Sun, December 13, 2074 2:00 pm: Goth Manor- Rawling Hills, Pleasantview
Lydia crossed her bedroom at an uneven hop with one white sock collared around her foot. It was two o’clock, and she was already late. Her landing at the dresser could not have come soon enough. She gripped the edge of it as though it were all that stood between her and a swift death. With only one hand left free to work on the sock, she postponed that particular struggle, placing both feet on the floor. If she could find those pearl studs, maybe her mother would not chide her for being dressed like a man in addition to being half an hour late. It hardly mattered that she was going to help the school staff with the cleaning. Lydia's mother would remind her that she could look like a lady even while doing chores. For her part, Lydia would pick her teeth with her nails. They'd had this exchange once or twice before. She uncovered one earring but not the other.
Lydia wiped a smudge on the mirror with the heel of her hand. Her reflection loomed in front of her, raccoon-eyed and sallow-skinned. She smoothed her fingertips over the bluish shadows beneath her eyes, imagining them away. She didn’t know what was worse—secretly caring about her appearance while espousing the philosophy that she should not have to care or adopting a nonchalant attitude about her tardiness (as she knew that she would) in order to cover up how frazzled she felt at this exact moment with one earring in hand, one and a half socks on foot, and still no pants.
The rededication of The Pleasantview Youth Boarding School was happening on Tuesday, and the Calientes had volunteered to help get the place ready. The school expected something in the environment of two hundred guests, all gathered around to witness the unveiling. Lydia only wished that Terry could be there to see it. She could almost hear him asking who came up with such a damn stupid name as The Mayor Terrance J. Torrence-Caliente Institute for Collaborative Education. There would never be another person in the world like him.
The bedroom door creaked open. It alarmed her initially, but the intruder was soon revealed to be only Horace.
His hair was freshly washed and misbehaving in a way that he never tolerated. The shirt that he wore was old and several sizes too large, but clean. Lydia supposed that he had chosen it for the ease of threading his dislocated shoulder and broken hand through the overly wide sleeve. He screwed up his face quizzically at her state of dress. She could not be certain that she was not giving him the same look. By his own standards he was a wreck, but Lydia supposed that she liked him better this way. He scratched the cast that he had earned by falling off of his horse the day before. The x-ray revealed three fractures in his left hand. Angela had been rather mystified by the whole thing. She claimed that he’d never had a riding accident of any kind, not even as a child. Lydia had been quick to counter that her grandfather was very skilled at sleeping but it didn’t mean he wouldn’t die in the middle of it someday. She meant to put Angela off with that remark but found that she had lashed herself in the process.
And maybe the notion was a non sequitur, but Lydia did still love to watch his polo matches. There was a focus and an intensity to him when he rode that could temporarily ignite whatever allure he’d once held for her. Then the match would end, he would dismount and resume his place on the ground among the other mortals. When you mixed him with solid earth, he became Horace again. Arrogant, insulting, duplicitous Horace.
“Dude, have you seen my earring? The one that pairs with this one?” Lydia held up the lone pearl stud. Horace glanced at it but said nothing. “Negatory, hunh? Figures.” Lydia lifted the top shelf of her jewelry box to make one last search before calling it quits. Meanwhile, Horace closed the door with a gentle but firm click. Lydia could see him out of the corner of her eye approaching the dresser at a pace that seemed hesitant if not outright bashful. It was strange enough to give her pause. “Um, can I help you?”
He was pressing against her back now, as if by response. The warmth of his body made her feel cold by contrast. He took a handful of her loosely pinned hair and melted into it as he did into his pillow at night. Lydia laughed uneasily, feeling as though she were party to a gesture that was meant to be kept private. Kissing her ear, he ran his knuckles lightly over her bare hip. It was well past two, and she didn’t have time for this.
“You’re barking up the wrong tree, buddy.” This sort of caution, she felt, gave him enough room to wiggle his way out of the situation, no harm no foul. He did not seize the opportunity. Instead, he let his touch wander up her side and over her threadbare t-shirt. His hand reposed for a time upon her belly, fingers spread, while he caught her stare in the mirror. There was that intensity, and he was every bit of him earthbound. Lydia’s breathing stopped short.
Horace shifted his body, positioning her torso closer to the surface of the dresser. Lydia’s gaze swept from the jewelry box to his face in the mirror to her own stomach weighing down upon the wood. All the while observing her, he placed two fingers in mouth. Lydia tried to maintain eye contact because it felt almost like a matter of pride that she should, but the task was becoming increasingly impossible. Her thoughts disbanded, leaving her only with the scent of his soap and an unfamiliar ache for the inevitable. Horace parted his lips and withdrew his fingers slowly, then glided his hand over her breasts. Each breath made her chest seem to expand and contract only to meet his palm. The earring, the sock, the boarding school—everything was forgotten. Horace drifted lower, bypassing her waistband to fit the underside of her panties.
Lydia gasped, holding on tight to his wrist while he explored her through the thin layer of satin that separated her skin from his. She closed her eyes and bit her lip to keep from crying out in a household full of people. Some obscure region of her mind was chastising her for being so easy, while the rest of her swayed on the brink of euphoria. Horace dropped his forehead to her shoulder but she could not allow him rest there, not yet. She let go of his wrist and began groping behind her back for his belt only to discover that he was not wearing one. He slipped his hand between hers and the button that she was attempting to undo. It came loose with limited effort. Clearly, he hadn't been able to close his pants properly that morning with one working hand. He wrapped her arms around her waist, asserting control without words. His lips brushed her shoulder, not quite a kiss but more maddening. Horace resumed teasing that most sensitive part of her through her underwear as if to demonstrate that her urgency could be delayed for as long as he liked.
“Horace!” He sighed at her then and pushed her panties to one side, opting not to remove them altogether. Lydia thrust her hips back to meet him, drawing out a sharp intake of breath from a man that had not made a single vocalization since he first entered the room.
It was never like this between them, and Lydia was not in a position to consider why she so suddenly needed him, why she was so close to something that she had never experienced when making love to him before. Horace was panting and swearing, trying with difficulty to stay upright. Lydia cleared her mind, wanting more than anything for the sensation to last. She did not want to think about this in passing later as the time that she could have had a successful orgasm but was too busy rationalizing her own behavior. She wanted to think about this as the first time that she had ever managed to achieve some modicum of intimacy with her husband. An hour ago, this moment would have seemed ambitious beyond all measure.
Horace all but collapsed on top of her, coming to a standstill. Lydia did not think that he had finished, but the seconds went by and he remained slumped over her back. The hush of their duel exhaustion blanketed the room. His heartbeat drummed against her shoulder blade, and the tight space between their bodies relaxed. He was losing his nerve.
“Horace?” He stood up straight and withdrew from her, trying in all futility to get dressed again. Lydia watched him for a time and then, beating back her unfulfilled yearning, decided to try to help him. Horace allowed his arms to flop limply at his sides as she did up his zipper. “What happened?” She tried to smooth his feathered hair, but he pushed her away. His eyes were pink and bloodshot. Whatever upset he was feeling was starting to come through in a confusion of unshed tears and menacing scowls.
“Don’t—Don’t touch me!” Ah. There was the man that she had married. Unlikely as it seemed, she found that she no longer disliked this man as he stood before her wounded and trembling. Rather, she felt sorry for him. In his heart, he was as defenseless as a child. “And don’t you ever, ever tell anyone about this.”
“Who would I tell?” Her voice wavered. It was as through his vulnerability had the power to make her vulnerable. His face was blossoming red from the pressure of holding back his sobs. She would not ask him what was wrong again. If he wanted her to know, he would have said it without prompt. Lydia hardly felt that she had the right to trespass upon his emotions. She would give him the space that he needed to work out his issues because it was the best that she could do for him right now. “I need to get ready,” she whispered. She began to brush past him to the closet when he caught her arm and dragged her back. He leaned his head against hers so that their noses made contact. He was crying openly now.
“I’m such a fuck-up, you have no idea.” Lydia trailed her fingers over his cheek, drying his tears.
“Whatever it is, we’ll get past it,” she reassured him. Horace shook his head, unconvinced. She gave him a quick peck on the lips. He stared at the carpet, not seeming to notice, and she was stung. That tentative disclosure of her affection left her exposed and in all probability, spurned. Just as she made up her mind to walk away, Horace lifted his head. His eyelashes fluttered, displacing trapped tears. He cupped her face in his hand and kissed her then, languishing there for a moment before he let her go.
“If I ever say to you that we need to pack our things and run then I need you to do it, no questions asked,” he said. Lydia scarcely knew where to begin with that demand. She gave him a queer look and when she opened her mouth to respond, that highly expressive stare of his turned to begging. “Promise me,” he said.
TRIGGER WARNING
Sat, December 12, 2074 11:43 am: Arbormoor Forest- Arbormoor, Pleasantview
Oona was in one of her moods. When she came in the house that morning from dropping Conrad off at school, she sent Jack's breakfast skidding across the kitchen with a sharp, backhanded slap. The plate broke into quarters and scrambled eggs dotted the floor. Get your kit on, Townie. We have work to do, and don't bother cleaning that up. Sara will be here in less than ten minutes. She didn't say another word to him all the way to their destination. Jack hadn't a clue where they were headed but suddenly regretted his acquiescence as her giant muscle car peeled away from the curb. Curiosity had ever been his fatal flaw.
"So you gonna drop a few veils or what?" Jack slammed the passenger door behind him. The wind was bitter. Errant snowflakes stung his cheeks. Oona turned and winked at him.
"Never in mixed company, kiddo," she quipped. Jack drew his jacket up around his neck.
"What I meant to say was, 'I'd please like to know what we're doing here, boss.'" He placed a special emphasis on that last, but Oona failed to dignify it with a response. Her pale blue eyes were bored, glazed, inscrutable as a doll's eyes.
"Then why didn't you just say so? We're waiting for a friend," she said.
"A friend?" His allowed his incredulity to show. Oona smirked, brandishing a row of large, ghastly white teeth.
"That's right."
"You don't have any friends." It was not an insult, but a simple statement of fact. Oona Horne had no friends. Not that she needed them or, as far as Jack could tell, wanted them. She withdrew a glock from the interior of her tweed coat and removed the magazine, inspecting her round.
"You know, that hurts, Jackie. That really hurts." She tossed her long hair to the side, into the wind and out of her face. "You hear that? If I am not mistaken, our chariot approaches." Jack did hear it-- the low rumble of a luxury sedan engine. Soon he could see the hood of the vehicle through the trees, close enough to read the tags. He squinted against the light that glinted from the well-polished grill.
"That's Horace Goth." Jack had not intended to say it aloud. He suddenly felt ill. Whatever Oona was up to would not end today and would not end well.
"Good eye." Oona patted him hard on the back, like a man. She stowed the pistol back under her coat. "Bet you didn't know that I had friends in such high places."
Horace Goth's car kicked up the swale, nearly spraying Jack's shoes with mud. He emerged from the driver's seat, graceful and incensed, his greasy black hair covering one eye. Jack had never seen this man up close before. His young face was deeply creased and care-worn. Jack wondered what cares a man in Horace's position could possibly be harboring. Horace stepped up to Oona with a self-confidence Jack rarely saw in anyone who dared to confront her. He ignored Jack entirely.
"I see you got my note," Oona said. Horace was snarling on the edge of rage.
"Who the hell do you think you are?"
"Yeah, you know what? Let's talk about who I am and more to the point, who my father is--"
"Spare me. Your father is--"
"--Lord God Almighty to someone in your present condition."
"I beg your pardon?" Oona smiled, turning her attention to Horace's shoes.
"I like you, Horace. I really do, but I can see that we are not quite on the same page just yet. So here's what I'm going to do for you-- I'm going to make this as plain as the nose on your face." Oona moved so fast that Jack could not be certain that he saw what happened-- A tangle of limbs and then Oona had Horace bent over the hood of his car with his arm wrenched behind his back. He struggled like a steer caught in a barbed wire fence. Oona began rifling through his clothes.
"What the fuck are you doing, you crazy bitch?" Horace sounded desperate and indeed, frightened. He had the pout of a child whose dignity had been compromised by a spanking. Oona tugged on his bent arm, and he cried out in pain. His nose was running. Oona found a large pistol holstered at his side and spent a brief moment admiring it before she discharged the weapon blindly into the trees. Roosting sparrows scattered. Jack covered his ringing ears, but she did not shoot the gun again. Instead, she tossed it into the woods with a nonchalance that bordered on the sociopathic. Then she flipped Horace onto his back so that they were looking one another in the eye.
"When I said, 'someone in your present condition', I was referring to you as a youthful go-getter, an up-and-comer, the crown prince of Pleasantview! You've got promise, there's no denying that, but wanna know the trouble with promises? They can be broken." Horace's skin was turning a sickly shade of red. Oona planted her foot on the car, between his legs, just below his groin. She was bearing her weight down on him as though she intended to snap him in two, leaving his injured left arm free against the hood of the car. "Which brings me to my father. Do you know how Dad got started? It's a funny story, actually. " Oona waited patiently for a response while Horace, at once defiant, looked as though he could spit.
"Fuck your father." Oona drew her pistol, silencing him. Horace's jittery gaze followed the path that Oona swept across his unshaven cheek with the barrel of her gun.
"When Dad was an early-rising whippersnapper such as yourself, he worked for your most venerable granddaddy. Not many people know this, but he was your granddad's right hand man. Which reminds me-- Are you a righty or a lefty? Nevermind. Point is, Dr. Goth trusted Dad with everything." Oona leaned in close and spoke just above a whisper. Jack was barely able to catch it. "And I mean, everything," she said. "Dad knows stuff about your family that would make your skin crawl. We're talking front page news things, made-for-TV movie things, little kids reading about it in their history books things, shame that goes on and on unto your children's children's children. That is what Dad has to offer you. Now here is what I have to offer, and I daresay that you will find it more immediately compelling." Jack looked away by reflex.
What followed was a heavy crack accompanied by Horace's muffled screams of pain. When Jack looked back toward the scene, Oona was holding her glock by the barrel and rummaging through her pockets while Horace rolled over onto his side as far as he could manage, writhing. Jack could not see what she had struck, but he could guess. She pulled a number of documents out of her jacket and sprinkled them onto the hood of the car, still searching for what, Jack could not know.
And then it happened-- He and Horace locked eyes. It was as though Horace were seeing him for the first time. His tear-streaked face was pleading without words. Jack did not move or speak. Instead, he pictured Haven and Orlando. He pictured his mother. He pictured the suffering of everyone that he loved most, all because of people like Horace Goth. Addison threatened shame, but Horace's kind didn't know the first thing about shame.
Oona flattened out a particular sheet of paper. She then grabbed Horace's left arm by the wrist, and he began to sob, "No. No. No. No. No." His hand was mangled, his fingers alternately curled and uncurled. Oona ignored him.
"So now that our offers are on the table, I'd really like to hear what you have to offer, Mr. Businessman." Oona scanned the documents as she spoke, pointing her pistol inches from Horace's forehead. Horace muttered something inaudible. "I'm sorry? Speak up sweetie, so the whole class can hear."
"Assignment of title... Your son as sole owner of the vineyard... You as custodian... " Oona paused over Horace, who squirmed all the more fretfully. A vineyard? This shit was about a vineyard? Jack closed his mouth when he could feel himself gaping. He was more confused than ever and growing angry, but all of the many missing facts of the situation were keeping him tied to the spot. Surely there was a reason for what Oona was doing, and it was nothing to do with a desire to produce wine. Oona whipped out a pen. She signed a document on Horace's disheveled torso. Horace followed suit and then drooped his body against the car. Oona looked over her shoulder at Jack.
"Ah, there's my favorite notary!" She smiled at him, all sweetness and welcome. It chilled his blood. Oona pointed the pen in his direction. "Witness," she said.
Fri, December 4, 2074 1:06 pm: The Omar Matlapin Judiciary Building, Office of the Attorney General; Downtown, Pleasantview
There were moments in Oona's life where her anger heightened to such an extraordinary crescendo that she thought perhaps she could see it-- Faintly whispered primary shapes floating before her eyes and falling from sight like volcanic ash. This was one such moment.
Nearly 24 hours had passed since Jorge unknowingly broke the news that her work, her father's work, her father's father's work was in jeopardy. For three generations, her family had one basic duty to Kvornan Tricou. Like hell J.L. Tellerman was going to cultivate the Fiorello Vineyard.
Oona slammed the door shut behind her as she entered Horace's office. He declined to look away from his monitor even when she picked up one of his chairs and threw it against the back wall forcefully enough to chip the plaster.
"The land title! Who owns it?" It was as fitting of a hello as she thought that he deserved. Horace tossed his greasy black hair behind his ear.
"Isabella does. In fee special. I believe we have had this conversation once before. Surely you don't imagine that a half-hearted flirtation and an insinuated threat would stall the transfer of ownership?"
Horace wheeled his chair over to face her. An ugly sort of grin tugged at the corners of his lips, and it was so infuriating that Oona's right hand twitched for a weapon that she was not concealing. She struggled to keep her voice even.
"As the future heir to the Mortimer Goth estate, you have the right of compulsory seizure. Is this true?" Horace folded his hands one on top of the other.
"That is correct," he said.
"How much?"
"I beg your pardon?" Oona cracked her knuckles. She was small but she could still take out this skeezy son-of-bitch if he drove her to it.
"How much would we have to pay you to seize the land title?" Horace sat back in his chair. She had his attention now.
"You know, I fail to see what you and your father would be getting out of this transact--"
"How much, you shit-licking little weasel? Before I reach down your throat and punch your prostate out through your anus."
"That is physically impossible."
"How much?" Horace chuckled and for the first time, Oona thought that he might be scared. She leaned against his desk, close enough to yank him by the collar if she wanted to.
"You know, I am beginning to sense an air of desperation," he said. Despite his arrogance, he met her eyes weakly.
"I will not repeat myself again." Her voice was low, threatening. Horace gestured toward the only chair that remained upright.
"Dearest cousin, please have a seat." Oona said nothing but shifted her weight to grant her a faster reaction time for when she would surely strangle this man to death. Horace shook his head. "It isn't about the money, really. It's the politics of the thing. Ripping the land out from under my sweet little auntie in the midst of such a large business undertaking? It would be poor form to say the least."
"We are prepared to offer you three hundred thousand simoleons." Horace made a sound that was something between a laugh and a scoff.
"Four-Fifty," he countered. Oona gritted her teeth.
"Four-Fifty will cost you a thirty year lease."
"Thirty years?"
"You heard me, asshole." Horace seemed to contemplate her for a moment before shrugging.
"Fine. I will expect the market rental rate. Monthly. Adjustable for inflation. And you are not allowed to do anything to the property. No building anything larger than 800 square feet. No subletting. No cultivating. No commercial anything. And your father better not embarrass me on this one. The instant a corpse-sniffing dog finds any portion of the human anatomy on my family's property, your lease is void." He was only half-joking; more than that, he was daring her. He was looking her in the eye and declaring that by entering the arena on his terms, she was only opening the gateway to further dictates. In the long run, she would be at a disadvantage. What, for instance, was going to happen when the money ran out? Oona pushed her thoughts aside. What she needed most at this point was the buy time until a more permanent solution could arise.
"We reserve the right to occupy the land holding in the interest of natural preservation and 800 square feet sounds perfectly adequate to me." Horace perked up.
"I didn't know that Addison London was such a environmentalist."
"What can I say? Dad loves the cuddly little animals." Oona turned to leave without another word. Before she reached the doorknob, she could hear Horace wheeling his chair away from the desk.
"You know, I think I'm starting to like you," he called after her. Oona gripped the door knob.
"None of this ever happened. You are arresting production on the Fiorello Vineyard because you are deeply concerned about displacing the habitat of the silver-horned swamp toad. That last is not negotiable. If this deal ever gets out, I will personally send you home to your mother in pieces. Count on it."
Fri, October 16, 2074 10:53 pm: Mermaid's Cove Nightclub; Downtown, Pleasantview (about Six Weeks earlier)
"I won't pretend that I'm not surprised you asked me to meet you here." Horace's tone was brusque, and his one exposed eye was brimming over with reservations. That would never do. Oona chose him over his father because she thought that he might be more knowledgeable, if less pliable on the subject of certain family matters. But she had to make him comfortable, otherwise they were going to get nowhere tonight. She bit her lower lip and ran her fingertips along the edge of the glass candleholder in front of her.
"I'll get straight to the point. Earlier this evening, my father heard some interesting news from Jean-Luc Tellerman about his wife wishing to purchase the land in Arbormoor. I was under the impression that this was impossible under the terms of the estate." Horace cleared his throat, seemingly caught off guard.
"That is just about the last thing I expected you to say." Oona smiled for just an instant.
"I can be full of surprises," she said.
"So it would seem." Horace was looking her up and down. He pinched his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger before scratching his shoulder through his jacket. "Though Isabella is not the next in line, she is still an heir to the body of Mortimer Goth. This means that any portion of the estate may be transferred to her in fee special. In another words, she hands my father a check, he hands over the land. Now tell me, what is your interest in several acres of fetid wetlands?" Oona placed her hands on her lap. She decided to ignore the question.
"My husband would like to place a bid on the land." Horace raised an eyebrow shrewdly.
"You mean Addison London wants to place a bid on the land." Oona rolled her eyes at him. He would get no points for cleverness. Horace took a sip of his cocktail. "Come now. If we are going to have a successful business relationship then it's best that we don't beat around the bush. You buy the asset with your daddy's money. Phoenix ends up with a muddy plot in his portfolio that he doesn't even know he has. And it has to be him because he is a resident, an heir to the body of Mortimer Goth and an outright pawn. Why you would go to those lengths to secure the shittiest acreage in Pleasantview, I don't know and the more I think about it, I don't want to know. Somehow I doubt that your father is looking to stick a grocery franchise there." Oona crossed her legs.
"How much is Isabella Tellerman offering?"
"That is between me, my father and our solicitors."
"Why?" Horace chuckled at the question.
"I'll admit," he said. "Shady little back room meetings that can only lead to Phoenix being imprisoned or whatever you have planned-- This is what happens when a man of birth marries a townie-born slut with a father of, let's say, questionable honor. But Phoenix is still a Goth and I will uphold my family's interests. I cannot discuss Isabella's offer with you because this conversation is over." Oona lowered her chin and smiled at him. There was something about this man with his prematurely creasing face, filthy black hair and imported cologne. It was going to be such a shame if she had to have him wasted before the Tellermans could break ground.
"I assume you know who you're dealing with, Mr. Goth." Horace lifted his sleeve and took a quick look at his watch before standing.
"Have a good night Ms. Horne, though I will expect to see you again."
"That you may." Horace sniffed at her disdainfully. The lines in the sand were drawn.
Sun, November 22, 2074 6:10 pm: Goth Manor- Rawling Hills, Pleasantview
Alexander stared at the half-empty bottle of cognac perched near the center of the table and imagined what might happen if he threw it against a wall. Perhaps the noise would come first, discordant and shrill. Perhaps the glass-riddled air would glitter in the instant before the shards settled. Perhaps Angela would ask, "What the hell is wrong with you?" Perhaps Enoch would laugh. Perhaps the baby would shriek. Perhaps Lydia would exhale once and blink twice.
Alexander had awoken that morning much the same way he did everyday. In the bathroom, he stopped to look at himself in the mirror and realized not that he disliked what he saw but that there was nothing to see. The room was no more occupied with him in it than it would have been without.
And sometimes, when he noticed the penetrating, accusatory stares that Lydia gave to his eldest son- When her loathing was at its most palpable to no one else but him- Alexander thought that she might be suffering from a similar affliction. The two of them could have been on fire and everyone else would have just gone on eating their dinner.
A single chair separated Lydia from Alexander but it might as well have been a continent. Lydia never sat near enough for him to pour her drink or accidentally brush the side of her leg with his own. He was almost certain that she kept her distance intentionally. Even in his fantasies, she would chastise him for fantasizing.
"I heard some interesting news today," Horace said, laying his chopsticks down on the table. "The Tellermans are expecting a crop of pinot noir grapes this winter." Rolling her eyes, Angela wiped her mouth with her napkin.
"You must have heard wrong. Pinot noir doesn't grow in November in this climate." Horace tapped his mother on the shoulder.
"That's what makes the news so interesting, isn't it?"
"Since when do the Tellermans grow wine grapes anyway," Enoch snorted. "Some of their fields are damp enough to be rice patties."
Alexander ran his fingers around the rim of his bowl, staring directly at Angela but not sparing her a thought. She spoke with her hands as much as she did with her mouth and Alexander found it to be vaguely hypnotic. His wife was a blur of fingers and sleeves. Alexander rested his neck on his palm, accidentally finding his pulse. He fancied that each pair of beats was a warning. Tempus. Fugit. Tempus. Fugit. If only he could be someone else. Anyone else.
Lydia tossed her unkempt hair over her shoulder. Alexander couldn't help but stare at the milky, pristine length of her neck. Tempus. Fugit. Everyone deserved to get what they wanted out of life. But he was a Goth and Goths were never quite so fortunate.
August 11, 2049 11:52 pm: Goth Manor- Rawling Hills, Pleasantview (Twenty-Five Years earlier)
The door slammed. Alexander climbed atop his father's oak desk and flattened his body against the wall, realizing too late that he should have hidden underneath instead. He was not meant to still be awake at that time of night and in any case, he had a guilty conscience. He was planning to go outside to catch the last fireflies of the season.
"The men of your family seem to have a preternatural talent for seducing women of a certain ilk but I refuse to allow my daughter to be taken in by the illiterate half-breed that mows our lawn." It was his mother's voice. Alexander peeked around the corner. She was standing in the foyer with the gardener, her face partially obscured by the brim of her hat.
"We're just friends is all." The gardener cast his eyes to ground as he spoke. Alexander's mother lightly placed her palm at the base of her throat, seeming to choke on the stagnant air between them.
"Friends?Friends? Do you think I'm some kind of simpleton? What could the two of you possibly have in common?" The gardener shook his head slowly.
"All due respect Mrs. Goth, if you don't know then you wouldn't understand." Bella folded her arms over her chest, exasperated.
"Whatever the nature of your relationship with Cassandra, it ends now. And you had better pray that her father does not get wind of this."
"Yes ma'am."
"I've decided to put Bachelor Manor on the market. You and your men will maintain that property until its sale."
"You're kicking me off my work here?"
"That is correct, Mr. Lothario." The gardener ran his fingers through his slick black hair. Alexander remarked the man's eyes for the first time. They were green like the sludge on the stream banks of Arbormoor Forest.
"That poor girl doesn't have another person in the world to talk to but me and you're gonna take that away from her too?"
"My daughter is not your concern."
"She got her father on one end making her sick to death expect'n too much of her and you on the other end forcing her to be something she's not. Being with me is the only time she's ever allowed to just be a normal kid-"
"She is not a normal kid. She is a Goth. And you would do well to remember it. Goodnight, Mr. Lothario." Alexander knew that tone of voice well. The gardener was on thin ice. He yanked the door open and slammed it shut behind him.
Alexander slid down the wall until he was crouching. In a moment or two, his mother would round the corner and find him sitting there. He expected to be the recipient of her misplaced frustration. He expected her to grab him by the ear and drag him up to his room. As it happened, she looked right at him, blank and unreadable. Then she silently walked away as though he had never been seen.
Part I: Adelaide Is Weighed
Sat, November 14, 2074 7:32 pm: Lothario Hall- Rawling Hills, Pleasantview
"I don't know how you always manage to talk me into throwing these insipid little get-togethers Adelaide but I swear, there will be at least six months between now and the next time I have to share breathing room with mostof these people. And who is that girl coming in with Horace?" Dina snapped her fingers at the bartender while she spoke, never taking her eyes off of the door. Her voice undulated from high to low, marking what Adelaide knew to be her mother's first stage of inebriation.
While the bartender filled Dina's empty glass with gin and tonic, Adelaide patted her baby squarely on the back to quell her rising sobs. Adelaide then disinterestedly turned her head to see what girl her mother was blustering about and was met with the heavily painted face of Madeline Burb. Madeline locked eyes with Adelaide and waved bashfully. Adelaide refused to acknowledge the gesture.
"That'll be Madeline," Adelaide said dryly, rolling her eyes. "You know, your son-in-law's sister." Adelaide thought that Dina should have been able to guess as much considering the fact that Ian and Madeline were almost identical. Dina snorted contemptuously.
"Honestly Adelaide, you can't expect me to keep track of all Ian's siblings. Ginny Burb must have a revolving door between her legs. If age hadn't caught up with her, she'd still be popping them out. And what is that Madeline girl wearing?"
Privately, Adelaide had to agree with her mother on the subject of Madeline's choice of attire. Bright green paisley with brass rivets was not exactly the height of invention. But the rest of it had been completely uncalled for. Dina was already drunk enough to begin maligning guests and Adelaide would have to put a stop to it before it got out of hand.
"I think you've just had your last cocktail, mother."
"Nonsense. Why is she arriving with the Goths and not her own people?"
"Don't you know? Madeline and Enoch are engaged to be married." Dina gasped and grabbed her chest as though she were having a heart attack.
"Never, a Goth marry a Burb? Scandalous. But I suppose it is better than that thing Phoenix shacked-up with. Or what your sister married. This state is truly going to the dogs." Dina took a large swig of gin.
"Would it be worth the effort for me to remind you that you married me off to a Burb," Adelaide whined.
"You, my dear, are not a Goth. Besides, Ian wasn't my idea. He was you father's. I only went along with it because I was eager to finally get some full caste grandbabies."
"Isabella's boys are full caste." Dina choked on her drink.
Patting herself near the clavicle, Dina said huskily, "Jean-Luc Tellerman is a Townie." Adelaide sighed. There was really no arguing with her mother.
"We've been over this. He is a second generation Resident. His parents were both brilliant, first rate people- Not to mention disgustingly rich."
"Townies, both of them. Don't piss under my tree and try to tell me it's raining, Adelaide."
"I'm not even going to attempt to decipher that metaphor, mother." Adelaide bounced Francesca in the palm of her hand while Dina studied their closest friends and family like a white-gloved bird of prey. Perhaps it was the sweltering heat of the crowded room but Adelaide soon found herself growing nauseous. She closed her eyes and tried to ignore it. At length, Dina rose her glass in the direction of the Pleasants.
"Sabina is growing up to be a rare beauty, don't you think," Dina said wistfully. Adelaide furrowed her brow, both surprised by her mother's sudden amiability and desperate to prevent the resurrection of her dinner. "It is such a shame that the poor girl's head is as empty as a beach ball. Adelaide, are you alright?" Adelaide's vision was dancing. Her nausea was coming in waves. She had to get out of there.
"I... I don't know. I'm feeling a little flustered."
"I daresay you are. You've barely eaten for days and you don't diet. You're either newly expecting or coming down with something. And seeing as how you've never so much as sniffled a day in your life, my money is on the former."
"I think I'm going to be sick."
During a brief silence, Adelaide found herself directly beneath her mother's wide-eyed scrutiny. Dina looked her up and down, no doubt searching for signs of burgeoning pudginess- Weighing Adelaide with her eyes. Adelaide was not pregnant. She couldn't be. Francesca was barely eight months old. She didn't even want to think about the prospect of having another child so soon. Dina outstretched her arms to Adelaide.
"Here, give me the baby and go take care of yourself. I'll make your excuses." Adelaide instinctively turned away from Dina with a slight twist of her hips as if to shield the baby. Dina did not seem to notice. A burning liquid rose up in Adelaide's throat. The world was slowly churning. Her palms grew hot and sweaty under the burden of her daughter's body. Overpowered, Adelaide handed the baby to Dina for fear of dropping her.
Part II: Ian Is Found Wanting
Sat, November 14, 2074 7:39 pm: Lothario Hall- Rawling Hills, Pleasantview
"Ian!" He knew that snarl as well as he knew his own heartbeat. He did not even need to turn around to perceive the harsh contours of her mouth or the narrow squint of her eyes. Ian hastily stuffed the last hors d'oeuvre down his throat before facing his mother-in-law's soulless frown.
"Yeah, Mom? What can I do ya for?"
"First of all, you may save your maternal affectations for your actual mother. Secondly, you are meant to be hosting this party, not gorging yourself on chocolate. And lastly, your wife has taken ill and gone to bed. Ginny has Francesca." Ian's nervous grin vanished.
"Addy is sick?" Ian had never called her that aloud before. And even with as naturally as the pet name had rolled off of his tongue, he still regretted having given voice to it at all, let alone in front of Dina. Adelaide was not the sort of woman that should inspire baby talk and cutesy sobriquets. She was the sort of woman that merited long-winded poetry and vows of undying passion. But in the end, Ian was not the sort of man to write poetry or feel passion.
"Yes Ian, that is what I said. Now do you need me to repeat any or all of what I just told you? Or was once sufficient enough for me to get my message through to your gnat's brain?" Ian slowly nodded the affirmative but he secretly wished she would repeat the part about affection. Dina sniffed tartly then turned on her heals and fled across the room to chat with the Dreamers.
Ian breathed a sigh of relief at having been left alone. He hated parties. Hell, he hated his social position. As Ian turned back towards the food, he was startled to find himself face to face with a foolishly grinning Lawrence Caliente.
"Hiya!" Laurie was unusually peppy. Ian didn't know what to make of it.
"Oh, hey Laurie. How are things?"
"Oppressively dull. What about you? You enjoying yourself?" Ian glanced around the room at the sea of stiff, terrifying people. No, he was not enjoying himself.
"Same here," he said simply. Laurie's grin widened.
"Excellent," he said, then looked over his shoulder and gestured for his sister to come join them.
Ian had always liked Lydia. She was fun and spirited- The absolute antithesis of the Adelaide Lotharios of the world. She spent her days in downtown pool halls wearing tattered jeans and drinking grown men under the table. She was wild, boyish and most people agreed, irredeemably eccentric. But what Ian admired most was that she made no apologies for any of it. She beamed at him when she came to a halt just behind Laurie.
"Happy birthday, Lydia," Ian said almost shyly.
"Thanks, Ian. Wanna turn this shindig around?" Ian raised his eyebrows. He didn't know what these two had planned but he thought that it was almost worth the combined ire of his mother-in-law and his sick wife if the night could somehow be salvaged.
"Yeah," Ian said. "As a matter of fact, I do want."
"Great," Laurie exclaimed, punching Ian in the shoulder. For such a small person, he threw a shockingly painful punch. Ian resisted the urge to rub his aching shoulder in front of Lydia. Laurie leaned towards Ian, evidently for the purpose of secrecy. "If you'll kindly direct the birthday girl to your circuit breaker then we just might be able to kick this party up a notch."
