Traveling north on 95 for nearly an hour, with a short detour up the coast, then inland for a while, finally we’re circling the two meter high stone walls that ensconce my family’s gothic property. Just overhanging every inch of the perimeter wall are living topiaries shaped like animals. Like bears, doves, T-Rex, dogs, cats, bats, dragons, and people hand in hand like families do. Halcyon is still pruning and maintaining the property though no one in our family has lived there since even before dad died. I haven’t been inside since my favorite boy’s funeral. Though I’m the oldest, Bradford was supposed to take it over, but you all know how that went. Well, not all of it, but it’s all mine now anyways.
Brendan’s been unwavering the whole time not saying a word. Didn’t even ask to pee or get out. He watches the fence fly by like a film on a reel, and in the rear view mirror, his little smile’s gone all uneasy now. Even he’s leaning over the seat next to him to see the bright candle lights in the windows like a 19th century carnival. Next to him on the seat are two crumpled McDonald’s cheeseburger wrappers and three uneaten ones. Half a melted shake in the cup holder. Didn’t drop any crumbs, or fries, or stain his pants, or get any ketchup on his face. Had to hand it to him, he’s a good kid.
Pulling up to the wrought iron gate and opening the window and reaching out I palm the lock and like an old sci-fi movie a light reader scans and reads, ‘phase one complete,’ then, ‘please look at the light.’ I do it. it reads, ‘phase two complete,’ then reads, ‘please say the phrase: the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.’
I do it, then it reads, ‘phase three complete.’
Then on the creaking gate opening like a tomb, an AI voice says, “welcome home, dear Tabitha,” then, “sorry for your loss.”
First order of business of course is to free the captive staff. Give them stipends so they can live like kings and queens in Aruba or wherever. They can scatter like ball bearings once they hear the news of moms death. Imagine Halcyon living it up in some small northern Scotland town no one’s ever heard of. Picture him settling down in the countryside with a kettle on the fire and lots of expensive whiskey until the end of his life.
Second order is to get us all settled in for at least one night. It’s late and neither I nor Jeffrey wants to drive back. Welp, we’ve got 12,000 square feet to choose from. 16 haunted rooms. Six creepy bathrooms. Two butcher and baker sized kitchens, one on each floor. A cellar filled with decrepit wine turned all vinegar sometime when the internet was invented. An empty stable. An empty barn. A ghostly ballroom with vaunted ceilings. All of this to say we’ll probably camp out in a first floor guest room.
Third is, well… I haven’t gotten that far. Seems to me there’s other things to be done, but with my drooping eyes and road brain I can’t think of what they are. A lack of responsibilities can train the mind to go haywire. Of course, it’s been my and Jeffrey’s life story. Trying to find things to do when you don’t have to do anything. Suppose that’s why I brought the boy to tag along. Now we’re responsible for him and it wasn’t our fault that he was brought into this world. However, he’s here now, and we can lessen his suffering. Besides, it’s not as if I’m gonna have a baby anytime soon or anything.
Pulling up around the marble siren fountain with Poseidon at the top, and peeing putti at his feet, I park the car in front of the double oaken front door and breathe a sigh of relief. Even all Chris Hemsworth, stacked like a mountain of muscle Jeff looks like he could drop. Unimpressed, his eyes don’t widen or even adjust at the stories tall spires and towers above the sculpted animals. Seen it all before. Shoulders sagging, head slumped to one side he looks to me and snorts at the big house.
Though gaping at the cathedral, Brendan’s eyes are bloodshot, his breathing slowed. The more I study him the more I realize he’s less a skeptical 15 year old with pre stubble who wouldn’t dare get in a car with strangers like us, and more like a too-trusting 12 year old who wears shoes without socks. Either that, or years of malnutrition, drinking coffee, and smoking cigarettes, stunted his growth. He’d said he had no addictions, but his yellowed teeth say otherwise. Yawning a few times, he’s like an innocent about to fake sleep to be carried inside by an unsuspecting parent.
Halcyon’s the only one who ever did that for me, and it was beautiful.
As if summoned by my thoughts, the oaken front door swings open on its hinges, and the elderly man saunters out in his butler suit. His arched back looking like a Shepard’s staff. In his hand is a lit antique oil lantern. Before you think we’ve somehow time traveled, just know that even though my parents attended summer camp for billionaires with Mark Zuckerberg and Bill Gates, they were in fact incredibly cheap when it came to staff care. Mom insisted that no matter the weather the heat should never be turned up past 62° to keep the pipes from freezing.
Brendan says, “is this where you sacrifice me to Satan in a blood ritual?”
Turning, Jeff says, “no. Those are done in the woods,” then, “never shit where you eat my mother used to say.”
Shuffling to the car with his bathrobe clutched tightly shut, the old man leans down, and his squinting eyes soften at the sight of me. Like as if he always knew what I’d look like if I tried a little harder. Then his eyes shift to the ground like he’d always known what I’d look like when the time came. Before I can open the door, as if recalling a duty I’d never cared for, he reaches out and opens it for me.
Wheezing he says, “miss Tabitha. It’s been so long. Shall I prepare your room.” Eyeing the accompanying man and boy, he says, “several rooms?”
Stepping out on numb legs, with mother’s manilla envelope in hand, I say, “mother’s dead you know.”
Looking up at me he says, “I heard. Her ashes will be here tomorrow for us to spread.” Before long the little smile on his unshaven face breaks, turning into a breathless laugh, he sets down the lantern and backs away from me. Inasmuch as he could, being all warped and twisted by arthritis, he hops for joy, spins about, says, “yippie! I lived to see the wicked witch dead!”
I giggle, ask, “why haven’t you run away?” The old man stops his spinning, dizzied, and almost falls, I catch him, and steady him.
His job was merely custodial, but he stayed anyway. Stayed all along to tend empty rooms, polish silver, dust books and spray them to keep away the silverfish, to tap rugs free of gravel, to guard gaudy pieces of art, prune branches, and draw drapes and close them.
In my arms he says, “my duty to you, darling. To ferry you safely to the next part of your life.”
I set him down on is feet and it’s a wonder he doesn’t float away. He’s light as a bag of Walmart bags. Going to the car, he rounds it, and opens the door for Jeffrey and Brendan.
“Thank you,” Jeff says, and smooths out his tie and shirt and pants, then leans to the seat, and helps Brenden out.
Standing, hand in hand with Jeff, Brendan surveys the three stories with overarching gargoyles. The trellises crawling with ivy. The thorny rose bushes. What seems like endless rooms from ground to starry sky and horizon to horizon, turns to Brendan, asks, “are you like… Batman?”
Jeff says, “this is her house, not mine.” Brendan looks at me and says nothing. Apparently, I couldn’t be Batgirl even with how sleek I look.
Though elderly and decrepit, Halcyon’s already at the front door holding it open for us with one hand and lighting the way with the other. In we go to the landing at the great spilling staircase and the door groans closed behind us and booms shut like a tomb. I expect a troop of servants to flurry from all corners of the house but after three minutes of us clopping our heels on granite floors, and smelling must, it’s still just Halcyon.
Not that I’m upset or even surprised, turning to Hal I ask, “where is everyone?”
“We decommissioned them with master Bradford, remember?” he coughs into the crook of his arm for a long time, says, “it’s just me and Layla.” That’s his wife. Then he says, “and sometimes Martha does the windows. You remember Martha with the scoliosis?”
I nodded but didn’t remember any of it and felt horrible. Would have to find out where she lives and send her a windfall check too. Handing Halcyon the envelope he takes it with a wry smile. Doesn’t open it. Just puts it under his arm and goes to Brendan and looms looking him over. After a minute or so staring and Brendan staring back, with the contest lost the boy looks away.
Hal says, “go ahead. I know what you want to do.”
Looking to me and Jeff for confirmation we both nod.
Taking in a breath and turning is face up to the vaunted ceiling and chandelier, Brendan shouts, “AH!” and it echoes off some million corners, angles, nooks, and crannies then dies. “AHHH!” Stalking around the room Brendan shouts and laughs and cackles. Halcyon is filled with delight like he’s become a boy again.
All British Halcyon shouts, “SHIT!” Then, “FUCK!” Then, “SLIME!” Then, “MUCK!” Then, COCKSUCKER!” Then, “MOTHERFUCKER!”
“Suck my dick!” Brendan shouts and covers his mouth in an odd act of propriety.
To me Hal says, lifting Brendan’s chin, “I see you’ve gotten to work already.”
What does Hal know? Probably everything. Probably even has Magnanimous book around here somewhere. Not within my periphery, but on his nightstand advising him of the good news or supposed truth that all such books contain. One day things will be better, for you, for me, for all of us. But what exactly we were supposed to do with Brendan other than make his life better, I’ve no idea. Hal’s old eyes roll around in their sockets appraising Brendan like the marbling on a roast or firmness of a melon, then runs his fingers through his hair, roughs his shoulder, and flatly holds out his hand for the boy to shake, which Brendan does and in the momentary exchange, Hal turns the soft hand to inspect his nails. Turns his hand over palm up, runs his index across Bren’s lifeline says, “your hands and nails are filthy,” then, “you’re fourteen in July.” Brendan yanks his hand away and shakes his head to which my old friend laughs, says, “maybe not exactly, but close enough.”
The boy says, “if you guys are going to kill me just, please do it quick. All this waiting is scaring me, and I’ve heard that terror taints human meat.”
Hal says, “quite right young man, let’s get you clean, fat, and happy before the kill.” Looking up inasmuch as he could, Hal points to the top of the stairs, to Brendan says, “would you like to ride down the banister?”
“No.”
“How ‘bout a shower?” I ask.
Haven’t talked much about my dad but here goes. The man prided himself on his sadism. Not just towards us kids, but also for his servants, guests, and even his wife and mistresses and strangers alike. He’d laugh at a baby dying of cancer. Like Scrooge MacDuck, he was given to tethering money on strings and walking through lower class towns while yanking the bills away from hungry hands. Driving his Duesenberg drunk around left and right political rallies with a megaphone shouting who was really in control. That kind of thing.
Jeff and I are in the kitchen. Nibbling fried fatback at the butchers block we can hear every echo and footstep throughout the Big House. There’s only the four of us giving it soul, maybe even breathing new life into it. Eyeing each other and looking away and breaking curious awkward smiles back and forth we’re in that liminal space where you’re too tired to sleep. There’s a listless feeling under my skin. All the good we’ll do after mom’s buried.
When we buried Dad up in the private cemetery some years back along with roughhewn diamonds plucked from the hands of starving Africans and a pile of ancient Mesopotamian coins, he’d requested to be buried with twelve living male and female virgins, to take into the afterlife like some Egyptian Pharaoh. Along with these he’d demanded thirty robust servants, and artisans, and courtesans to teach the virgins how to do the work of pleasing him. Mother didn’t entertain this. She may have been a wand wielding cunt, but if anyone hated him more than us, it was her.
Before I forget I text Alicia to tell her about my mother and how I won’t be in for a week. In the meantime, she’s the assistant manager. Promoted today. She sends me a PDF packet for new managers along with a bundled playlist of YouTube videos on how to be a good leader. Ask her as a favor if she could go into Harvey’s file cabinets and flag all of last week’s paychecks and put them on my desk so I can know who’s gotten a raise and who hasn’t. Tell her that there’s a bonus in it for her so she doesn’t say it’s not her job. Thumbs up emoji back. You go Alicia. Smiley-face.
It’s tradition in our family to kiss the lips of the dead loved one’s corpse just before burial. Dad’d requested Mother, Bradford, and I kiss his ass for not thanking him every day for our lavish lives. Mother’d used the cheapest mortician services, low quality embalming fluid, ghostly white face paint, and blood red lips. The most distinctive feature of my father’s face being his enormous forehead, not enormous as in tall but rounded like a bowling ball, was chrome shined. Like the low hanging Habsburg Jaw, it juts out like a mountain overhang. Thankfully neither Bradford nor I got the forehead and in any case because of my transformation any echoes of him were gone. Under the all seeing eye, and watchful patrons come to pay their last respects, my favorite boy and I, we’d spat on his forehead and mother didn’t bat an eyelash or write us out of the will.
Dunno how or why, but not being able to confront mother for her abuse and her allowing father’s abuse, momentarily I’m looking for the few good things she did. Like the fact of dad’s mouth bulging with epoxy resin to give it shape, as we’d removed all his gold teeth.
Presently Halcyon’s traipsing around, chipper and whistling, ding dong the witch is dead while showing Brendan each room. Every time the boy sees the grandness, ostentatiousness, and all-consuming wealth I grew up in he’s “wowed”. There’ve been thirty wow’s already. Gotta hand it to him, the boy’s immediate adaptation to any environment is astounding. With little steps to the left and behind Hal, the kid has his hands clasped behind his back, his chin up, being silent until spoken too. It’s not needed with Hal, the newly freed slave, but Bren does it anyway.
Having been on the run all his life the cherub doesn’t miss a trick. In the aptly titled bleeding art room, he’s astute enough to know a Van Gogh when he sees one.
Imagine my surprise when I hear him say, “I thought there was only one starry night.” Then says, “It’s beautiful.” Dunno if he touched it.
There’s a long silence as he drinks it in then Hal goes through the rigmarole, “this one of a pair of Starry Night’s by Van Gogh was bought by Sir Graves at silent auction in 1976 for 10 million dollars. It is now valued at nearly 100 million. Others would say it’s priceless. It was independently authenticated by five Van Gogh historians and is one of his finest. Other than the Mona Lisa it is the most identifiable painting in the world.”
Brendan says, “I don’t know what to say.”
Leaning in, I’m sure, Hal says, “there’s nothing to say. Like a lot of things, well everything in this house, Sir Graves only purchased it as a symbol of status. Nothing more.”
Brendan asks, “can I touch it,” then, “no, I shouldn’t.”
Instead of prompting the boy to do so, uncharacteristically, Hal says, “now get a load of this shit.”
There’s a long pause, a sharp inhale, then Brendan shouts, “it can’t be.”
All Richard Dawkins Hal says, “it fucking is, dude.”
Suspect all the excitement is Hal pointing out Van Gogh’s resin encased mummified ear on a platform next to the painting. Given to the prostitute by the name of Gabrielle Berlatier out of Vincent’s lunacy and lost to history. The man who’d watched Bradford and I shower for years and years under the guise that it was to prevent us from soiling ourselves with masturbation, of course my insensitive father would own such a horrifying piece of history.
Brendan says, “eewww,” but in his tone I hear teenage fascination and admiration. Can’t fault him for that.
Sitting on a stool feet propped on the butcher block, Jeff took off his sport coat, belt, tie, and shoes. Lazily sipping some old cognac and flipping through Magnanimous book he’s about cooked for the night. He’s one of those that runs his finger along the page as he reads. Father used to say that’s a sign of stupidity, but at this point I’m not about to trust father in anything. Switching between his right foot on top and his left foot on top, Jeffs sighs, says, “I don’t know how to complain, but my thighs are so muscular now I can barely cross them.”
I say, “imagine how my boobs feel.”
Without looking up, he says, “you can cross your boobs? That’s a trick I’d like to see.”
We both snort and he keeps fingering the pages.
‘Wows’ and ‘grosses’ continue throughout the house as the two shuffle around creaking doors and finding keepsakes and baubles. Jackie Onassis Kennedy’s dress still splattered with her husband’s blood and brains hanging in a vacuum sealed bag in dad’s coat room. The shotgun that killed Kurt Cobain in the armory next to the gun that killed Hemmingway, and the one that killed Hunter S. Thompson while he was on the phone with his wife.
Above Jeff’s head in the corner of the room is the old bubble CCTV camera that when it was functional would glow red and swivel from side to side as it spied on us and the servants. Disabled now, its lens hangs low like a disappointed robot. Imagine Bradford’s delight at the downed all seeing eye, his still young ghost jumping for joy that he could ride the banister to the bottom, shout obscenities, and take a shit in mother’s greenhouse where if you’re looking closely enough, behind a crop of flowering orchids you’ll see the shrunken head of Marie Antoinette on a pike. No kidding, like Van Gogh’s ear, it’s been authenticated too. DNA tested.
Maybe it’s all morbid and somehow, I’ve brought a youngster into the house to act these things out. Doubt that Brendan will vandalize the keepsakes. He’s not filled with enough hate. Probably doesn’t even know how to hate. Probably thinks all this was earned over several generations. Like as if he worked and dreamed hard enough, he too could be a trillionaire.
Halcyon says, “and this is the skin of Ed Gein’s mother fashioned into a pair of underwear.”
Bren says, “what the fuck,” like repulsed, but without even being in the room, I know he’s looking closer. Eyeing the lose stitching that holds the folds of skin together. Maybe trying to piece where the skin originally came from.
With all the horrendous collectibles around the house, it doesn’t surprise me Brendan’s still worried. Still stinking like driving behind a garbage truck, the kid’s said no every time Hal’s offered him a shower or new clothes. Took one look at the stone effacement of the grand bath with pipes and spigots and said it looked like a gas chamber. Each and every other stall and spritzer was a bath of Zyklon B waiting to suffocate him. Every toilet could suck out his intestines. You’d think he’d be more scared of the sinister looking old codger who raised me, but as anyone knows, as I know, some horrors you just get used to. My elderly butler could, not that he would, have his way with him, and the kid wouldn’t scream one bit. However, his imagined unceremonious death in a glass encased chamber was the thing that kept him on his toes.
Lilting out the book open to a specific page, Jeff says, “did you read the part about Einstein and the time traveler?”
I shake my head no, say, “I just skimmed it.”
Bringing the book back to his face, Jeff skims it again, says, “I’m still not 100% convinced. Maybe 90%. It’s like he deliberately added super fantastical parts to make it just unbelievable enough so there’s plausible deniability. Like I can accept the general plot because part of it’s my life, and aliens, who knows, I mean there’s quadrillions of habitable planets out there, and mind control, genetics, but then he adds an element of physically impossible shit that can’t happen, and I’m made to question the whole thing.”
I’ve gone over to the wine cooler, always stocked full even though there hasn’t been a party for years and take out a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, cut the wax off the rim, uncork it, put it to my lips and drink. I hand it to Jeff, who does the same, and hands it back. It’s sour in my belly ‘cause I didn’t let it breathe. Who cares.
This is the resting phase between the first and second act where the main character’s already made the reluctant choice to go on their journey but hasn’t yet realized the full breadth of what they’re in for. Things are about to get more complicated but in the meantime there’s wine to dull the transition.
Dad was almost always drunk. Not to make excuses, but just the little knowledge we’ve obtained in the past day is enough I can understand if not condone his actions. The full comprehension of the grand stupidity of the world and universe should make me drink myself to death too. But here’s the catch. I’m not scared. I know I should be, but I’m not.
The vision of my father, yellow from advanced cirrhosis and repeated transplants, keeps traipsing through my mind. Like as if the bastard is in the room right now in an open bathrobe and underwear with that bilirubin smell leaking out of his skin. Cigarette pressed between orange fingertips in one hand, a cup of coffee that was more scotch than coffee in the other, eyes dull and swollen stomach, walking around like one of those toy robots one little step after another. Always asking after Bradford like he hadn’t taken enough from him.
Outside there’s a loud splash like someone threw a bowling ball in the pool. Accompanying it is another loud splash like the deck furniture went next. Then the potted plants and umbrellas. Suppose maybe Bren and Hal are demolishing the patio for fun. Let them. I’ll burn this whole house down after we’re done. Send all the bad memories coughing into the air like the last breath of the Balrog.
Coming into the kitchen, Halcyon is unattended by Bren. From head to toe he’s soaked and dripping wet searching around the kitchen for towels to dry his face. Doing so with little dibs and dabs, he’s got a smile the whole time like he’d completed some secret mission and now it was time to rest. Takes off his jacket, hangs it, flips off his soaked shoes next to the door, and goes to the closet for a mop and bucket. Slops up the puddle he’d made and traces a trail of water out the door and comes back in. Taking out a stool he sits and sighs toothlessly.
Better yet I might turn the house into a drug rehab center or homeless shelter.
To me, Hal says, “the young master is bathing in the pool, madam.”
I snort. Jeff snorts still reading.
Hal says, “seems I had no other way of convincing him we weren’t trying to kill him other than to jump in. And provided it wasn’t a “vat of acid that took off my skin,” as he said, he’d scrub himself clean in there. I brought him shampoo, soap, towels, and I hope you don’t mind dear, but I took the liberty of giving him some of Master Brandon’s old clothes while I wash the filthy ones and order new.”
I shrug, “not at all.”
Outside there are shouts of joy like not heard in these halls ever. A long silence, the bending of the diving board, once, twice, three times then a sudden, “cannonball!” and a tumult of water splashes across the deck.
Out the window, there’s Brendan one story down, swimming naked in the heated pool. Surrounding him is a cloud of dirt and grime dissipating in the water. Going to the edge he takes the shampoo, squeezes out a Rapunzel sized dollop, streams it through his hair and scrubs out a brown swirl of month’s caked particles. Taking the soap, he brings it under the water and vigorously rubs his whole body.
Opening the window, I lean out, ask, “having fun?”
Turning to look up, not even covering himself or embarrassed, Bren says, “you guys can come join me now. I mean, I’m clean.”
I shake my head, say, “take as much time as you like. You deserve it.”
Bren says, “aww c’mon, I wanna see your boobs!”
I say, “in your dreams, kid,” and walk away from the window.
Going back to the block I sit, drink, and look over Hal.
He asks, “wherever did you find him? He’s like master Bradford’s twin.”
Instead of answering, I go to Jeff’s bottle of scotch, pour two glasses, and put one in front of Hal who looks at it warily for a long time. This breaking of the ritual master slave relationship, the conditioning, would be the first of many things Hal had to get used to. I suppose it’s a bit like me trying to overcome the urge to go to bed with Jeff, or Bren’s conditioning to suspect this is all a rouse to get him in bed or kill him. Or both. Nudging the glass towards him, I nod to let him know it’s okay.
Reaching out, Hal puts his fingers around the shot, and as he lifts it, his hand shakes uncontrollably. Not from old age, or Parkinson’s, or whatever, but it’s like another invisible hand has set on his fighting against it. In the trembling hand the shot shakes and quakes slopping over his fingers and the block.
Hal sets it down, breathes deeply, says, “I’m sorry mistress but I can’t. The sickness comes over me.” He touches his belly, says, “though I’ve loved you and cared for you since you were a baby, there’s still some suspiciousness in my heart. Like as if when I drink it, you’ll punish me.” Before I can reply, he says, “not that you would… merely…” He trailed off then looked to Jeff who’d been fascinatedly watching Hal’s progress with the glass. Hal averts his eyes like I would the Queen of England.
Jeff says, “I don’t bite,” then, “I’m not one of them.”
Looking into his lap, Hal says, “but you are.”
Hal doesn’t mean it as an insult, just a statement of fact.
Hal says, “Jeffrey Ketchum. Born March 12th, 1983, to Marta and Nolan Ketchum. The Ketchum family are- were the major shareholders of the Greenlight Oil Companies until their deaths this morning in a boating accident. That leaves you as their sole heir. You had a sister. Aubrey Ketchum who died…” Hal trailed off.
Outside, Bren-Bren’s wet footsteps slap the patio, mount the diving board, bounce, and cannonball over and over. Each time he shouts for joy like as if joy is running out of style. Formerly I’d’ve said the poor kid was tainted by all the abuse, like me, like Brad, like Hal or whoever, but I can hear there’s still a little boy in him. One with a soul that cries out incorruptibly. Perhaps it’s like that for all of us. The horrors that were put on us weren’t our fault.
As for Hal, his immediate kinship with Bren made complete sense. Much like Bren, Hal had been a wayward child. On the streets of London, the lessons of dumpster diving, street camping, begging, prostituting, drug use, and exploitation were firmly ingrained in him like branded leather. My father took him for his own, just plucked him off the street, and sent him to the school of servants. No doubt funded by the Westington Foundation, it had eerily similar vibes to the Retreat, but instead of the hipster upper-class vacation, was taught his sirs, and madams, and how to’s, and straight backed service, and use of servants halls, and staying out of sight, and keeping his tongue at bay, and eventually the bodyguard and assassins trade.
With all that conditioning it’s no wonder he can’t share a drink with me. The man’s servitude cries out against it.
Rather than torturing him to try harder, I take the bottle, cork it, bring it to the adeptly empty trash, and set it at the bottom. Both Jeff and Hal watch me, eyes squinted, until I closed the lid of the trash and walk away.
I say, “oh look, someone threw away a hundred year old scotch. How wasteful.”
Outside, Bren shouts, “did someone say alcohol?”
Without looking, I shout out the window, “no, kid.”
He says, “aww, damn.”
Looking from Hal to the trash then back again, I repeat, “someone threw away-.”
Hal says, “I understand dear. I just don’t think it will work.”
Creaking off the chair, the slumped old man, traipses to the trash, removes the lid, reaches in, and takes out the bottle. Bringing it to the block he uncorks it, refills the shot glass, sits, and stares at it for a long time contemplating it like all those moms reading food labels for strings of chemically treated words they can’t understand so they can reject them. After an eternity, with ninja like movements, Hal takes the glass, raises it to his lips, downs it and slaps it to the block with a knock. He doesn’t even cough or wince or frown or anything.
Both Jeff and I clap. Then with a very British smile, Halcyon pours both Jeff, himself, and I a drink which we toast, “ding, dong, the witch is dead,” slap them back and slam them on the table.
Outside, Bren asks, “are you guys doing shots without me?”
This time we all snort.
Hal says, “reminds me of another little boy who couldn’t be tamed,” and nods at me.
The old man’s insistence that we talk about Bradford is like touching an unhealed bruise. He can’t escape the special boy’s memory any more than I can. After all he’s the one who still tends his room every day like as if Bradford was still with us. He dusts the shelves, polishes the floors, shakes out his headdress, changes the sheets, washes his clothes, dries, and presses them and even hangs them, clears the cobwebs, shakes out the rugs, shines the glass on framed pictures of he and I, and most especially washes and waxes Brad’s car in the garage. I guess this little reunion has gotten him all worked up too, and with no one to talk to about it, he’s hinting.
I say, “I love you, Hal.”
Almost choking on the words, Hal says, “I love you too, my dear,” then, “I don’t mean to keep asking, it’s just there’s the changes in you, in him,” he waves his delicate liver spotted hand at Jeff, says, “and, not that it’s unwelcome, it’s your house after all, but your appearance here with Bradford’s doppelganger.”
I don’t say anything so I can illicit more from him. Maybe the release will help.
He says, “I’d’ve thought you’d hightailed it to some private island by now to enjoy the rest of your life in luxury.”
I don’t say it, but I’m hurt that he would think that of me.
My emotions must be all over my face, because, he apologetically says, “Well usually the change brings about irrevocable differences in mental status and demeanor as well. Like cruelty, like malice, like seething hatred. However, here you are, kind as ever, offering me drinks and showing hospitality, and being compassionate to children.” On the words the change, my jaw is to the floor I guess but that doesn’t stop old Hal explaining further. Taking another shot, and looking away, he says, “I’ve been privy to all the horrors your father wrought- especially on Master Bradford and yourself. Why, when Sir Graves himself went through the change it was like a light switch. Where before he was good, giving, and sympathetic, he became a monster.”
Never in my life did I see my father do anything kind. Saw him turn a slight smile at the death of his own father. The one who died in the nursing home after choking to death on a tablecloth. He’d had some crazy demands for his burial too. Like a parade. Like rockets shooting into the sky. Like to have Khufu’s body removed from the great pyramid of Giza and his interred in its place.
Hal takes another drink, says, “there were no fetishes that were beyond him. You saw.”
I look to Jeff, who’s eyes shift to the book on the block then up to Hal who again out of habit averts his eyes to the floor between his knees. Seems our old butler was privy to more than just my father’s perversions. Seems he has a lot to say but it’s all held back by the tenuous conditioning. Whatever he’s able to get through the wall of do’s and don’ts must be painful.
After an epoch, he looks up at me, asks, “do you like your BMW, dear?” Then, “I had a horrible time choosing the most ostentatiously expensive car. Couldn’t get a Duesenberg. Almost no one is willing to give them up it seems, and they don’t make them anymore.” Going to the window, he looks out at the strangely silent Brendan, and ensuring his safety, turns back, says, “your dress? Your accommodations? Your reservations? Your new job? All of it?”
I whisper, “I hate all of it,” then low, I say, “you know that.”
He smiles at this, asks, “and the book? does it explain everything well enough?”
Inside, I’m not angry, or even shocked, but merely amused. Of course it’d been him who sent it. While I was away eating toaster strudels sandwiched between pop tarts, Hal had been at work. While I’d always wanted to free him once mother was dead, he’d been busy freeing me, and keeping me free. Guess the last thing to do was ensure I hadn’t turned into a piece of shit. My showing up at the big house was evidence his work was successful.
I nod, and he stands, straightens his still damp shirt, pants, and bowtie. Puts his hands behind his back and goes to the window, to Bren he says, “Master Brendan, please dry and dress yourself in the clothes I’ve given you and meet us up here.”
There’s a splash, that pit-pat of feet slapping the patio stones, some shuffling of linen, and Bren says, “schoolboy uniform. Never done this roleplay before.”
Kid doesn’t waste any time. He’s been made to perform too and like at the whip’s crack he’s already in the kitchen wearing Bradfords old clothes. Dress shirt not tucked in under an unbuttoned wine colored blazer, and sportscoat with the insignia, shorts with knee high socks not pulled up, billowing over black dress shoes. To top it all off he’s got Bradford’s old school cap backwards over his still damp hair.
He says, “I’m ready.”