

"Whale-watching? You really want the whales watching? Tu sei una donna interessante."

At last it was too much for even Ariel to take, and she burrowed into Gregory's jacket, beside herself with exhilaration and lust. "Oh, Gregory dear, you're too much," she breathed. "Let's get the hell out of here."

The newlyweds decided to sneakily beat the rice-throwers; only Bernice was made wise to the fact, and she held her tongue, giggling naughtily, as she hustled them out a side door.

"When am I allowed to tell 'em?" she laughed. "They might get worried."

Ariel put her crown of flowers on Bernice's head and kissed her. "When we're good and gone, Bernie. Good night!"

Bernice patted her new crown in delighted surprise. "Good night!" she bubbled.

Before a soul could even notice that they'd gone, Ariel and Gregory were heading down 5th Avenue in a cab, cackling over their brilliant escape and warming each other up with all the kisses they had missed for fifteen years. By the time they arrived at the hotel, it had progressed to something of a battle; the driver might have complained, but as they were obviously newlyweds, he held his tongue, chuckling, and was ultimately rewarded with a fine tip.

In they went, and as fate would have it, the old black man who had written "Long Black Veil" was sitting in the lobby with a coffee. He looked up from his paper and smiled at the lovely bride, but did not recognize her as the crazy Miss Fleck from his song.

"We 'ave come to check in," Gregory told the desk clerk.

"Yes, sir. The reservation is under what name?"

Ariel piped up first. "Gregory De Rossi and Ariel Fleck…I mean De Rossi!" She laughed. "Oh my, that'll take some getting used to!"

"I'll fetch the key," said the clerk, and went into a back-room.

The old black man jumped a bit in surprise. Ariel Fleck? It couldn't be. Why, she had been a mess not more than a month ago, drinking and smoking, wandering about in a black veil, and now…it was white, trailing behind her in swirls of lace. She was a bride!

"Is that really you indeed, Miz A-E-riel?" he asked in disbelief, unable to hold his tongue.

She blinked in surprise and met his eye. "I should think so. Wait. You're…that man who wrote that song about me."

Gregory frowned. "Eh?"

"It was a lovely song, dear, don't get flustered." Ariel approached the songwriter in all her white finery, smiled, and put her long white veil into his hands. "And I shall expect you to write a sequel song."

The clerk returned with the key to the De Rossi bridal suite, and so no more was said. Away the bride and groom went, hand in hand, leaving the old black man speechless, staring at the lace draped in his hands.

Bernice was just admitting their escape to the groaning partygoers as Gregory scooped his beautiful Ariel up in his arms, carried her through their door, and kicked it shut.

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Just as a starving soul finds any little thing sweet, so Ariel and Gregory found even the slightest feeling of skin touching skin to be ineffably divine, and after their marriage was duly consummated they lay against each other, warm and amazed. Fifteen years of loneliness were over. They had lost so much time, but now they would begin to make it up.

Ariel wiped her tears away and nuzzled into the warmth of her husband's chest. Making love always made her emotional; she couldn't help it. "I'm so very happy, dear," she murmured.

With his voice trumpet on the desk, Gregory couldn't speak, but he ran his fingers through his wife's little head of curls and let his touches tell her of his happiness.

Joy lay in store for them, but with sorrow enough to remind them to cherish it. In the days ahead, they would visit Alf, Polly, and Baby's grave, for Ariel wanted to lay her bridal bouquet on it. In Halifax there was the shared grave of Giovanni and Maria. There would be wars, depressions, uncertain times, but the joy would come in rich, wonderful blossoms, like roses among thorns. There would be the babies, at whose birth their father would always cry, there would be the grandchildren, there would be Gustave, and all their friends, and for a good many years, Gregory and Ariel would have each other.

"We called it the City of Wonders back then," Ariel continued to muse, her husband's touches beginning to make her giddy with pleasure again, "But just us, here… I think it is even better."

My City of Wonders,(Gregory mouthed silently, as he had done so many times, so long ago) is wherever you are, mia bella signora.

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By the way, the old black man, thoroughly inspired, did see fit to write a sequel to "Long Black Veil". Whether Ariel ultimately did receive royalties for it the world may never know, but the lyrics were undoubtedly an improvement. There are few things as charming as a happy ending, and even before the last grain of the De Rossi wedding rice was swept away, the song made its debut, to a great sensation.

And she walks these streets in a long white ve-e-e-eil

Dressed like a queen from some fairyta-a-ale

Singin' God only knows.

God only sees.

There's so much left for me-e-e-e.

The End

FINAL NOTES FROM YOUR EXHAUSTED AUTHORESS

A tremendous thank you to all who have read, supported, and reviewed this whopper of a story (200k words, peeps!) is due. Thank you! :D

I sort of alluded to the fact that Ariel and Gregory have children. In case you're curious, they ultimately have three. The first two are twins: Vivienne Regina and Alfred Vittorio, and the last is a girl called Stella Ann. Ariel even lives to see a great-granddaughter who is also named Ariel.

There's a cutesy wedding illustration over at my deviant art (littlelivewire), if you want to have a look-sie.

In the days ahead, I'll likely put out a one-shot called "Borrowed Dress" that I wrote a year ago, while concocting this plot. It was an element of the (very different) story that was ultimately dropped, a rather dark "romantic" scene involving Ariel and Mr. Y.

THANKS AGAIN!