Thank you for all the kind reviews. I am really enjoying writing this.
Gomez stood in front of his desk, and rearranged the neat pile of paper work in front of him for the fifth time. He was delaying and he knew the multiple reasons why. Fear, though, was the biggest one. Thing jumped up on the desk and tapped the vintage watch around his wrist, then moved the empty Scotch glass to the side – it had been the only thing that finally lulled him to sleep after his return from the airport. He looked at the watch – he was late, he should have left by now.
"I see that," he said to the pet, "Has Lurch loaded the car?"
His old friend gave a thumbs up, then jumped up on his shoulder.
"Am I a fool?"
The hand squeezed his shoulder in a resounding yes and Gomez grumbled, "I never thought I'd see the day that Morticia would leave me...but I know you did."
Thing jumped onto the dresser in the hall and handed him the fedora that had been lying there.
"Didn't you?"
Thing gave a sheepish thumbs up and Gomez groaned, "I won't even ask why, but I always knew she was too good for me."
Wednesday, a tired looking Pubert on her knee, and Pugsley were chatting quietly in the parlour as he passed by. The fire was crackling in the hearth. He stopped for a moment in the doorway. The sight tugged at his heart and the absence of his wife was palpable. Pubert looked up and then walked slowly towards him.
"You shouldn't have lied for Wednesday...mother hates liars more than anything."
Gomez felt, in that moment, smaller than he had ever felt or would ever feel. When your 6 year old child was chastising you, you knew you had truly made a complete mess.
"I know," he pulled the boy in close, ignoring the horror he felt at being roundly scolded by his own son, "That's why I am going to Paris."
"She will come back," Pugsley suddenly said into the air, as if speaking to no one, "Because, despite herself, she loves you but he is right; she hates liars. She'd like you to this the contrary, our mother, but she couldn't live without you."
All of them turned to look at Pugsley, who had an uncanny habit of speaking with extreme clarity at moments when everyone else felt lost. He often underestimated his son in that regard. He smiled at them, as best he could, and was reminded of the Tully and Dr Pinderschloss business. The fact that he had ever watched 'Sally' still made him cringe with humiliation and he had sworn to himself that he would never put his family through that sort of horror again. He stood up straight, pushed back his shoulders and smiled.
And through all of that his wife had been truly and honestly supportive.
He motioned to Wednesday with a gloved hand, "May I speak with you privately?"
She followed him out into the quiet of the hall.
"Keep an eye on your mother's conservatory," he requested quietly, "And your brothers I suppose."
She didn't say anything, merely inclined her head once. He didn't know how to ask this, but it was a genuine concern (one that had been vying for attention over the distraught thoughts that his wife may have left him) and so he puffed out a breath and said; "How are you and Lucas?"
She shrugged, "I like him more than mother likes you just now," she said it without malice. Just like her mother Wednesday only ever dealt in truths. He tried to hide from her the fact that her words had winded him.
"Not a straight answer, paloma," he laughed slightly.
"We are fine," she intoned, as if she was sharing the biggest secret she could share. Wednesday was never very animated, and he didn't expect it from her, so he placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed there. She tried a smile which in the end was more of a grimace.
" I am sorry..." She dropped her eyes to the floor, "I never thought asking you would make it like this. I thought mother would get annoyed but really -"
"Stop it," he interrupted her gently, "You have already said sorry. And if I were to explain my role, my part in it, as father and husband I would be here all day. I have a flight to catch, my little hellion."
On his way out the door, he though to himself that he should discard that affectionate nickname he had for her since the moment she first stabbed him with one of her mother' knitting needles. She wasn't so little any more, not in the metaphorical manner anyway. Wasn't that where the whole thing had stemmed from, that she wasn't so little any more?
Gomez hated flying, almost more than Morticia did. He opted for economy – because he liked the horrendous confinement and incapability – but all the way to Paris, an infant did a handsome and relentless jig on the back of his chair. He didn't mind children but then again, the only children he had had direct contact with had been his own so he supposed that didn't count. He preferred liners because they were more dangerous and likely to flounder. If you looked at the odds (which, as any well traveled man should have, he had done) it was clear that in the grand scheme of things this was a safer method and less peril meant less fun.
He dipped his head lightly and attempted to get some sleep. He had been awake all night, their bed too big and their room to empty. That was the wonder of Morticia – she took up very little space, yet she invaded everything and all that he was. He thought of the night he first saw her, gliding across the ground as a spirit, her head tilted towards the moon as she weaved within the tombstones of his relatives. The light had shone across her skin in an almost undignified manner, making grey the velvet of her cloak. She tipped her face towards him, a whisper of a smile on blood red lips.
"Hello Mr Addams."
And time itself made a fool of him in that moment, from those unalterable words – as if she had waited on him forever. His world, so secure until that moment, tipped from its axis into a universe of unknown pleasure and pain. He relished in her, he relished in everything she was. He could still feel the damp earth against his knees as he fell to the ground before her. And her pale hand proffered to his lips, thought it was not submission, for to wordlessly kiss the pale skin there.
He shifted in his seat, signaled to the hostess to bring him another drink, and thought about her unbelievably pale skin. The smell of damp earth and bitter almonds that rose from it, bled onto the sheets that they shared, rested within the folds of her clothes. He could have tasted it forever and never be sated. He thought of the contrasting black leather of a whip against this skin; how rare an occurrence that was but when it did occur he could barely manage himself.
"Cara mia," he whispered, barely audible under his breath, "Cara mia, what have I done?"
There was no answer and he wondered, indeed, if there ever would be.
Rain glistened on the streets of Paris and with no Lurch to drive him, he hailed a taxi.
"L'hotel Montmatre, s'il vous plaît?"
The driver gave him a quizzical look, then nodded.
They had honeymooned here, based in that hotel, and when they had toured around Europe a number of years ago, they had booked the suite in between Berlin and Zurich. It was decorated similar to their home and, dark and dusty, had become something of a nostalgic conversation that often sprung up between them thereafter.
What a wondrous honeymoon it had been. He had walked through it as if in a dream, the only thing he touched and felt was her. He had spoiled her because with her he was spoiled. She had returned expecting their first child, their little Wednesday and after that life had flowed like innumerable, beautiful paintings. A series of illustrious drawings and snapshots. 'An Addams' Progress'.
He was delightfully contented with his life – he always had been. He had more money than he could spend in his life-time, and the building of his empire was more of a hobby than a necessity. He took great pleasure in the mundane, everyday raising of children and the chores that he was led to believe other men found troublesome. He liked playing with them and teaching them how to sword fight, reading them a bed time story like 'Titus Andronicus' and 'Macbeth'. He didn't mind parent teacher conferences or writing cheques for gifts and parties. And he did it all with the commitment and verve that he possessed, simply because he knew no other way.
And then there was his marriage – complicated and uncomplicated at the same time, but never difficult. He had never found his marriage a chore. It had never caused him any strife, or forced him to work. It was so effortlessly wonderful to be married to a woman who was, in every way, his equal.
She had never, ever asked him for anything. He could think of no one circumstance where she has asked for any more than his honestly. She had never asked for satisfaction, she had never asked for gifts of jewels, she had never asked him for money – he had given her it all without her ever asking. The only promise she had ever requested of him was his unfailing honesty – that he had broken . He had never stopped to consider this very fact. Not once had Morticia made a request of him that was unfair, yet the requests that she had made only bettered his life. Do it again, mon amour? But the flail, I prefer, Gomez? Will you love me forever?
He had flourished her with gifts and with toys, with furs and diamonds. Not once had she asked for any of that. He had failed to deliver the one thing she needed. After many years of marriage, he had risen from his position at her feet, where he so belonged, and looked her in the face. A stupid, foolish mistake.
He let his head fall back onto the pillow and stared at the yellowing, molded cornucopias that adorned the ceiling. The room was cool and damp, and it reminded him of home. He had asked if a Madame Addams was staying here but they had refused to tell him. He was both impressed by their dedication to privacy and irritated in equal measure because his inclination had been that she would have come here, if anywhere. She could be two doors down, or two blocks away or 2 thousand miles. If he had to spend his entire life looking for her, he really wouldn't have minded. He would have scoured the very earth for her, if only to hold her in his arms, to have her make her gentle requests from that delightful tongue, to taste the dry sparks of electricity on her skin. And to apologise, to apologise so very much for his mistake.
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