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Part 4/7 💜📸📝

May 1936

Dearest Fanny,

Remember when I said I wanted to live like a cherry blossom? Cherry blossoms bloom within the grasp of death. With most flowers, the rot sets in…they fall… That’s the price of new life. Not cherry blossoms, though. They bloom beautiful, they fall beautiful. That’s how I want my life to be. To be beautiful and dignified for a fleeting moment simply by letting go of life. Daring to bloom knowing it won’t last, and so falling in vivid color. I wish I could live like that. I want to experience true beauty, if only for a moment.

I met someone who made me feel different. He showed me a whole new world, gave me hope. I honestly thought he could help me find a new me. I felt it with all my heart. But people didn’t understand us, didn’t want that from us. In the end, they took my hope from me. They took him away. People who can’t achieve beauty seek comfort in others. They fear anyone different. Hate them. Try to tear them down. I can’t take much more of this. Fanny, do you remember when we took apart all those abandoned mailboxes and birdhouses and built Bug Town? I first peered into Mr. Emory’s fascinating cases of beetles and butterflies at the age of six, in the company of Father. I recall my pity at each occupant, dead and pinned for display. It was no great leap to draw the same conclusion of ladies: similarly bound and trussed, pinned and contained, with the objective of being admired, in all their gaudy beauty. I’d go collect pill bugs and slugs and we’d put them in little houses, alive, and make up stories about their lives as we watched them until we got bored and released them back into the wild. Well, I went and set the whole thing back up. I even added new buildings. I just wish we could go back there. I wish I could keep building Bug Town with you. I wish you and I could run away together, Fanny. Just me and you... I just want to run to another place. A simpler, gentler place. A place of gentle pastels and beautiful, breathtaking, and perfect— Why do I feel like this? I’ve never felt like this before. It’s got to be because I lost that special person and the hope he gave me, right?

A long time ago, when I finally got to accept my feelings for Jim, I thought everything was going to change. But every day was still just like every day. He was still a drifter. I was still his friend. When you live in New York, people expect things to stay the same. If anything changed between us, it could ruin Jim and everything around him. So that’s how it went: Nothing changed when my whole world burned. I kept teling myself maybe after I got into college, I’d be able to express my feelings for him. I let the fire in my heart eat through my soul and body. I called myself a coward. But I chose to keep what little I had to enjoy. I was a poor kid crawled up in bed. Poor? Do I really deserve that charity title? Am I really the victim of all of this? Finding myself is the key to finding others, to realizing that I can form real bonds, that I can end loneliness and embrace a better future. Seeking a connection with others is a sign of weakness. It’s running away. The strongest animals don’t form groups; they act alone, and need only themselves to survive. Those who betray themselves to fit into a group are pathetic. There’s no beauty in living like that. But... I don’t really mind. I just want someone to understand me… For those I love, and for those who love me… I want to keep moving forward…and never look back... I wouldn’t go back, to the way my life was before. No. No, I can never go back to that again. Remember the time when I said that I don’t want to be trapped anymore? I think I’ve finally found a way to escape. You’re probably thinking, “Nothing too drastic, I hope.” It is drastic. There’s no going back once I’ve done it, but that's what I want. No going back. So I won’t. I’m far nicer than I was before I went to Cascade, you know. Running away is running a way, running a path both from and toward. It is all a matter of perspective.

Fundamentally, some people, like Mother, misunderstand the desire to escape the flesh. It’s not about escaping decay, or that the heart or the brain is less mutable than the flesh (foolish). It’s about the changeability! It’s about customization! It’s about being able to open yourself up to new things and swap parts around! This was what my spirit longed to do, to wander in strange lands. It couldn’t stand being trapped in one body all the time. It had wanderlust. I get butterflies every time I wander beautiful places I’ve never been. Dr. Jaquith once described me as a butterfly. ‘You are like a butterfly, beautiful to look at but hard to catch,” he said, “yet in that utilitarian life a butterfly of the soul dies, for we need the sweet nectar of the flowers and the warm rays of the sun. The sweet words, the laughter, the silliness and the spontaneous hugs are as needed as the air we breathe.” The sad thing is, I think cold types like Mother need it too, that’s why they seek us and cling to our warmth until our fire is extinguished. “If travel is like love, it is, in the end, mostly because it’s a heightened state of awareness, in which we are mindful, receptive, undimmed by familiarity and ready to be transformed. A person susceptible to wanderlust is not so much addicted to movement as committed to transformation.” I am ready to transform, Fanny. These brick walls have been my cocoon for the years I needed their sanctuary, and I thank them. My eyes wander their rugged clay surface, their rosy color bright yet earthen. My hands feel the warmth of sun, imparted to them yet given back with a steady determination. Leaving home was never going to be easy, but it is part of growing, of moving onward into new challenges. It is so very bittersweet.

Luggage, to pack at this time, is bitter and sweet. Yet it is as the striking clock, hands move onward. When the time of change comes I can only embrace it and make the best of what comes next. Now that time has come again. It brings a sense of rebirth, of the coming of new adventures. It’s not even about wanting something badly, it’s wanting it more than death. It’s dying for something and being reborn. It is as if my heart and soul have climbed into their own luggage and buckled in as happy passengers. There is a time to stay. There is a time to go. I believe I am close to the latter. At a certain point I need to go wandering. My feet need to hit earth, again and again, that bone-filling drumbeat. I need the sky’s colored threads to tangle inside me, pull me somewhere new. Everything I was I carry with me, and everything I will be lies waiting on the road ahead. The road doesn’t rise and the road doesn’t sink, it’s me that does the walking. Every day it’s right there and I can ride it anywhere or sit here on this curb.

I’m leaving, Fanny. I’m sorry but I can’t stay. Sir John Talbot and I have broken our engagement. I wanted it to work, not for Mother’s sake, but for John’s. And, if I was older, maybe I could have made it. But I still have my youth and I can’t throw that away on him. I’m not the right woman for him, and he’s not the right man for me. It was a mutual decision, and came as a surprise to neither of us. We parted amicably, and promised that we’d still be friends and keep in touch. I’m relieved and very glad to know our friendship won’t suffer and that, despite our broken engagement, we haven’t truly fallen out. It feels like a weight off our shoulders, like the stars have aligned and the world has shifted back into place.

Now that things are going back to the way they were between us, I no longer feel dizzy and disoriented, like I’m living outside of my body. But something’s changed, in a good way. I can’t explain or describe it, but I can feel it. I hope John can feel it too. He’s a good man with an even better heart, but it still belongs to his wife. He’s so very lucky to have loved and been loved in return, to have his heart held by a woman who could really cherish it and keep it safe. True love stories don’t end in a wedding, Fanny, they end in a funeral. He had his love story and it had a happy ending, for a time. And isn’t he the lucky one? It is better to have loved and lost, than to not have loved at all. I don’t know if he’ll ever find another woman to love him, if he’ll ever make room in his heart for her in that way, but I wish him every happiness.

I’m so sorry, Fanny. I do love you, you know. It’ll be hard to go, to let you go, my last link with home. I know that I leave many things behind, but it is time to go towards a new beginning and go in search of my destiny. I don’t know what I’m going to find, but I’m sure it will be wonderful. Being the person I am, and feeling the way that I do, getting excited about going somewhere new can be terrifying. Of course it is, I get it! As much as I had always longed to be freed of my duties and obligations, being released from such bonds was as much a severing as an emancipation. Emancipation resulting in madness. Unlimited freedom to choose and play a tremendous variety of roles with a lot of coarse energy. I might be afraid of damn near everything at first, but I refuse to let it paralyze me. I won’t be the woman who cowers behind four walls, never taking chances. I am a world of uncertainties disguised as a girl, and I want to die like I’ve lived. I always wanted to be larger than life. If I don’t travel, I’ll regret it. My soul will forever be empty. Still, it’ll be scary and lonely…and half the time I’ll be wondering why the hell I’m in Cincinnati or Hungary or North Dakota or Mongolia or wherever my ambition takes me.

There will be boondoggles and discombobulated days, freaked-out nights and metaphorical flat tires. In the first few seconds an aching sadness will wrench my heart, and I know I shall be homesick for you…but it will soon give way to a feeling of sweet disquiet, the excitement of wanderlust. Still, living in this moment I realize that it is a transition that will live with me all my days. Yet I take these emotions with me, these memories of comfort and joy. I see the places we did hopscotch as kids, throwing down them stones, leaping in time to our rhymes. I see the road in the right here and now, these shoes feeling how the sidewalk pushes back softly, always supporting, never asking. And in that moment I hear it calling with its sweet song of other places, all of them connected by the breathing land that runs under that tarmac, under oceans and mountains. That’s how I know I’ve gotta go, go with the road, take her curves and junctions, pause at the red, go at the green.

I went to such great lengths to hide it, but I suppose I can tell you this now: I wasn’t a very good student. I wasn’t smart enough to just get by. I wasn’t focused enough in class. I rarely passed exams. I skipped assignments. I was constantly on academic probation. I can remember the complicated face Mother made when I told her that my college application was rejected again and that I didn’t want to go to school anyway. None of us were expecting them to approve an application of a dropout with a low grade point average. As much as I wanted to be, I wasn’t anything like Dad. Not that Mother would ever let anyone know that.

You and I always used to stick together, and then when we were in junior high... I would get into trouble here and there and our parents would always compare us. You were the good twin...and I was the evil twin, as I liked to say. Two halves to a whole, and I was the rotten half, they said. I kind of got this image. I totally played it up as if that’s what I had to be or something. But at the time, as Mother and Father were in the middle of their divorce that was neither smooth nor messy, but something in-between, I was already thinking of doing what Jim was accused of doing: selling all my belongings, maybe inventing a fake identity, sticking out my thumb, and hitchhiking to roam around the world to be with the other hippies and vagabonds who had dropped out of school and tuned in to their surroundings.

All I wanted was to live a life where I could be me, and be okay with that. I had no need for material possessions, money or even close friends with me on my journey. I never understood people very well anyway, and they never seemed to understand me very well either. All I wanted was my art and the chance to be the creator of my own world, my own reality. I wanted the open road and new beginnings every day. When no possessions keep us, when no countries contain us, and no time detains us, man becomes a wanderer, and woman, a wanderess. I know, in my soul, that a love for travel is a gift and not a hindrance. It feels like a burden when the bucket list is bigger than the bank account, but a thirst for more of the world is not something to apologize for.

Denying its presence feels like denying something good in me, something God put there. One learns most when one wanders the world. Experience teaches is such a lovely saying. Hypocrisy is something I have learned saturates every level of our society. I see it more now than I did then. At some stage I started questioning everything that I was being taught and turned against various aspects of my upbringing. Maybe I had my reasons and maybe I needed new ways to cope like Dr. Jaquith said. I needed pain, I needed blood. Pain is beauty. The more pain somebody has experienced in their life the more physically attractive they are. Judge me if you want, but I’m talking about my own body. My own catharsis. About marking myself with beauty instead of ugliness. Anger is a thing I channel into my passions, I make it my rocket fuel to create a better world. All those times I have lashed out, lost self-control… I’m so dreadfully sorry. I am learning from those past experiences - learning how to become more as our father who suffered so much and yet was calm and kind to all.

Jim was like Father, always pushing his limits. Well… It was more like he was always being pushed, but he was good at it. That’s why he naturally became a journalist, a travel writer, while maintaining a high for adventure, for exploration, for new experiences and the discovery of previously unknown wonders. Jim was the best chauffeur I could ask for. Seeing him all sweaty as he worked on a car triggered something tingly within me. Something that made me want to catch him behind his back and never let go. All sorts of feelings and thoughts were pumped restlessly into my brain with every heartbeat. It gave me a bad headache. A good kind of bad headache. I wanted it to stop. I wanted it to never stop. But as soon as Jim gave me that “Hello” all those headaches were washed away. It used to be the best prescription I could ask for. Take away the pain and let only the good things stay.

I don’t want to start talking shit about her already but how can I resist? Every time I got in Mother’s view, it triggered an obvious backbite. I had an... interesting talk with Mother. One you’re never going to need to have. Well, of course Mother prefers you over me. Why shouldn’t she? I’m ugly and awkward, and I always say the wrong things. I fly around throwing away perfectly good marriage proposals. I love our home, but I’m just so fitful, and I can’t stand being here! I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Fanny. I’m sorry about being as difficult as I am, my brain’s just…built wrong. There’s just something really wrong with me. I want to change, but I…I can’t. And I just know, I’ll never fit in anywhere. Why is it that I can’t be content to live a normal life? Why do I spiral into depression when I am away from the wilderness for too long?

I mean...you’ve known, right? Like... I’ve known. I’ve known ever since Father took us with him to Europe. Mother didn’t, I guess. But she saw Jim’s note, and the suitcase under my bed, and she asked, “is there something I should know about you and Jim?” Mother kept doing what she does best: digging into other’s secrets. She tried to use Jim’s ex-wife and four adult daughters against him, against me. But that backfired on her and blew up in her face when I told her I already knew all about Jim’s past. In that moment, I was proud to have rendered her speechless. It gave me great pleasure to watch her sputter, trying and failing to form words. I threw a wrench in her plans, just as she had thrown a wrench in mine. But here’s the thing. I was prepared for her to be mad, or disappointed, or start crying or something. But she was just in denial. “You're too young to know what you want,” “you and Jim are just good friends,” “you just haven’t met the right man...” “It’s a phase.” That's what I didn’t see coming. That she wouldn’t even respect me enough... to believe me.

Maybe Mother thought...thought that Jim only took an interest in me because I was just a “rich but clueless American girl” who was lonely enough to do anything for anyone who was nice to me. Jealousy is a strong creature. It quickly devoured her mind. Soon, anger took control of her, and it took control of me too. And she just needed someone to be mad at, someone to blame for her misery other than herself. Sadly, coping with her bitchiness wasn’t the hardest part of the day. Even after Jim left me, anger stayed. It devoured me whole. A phase, she called it. Well, joke’s on her, because she is in for one very long phase. I only stayed as long as I had because Mother suddenly contracted diphtheria and depended on us more and more. Manby, Uncle George, you, me…all of us. She was ill and getting worse. And there was you, Fanny. I didn’t want to abandon you and leave you alone in that great empty house with Mother. Even if I could’ve chucked everything— But Jim wouldn’t let me. Jim. Jim. What’s the feminine for his word? That’s what I am. I knew he had been married with children before, that he abandoned them, and I walked right in with my eyes wide open. I said he would make me happier. And he had.

But now my beloved Jim has gone away. He left on a train and hasn’t told me where he’s going. I’ve lost touch with him. He vowed never again to step foot on the territory of New York or Wales, wishing for me to be free of him so I could be happy with John. How was he to know we’d break our engagement? And though I haven’t lost everything - I still have you and Uncle George here in New York and Father in Berlin (God, I hope he’s safe. I pray for him every night), my beloved family who lights up my life - If I don’t go after him, it’ll only seal my fate of never seeing him again, and the thought is too much to bear. I lost him twice already, but I can’t survive it a third time. So now you will never see me again, for I am on my way Northeast, there to start the rest of my life. I will never return to the territory of New York, not even when my mother, whom I despise with every part of my being, has left this Earth - unless she changes her ways. But I’m not holding my breath.

Between saying and doing, many a pair of shoes is worn out. As of now, it looks as if I’m right about one thing, that Mother is never going to change. Even if she told me she understands my need to move out of the city, I don’t feel guilty for leaving her alone in New York. I hate to add to her unhappiness, truly. But she won’t change. Not until she’s happy again, at any rate. She’ll come around when she’s not lonely anymore, if by some miracle Dad comes home. But not before. Our parents smile from the old photographs, full of the promise of youth. Mother stands in her wedding dress, modest by today’s standards, simple and white. Father is the proud man holding the arm of his pretty bride, the sunlight reflecting from his unwrinkled face. That was before...before the illusion shattered. It was before his infidelity and her hypocrisy surfaced and came to a head. I want to see them smile like that again, to find that love hiding inside their aching bones.

Bravery is the sweet spot on a spectrum from cowardice to fool hardy. There are times when running away is that sweet spot, when it is the brave choice. It is all a matter of circumstance, trust your instinct on which it has arisen. This is the moment. It’s time to take matters into my own hands. I tell myself, you aready used up your last chance to change your mind about running away, Miss Skeffington. Get yourself together. if not for you, for Dad. Mother sought her refuge in London and abroad when she was ill, while I found a place in the great wide somewhere. And so I stepped over the divide between childhood and all that lay beyond. I won’t be defeatist and say it will be my last time in this house. I’ll be back. Someday. Maybe. For now, I cautiously regard home as a place I’m leaving behind in order to come back to it afterward. It’s selfish, but at the end of the day, that's what we are - selves. If we don’t look out for our own interests, there are plenty who’ll be more than happy to chip away at our core, piece by piece, until we forget what we ever wanted.

Although I do not have the time to convey my good wishes to you in the way that I would like, I hope you know that you have been the kindest of sisters and although you may not want to hear this after what I’ve done, I am very grateful to you. I am sorry to be leaving home like this after so many years. I know I’ve said it many times in this letter already, and maybe you’re tired of reading those two words, but I feel like I can’t say it enough. Please forgive me for running off and leaving so abruptly without a proper goodbye. As much as I would’ve preferred to have taken leave in person, the matter was urgent, and I had no time to wait for you to get back from your date with Johnny Mitchell. It was decided just that very day, and my boat was scheduled to set sail so soon, so I had to leave rather abruptly to catch it.

By the time you read this letter, I will be halfway across the world, on my way to India. There’s something Jim said in his letter…it might be a hint as to where he is. Or it might be nothing. But I have to try. Besides, it’s not just because of Jim that I’m going. It was a thought, that. Not to attach myself to a man, but to confront instead the open world, the wide fields of France and Spain, the ocean, anything. Not just to hitch a lift with the first fellow who looked as though he knew where he was going, but just to go. I haven’t told Mother or Uncle George this, but there’s an art exhibition in Delhi, and I just received a letter informing me that I have a place as one of the featured international artists! I’ll be able to present my artwork in front of hundreds - no - thousands of people!! It might actually be my crowning achievement. But once this is done…then what? Do I have it in me to come up with something even better? How much longer can I enjoy the fame and praise I get now? Is there despair and disappointment waiting for me right around the corner...? No point in dwelling on what ifs now. I’ve already booked my ticket and it seems too good a chance to miss, so I will be starting my journey there. I must go for the adventure.

Perhaps a slightly perverted adventure of questionable consent, but beggars like me can’t be choosers. I wish to study painting abroad. All I want is a chance to pursue my passions, and I hope that gives me enough to live on and time off for fun with family and friends. I want the kind of work-life balance that has eluded our family for generations. India… It sounds so far away and different. I like different places. I like any places that isn’t here. If Jim is not there, I don’t know where I’ll go after India, but I just know I’ll have to keep searching. For him, for myself… Even if it takes months or years, I will find him - and if and when we can prove to Mother that all we ask of her is her consent - nothing more - then, and only then will I come back home. No sooner than that. I could give up the search, it’s the easiest option. But I’m not going to give up on him so easily, just when the going gets tough. What would I achieve? Many sleepless nights holding regret of all I didn’t seek? That option will never exist to me. My dreams are far too real. Down the hard road I find my place in the world, the closest to home I’ll ever feel. I’ll look for Jim around every corner. I’m taking back my life, and it’s due to him.

It is important, I feel, to give thanks to what has been, for in doing so the future walks upon a clean pathway. You and Father and even Uncle George have always fought my corner and been my allies. Even when I was failing almost all of my other classes and eventually dropped out of school, even when I received rejection letter after rejection letter from countless colleges, you continued to encourage and support me in my pursuit of an art and photography career. You believed in me, always told me that I am talented in my own right, and I am forever thankful to you all for pushing me to pursue my passions, even when Mother didn’t understand and was against them. I would’ve given up without you, Dad, and Uncle George. Not just on my art and photography, but on myself entirely. I leave with thanks for your and their many kindnesses.

In a way, I will carry you all with me. You will be my muses, my inspiration, and I will represent you and the love I feel towards you all in my artwork. If I don’t make the papers, I hope to show you my artwork myself someday. Darling, forgive me and rejoice for my mind is made up. In time you will understand and my prayer is that you will always accept that this was my decision, my free decision. Who would have dreamed taking a semester off to visit landmarks in Switzerland would result in meeting the love of my life and chasing after him? Don’t worry, I’ll be careful. I know you must be so worried, but I will be safe and well. No matter what you hear, nothing is going to happen to me. I will be fine and Jim and I will be together soon, I promise. I dare not call home at the risk Mother may pick up the phone, but I’ll write you every week, though there’s no telling when my letters will actually make it to you with how erratic and unpredictable the post can be sometimes. I’d write you every day if I could. I need space, so I believe this time away could be good for me. Leaving is my form of self-protection. There is no other way to accomplish it, or to give myself a chance to recover. My leaving is not only a choice, but a duty.

Anyway, you know Uncle Fred is in Diamond Stud, South Africa, so I have somewhere to go if something goes wrong. You know how much he loves us as if we were his own daughters of his flesh and blood (Dad had to rein him in more than once lest he spoil us too much, especially on Christmas and our birthday. Remember our eighth birthday? It’s very funny to think back on now but, at the time, Mother and Father were mortified. The words “Simple” and “Small” are not in Uncle Fred’s vocabulary). He always used to say our invitation to come live with him over the summer was open, just to cable or call him beforehand so he could prepare a room. He has plenty of space, so I’m sure he would love to have my company, should I ever want to stay with him, if my travels ever bring me around to South Africa.

Though I know he’s of no blood relation to us, and it may sound terrible to admit, there were times when I did wonder if he was my biological father after all. When I was growing up, I felt a certain way towards him, like there was an invisible connection or kinship between us that nobody else could see. I can’t describe it, but I felt it. I felt I was more like him than Father. He’s unmarried but never had and still has no interest in ever settling down and taking a wife, just like me. While he’s no virgin and loves the company of young and beautiful women, he never thought himself a family man. He wasn’t cut out to be a father and would much rather stay the “fun uncle”. Just like how I never wanted and still never want to be a mother. I’d much rather be the “fun aunt”. He was and still is built of different stuff, cut from a different cloth, just like me. He’s free, living it up as a rich bachelor, unbridled by marriage prospects. I envied him for so many years because he had the kind of life I could only dream of. When you receive this letter, let my words be the butterfly and the envelope their cocoon. Though I leave home, our bond remains, traveling different pathways yet eternally connected. Know, too, that I miss you terribly, and always, always will.

Love,

Your sister xx

P.S. Enclosed is a picture of the vilest woman ever born.

May 1936

Dear John,

Wanderlust is the pretty onward road when the duties that kept one anchored are lifted. It is neither running from nor running to, yet a sense of easy adventure, a gentle curiosity, a growing inner peace. What an unfortunate time for the wanderlust to strike! Although we were friends first, we never really had time to discover the souls of one another without the rest of these strong emotions. Perhaps then we would have seen how our passions and purpose would always take us in opposite directions...unless one of us sacrificed who we really are...then what? How could there be a relationship if one of us became a shadow of our former self, or worse, a sort of annex of the other, or a fading echo struggling to find self-worth?

In the carefully scripted wedding rituals, I detected bad faith. I felt less like a bride and more like a person pretending to be a bride, the way a little girl might process through her living room with a pillowcase draped over her head toward some imaginary groom. I refused to take engagement photos because who would ever believe that we were spontaneously bounding through a field at sunset holding hands? Or kissing in front of a brick wall? Who was that photo for? It couldn’t be for us because anytime we looked at it we would know all the work that went into it: A long afternoon spent smiling to the point of jaw exhaustion.

In this breakup I won’t break up. I refuse to because I choose to seize this opportunity, this chance you have given me, given us, to live and love again. I choose to love again with full power because anything less would feel anaemic. In my pain I thought you close to an adversary or oppressor, yet in truth you’re drowning in a sea of your own uncried tears. How can a soul be healthy if you refuse to feel your pain? Over the past four weeks I forgot what it was to smile from joy instead of painting a smile upon my face for others, one that felt empty and wrong. The truth is, we were simply wrong for each other. It takes a lot of healing to feel a spark again, to have the courage to let it grow and burn...so you can be sure I’ll keep on walking, exploring, making a new life with others who spark and flame. So, remembering the good times, cherishing our laughter and smiles, letting the quarrels fade to nothing, farewell, be strong, for I loved you in my own way. Not as a wife or a lover, but as…

Your friend,

Miss Skeffington

May 1936

Dear Jim,

Not every road untraveled is worthy of the imprint of your soles. Some are best left that way, forgotten and erased by the passage of time. For every soul there is a road not traveled by others. There are times we are called upon to take the road not traveled, as a sort of scout, checking its safety, ensuring that it leads to someplace of greater love, than to stick to well-known routes. Such exploration takes a degree of courage, a pure seed of faith, and a complete determination to do what is right for others. For it is the road that your love and passion will call you to explore, it is the reason you were called into existence.

When your soles meet that road, regardless of the challenge, your soul will rise, igniting a fire within. You walk this road not for yourself, yet for the good of others, to make discoveries that bring greater health to your community, to creation, to mother nature. So, I hope you have the courage to walk your road when it is revealed to you. Yet when we find the entrance to new, untraveled roads, when the urge to travel them comes from the loving impulse, from the callings of the heart, when they echo the soul in ways that feel like home, I say we travel them together. Let us be explorers on these paths that lead to greater birdsong and the regeneration of nature. For this sense of love we are all born to seek, is real sense, real sanity, and our inbuilt navigation system.

Why won’t you see me? Why won’t you return a simple message? I miss you so much. You’d love India, I think, probably. The nature here is totally different than back home. I keep thinking about the story you told me, about Allegra and the first mate lost on a mysterious island where even the plants are out to get them…and then I think of them together, out there in the wilderness together…and I start thinking of you again… I lie here in bed and I can almost feel you. I’ve been trying to save it up for when we’re together again.

I haven’t done a good job, okay?! But I tried… The love letter is so underrated. It’s challenging to write a love letter, for when we do the soul is naked. They take courage to write and so are incredibly elevating to read; for to render yourself so emotionally naked is a profound act of love. Without knowing why or how, I found myself in love with you, this strange wanderer. While I won’t lie and say I fell in love with you the day we met, I fell for you harder than a slip on black ice. You were funny, always cracking jokes. You had me in stitches on every date. People flocked to you like you were the only light in the room, hanging on your words, buying you drinks and slapping your back. After a time I wanted more than the “happy guy” persona. I already loved you, and I wanted to get to know the man behind the punch lines. At first you distracted me with jokes and I followed each one, laughing down every blind alley.

Then one day Fanny asked me some things about you, where you grew up, what your parents were like, who your best friends were, and I froze. After six months I knew nothing about you other than your alcohol and bed preferences. Maybe I was just in love with the dream you were selling me: A life of destiny and fate, as my own life up until we met had been so void of enchantment. Those things - mystery, fate, enchantment - they are things that young people offer us as soon as we get close to them. And if we’re not careful, we can be seduced by, and drawn back into, the youthful world they preside over. The freedom of the open road is seductive, serendipitous and absolutely liberating. I sat with you, reached out with my open heart and invited you to reciprocate, to make that connection. But then I walked away and went back to New York. I had to protect myself from the pain of the emotions. I had to make some effort to get over you. Then, just when I thought I’d made progress on that, you came back. You came back on the exact day I was going to make a bigger effort to move on. So, that was that. The universe wants this. I want this. It feels like you want this too. I fell in love more deeply upon meeting you in New York, but I couldn’t say. I thought you wanted to be friends and that was all. It broke my heart. It was rough. But I’d take you as a friend than not at all. Love is that way. You stay, you do all the good you can for them while you do the best for yourself too, get on with your life, pursue your passions and talents...

Your goodbye letter is the boots upon my feet and the bag upon my arm, yet come the calling of the black heavens and stars, it is the bed I rest upon and the pillow that welcomes me to dreamland. So it’s a matter of time and patience, I suppose. I never met a lover before who made every other man appear as if he were a two-dimensional paper drawing, men who would melt in the rain and burn on the first rays of a strengthening sun. And this confidence in your soul, in who you were born to become, as the man who stands with me, is the finest love letter I can ever write. For words are only the crude tools of emotion and it’s my heart you’ve won. With you I’m both completely free and completely in a cage, though it’s a cage I want to be in, because I feel safe there. My imagination is free, my creativity and intellect have no frontiers, it peeks in glee at infinite possibilities for ideas and learning. My romantic love, however, has entered the cage, locked the door behind herself and put the key out of the bars. That’s that. I’m done. I’m yours. I’ve found you at last. When you left I was scattered to the winds. But now... I feel almost whole again. Wanna know how much I love you? I love you to the moon and back. I’m crazy about you. I’m lost without you… I’ve been lost a long time... Let’s go back to our small world, where I placed my hearts at everywhere you loved. Let’s go back. I’m coming for you. I’m coming. I’m coming for you, Jim. Hold on just a little longer. I know this isn’t real, but the pain sure is. I keep hearing a German man’s whisper in the wind. After weeks of trying to decipher something, anything… I heard the word “Wald”. A little elbow grease at the library turned up a German dictionary. Wald means “forest.” I’m coming for you. I’m coming. I’m coming for you, Jim. There’s just one thing left to do. Take me with you. Please. Please, take me with you this time. You won’t leave me again, will you? You can’t just shake up my whole world and leave.

All my love,

Your storyteller Xxx

You turned, headed for the stairs. You ran down a busy train station, pushing your way through a crowd of stevedores and waving families. But it was too late. By the time you arrived at the platform, the last call had been announced and the train had pulled out of the station. You stood there, panting, defeated, watching the train receding. But little by little you became aware of another presence standing close by. It was Jim. Shocked, flustered, you backed away. He followed closely.

“Well, if it isn’t Miss Skeffington.”

“Mr. Masters.”

“I thought you might find me sooner or later. No one can keep a secret these days.”

“I knew where you’d be. It was hidden in plain sight in your letter. If you didn’t want me to find you, why did you write it? When have you condescended to hide from a woman, especially me?”

“Darling, you really shouldn’t have come.”

“I had to see you. I don’t trust you. I’m giving my regards to Chief Mahabu in person.”

“Well… You might as well know. There is no Chief Mahabu.”

“It’s all right. We’ll find one.”

“I don’t want you with me.”

“Please don’t. I liked you much better when you were blunt and natural. You’re such a bad liar, Jim. I’d never have got anywhere if I were as rotten a liar as you.”

“Don’t act as if you’ve made a great discovery, I’ve known it for years. It did not serve me well.”

“That’s why I’ve appointed myself your guardian. When we get to Los Angeles, I’ll make it legal. It’s a big world. Two can travel in it.”

“So what do you wanna do? Spend the rest of your life with tramps? Derelicts? No goods?”

“Sure. I’m a socialite and you’re a social climber.”

“No. I’m not gonna let you do it. It’s too lonely a life.”

“Not if we’re together, it isn’t.”

"You don’t even know where I’m going."

"I don’t care. I’d like to go anywhere. How can there be any adventure, any exploration, if you let somebody else - above all, a travel bureau - arrange everything beforehand? Is there really nothing I might say so you’ll take me with you?”

“I confess that…I was hoping that I might have a reason to take you with me, but congratulations on the celebration of your marriage. I saw the announcement in the papers. I’m very happy for you.”

“Oh, no! No! No, that’s…that’s Fanny. You remember my sister, Fanny! And Johnny Mitchell, actually. No, I’m… I’m not married. Please don’t go so far away. Not without me.”

“What? What about Sir John Talbot? He was your fiancé when I left.”

“About that... Jim, Sir John and I broke our engagement. We broke it the day you called me.”

“What? Why didn’t you marry him? Don’t you love him?”

“Not like we do. Not like us. He’s like you in many ways. Not your sense of humor, nor your sense of beauty, nor your sense of play. But a fine man, and a kind of refuge I thought I could never have. I thought my fondness for him might grow to be love or something like what we have. When my sister and I had to leave Berlin because of the Nazis and we parted for the second time, I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. We’d made our pact, and we were living up to it. Mother thought that, with my engagement, I would get over you, Jim. But when you came back, my feelings for you that I tried so hard to bury came back full force. They never truly left. But then you left again.”

“I couldn’t stay and watch you ruin yourself. I only wanted to stop you from throwing away your future.”

“May I remind you it’s my future to throw away.”

“You talk about the future like you’re flipping through a magazine. I asked you to marry that man and be happy. I didn’t ask you to go against your mother and tag along after me. But thank you for defending me and proving that you do care.”

“I didn’t know how much until she said those dreadful things. She thought the only way to break us apart was to show me what a deadbeat you were. I kept hearing the disgusting words she said, but at the same time, I felt something. A reminder…of how I felt when I fell for you. How it felt so right and terribly wrong. Screaming into my pillow never helped with making the feelings go away.”

“So you’re not angry with me?”

“No. Only with Mother. On the other hand, I thought she described the way you left me rather accurately.”

“If it’s any comfort, I’ve always regretted having let you go. I was a cad to make you care for me and then because of some noble sense of duty, to leave you to get over it the best you can.”

“Don’t blame yourself. Please, darling. John and I weren’t right for each other. But this? I know this is right. Just as I know we’ll regret delaying when we could have made it happen. You’ll regret it. I’ll regret it. ‘He who loves the most regrets the most.’ But we don’t have time for regrets now, Jim. Only love.”

“It’s different.“

“It’s not. Shall I tell you what you've given me? On that very first day, a little bottle of perfume made me feel important. You were my first friend. And then when you fell in love with me, I was so proud. And when I came home, I needed something to make me feel proud. And your camellias arrived, and I knew you were thinking about me. I could’ve walked into a den of lions. As a matter of fact, I did, and the lions didn’t hurt me. I’m reminded of a promise. Didn’t you say you would take me across the world and kiss me in one hundred countries before we die?”

“Let’s not live in a fantasy. Give it up. Give me up.”

“Is that an order? Jim, you should know by now that I don’t follow orders very well. Never have, never will. If we can’t be happy here, we must leave for a place that will accept our love.”

“But, my darling, is there such a place? Think... I can’t bear to see you hurt.”

“Let me tell you a story then. There once was a man named Sidney. He was a big explorer and naturalist who went all over the world. He did a lot of exploration on the Amazon. There was a lust of wandering in his feet that burned to set out for the ends of the earth. ‘On! On!’ his heart seemed to cry. Evening would deepen above the sea, night fall upon the plains, dawn glimmer before the wanderer and show him strange fields and hills and faces. Where? He wasn’t very close with his son, who was also an explorer. They’d only see each other by chance in weird remote places like Samarkand or Walla Walla. One day, he met a woman on his travels. She was a botanist, but was completely daft - she’d wear really bizarre outfits and she was one of the first women to ride on a steam train. He didn’t want her with him, and kept trying to push her away, but she kept coming back. Then he fell in love with her, and she with him. Together they roamed the world, two halves made whole. They never legally married, but it didn’t matter. They didn’t need rings or a piece of paper to tell them that they were husband and wife. To them, they already were. Now there’s a plant named after her, and a monkey they adopted that they named after him. That monkey became famous and went on to have many offspring. He has grandchildren and great-grandchildren that are still alive today.”

“The naturalist or the monkey?”

“Yes. Oh, you understand what I’m saying, don’t you? If our love has no home, let us spend our lives searching together! If I can’t have you, I don’t want anyone. So I beg of you again... Don’t send me away. Don’t send me back. I’ve come so far. Please, Jim. Take me with you. I promise I will make you happy. And I know you’ll make me happy too. Please give us a chance.”

“You...just won’t give up, will you? Of all the crazy...stubborn...foolish women...”

“Jim, answer me, please! I’m sorry. I don’t mean to have an outburst. I mean, give me your answer. Let us go to Africa with a sense our tomorrows are beginning. Please. Take me away. Take me to a place where we can be happy.”

“But if we run away together or elope, won’t I ruin your reputation? Won’t I be an anchor around your neck?”

“A very nice anchor around a very willing neck. Now, I know what I really want. Jim, let’s just not get married yet. You never wanted marriage anyway. I know that. Let’s just get out of here...and just see the world. Okay? All right? My darling,” you exhaled as he reached you, pulling you into his embrace and holding you close. You clung to Jim, the gentle thrum of your heart against his chest reinvigorating him after his long journey.

“I love you. I love you, sweetheart. I’ve been in love before. I won’t pretend that I haven’t. But I really do love you.”

“Then I’ll take that as a yes.”

“The trouble is, I’m not as simple as I used to be. My life is not as simple. I...just need to be sure I’m being realistic, not living in a fool’s paradise and dragging you into it with me.”

“I’ll still take it as a yes. Please take back what you said in your letter.”

“If you can stay by my side and have a full and happy life, I will. Will you have me?”

“With all of my heart.”

“But I have nothing to give you. My hands are empty.”

You took his hands in yours. “Not empty now.”

“It seems I missed my train. On purpose, darling. I couldn’t go - not yet.”

“When, then? When do you leave?”

“I don’t know. I truly don’t—”

“What do you mean? If you don’t know, who does?”

“You, darling. Only you know.”

He pulled you close and kissed you. You were thrilled. You pulled away.

“I intend to eventually go to Europe one more time, and I need a companion. How would you like to be the person I take?”

“I’d like that more than anything! I’m ready to travel...and you’re my ticket. To get away from that house, away from that life— Leaving has the sense of adventure, coming home to you however, would be my heaven.”

At that moment, you were interrupted by a whistle from a passing train. A train’s lights moved on the sheer curtains. Obeying an old habit, Jim checked his pocket watch - and smiled. “It’s a great day for the tramps of the world. They’re getting new blood.”

“How are we gonna start out? Under the train or in it?”

“This time in it. Just for the novelty.”

The emotion of your reunion sealed as a perfect photograph in your soul. Adventure grinned at you as a new friend, as an old friend, as if he knew the answer was yes before he asked. The ideas would come later, probably when you least expected it. The goal of your life was to tie adventure to your feet, stock memories in your pocket, hold imagination in your palms like fairy dust and sprinkle it on your tales. So you laced your boots and took a step onto the train. The backpack had broad shoulder straps that felt quite natural even with the weight added. With it you walked a little taller, felt the straightening of your back and your head rise a little higher. Somehow it was easy to carry, almost easier than having been free of it. The backpack had that well-loved look, the canvas of spring flowers showing signs of being washed many times. It took the form of your shoulder in the same way a friend’s hand might, gentle and warm. Your luggage hugged at your hips as if it was filled with future good memories. To the heart ready to travel, the backpack brought a frisson of joy. The backpack upon the compartment seat was the color of bright yellow petals, the sort of yellow that got brighter in the rays of the dayshine. It was a sort of bold, "Hello," something that was confident to glow in all weathers. It was the most welcome of sights, for it told of a new adventure afoot. Your luggage bags were plain and well loved, yet what mattered most was not your destination, but the journey. Your luggage bathed in the warm light that entered the window of the train, as if it spoke its contents of good times ahead. You took comfort as the bag hugged itself into your gentle form, the train rocking its maternal rhythm, anchored to centuries old rails. The train ride rocked you so gently as if you were a sweet babe in this carriage. Whatever was ahead could be a great challenge, and there could be tears, but it was your adventure to take and so you smiled.

Dear Fanny,

Here I am at the railroad station with a handful of other bypassers, about to board a train bound for who knows where! The only person who knows where we’re going is the conductor. I’ve found Jim and I’m feeling close to him as I’m back to traveling again. The road and the sky feel full of life. Wish me luck!

Love,

Your sister xx

Just before Fanny left, your mother suffered the ultimate humiliation when Edward Morrison, one of her old beaux, made what she at first believed to be a sincere marriage proposal, only to withdraw it when he began to suspect, incorrectly, that she was no longer wealthy. Without her husband, without her daughters, Fanny was left alone with her maid, Manby.

“Manby!”

“Why, Mrs. Skeffington. What is it? What’s the matter?”

“Manby. Manby. Don’t leave me.”

“Why, of course I won’t.”

“Promise me you’ll never leave me.”

“Of course I won’t.”

“You’re the only one I have left.”

“I’ll never leave you. Never.”

“You see. You see, I’m all alone. I’m all alone.”

“Mrs. Skeffington, wouldn’t you like to rest?”

“Yes. Yes, I think I would.”

“You’ll feel better after you’ve had a little rest.”

“You’re the only one I have left.”

Half a year passed. Not knowing who else to turn to, your mother made one last desperate plea to your sister, Fanny, who had moved out to Seattle with her husband, Johnny Mitchell, and, like you, went low contact with her.

“Fanny, please talk to your sister for me. Please. She hasn’t replied to any of my letters. This is no place for me. The men are cruel, and the land is cruel. I beg of you. I beg of her. I will do everything, anything, to make amends. If she will not take pity, ask if she truly wants to leave her family name to die out here in the dust? You’re our family’s hope now. Your sister is sick, a lost cause. I fear she has had her head turned and her hand claimed by that penniless charlatan, Mr. Masters. Please, say something to her.”

Fanny wasn’t going to defend your mother or take her side. However, though your mother was never particularly nice to her, or to you, she did bring you both into the world. So Fanny thought it’d be nice of her to write just one letter to you on your mother’s behalf, at the very, very least. Not just for her, but for you too. She thought maybe your dad would want it that way. Though Fanny couldn’t promise your mother that you’d listen to her appeals or entreaties, or be swayed into coming back to New York, she could try. And so that was what she did.

November 1936

Darling sister,

I am writing on behalf of our mother, but I do not think you will I miss you terribly, but it seems like Mother misses you most. When you left, Johnny and I went to a play and it was so late by the time it ended that we didn’t return home until the next day. I heard Mother and Uncle George talking. You ran away from home. You took all your things. And then I got your goodbye letter from India some weeks later. Mother still hasn’t opened hers. Though it’s been half a year, Mother is still hopeful that you’ll come home someday. She keeps telling Manby and the other servants that you’ll write to her or call any day now, that you’ll ring the doorbell and she’ll beat Soames to it and answer the door herself. But I had a feeling even then… I don’t think you’re coming back. Not anytime soon, at least. Your room is just the way you left it, though Mother and Manby have kept it impeccably clean for your arrival. Not a speck of dust or askew wall painting in sight. She’s never had much interest in cleaning or helping Manby before, but lately she’s been doing it almost obsessively. I can’t count the number of times she’s plumped the same pillow on the old chair you used to sit in. I think she does it to give herself something to do, to ward off her loneliness and the sad thoughts of you that come with it. She always seemed happy during the day, but at night, I often woke up because I heard something. It was Mother crying. She was always saying that she was sorry while Manby hugged her and tried to shush her with comforting words and pats on the back. I heard her crying even after she dismissed Manby and let her retire for the night. When she called me to ask for help, she was crying in her room again. I wanted to ask her if she needed help from a professional, but I think she doesn’t want anyone else but Manby and I to know. I’m worried. Should I talk to Dr. Jaquith about it? I know that come the morning, she’ll keep talking to herself and go on telling Manby that she’s going to personally make up the guest room for Jim to stay in, even if you come home on such short notice that she won’t have much time to do it.

If you ever come home, Jim can use my room if he wants. I won’t be needing it anymore. You remember Johnny Mitchell, don’t you? One of Mother’s (former) admirers. I didn’t wish to be courted by someone who was still in love with Mother, but he assured me that he wasn’t in love with her. He and I were married shortly after, and we left for Seattle. Johnny opened a branch office there. Mother had no idea, just like she had no idea about you and Jim. She told me the same thing she told you, that I should’ve talked it over with her and that I hadn’t known him very long. But I’d known him for several months, as long as I’d known her. It’s funny in an ironic way. You’ve known Jim far longer than I’ve known Johnny, yet she didn’t put up as much fight with me marrying as she did with you. I wish I had been there the day you left. I knew that one day soon you would go and I wouldn’t have been able to stop you from leaving, but maybe I could’ve stopped you and Mother from having such an explosive row. Maybe I could’ve mitigated the damage done so you wouldn’t have had such a destructive falling out. I won’t try to justify Mother’s actions. I never approved of her meddling in your love life.

Besides your flighty nature, I can only guess that she was so hard on you and pushed for a “suitable” marriage because she thought if you were married, you’d become solid, grounded. I can only guess she chose Sir John not only because he was well-born with money and position (and an ancestral castle to boot!) but because you already liked him immensely and he was a dear friend to you, so she thought he’d make the perfect husband for you. She imagined his homestead in Wales should’ve been enough to cure your wanderlust, that the prospect of spending the rest of your life abroad in a European castle should’ve pleased you as much as it pleased her. But it wasn’t enough and it didn’t please you. There was something much greater you needed to feed your soul. Now you and Jim are both traveling for your own self-care and to feed your wandering souls…existing in other places so that you could remember who you are and then come home to yourselves. You used not to know where you were going, but you knew you would arrive, you knew there would be an end to the long, blind road. Mother didn’t suppose secrecy would have even occurred to you. Ironically, her being so hard on you is what drove you to it. It was also possible, her distaste for Jim was at least partially fueled by her own humiliating experience with her former lovers when she invited them over after her illness. Their declarations of having their breaths taken at her beauty, omnipresent smiles, and devoted facades had her fooled, until after she lost her beauty and she realized most of them had wives and children of their own, and none of them ever truly loved her.

Though she was wrong about a lot of things, she was right about one thing though, in a small way. Sir John would’ve made the perfect husband for you. But only on paper. Not in practice. He was a dear friend, but that’s all he was. There was no spark, no flame. You wanted a love match and she knew that, but she wanted an advantageous match for you and prioritized convenience over love. She tried to appease you with assurances that love would come later, that you’d learn to love him in time, but you knew that this was a lie. Your love and affection for Sir John would never bypass warm fondness, no matter how much you wanted it to. John knew this too, so you both did the admirable thing and called it a day before either one of you got hurt. You parted as friends. Though I didn’t have a chance to tell you in person, I thought that was very classy of you.

Beyond the trails and hikes, there was so much to explore, especially since you were into foraging. Due to the merciless unpredictability of nature when combined with people and their knack for losing possessions, it was advised that you keep a camera with you at all times so you could take photos of memorable sights. Looking back, I think that’s around the time your love for photography was realized. And look at you now! You became a great explorer just like I said you would be! I still remember when you used to take me “treasure hunting” when we were children. I still have our treasures safely wrapped up and put away. I’ve taken great care of them. Hmm, where should I put them? They might look nicer a little closer to the light. They will catch the light from my desk lamp so nicely. My shelves would look much more interesting with your treasures on display! Mother hid most of your discoveries away. I pestered her for weeks to let me bring some of your treasures out of storage when I moved out. Oh, I almost forgot! When I came back inside from searching for your treasures in the shed, Uncle George showed me some of Jim’s published articles that he came across and saved in the travel section of the newspaper! Who would’ve thought we’d have such a talented writer and journalist in the family? I also saw the article printed about you!

‘Her art continues to captivate the hearts of the young, so we reached out to her for comment. Keeping her eyes fixed on her new piece, Ms. Skeffington had this to say:

“All I’m doing is showing what these girls feel on the inside but can’t show on the outside. If any of them connect with a girl in the art, it’s probably because they’re experiencing the same thing.”

She added that the flowers she depicts on the young girls she paints bloom out of the scars they bear. The flowers represent the girls overcoming past traumas, or at least their desire to do so.’

I managed to read them all before Mother took them away and gave them back to Uncle George. Darling, it was fascinating! It almost felt as if I were there myself! It made me think about how I would have loved to go with you so we could’ve gone treasure hunting again like we used to. Even though I was so young I still remember our adventures together in Europe after the divorce. Would you like me to share my memories of them? Well, I’m going to whether you like it or not! We talked about some of them already. It seems like such a long time ago. You were incredibly excited about each one. You were so happy about them, showing them to me and Father, you didn’t stop talking about some of them for hours. I thought, how can my sister be so excited over some old broken pottery or a heart shaped rock or fallen antlers… But it wasn’t long until I understood. I remember you being so proud of each and every find, no matter how small. I remember the first treasure hunt you took me on. The day that started it all! We found a pair of old dog tags. Dog tags are usually fabricated from a corrosion-resistant metal. From the looks of it, that pair must’ve been quite old as they were already starting to rust and deteriorate by the time we found them.

Mother was so upset when we brought those dog tags home, wasn’t she? “Darling, that simply will not do! Regardless of its condition - buried, corroded, or damaged - a dog tag has value to its owner or their loved ones. We should try to locate the owner.” I think seeing those tags reminded her of Uncle Trippy. Then there was the time you brought home that creepy clay mask. You found it wedged behind a stone near the river as you ate your sandwich. It must’ve washed up at some point. It was cracked and chipped in spots, and was a ghoulish green color. The paint was worn away in some spots, revealing its gray base since it had been under the swampy water for who knows how long. Mother was so repulsed by it. She probably thought it was cursed or haunted. Mother took away all the knick-knacks that used to sit on those shelves. “They’re taking up space on the mantelpiece! Take them away!” Once Father moved them to his study, I remember us creeping in to take a peek at them. You tried to scare me with the mask by pretending to wear it and be a monster. Even if there isn’t a specific story attached to that mask, just the sight of it was still creepy enough that I wanted to take a photo to show my friends. Do you still wear the empty locket you found? Does it still hold that picture of us? I hope it reminds you of those adventures we had together when we were children, and how thankful I am for everything you’ve taught me. I’ve had to beg Mother to let me visit you, you know. But now that I’m an adult and a married woman, I don’t need her permission or her money. I shouldn’t worry you with that kind of talk. I know we’ll meet again someday. Now, you must tell me about your visit to Delhi!

Love,

Fanny xx

In response to Fanny’s letter, you surprised her with a phone call. Sticking to your vow, you, of course, didn’t call your childhood house on Charles Street, but the firm Johnny worked at. From there, you asked for him by name and, when he picked up the other line, he happily gave you his home phone number so you could call your sister.

“She’s counting on you to bring me home, isn’t she.” You didn’t make it a question.

“They all are,” she said quite honestly. “But they won’t hold it against you if your heart says otherwise. They—we—wouldn’t want you there if it’s not where you want to be.”

You looked back to the road just outside your window. “I appreciate that,” you said in a quiet but steady voice. “More than you know. More than I knew. Fanny, I don’t think I’d bear it if you tried giving me a piece of your mind. You wouldn’t, would you? Even though Mother asked you to?”

“I would not. I gave Jim my bedroom, and that’s enough.”

“Please don’t tell Mother I called you. I’m not ready to come back, Fanny. It’s too soon. The people in charge of the exhibition arranged for me to meet with Brady Mueller, the agent. Quite a young man for what he has accomplished. During our meeting, Brady asked me many things, as if he was interviewing me. The brief introduction tumed out to be hours long. However, by the end of it, he said he had everything he needed and would get things moving right away. He called to meet with me today. He has the papers ready for me to sign. He said that the location of the new exhibition has been approved. All we need is the down payment.”

“That’s great!”

“I have a good feeling about him. I’d sign the papers almost immediately if Jim wasn’t here to help me look them over first. After that, I’ll inform my accountant, Helen, to transfer the money from my savings, since I’ve saved up quite a bit of money just on my own. Brady has been a great help since I brought up the idea of an art gallery for the public. I’m not sure if things could have gone so quickly if it had been some other agent. I owe him that much. The art gallery will open in three months. I’m so excited about it!”

“I’ll bet! I’m excited for you and I’m not even there to see it! How’s it coming along?”

“We have received most of the artwork from the contributors and artists. All I need is to ask Margot if she would be willing to donate some of her paintings. If this exhibition succeeds, it would be good for me and for Jim. I haven’t felt this alive in a very long time. I have a purpose now.”

“I told you that you would find it someday. I’m glad that day has finally come. Not to sour or dampen your good mood, but have you given any thought to coming back?”

“Oh. That. As for going back home… I don’t know if I ever will. I want to, someday. But…as it stands now… My mind still hasn’t changed from what it was when I wrote you and Mother those goodbye letters. The truth is, I’m not ready to go home… Oh, sure, I’ll travel and go abroad again but future trips will not stretch toward infinity like this one. They won’t contain so many possibilities. Heading home is the full stop marking the end of adventure and the beginning of a responsible life. And despite months of traveling, I’m not ready to be responsible.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to stay and help this exhibit get launched, and then… I don’t know. I may stay here in this town another day or I may go on to another town. No one but you knows where I am, and I’d like to keep it that way for the time being. I don’t want Uncle George to worry, so as far as he knows, it’s just rainbows and butterflies here in India. Can you tell Mother to please just…stop? Just… Just stop. Good for her. She’s figuring her shit out. And that’s great. I’m really, really happy for her. But I’m…I’m tired. I don’t want to hurt anymore. And for some reason when I was with her, it just… It just hurt the both of us. So let’s just go our separate ways, okay? Just tell her to let me go. I’ll come back when I’m good and ready. I just don’t know when that’ll be.”

“Okay… I understand. It’s your life and you can choose how you live it. I’ll tell her you wrote me a letter saying that you still need space and to be left alone. And as for everything else… My lips are sealed. She’ll never know about this call. Take all the time you need. It won’t be easy for me, but it wasn’t easy for me either when your stay at Cascade was extended from two weeks to two years. But I survived our separation and sporadic in-person visits back then, in large part because of the frequent correspondence I sent to you. All the drawings, letters, and postcards I sent you helped me to uphold our connection. It tided me over until you could come home. I imagine it was much of the same for you. If we did it once, we can do it again. But that won’t make it hurt any less than before.”

“Thank you for understanding how much I need this, Fanny. Give Uncle George and Johnny my love. I’ll write to you.”

“I will. And I look forward to those drawings, letters, and postcards.”

“It’ll be painful, but we’ll make it through this, Fanny.”

“I know we will. You know as well as I do that we Skeffington women have a capacity for enduring.”

“You’re damn right about that. I love you. Bye.”

“I love you, too. Goodbye.”

“Mr. Martingale, urgent, sir.”

Mr. Martingale read the slip of paper. “Oh, put her on.”

“Mr. Martingale is ready.”

“Oh. Hello, darling. I was just thinking about you.”

“Oh, really? Have you missed me, Uncle Fred?”

“Well, I haven’t heard from you in a while. Not a phone call, a letter, or even a postcard.”

“Right… Sorry I haven’t been able to write or call you before now. My life has been…eventful…and it’s hard to make time for myself lately.”

“Oh, apology accepted, darling. You know I’m only teasing. I do love giving you a hard time on occasion. Did you get the postcard I sent you?”

“Yes, I got your postcard. Have you been having a pleasant holiday, Uncle Fred?”

“Very nice of you. But you and I both know you didn’t call me out of the blue to ask me how my holiday was.”

“…No. Sorry to interrupt your holiday, Uncle Fred, I’m giving you so much trouble, but—”

“Prerogative of a beautiful woman.”

“—we are headed to our next destination, Casablanca. And we know that’s close to you, so—”

“‘We’?”

“—who better to ask but you?”

“For how long?”

“For how long? That depends! It’s not generally known, Uncle Fred...but I’m very hard up. We’re running low on money…”

“I had no idea. I was under the impression that your father...”

“He did, but… Well, you see, he left most of his fortune to Mother and, well… All the best people make the worst investments.”

“That’s true.”

“Luckily I have a man I can trust to advise me. I should have returned to Diamond Stud a few years earlier, Uncle Fred. I could’ve used your advice. You would’ve been of immense help to me.”

“If you need money, all you need to do is ask. But you’re not in any trouble, are you?”

“No! No, nothing like that. Though we have come across some…unruly characters on our travels—”

“‘Our’?”

“—I promise I’ve been smart and keeping myself safe at all times. I’d never force you to testify in court for me or bail me out of jail. And while I appreciate your generosity, I wasn’t asking you for money. Just merely stating a fact.”

“You’re not asking me for money?”

“No. It’s not money that I want from you, Uncle Fred.”

“So you don’t want money, and you don’t need me to bail you out of a sticky situation. But you want something. So what exactly are you hoping to get from me, sweetheart?”

“It’s just…you said that your invitation to come visit or stay with you in Africa was always open. I was hoping that’s still the case and I could come stay with you? We’ve had a wonderful time in India and on the beaches of Barcelona. I think you would like the Gaudi architecture. It’s from a strange alien world—”

“Hold on. You keep saying words like ‘our’ and ‘we’. Who is ‘we’? Not you and Sir John Talbot, certainly? I followed the story of your engagement to him. Of course, the papers say one thing but the rumor mill says another. They do so love to contradict and misconstrue to keep people guessing as to who to believe. Both the papers and the rumor mill say a great many things, in fact. The papers say you called off your engagement, the bored housewives say you ran away from home—”

“That’s about the size of it. I wouldn’t trust either of them to get any of the details right, let alone all of them, but I can tell you both of those statements hold some truth to them.”

“And where have you been?”

“Oh, too many places to name in one breath. But I’ve had company. I’d be bringing him with me. I want you and him to meet properly, face-to-face.”

“I see. I’m not quite sure what you believe I am to do about your situation. You’re asking me to house a stranger, someone I’ve never laid eyes on before. And a man, at that! Well, plead your case.”

“Right. Uncle Fred, may I present Jim Masters? He’s my…partner. Say hello to my godfather, Fred Martingale, Jim.”

“Hello, Mr. Martingale. How do you do, Sir?”

“Very well, thanks for asking. Now, Jim, you can tell me truthfully, man to man. When my goddaughter said you were her partner, did she mean business partner or intimate partner?”

“Neither, but I lean more towards the latter. It’s a long and complicated story, Mr. Martingale. One I’m sure would be much better told in person. That is, if you’d be kind enough to let us stay. I’d like to meet you in person and put a face to the stories I’ve heard about you.”

“Oh, she’s told you stories about me, has she? She’s a very immersive storyteller, I’ll give her that, but nothing compares to hearing stories from the source. I have many more stories that she hasn’t heard yet.”

“I’d like very much to hear them, sir. And I have stories of my own you’d probably call fantastic, but they’d keep your attention.”

“Is that so? That would be very amusing. But tell me, what do you think of her?”

“What do I think of her?”

“If you’ve spent as much time together as you’re leading me to believe, then you must’ve formed an opinion of her. She said you’re partners, but you’ve all but outright told me you’re not sexually intimate, so tell me, what do you think of her? When you look at her, what comes to mind?”

Afraid Jim was about to fall into a trap, you grabbed the phone from him. “Uncle Fred, I assure you that we love each other very much. While I was deeply flattered by the attention of Sir John Talbot, I… I simply could not ignore my long-standing affection for Jim. You see, Uncle Fred, it wasn’t love at first sight for us, but it was love. What I mean to say is that love is surely the greatest force of all. Once Jim and I realized we were completely enamored with each other, nothing could stand between us. Not even, I’m sorry to say, the attentions of a good and kind man such as Sir John Talbot.”

Jim snatched the phone back from you before you could react. Before you could so much as ask what he was doing, he was already speaking impassionedly to your godfather. “Mr. Martingale, she’s correct in that it wasn’t love at first sight for either of us. There was attraction, certainly, at least on my part. But Miss Skeffington thought me presumptuous, arrogant, insincere. All fair, really. And I thought her a young lady barely out of leading strings. She was so much younger than myself, and so romance was entirely out of the question for both of us. But in so removing it, we found something far greater. We found friendship. You see, Miss Skeffington and I had been fooling all of Charles Street for some time. We had fooled them into thinking we hated each other…when really, all along, we simply enjoyed each other’s company so much we couldn’t stay away from one another. I’ve never been a man that much enjoyed flirting, but I’ve always very much enjoyed talking and storytelling. The trouble was getting somebody to listen, somebody to share with. But with her…Miss Skeffington…conversation has always been easy. She took chances. With every wall I built, she saw a canvas to be painted, a story to be written. Her laughter brings me joy. To meet a beautiful woman is one thing, but to meet your best friend in the most beautiful of women is something entirely apart. To answer your question, whenever I look at her, I’m a little overwhelmed by such beauty. She’s beautiful not just in her face and body, but in personality and spirit. And it’s with my sincerest apologies, I must say it took Sir John Talbot coming along for me to realize I didn’t want Miss Skeffington to only be my friend or traveling companion. I wanted her to be my wife. I still want her to be my wife. Not today, not next year, but someday. For twenty years I was lost, aimlessly wandering from place to place, without roots, without a home, without a purpose. But when she’s with me, when she holds my hand and looks at me with that “come and get me” grin, there’s no need for words. The sky's brighter looking at it through her eyes. Her eyes utter the sweetest love songs. Every time she turns around to face me, I know she’s singing only for me. I know I’ve found where I belong.”

“Well put, Mr. Masters. You are wise…or perhaps unusually lucky to understand friendship to be the best possible foundation a relationship, especially a marriage, can have. Even if that foundation should crumble as quickly as it was built. Put her back on.”

Jim handed you the phone. He couldn’t hear what your godfather said to you, but from your relieved smile and what you said next, he must’ve given in. It sounded to Jim like he passed the test.

“Oh, thank you, Uncle Fred! What? No, you don’t have to do that. Really, we can pay our own way. We will look for a cheap standby ticket and call you when we’re headed your way. Are you sure? We can manage on our own. We don’t need— Oh, all right. If you insist. You and I are the same. Once we set our minds on something, it’s impossible for anyone to change them. Sorry again for the short notice! Can’t wait to see you again, Uncle Fred! It’ll be good to be in Africa, for you and Jim to meet… Oh, I’m so excited! Right, you have a plane to catch early tomorrow. I won’t keep you any longer, then. Goodbye, Uncle Fred. And thank you again. I love you!” Once you hung up the phone, you turned towards Jim. “He’ll be up by plane in the morning so that he’ll be there to receive us. I tried to tell him he didn’t have to, but he’s insisted on wiring us the money to travel from Casablanca to Diamond Stud.”

“Well, goodbye, Captain Jorham. It was a splendid voyage and I enjoyed it.”

“Mighty smart navigating too. The last time I hit South Africa I was aiming for Charleston, South Carolina.”

“Oh, welcome. Welcome for the good Captain Jorham.”

“Hello, Mr. Martingale.”

“And this, I’m certain must be my goddaughter. Though you’re much taller than when I saw you last.”

“The last time you saw me, I was eight years old, Uncle Fred. I hit a growth spurt since then,” you laughed.

“And this must be…hold on, don’t tell me. it’s on the top of my tongue… Oh! Mr. Masters. Jim. Delighted to greet you.”

“Thank you. And thank you for giving us a place to stay, Mr. Martingale. I’ve never had anyone be so kind.”

“And how’s the enchanting Mrs. Jorham?”

“She’s waiting for me on board. Well, God bless you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Goodbye, Fred.”

“Goodbye, sir.”

“Well, Mr. Martingale—”

“Pablo, My servant, devoted to me. He’ll help load your luggage into my car and drive us to my house. My house is yours, for however long you need use of it. We shall drink to the past, forget the future, and pleasantly live in the present. I have a million questions about Europe to ask you both.”

“Yes, but time is—”

“Oh, please, please, time is unlimited in South Africa. It’s always early in the day, and we still have plenty of time. I’m a gentleman of leisure, with a house full of servants and a charming disposition.”

“And an overwhelming power of persuasion,” Jim noted.

Uncle Fred laughed. “Yes. You’ll be glad I persuaded you, my friend. But wait till you see South Africa, my home.”

“I’m going to write to Fanny and Uncle George once we settle in.”

“An admirable ambition, dear, but quite futile,” Uncle Fred said as he took a puff from his cigar.

“Why?”

“Because the people running the post office in Diamond Stud have quit, gone away. There is nothing left of it but an old abandoned building. Empty. Nothing decorating the brick walls. You can probably have it, but who wants it? It’s only good for squatting. The nearest post office that’s still active is in De Aar.”

“Well, I shall have to go there, if need be.”

“Now let me see. Yes, you’ll need a bit of tailoring the first thing and then… Jim, did you hear me? Jim.”

“What?”

“I said you need compeletely new and different clothes. I shall arrange with my tailors to…”

Jim laughed, interrupting whatever your Uncle Fred was going to say. “You remind me of my aunt. The first time I met her, she thought I needed clothes too.”

“And did you?”

“As I recall, I was two years old and stark naked.”

The men shared a good, hearty laugh. Their laughter was infectious as you found yourself laughing too. Though you tried to cover your mouth with your hand to hide it, there was no missing or mistaking the mirth in your eyes, which gave them a special sort of sparkle in the sun’s light that could rival the world’s largest diamond.

Back in the United States, your sister, Fanny, received two letters in the mail from somewhere in Africa. A place she had never been. Who did she know in Africa? There was Uncle Fred, but why would he write her? She knew he loved her just as much as he loved you, but she was Uncle George’s goddaughter, not his. At first glance, the envelopes looked to the rest of the world as any other but, upon closer inspection, she noticed the envelopes came with airmail stamps. They actually bore several stamps from African countries that she would likely never see, and were easily a couple months old, having taken their time arriving at their destination. The long-awaited envelopes came at last.

Upon opening the first one, she recognized the handwriting immediately. It wasn’t a letter from Uncle Fred. It was a letter from you. The handwriting was absolutely yours, and so Fanny’s heart leaped for joy. You were a more seasoned traveler already than most she knew. She was trembling so hard from either nerves or excitement or maybe both that she had to sit down. Never before had Fanny read a letter so quickly in her life, her eyes darting frantically from word to word, trying her best to take them all in, but her eyes inevitably skipped around. She was so eager and somewhat anxious to know how you’d been getting along that it was difficult to be patient, to resist the temptation to just skip to the end.

March 1937

Dearest Fanny,

I was right about the hunch I had about Jim’s letter. I found him and, when I did, I told him, “I want us to pack up everything we can and get in the car and let’s just drive... until we find somewhere... for us.” And he asked me... if I could really do that. And I said yes. Yes! It’s been a few months since our travels started. We sure get around. At one time my material possessions fitted in one suitcase. Do you know that I have a story for each of these places I’ve been? Well, I don’t know if they’re all true…but they are my memories.

Jim and I are now in the African desert proper, and the heat is beyond belief. It can be so hot here come summertime, yet in truth it’s simply giving back what went in, finding balance as the dawn approaches, ready for each new day. Consider this place for a minute if you will. There is nothing but desolation outside, mountainous crags amidst endless waves of sand. It’s a place as blank as a sheet of paper. It often reminds me of the interior of a whale’s belly. It’s only an intellectual association, of course. But it’s just from the whale’s sordid interior that we scavenge to base for the most exciting perfumes. And that can turn we confused with desirability, with virtue, with great passion. It’s the place we had always been looking for. Flat expanses would call to me… These are the places where the desert is most itself: Stark, open, free, an invitation to wander - a laboratory of perception, scale, light - a place where loneliness has a luxurious flavor... Drifting across the vast space, silent except for wind and footsteps, Jim and I felt uncluttered and unhurried for the first time in a while, already on desert time.

Say, why are we here? I mean Jim, me, Uncle Fred, any of us? Why do we stay here in Diamond Stud? Simply because we’re infatuated. Yes. Infatuated. Plucking at the skirts of this woman, this desert, this heartless courtesan. But we…we stay here, eternally hopeful for some small glittering favor. Amazing place, this place here in the desert where the gems lie just a few inches below the surface, free, free for the taking. Were if not for certain unfortunate restrictions. When we first arrived in Diamond Stud, Uncle Fred had warned us of the dangers of the desert, especially the prohibited areas. He told us stories of different types of djinni that are rumored to have been encountered in the desert.

The ifrit is a djinni of fire and flame, a vengeance called upon a murderer, implacable, unstoppable, the death of cities. It rises from desolation, from broken lands, and its sign is a shining light. It scents the vitality of its victim and seizes them with its burning eye until all life is drained, as a spider husks a fly. A du'a al-mas'alah, a prayer of asking, and true penance is the only defense. There once were men who had taken shelter in the courtyard of a ruined fortress until the sun was lower. But when their bodies were found, their skin was so dry and wrinkled that they looked like dried raisins. The official cause of death was dehydration, but others say it was the Ifrit that got to them and drained them dry, leaving their bodies to overbake in the sun. Then there is the ghûl and the hatif. The ghûl is a base djinni, a thing of fear, of trickery and shadow, dwelling in the deep places of the world. When it scents human flesh, it digs through the sand to the world above to snare the unwary traveler. It is tricksy, speaking with the voice of men, leading its victims into harsh places, there to slaughter, devour, and drink their blood. It doesn’t always kill its victims directly. It takes delight in manipulating its victims, sowing seeds of doubt into its victims’ minds, instilling paranoia and turning them against each other until they’re driven to murder. Similarly, the hatif is a djinni of calling, the voice alone in the desert; the cry of one bereft and in need of aid. Yet this voice is bodiless and unfleshed, spun of air and dreams; it assails the weary and the beleaguered, luring them from their path and into the wilderness. There they may search in vain, lost and thirsty, until they are bone and dust. Many men have died gruesome and unusual deaths in the pursuit of diamonds or hidden treasure, and many bodies were never found, theorized to have been reduced to easy pickings for vultures and other wildlife or otherwise reclaimed by the earth. If the gunfire of the guards stationed around the prohibited area won’t get trespassers, the elements will. The desert, the mountains, and the sea are sisters, tenacious triplets of nature, and once they have you, they won’t give you back.

Uncle Fred has made us feel quite at home. He has taken Jim under his wing, treating him like an unofficial apprentice while we’re here. He has expressed his interest in business to Uncle Fred, who was impressed by his ability to demonstrate his competence in being both personable and persuasive. They’re both “deliciously unscrupulous” (their words, not mine), and have a mutual respect and admiration for each other. They have quickly become close friends and have been showing each other the ropes, trusting each other to divulge the secrets of their respective trades. It’s no surprise to me that they’d warm to each other so quickly. They have a lot in common. So much, in fact, that if I didn’t know any better, I would assume they were two halves of the same person. If I didn’t know either of them as well as I do, I wouldn’t be able to tell them apart! They’re a real Tom and Huck to start. Pretty ironic, huh. Uncle Fred has spent his whole life searching for diamonds when all along he has possessed something far more valuable - his uncanny knack for making friends. As for me, I felt bold on leaving Charles Street. I thought my life at home in New York was miserable, but after coming here, I realized I am blessed more than I could ever imagine. When I envisioned my trip, I imagined exciting adventures, exotic locales, a jet-set lifestyle. I never thought grief and doubt would climb into my backpack and come with me. I pictured someday standing with Jim at the top of the Sun Gate, looking down at Machu Picchu, without ever thinking about the steps it would take to get there.

Jim and I had previously been staying in Casablanca but, despite being a neutral zone, corruption and illegal activity ran rampant and it was anything but safe. While we were there, we witnessed a man get shot to death in broad daylight and everyone around us was desensitized to it, like it was just another Tuesday afternoon! And the French Prefect of Police, Captain Louis Renault, kept flirting with me and trying to get me into his bed despite me refusing him over and over and over again! He was nonplussed by Jim being right there! The nerve of that man! With the help of Uncle Fred, we made a plan and moved on within the month. A good thing we left when we did too, because, just a few days after our departure, I read in the papers that Nazis flew in from Berlin. I can’t bring myself to imagine what might’ve happened to me if I had still been in Casablanca and they discovered I was the daughter of a Jewish man! I’ve seen what happens to refugees. I’ve seen how a wicked and corrupt system has given one man the right of life and death over his fellow man. I’ve seen a man beaten, tortured, killed because he was unfortunate enough to have been born poor. I become quite melancholy and deeply grieved to see men behave to each other as they do. Not just in Casablanca, but in Diamond Stud too. Though Uncle Fred has done everything to shield me from it, I know it’s happening here, and I’m sure in other areas of the continent too. Nobody warned me about this part. This is the curse of wanderlust, when the postcard image becomes a brutal reality. While Africa is a large continent, and there’s many parts of it that are perfectly safe and incredibly beautiful, there are others that are not at all what I thought it would be. No. No, it’s more savage, brutal and cruel than I could’ve ever imagined.

I think… I think it odious and unfair that some people are so well off and others are so poor. And beyond Africa, everywhere on the planet, I find nothing but base flattery, injustice, self-interest, deceit and roguery. I often feel I cannot bear it any longer. I’m furious, and it makes me want to break with all mankind, though I know this feat is impossible. Instead, I channel my fury, my frustrations, and any and all emotions that lie in between into my art. It’s the only way for me to cope with everything that’s going on around me. To stop myself from getting crushed under the weight of the world’s suffering when it feels like everything is falling apart at my ears. To stop myself from going insane from overthinking. It’s not up to me to save everyone. It’s not up to me to save anyone. I know this is the truth, but it’s a truth that’s hard to swallow.

I confess I find Diamond Stud rough and strange, and myself strange in it. By now, Mother has probably received word from Uncle George or the grapevine of gossiping ladies that I’m in Africa with Uncle Fred, and believes that I am here for a brief interlude of sensational experience before succumbing to a matrimonial fate. And while there’s surely no lack of sensational experience of every kind available in such a city, I hope that any experience I gain here will strictly go towards my pursuit of becoming a better artist and photographer rather than becoming a wife, and that all events of a romantic or sensational nature will be entirely confined to Jim, or to a sketchbook, canvas, or photograph. I wanted to do something for the people here, something meaningful without ulterior motives of expecting glory or praise and, though I had no luck at first, Uncle Fred has found me an opportunity to teach children. Well, I did not expect opportunity to knock so soon.

My students are dear boys and girls. Some of them remind me of myself when I was around their age. How curious to grow up with no mother or father, and your own older brother or sister having to act as parent in their stead. At first I was only teaching children, but some of the adults expressed an interest in learning too, so that they and their children or younger siblings could do it together as a bonding activity. Now I’ve been teaching both children and adults how to draw, how to paint. Whenever anyone gets discouraged in their art, I reassure them about the importance of not needing to be technically proficient in an activity to enjoy it, that there’s no such thing as mistakes, only happy little accidents. That not everything needs to be clear or easy to comprehend, that there’s beauty in all art, even the most abstract. I never thought I’d ever be good at teaching or giving pep talks, but my words tend to lift their spirits right back up. It isn’t easy, the work I do. Nothing but broken souls around me, and the ones that aren’t broke are greedy. Bone-tired. Life here is hard, but meaningful. I’m doing my best to bring a little joy to the world, what with all the gloom.

I dreamt that we were soldiers, Jim and I. We were dressed as soldiers are, in combat camouflage, guns at the ready. It was nighttime and we stared up a mighty cliff face, yet as we tried to climb, the bullets came from all around. Together we fought them, shot dead each one, then resumed our task of reaching the higher ground. I found a coin, old and covered in dirt, the engravings worn and the head of the king so tarnished as to be stolen from view. I held it in my left hand, watching the mud dirty my skin. So close to my face the coin had the aroma of stale blood. I turned to my right hand and in the palm was a new spring leaf, crowned by a perfect sphere of dew, reflecting an image of my face, softened and relaxed. When I turned back to the coin, the image of the king had freed himself and journeyed over to the leaf, igniting the growth of strong roots and new foliage that reached for the sunlight, robust, virescent.

Maybe Heaven is helping me find my calling? With all that has happened these past few months, my wish to make a difference, no matter how small, might just come true. I must be doing something right, because I feel useful for the first time in my life, like I’ve given children and adults a spot of hope as they try to survive the dark days of the looming threat of war, and that must be a good thing. They need me just as much now as they did a minute ago. And I’ve never been needed before. I’m not sure how much longer we’ll stay, but I hope that, after we leave, my students will remember me fondly. Maybe some of them will still be around when I come back, whenever that day may be. It’d be nice to reconnect with them, see how they’re doing someday in the future.

I miss you by the way, if that wasn’t obvious. I sure hope this letter reaches you before Jim and I move on to Ouagadougou and Nairobi. The post can be unpredictable at times, but I haven’t received any letters from you for a while now. In case this letter doesn’t reach you in time, I feel I should tell you we’ll be going to Algiers afterwards, but I’ve already said more than enough about me and Jim. I want to hear about you and Johnny. I hope you both are doing well in Seattle. How is everything going for you over there? I miss you. I wish I was there with you. Did you find more rocks to skip across the water? I remember when we were children, we would go to the lake to practice. You were worse compared to me then, but now I can never beat you in a match. I’m so proud of having such a hard working sister.

Love,

Your sister xxx

The second letter was much shorter, as if it could’ve been a post-script message for the first letter, but was written separately and at a later date, which told Fanny that you had made a spur of the moment decision.

March 1937

Dear Fanny,

Don’t tell Mother or Uncle George just yet, but we were supposed to only stay in Africa for one more week’s time, but we recently decided that we’ll be extending our stay in Africa for another six months. There’s so much to see and do in this beautiful continent, we want to experience as much of it as we can by committing more than enough time to exploring it. The plan is to still move on to Algiers afterwards, we’re just putting it off for the time being.

Love,

Your sister xxx

In September of 1937, you and Jim left Africa and moved on to your next big adventure. Ever since you left home, months passed, then a year, then two, then two and a half. Nearly three years passed, with you, Fanny, and Uncle George keeping in contact by exchanging letters and postcards back and forth with an occasional phone call along the way.

September 1937

Dear Fanny,

We’re finally in Algeria, and the stories don’t do this place justice. It is amazing! I’ve never seen anywhere as busy as the market in Algiers. The smells, the flavors, the colors and, oh, the noise! Some other highlights:

History. - The colonization of Algeria was rendered difficult by the presence of a native population which already had its own civilization, and was nomad and warlike in its instincts. A start was made in the region of the Tell, and then the mountains and high plateau land were taken in hand. There has been a spontaneous flor of Italian and Spanish immigration, and a system of land grants and other concessions have attracted large numbers of immigrants from the south of France who have settled down well in the country. Between 1904 and 1914, 206,000 hectares of land had been settled, of which 91,200 were free grants.

Mines. - The country is rich in minerals, which, however, have not been thoroughly exploited. The chief mineral resource is iron, the exports of which in 1920 amounted to 1,114,438 tons, valued at 33,879,000 francs. There are large phosphate deposits in the Constantine Province, which exported 334,704 tons in 1920 to a value of 18 million francs. There are also copper, zinc, lead, and antimony mines. Coal deposits were discovered during the war, and the work of British and American prospectors in the Oran indicates the possibility of existence of oil fields of some size.

Native rights. - The valuable help given by the native population of Algiers to France during the last war led, as it did in other parts of the French colonial empire, to a wider recognition of the political rights of the native. A law was passed on February 4, 1919, conferring French citizenship on any native of Algeria who had either served in the French army or navy, was a landowner, farmer, or licensed trader, knew how to read and write French, or was the possessor of a French decoration.

I may have picked up a little something for you and Johnny. You never know your luck! I like this place a lot. The people here are nice to me. Bringing the polaroid camera I bought years ago during my camera-obsessed phase seems like a good idea now. I am wandering through this life of mine, writing snapshots of my life. For me, the real win was the photos I took of Jim (watch out for Miss Skeffington, the rising stalker!) We all carried bottled water and day packs. I brought my camera, but Jim didn’t bring one. He said he didn’t believe in taking photographs; he planned to store his memories in his head, an idea I found incomprehensibly radical. My impulse to record was almost on par with my impulse to travel. But Jim has got every sunset that he’s ever seen memorized. “The best traveler is one without a camera,” he said. Well, I’m taking tons of photos. We’ll have to spend so much time together in the darkroom!

Can you believe your own sister was recently standing face to face with a real mummy? The tour guide was telling us some of the legends surrounding the desert. They tell you to stick with the group on tours. There’s a reason for that. I can’t wait to see you back in the States where I can fill you in on all of my stories. As promised, I’ll save the best stories for next time we meet in person, but I’ll share one of legends with you now, just to give you a taste of what you have to look forward to when I’m back in the States.

In life there was Setyamutef, an Egyptian prince and the only living son of the Pharaoh Senusnet, after his wife had suffered multiple stillbirths and miscarriages. He had seen wonders most men only dreamed of. But when his son was born at midnight, breathing and healthy, he was instantly more precious to him than all the wonders of the ancient world. On that day, the people thronged the byways of the city. When the doors of the tower opened, the name of their new prince rippled through the crowd before him like dye into water. “Setyamutef, Blessed Setyamutef.” Senusnet’s own father died before he was old enough to really remember him, but he grew up with his older brothers. However, the ones who lived past infancy and childhood all died prematurely sometime after they turned eighteen, either from foul play or tragic accidents. He feared his son would share the same fate as his brothers, doomed to die before his time if he ever came of age. He had alchemists from all over Egypt summoned to the palace, and they all came bearing a litter on which rested seven crystal orbs. But despite their best efforts, the rituals and spells they performed on the infant prince all failed. Their combined power wasn’t strong enough. To achieve what he wanted, Senusnet would need a great deal of power. Power that mortal men couldn’t ever hope to possess. The power of a god. So he called upon Khoret, the Goddess of Youth, sometimes called the Mistress of Eternity or the Childlike Empress since her mind was that of an adult woman, but her appearance was that of a perpetual child.

She stepped down, bare-headed and bare-handed, dressed in a simple robe, and she walked amongst the people. Some cried out with joy, some wept openly, but they all kneeled before her as she passed. Behind her came Mnisiria, another childlike deity who had the body of an adult man but the mind of a boy, who was her consort and thought to be a protector of households and, in particular, mothers and children. When they came to the palace, the royal guards and the Queen and Pharaoh themselves knelt before them in respect. They heard Senusnet’s entreaty, but they warned him that there was a heavy price to pay for granting his son eternal youth since it wasn’t a gift that could be given freely to just any mortal, not even ones touched by the gods. Even the gods themselves were bound to laws and rules more ancient than themselves, put in place by an invisible but omniscient being or force that came into existence before them, in order to maintain an always delicate balance. The balancing act that was their eternal obligation was precarious. One misstep too far to one side and the consequences could be disastrous for humans. The Pharoah, desperate to save his son from dying young, didn’t heed Khoret and Mnisiria’s warnings. They fulfilled their end of the bargain, but took all of the Pharoah’s memories from when he was a child as payment, including those of his brothers. He wouldn’t discover until later that, because of him, his son would pay a much greater price.

Like Khoret and Mnisiria, he was cursed to be perpetually a youth and could never age physically or mentally past the age of eight, trapped in a child’s body with a child’s mind. During a tumultuous time period of his father’s reign which included a great famine from which many died, the prince miraculously discovered a source of food in the desert that saved his people from their suffering. A Sifar tribe was founded and, as a gift to the young prince for his act of bravery and heroism, they called upon Tairin, the Goddess of Growth and Harvest, to provide them with special seeds so they could plant a juniper tree to allow the prince to grow to be an adult and purge the desert of rot and infidels. Before he could grow to his full potential, he was stolen away in his cocoon by a rival tribe and brought to what is now Algeria. They wished to have the child elevated to godhood with their leader as his consort. However, regardless of how much blood they tried to share with Setyamutef, there was no response because Setyamutef had in fact stripped himself of his flesh and traveled to the Land of Shadow. This tribe opposed to the Sifar, the Nanaki, called Setyamutef the Childlike Emperor or The Child Who Cannot Die. They were a people that refused the call to Islam, for their own ancestor, Kanebti, a bringer of healing and fertility, walked the sand, and how could they disbelieve the evidence of their own eyes? There was fighting, as there always is in such matters, but the Nanaki were wealthy, and made their peace through trade in salt and meat.

Even in his cocooned form, it’s said that Setyamutef has the ability to compel affection from others. Though originally thought to be a blessing and a sign of benevolence, this is referred to by his modern day followers as terrifying, as benevolence is not always synonymous with harmlessness. Perhaps this is why he is known as the most fearsome of all the Pharaohs and Princes who ever lived. Nevertheless, his tree where he once hibernated is known to provide shelter from the desert’s elements to those who are lost, but only to those pure of heart and free of ill intent. Anyone with a soul or heart that’s been blackened by greed or violence is said to be attacked by the tree, strangled to death by its branches and their bodies claimed by the desert, never to be found beneath the sand. Setyamutef is said to be awaiting for a promised mortal who is worthy enough to be his consort. He will guide them in the Land of Shadow, where he hopes to finally be reborn and manifest into adult form.

Though time has made it little more than folklore, perhaps there was once a real person called Setyamutef, a leader of his people. There’s a mountain named for him, and indeed his body may lie within or underneath it, hidden in the lost ruins deep beneath the surface. But it is speculated that there is more, much more, to that structure, wherever it may be. It is theorized that the deeper ruins are Roman in origin, and it’s there that archaeologists may find a mithraeum, set by the Romans to protect the gateway they seek. Once within...what wonders will those archaeologists see? While skeptics may chalk it up to hallucinations brought on by heatstroke, I think these are ancient memories of what truly happened in that place eons ago. Don’t most legends have some grain of truth to them? I don’t know for sure though. There are other, much older stories that have been conflated with his. Legends of the Gray Lady. The Sifar talk of their guardian spirit, a woman all in gray, who haunts the desert and protects their people against the specter of death. Perhaps the right word for the woman who walks the desert is goddess. She is a deity of healing, of succor in the wilderness. She has many names. People call her the Woman of the Tents, the Daughter of the Desert, or the Mother of Us All. She is wild and capricious; she cannot be summoned, but if her sympathy is roused she may choose to bestow her favor, giving of her body to quench the thirst of the dying, and guiding those who wander in the soft places. So people leave her gifts of desert flowers. There were also legends of a healer and weary travelers who were tested and saved by the Gray Lady as they struggled to survive in the desert.

But Jim and I stopped paying attention after the legend of Setyamutef. To be honest, the tour guide wasn’t the most talented of storytellers, and we eventually grew bored listening to him drone on and on. So we snuck off on one of the unmarked side paths while hiking in Chrea and got a little lost. Okay, a lot lost. For hours. I was running and deliberately lost my way. The world far off and nothing but my breath and the very next step and it’s like hypnosis. The feeling of conquering my own aliveness with no task but to keep going, making every way the right way and that’s a metaphor for everything. Wandering aimlessly, I love the thrill of unknown paths. I am a nomad. I am a wanderer. I am a drifter. Why do I keep on drifting? Yes, I wish I knew why? I am not aware of the reason myself. Why do I keep on drifting? I usually don’t mind getting lost, especially when I’m with someone I love. But I would be lying if I said I didn’t panic a little bit as it started to feel like we were walking for ever and ever and I couldn’t tell if we were getting any closer to where we started or if we were going in the opposite direction or, even worse, going in circles.

Luckily, Jim kept a cool head and right before the bus left, we found a trail, and came running down the path, soaked and covered in mud and sand from head to toe, shouting for the bus not to leave. The dirt was even packed under our fingernails, the skin around them raw and bleeding, and our shoulders ached. We knelt and plunged our hands into a cool stream we found along the way. The cuts stung like fire for a moment, and then cool numbness washed it away. Delay and dirt are the realities of the most rewarding travel. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and Jim and I find beauty in the thrown away and broken things, the morbid filth that glues together our world - the necessary decomposition that life must arise from. Still, I can only imagine what Mother would say if I called home and told her about this... “you didn't get in trouble like this before you met Jim!” but I don’t think she know-knows about us.

Mother thought too hard. It’s not like that with travel. We can’t work too much at it, or it feels like work. I eased into the idea of letting go of control and simply letting life take the reins. And when I don’t hold it so tightly, it doesn’t thrash against me so wildly. It calms to a trot and allows me to take in the scenery, experience love, and learn what is important in this world: People, places, memories - not things or perceptions. Jim and I have to surrender ourselves to the chaos, to the accidents. Travel, we agreed, was a litmus test: If we could make the best of the chaos and serendipity that we’d inevitably meet in transit, then we’d surely be able to sail through the rest of life together just fine. So far, we’ve done pretty well, minus the times we overslept and missed our trains. Keep walking, Fanny, for sometimes the detours may find you a door, a route opening into a pathway that you never knew danced inside the buried layers of your wandering soul. The unruly characters we sometimes meet though... I’m really afraid that’s a whole other story. Moral of today’s story: Stick with the group, Fanny. Stick with the group. The tour guide is there for good reason, even if he is dull as dishwater.

Love,

Your sister xxx

June 1939

Dear Fanny,

Our third “anniversary” is coming up. Three years of traveling together. Last year, Jim invited me to my favorite restaurant. It was a complete surprise, and I was so happy. Things had been so hectic, I thought he might have forgotten. After dinner, we went back to our room, but we couldn’t sleep, so we drove to the ocean and spent the rest of the evening taking a turn along the beach. We were walkers of the velvet night, we were lovers of the light and each floral blossom. Our well traveled soles were born to embrace each onward path and seek horizons others dare not gaze upon. Walking was our most beloved way of waking, to stride out each dawn bare soled upon the beach jetty. But seeing it at night… The water was so beautiful as the light from the moon shone down on it. We talked and we played as if we were teenagers in love. Sprinting across the sand, leaving sinking footprints, splashing into the froth of a wave, laughing at the spray, pressing oyster and seashells into the beach, making patterns in the sand…

I sat down in the sand while Jim talked to me about someplace he had been. Every time he looked back at me, I felt a surge of happiness inside. So I sketched him doing just that. Talking, smiling with his hands behind his back… It didn’t take too long for him to figure out that I was, in fact, not paying any attention to what he was saying. He stopped talking and began staring at what I was doing instead. The odd silence made me look up to find Jim with his eyebrows raised, eyeing my sketchbook. “You’re supposed to draw something that inspires you! That’s the only reason why we are here, my dear!”

“I know!” I held the pages up to my chest, hiding it from him as he began to walk to me, motioning for me to show him my sketch. “And I am doing just that. So leave me be!”

He immediately stopped, “I inspire you?”

I nodded, holding back a laugh. “Yes. Now, stand just as you were before I run out of inspiration. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

“I wouldn’t dare dream of such things.”

Once I was done and had set my sketchbook safely aside, he flung his arms under my knees, and picked me up bridal style. He looked up at me and grinned, “Darling,” he said, “come and see what I’ve made for you!” The wanderlust crept up again inside me like a shooting star, a sudden, violent urge to escape disappearing into darkness again. I pushed down the afterglow and focused. I could not remember the last time I felt that carefree. Ultimately, I have come to think, travel teaches us about love. It teaches us that the very best we can do with our lives is to embrace the peoples, places, and cultures we meet with all our mind, heart, and soul, to live as fully as possible in every moment, every day. And it teaches us that this embrace is simultaneously a way of becoming whole and letting go. When the world has become a pencil drawing, a masterpiece on the easel of the creator, I await for it to fade to black and arise anew. It is as if the nightfall were the curtains closing, and the dawn were their opening each day, the birds singing on cue with their beautiful serenade. While others sleep through the dying of the light, my task is to remain awake and witness its rebirth, to see how the pencil sketch becomes the greatest of technicolor movies. As the blackness comes I calmly watch myself be erased, eyes open and seeing nothing at all. The only evidence of my being is the steady thump of my heart and the cool air in my lungs.

Love,

Your sister xx

August 1939

Dear sister,

So much has changed, even just since you’ve been away. And my twin sister being gone for three years doesn’t make it any easier. It doesn’t feel real. But I’m not going to let it phase me. I used to tell you everything, and if I can’t do it in person, because you’re off gallivanting around who-knows-where with Jim, I’ll just tell it to this letter. Just like I was talking to you. I love you and I miss you.

Love,

Fanny x

October 1939

Dear Fanny,

Do you remember when you first wrote to me to tell me of your upcoming nuptials to Johnny Mitchell? Though it took a while for it to make its way to me, when I finally received it, I was ecstatic to hear such wonderful news! Of course, it was announced in the paper, but hearing it from you was all the more meaningful. Though I missed you, I was glad you weren’t there to witness my embarrassing display of excitement. The sounds that came out of me were indescribable. In Jim’s words, I was like a little kid who had too much sugar before bed but, once I told him the reason for my giddiness and showed him your letter, he understood and let me have my moment to celebrate you and Johnny. By the time you received my next letter, I could safely assume you were no longer Miss Fanny Skeffington, but Mrs. Fanny Mitchell. I hoped my letter would reach you by the time you and Johnny got back from your honeymoon.

There were many things I could’ve said, but to keep things short, sweet, and to the point, all I said was something Uncle George once said to me about Jim, and that was that I only spent an hour or so with Johnny, but I could tell you with confidence that there was nothing really wrong with that man. I knew he’d love you and treat you right, as a husband should. Although you said you weren’t going to have a big wedding and were just going to get married at the registrar’s office, I still regret that I could not be there with you. But I had a gift sent to you, enclosed with a card that emphasized how much I love you and wished the both of you every happiness. It was no surprise that you got married before me. You were always the practical one. Do you remember the wishes we made when we were children? Yours was to get married and have a family of your own, while mine was to roam the world and meet new people.

Speaking of marriage… Neither of us are sure how or who brought it up first, but the topic of conversation turned to just that. Nothing particularly happened to push Jim and I to this decision, but we keep having our best conversations while the world is asleep, trying to find ourselves somewhere between dusk and the sunrise. We were talking about anything and everything, even things that were trivial and inconsequential. We reminisced on how we met. We laugh now when we talk about the beginning, how I fell out of a tree and practically into his arms that day in Wakeforte Park! Even if we had nothing important to say, it was lovely just listening to each other’s voices. Now we’re wide awake. Except this time, we think we know what we intend to say to each other. Fanny, Jim and I have decided that… Well, there’s no use trying to win Mother over. She’s too sensible, so we’re going to elope. We’ve decided! We are going to get married while we’re here. I’m ready. I wasn’t sure before about eloping, but Jim thinks that Mother will never come round until after the wedding. I hope you’ll be happy for us, because it’s what we both want. I was surrounded by doubters. Mother, her old friends and neighbors… The only way to silence them is just to get married and have done with it. You can’t leave everything up in the air indefinitely. At least that’s a decision. Uncle Fred once told us he could have a Bedouin ceremony performed and that he’d be our witness. We weren’t too sure of the legality of it, but Uncle Fred said he’d look into it. We’re just going to go to a registrar’s office, just like you and Johnny did. I’d love to tell you more about it, but it can wait until I’m back in the States. Registrar offices don’t allow personal vows and get you in and out within ten minutes, so we’ll probably come back at some point and renew our vows on American soil, just so we can make our wedding a bit more personal and be certain our marriage is legal in both Europe and the States. Things with Mother might be different by then. I hope it will be for the better.

Though we will still have separate lives outside of our marriage, our destiny is by each other’s side. When Mother organized my wedding to Sir John, I was very angry. But, with this year, I’ve learned that I’m ready, that I want to love Jim as a wife loves her husband. We’re best friends, kindred spirits, and we’ll soon be husband and wife. We’ll love each other, and while we won’t be attached at the hip 24/7, all 365 days of every year, we will always be there for each other when it really matters. As I finish penning this letter to you, the wind howls, but I am warm, cocooned under the blanket by the fire in Jim and I’s motel room. We smoked cigarettes until six in the morning and I listened as his words flowed; plans, hopes, dreams, fantasies, everything that we know is possible and impossible, but I know that it doesn’t matter, for we will be together throughout it all, and that is everything. Now I need to stop writing because I’m falling asleep on his chest.

Love,

Your sister xx

October 1939

Dear Fanny,

It’s so insane to me that most of the people you meet in life are just passing moments. You’ll know them for a brief period of time before they’re a stranger again and there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it because that is just how it’s meant to be… Hardest part of life honestly. I don’t want to be a temporary moment or experience, I want to be with certain people forever. I realized that people, from new-made friends to life-long family, inevitably come and go in the composition of our lives, but that once they have appeared, they never really leave. And I realized too that the people we love - the memory of the people we love, their enduring, pulsing presence in our lives - is like those violins that street performers play. Every day, in one form or another, we take them out and play them, if just for a while. We become them, swooping, spiraling, soaring to the apex of our minds. We honor them and keep them alive - as they do us, intertwined. I welcome my journey with a strong heart. I stand tall and love the fresh air that comes from following this ever onward road. I stride in bold steps, feeling a sense of pride in each one. And this journey is not about a destination, nor arrival point or finish line... for there is no such thing. This journey is about the traveling, the traveling companions and the reason for the noble struggle. Friends come, friends go, often times I am alone, yet I have my compass, I have my path and I have two well clad feet each dawn.

The path doesn’t care about the terrain, that’s for me to deal with. The path is the path. So whatever comes I keep going. When I get knocked down I have to get up, because there’s no other way. I know what’s out there though, I know because the universe told me. It said, “just walk” and so I did. I still do. It says at the other end is peace, real happiness for everyone, and I gotta keep going even if the path makes me bleed. Sometimes it has, sometimes so much I just wanna stay down and feel the cold... then I remember why I started this journey and find my feet again. It’s lonely though, and I think some company would be nice if you can be brave enough. It’s freedom, it’s duty, it’s leading and following. I can’t promise comfort, but there’s plenty of stuff to kindle my soul and bring the sorts of smiles I thought only belonged to the stars. Jim and I have been going steady for many seasons now, steady in our hearts and souls, sailing quietly onward as ships together upon calm seas, sails always filled by onward breeze. So, as we love one another so much, as we can only see a future together, can we agree that the time has come to settle down, to accept that our stories are forever weaved.

Love,

Your sister xx

December 1939

My darling sister,

I hope this letter finds you well. How are things going? It’s been a while since I heard from you, so I decided to send another letter. You’re always in a different place all the time, so it’s hard to know your exact address. I hope things are going well. Just don’t get discouraged. I know things aren’t easy for you, and how hard it is to find an opportunity for this type of work. Your friends always ask about you. You should write to them too. I always hear them telling others how you took your car and set off on your adventure to chase your dream of being an artist. Oh, I guess now I know why you don’t write to them. I know you don’t want to disappoint them. Mother and Uncle George are fine. Uncle George misses you, and Mother doesn’t talk much about you. You know how she disapproved of your idea, but she loves you. And I love you too. Johnny and I are doing well in Seattle, but we miss you very much.

How delightful to hear you and Jim might elope! Other ladies might find it irresponsible and foolish, but I think it’s so romantic. We always used to say we couldn’t be any more different from each other, and that still holds true, but at least there’s one thing we have in common: Neither of us were ever attracted to the idea of a big, traditional white wedding with all the trimmings. Fashionable weddings reminded us too much of Mother’s extravagant parties and lost whatever appeal they might have had. To be with the one you love and exchange vows and rings signifying your love for each other only in front of someone with the power to bind you together under God… To share a kiss and sign your names on a piece of paper… To seal that bond no man can turn asunder in the privacy of a registry office… That was enough for Johnny and I, and it’ll be enough for you and Jim too, I imagine. All the rest of it - A church, flowers, a towering cake, and an overpriced white dress we’d only wear once… It all seemed so wasteful, just an excuse to throw money at something, to throw a party and be the center of attention to keep up appearances for people you barely know or don’t know at all. You must write to us and tell us of all your adventures! But save the best stories for when you see us again in person – soon, we hope! Your last letter got to me the day before we started riding the train back to New York, and I was reading it while on my way home! If you come home, we can read all our letters together and share our memories!

With love from your sister,

Fanny xx

As promised, you’d save the best stories for when you met again face-to-face. In the meantime, between 1936-1940, you sent both Fanny and your Uncle George snippets of stories in a trail of modest envelopes. Little more than tantalizing teasers for greater epics to be told and shared, yet their contents were always beyond expectations.

December 1937

Dear Uncle George,

Austria has been wonderful so far! Uncle Fred called, he wants me to get him a souvenir while I’m here. We’ll be going to many sites, among them Moosham Castle before we head back to Switzerland, and from there, the United Kingdom. It’s said to be haunted, so I’m expecting some good scares and mysteries!

Love,

Your niece xx

December 1937

Dear Uncle George,

So much for our skiing plans in Switzerland! We arrived here at Moosham Castle last night, just before a blizzard swept in! We didn’t get hit with the worst of it, but the mountain is completely shut down, and the surrounding roads are closed. I think Jim and I are one of the few guests who made it to the castle at all. The castle itself is private property, but there’s apartments and inns nearby and we were able to secure a room. The place is huge and old - and slightly creepy under the circumstances. You should hear this wind! What’s more, the owner is away on business. I tried to ask the caretaker how I could contact them, but he said he didn’t know. Doesn’t that seem odd? I couldn’t help feeling like there was something he wasn’t telling me. All this makes me a little nervous, but I’m determined to enjoy myself. I have big plans to explore the castle, once it opens again to the public after the storm passes and most of the snow melts.

I’ve been reading up on the castle’s history. The original owner must’ve been quite a character to have built such an extraordinary place. It’s filled with strange, dead-end corridors for one thing, and I noticed that one of the towers is totally different than the other ones. I heard from the radio that Switzerland is on high alert for any avalanches and search and rescue is on standby. I fear for anyone who may live in proximity. Avalanches happen so quickly…they’ll sweep you away and kill you in seconds, before you even realize what’s happening. There have been so many deaths and disasters in the past… Hopefully everyone close by was given ample warning and able to retreat to safer ground. Of course, Jim and I are safe where we are, but we may be stranded here for the foreseeable future, until the roads are cleared and safe to drive on again. Once the danger passes, I’ll have to save some time to meet Jacques Brunais, the French ski instructor, while we’re in Switzerland. Tell Fanny she’ll be the first to know if he'’s half as gorgeous in person as he looks in his photo. So Uncle George, I guess things never go quite according to plan! But at least this time, the culprit is just a snowstorm. I could’ve asked Matteo who works at the front desk to mail this letter for me, but I think it’d be best if I just hold onto it for now and send it at a later date. It is just as well, since the blizzard is preventing outside contact. Me? I’m still determined to mail this letter to you, then go out and enjoy this snow, once it’s deemed safe to do so. Talk to you soon! (I hope!)

Love,

your niece xx

August 1938

Dear Uncle George,

I’ve been taking some gorgeous shots while Jim and I are in France. Lush forests, endless hills, and a lake that I’m certain is hiding a couple of dead bodies. I was just joking when I first said it, but after talking to some locals, turns out the lake does have a myth surrounding it involving a dead body that may or may not be in there. The story goes that there was a French violinist and composer, Erique Claudin, who went mad after he was dismissed from the Paris Opera House. In a fit of fury over falsely believing his concerto was being stolen and plagiarized, he strangled a man to death. Acid was thrown in his face, permanently disfiguring him. To evade police, he ran through the Paris streets until he returned to the Opera House through the underground tunnels. Donning a prop room mask and a black cape, he assumed the identity of the Phantom of the Opera or the Opera Ghost, a mysterious figure that lived up to its title. While he was rarely ever seen beyond a silhouette or the end of a black cloak as he turned a corner, his voice was heard and his looming presence was felt. But the managers were skeptics. When he sent them threatening notes, they didn’t heed his warnings. When his demands weren’t met, he sabotaged stage sets, drugged the performers, and even murdered the prima donna and her maid. He kidnapped Christine DuBois, a beautiful singer who was his object of obsession. He caused a deadly diversion by bringing the crystal chandelier down on the audience and, in the chaos and commotion, kidnapped her. He took her down to his lair in the sewers where he intended to keep her with him forever, but she was rescued by police. However, the whole place was dilapidated and falling apart, on the verge of coming down. When the policeman’s gun went off, it caused a terrible rumble. The Phantom pushed Christine out of the way of the falling rubble, but was crushed to death. The policeman and Christine escaped just before the entire place caved in on itself.

The Phantom’s violin and mask were recovered many years later and are on display in a museum today but, after the rubble was cleared away, workers were both baffled and horrified. There was no body. A terrible chill went down their spines and the hairs on the backs of their necks stood up. They felt a presence with them. A presence they couldn’t see. It’s said that Claudin’s body is still down there, hidden somewhere. Maybe he survived the cave-in but, without hope, without love, without Christine, he drowned himself in his beloved lake where he once sought refuge, peace, and solitude. His body may be lost somewhere in the deep, inky black depths of the lake, but his spirit won’t rest, watching over his Opera House as a spectral spectator, a ghostly guardian.

The stories vary. Some say he’s friendly, a protector. A ballerina let her curiosity get the better of her and went down below and accidentally got lost in the underground caverns of the Opera House. She spent so long in the concrete labyrinth she was confused as to which path to take. She sat there all day, lost, figuring she’d never get out, when Erique just walked right through the walls. He stood and stared at the ballerina as he passed through. He smiled and beckoned her to come. “Follow me, child. I’ll show you the way back,” he said with one of his warm smiles. She wrapped her fingers into his cloak, her heart flooded with relief. She could have walked through them herself she supposed, but it was wonderful to have a guide. Others say he’s malevolent, a vengeful spirit seeking to scare away, harm, or even kill those that disrespect or otherwise desecrate his Opera House, his eternal resting place. I know it’s meant to be scary, but I couldn’t help but feel deeply moved by the tragic tale. I was sympathetic for Claudin. The poor man. I know the stories say otherwise, but I hope his soul is at peace.

Ghosts are one thing, but Jim and I have been following the story of Marie Antoinette’s missing diamond and journal ever since we stepped foot on French soil. During the French Revolution of the 1790s, Marie liked to frequent a particular tower in Chateau Rochemont. For her birthday, Louis gave her a tiara with a ruby, an emerald, a sapphire and a diamond in it. It was so extravagant that she refused to wear it, calling it her crown of ruination, as the French public was starving in the streets and it presented her as apathetic towards them. Marie had the tiara dismantled, with the sapphire and emerald sent to family members who lived in other countries and could thus keep the precious gems safe. She wanted the jewels to be returned to the people of France where they belonged, but she knew it couldn’t happen until the country had healed from the tumultuous revolution it was undergoing. We know she sent the emerald to her cousin in Austria, and the sapphire to her sister in Spain. However, Marie and the King were advised to take jewels in case they needed to bribe for their escape, so she took the ruby with her. However, they were still captured by Jean Le Bouef on June 25, 1791 and everything Marie had was taken. She then hid the diamond and her journal in a contraption, in a secret compartment underneath her tower that hadn’t been discovered until only recently, when a gang of diamond thieves attempted to steal both the diamond and the journal, but were thwarted by Auguste de Lancret, a museum curator and French Police when the heist was bungled.

Everyone in France, especially near Versailles, is resting easier, now that Marie Antoinette’s journal and her famous diamond are safe and sound. The journal and the diamond are going to be featured in a new Marie Antoinette exhibit in Paris. And it looks like everyone who contributed to recovering both artifacts will be rewarded! Those involved in the conspiracy are going to be charged with attempted grand theft. Juliette Blauschild, a French-born American author, historian, and museum curator, is thrilled because the French government has granted her permission to publish Marie’s journal in the US before it gets returned to France. This ought to help prove her theory about Marie’s character once and for all. Thanks to Auguste and his great-grandfather's efforts to find the journal, their family name is being celebrated all over France. Meanwhile, Auguste was showed the poem that his father, Jean-Luc, wrote him and he was relieved to know that his old man didn’t carry any hard feelings to his grave. All the talk shows want Auguste to tell his story on national television, but he keeps turning them down. I guess he doesn’t want to be famous or infamous. But, when Penelope Lane called and asked Auguste to be her business partner, he accepted! With her business sense and Auguste’s expert knowledge of the castle, I think they’ll make a great team! So, you know what they say Uncle George: “Il n'est jamais trop tard de changer l'historie.” It’s never too late to change history!

Vis ta vie!

Love,

Your niece xx

October 1938

Dear Fanny,

We are in the Chunnel! This is our second passage through the Chunnel! We’re on our way back from London, this time going to Brussels, Belgium. Sorry I didn’t write you on the way to London but I was too excited about the CHUNNEL!! London was great. I know you’ve always wanted to visit and I think you really should. You’d love it! If you and Johnny wanted to come back here as a family sometime I guess Jim and I could be convinced.

Love you!

Your sister xx

February 1940

Dear Uncle George,

Greetings from jolly old Wales. Although right now I’m not so sure about the jolly part. I’m afraid I come bearing bad news. If it were good news, I’d have telephoned. Jim and I have made an impromptu trip here to attend the funeral of John, Sir John’s elder son. He unexpectedly died on Monday following a hunting accident while on holiday in the Grampian Mountains of Scotland, where he was a frequent visitor. Poor John. He was only thirty-nine and they all knew the girl he was going to marry. I had rather a sad letter from Sir John a few days ago, announcing the death. In one of his passages, he wrote, “I dreamt last night I was in the park at Llanwelly, walking with John under the great trees, listening to the pigeons cooing in their branches. And when I woke, my eyes were filled with tears.” It was very moving. There were darkened spots on the parchment that smudged the ink. It’s a dagger in my heart to imagine Sir John, the charismatic community leader, who always held his head high with a stiff upper lip, crying while writing to me. Poor darling. He’s so unhappy.

A great part of living is expecting the unexpected. Considering our way of life, Jim and I thought ourselves masters of the art. We were living our once upon a time. Every day felt like a lifetime; every moment was alive. Our lips were for each other and our eyes were full of dreams. We thought we knew everything of travel, that we knew everything of loss. Ours was a world of eternal summer, until the autumn came. I’m so sorry for John’s loss. Grief is a journey, long and painful, but he doesn’t walk the road alone. Life is certainly a queer business—so brief, yet such a lot of it; so substantial, yet in a few years, which behaves like minutes, all scattered and anyhow. If humanity ever conquered mortality we would go, knowing that whomever we left behind we’d see again in the future. Time seems so infinite when you’re young…a month is an age, a year is a lifetime…it is a strange feeling, to realize how little of it one might have left. Our time on this earth is finite. It’s common knowledge, yet it’s a strange thing to realize and accept your mortality, to be confronted with it. It’s just one of those things you ignore. The days tick by and you just expect they will keep on coming. Until the unexpected happens.

That’s the thing about life; it is fragile, precious, and unpredictable. Each day is a gift, not a given right. However much you expect death, it’s still painful when it arrives. But that’s just it, we don’t know how much time we have. Jim and I are using ours to love. There’s nothing else worth living for, fighting for, or dying for. Believe me. We love each other, and we love our families, even if we’re estranged from them, above all else. The paradox of love is that to have it is to want to preserve it because it’s perfect in the moment but that preservation is impossible because the perfection is only ever an instant passed through. Love, like travel, is a series of moments that we immediately leave behind. Still we try to hold on and embalm against all evidence and common sense proclaiming our promises and plans. The more I loved him the more I felt hope. But hope acknowledges uncertainty and so I also felt my first premonitions of loss.

It took expensive train and cab rides to get here on such short notice. John sent us the money necessary to travel, and arranged transportation to and from the service. Jim and I are so grateful for his generosity. He doesn’t want anything more in return than our presence here. It will mean a great deal to him to have our support during this difficult time. We’re about to be picked up and dropped off at Talbot Castle, a huge, centuries old castle in the middle of a dark, foggy moor. Since Sir John and I are such close friends and care for each other deeply, (we were almost married, after all) he has invited Jim and I to stay for a couple weeks following the service. In his letter to me, he said the castle is too big for just him, Larry, and the servants, and that it’d be nice if he had an excuse to finally use guest rooms for their intended purpose: To house guests. All these years, they’ve just been collecting dust and he’s itching to air them out. He also said they’ve been having a really cold autumn up there and that there might be snowfall, so Jim and I should pack accordingly. “Usually if I’d wanted to freeze my backside off in the autumn, I’d have gone to Scotland. But lately, it’s been as cold as a bishop’s arse and twice as white, and London isn’t much better. I don’t mind saying it: I’m very disappointed,” he said in his letter.

But it looks like we lucked out and the storm didn’t reach here. There’s no snow falling. It’s a clean, crisp night. Just gone midnight. Feels like we’ve been here forever. Looking at it, this train station, this village is lonely and forlorn. We’re in the middle of nowhere. The station looks like it hasn’t been used in years. There’s not much here except a pile of luggage, including mine. I just dumped it there because it seemed like the right thing to do. The car should be here any moment. I’m surrounded by forests. The trees are completely bare in the winter months, but for now, the leaves are still clinging on to the branches for dear life in colors of orange, red, yellow, and brown.

It’s strange to think I was almost married to Sir John, yet I’ve never been here before. I should explore when I’m back from the service. I imagine there are plenty of forests in Wales to explore, full of treasures waiting to be uncovered in this mucky old moor. I’m reminded of when Tina and I went camping with Charlotte and discovered a moss-covered boot! I remember Tina bringing it up to her face to look inside…and shrieking in horror! “There’s a bloody rat in there!” she screamed! I used to love walking in the forests, going on hiking trails in Europe with Dad and Fanny and… Yeah. Yeah, maybe I’ll go walking in the forests when I’m back, if I can convince Jim to come with me. You should never hike alone. But we won’t stay out too late. Whether they’re to be believed or not, there are many legends out there about forests and the weird discoveries found in them. I was supposed to call the castle from the station to let John know we arrived here safely. So, there I sat, listening to the phone ring, waiting for someone to pick up. It wasn’t John, but his butler, Kendall, who told us that John’s gone! He’s been disappearing a lot lately, going on long walks without telling anybody where he’s going, but he always turns up before dark, so everyone leaves him alone to grieve in his own way. He left a note that suggested something terrible happens here in the moors at night, something about a wolf. The connection was getting really bad, and I could barely hear him, but I’m pretty sure he used the word “prowling” (or was it “howling”?) along with “dangerous” and “be careful”.

Accidents are one thing, but wild animals? Oh dear. I hope I know what I’m getting into. Do I belong to the city or the wilds? Am I human or animal? Am I sane or lunatic? Both? Neither? Yes. It’s nighttime, and although part of me is dying to know what frightened John away, another part of me is starting to feel a little uneasy. I can’t tell whether the uneasiness in my stomach is because of my grief, or because I’m a tad creeped out. Frankly, as beautiful as Talbot Castle is, I’m starting to get a bad feeling about this place. Uh-oh. I have to put this away because the car is here. I’ll let you know what happens when (and if!) Jim and I get back from the service.

Love,

Your niece x

#Jim masters x reader #claude rains #bette davis #mr skeffington #now voyager #the wolf man #rope of sand #crossover fic #crossover #crossover au #pls tag me if you’re inspired by this #I’d love to read it

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Touch Starved Theseus

He sits alone. The gods don’t really talk to him. Hera must have told them off.

She sure as fuck did that to you and the other maidens. You know she hates all Zeus’ bastards. To have one in Olympus is a personal insult to her. But you can’t help but feel sorry for Theseus.

You approach Theseus tentatively.

“M-my lord.” You stammer. He looks up at you. You feel that Hera’s warnings live between you. “My lady.” Theseus whispers. You recognise the tension in him. He is avoiding breaking the rules. But you care not a wit about those rules.

“Why are you alone?” You ask. You cup his cheek to make him look up at you. Theseus swallows thickly. “I .. I should not .. not be talking to you. Father’s wife forbade it.” He stammers. “I know she did. We are not allowed to interact with any of Zeus’ bastards, not even his daughters.” You reply. “Then why are you talking to me?” Theseus asks. “You are lonely.” You whisper. You rub at his cheek and he leans into it. You feel the quivering breath he heaves. “I could help you.” You cooe.

Theseus looks you in the eyes. “How?” He whispers. “You’ll find out if you come to the gardens tonight.” You purr. You stroke your thumb over his bottom lip and Theseus swallows thickly. You smile gently down on him. Shyly he looks up. You find hope sparking in his blue eyes.

You take your leave then, hands itching to touch more than just his face. It will be up to him to take you up on your offer, though.

You wait under the weeping willow in the garden, where Hera keeps her maidens, hoping Theseus will come. And of course, he comes.

#theseus #theseus x reader #the immortals #henry cavill

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Daily Cavill Drabble - Saturday

Prompt From This List

Theseus (Canon Verse)

42. I needed you, and you weren’t there.

Theseus comes to your bedside, staring a hole into his own feet.

“Are you well?” He asks. There is intense shame in his voice. He knows he did wrong. He knows he is becoming like his father. Hera was right about him … About Zeus’ blood coming to the surface either way.

You look up from the infant in your arms. “Does it matter now?” You ask, your voice flat. “Yes it does, you are my wife.” Theseus says. He barely dares look at you. You place the child down in the craddle and turn to sit on the edge of the divan, with some difficulty. The birth has left you sore and weak. “I needed you, and you weren’t there, Theseus.” You whisper. Tears come to your eyes. “I am sorry, I should have been by your side.” Theseus kneels at your feet. “I know you may never forgive me. But it is all I ask of you.” He says softly. You bite your lip and shake your head. You are not sure you can.

“Does she love you like I do?” You ask.

Theseus frowns and tilts his head. “What do you mean?” He asks. “The other woman are with.” You huff. “I am not with another woman!” Theseus sounds affronted. He is not disloyal, just afraid of doing things wrong with the child. “N-not?” You stammer. Hera has been poisoning your mind and you assumed the worst of Theseus. “Of course not. I have you, I need no other woman.” Theseus whispers.

He is not yet forgiven, but the hurt is lessened by those words.

#theseus #theseus x reader #the immortals #henry cavill

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Athens Awaits

A/N: I made the unfortunate mistake of watching The Immortals and now I’m literally wet for Theseus. It is what it issss! So I decided to do a one shot (possibly a mini series) with that hunk of a god. Love that for me. I have dived into the lore, so I’ll try to stay as close to that as possible, but with Henry Cavill is my muse, y’know?

Feedback feeds the soul, my loves!

MASTERLIST

HENRY CAVILL + CHARACTERS MASTERLIST

ASK ME ANYTHING/REQUESTS

Pairing: Theseus x Royal!reader

Warnings: Language, smut (MINORS DNI), p in v, oral (female recieving), mentions of battle, weapons, blood

Athens awaits

The city around you were abuzz with chatter and the golden buildings shone in the soft, setting sun. One shouldn’t think that there was a looming threat over Nicopolis by the Hyperion army by the way the joy and laughter filled every street.

The few men who had showed up a week ago from Calydon had talked about the army and their strength, all bloodied and heaving chests.

You hid your face further inside the cloak, hoping no one would see you wandering the streets of the lower city quietly, trying to get to the Temple of Athena without being seen.

Not many would react with kindness to the princess.

The temple was empty, only petals from flowers left behind on the tiles. Your bare feet were silent against the cool tiles and you finally let the hood fall from your face, staring up at the statue of Athena. You gently laid down the flowers and a few coins down at her feet and kneeled in front of her, silently praying for the Hyperion Army to go around the city, not through it.

“Princess.” a soft, dark voice rumbled from behind you and you gasped, quickly getting on your feet, pulling your dagger from your waistband and stood, ready to fight, looking at the man in front of you.

He had a slanted smile, an eyebrow quirked and hands up, clearly showing he wasn’t here to fight. He was shirtless.

“I’m not here to fight you, princess.” You let your dagger fall. “Theseus.” You said as he stepped into the soft light and you finally recognized his face as the man, who’d been at court, warning your father of the army in the horizon. “What are you doing here?” He stepped closer to you, staring up at Athena as well. He smelled like sunlight.

“Same as you, I suppose.” He glanced at you. “Praying. Waiting.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in the Gods.” You said softly. He smiled at you.

“I don’t. But my mother did.” You nodded, understanding the hidden pain in his voice.

“Mine too.”

You stood in silence for a while, looking at the statue in front of you, the sun setting rapidly.

“You should be back up there, protected.” He whispered to you. You shrugged, the cloak sliding off of your shoulders, pooling at your feet.

“I should. I shouldn’t. My destiny is mine, not to be handled by bodyguards and swords.” You retorted. He chuckled and his eyes fell on your shoulders and the thin string resting there, holding your dress up and together. He turned to you fully.

“Does your father know you’re here?” He asked in a low voice, stepping even closer to you. You raised your eyebrow.

“He doesn’t need to know everything I do.” You knew you were playing with fire, but Theseus was intoxicating, like honey and sunlight, and his eyes were the colour of the far off sea.

“Really?” He asked. He was so close, tantalisingly so, and you felt your nipples stiffen, as his hand slid over your shoulder. You nodded.

“Yes.” You could feel his breath on your face, calloused fingers rough against your skin. He chuckled and dipped his head, forehead against yours.

“Does your father know that you’re close with a soldier, a faithless one at that?” He whispered. You smiled softly, your hands finding purpose on his bare back, tracing the faint scars.

“Faithless. Depends on the faith, wouldn’t you say?” you asked, smiling at him.

“Which faith do you think me?” his fingers hooked the strings on your shoulders, slowly letting them fall from you, the fabric barely resting on the swell of your breasts.

“You tell me.” You retorted, your fingers swiftly undoing the strings on the back of his pants, loosening them.

“I believe my faith is in you, Y/N.” He finally spoke your name, much more like a prayer of old - whispered gently, almost scared, in the darkness and shroud of the Gods of old. You smiled at him, finally heaving a breath big enough for the dress to finally drop from your shoulders. Your chest exposed to him, his fingertips as gentle as the wind, brushed over your hardened nipples, and you sighed a breath of relief and lust. His breath hitched at the sight of you.

“Is that so?” Your fingers found his curls, tugging them gently, pulling him closer to you.

“It is.” His lips brushed against yours as he spoke, sending tremors down your body with anticipation.

He didn’t miss it. “Can I kiss you?” His voice was barely a whisper, his warm, rough hand now on the small of your back, digging into your skin with concealed lust. You simply nodded.

He didn’t waste a second, lips harsh with desperation on yours. He was soft, endlessly careful, but you felt the restraint he put on himself. You moaned against his lips, desperate for more, anything, as his lips danced over yours, while your fingers tugged at his hair. You bit his lip, earning you a growl from him as a warning.

“Don’t.” He whispered against your lips.

“Why?” You whispered back, fingers nimbly removing the strings on his pants.

“I wouldn’t know how to stop.” he bit your lip, drawing a moan from you. “Then don’t.” you simply replied.

And he followed orders.

With a groan, he wrapped you in his arms, stepping out of his pants and grabbing you by the waist and pushed you gently against the wall of the temple, his tongue against yours and lips harsh with desire.

His fingers pushed the remaining dress down, freeing you completely and he was quicker than an arrow with his fingers. They were everywhere, your moans echoing in the temple as they dipped in your folds. He chuckled darkly as you rolled your hips against him, desperate for friction and his fingers deeper in you.

You moaned against his lips, his tongue darting out to meet yours in a passionate wrestle - he pumped his fingers slowly, dragging against your walls and curled his fingers up, hitting your g-spot and you gasped against his lips as hot flames of pleasure licked your skin, the coil in your stomach tightening. He chuckled a little against your lips, his fingers moving faster and faster. You felt his hard cock against your thigh, warm velvet, and you wanted to be ruined by him.

As he picked up his pace, you mewled against him - he stilled his movements, removing his lips from yours and slowly removed his fingers before getting on his knees, his lips kissing every inch of exposed skin as he went down, and right before his lips reached your peak, he sent you a smile, that was sinful, promising and loving all at once.

He kissed your wet folds, his tongue darting out to lick a stripe along you - you gasped, your knees buckled and his hands went to your hips to steady you as his tongue darted out to your clit, languidly eating you out.

When his tongue dipped inside of you, you lost control. The orgasm overtook you, pleasure coming in waves as he ate you out through your orgasm, lapping up everything you gave him. Your body was shaking and if he didn’t have his hands on you, you’d be on the floor.

When you finally came out of your reverie, he gently pulled you down to him, kissing him as he laid on top of you. You could taste yourself on his lips.

“What do you want?” He asked against your lips. Your legs were spread, he was resting between your legs, his cock twitching against your inner thigh.

“You.” You whispered against him, rolling your hips to bring him in - he smiled softly and lined himself up, his hard tip against your slick folds and stilled, looking you in your eyes.

You looked back at him, a still sea behind his eyes as he pushed inside of you, sheathing himself in your heat and groaned as he bottomed out, eyes still on yours. He was shaking as he held himself back, allowing you to adjust to him.

You rolled your hips experimentally and he moaned, a sound you’d never forget - you wanted to be ruined by this man, you’d thank him for murdering you slowly. He couldn’t hold back anymore, his lips slamming against yours and he started pistoning in and out of you with a speed not known to man. You moaned his name and prayers fell over your lips as you wrapped your legs around his hips and his hand found your breast, grabbing it harshly as he rutted in you.

The flames of pleasure were licking your skin again, your pussy pulsing around him, forcing him deeper and he moaned a quiet fuck under his breath. The sounds of your wetness against his hard cock filled the temple and echoed around the walls, creating a sinful song around you mixed with your stuttering moans. His speed was stuttering, clearly trying to hold back - you found his lips, kissing him desperately.

“Please…” You whispered against him, your own orgasm on the brink - you were teetering on the edge, almost falling off it and he kissed you back, tongue sliding against yours, hand in your hair.

“With me.” He said, picking up the pace and let his cock fill you completely, head hitting your cervix and you bucked under him, finally falling freely into pleasure.

You heard him roar through the haze of your pleasure, and felt him twitch in you, filling you with his hot seed before slowly stilling.

He was still on top of you, kissing your lips, cheek and throat, soft lips against heated skin. Your fingers were wrapped in his hair and you felt his spend slowly trickle out from you.

He cleared his throat before kissing you longingly again and slid out of you.

He handed you your dress and you slowly got to your feet to put it on.

He let his hand cup your cheek, kissing you softer than a butterfly’s wings and leaned his forehead against yours, his eyes closed.

“I believe I should talk to your father.” He said with a soft smile. You hummed.

“Why?” He kissed you again and wrapped your hands in his, pulling away slightly.

“I need to convince him that you can marry a common soldier.” You blushed at his words.

“You’re anything but common, Theseus.”

“Only because I know you.”

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TAGLIST: @acaceta @summersong69 @luclittlepond @keiva1000

@a-skov @thatonechickhere @summersong69 @themanfromu

@spookyboogyuniverse

#theseus x reader #henry cavill #henry cavill smut

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Sweet as Nuka Cola

Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Reader

You're an upcoming actress who has a constant flirtation with Cooper Howard. But even if things seem to be off to a good start, a nuclear bomb, a cryogenic pod, and two hundred years of carnage ruins all of it. Is there something to be salvaged from your relationship with Mr. Howard?

Genre: Mutual pining, flirting, slow-burn, angst, friends to kind-of enemies to lovers (no cheating but maybe it's a little murky?)

Word Count: 11k

“Action!”

“Hello. Yes, it’s me.” You wave at the camera, adorned in a classic-red sweetheart neckline dress. “You might know me from ‘Girls Want It All’ or ‘Next Door Babe.’”

Here, you play up your recent bombshell status. As Ed, the director of this advert, keeps reminding you, you need to sell yourself to make customers listen.

You sway in your dress, squeezing your arms and throwing your waist back to plump and push out your chest. The implication of the sex appeal in your movies keeps people watching.

But you’re still a rather new actress, so America might not know you so well. You’re glad Nuka Cola has hired you– if you want to be a star, you need more exposure.

“Do you enjoy feeling refreshed?” You cock your head to the camera, pursing your red lips. “Well, golly, what a silly question. Who doesn't?”

“That's where Nuka Cola comes in.” You lift a bottle out of the cooler next to you, all gentle in demeanour, showing off the logo of the bottle to the camera, in your perfectly manicured hands. “With triple the amount of caffeine found in competitor's bottled cola, it's sure to keep you feeling up for a long, long time.”

“And it's good for you.” Ed whispers, a last minute adlib you did not agree to, but you're a professional, so you add it on with a little wink.

“And it sure as heck is good for you.” You smile, the infamous smile that's won you notoriety to Hollywood execs for being the newest bombshell on the block, and you throw your shoulders back as you really lean into your image.

“Cut! That's a wrap, everyone!” Ed, wanting to finish early, quickly starts ushering everyone out so not a cent more gets spent.

You immediately relax out of your practised, professional smile. “Any ADR needed?”

“Don't think so, but we'll let you know.” The director is already moving onto whatever his next project is. Advertisements make more money than anything else these days.

You head over to catering, where you're craving– not a Nuka Cola, considering how much sugar is in that thing it's hardly refreshing at all– but an iced tea.

You stretch out your ankles in your kitten heels as you prepare it. If you told your Ma back in Mojave that the worst thing about fame would be the uncomfortable outfits, she'd smack you. So you keep it to yourself– you're grateful, you're humble, you'll never be an entitled asshole like those fucking execs.

“Watch out, I'm behind ya.” A man gently presses your shoulder as he walks next to you.

You know that voice. Famous movie cowboy, devilishly handsome, easy to admire. A career worth emulating.

“Mr. Howard?” You turn to look at him, and it is him. Wearing a tuxedo suit, smiling his classic, rugged grin at you.

“The one and the only.” He laughs in a self-deprecating way, as a man tired with his fame and used to mocking it. “Hey, wait, don't I know you?”

You immediately feel your face heat up. “Probably not– lots of people have mistaken me for Lucky Yates so far…”

“No, I do know you.” He points a finger at you, while pouring himself a mug of black coffee. “I told you mister, I'm not here for a long time. Just a good one, and if you can't provide it for me, I'll be inclined to look elsewhere.”

Cooper Howard does a perfect impression of your girly, haughty tone from “Girls Want It All”, and it surprises you that he even knows your dialogue that well. You're not used to this much attention, especially not from one of Hollywood's most notable movie stars.

He says your name.

“Yeah, that's me.” You say sheepishly– even though you know you have to fake that confidence, it's hard when you've been caught off guard. You're starstruck– you don't know how to operate, now realizing that even celebrities are noticing you. “Just shooting an ad for Nuka-Cola.”

“Ah, that’s smart of you.” He leans in– about to give you a bit of Hollywood advice, no doubt– and you feel yourself turning warm at the attention he’s giving you. “I wouldn’t expect any less from one of Hollywood’s upcoming stars– residuals aren’t enough to make the world go round.”

You know he’s admiring your street smarts, but you have to ask. “Upcoming, really?”

“Miss, I’m not sure many other actresses could’ve delivered that little monologue I just did without, er, pardon my language,” Cooper takes a sip of his coffee, his eyes peering down at you over the perimeter of the cup. “Fucking it up. Pantomiming too much wily, feminine shit that execs love, without that little edge of real, subtle emotion. I’m not the only one who thinks so.”

You giggle a little. “C’mon, really? I hardly got to act the way I wanted to.”

“That’s how it starts. Little moments, little subtleties where you’re letting your real character shine through– it’s noticeable to the industry. More opportunities come that way. But it’s smart to use, uh…” Cooper swallows, a tiny, imperceptible thing that reminds you of your bombshell image, that he must be thinking about it. “Smart to use such attractive imagery, if you get my drift. The public will eat you up.”

The way he drawls that latter part makes you feel excited, but you keep it down– it’s well known Cooper Howard is a married man, and you are not about to be ruined by an affair. Even if he does sound sort of flirty, this sort of complimenting is so common in Hollywood.

“What are you doing in the advertisement shooting lot?” You ask, changing the subject, and Cooper shrugs, a nonchalant ripple of a movement that tells you his general cool demeanour isn’t just acting.

“Promised my wife I’d shoot an advert for her. Vault-Tec, you know?” He admits, telling you he hasn’t forgotten about his wife, either. “Gotta head to the experimental Vault they’ve set up next door.”

“Yes, of course.” You, like anyone else, have seen the ads of Cooper in the Vault-Tec suit– it’s a rather controversial thing to be partaking in, but you think he knows what he’s doing.

“Well, Nuka-Cola.” He hands you an iced tea– one you didn’t even notice him making for you as you were talking to him. “I’ll see you around.”

The Ghoul walks around the wasteland, two hundred something years into the future.

He’s searching for a bounty– Leopold St. West– worth at least 1000 caps, and it’s terribly difficult to find him when every single person claims he’s in all these different locations, not a single one correlated to each other.

So he’s walking around a destroyed neighbourhood, where Leopold was last seen a day ago, if his fellow ghouls are to be trusted. If he had to guess, these are the remnants of China Town– the faux Asian-esque details, the cheesy red colouring, the false authenticity Hollywood loves to portray as “good as the real thing”. God, Coop does not miss some parts of the fame.

He suddenly stumbles over a piece of the broken sidewalk. Coop’s usually pretty agile, nonchalant on his feet– he knows this feeling. He’s going through withdrawal.

“Shit, I need a minute.” He mutters to himself, feeling a bit woozy.

He's only got a couple more vials of drugs, so he can't be using them all willy-nilly. No, he needs to recoup things and go through this carefully.

Shelter is necessary– the longer Coop is out in the sun, the harsher the effects of withdrawal feel. And, if he’s lucky, one of these buildings might have something for him to loot– more drugs if he’s extra, extra lucky.

Coop enters a nondescript building– where a radroach is waiting, and he immediately fires at it without even looking, killing it in one shot– and he sees the sign over the entry way, marking the lobby.

This is some Hollywood executive-owned club. It’s hard to tell– two hundredyears of wear-and-tear will do that for you– but Cooper Howard distinctly remembers this place, maybe in some conversation back then, maybe when he was networking.

Every single thing has a distinct, thick layer of grime over it. Coop thinks of sweaty strippers dancing, actors cheating on their wives– they’re all probably dead now.

He reaches into his satchel and takes a hit of one of his vials– and hopes he can replace what he uses with something here.

There’s not a single bottle behind the bar, and he jostles through, not seeing a chem or a drug left behind by anyone on the floor or behind the counter, and he’s mildly disgruntled over how every place has nearly everything picked clean by raiders, wastelanders– just other people. Coop will always loathe these other assholes.

He climbs the broken stairs with a lanky, languid stretch, making it over a fairly large hole where a corpse waits on the floor below. A raider who didn’t watch where he was stepping. That tells him there should be loot up on this upper floor– at least a bit of it.

He walks to the one closed door in a less-than-discreet hallway, gold sconces and railings marking the way.

“Ah… private office.” Coop jiggles an ostentatious handle to a mahogany door, that is surely leading to an even more pretentiously ostentatious office, and he finds that it’s locked.

A good sign. Most likely no one’s ever been in there, because it’s probably a difficult lock to pick.

It surprises him that no one’s ever just forced their way through.

Coop doesn’t waste time on this though– he just takes a teeny gun out of his bag, fires it, and admires the hole in the door where the handle used to be. The door creaks open on it’s own, and he saunters into a well furnished, dusty office room.

“Nope, nope, nope…” He pushes box after box in the shelves next to the wall, and they fall with loud clatter– loaded with panicky, nuclear-war-on-the-horizon type shit, like canned meats and beans and preserved jams and pickles. “Fuck no.”

He pushes off a toy figurine of Vault Boy down with extra gusto.

Coop looks behind the desk, where there’s a dusty placard reading Adrian Amos II. He grins– one of the worst producer bastards of all time is not someone he’d feel bad about stealing from, even if there was still some conscience left in him. No, sir, Adrian Amos the second did not deserve any sympathy, especially after the way he was known for bitching about salaries, abusing PAs, and having a predilection for going after less-than-consenting women.

Coop grits his teeth, remembering that asshole and how terrible and gaudy this club was back then. Not that it was better now– but he’s grateful for one man’s deserved death, at least.

He jostles open where the second drawer is filled with the glass clinking sound of many, many vials.

“Fucking jackpot, Jesus.” Coop stares down at how many there are– at least 40 or 50– a hell of a lot to just be left behind.

Well, based on the other supplies, Adrian Amos got fucked over and either didn’t make it to his vault in time, or forgot to run to his private club before heading in.

Coop doesn’t give a fuck, though. He starts piling the vials into his cases, and then back into his bag.

There’s a sudden whirring sound near him. “Huh?”

To his left, an imperceptible secret door has pushed itself outwards, decorated in the same dark brown wallpaper as the rest of the room.

Coop looks down and under– he’s accidentally pressed a secret button on the underside of the drawer. “Fuck.”

He doesn’t know what would be inside the secret room– assassins, raiders waiting on someone to dupe? Maybe even synths, just meant to protect Amos when he needed it.

Inside the room, it’s dark, and he can’t make out anything. Coop can only draw his gun rapidly when there’s a blue light suddenly emitting out from the inside.

He’s careful as he approaches– last thing Coop wants is an ambush– and as his vision improves, he sees it’s a cryonic pod, all frosted over so he can’t make out who’s inside.

Coop sighs, ready to leave it behind– he’s not interested in waking up Amos– and instead, the thing whirs, heating up it’s insides with extremely hot steam, and then opens up with a mechanical flourish.

Coop instinctively steps back, coughing “Holy shit!” as the air whooshes past him.

A body falls out, just looking slightly frosted– mostly thawed by whatever the cryo tank just did.

You're on set again, sitting in a free lawn chair while others get ready for their take– it's not for a Nuka-Cola ad, it's just a guest appearance on everyone's favourite sitcom, The Grady Group, where you play an overly promiscuous babysitter who has no sense for watching over kids.

It's comedic, it's an easy way to get laughs– plus it actually boosts the shows’ ratings since you've been in movies and all. You’re done filming already, you’re just sitting here watching the rest of the shoot, dragging out your return to your car, and then back home.

Something about the fictional family you wait on, Gill and Gina Grady, and their kids Gideon, Gessica, and Gwen, it makes you miss having a family of your own. In fact, you have half a mind to call your mother, despite all the bitching she’ll give you about the things you haven’t done yet.

It also doesn't help that Gill and Gina are a couple in real life– named Arthur and Bea Smith, they really, really are in love, and in between takes they're often canoodling with each other.

You're happy for them, if not a little– jealous, despite the fact that you're not interested in dating anyone right now. At least, you thought you weren't, but you find that lately, when you return back to your apartment all lonesome after a shoot, you feel like something is missing.

“Hey. Nuka-Cola.” Cooper Howard strolls over to where you're sitting, and you smile up at him, covering your eyes from the sunlight streaming through the windows.

“Mr. Howard. Shooting today?” You ask, and he shakes his head.

“Not at all. Just lounging around, waiting for my kid.” He sits in the lawn chair next to you, leaning back, crossing one leg over the other. “Janey is on a field trip at a museum next door– I thought I’d kill some time before picking her up.”

“Ah, cute.” You grin. Janey Howard is an absolutely precious kid– she shares her dad’s smile, but has a curious nature that you admire. “Is she well?”

“As well as kids can be at that age, running around all the time.” Cooper shrugs. “You know how it is.”

“Kind of. I actually did used to babysit kids, so I know– they can never sit still or mind their business.” You laugh as Cooper grins.

“So you went method for your guest appearance, huh?” He asks, and you’re mildly baffled.

“How do you know about that?” You squint at him, just being jokingly suspicious.

“Oh, I saw a few clips of your footage. While I was walking over here.” He points over at Stu, the director, standing on the living room set, watching clips on his viewfinder. “Seemed pretty natural to me.”

It almost bothers you that he seems so interested in you and your work, that he always voices support– but he’s well-known for being happily married, for being content in general, unlike you.

Still, better a friend than nothing at all, that’s what you always tell yourself.

“Thanks. But it’s not hard being around kids, is it?” You reminisce being a kid in Mojave, playing with your friends on your street– and then as a young adult, babysitting new kids that still wanted to play with you. “I still sometimes feel like I’m just a kid pretending to be an adult.”

“That never goes away, darlin’.” Cooper laughs, and you blink. “Being an actor, especially, you’re never losing that childhood sense of wonder, you get my drift?”

“Yeah, of course.” You nod. “I just don’t feel complete, I guess. I’m still waiting for the moment I’ll know I’m an adult– like maybe if I get married or something like that.”

“Being married didn’t change that for me either. Neither did being a dad.” He winces, and scratches at his stubble. “Just don’t tell anyone I said that, but I think it’s all apart of being a human person.”

Your face turns a little more glum at that, and he wonders what he said that bummed you out. It’s not his intention– he wants to cheer you up.

“What’s with the sad, forlorn, ‘I’m-a-pretty-girl-come-comfort-me’ look?” Cooper utters as he leans in, and you laugh a little but silence yourself, recognizing his compliment.

It’s dangerous to flirt with this guy, this taken man who has nothing to gain but a bit of affection he may be missing, but you see that he knows his compliment had effect anyways– and he definitely likes that.

You just choose to assume it’s entirely friendly.

“I just… I like the thought of having a family.” You suck in air,at how foolish and girly this sounds, hardly the cutthroat businesswoman you need to be out here. “This is stupid, I’m sorry.”

“No, no, it isn’t.” Cooper taps his arm rest, thinking. “You’re hurting, I can tell. You got that same pissed off look most ladies get when they ‘don’t wanna talk’ but they’re holding tons of shit inside.”

Damn this guy, you think, but you decide to be honest.

“I just didn’t think it’d be so lonely out here. In Hollywood.” You press your palms together. “Like, everywhere I go, I’m surrounded by classic Americana, the nuclear family– and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m jealous.”

“As a bachelorette, don’t you got plenty of options?” Cooper grins. “I mean, are men not lining up to court Nuka-Cola girl?”

“Ah…” You hum, thinking of dates you’ve had here, settling back in your seat. “I don’t know– it’s cheesy but I want more sincerity.”

“In that case, don’t be jealous, marriage ain’t all that.” Cooper tuts, knowing that you of all people should hear about how it doesn’t complete you. “It’s not perfect, it’s not a magical fairy-tale where everything gets solved, it’s a hell of a lot more work than people let on.”

“Oh.” You knew that, deep down– but hearing it from him really solidifies that for you. It’s a silly dream.

It sounds like he’s speaking from experience, so you quiet down. But you’re not trying to get your hopes up about that or anything.

“And you’re not an idiot, Nuka-Cola. Don’t get into something you’re not a hundred fucking percent sure about.” Cooper clicks his tongue. “If you really feel the urge to suddenly go and play wife with someone, just for me, make sure he’s absolutely worth it.”

“For you?” You raise your eyebrows at that.

“I figure you won’t do it for yourself. Love is blind and all that.” He points at himself. “But if I, as your buddy Cooper, hold you to that? I’ll bet that you’ll vet every single guy.”

“Oh, really.” You smirk at him, your nose scrunching a little. “Is that for my benefit, or yours?”

“Uh…” Cooper is truly caught off guard here. He knows he didn’t intend anything by what he said, but it does feel like… he won’t enjoy the fact that if the next few times he talks to you, continuing become close to you, he’ll have to get the approval of some man.

Some man who wouldn’t even know you as long he has known you. He always likes his chats with you, and there’s an urge inside him not to let you go.

He thinks again that you’re a little too spontaneous. Not easy to dupe, no– he can’t just flirt with you for fun because you’ll always pick up on it, even if he did it by mistake.

“No comment.” He finally answers with a raspy, low tone, one that you barely hear but are satisfied by.

A few months later, you check your face in your little compact mirror before stuffing it in your purse and heading inside Sebastian Leslie’s home. Exciting, yes, because this is the first time you’ve been invited not just to network, not just because a big name has seen you in the movies and wants to flaunt that they know you tangentially.

No, this is the first time you know someone, you’re actually in with a crowd– you’re friends with the host. You don’t feel nearly as awkward walking into Sebastian’s comfortable home and seeing familiar faces that you’re close with, decor that you already recognize.

“There she is.” Sebastian greets you with a tight hug– for a massive flirt he’s actually rather protective of you sometimes. “Love the dress, by the way– is that a vintage Chanel? Black is very flattering on you, my dear.”

You get the sense he didn’t want you to be involved in this industry sometimes, but other times– he likes that you put work in.

“I saw your newest advertisement on TV yesterday.” He comments, and you giggle.

“Was it good?”

“Yeah, amazing as usual– but you gotta do more than that.” Sebastian holds your hand as he pulls you into the crowd of other low-level actors, people who could risk showing up, really, and you fix your dress, a black one with a low square neckline. “Look into Vault-Tec– I’ve been telling Cooper here about how our futures are totally going to be surrounded by their products, even though that fucker does not want to listen.”

Cooper’s lounging in a low sofa in the pit of this living room, holding a crystal glass full of amber liquid, black button up shirt half open– he looks dishevelled, hair slightly askew, jaw off-kilter as he presses his tongue into his cheek, thinking. Lost by something, but still put together as celebrities are. Geez, you really need to temper your attraction to him.

It doesn’t help how he looks at you, either– there’s something deep and reverent about his gaze, like he wants to believe whatever he sees when he’s looking at you– but you have no idea if it’s real, or if it’s just an act like with most of these celebrities.

You used to see him a lot more frequently too, over the last few months. Either at set, or at more fancy parties– most of which he’s been perfectly pleasant and kind to you.

“Of course you’d label me as some fucking chairman for them, Seabass.” Cooper slams back half a pint of whisky, and pours himself some more. “Hey, Nuka-Cola.”

“Hey, Mr. Howard.” You smile gently. You’ve heard about his divorce– everyone has, but you’re not 100% sure why it’s happened, why now when things seemed to be going so well for him.

Well is relative, though. You know loads of actors have decried him privately– no one wants to hang out with the man promoting the end of the world, apparently. It must be a tough thing to only be hired for your wife’s advertisements– and even then, you don’t exactly agree with what they’re marketing, either.

You don’t feel so strongly against Cooper, though. Maybe because you do like him– but also because you know what it’s like to have your image connected to something you don’t really promote. Nuka-Cola isn’t healthy, it’s got enough sugar to induce instant death when drank regularly. But you do it for the connections, the money– and you’re sure Cooper did too.

“Cooper is fine.” He grumbles, and you remember his last name is maybe a sore subject right now.

“Sorry.” You do your best to be delicate as you sit next to him, and Sebastian sits on the other side of you. “How’re you, Cooper?”

“Not bad. If you count being divorced as being alright.” He sighs, and you feel terrible that you even asked. “It’s like I never knew her, man– I thought Barb was different. Or they changed her, I don’t fucking know.”

“She had her eyes set on the prize. As did you, Coop.” Sebastian states, and Cooper turns, affronted.

“We’re all interested in money and glory, Seabass. Fuck you if you think otherwise.” Cooper tenses, and you feel a bit awkward listening in on this conversation.

“What did I say that negates that? I’m as money hungry as they come.” Sebastian shrugs. “I only meant that– despite it all, making money was what you had in common, evidently not the world-going-nuclear shit. Maybe you’ve got a heart of gold, a change of mind, I don’t know, Cooper. But throwing away an easy life just to pay alimony must be fucking awful, so I just don’t think you’re in it for the money anymore.”

“You’re fucking telling me.” Cooper sniggers. “I don’t think Barb cares. I’m here with no career, and she’s out there getting promoted in Vault-Tec. As for the heart of gold… any former marine would’ve been against that shit.”

You want to ask what shit, but you don’t want to overstep your boundaries. You get the general fear of nuclear war– but Cooper sounds more personally affected by it.

Cooper glances over at you. “What do you think? Better to be richer than you can spend in a lifetime, or to be out with a good conscience?”

“I don’t know if I’m that interested in money.” You say honestly, and Cooper raises his eyebrows.

“Really? Nuka-Cola’s a saint, huh.” He chuckles– he’s clearly a bit buzzed.

“No, I’m not. Of course I want to have a career.” You think about this carefully, so it doesn’t sound insincere. “Making money is nice– but I don’t think I have the right to say it should come at the cost of human lives. You know Nuka-Cola is terrible for you, right? ”

Cooper stares at you for a moment too long, and then looks away. “Yeah… addicting.”

He’s definitely not talking about Cola, but you continue on. “Yeah, so just in that way– I disagree with how much power marketing has. We’ve convinced America that they need this– just so some chairman can make an extra dollar.”

Cooper looks at you, renewed by whatever you just said. “Hell, woman after my own heart. That’s damn true.”

“Yes, yes, you two oblivious flirts– there’s no art in filmmaking anymore, just commercialism. Not like it hasn’t been the case for a century.” Sebastian chimes in, and you bite your lip, pretending not to notice how Cooper’s face is smirking bashfully. “But, babe. You’re going to want to make your money before the world fucking ends.”

“What’s that?” You startle, and Cooper laughs sardonically at your surprise, while Sebastian gets up.

“Let me get myself a drink– I hardly want to tell this story sober.” He leaves, and Cooper has half a heart to glare at him– he knows Sebastian is leaving the two of you alone so he can do the dirty work.

Not like his reputation can ever get better, especially by telling this story again with it’s lurid details, but at least it doesn't hurt that he's with you.

“What does he mean by that, Mr. Howard?” You wince at your use of that. “Sorry– I meant Cooper.”

“Ah, call me what you’d like.” Cooper takes another sip of his drink, leaning back in the couch to the point where he is practically lying down and against you. “It sounds good coming out of your mouth no matter what you pick, Nuka-Cola.”

Now that’s a suggestive, loaded line, and you feel a little more comfortable flirting with him even if it’s a bit of a rebound for him. The end of the world is approaching, right?

“The end of the world?” You prod at him, and he sighs, leaning against your shoulder.

“It’s fucking ridiculous, what it is… probably never going to happen anytime soon.” Cooper’s tone of voice is hazy as he examines his last sip of whisky in the glass. “No, no. Just something those fucking commies put in my head. I guess they’re not really commies, are they?”

“Unless you elaborate, I can’t say.” You utter back at him, and he pushes down a smile.

“Alright. Vault-Tec’s been selling this nuclear protective stuff, right?” He says, and you nod, your cheek brushing against the top of his hair. “All I can say is that a few… radicals, if you will, think that Vault-Tec might actually be more involved with it than they say. Like, they might be…”

“Not just protective, huh? More offensive? Everyone’s got that feeling, Mr. Howard. And that doesn't sound like a particularly commie-train-of-thought to me.” You hear the sorrow in his tone, even if he’s trying to make it sound like a rumour. “Did you hear this from your ex-wife?”

Cooper winces here. He still feels slightly guilty about spying on her. A part of him thinks they might’ve not divorced if he hadn’t found out– but he knows he was bound to find out eventually, and he would’ve just delayed the inevitable.

“Maybe, Cola. Maybe you’re just sharp.” He whispers, and you smile and he feels it– your skin is intoxicatingly close right now.

“So, odds are?” You ask, just curious, and he exhales.

“Bad. I have to agree with them.” He admits, and it feels exhilarating to admit this– that Vault-Tec is gonna nuke the world at some point, that the radicals are more like minded to him than he’s wanted to believe in the past. “Even if it didn’t cost my movies, I regret partaking in what they were selling.”

That’s a big thing for him to say– you know Cooper loves acting, he absolutely adores playing a hardened sheriff, the last vestige of goodness in the wild, wild west. All the times you’ve visited him on his set– probably during his last contractual movie, now that you think about it– and he was always so excited to show off the architecture and intricacies of the fictional western town they’d set up, share script details and little character quirks so you could have an insider’s viewpoint. He even donned his cowboy hat on you, saying you wore it like a natural.

He loved being the hero, really.

He lights a cigarette, and takes a puff.

“Most big-name connections refuse to talk to me because of this stuff– I’ve basically been dropped out of phonebooks all together. They think I’m still in on it, they think I’ve only stopped because of backlash–” He stops as you begin to scratch his scalp, still leaning against your shoulder, but getting progressively into your neck area.

Jesus, that feels good. He thinks. He hasn’t been intimate in a while– Barb became increasingly more cold to him over the last few months, as their marriage kept falling apart.

“Backlash, really?” You whisper.

“Yeah.” He stutters for just a moment, because your eyes are peering into his, and for a moment he thinks you could really make it as just a bombshell if you wanted to– then he takes another puff. “When really, I was just backing out of what I thought was really a massive crime against humanity.”

“Are you only telling me this to validate your poor conscience? Remedy that reputation a little?” You ask, and he presses his lips together.

“Well, I'll be honest, yeah. Of fucking course I'd tell the one woman who seems to be like me on this.” He sounds so certain of you, sounds so sure that you're on his side.

And you absolutely are.

“The world’s about to end, Mr. Howard. You're not a bad man for not wanting to support it. I'm inclined to agree.” You inhale deeply, and Cooper stares at you– something stirs inside him as he does.

“Kiss me, then. Humour me– since none of this will matter soon.” Cooper murmurs, lying on top of your chest now, the smoke from his cigarette enveloping your face.

He’s so close you barely have to move to oblige to what he’s said– you're second guessing yourself for just a moment, because it feels like a dream that he'd ask you to do this, so out of the blue, such a picture perfect fantasy that you almost don't care about the impending doom, and you press your lips gently to his in an upside-down kiss, his hair brushing against your open cleavage, but Cooper is insistent and leans upward, kissing you with such intensity that your head is spinning afterwards.

God, now that's a movie star kiss. You think.

He kisses you again as Sebastian returns, drink in hand.

“Oi! You two. Jesus Christ, can't keep your hands off each other, can you?” Sebastian pretends to vomit. “C’mon, if I want to talk to you at my party, I should have that right.”

You attempt to pull away– but Cooper, being a little mischevious, perhaps wanting to show off in a way he hasn’t been able to, sits up right and kisses you again, this time normally, just very slowly and passionately though, slithering an arm around your waist in a way that has Sebastian rolling his eyes.

“Okay, present.” He says, not pulling his arm off your waist.

“Thanks.” Sebastian shakes his head. “I was thinking we should take the mood off with some party games…”

It's about 2 AM when you've finally left the party. Cooper didn't want to let you go– he's crashing at an apartment for the time being, but you really don't want to waste yourself on being his rebound, if he really likes you.

You tell him as much, and he likes that– you really are rather sharp about things.

“Well. Gimme a call when you realize I'm not kidding around with you.” He says unabashedly, holding your hand, kissing it as you leave.

You’re absolutely sure he's drunk, and he's being a little too clingy– but you want to believe him anyways.

You walk back to your car, alone. Thinking about if Cooper is worth the damage it could have on your potential career. But then again– the end of the world is coming, right?

So maybe it won’t matter. And you find that you like this, the secret potential of this option, just hanging out with Cooper in a place that used to be America, no more expectations on you both. There’s also the chance you just both die, though.

You shudder.

You don't notice that there's a man in the backseat of your car when you get in, brandishing a chloroform stained cloth.

The Ghoul prods at the body that's just fallen out of the cryo pod.

Oh fuck.

It's starting to stir, whoever it is, and Coop knows he's ready, if this is really some synthetic android-clone thing, to make their life hell. Get some of his anger out on something that doesn’t matter.

Wait– he recognizes that cherry red fabric. That coiffed hair, frosty after being inside the pod. Oh, Jesus… even the makeup is the same as when he last saw you.

“Ah… shit.” He chuckles to himself in exasperation, because this is beyond belief. “Nuka-Cola, is that you?”

You tilt yourself to the side, eyes bleary, unable to see clearly. Everything’s dark. But you know that voice, you just heard it a couple of days ago.

“Mr. Howard?” You croak out, and he hisses inwards– nobody has called him that in centuries. Nobody knows who he is… except for you, of course.

“The one and the same, baby.” He licks the side of his gums, deciding to stick with his identity for now. “Well, maybe a little different. You wouldn't happen to know what a Ghoul is, huh?”

“What?” You don't know how long your vision is going to stay black for, but you don't like the sound of that. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“Eyes haven't been opened for… two hundred years. I'll give you some time, Cola.” He sighs; cracks his neck, while you sink back into the floor. “Just imagine the ugliest horror-picture monster you can imagine. Zombie, no nose. That paint a picture for you?”

“...”

“What was that?” Coop can't hear you when your voice is muffled into the tiles of this secret room. He grasps your hair gently, from the root, pulling your head upwards so you'll speak– clearly you don't have the strength to lift up your body.

“I said, how is that any different from before?”

“Oh, she's still a jokester.” Coop scoffs– despite himself he snorts– and he lets go of your hair so you land back on the floor with a thump.

“–Ow!” You flinch, and then turn over so you’re on your back. “Still an asshole, huh?”

“Me?” He grins maliciously. Ooh, maybe he can use some misplaced anger on you. “You're the one who didn't call back for several weeks.”

“How could I? You can see I've been trapped in a cryo thing for… however long. Did you say two hundred years?” You flatly ask, and Coop still thinks you're lying.

“Yes, and bullshit. You probably had a couple weeks since I last saw you to call me.” He states, and he doesn’t actually hold a grudge, at least not that much of it in comparison to all the other horrid shit that’s happened to him– he just thinks it's funny to push your buttons after all of that, like looking into a mirror of the past– and you groan.

“No, I didn't. I got in my car after Sebastian's party, and some goon sprayed something in my face, I passed out, and he drove me here.” You start, and you begin frowning in such a way that Coop almost feels bad.

“Why you, sweetheart?” He shakes his head. “You weren't exactly high up in popularity yet.”

“Exactly. No one would miss me.” You spit out bitterly, remember the end to that night, where you were so unaware of your surroundings, and terrified of being assaulted as you were pushed around into this room, blindfolded.

“Adrian fucking Amos, the fucking Second, thought it would be great if I just became his permanent doll during the apocalypse.” You swallow, and Coop sits down next to you, to listen more clearly. You shift towards his body heat– and to his surprise, he still likes that. “See, his daddy has shares in Vault-Tec, so he decided before nuclear fallout happened, he wanted a guaranteed sex slave from his favourite advertisements.”

“Nuka-Cola.” Coop utters with the slowest drawl, concluding your statement– and you like that.

“Yeah, Nuka fucking Cola.” You grimace. “Then he undressed me, put me in this little number, and threw me in the pod. I barely remember this shit because I was so out of it.”

“Shame. I always wondered why you never called me back.” Coop circles back to his little grudge– but he also feels bad, feels some level of guilt that neither he nor Sebastian had the sense to look out for you back then, and you were practically assaulted (maybe actually so if you didn't remember).

“Yeah, because I wanted to miss out on that piece of ass. Sure.” You joke feebly, and Coop laughs despite himself.

“Honey, you're gonna run away screaming when you finally see me. Don't worry about it.” He shakes his head. “The real world's a lot more fucking difficult than would'ves and could'ves.”

“Okay, explain. If you're willing to owe me that much.” You start, and Coop gets reminded of that fateful night a couple hundred years ago, where he was the one to clue you into the impending nuclear war.

Not even three months later, it was all over, and you were nowhere in sight– if his mind ever did drift to you, the what-ifs and who-knows that still persisted– he would always assume you were dead.

Now he thinks you're just unfinished business.

“Fine.” He taps your shoulder, and you lean a little closer towards him– you touch his hand, and instead of flinching as many people have in the past– you trace the tough, callused skin there.

He thinks there’s something wrong with you. Why do you seem drawn to him anyways? You’re completely fucking up his tough guy, lone-wolf persona by being here, and he wants you gone. He pulls away his hand, ignoring how your face falls for a moment.

Coop inhales, and then starts. “In October 2077, they nuked America, bombed it all to hell. By they, I think we both know what I’m implying.”

“It wasn’t the Chinese.” You interrupt, and he shushes you.

“Yeah, Cola.” He starts playing with his fingers, feeling like you don’t deserve to be here right now. That you should’ve just stayed dead. “Vault-Tec destroyed it all.”

It’s no good. He’s an old man, and you’re still as soft and young as ever. He’s always haunted by his past, like with Barb and Janey, and then Sebastian’s voice in every single Mr. Handy robot he comes by, and then finally, his last couple memories with you.

“The last two hundred something years have been filled with carnage, death, unspeakable horrors that your pretty little mind could never comprehend.” He grits out, pushing past the past and remembering that this is who he is now– a killer– and you stare at him vacantly, because his tone is so much more serious suddenly. “Nothing is the same. Everyone has blood on their hands, water is a fucking commodity, if you’re not watching out for humans to betray you, hideous creatures like me roam the ground, and that ground? Sands, deserts, barely a hint of green. It’s nothing worth coming back to.”

“So you’re saying I’m in hell.” You suddenly inhale harshly, and Coop ignores the urge to check on you.

The last thing he needs is an extra person to take care of– especially someone who doesn’t know the Wasteland. So it’s better now that he just weans you off and leaves you here.

“Yeah, sweetheart. And I'm the devil.” Coop sucks on his teeth again. “If you had any sense, you’d go back into that fucking freezer until some utopia is born four hundred years from–”

You flinch, and he stops.

“Oh, God, my eyes–”

The sight comes back slowly then all at once. Light everywhere, overwhelming your senses.

You blink, tears rolling down your face.

“Maybe it would’ve been better if you stayed blind, Cola.” He stares at you as you rub your eyes, taking in the state of the room.

It’s a warning, but you look up at him again anyways. And Coop waits for the utter horror, for the sign that he really has transformed into a monster, so he can hurry up and leave– this entire conversation with you is just him finishing Cooper Howard’s past with a bow. A shiny, Nuka-Cola-red bow.

“...” You swallow, and then bite your lip, tilting your head up at him. “Couldn’t let go of the cowboy identity, huh?”

Coop furrows his non-existent eyebrows, disliking how hard you’re making this, how clever you still seem to be– you also seem way too relaxed with him. He has half a mind to fire a warning shot at you. “Yeah, okay, darlin’. You’re just avoiding facing that horrific, bile-inducing sensation in your throat, aren’t you?”

You shake your head, disagreeing immediately. “You might look– a little less like how I remember you, I guess… but you’re still you. I see it, and apparently so do you.”

How dare you? Coop thinks, how dare you intertwine his two images together so easily when he could never be the same man again, when just seeing an old VHS tape of one of his movies pains him?

“Yeah, no thanks. If this is your way to get me to valet you around, I’m not that man anymore, Nuka-Cola.” He resents the way you think he could still be good– just because his western image brings him a little comfort nowadays. “Not a sheriff anymore.”

Your face drops, but you seem to take that information readily. “Yeah, I figured that based on your outfit, the little blood splatters on your pants… if that’s how the world is, then so be it.”

You’re saying things that on paper should be right– but Coop is getting more and more disgruntled with you, and you feel like you need to separate yourself from him. Yes, tough, because to you it’s been all of forty-eight hours since you kissed him– but you can see, no matter how deep the original Cooper Howard is inside this new Ghoul, you’re not going to be able to bring him out.

You stand up, on shaky, bare feet, and motion for Coop to move out of the way. Independent woman to the end, you are, and you want to get your bearings without him.

Coop internally sighs. He doesn’t believe for one second you’ll survive out there– and he really doesn’t need to spend the time seeing you die, so he turns around, and leaves you here.

He never did find Leopold St. West, much to his chagrin– you really, really messed up his day.

It happens. Sometimes he’ll see Janey in another person’s eyes and freak out, and have to boil it down by murdering random raiders.

But now Coop is just spiteful. He’s always figured that a lot of what happened to the world was just a bunch of rich people picking and choosing a destiny for themselves to the detriment of everyone else, and now he’s aware that included you, too. To casually be grabbed away by some man, just because he was rich… Coop isn’t unsympathetic to how you ended up, even if he treated you quite poorly. It’s sickening.

Two hundred years of quiet, always-dwelling agony, the first few years out of fear for being alone, and the next few years spent conspiring about what could’ve happened to his family– and then here you are as confirmation of his worst theories.

No wonder he enjoys his casket time.

Coop sighs.

Vaultie is hard to keep track of. She got away with murder this time at the organ harvesting clinic– so Coop finds it easier to stop working with her, to move when he wants to.

The Govermint (really just Booker’s shitty gang) was rather easy to dismantle. The two sheriffs that he killed required no expertise on his part.

He’s thinking about the fact that since Moldaver is still alive, and apparently that fucker Hank MacLean, then that means there’s a good chance Barb and Janey are too– perhaps he could go and find them.

It’s an odd urge, though. Everytime he thinks about it, he wonders how he’s actually supposed to connect with them again– they’ve been fractured for so long, and he’s changed, and there’s a good chance neither of them would accept him like this.

But you did, didn’t you? You were on the verge of saying yes, you’d accept him– as if nothing had changed.

Coop grumbles. The big, significant difference is that you were infatuated with him, but Barb divorced him, and Janey was too young to make that choice. He considers that it could be a pipe dream, but he still has hope– for Janey, at least.

He thinks you’re probably dead anyways. He hasn’t seen you in several months, since that day where he unceremoniously woke you up– and he hopes it stays that way.

He's chilling in another small, scrappy area of the wasteland. Nobody bothers the Ghoul, not when he's casually fiddling with his gun and and chewing on a toothpick.

A man runs past him, holding a significantly valuable piece of Brotherhood equipment. Maybe worth thousands of caps if he knows his shit, and he does. That’s a fusion core, and they’re not exactly mass producing those anymore during the apocalypse.

Coop points his gun at him, finger on the trigger, seconds away from creating a bloody mess–

A blade thwacks into the guy’s neck, blood spurting as he falls and chokes. A person– a woman– jumps on his back, her face obscured by a deep green bandana . She yanks out the knife, stabs a few more times for good measure– and Coop knows the game, he’s not surprised he’s not the only one to go after this guy.

He’s pretty good at killing casually, and he barely even moves from where he’s standing, aiming the gun at her.

No way is he letting easy money pass by him.

He’s about to pull the trigger extra-quick when she yanks the bandana down, taking a deep breath as she sweats, and Coop actually misses.

It’s you. You stare up at him from where you’re squatting over the body, and your gaze hardens, furrowed brows, dark lashes, intensely dark pupils. You purse your lips, press them together, jaw set in a stern fashion, recognizing him but refusing to hear him out– and Coop doesn’t know why he’s not firing, but he’s almost… enamoured with how you are now, almost taken aback by your new nature.

Not so taken aback that he doesn’t immediately start firing when you take the fusion core and start running.

And Coop doesn’t want to actually kill you, he just wants to incite some damage. See how far you can take it.

You interweave through random gaps in the metal scraps of this little abode, seeking shelter as you do so, and Coop’s gunfire only ricochets off them with cartoony sounding “pings!”

He manages to graze your left thigh through a small window, and you inhale sharply, stopping as you grit through the pain.

Coop grins to himself. This little cat and mouse chase is what he expected, what was predictable from you– you’re smart enough to stay on the defense, but you would probably never attack him, avoiding him because of your sad feelings of the old times, never resort to carnage unless you needed to–

You shove past the walls where you’ve been roaming, and manage one kick against his stomach and he manages to grab you and restrain you, your back against his front.

You grab his own jacket for purchase, and instead of pulling forward– you push back, landing on top of him with a thud that surely hurts him. Coop clenches his teeth, back against the ground now, but you scramble, straddling him. Hands around his throat, knife pressed against one of his tendons. Not outright strangling him, but just enough pressure that he knows you’re seriously threatening him.

Holy fuck, have you changed. Just like Vaultie, maybe you’re showing your honest self– and Coop supposes it may have been his mistake to underestimate you.

“Got a whole new outfit… I like it.” He admires your new leather jacket, cargo pants around your thighs pushing his arms down, a blouse fashioned out of your old Nuka-Cola dress. Tough combat boots dig into his thighs as you push against him. “Don’t fucking start–” You squeeze a little harder and he groans, the tip of the knife pushing in. “With your on and off, hot and cold bullshit.”

Ooh, it sounds like you have a little bit of a grudge over how you were treated.

“Get over it, Cola. It was centuries ago, whatever we had.” He spits out, and you have a glint of sadness in your eyes.

He knew you were a little too gushy for your own good– not even he adapted that quickly to the wilderness of the Wasteland. He waits for you to make the mistake, apologize, break down– and then he can take the core and get out of here.

But you’re still firm in your grasp of him, your weight pushing him down, blade against him.

You’re not angry about back then. You’ve come to terms with that.

You’re angry at the state of the world.

“You know what I fucking hate, Ghoul?” You spit in his face, and he blinks, spittle now on his chin. “You are all so selfish. I got left behind, likely for dead, right, and nobody gives a shit, whatever. But instead of me hoping that the leftover crumbs of society would at least try to be, I don’t fucking know, more hopeful and kind, or at the very least, not be so fucking greedy and transparently trying to be the new party in charge.”

“You’re living in a dream world.” Coop interrupts, and he’s rewarded with you carving a small, little cut on his cheek, a rapid movement you hardly think about, and it causes him to inhale sharply, a drop of blood smearing across his face.

“Oh, no. I’m not asking for everyone to hold hands and play family.” You laugh suddenly, and then somehow lean in closer, and Coop finds that in some fucked up way he enjoys the pressure against him. “It’s bullshit, that kind of image making– you and I both know that. But for all this supposed talk against the rich billionaires who ruined our lives, how are we not just emulating them?”

Coop is actually drawn to silence.

“Maybe you actually got fooled by self-image, Cola.” He murmurs. “Or maybe that’s just people’s true nature.”

You don’t like that answer. You don’t actually want to believe that, but the more you think about it, the more it’s probably true. People lie all the time, but the amount of outrage you’ve heard from people the last few months, bemoaning Vault-Tec and all those rich fuckers, you were inclined to believe they wouldn’t act the exact same way.

Just at a different level. Power corrupts all, you guess.

You loosen your grasp a little. “Thank you.”

It’s honest, and Coop doesn’t like how much he does like your nature of trusting him– how even as this new, terrible version of yourself, you still trust him, and you still ask for his advice.

He doesn’t know what to make of this, but he thinks maybe he can get some use out of you yet.

Coop wrangles his arm from out under your thigh, where you’ve accidentally let a gap through, and shoves you over.

You fall with a gasp, hitting the ground, and he stands up and kicks you for good measure, while you screech in pain.

Coop picks you up by your throat, and you instantly move to fighting– your blade against his stomach, teeth gritted in resolute urge to kill– but he’s got his pistol at your neck, and the way he brushes it against you is almost like a lover’s embrace.

“One thing I hate is a fucking liar, Cola.” He grumbles, and you glare at him. “You’re not some innocent– why else do you got a fusion core in your pocket?”

“I never claimed I was a good woman.” You shake your head. “I just wonder why the Brotherhood, the Enclave, hell, even some of the Raiders… everyone wants the ultimate piece of the pie.”

“Besides, you’re the one who kept saying to survive out here I’d have to be a killer.” You remind him, and he looks down at you, thinking. “The world’s grieving– I don’t blame it for that, I feel the same way.”

You’ve still got a way with words, he thinks, and he was right. He can use you for his benefit.

“Say, Nuka-Cola. Why don’t we take some of those fuckers down?” He stills. “Not randoms. The power-hungry pie-eaters, like how you so eloquently put it.”

You don’t fully trust him again, but you’re into the prospect. You don’t want power, and you know he doesn’t either, but it’s not just looting. No, no, this is something akin to revenge.

“Alright.” You whisper.

“Alright. Okay, I won’t shoot if you don’t cut me.” He speaks softly, slowly, trying to cajole you out of attacking– and you move as he does.

The threatening air of before is gone now, and the Ghoul has only a odd stare for you, something that makes you feel watched, almost reminding you of two centuries ago. It could be that he doesn’t trust you either– and so you walk onward with a gap between you two, heading to wherever a faction that needs fucking up could be.

Coop strolls inside the makeshift bar as you make conversation, staying within the shadows. It’s not on official Enclave grounds, it’s simply a nearby bar where members have been known to hang out.

He doesn’t exactly mind being the one to pick up the slack of killing people– he can tell you’re good at charming people what with your former bombshell acting techniques, your silly, soft blinks, the way how your skin still looks smooth and untouched.

Was it all a lie with him? Aw, shit, why does he care? He really doesn’t have time to wonder if he’s been manipulated by you– he won’t be manipulated by you now, when he gets rid of many the people who represents obstacles in his way to finding still-existing Vault-Tec members.

Yes, that’s all this is to him. Another step to finding Moldaver, Henry MacLean, then his family if he’s lucky. And you’ll get some rage out of it, so he doesn’t even consider this to be that bad of an evasion of his.

You laugh at something the knight next to you says. Coop catches a bit of it, of him asking how you look under that big jacket– and you mentioning you’d like to see him without that government get-up, too.

He grits his teeth. He’s not fucking in love with you, or anything stupidly juvenile like that– but he definitely felt something before when the two of you were fighting, or when you had conversations during the long, arduous talk here– you bit into a piece of his jerky when he offered it, and he laughed in surprise that you didn’t spit it out after he revealed it was feral ghoul ass jerky.

He also found that his gaze kept being drawn to you, too. You kept up with him, you were capable of hunting and searching on your own, you took lives when the need arose, and you had his back, even if he didn’t ask for it.

You made him subconsciously draw from the past, reminiscing about a time with you and a future he never thought he’d revisit. And now he can’t ignore that, so he needs to let off some steam.

There’s a splatter of blood across your face as the guy in front of you splutters, a bullet hole shot through his forehead. Little pieces of flesh hit the bar counter as he falls, and you gasp.

Coop is kind of quick with it now– he fires off, and because these “politicians” are unprepared, he’s able to kill off more than half.

You get over your shock quickly and fire your own tiny pistol at random, managing a few kills, but the Ghoul takes the last one and looks back at you, with an intrepid glance that you can’t figure out.

“What the hell was that?” You call out, and he doesn’t respond, instead beginning to pilfer the bodies, looking for shit to take. “Hey, Ghoul…”

“We came here to kill off those guys.” He answers you, but it’s not really an answer.

“Yeah, but I thought we agreed on discussing this shit as we were doing it. What happened to signalling?” You approach him, and as you get close enough, he turns around and stares unnervingly into your eyes.

“I did signal, sweetheart.” He clicks his tongue, lying through his teeth.

“Bullshit.”

“No, I did.” He points at you. “It’s not my fault that you were too busy schmoozing and flirting to notice.”

“Wow.” You laugh exasperatedly at his antics, while he tilts his head. “You’re really obtuse, you know?”

“Nah. I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. You’re gonna say you’re not jealous–” At that word, the Ghoul snarls, ready to tell you exactly how little he cares for you, and you motion for him to zip it. “But at the very instance of seeing me flirt, mind you, in the most fake way possible, you lost it. You can’t even tell the difference between my genuine flirting and the fakest, schlockiest shit?”

“...” Coop frowns, because you’re right– he did kind of let his mind go wild over nothing in particular.

Even worse, it means he’s made it apparent to you that he still harbours some feelings for your long-ago relationship. And that’s definitely a potential weakness– he does not want you to believe you can just work him around.

“Fuck you.” He spits, and instead of your face flinching in hurt, you stay neutral.

“I know you think you can come close and then shove me off every once in a while, because you’re fucking terrified of what it means that you’re not as hard as you pretended to be, that you still have a bit of human emotion inside you.” You tiptoe up to his face so he can’t avoid you. “I don’t care. That’s your problem.”

You turn to leave, to continue looting the bodies– and Coop’s hand wraps around your wrist.

He hates what you’ve said, because it’s absolutely provoking the worst issue he has– he can never just let go. Two hundred years of this has made him a different creature altogether, spiteful; evil, but Coop knows as well as anyone that his transformation doesn’t negate his original nature, buried deep down.

It was a lie on his part– people are not as evil as he made them out to be, it’s the cycle of this situation that perpetuates that shit. Violence begets violence and all that. He can’t seem to say this to you, though, because he can tell you already probably knew that.

What is this fuckery, that you’re able to generate such a sense of guilt in him?

“Show it to me again. Genuine flirting.” he says instead, and he knows it’s stupid as hell to say something like this. “It’s been hundreds of years, you can’t expect me to fuckin’ remem…”

You grasp his arm back, making him quiet.

He’s half expecting you to punch him, but you see something you like– something that finally satisfies you, and you kiss his cheek, where you cut him much earlier in the day. It’s a soft bruise, mostly healed over in the way ghouls heal– but it’s overwhelmingly, embarrassingly hot there now as you pull away.

“I won’t forget the difference next time, Nuka-Cola.” He tips his hat at you in a mockery of his acting as a dashing cowboy once upon a time.

“Won’t be a next time.” You shrug. “I would hate to have to flirt with someone again just to get you to notice me.”

This severely bothers him, like you haven’t been an annoyance in his mind this whole time. And then he wonders if you’re an idiot, like you have no idea the effect you had on him back then, and even now. Hell, even that overly-chaste kiss has him remembering how he felt at Sebastian’s party when you humoured him the first time.

Do you think the only thing he’s burying is some empathy for the human race?

He can’t just let you be this wrong about this, no fucking way. And it’s with this in mind that the Ghoul feels his reserve melt as he tightly grabs your face and kisses you. Not a soft, movie-star kiss of the past, but one more hungry, his lips swallowing yours, pressed sternly, firmly, like he’s not gonna let you go. He parts his mouth ever so slightly, trying to catch a reaction from you.

You’re caught off guard, and he’s glad. He likes that you don’t know what to do with yourself, that for once you’re floundering rather than him, and you barely remember to kiss back until a couple seconds later when your hands grasp the base of his skull. You’re tracing grooves, calluses, skin that’s been eroded by his ghoulishness. You feel like he tastes ever so acidic– perhaps from the radiation emitting from his body– but some weird part of you loves it, and you part your lips as you kiss him harder, wanting to feel his tongue.

Your lips are just as soft as he remembers– but there’s more excitement now, more of an urgency as you kiss him, so he takes your invitation and swirls his tongue around on yours, disgustingly vulgar and perversely fast, yet lingering to enjoy the sensation, and he kinda loves being a corrupting force, being the ghoul who eats up this sweet human girl, and he tightens his grip– it almost hurts you, how tightly his hands weave around your waist suddenly– and then before you know it, he pulls away.

He wipes his mouth, never taking his eyes off of you.

“So. Did I taste like Nuka-Cola?” You joke, and he laughs in your face.

“Nope. Darlin, you haven’t been the Nuka-Cola girl for hundreds of years. They replaced you not long after you vanished.” He smiles widely at how your face drops. “I can show you some of the new girl’s billboards, if you’d like.”

“That would explain the lack of revenue.” You raise your eyebrows. “Then why do you still call me Nuka-Cola, Cola, etcetera?”

“That’s how I remember you.” It sounds too sweet, too nice that he keeps your nickname on tabs, so he twists his lips in a sneer. “Plus I don’t remember your name.”

“Oh.” You bite your lip, finding his insult more funny than anything else, and turn around to take items from the bodies around you. “Okay, Mr. Howard.”

It was the optimal moment for you to joke back, calling him the Ghoul, but in classic you-fashion, you decided to extend an olive branch to him– reminding him that he’ll never just be the Ghoul to you. And even if Coop knows he’ll always remember you by Nuka-Cola, he has a fondness for you that he doesn’t neglect anymore– and he murmurs your name so softly, but just enough that you turn back and look at him, and smile with pleased recognition.

#cooper howard x reader #cooper howard x you #the ghoul x reader #the ghoul x you #the ghoul #cooper howard #fallout #fallout tv #fallout x reader #fallout x you

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THE QUEEN HAS POSTED‼️👑

fr, every time you write, i have to physically sit down for it bc of the emotional rollercoaster of a ride you give us each time, tbh. i love your work so, so, so much

i’m gonna need a few days to process this new story because AUGH✨

love your work sm, im crying 🥹

Hiiiiii Nonnie! Thanks so much for your kind words! It’s taken me a while to get out of writer’s block, but I’m glad you look forward to my stuff! Gonna take me a bit to get through the remaining parts (editing can be so tedious lol) but they’re sitting in my drafts and I hope you’ll like it! Always working on Claude Rains prompts and fanfics in between everything else! 💜

#anon ask #anonymous #thank you anon #thank you nonnie #nonnie <3 #i appreciate you

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Part 3/7 💜📸📝

“May I come in?”

“Yes, Jim. Just a minute. Oh, no. That zit is still there. Thank you for seeing me. I was rather nervous when it took so long for you to answer.”

“Fine dinner, Fanny. I enjoyed that roast. You know it reminds me of a roast I once fed to an old cannibal chief in the Solomon Islands. Had a remarkable effect on the old boy. Made a vegetarian of him. I take it back, Fanny. She'll never be the cook Manby is.”

“By the way, Jim, how about a quick smoke? My ex-husband gave up smoking, but I still have some of his leftover cigars.”

“Oh, not a bad idea at all.”

“There we are.”

“Hmm. The Angel’s Smoke. This is their brand. Though I doubt if they afford them on their present salaries.”

“Masters, There’s something you and I— Well, the fact is, Jim—”

“There’s something you want to get off your chest.”

“Yes, there is.”

“Come on, then. You know, I thought that perhaps a good straight from the shoulder heart to heart talk would go with this cigar.”

“I’m afraid it does… Jim, have you been encouraging my daughter to carry on with you?”

“You look lovely, Fanny. You always had a special sort of bloom.”

“No nonsense. Did it not occur to you to speak to me before you addressed my daughter?”

“I suppose I was carried away.”

“You have no right to influence her.”

“Well, that’s true, Fanny. I didn’t have the right to encourage her. Neither did I have the right to discourage her, so I merely looked wise. She mistook it for reciprocation.”

“So I was right to be nervous. You’re birds of a feather, you and my daughter.”

“I’ve always thought of myself as a magnificently exclusive specie. However, there’s room for your daughter if she’d like to join.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Sure, why not? You know we’re not so far apart, we two. We both suffer from wanderlust. Though I must say, she got it with trimmings.”

“How long have you and my daughter been seeing each other?”

“That depends. Are you referring to when we were in Europe or here in New York?”

“You mean to tell me you’ve met before?”

“Yes. In Switzerland. While I was passing through, we saw each other every night.”

“Seeing each other every night? Lovely. So you must be the mystery man.”

“Mystery man?”

“Sometimes when Jones was driving for me and my daughter, she asked him to drop her off at the corner of a street, typically in front of the local café. She was always telling me that she'd make it back home on her own. It aroused my curiosity. So after dropping her off, I asked Jones to park the car and watch her, see where she went and relay his observations to me. She ordered two cups of coffee, to go. She then left the café and walked up the street for about ten minutes to a residential area. She stopped in front of a motel and pressed the doorbell. Shortly after, a man in his mid-to-late forties, wearing a suit, opened the door. He leaned over and hugged her. She gave the coffee to him and they exchanged some words. Jones couldn't hear what they said or see the man’s face. They then entered the motel room together. Who is he, I wondered. It was the sixth time I had Jones follow my daughter. After she went into the building with the man, he parked the car nearby to wait for her to come out.”

“You had one of your household staff stalk your daughter?”

“Is it considered stalking when I’m her mother and only want to make sure she’s safe?”

“When you’re ordering an employee to follow and watch her like he’s on a stakeout mission? Yes.”

“About two hours later, a cab stopped out in front of the motel. Shortly afterwards, she came outside, and the man followed closely behind. They chatted for a bit. She looked extremely comfortable with him. Before leaving, she kissed him on the cheek. When Jones reported back to me, I thought, what's going on? How could she do this? Who the hell is this man? I reported sick for the third consecutive day. As I laid in bed, I kept thinking on why my daughter would be seeing another man. How could she be having an affair now? She's better than that. She's supposed to choose John. There were nights when she inexplicably was absent from home and wasn’t at dinner. I remember being so worried, but Fanny never said a thing about you…”

“I’m sorry to trouble you, but we haven’t seen her all day. You haven’t? No, she didn’t come in for dinner. Well, thank you, Mrs. Worthing. The Worthings haven’t seen her. I think I’ll call the Lemps. Are you sure your sister didn’t say where she was going?”

“No, she didn’t. I’m positive. She’s a grown up girl, Uncle George. She knows what she’s doing.”

“With all this excitement I can’t concentrate on my letters.”

“Manby, are you sure she didn’t leave a message in a milk bottle or something? It’s not like her not to be here for dinner.”

“She didn’t say a thing to me. I didn’t hear it.”

“Well, she isn’t with Maggie Worthing. But she thinks she might be with someone called Jim Masters. She says she left the dance with him last night.”

“That’s impossible. She wouldn’t be with Jim. He’s not her type. Besides, I wouldn’t permit it. Jim’s good hearted, but he’s our chauffeur and almost a criminal.”

“Oh, come to think of it, I’m sure she’s not with Jim.”

“How would you know? Where's your sister?”

“Well, I just remembered she told me she was going to Selena’s for some shopping. The bus probably broke down.”

“Why didn’t you tell us before? Really, Fanny.”

“Why don’t you all go to a movie and relax? I’ll wait up for her.”

“That’s a good idea. The movie’s in technicolor.”

“She never said a single word to Fanny, did she? You’re an awful liar, Jim.”

“Don’t act as if you’ve made a great discovery. I’ve known it for years. It was our secret pact.”

“You didn’t seem too willing to drive for me. That should’ve been my first clue. I didn’t think a five day trip was that long. Job often had trips longer than that and the previous driver never seemed to mind them. Now that I think about it, you and she were unusually quiet whenever I was around. You didn’t even look at me. It’s like you were avoiding me. I wondered why. So I called Dorothy. She told me something interesting about my daughter. You are telling me that you took my daughter to a motel to meet in broad daylight?”

“Oh. I... I suppose they think something improper went on between us. I suppose everyone does. But it wasn't like that.”

“What was it like, Masters?”

“You only know this because you've opened a letter addressed to her.”

“She’s a young girl. And I’m her mother, and I have every right to know who's corresponding with her.”

“She’s not a girl. She’s a woman, whether it suits you or not.”

“By which you mean?”

“Your daughter is an adult. She cannot be cooped up here forever. I guess you want to know our intentions, Mrs. Skeffington.”

“My daughter is rather young to have intentions.”

“I didn’t intend any harm. We’re not lovers, you know. Not in the way you fear. We’ve never been intimate, never shared a bed in that way. It was quite innocent. Mrs. Skeffington, there's no sense beating around the bush. I'm in love with your daughter. I think she's just about the best girl there is. She's an old soul with young eyes, a vintage heart, and a beautiful mind. She's clever and sensitive and beautiful...”

“You're not courting me, Masters.”

“No.”

“So you love her. That's quite apparent. And is she in love with you?”

“Well, hasn't she told you?”

“As a matter of fact, no. She has not. But I’m going to ask her. Well, that's quite romantic, Jim...but, tell me something, will you?”

“Of course.”

“How old are you?“

“Thirty-nine.”

“Yes, I seem to recall that when you applied for your post as the chauffeur, you listed your age as thirty-nine. But I found out from your ex-wife that you were born in, let me see, 1889, which would make you forty-six.”

“Come on, Fanny. All right, I'm forty-six. Too old for your daughter? Is that it?”

Fanny knew you wanted refuge from the kind of world she and, by extension, you lived in, wanted respite from the kind of life she lived. But old men weren't refuges. They needed refuge themselves, for they were timid, and shrank from responsibility, and advised one to be friends with one's husband, and let go one's arm when they got near the house. There was, in fact, no love in them. Not that one wished love to be in them, except that without it, without, anyhow, the capacity for it, people didn't seem to be much good. Dry as bones, cold as stones, they seemed to become, when love was done; inhuman, indifferent, self-absorbed, numb. Except Jim Masters wasn't an old thing at all. He may not have been exactly a young thing, but he certainly wasn't an old one.

“In a sense. I like you, Jim. I do. You’re charismatic, charming, and extroverted, among other fine qualities. There wouldn't be a woman who wasn't setting her cap at you. But when I see you and my daughter together...”

“Meaning?”

“If you were a couple decades younger, maybe—”

“Don’t start. You’re one to talk about age, Mrs. Skeffington. You oughta be ashamed of yourself. Your daughter and I are both consenting adults. She’s twenty years old. And I'm almost forty-seven. How old are you?” was the abrupt interruption.

“Forty...five.”

And when he gave her a look like he didn’t believe her, she told him truthfully, it being merely foolish not to, that she was fifty, to which he remarked, “You surprise me.”

It was at that point that Fanny began feeling stung; for, from his expression, it seemed as if what surprised him wasn't, as for an instant she had naturally supposed, that she was as old as that, but that she was as young as that. So she was stung.

“But if this light were on, you could see I’m in the prime of life. Far from an old woman.”

“Well, you may not be in a wheelchair yet. But you aren’t in rompers either. Neither are you Lillian Russell. Yet as you’d gotten older and older, your lovers had kept on getting younger and younger. Before your illness, there you were, pushing fifty, yet I recall the most recent and youngest of your adorers, Johnny Mitchell, had been but twenty-six when you met him. To you, he was yet another attractive man you wanted to talk to. It didn’t matter to you that he didn’t shave yet. He voted for Roosevelt, so he was at least twenty-one and fair game. Not only that, but you met before.”

“No, I would've remembered.”

“Sorry, but you did. Your husband introduced the two of you.”

“Job? When was this?”

“About fifteen years ago. Johnny was your husband's office boy and thirteen years of age. It was during summer holiday. Now he’s junior partner in his father’s firm. You must know his father. He said he almost committed suicide because of you.”

“Well, I'll have to look at my records—”

“And now he’s sweet on Fanny, who’s twenty and much closer to his age. I wouldn’t be surprised if they married. Why don’t you stop pretending and tell me what’s really bothering you.”

“We’re a very happy family here, Masters. There was a time where I considered you a suitable match for my daughter, but as I looked into your history, I began to suspect that, if you did marry, you would have no armory for the battle that lay ahead.”

“We’d have no money, you mean.”

“We know New York, you and I. There's a life to be lived here, and a good life. But two penniless strangers from out of town could not have hoped to live it. I’ve someone more practical in mind for my daughter. Sir John Talbot is in love with her. He’s crazy about her and she’s more than a little fond of him—”

“She does not love Sir John Talbot and he does not love her.”

“How do you know?”

“At dinner this evening, I could see it in their eyes, their body language. They engaged in polite table conversation and smiled at each other, but they never so much as held hands under the table or snuck secret glances at each other. I know what love, real love, looks like, Fanny. I’ve seen it in many couples I’ve encountered and passed by in my travels. And what I saw tonight was not love. It was an act put on by the both of them to keep up appearances. But that’s not all. She told me about John occasionally when we were together and only spoke of him like he was her friend and nothing more. She’s told me so herself that she doesn’t lo—”

“You are mistaken, Masters. She’s very much in love with Sir John. You know there’s not a false note in the picture.”

“Well, that is what I do not quite know. But you are right to claim it since a love match is what she’s determined on for herself. I ask you again: Does she love him?”

“I can assure you that she do—”

“Please. You have not convinced her, and you will not convince me. I think you may genuinely like him and that you intend her to be happy in her life with him.”

“More than I—”

“Let me finish! I understand you married Mr. Skeffington after only knowing him for two months, and that you practically knew nothing about him at all. I understand that these marriages of convenience take place in every fashionable church in this city, but I want more than that for your daughter.”

“Of course you do. But these days so many people marry without love.”

“Which means my initial judgment was correct and she does not love John.”

“The fact is— Oh, Jim, there are no facts in love,” she had told him, naturally not liking to be pinned down. Whereupon he had suggested, that she was being foolish.

“My dear lady, there are always facts,” he had said, looking tired and patient. “I'll tell you what the facts are. The more you pushed for her to be a prim and proper lady, the more she felt her desire for it slipping away. I suppose you’re so deep in denial because you thought that if you could only make it happen, then things would come right.”

“I can only promise— I will make sure my daughter— Sir John comes from a good family, and there is money, and she’d be in society, which is what I want for her. He can be very amusing. He does make her laugh.”

“That is a useful quality, I grant you, but it is not enough to base a marriage on.”

Passion, Fanny was sure, was a thoroughly bad basis for marriage. Jim, married to you, would be a frazzle of nerves, and intolerably jealous and suspicious. No, you were best with John. A life with Jim was going to be lonely, it was going to be difficult to bear the increasing loneliness. You ought really, she supposed, to get into touch with other young women, and find out what they did with themselves, but the thought of affiliating with other young women of New York society filled you with nausea.

Besides, you had been in touch with one the week before, and had merely got rapped over the knuckles. Well, anyhow, Fanny had had a wonderful time, she told herself, trying to make you be grateful, and now, she supposed, she must start paying for it. After fifty, the bills were bound to begin coming in. But in an empty present, how difficult to be grateful for even the fullest, most delightful past.

“Sir John Talbot is stable and well-mannered—”

“And has $40,000 a year. Sir John Talbot is much like the spectacularly rich Mr. Skeffington. Mr. Skeffington, who had an extraordinary gift for growing richer, was a wonderful parti for you, a penniless girl. Mrs. Skeffington, I know Sir John cares for her a great deal. The same could be said of me, but I'm not doing as well as he is. But you see, I think your daughter and I love each other very much. She would set her cap at me, if you let her. But for some reason, you're fighting it.”

“I'm not.”

“You’ve forced me to believe that it is my lack of money and position that present the problem, and if that’s truly the case, then shame on you. Aren't you better than that?”

“What?”

“Well, it just seems rather small to me. To not let your daughter marry a man for lack of money is the same as marrying her off to him because he has more than plenty of it.”

“Oh, stop lecturing me!”

“Am I not right?”

“No. You don't begin to understand," she said, turning to the tea-things and pouring herself out a cup of very black tea. “You dare call me a grubby, little gold digger? You've got a nerve!”

“Your daughter told me that you were quite upfront about marrying Mr. Skeffington, the richest man in town, for his money. While you were courted by him, you didn’t love him. You didn’t even fake affection for him.”

“Do you know why I came to his office that day to sell him bazaar tickets? Because I'd made up my mind even then that I was going to marry him.”

“Why?”

“Because he was good and kind...and his eyes were special in a St. Bernard sort of way. There he was half stopping when he saw me, and gazing at me with those opaque dog's eyes of his as though I were the single love of his life. And although I'd never really seen him smile...I always had the feeling he was laughing at me. And I found that attractive. Besides the fact he was very rich. Job… Sometimes I think he’s still laughing at me. Without moving a muscle.”

“I assure you, Fanny, you're no laughing matter. So you just admitted... He’s a bit older than you, isn’t he?”

“Oh, I concede the conspicuous difference in my and my ex-husband’s ages, but you’re wrong. I didn’t marry Job just for his money and to secure my future. I married him for the selfless reason of wanting to save my late brother, Trippy. He had gotten himself into trouble and...all I could do was throw myself on Job’s mercy.”

Trippington was at a preparatory school when Fanny got engaged, and she went down to see him there and tell him herself, before anyone else knew.

"What— that Jew?" he exclaimed, horrified. "Why didn't you tell me about this? I didn't even know you were seeing him.”

“I was afraid to tell you, Trippy, because I knew how you felt about him. But you're wrong.”

“But, Fan— You can't.”

“Can't I? You'll see. He's a very nice man. Terribly kind. Much the kindest of anybody we know, and much the—the nicest, really. He has character. And he's a—”

“Don't tell me you're in love with him. I'm not drunk enough to bear that. And— Think of his nose.”

“I do. I've thought of it a great deal. And I've come to the conclusion noses aren't everything.”

“Aren't they, just. You wait till you have to start the day every morning with his wagging at you over the bacon.”

“I'll tell you this much, Trippy. You're safe now. You don't have to worry about anything anymore. And you can spend all the money you want to.”

“Oh, I see. It's me. That's why you want to marry him.”

“Trippy, I'm very fond of Job...but I love you. Now Trippy, little sweet,” she said, leaning over him and giving him a butterfly-kiss with her eyelashes in the hope of making him smile, “don't be silly and throw cold water on my lovely plans. Be a good brother and give me your blessing— Please, darling. Trippy, if you love me at all, you won't leave.” Then she put her arm round him, and began to kiss him.

Trippington, taking no notice of those blandishments, only said, “I love you very much...but I despise Mrs. Skeffington. It's bloody,”—and immediately afterwards, looking suddenly distraught, announced that he must go out of the room a minute, because he was going to be sick.

And now he, for whose sake she had married Job, so that the thousands of acres her father had had to mortgage could be freed from debt and handed over to him, when he came to inherit, in the condition his ancestors knew, had long ago vanished out of her life, and Job, who freed the inheritance, had vanished too—Trippy forever, behind the clanking gates of death, and Job forever too, of course, but differently forever. In his case she could still get at him if she wanted to, still invite him, if she wanted to, according to Sir Stilton's grotesque suggestion, to dinner; while Trippy—ah, but wasn't her darling Trippy, after all, lucky, never to have to grow old? Wasn't it a happy thing, in these days of apparently swiftly approaching horror, to know that he at least, her precious brother, was forever safe? He should have lived forever, but maybe it was better he did not.

“Job married me for my youth and beauty. We both got what we wanted after a fashion. I’d always known my daughter would not marry a pauper, but I was considerate in choosing a man she knows very well instead of a wealthy stranger. Sir John answered my letter and, as of today, they are engaged. I expect her and Sir John to set the wedding date within the year. But you’re still here, coming and going as you please. You see, one too many lovers in one household would make things a little top heavy. Now, I’ll admit you won my daughter over either by some peculiar sort of charm or perhaps it’s because she doesn’t know any better.”

“If it’ll make you feel better about what you’re about to say, let’s just say she doesn’t know any better.”

“I know she wants to marry for love, but I want her to marry well and, frankly, Jim, she still wants you around. And if you stay, no man has much of a chance. Whether you want to or not, you’ll win away every scrap of affection she has. Stacked up alongside of you, she’ll see any other potential suitor for what they really are: Dull, pedantic...and then what would happen? One fine day you’d up and leave. That’s the kind of a person you are. And think how that would hurt her. She’d never feel the same towards any other man. All that old, beautiful, carefree relationship would be a thing of the past. Usually I’d give employees the usual two weeks notice but, in your case, I can’t risk underestimating your charm. In two weeks, she’d be sunk. I’ve been so busy living in my own world that I haven’t had a chance to realize how lonely she’s been. All I want now is for her to be happy. And Sir John can make her happy, if you let him. She doesn’t see it now, but the fondness she has for him will turn into something more. She can learn to love him in time. She’ll be luckier in life and in love than I was when I was her age. I didn’t love her father when I married him, but she— The point is, I feel that if you cut your visit short, go away before my daughter grew too fond of you, things wouldn’t be changed. Oh, Jim, you know what I’m trying to say, don’t you?”

“Yes, I know. You’re trying to give me my walking papers. But I don’t want to go, Mrs. Skeffington.”

“You’ve been here almost eight months, isn’t that a record for you?”

“But I never want to be without her.”

“How long will you feel this way, Jim? You see, I received a very interesting letter recently from a Nan Sloane over in Carmel, California about her ex-husband. She told me he is notorious for having light fingers and a silver tongue. The picture enclosed with the letter was at least twenty years old, but looked just like you, the very same Jim Masters who my daughter is supposedly sweet on. Are you going to deny it?”

“No.” To Jim’s credit, he didn't attempt to lie when she confronted him with the fact that he had a previous family, much like how Job didn’t attempt to lie when she confronted him with the fact that he had been seeing other women, so at least there was that.

“So it’s true, then. You've been married before. You have four grown daughters, and you abandoned them and your wife soon after the youngest, Buff, was born.”

“Yes.”

“Have you no shame?”

“I'm sorry you feel like that, Mrs. Skeffington. You're a good woman, underneath it all. But no, I have no shame. In fact, I have great pride in the love of that young woman and I will strive to be worthy of it.”

“How long with your wife, Jim? Five years? Ten years?”

Jim did not answer.

“I see.”

“Do you, Fanny? If you’re so knowledgeable about what the last twenty years of my life have been like, go on, then. Tell me, what have the past few years been like?”

“It must’ve been lonely.”

“Lonely is a gross understatement. It wasn’t a fever to keep moving. That burned itself out long ago. But I had to keep on going because I didn’t dare to come home. Where our meeting joins: One room in a smelly boarding house... I wouldn’t have minded the one room so much if the wallpaper were to turn and peel. Twenty years of it, Fanny. I was sick to death of trains and ships and strangers and cut-rate buses. But then I met your daughter in Switzerland and everything changed. Then I lost her again in Berlin when the Nazis began to encroach upon the land…and I found her again, here, in New York. We hadn’t planned on meeting again, but it happened. Don’t you see, Fanny? Fate brought us together once, and it brought us together again. My dear lady, the strongest men break when they try to battle with fate. You don’t know what these few months with your daughter have done to me. The wallpaper intact. Nearly eight months without setting foot on a train. Even a trolley car. How many years do you think it's taken me to find someone I want to spend the rest of my life with?”

“Living in my family house? Living nowhere? Working to preserve your livelihood and being outlived by your much younger wife?”

“Oh, I'm tougher than I look. Death doesn’t frighten me. It doesn’t discriminate and is a great equalizer. It takes everyone. I love your daughter, Fanny, and, in an ideal world, I’d want her to be my widow. But there’s always a chance that, God forbid, I outlive her or we die together like Romeo and Juliet. But we can’t waste what little time we have on this earth living in fear of the inevitable. We must live in the present moment. We must live.”

“Oh, Jim, please don't make this harder than it has to be.”

“Are you mad? Your daughter has reminded me that it isn’t too late to start again. If you're trying to get rid of me, I'm going to make this as hard and as horrible as I can!”

“Well, you're being extremely unfair!”

“Unfair? Mrs. Skeffington, I tried to resign four months ago. You talked me out of it. Do you remember that?”

“Yes.”

“I knew your daughter was falling in love with me again, and I knew what would happen. It's happened before. A few years of happiness and then— I tried to warn her. I did everything in my power to discourage her…”

“You know, there’s an old theatrical trick… I did dabble a bit once in New York with a group. Still, it’s hard for me to act as if we’ve never met before, to pretend that we don’t know each other.”

“Not as hard as it is for me.”

“Miss Skeffington...”

“I know I shouldn't say it, but I can't keep it in any longer.”

“I wish you would. Oh, no. Darling— darling, don't. No, wait, darling. We have to talk about this reasonably.”

“I have loved you since the moment we went to the theater together. What could be more reasonable than to run away with you?”

“We'd kill each other.”

“Nonsense!”

“Neither of us can keep our temper.”

“I can. Unless provoked.”

“We're both stupidly stubborn, especially you. We'd only quarrel.”

“I wouldn't!”

“You can't even propose our running away together without quarreling.”

“Jim. Dear Jim. I swear I'll be a saint. I'll let you win every argument. I'll take care of you. I'll give you every luxury you've ever been denied. You won't have to work. Unless you want to.”

“Please, don't. I'd rather not.”

“Jim, please listen to me. I've told myself and told myself you’re too old, too far below me in social status, but things are changing. I feel another war coming and, when it does, by the time it’s over, the world won't be the same place as it was when it started. And it’s not true what they say. You’ll make something of yourself, I know you will. Bet on me, Jim.”

“And if your family casts you off?”

“It won't be forever. They'll come around. And until they do, I promise to devote every waking minute to your happiness.”

“I'm terribly flattered.”

“Don't say that.”

“Why not?“

“Because flattered is a word people use when they're getting ready to say ‘no.’”

Jim smiled, trying to lighten the mood. “That sounds more like you.”

“Please don't make fun of me. It's cost me all I've got to say these things. Jim, please. You can't put me off any longer. Will you say yes?”

“Sweetheart, you can't be serious.”

“I've never been more serious about anything.”

Jim stared at the ground uncomfortably.

You watched him, then nodded. “Right.” You put your hat back on. “I'll go. and I won't be here when you get back.”

Jim’s head snapped up. “No, don't do that.”

“I must. They won't let you stay when they've heard what I said. They’ll blame you and I can’t bear to be here when you’re forced to leave.”

“They won't hear. Not from me.”

“I love you, Jim. And even if you don't love me now, maybe you could learn to.”

“I already love you, but we can’t. We shouldn’t. Please go away and let me be.”

“Do you really mean that?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Won't you even think about it?”

“Just go away. Please go away.”

“Oh, Jim.”

“Sweetheart, I feel I should warn you. If you persist in your pursuit of me, if you do this, you’ll have to defy your mother. I can't let you go against your old woman.”

“Her, or the whole of society? If you didn't care, Jim, you would've left months ago.”

“Oh, I see. Because I don't want to lose my job, it must mean I'm madly in love with you.”

“Well, doesn't it?”

“You say I'm a free spirit, and I hope I am. But I can’t ask you to give up your whole world and everyone in it. That's too high a price to pay.”

“It is a high price. I love my father, but he’s not here. You don't know him. Not really. But I want you to, someday. And I love my sister and my uncle and my friends. Oh, but Jim, when I imagine myself in that life, the kind my mother lives, I can think of only one thing that would make me happy. One person.”

“I'm not asking you to give them up forever.”

“And when they come around, I will welcome them with open arms.”

“And what about your people? Would they accept me?”

“We needn’t worry about that now. Look, it comes down to whether or not you love me. That's all. That's it. The rest is detail.”

“What's this? What's going on here?”

“So surprised to see you, Mrs. Ridgefield.”

“Well, that's evident. What mischief is going on here? I insist upon knowing. Who is this man you’re talking to?”

“Masters?”

“Yes. Masters.”

“He's just our chauffeur.”

“What were you talking to Masters about? When I came into the yard?“

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I’m ordering the car. That is why one talks to chauffeurs, isn't it? To plan journeys by road. Masters, could you take me into SoHo at three?” You turned to Mrs. Ridgefield and said in an overly polite tone that couldn’t be misinterpreted as anything but sarcasm, “I'm getting some things for Mother and Fanny. Is there anything you want?”

“Nothing you can find in SoHo.”

“Then why are you here?”

Mrs. Ridgefield gave you and Jim an irritated look as she marched off. You and Jim watched her leave, and you gave him one last glance before turning to go back into the house.

“In the end, it wasn’t enough. She wasn’t dissuaded or discouraged.”

“Then why didn't you leave?”

“Because, by then, it was too late. I was in love with her, and she was in love with me. I need her. Everything is against it. All my reason and experience. But that doesn't matter now. It doesn't matter.”

“It does to me, Jim. I can't let you be with my daughter. You are welcome to show me what you like, I'm not in a hurry, but nothing will alter my conclusion. I won't allow it. I will not allow my daughter to throw away her life!”

“But I don't accept that I am ruining her life, nor that I'm cutting her off from her family. If you want to cut her off, that's your decision.”

“But how will you look after her? How can you hope to provide for her? You know the one thing she wants more than anything else in the world is her own home, and her own paid up furniture so she can rearrange it.”

“No, that’s what you want! With respect, Mrs. Skeffington, you seem to think that she can only be happy in some version of Charles Street or high New York society, when it's obvious that if she wanted that life, she would not be running away with me.”

“I thought it odd she blew up in front of John tonight. I suspected this was some dirty trick of yours. We had none of this - none of it - until you set foot in our house!”

“Are you referring to your daughter’s appalling exhibition of temperament? If so, I had nothing to do with that.”

“How can I believe a word you say? You are a conman. You lie and you cheat by trade. You embellished your resume, and just so happened to be at the right place and time so you could insert yourself into our lives, all so you could get close to my daughter. And all the time, you've been driving me about, bowing and scraping and seducing my daughter behind my back?”

“I don't bow and scrape! And I've not seduced anyone! Give your daughter some credit for knowing her own mind! To be faced by a virago at this hour of the evening. Listen to yourself. I think it should be I who complains. And in the evening to be confronted by a bawling fishwife, bristling with fury because both her daughter and I fail to appreciate the genius of her marriage scheme.”

“How dare you speak to me in that tone. All this time you’ve been sneaking around. I don't like sneaks. You will leave at once.”

“Look, I made a mistake. I'm sorry. I thought I could present my arguments effectively in person, clearly I was wrong.”

“I can't bear to be maneuvered.” Fanny tossed her hat and cane onto the couch as she sat in her writing chair. “Very well. I'd hoped to avoid this, but I see that I can't.” Fanny pulled out a check book and opened it on the table next to her. She uncapped one of Job’s fountain pens. “How much will you take to leave us in peace?”

Jim was stunned. “What?”

“That’s why you sell phony relics. That’s why you’re in hot water all the time. You want enough money to get out of here and you want it quick. You must have doubts. Your own ex-wife must think you foolish.”

“Yes, she does.”

“Then yield to those doubts and take enough to make a new life elsewhere, wherever you choose. Why don’t you go and make yourself useful? I'll be generous and you'll be rich, if we can bring this nonsense to an end. Be assured that I will honor my offer, but not if you break the terms of our agreement.”

“This is why you brought me here?”

“I am sorry to say so, but it is.”

Jim scoffed. “I see. You know, your trouble, Fanny, you're like all of your kind. Older women like you especially, having grabbed, are inclined to clutch. You’re now an older woman and your beauty is gone. But your money - no, your husband’s money - remains. The ‘cream of the crop’, the ‘cool crowd’… They pretend to know that money can't buy happiness, yet they would choose money every time. They celebrate mediocrity at every available opportunity and love to see others' misfortune. You think love and happiness can be bought with money, that hearts can be won with material or emotional bribes. Money is the only source of power you have now, but it’s ineffective against your daughter and I. You have no power over her, over us, and you hate it.”

Fanny looked up sharply from writing her check. “You are just a rascal.”

“Do you expect me to fly into a rage at that? I’m sorry to disappoint you. You can't make me mad by calling me names that are true. Certainly I'm a rascal, and why not? It's a free country and a man may be a rascal if he chooses. It's only hypocrites like you, my dear lady, just as black at heart but trying to hide it, who become enraged when called by their right names. As I said, you can posture it all you like, Fanny, but it won't make any difference.”

“Oh, yes, it will.”

“How? We don’t want any money and you can hardly lock your daughter up until she dies. Doesn't it occur to you that I might believe the best guarantee of her happiness lies with me?”

“Well!” Fanny put her checkbook away and stood up. “It seems I’m getting nowhere and I won’t disgrace myself by discussing the topic any further. If you’re sure of your decision to turn down my offer, let us leave it there, Mr. Masters.”

“Mrs. Skeffington, If you’re not prepared to listen to reason—”

“I'm not prepared to listen to insults. Presumably you speak in such a manner because you know you have lost your position?”

“Yes, Mrs. Skeffington. I'll pack at once.”

“Good. Now, if you will go, Masters, I will continue with my day. Leave an address where I may forward what is owing to you.”

“No problem there, Mrs. Skeffington. I'll be at the inn until Miss Skeffington is ready to make her departure. I'll arrange to have the car returned in the morning. I will bid you a good day.” Jim picked up his hat and coat. Just as he had his hand on the doorknob, about to turn it and open the door, Fanny said from behind him,

“Do you want some money? For the room?”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Skeffington. I can pay my own way.”

“And I want you to leave town. I'll have the money for you when you're ready to leave. You may send a final letter, and after that, you will never communicate with my daughter again. You will not see her. And if you encounter each other socially, you will avoid any contact, providing you can do so without causing comment.”

With his hand still on the doorknob, Jim turned to look at her. “Even though she'll come to me the moment I call? Do you really want me to leave now when I will take her with me that same hour?” Jim put on his hat and left without a word.

A few minutes later, Manby entered. “Is it really true—?”

Fanny adjusted her wig and pushed her real hair behind her ears. She felt the beginning of a dreadful headache coming on. “Please, Manby. I have asked for silence and silence I will have.” Without her hat, she seemed to Manby a good deal less questionable. It was quite possible, with it off, after all, to see traces of beauty; and there was a kind of undefeatable blamelessness about her forehead, however meretricious she might be lower down, with her darkened eyelashes and reddened mouth. She sat staring at the cold face before her without seeing it. In so short a time as less than a month, she reassured herself, it wasn't possible to change from the most beautiful thing on God's earth into an eyesore. Or—again she hesitated—was it? What men there were in the world, she was thinking, what common men. But also, thank God, what other men, who saw one quite differently, who adored one, and swore they couldn't live away from one. At least, that was what they swore last autumn, and last autumn was still only just round the corner; or wasn't it? But anyhow, there was Dwight, and only last autumn, just before her illness, he was declaring he couldn't live away from her, that he would chuck everything and come and be her lodge-keeper, or pantry-boy, if he might only sometimes see her, for she was the most beautiful thing on God's earth. True, since then she had hardly set eyes on him, for almost immediately she fell ill. When it came to you, Fanny felt she was being a fool—another fool, for had she not been one already, for months past, and an arch one, over Dwight? Now she was being a fool again, supposing in her need that she might be able to get the blood of comfort out of somebody who was probably just a stone.

You came down from your bedroom when you heard Jim’s voice coming from the foyer. You were still angry, but you figured it wouldn’t hurt to go down. John had already retired to a guest room for the night. You had hoped for some alone time with Jim in the garage or, at the very least, to go down just for a minute to say goodnight and then immediately go back up to your room. To your disappointment, it had to be the latter, as he seemed eager to leave, and not in the way that excited you.

“I should be going.”

“Not yet, surely.”

“Yes, I should. But, swee— Miss Skeffington... You're a great girl, one of the best I've ever known or ever will know. I mean that.”

“I don't understand.”

“Good night. Good night, Mr. Trellis. Tell Mrs. Skeffington thank you for dinner, and... God bless you all.”

To your dismay, your mother’s firm hand on your shoulder stopped you from returning to your bedroom. Instead, she led you to her bedroom, which you knew could not be a very good sign. A meeting with Mother so late in the evening, especially when you’d just had guests for dinner? Manby had gone, shutting the door very slowly behind her as though wanting to hear more.

“Come, sit.”

You held your breath as you took a seat in a chair across from your mother, who was currently walking laps around her chair, and appeared to be taking deep breaths in order to calm herself down. You held your breath as you watched her calm her nerves enough to speak to you. Finally, she stopped pacing and sat down in her large chair, her deep blue eyes looking at you with such intensity that you knew that you had done something to displease her. Your suspicions were confirmed when your mother leaned back in her chair and folded her hands over her lap, a deep frown finding its way onto her face.

“Darling,” she said, not taking her eyes off of you. “Darling, I love you too much to not be straightforward with you on important matters, one of which has come to my attention.”

You gave a hesitant nod at her words, but did not dare speak for fear of saying something that would only get you (or quite possibly Jim) in trouble. “Is anything the matter?”

“You tell me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Janie Clarkson called me last week, telling me she saw a young woman meet a man at a motel in the middle of the night. She knew the woman's name, but not the man’s. In fact, she told me the woman’s name before I could stop her.”

“And who told you the man’s?”

“Nobody. I didn't know his name…until today.”

“Then you didn't know that Jim and I had met before. In Europe.”

“No, I didn't know. If I had known, I wouldn't have agreed to your suggestion of hiring him as the chauffeur. I had no idea you’d ever met Masters.”

“He may be the chauffeur, but he’s still a person. He can discuss other things outside of his work.”

“I'm sure he can. But not with you. Darling, what exactly are your…affections for Masters?” she asked, looking you straight in the eyes.

At the mention of Jim, you felt ready to sigh with joy. However, your mother’s expression told you that it would not be a good idea to do so. Instead, you bit your lip to think of a good and truthful answer. “I care for him very much, Mother,” you said.

“So you lied to me. You and Jim, you cooked this up between you. When he wrote to me, asking for an interview for the vacant position as chauffeur, when I wrote him and asked him to come to Job’s office… You knew each other then, but pretended you didn’t.”

“Yes. He wrote you asking for an interview because that's what I told him to do. I knew what the interview would be about, and that he’d be a good fit for the position. I wanted to be quite sure what your answer would be when you sent your reply, and that you’d give him the job. We’re not proud of the manipulation, but we lied because we love each other. We knew you wouldn't understand.”

“I don't understand. How could you have done this? I’m your mother, yet you have lied and disobeyed me in this way. Are you so knowledgeable about the great world that my instructions are to be set as nothing?”

“Mother, I'm sorry I disobeyed you, but what else was I to do? I knew you wouldn't approve.”

“Which presumably is why you hid your plans from me.”

“I'm interested! I’m political! I have opinions!”

“Of course, I blame Masters.”

“I don't think that's fair. I don't believe this is Masters’ fault. Truly, Mother. I’ve always been this way. Either you’ve never seen it, or you have, but you’ve denied what was right in front of you every time. If you’re going to blame anyone, blame me.”

“I do blame you! Now, darling, I’ve asked you time and time again not to go on seeing him. Do you want me to turn into an old fashioned mother and put you on bread and water?”

“But, Mother, he’s a reformed character. He's got a job at a newspaper. He heard it's a real chance. He's a journalist now, which sounds better for you, and he’s working hard. He hasn’t complained once. Really, he’s a changed man. And you know what Freud says in his latest book, mothers should definitely not interfere.”

“Well there’s a new edition out and he’s reversed himself. It’s all right now for mothers to interfere. I’m sorry, darling, I do not approve Jim and neither does Manby. Do you, Manby?”

“Well, Mrs. Skeffington, I think that she is—”

“What?”

“I was only going to say that she is entitled to her opinions.”

“No! She isn't until she is married. Then her husband will tell her what her opinions are.”

“Oh, Mother!“ you huffed, frustrated.

“And perhaps a little more of the conventionality and ordinariness you appear to think is a waste of time might’ve improved your general prospects.”

“My general prospects! Heavens—my general prospects,” you repeated, with a wry smile.

“Now don't tell me about him, because I don't want to know,” she quickly intervened, holding up a prohibiting hand.

“Well, Uncle George likes him.”

“Oh, he does, does he? Well, that proves my point, doesn’t it? I think I have something to say to your Uncle George.”

“I don’t think it’ll help. If you would only explain my crime, the one I'm being punished for.”

“Certainly. You meet with men old enough to be your father. You correspond with them.”

“Not this again.”

“Do you deny it?”

“Mother, I don't deserve to be told off. Not by you. Nothing's happened.”

“Why? What might’ve happened?”

“I mean it. We haven't gone to bed together or anything close to it. I can count on one hand the number of times we’ve kissed, and I don’t think any of them lasted longer than three seconds.”

“We are still talking about…?”

“Masters. Yes.”

“The Jim Masters that was our chauffeur? That Masters?”

“Oh, how disappointing of you— Wait. What do you mean ‘was’?”

Your mother ignored your question. “I'm just trying to get it straight in my head. You and the chauffeur.”

“Oh, no, you know I don't care about all of that. If Jim were to ask for my hand in marriage, I would not refuse him.”

Your mother’s frown deepened. “You may not refuse him, but I certainly would!” she said. She tried to get out of the deep chair, feeling she would be able to say what she had to say better on her feet, but it was too low, and she held out her hands for you to pull her up. You, extremely reluctant to take hold of hands you felt you never wanted to touch again, were not obliged to help her. Manby stood nearby as your mother bristled, so she helped her instead. She stood from her chair with such force that it skidded away from her. Uncle George could hear Fanny’s distant shouting and looked up at the ceiling as he paced on the floor below.

“Oh, please, Mother, lower your voice. Someone will hear you.”

“What has he said to you? Did he dare propose to you?”

“That he loves me and he wants me to run away with him. But no, he hasn’t proposed to me.”

“Thank God for that, because no daughter of mine is going to marry a…a… deadbeat!”

“Mother!” you cried, your hands flying to your mouth in shock. “How can you say such a thing? Jim is not a deadbeat!”

“Jim, is it?” She said, her eyes narrowing. “Since when do you address him by his Christian name?” When you didn’t answer her, she grew more frustrated. “You speak his name too casually, darling, which means that you and he are much closer and more affectionate than I thought. Then that alters the whole situation. I believe he is nothing but a no-good greedy swindler. I know you get real mad when I say that, but I've heard about the money he swindles from tourists in the places he passes through. I suppose I should give thanks he didn’t rob us blind and run out on us!”

“Mother, oh, Mother, please. I know what he was and what he did, but even he had standards when he did it. He never, ever stole from houses and only swindled from people he met on his journeys, people that already had heaps and heaps of money, more than they knew what to do with, more than they’d ever spend in their entire lifetime. He did what he had to to survive and get by, and only when he absolutely had to. That doesn’t mean—”

“Yes, it does. A leopard doesn’t change his spots.”

“Now you’re just throwing proverbs at me. The very fact that you can’t be original shows you haven’t got a leg to stand on. Leopards are still just cats, you know. Yeah, they’re big, but they’re only fierce when they need to be. And just like house cats, they can also be sweet.”

“I don't know anything about your relationship with Masters. I don't know how emotionally involved you are with him. But I fear you’re still sweet on him and that you’ve been seeing him when I’m busy. I worry that you’ve been getting letters from him which you hide from me. I suppose that it will be a good thing for me to forbid you from ever seeing one another again.”

Your jaw dropped. “Oh, Mother, no!” you cried, tears threatening to spill down your cheeks. “Please don't do this!”

“I fear I must do this, dearest,” she said, her tone softening a bit. “He can provide nothing for you; even if he has a job as a journalist, how can he be trusted to hold it for long? The man has no way of honestly earning money to give you what you need for a future the two of you, and your children, might have together.”

“When did I ever say I wanted children? I’m about as fond of them as you are, so I don’t think I’ll ever be a mother.”

“Most every woman wants a man of her own, a home of her own, and a child of her own.”

“I’m not most women. And I love him!” you cried, tears of anger and frustration now falling freely down your face. You pulled out a handkerchief and buried your face in it.

“Love is all well and good, but I will not have you marry a man who may become a beggar within the next several years,” your mother declared, and while her tone wasn’t harsh, it was final. “With no steady income from him for you to live off of, it’d be up to you to support him, and the two of you would be out on the street before you could blink! It is your duty to marry a rich man and help your family, Miss Independence. And you may be sure that this hook knows that you have a rich relation—me—and that’ll be why, if, and when he ever expresses a desire to marry you. You would have to support the both of you. He’d act as a leech and suck you dry until there was nothing more for him to take. And then he’d move on to the next victim.”

“How dare you say such a thing? Why, my Jim would no more marry for money than I would.”

“It doesn’t matter. Shortly after I returned home after my illness, I wrote to your good friend, Sir John Talbot, asking him to accept your hand in marriage. He has replied to my letter, agreeing to the match. As of today, Jim is dismissed from this house, and you and Sir John are engaged.”

The cup slipped from your fingers and dropped to the polished wooden floor, shattering into a hundred shining pieces. For a moment, you stared at your empty hand, trying to fully understand what was happening. After your mind managed to absorb the fact that you were now engaged, you looked up to examine the faces of those around you. You felt your eyes narrow in anger. How dare she try to run your life and tell you who to spend it with?

“No,” you said, allowing a cold, hard air of resolve to develop around you.

For a moment, the two of you stared at each other, wondering if you had actually spoken that word, wondering if you were actually being disobedient to an order from your mother.

“What do you mean 'no'?” she blurted out, her eyes bulging in their sockets.

“It means, no, I will not marry him,” you declared, holding your head high as you glared at your mother.

“Yes, you will,” Fanny snapped as she took a sip of her tea. “As an unmarried woman, you must obey the head of your household, who, in your father’s absence, is me. If I ask you to marry Sir John Talbot, then you will do as you're told.”

“I will not! And since when are you head of the house? You said so yourself that, since your parents died, Uncle George has been acting more or less as the head of the family in their stead!” you yelled, standing from your seat. You were trying to catch your breath so that you could yell at her some more.

“I make all the domestic arrangements.”

“Mrs. Skeffington, can we do this in the morning? Miss Skeffington needs rest,” Manby tried to interject, but her voice was drowned out and went ignored by you and your mother. It was as if she wasn’t even in the room.

“Darling, what could Jim have that Sir John doesn’t? He's a man without a house, for goodness sakes!”

You could feel your hair whirling around you like a hurricane as you spun around. “Jim just so happens to be the most considerate, the most doting, and the most handsome man that I have ever met!” With each trait, you took one step forward, bringing yourself right in front of your mother’s face. “He treats me like a woman and a goddess at the same time, and makes me feel wanted, beautiful, and loved. He makes my heart soar even as it races within my chest.” Now you were merely inches from her face. “And I would give my life for him if need be.”

You could hear her approach your side, but you did not look up from the veil that your handkerchief provided as you dabbed your eyes. A hand landed on your shoulder, gently gripping it in what was meant to be a comforting gesture, but instead did nothing more than crush your heart.

“While I am sure Masters has many virtues, and I had thought that he could be a good match for you at one time, after discovering his history, I’ve come to realize he is damaged goods. He’s put himself out of the running. He is frightfully full of himself and far too forward in his affection, and has nothing to give you. I cannot allow this to continue. I'm sorry. You must never see Jim Masters again.”

How final, how flint-like was that ‘Never’. At fifty, Fanny revealing herself as a flint. So old and so untender, you thought to yourself, staring at her as though you were seeing her for the first time.

“This is the best solution, darling,” she said softly.

“What have you done?”

“What makes you think I’ve done anything?”

“I know you. You haven't spoiled things, Mother?”

“Not for Masters. You may be sure of that, darling.”

“If you’ve punished Jim, I'll never speak to you again! Never! If I find tomorrow that Jim is missing, I'll run away. I warn you.”

“Oh? And where would you go?”

“Well, I can't think now, but I will go, and you'll be sorry.”

“Oh, darling, darling, don't be such a baby. This isn't fairyland. What did you think? You’d marry the chauffeur and we’d all come to tea? My mother was hard on me too, you know. She taught me that cleanliness was next to godliness. She forced me to wash my face at least twenty times a day, convinced it was never clean enough. But I was very grateful to her. She taught me to be all that I could be. And now here I am. And you will be Lady Talbot.” She pointed to her finger, where a ring with a giant ruby laid. “If you are very good, one day, this ring will belong to you. You just keep being a proper young lady and see if it doesn't.”

“I don’t want your ruby ring. If you think that’s going to be my engagement or wedding ring, you’re sorely mistaken.”

“You’ll see. You’ll be very happy with Sir John.”

A humorless laugh escaped your lips as you turned to face her. “But suppose I don’t love him? You want to make my life a living nightmare just because I won't be your pliant little doll that you can dress up and mold into your carbon copy for your shallow friends and sycophants! I won’t marry Sir John just for his money and family name!” you snapped, giving her a hard glare.

“It’s not just about the money or our family names. Darling, I don’t want you to be on your own forever, I just don’t want you to spend your life in a bare knuckle fight—”

“Just to pick someone who shares the family's values,” you snarked.

“Someone who feels friendly towards us is not the same thing. The union of our two families would put us amongst the greatest and most elite people in both America and Europe. Think of the friends you could make; you with your charm and beauty, right beside John with his ancestral home and influence in the community—”

“I don't want any of those things, I want love! I want a man who I love, and who loves me!” you shouted, pushing her aside to make your way back to the door.

“And he can give that to you!” your mother exclaimed with a touch of desperation in her voice. “Darling, you should consider yourself fortunate that he has any feelings for you at all,” she said, looking over at you. “Even in the most fashionable churches in this city, people still marry for convenience, for wealth and position. Love is overrated, old fashioned. Last generation.”

“Last generation or not, I still want love.”

“Don't be silly. You should be happy that this hasn’t truly been forced on you the way it is in other places.”

“Oh, believe me, this is most certainly being forced upon an unwilling bride!” you snapped, turning away from her.

“You don’t see how lucky you are to lose him now. While you’re so young, it won’t leave a scar.”

“Easy for you to talk. You never liked Jim.”

“You’re wrong, darling. I never liked what he would’ve done to your life. I wish I could think of the right thing to say to comfort you. But believe me, darling, this is for the best. You must marry well and save your family, just as I had done when I was around your age. That’s all I wanted to say to you. You can go finish your…little painting. But remember, I’m only doing this because I love you and I want you to be happy!”

“Love? I’m afraid we have very different definitions of the word, Mother. How can you speak of love? Of wanting me to be happy? You’re torturing me. Don’t pretend you’re doing this solely for my sake or for my own good. You’re only arranging this marriage because of what benefits you can reap from such a match. You want people to point me out in a crowd and say: ‘There goes the smart Lady Talbot.’ And Sir John Talbot would be an ideal son-in-law for you, and not merely because his wealth would be a godsend.”

“Darling, what’s the matter with you? I’m on your side.”

“Then be on my side! I’m not sure why John would agree to your scheme, but I’m going to ask him.”

You watched as your mother sighed and ran her thin fingers through her even thinner hair. It was quite sad to watch, as the poor woman had no attractiveness whatsoever. Poor Mother was just pale and thin…and quite exhausting to be around. Perhaps there was someone out there who would love her, but it certainly wasn't going to be you! Jim already had your heart, and you knew that you had his. You happily watched as your mother frowned. If this was her last word, this detestable, unchristian ‘never’, then you had better go away and not come back, you thought to yourself, as you glowered at her from beneath drawn-together eyebrows. And you thought, watching her, defending yourself against the appeal of her helplessness, it’s not fair. You’re being got at unfairly. This isn't the way to— You won't be caught by— Instead of waiting for her to reply, though, you pulled away from her and let your handkerchief fall from your fingers as you turned on your heel to face the doorway.

You rudely pushed past her, not caring if the force caused her to stumble or fall, and went out the door, heading for your room. If she lost her footing, Manby could help her stand up straight. You had more pressing matters to attend to. You had to speak with John. Just as you exited, Uncle George entered. You didn’t say anything to him as you passed him in the doorway, didn’t even spare him a glance as you marched forward and down the staircase, clearly on a mission. You looked serious.

“You made everything clear, Fanny?”

“I did indeed.”

“You may regret it. Mr. Masters seems a decent fellow.”

“He’s not what I want.”

“Why not? He cares for her deeply. And she cares for him just as much. It may even be love, and what else is there that could be more important than that?”

“You'll see. I’ve found what I was looking for in Sir John Talbot. I want more for her in life than what Mr. Masters has to offer her.”

“And Sir John can make sure of that life for her in Wales?”

“Well, why not? He won't suit the old crowd, but he’ll do well enough with the new, and his fortune is more than ample for both of them. I don’t admire myself for it, but we need Sir John Talbot for a happy life, and I need her to realize that. The sooner she understands that, the happier she will be.”

“You know my opinion, Fanny.”

“George, I'm working to achieve a position that will alter my daughter’s life for the better, that will give her everything that I never had when I was her age. If you want to help her, help me.”

“And how long do you propose to keep her incarcerated, Fanny? It isn't right, you know. Miss Woodell is nice, but you’re having her act as a jailer. And she’s a grown woman whether you like it or not. Girls get married at her age.”

“And live to regret it. I know what I’m doing, George.”

“You can’t keep the girl locked up forever. She must make friends, Fanny.”

“Mr. Masters is not what we want.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he’s not what I want.”

“If you force her into secrecy, you’re taking a risk. I think we both know that she’s not meant to live her whole life on Charles Street.”

“I won’t countenance any more of her nonsense. I can't even—don't want to—think about the time when she’ll be wanting to head off.”

“But I’m fair to certain she will.”

“What makes you say that?”

He glanced at Fanny again. “I’ve seen the way she looks at Jim, Fanny. She’s got a bit of the wanderlust herself. With that wild charisma and wanderlust of his, he’s her other half. Your sending him away and engaging her to another man won’t change that.”

“Leave my daughter to me. I know what I want, George, and Sir John Talbot can help me to get it.”

The next morning, you didn’t come down for breakfast. Instead you had a tray sent up to your room. Fanny sat at the table with George, going over a small stack of letters while he picked away at his plate.

“By the way, he's written to her. Mr. Masters.”

“Well, give his letter to her now. If you won’t, then I'll give it to her.”

“If you go soft on me now, George, we could lose everything we’ve worked for.”

“Whom am I going soft about? Your daughter?”

“Just please don't be soft.”

“No one could accuse you of that.”

“But what’s he done wrong?” you asked as you paced about your room.

“Your mother thinks that with the state of the world and the looming threat of another war, it’s unwise and unsafe to be galavanting around the world by yourself at present, that’s all.”

“But it isn’t all. If she said I had to wait until the war was over or could only travel to neutral countries, I’d accept it, but she hasn’t.”

“I know, and I’m sorry.”

“Don’t pretend. She’s the one who set out the conditions.”

“Why do you say that?”

“‘Your mother has asked for my word that we will not meet again. Or, if we do, that we should not attempt to speak in any private manner’”.

“Your mother thinks it best.”

“You’re one of the most successful men in the country. With connections to real estate and steel and copper and coal and oil and railroads that are the envy of the world, and you can’t stand up to your cousin? I suppose she bought him off. And if he took it, he wasn’t worthy of me. That’s what Mother will say.”

“Don't be too hard on him. She made it tough for him to refuse.”

“I just wish I knew the reason.”

“Because your mother believes that you have more to come than marriage to a man who won’t become anything more than a journalist in Los Angeles or a banker in Manhattan.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. It’s not special.”

“Uncle George, I’m not special. Why can’t she see it? I’m ordinary. I’m just an ordinary person who wants an ordinary life.”

“You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“…No.”

“No, my darling. You are not in the least ordinary. On that point, you, your mother, and I are as one.”

Four weeks passed since Jim left. Four weeks. Nearly a month. And you and John were no closer to setting a wedding date than you were last week. Or the week before that. Or the week before that. You ran up to your room in a huff. George was concerned and wanted to know what it was that set you off yet again, but he decided to give you space, allow you time to be alone and cool off. He didn’t want to smother you. Your mother was doing a well enough job in that department. Thirty minutes passed before he walked upstairs and down the hallway to your room. He was about to knock on your door, but he could hear your voice from inside. It was muffled, but he could still make out bits of what you were saying.

“I’m sorry my mother was such a bitch that night. She was hardly ever around because she was always too busy with her lovers and friends, but since they abandoned her, she’s been home all the time. She never had time for anything or anyone else before but now… She has nothing but time. She took it out on you because you’re not a member of the family. She thought you’d be an easy target, that you wouldn’t call her on it, but she was wrong. I know she’s just jealous of our cool and freewheeling lifestyles. I don’t get it. You seemed to be all for it on the night before you left. Always leave them laughing. Is that your idea? I get it. Your heart isn’t in this. You’re just saying a speech for my old lady. I don’t feel sorry for her. I feel sorry for myself. You’re lucky, your parents are deceased. I have to have a mother every day. Sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up your parents or the mother thing like that. I know, I shouldn’t complain. I still have a dad who loves me, so it’s not all bad, but… No, I’m being totally serious. My mother is a bitch and her lovers were all complete tools. Living in New York with nobody to love her is her punishment in my mind. What do you expect me to do then? So you would rather I live with John in Wales? Is that it? Well, I’m going to go back and tell her my answer’s no. We could have found a way. I know you still care about me. I want to see you when this is all over. I know. All I said was I want to see you. Then why did you call me in the first place? Just see me.”

It sounded like you were talking to Jim. George jumped slightly and quickly stepped back when you opened your bedroom door and saw him standing there in the hallway.

You raised your eyebrows in suspicion. “Hey. Did you listen in on my call?”

“I came to check on you. I know it wasn’t easy last night. Your mother says you don’t want to go with her to London to visit your Aunt Martha.”

“No. There's something I need to have settled before I can leave New York. Of course, that sounds overdramatic, but it won't wait until the end of the spring. This will affect the rest of my life.”

“How grave you make it sound.”

“Naturally you want to make a joke of it, but I can’t. To be honest, I thought everything would be settled already. But day after day goes by...”

“Does it have anything to do with Jim Masters?”

“Why do you say that?”

“You seem so distracted nowadays. And I couldn’t help but overhear what you were talking about.”

“Oh, you couldn’t? I find eavesdropping to be rather rude. Forget what you heard and consider the subject closed.”

“Well, something is on your mind. Or are you going to tell me I’m wrong? It may surprise you, but I hope it has something to do with Mr. Masters. Was it Jim? Did he call you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The man you were on the phone with.”

“You don’t know what you heard. You understand me?”

“So it was Jim.”

“You don’t have the context, and aren’t invited into this conversation. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I know your mother doesn’t like him. But I think he is someone important to you. The way you’re talking to this man—”

“You want a conversation? Fine. I love Jim. I want to spend my life with him.”

“You’re engaged.”

“A technicality that will shortly be remedied. Jim and I… We should’ve spoken out long ago. I’ve been trying to compose a letter to Sir John to explain the situation, but I can’t seem to find the words.”

“Well, now you won’t have to. Your fiancé is just downstairs, waiting for you. But I assume you’re not getting married?”

“No. I am not. Besides, our engagement was based on a lie. It was mostly pretend. It was all Mother’s doing. I don’t like deceit and John doesn’t deserve it. You see, before John and I got together, I was with Jim. I met him in Switzerland.”

“Known him a long time, haven’t you?”

“Well…a year, maybe, if you count the time we’ve been apart.”

“Well, you needn’t sound so apologetic. I spent only an hour with Jim. And I can tell you there’s nothing really wrong with that man.”

“Will you tell that to Mother?”

“I could, if you believe it’ll help. Of course, what I say to her will depend on what you want me to say. But, darling, If you want to marry this man, then come out with it. Sit through the argument. Hold to your faith. And if he's right for you, eventually it will come to pass.”

“I haven't got time for eventually.”

“Why not? What’s happened?”

“You see, I’m going away.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“No, well, I haven't told anybody.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to, but when Fanny and Johnny get back, tell them my mind was made up and I wasn’t hysterical or anything. And give them my love.”

“Oh, God. Won'’t you wait and talk to them about it?”

“If I talked to anyone, it’d be you or Fanny. But Fanny’s not here, so…”

“Then talk to me, please.”

“I can’t. Not now, anyway.”

“Your mother doesn’t like Jim now, and she will like him even less if you’re planning some sort of escapade.”

“She’ll come to like him when she decides to get to know him.”

“Not if you force her hand.”

“That’s her problem, no longer mine.”

“May I make you an offer? What if I were to promise to support your choice, so long as you can tell me you have fallen in love?”

“Even if Mother is against it?”

“Even then. I give you my word. Can’t you tell me something? Anything. Please.”

“Very well. I’ll write Mother and Fanny goodbye letters to send later, but I might not have time to write you one, so it’s only fair I tell you this much to give you some peace of mind. I won’t tell you where I’m going, but I’ll tell you the reason I’m going - or part of it. You see, most of my bags are packed and ready to go already. Jim and I planned to run away together. He gave me the reasons why I should accept his offer.”

“That was clever of him.”

“He asked me if I wanted to get away from Mother, and of course I do. I used my own savings to purchase our tickets and other travel expenses so Mother wouldn’t know until Jim and I were already halfway across the world.”

“Oh, dear.”

“I don't want to get away from you, but I must be allowed the freedom to make my own decisions.”

“Marriage is not the place to look for freedom. May I ask if you love him?”

“Yes. Yes, I love him. Jim Masters is a good man, and I love him tremendously. I would live and die for him. And I know he’d do the same for me. If soulmates are something that can be believed in, that’s what Jim and I are. I know that sounds incredibly cheesy and corny, or like borderline wishful thinking, but that’s what we felt whenever we were together. But… But on the evening before the day we were supposed to run away together, Mother fired Jim and told me about my engagement to Sir John, which put a massive wrinkle into the plans we had. I found this secret letter he left for me. I still have it and I’ll be taking it with me, keeping it close to my heart, but please don’t ask me to show it to you, Uncle George. It’s something private and personal, meant for my eyes only. To summarize, he said he loved me but that he was leaving.” What you didn’t tell Uncle George was that Jim’s words were seared into your memory. You only read it once, but you could’ve recited the entire letter verbatim to Uncle George from memory if you wanted to.

April 1936

My sweet storyteller,

As usual, things did not work out like I planned. Just when I get everything fixed right for us, I go and get myself fired and expelled from your mother’s house. I am sure to be out of here by the time you read this. I will be gone. Your mother gave me my walking papers, but I wanted to get going myself. She made the motion and I seconded it. I’m sorry if I gave you a false impression, but what made you think I’d stick around here? I told you once before that the first good wind that comes along will take me with it. I’ve never forgotten anything I’ve ever said. That wind has come, so I'm leaving tonight. It's going to be a long, boring journey. Fool that I am, I forgot to bring any recreational reading material, so all I have to pore over are some informational texts for tourists. Thrilling. But I won’t tell you on which train nor where I’m going. Eight months in one spot is all that I can bear. I got a date with the world. A rendezvous with the universe. Dear universe, may I never find myself. I might’ve stayed another week or so, but since you know Manby’s cooking, you will understand. I’ve got to get back on business. I know we said a great many things the night we went to the theater, and the night of your mother’s birthday celebration, and last night too, promises and sweet nothings...but it was all pillow talk. None of it makes any sense in the sunlight. I couldn’t stand the thought of what might’ve been between you and me, the flame that could’ve illumined both our lives… I’m afraid, my love, that ours is a love that cannot be, because in the Indian Ocean there are six islands and I have a wife on every one of them. Well, thanks for the last eight months, anyway, my darling. They’ll make glorious remembering. How’d I live so long without your reckless touch? I don’t remember life before you came into the picture. You brought the beauty I was missing with you, showed me colors I haven’t ever seen. My life was black and white but you’re the painter.

So, these words are my only chance to tell you how much you mean to me. Your mother asked me to break your heart and leave you. By this time, surely I have accomplished both. Your mother seems to think I’m too old for you, darling. She told me the news. You’re engaged to marry Sir John Talbot. Although I’ve only briefly met him, I’m glad you have such a grand person as a friend. I hope you’ll be very happy to have him as your husband too. I must go. If I stay, darling, I’ll destroy you along with myself. Can't you see? I was forced to wander, having no one, forced by my nature to keep wandering because wandering was the only thing that I believed in, and the only thing that believed in me. There’s always something a man wants that he can’t ever get. And you’re it for me. I’ll have everything else. I’ll get out of this place. Find what I’m looking for. Do what I wanna do. I’ll have everything but you. You are more precious to me than all the wonders of the world combined, more precious to me than ten thousand treasures put together. I love you too much to condemn you to my fate. A girl like you why, you’re geared for the best. Perfumes from Araby, spices from Damascus. I can hear you now, telling me, “Oh. We'll fight it together!” No, we won't. I'm the worthless one. I’m the exile. I’m the lost soul. Don’t you see? I can’t ever be normal. Never be the kind of man who can give you a real home. You and me? It’s not written in the books. We’ll never get together. Now you know very well that you and I… Oh, you get the idea. I can hear you again, asking, “How do you know? What makes you so sure?” I just know. Now Sir John, there’s the man for you. I personally guarantee he’ll stay put. He’s the real article. For you and him it is written in the book. Marry him and be happy. I’m asking it myself. Do it for my sake and for yours. With a family tree will grow out of us two nuts. Now let me go.

Though it came from a place of stereotype, people who didn’t know you expected your Jew blood to make you a brilliant storyteller, one capable of igniting happiness and love in the world, and on that you delivered, every time. I hope you continue to tell your stories and enthrall any and all who listen, even though I’m not around to hear them. Though I won’t be a part of it, I hope your own story continues to unfold and twist and turn in ways you might never have expected, revealing to you secrets that you might not have known about yourself and the world around you. Some of them may be terrible, but most of them will be wonderful. Though our paths must diverge and never again meet, our time together was never a waste. It was never a mistake. Because I love you. At the time in which I finish penning this, you still love me. Maybe when you read this, you’ll hate me. Even if you hate me, at least you’d still carry my memory with you wherever you go, for a time, at the very least. Though John holds your future, I will always hold your past. We’ll always have Switzerland. We’ll always have our memories, you and I. And I’ll cherish them when I get to wherever it is I’m going. Indifference is so much worse than hate. I can’t fathom a day in which you’ll forget me entirely, because I’ll still carry reminders of you with me everywhere I go. And I don’t just mean the miniature portrait you painted for me. I love you. Present tense. Don’t let your mother or her friends or my ex-wife have you believe otherwise. Goodbye, my darling. I will look for your wedding announcement in the papers. Though I won’t be able to attend the ceremony and tell you in person, I wish you good health and every happiness in your new life with John.

Jim

The tremble in his pen strokes said as much as his bittersweet words, and that is how a love letter should be written. The letter had so many crease lines, all of them fluffy to the outside from so many times being folded and unfolded. Likewise, the paper was soft to the touch, the blue ink had run but only slightly. The dark spots on the sheet made you imagine a few stray tears fell onto the sheet while Jim was in the process of writing it. It made your heart clench and swell. Jim didn’t cry. He never cried in all the time you knew him. Your eyes caressed the strokes of the pen made just hours ago, seeing the personality behind the strong lines and heavy punctuation marks. This letter was on two cent paper but the words were without price. Everything he said was music to you, no matter the words, no matter the topic... because it came from his mind and flowed down his arm to the pen that would’ve otherwise rested lazily upon the table. You touched the letter as if you could’ve stepped through the page and into Jim’s arms, and in a way, with his words, you did. You held the letter to your face as if the ink carried his heartbeat, taking in the aroma that lingered from his touch. This was your map to finding him.

“By the time I found the letter, he was already long gone. But I couldn’t help but notice his plane ticket wasn’t returned, so maybe he used it or planned on using it… I would’ve began my search for him the very next day after his departure, but instead I waited it out, promising myself I’d stay here for at least two more weeks before going after him. In that time, I’ve done everything in my power to get Mother to come to her senses. I had hoped this engagement nonsense would blow over but, as more days passed, and two weeks became four, I realized that wasn’t going to happen. I didn't want to do anything hasty and split the family when Mother might still wake up, but I can’t wait any longer. I must take my future into my own hands. But just now Jim put in a reverse call to me out of the blue from a telephone booth in a town who knows where.”

“To ask you to come and find him? To tell you that he would come and get you?”

“No, neither of those things. He just wanted to hear my voice again. He confirmed what I had already suspected - that Mother pushed him away in an attempt to push me and John closer together. Even worse, I found these in Mother’s vanity drawer in her room.” You showed your Uncle George the letters Jim wrote to you, all opened, and not by you.

Uncle George looked appalled and disappointed at this discovery. Your mother’s promise to him had evidently been broken. “She still opens your letters?”

“Always. On the surface, he’s accepted the situation, but he writes a little too well. It doesn’t sound entirely like him, only the essence of him. Like words were being forced into his mouth. Mother read my diary and that’s how she found out about our little trips to Wakeforte Park, a seldom-used hiking route discovered by Jim so he could hide from the world around him. Not a flashy place, but it had a great view. I wished it could’ve been our special place. And it was. Ours and ours only. And there was the motel near the Red Fern Gardens... Those places were our main secret hideouts ever since the first time Jim took me there, and Mother thought her knowing about our secret places would turn them into fucking nothing. That Wakeforte Park and the Red Fern Gardens would be nothing but a rockpile of rain-soaked memories now.”

“I don’t think you’re being treated wisely. I used to be proud of Fanny. This time I’m ashamed.”

“And isn’t it wonderful that you know so much better? How could she do this to us? Mother wanted a piece of the Talbot fortune, and the Talbots could stand to benefit from a piece of the Skeffington influence. So excuse me for being conflicted. I want John to be happy, but…”

“I suppose this means you’ll tell him.”

“Tell him what?”

“That you can’t marry him.”

“Y-Yes, that’s exactly what I’ll do with John. I’ll go to him, let him down gently. And then I suggest we forget about this whole thing. But how did you— How did you know?”

“Even if Jim was out of the picture, Sir John isn’t really right for you. You know it and so do I. Besides, he’s still in love with his wife. I saw it that night at dinner. Have you told your mother?”

“Not yet, but I will.“

“Your mother will be furious, but she has so much to make her furious just now. You mustn’t let that trouble you.”

“I didn’t love John enough. Not like you and Aunt Nigella.”

“That makes me proud—to be the rule by which you judge these things.”

“Dear Uncle George. All right. If you really think I’m not making a mistake.”

“Of one thing I am sure. You can do better than Sir John Talbot, and he can do better than you. I just wish—”

“I can’t stay, Uncle George, not if I’m ever going to be happy at all.”

“Of course. Oh, darling. Darling, you have so many extraordinary gifts. How can you expect to lead an ordinary life? You’re ready to go out and find a good use for your talents. Though I don’t know what I shall do without my niece. Go, and embrace your liberty. And see what wonderful things come of it. Now, won’t you at least tell me where you’re going? Or can’t I at least drive you somewhere?”

“No. But I will take one of the cars to the station and leave the keys with the station master. You needn’t worry. I do have a plan, dearest Uncle George, I just don’t want you to know the details because I don’t want you to be blamed. I don’t blame you for the departure of Mr. Masters, but...”

“All right, I understand. As for your mother, I wouldn’t tell her about the phone call. It might get you in the wrong. Maybe I’d better keep my mouth shut.”

“If you can. Just until I’m far enough away so she can’t chase after me.”

“I won’t tell a single living soul. I’d soon as sicken and die than put you in the wrong.”

“Really?”

“Well, I’ll try. Naturally I can’t guarantee anything.”

“Remember, if anyone asks, you know nothing.”

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Skeffington, Mr. Trellis, but Sir John Talbot has asked for a taxi. Soames has gone out, so I'm not quite sure—”

“What? Sir John is leaving?”

“Obviously, if he wants a taxi. What’s happened? Where’s Clinton? Can’t he drive him to the station? Don't bother about it, Miss Woodell. I’ll sort it out.”

“Very good, Mr. Trellis.”

“Do you know where we’ll be two weeks from today? We’ll be on the ocean, two days off Iceland.”

“That’s so soon, John. I do want to be sure.”

“There are so many things about you I don’t understand. You put me off, and you don’t tell me why. I don’t even know if you’re thinking favorably or unfavorably.”

“Oh, favorably, John. But John, there are so many things to think about. Taking over another woman’s domain, her house, her sons.”

“You can redo the house. I’ll build you a new one.”

“Oh. Claire was such a wonderful person. Do you often think of her?”

“Well, yes. I want to be honest. But you needn’t be afraid that Claire will ever come back in any way. She’s just a memory now.”

“I’m sure she's much more substantial than that. You have her sons. And I have only a dried Harrison’s Yellow and box of postcards. And I can’t even say his name.”

“I want to make you understand that I’ll be beginning a new life with you and for you.”

“You know what I’d like?”

“Mm-hmm?”

“I’d like you to take me to some Bohemian restaurant for dinner some night, where we could be very gay, have cocktails and champagne, and you could make love to me, and... Well, what I mean is...if I could...if I could just get rid of some of my inhibitions, just for once, I might have more confidence.”

“Time will give you confidence.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Well, what do you mean?”

“In school I read...a novel once about a woman, a very repressed woman. She was in an automobile accident with a man. It was a very cold night. He gave her a drink to keep her warm. And because of the drink, she lost her inhibitions. You see, she was just... I’m afraid I sound very depraved. The thing is, John, I’ve been racking my brain all night.”

“About our trip... If you like, I can exchange the two tickets for three and take my sons.”

“Would you?”

“Certainly. Darling, I’ve been thinking about us.”

“Yes?”

“Perhaps we wouldn’t be happy.”

“We wouldn’t be, John. I do love you. You’re my dearest friend, but I just can’t be your wife. It wouldn’t be right. I’m desperately sorry. And I’m so sad if this is disappointing for you. I don’t think we want the same things or even the same life.”

“I want a life like everyone else’s.”

“But I don’t. Or not yet. I want to do some good in the world before I settle down, if ever that comes to pass. But I don’t think I’ll ever marry. Some women just aren’t the marrying kind.”

“You say you won’t, but you will.”

“I won’t.”

“You will.”

“I won’t.”

“Couldn’t you see us bashing around Wales?”

“Wales. Oh, John, I’m not fashionable enough for Wales. You need someone who’s elegant and refined. You ought to marry someone who would enjoy what you enjoy. Someone who can be content to stay in one place. John, do you love me as much as you loved Claire? Be honest, please.”

“Claire is dead.”

“Of course. I know you’re lonely but, in your heart, Claire is still your wife.”

“Well, you can’t stop loving people when you want to.”

“Nor should you. But my point is that, sometimes, you don’t understand a situation at first. But when you think about it properly, you realize that it’s just not right—not for you, not for me. One day, you’ll meet a woman who’s not just a temporary solution and who actually shares your interests, your dreams. I want that for you, but I’m not her. You and I both know it’s true. Let’s not linger over it, John. But you’ll meet someone. Thank you for thinking it was me. I have that on my record, anyway. What’s the matter, John? Are you angry with me?”

“How could I be when you’ve been so kind to me? No, I’m not angry. I just… What about you? I don’t want you to be on your own forever.”

“I may as well tell you. I’ve told Uncle George, and I’ll write goodbye letters to my mother and Fanny while I’m in transit and send them later. You see, I’m going away. To India.”

“It's…not a common destination, is it? I apologize if my bad manners have brought this on.”

“Your manners have been perfect. No need to apologize. I am what I am and you are what you are.”

“Never the twain shall meet!”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

��Then what brings you there, if you don’t mind me asking? Trust me, I won’t laugh.”

“Okay, fine. It’s a bit of a personal pilgrimage. Uncle George and Fanny will think it’s to attend an art exhibition in Delhi, but that’s only half of the truth. The other half is, I’m going after Jim. He said something in his last letter to me… It might be a clue to his location, or it might be nothing, but I have to try.”

“What does your mother make of that?”

“It was decided just today, so she doesn’t know anything about it yet. But I imagine she’ll think I’m very foolish.”

“I won’t pry any further, but I want to say good luck, and everything else that goes with it.”

“And good luck to you. You’re a fine man, John. You mustn’t let them flatten that out of you.”

“I’d better go if I’m to catch my boat.”

“Yes, hurry. I only wish I could find a proper way to thank you.”

“Shall I tell you how? If you can find Mr. Masters and have a full and happy life with him, then that’s all the thanks I need. Do I kiss you goodbye?”

“No, let’s not. It isn’t really goodbye. We’ll see each other again, won’t we?”

“Of course we will.”

“I want to follow every stage of your life and dance at your sons’ weddings with joy.”

“You don’t not love me, then?”

“Oh, I love you a lot, just not quite as a wife should love a husband. But I pray one day we’ll both be as happy as can be. Now, you better go, or you’ll be late for your boat. And John, I want to say good luck to you, too. I mean that.”

“Well, goodbye till we meet again.”

“Goodbye till we meet again.”

Manby, George, and your mother stood watching you and John from a distance.

George checked his watch. “He’ll miss his boat.”

“Let him miss it. He can catch the next one. What’s happened?”

“Mrs. Skeffington, do I take it the wedding is cancelled?”

“I don’t know, Manby. I’m not entirely sure what’s happening right now.”

You waved goodbye to John as he got in his taxi and departed, mentally making a note to yourself to write him a letter when you next got a chance. You walked back up the long cobblestone path leading up to the house from where you and John were talking in the gardens and finally reached your mother, who stood waiting for you on the terrace.

She turned her attention towards you to ask you herself, “What happened?”

“Mother, Sir John and I have broken our engagement,” you said matter-of-factly, your voice even and your head held high as you maintained eye contact with her.

“What did you say?”

“I said, Sir John and I have broken our engagement.”

“Why have you done that? Why aren’t you going to marry Sir John? Why did you change your mind?”

“My mind was never changed. I never had any intention of marrying him, because I don’t love him. And he doesn’t love me. I never loved him. I tell you, I never loved him.”

“Get upstairs, take off your hat, and I will see you in the drawing room later.”

“No, you won’t.”

You began pacing around the attic, gathering everything you’d need for the art exhibition - your paints, brushes, canvases, sketchbooks - all of it - and shoved it into your suitcase. You then moved to your bedroom, slid open your drawers, and threw a few blouses and trousers that you liked into your duffle bag. Everything you’d need to travel - money, passports, tickets - was already packed and ready to go. You could hear Manby, Uncle George, and your mother from the hallway as they made their way towards your room.

“How could she refuse Sir John? This is ridiculous. I am her mother, and I make the decisions! She’s never done anything to make me proud or to make herself proud either. Why, I should think she’d be ashamed to be born and live all her life as she does. Miss Skeffington, the high school dropout, the vagabond, the wanderer. George, do something! Go upstairs, quick. She’s acting dreadfully, and I don’t like it! George, why are you just standing there? Aren’t you going to reason with her?”

“No, I’m not. I already talked to her and there was no changing her mind. Not that I’d want her to.”

“George! How can you be okay with this?”

“I’m not okay with it, but I’m accepting of it. She won’t give him up.”

“She had. She did.”

“Did she? I don’t think so. Why did you invite John to stay overnight and make himself at home, without asking her first?”

“George, it was past seven and the man’s hotel was in Durham. What did you want him to do? Pitch a tent under a tree?”

“He must have made a plan for his journey back. And I doubt Jim ever went to Rye. He came up here to see her.”

“Who said so?”

“Your daughter did. She saw the look in his eyes. She’s still clearly quite mad about Jim, whatever she says.”

“Don’t tell me you think it’s a good idea! A professional conman? With nothing to his name?”

“You can’t expect me to be rude or pass judgment condemning him. The man’s only crimes are to pickpocket, which he has since given up, and to love your daughter. Fanny, will you just get off your high horse?”

“Why are you interfering?”

“I love my niece and want her to be happy.”

“Well, you’ve got an odd way of showing it!”

“I take it this is Miss Skeffington you’re fighting about?”

“Yes, Manby, it is. And you can dig yourself out, Fanny, because I’ve had enough.” Without another word, George collected his hat and coat from Soames and left out the front door. You could hear him leave.

“Oh! It looks like I’m going to have to try. Wait outside the door for now, Manby.”

You pretended not to have heard anything and continued with your task of getting your bags ready.

Your mother knocked on your door, but didn’t wait for you to bid her to enter before opening it. "Darling.”

You turned to see your mother standing in the doorway. “Yes?” you asked, your tone short and terse as you zipped up the bag and looked around your room to see if you had missed anything.

“Are you going on a trip somewhere, honey?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“And where are you going?”

“Out.”

“Don’t be clever with me, missy. Are you planning to meet a certain someone? If so, I forbid it. No, no, young lady. You’re staying indoors today.”

“No, Mother, I’m not. The Lemp girls have invited me to their family picnic, then we’re going out of town for a girls’ trip.”

She knew you were lying. You didn't really care, but, of course, she instantly started. “I know you’re not just going on a girls’ trip.” Her voice cut into barely a whisper, “I know you’re going after Jim.”

“Actually, I had some good news I wanted to share with you all this morning, but Fanny and Johnny went out and John was here... It wasn’t the right moment. Jim’s not the only reason I’m going. But even if it was, so what? I’m twenty years old, and am therefore an independent, fully functional adult. The fact that you’re still trying to forbid me from traveling on my own or going after Jim is, frankly, absurd. Especially compared with when Fanny and I were eleven going on twelve, yet you allowed us to go all the way across an ocean to another continent with Father.”

“That’s not fair. The circumstances of that situation were very different.”

“Were they?”

“Now, dear, this sort of thing is all very well in novels, but in reality, it can prove very uncomfortable. And while I am sure Masters has many virtues…”

You were about to reply when Manby knocked. You heard the door open behind you as she entered.

“I do hope I’m interrupting something.”

“I only wish you were, but I seem to be getting nowhere. I can't help blaming Masters for this.”

“Don’t. We both wanted to wait until we had your blessing.”

“But he hasn’t waited, has he, darling?”

“Only because you sent him away! I will not give him up!”

“Don’t be rude to your mother, Miss,” Manby interjected.

“No, she’s not being rude, just wrong. Darling, I know you’re upset, and I know Jim’s sudden departure still hurts, but soon that pain will subside. Might I suggest that you let him go and then you can use the calm to reconsider John’s offer—”

You scoffed. “No. That ship has sailed. Would you have wanted me married in a lie?”

“I don’t think so, but we’ll never know now.”

“No. You see, I don’t feel I could spend the rest of my life married to someone I don’t love. On the same vein, I don’t feel I could spend my life around someone I don’t trust. Who didn’t trust me. So I’m leaving. Do you understand?”

“I don’t understand. Your life was about to be perfectly wonderful, but now you’ve thrown it all away.”

“What do you want from me? Am I to see if John has a younger brother? One who’s even richer than he is? I’ve let you steer me for long enough. In future, I’ll look after myself.”

“But surely it would be better for us—”

“No! As my mother I love you, but I’ve tried and failed to like you. In fact, I despise you. After the divorce, Father abandoned you—”

“No, he didn’t. I wanted him to go.”

“That’s not what it looked like.”

“Well, that’s how it was.”

“There’s no need for this,” Manby tried again to interject.

“You lazed about spending Dad’s money on beauty treatments, courting men, and upstaging women you saw as rivals. You aren’t serious about charity like Uncle George is. Do you remember the Christmas when Fanny and I were seven? We just finished trimming the tree. But the men in the army were having such a terrible winter, so I thought it was right when Uncle George said we shouldn’t buy each other presents. We had to make sacrifices. I was glad to make them. But you bemoaned, ‘Oh, Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents.’”

“It’s dreadful to be poor. I especially felt it that winter because I remembered when your Uncle Trippy and I used to be poor growing up with our parents. I didn’t want you or Fanny to have to know what it is to be poor, to experience growing up like we did, especially on Christmas. And now look at us. Look at where we are. We are better off than a lot of people - orphans, for instance. You have your father and me, and your Uncle George, and Fanny, and the servants. You have so much more than I ever did when I was your age. Do you really want to leave it all behind and throw it all away over a man you barely know?”

“I’ve known him longer than I’ve known you. And I’ve told you, this isn’t just about him so, please, save me the guilt trip. Will you please leave me to get on with my life?”

“But this is your home.”

“Not anymore! Take it, and may you have joy of it.”

She began to stride up and down the room. “Darling, it might be well enough to wander if you’ve a place and people to come back to, but I tell you now there’s no desolation like wanting to go home and truly not knowing where it is. I just so happen to know something that would kill you if you knew—” she broke off, stopping suddenly, as though overcome by what she knew.

“Mrs. Skeffington, don’t. Miss, if your news is good, then we are very happy for you. Aren’t we, Mrs. Skeffington?” Manby asked, trying for the third time to salvage the situation. She, for the third time, went ignored.

“Oh, really?”

“Yes. Get your things, if you so wish, since your bags are already packed. If you want him, you can have him. Only first, before you go, there’s something I have to say that will intrigue you enormously. You should know what you’re getting. If you take him, it’s a long road. There’s no turning back. Tomorrow’s too late to repent.”

“And your point is? Mother, I don’t have time for this. If I’m to catch my boat, I have to go now.”

“Now can be a long time, darling...but time passes...and then there’s the end of the road. I admire you, darling. Not everyone would accept Jim’s past. Well, he must’ve told you? You couldn’t accept him without him telling you?”

“I’m leaving.”

“Not until you’ve heard the rest.”

You looped the duffle bag over your shoulder and did another once over of the room. “Enough. I’m tired of you speaking in riddles. If all this is about is Jim’s past, you can save your breath. I know all about it.”

“What?”

“I said, I know all about Jim’s past. What the fuck do you know about Jim that I don’t, Mother? Tit for tat. Let’s exchange stories.”

“What do you mean ‘you know’? Do you mean to tell me that you know about his other family? His ex-wife? His four adult daughters? You know, and you’ve carried on with him anyway?”

“Yes. I know that he has an ex-wife and four grown daughters around my age. Yes, I know that Jim was once married. And, yes, I know what that means. I’ve known it for a long time. I knew it when you called for me to come into your office and told me about the engagement you arranged. Jim even thought, ‘Well, it’ll come out sooner or later. It’s best she hears it from me. I might as well make this a public confession.’ So he sat me down one day, took my hands in his, and he told me. He told me the truth, that a little less than twenty years ago he had the bad taste and the poor judgment to leave his family and roam the world. He was in his twenties when he married Nan, at the same age his father was when he got married. He was very young, you know. To be a father. His parents were gone. His mother died in San Francisco shortly after his father. I was sorry, truly. And…and…I stayed to listen. I didn’t interrupt. I didn’t balk. I didn’t run away. I stayed. And listened to every word...”

“There once was a young man and woman who fell in love in a special place. They married soon after and had a child together. A healthy daughter who was their whole world. Growing up, she happily followed in her mother’s footsteps. Then the man and the woman had another daughter, and another, and another after that. However, their road was not without obstacles. Money was short, time spent between the six even shorter. And so, the road led to an inevitable end…”

“I’m not shocked exactly. It isn’t that. I promise you.”

“You have to protect the honor of your family. Of course you do.”

“It isn’t even that. You should have told me the whole story from the beginning. You haven’t been fair to me.”

“No. I don’t believe I have.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“I suppose I thought it might ruin everything.”

“You mean you didn’t trust me?”

“I can’t have, can I?”

“Listen, Jim. I mean… Well, now I’m wondering... Why did you run out on your family?”

“No picturesque reason. Just plain old fashioned wanderlust. You know, I imagined I had a rendezvous with the universe. The doctor who has a cure for that will find a statue waiting for him.”

“You could’ve come back.”

“Too ashamed. All those years and still I can’t ever scrape together enough courage. There’s Buff, my youngest. The day she was born, Nan and I were so set on a boy. I raised my eyes towards heaven. ‘I don’t wanna complain’, I said, ‘but this is getting monotonous.’ I’ve never forgotten anything I ever said. At this point, it’s far too late to come back. Even if I worked up the courage, I wouldn’t want to. If I came back now, I’d only disrupt their lives. They’re better off without me. I stay away because I love them and I want what’s best for them. I want them to be happy in their lives, even if I can’t be a part of them.”

“Of course you don’t know your daughters very well, but their mother, your wife, didn’t you ever think of her?”

“Their mother was warned against me. She was told what would happen. It was pounded into her. ‘Don’t marry that lunatic. Hook somebody safe and solid.’”

“And who did the warning and pounding?”

“I did. Afraid I didn’t sound very sincere.”

“Since then, I’ve thought about it, and I’ve thought about it some more. I’ve thought about it every which way, carefully considered all the implications of what would happen if I carried on with him, what it meant for my future…and you know what? I don’t mind. He abandoned his family, yes. I won’t make excuses for him or pretend that that wasn’t a horrible and irresponsible thing to do. But I’m not put off by it in the slightest. I know all about it. I know all about it and I really don’t care, Mother. Have you ever stopped to consider that Nan was never built for the kind of life being with Jim entailed? Jim warned her against him, but she didn’t listen and married him anyway. She may have thought she was cut out for it, that she could handle it, but she realized too late that she wasn’t and she couldn’t. But as Shakespeare or Babe Ruth or somebody said, I’m made of sterner stuff. I’m leaving this town. Yeah. Jim loves me and I love him. He’s a journalist now and he said he could help us get out of here. He wanted to help me, how can that be wrong?” you asked her in your wide-eyed innocence and idealism. “He’s kind, intelligent, handsome, and my best friend. He makes me feel so good, and I can do the same for him. And what’s more I’ll make him happy and I’m no fortune teller either. He and Nan wanted very different things. They weren’t compatible in the long-term. But Jim and I… We are. We want the same thing. We have the same dreams and ambitions. And to travel is to breathe sentience into one’s ambitions. So I’m leaving. I’m going to travel the world. And when I do find Jim - not if, when - he’s not going to leave me, because there’ll be nobody to get in our way. Not you, not Nan, nobody. It’ll just be me and him and the open road. Since you may also remember that I have my own car now, you can’t really stop me.”

“Darling, darling, please... It’s not right. Now, how could you do that to that poor woman?” she asked you, “What has she done to you?” She rose her voice and took on that tone that she'd been using on you since you were a little girl. There was nothing worse than being surrounded by a bunch of people telling you to do what was right, when they couldn’t define that definition, without a lot of hatred and judgment behind it.

“You only care about her because she’s a woman like you, a woman who needs a man around to take care of her. I was never like that, but now I am. Now I need him, and he needs me too. You sent me to Europe for a reason, and I’ve found two.”

“Don’t you care that he was married?” your mother pleaded with you, “Don't you care that that fool woman was probably head-over-heels for him at one point, just like you? Aren’t you afraid you’ll share her fate?”

Coldly, you replied, “No, Mother.”

“You will break my heart if you leave in pursuit of this man.”

“You and I both know that’s not true. It’s your pride we’re dealing with here, not your heart.”

With tears in her eyes— She was always crying about something or another like her current crisis was the worst in history— she all but asked you to absolve her of her current sin, all but told you to forgive her for inflicting the scar still fresh on her heart on you. “At least think about what your father did to us. Do you really want to inflict that pain on yourself or somebody else?"

Is she really going there? You couldn’t handle this. You stepped into your boots and glared at your mother as you laced them up. “No. What you did to him,” you said icily. “I don’t recall Dad cheating until after suffering nearly twelve years of emotional and physical neglect. Really, Mother, what did you expect? Do you think he ever would’ve looked at another woman if he’d received one grain of affection from you? In private life he was generous, and kind, and affectionate, and devoted. And what’s he got to show for all his years of unyielding devotion to you? Worry lines on his forehead, you, a narcissistic, hypocritical, pseudo-adulterous wife, and me, a delinquent dropout for a daughter. But before his ‘lapses’, as you like to call them, you were shallow and faithless, merely fond of him and largely ignored him. Five secretaries is a drop in the bucket compared to the number of men you brought into the house. Even when father went to camp, you still invited them in. You even acquired a few new ones. Jim Conderley, Edward Morrison, Chester Forbish, Bill Thatcher, Miles Hyslop, Max MacMahon, Perry Lanks… Although I could go on and list them all by name, the list is too exhaustive and I don’t have time to do so. And those are just the ones I know about. The point is, you took Father for granted. You humiliated him every time you brought a lover into the house. You couldn’t survive on oxygen alone, you had to be surrounded by men. Dad knew that, but he had needs too! There was never a selfish bone in his body. For years he put you, Fanny, and I before himself, and those needs went unmet. You were so self-absorbed you never noticed how he suffered in silence all those years and did nothing to alleviate his pain! He was desperate for solace, a kind word, a gentle caress, a loving touch, even if it came from the warm embrace of a woman. More than desperate. He wanted so badly for that woman to be you, but you treated him like a dog. He was admired, petted, but never loved! It’s no wonder that, during the divorce proceedings, you couldn’t bear to look at him. His eyes had such a hurt expression, and you were the cause.”

“He repudiated his eyes. He had no right to feel hurt. He knew I didn’t love him when I married him. He said so himself.”

“He was a very patient man, but you beat him down so much that he was at his wits’ end. Of course he was going to snap. Of course he was going to break down. You mustn’t think too harshly of his secretaries. They were very kind and understanding when he came to the office after a hard day at home. Really, Mother, it was inevitable that sooner or later he was going to seek out what he so desperately needed from other women who were willing to give it to him when you, his own wife, were not. Any man in his position would’ve done the same. You all but pushed him away, drove him into the arms of those secretaries yourself when you exiled him from your marital bed. You know, when a father is neglected in certain sections of Malay, he collects a dozen human skulls and bangs on them with the jaw bones of asses to draw attention to himself. Father found leaving and taking Fanny and I with him to Europe much more sensible. Don’t you dare blame him for your mistakes. Just because you couldn’t manage your own relationship, don’t put that shit on me.”

She came back and stood over you, a woman flushed with equal parts desperation and agitation, with the necessity for persuading you quickly to do what she thought was the right - the only thing. “My dear, this is all unnecessary and unpleasant.”

“See, Manby? I told you. The one thing Mother can’t bear is when things are going better for me or Fanny than for her.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“You don’t know her. Fanny’s taken Johnny Mitchell away from you, I’m going to explore the world, and you’ve lost all your admirers and your husband, and you just can’t stand it.”

“Miss, there is no need for—”

“You’re wrong. You think I care about Jim’s life? That man brought his ruin on himself. And if he’s like every man I’ve ever known, he’d do again with his pants down and a smile on his face,” she lectured you. “Please, for the last time, my dear, I’m asking you to stay home with me. To move on and not to see or even think about Jim anymore.”

She, now, was calling you her dear, always a symptom of at least temporary dislike. That your mother should address you as ‘my dear’ showed you how much annoyed she was. But you were annoyed with her too. “Mother, that sounds very close to an ultimatum.”

“It is. My dear, I’m warning you. I’m warning you—”

“Threats, eh? Mother, if you knew how many daggers I’ve had flourished before me by hysterical anti-semitic classmates in school and severely troubled, mentally tortured patients at Cascade at an earlier period of my life… Some of them I now use for paper knives.”

“Good heavens, you didn’t stab or cut anyone, did you?”

“Just once. And it was just a letter opener. Don’t give me that look. It was self-defense and didn’t even require stitches! A flesh wound. Don’t change the subject. If you’re going to warn and threaten me, get on with it.”

“There’s one thing that lends a threat some dignity, my dear.”

“What’s that?”

“An inflexible resolve to carry it out. You mind yourself, my dear, one day you’ll need me and you’ll wish you had behaved better.”

You chose your next words carefully. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, Mother. Charitable people like yourself saved my life. But I wish they’d thought a bit more about what I am to do with it, once the war is over and it is safe. Thank you, Mother, for Jim’s employment and your many kindnesses, but I intend to make my own way in the world. I think Jim and I can manage to get along without any help from you, if that’s what you mean.”

“It is what I mean. And what do you intend to do with your life?”

“Get a dog and a parrot and roam the world, living with Jim in unmarried blessedness.”

“Stop rocking.”

“Well, I could earn my own living, Mother. I’ve often thought about it. If my art doesn’t work out, I’d make a good head waitress in a restaurant, or I could run a cat house, or go on the stage, or—”

“No one makes their own way, not really, least of all a woman. There are but precious few ways for women to make money. You’ll need to marry well.”

“Daphne MacClare isn’t yet married either, Mother, and she’s doing well for herself.”

“Because she’s rich and an only child. She’s sure to keep her money, if her father doesn’t change his mind about making her his sole heiress.”

“So the only way to be an unmarried woman is to be rich.”

“Yes. That’s why you should heed me.”

“That’s not true. I’m not listening to you. You’ll say anything, do anything.”

“Have you no sense of obligation to your family or to me? Here you had the chance to join our name, Skeffington, with one of the finest families in Europe, Talbot. And you tell me that you’re not in love? I certainly didn’t love your father when I married him, and look at how well my life has turned out.”

“You only wanted me to get married to John so you could brag about who your son-in-law is.”

“No, so you could live a better life than I have.”

“I thought you said your life turned out well. I love my life the way it is.”

“You don’t know what you love. All those years you spent at Cascade… This must be Dr. Jaquith’s influence at work. It’s his voice speaking through you, not your own. He cares more about educating children and curing men and women than taking care of his family. He doesn’t have any children of his own, does he?”

“No, but he was right.”

“It is possible to be right and foolish.”

“I don’t think so.”

Your mother softened, but only slightly. “I know you don’t care much about marriage now. I can’5 say I blame you, but you’re behaving like a romantic girl of eighteen.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“This is a folly! A ridiculous, juvenile madness! Which brings me to the business of the afternoon. I don’t want you to marry Jim.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You broke off your engagement, so you must have another candidate in mind to be your husband. I don’t want you to marry Jim.”

“What if I refuse? What if I do someday marry Jim?”

“If you refuse, which you are, of course, fully entitled to do, let me tell you, Miss, that if you chase after and marry this hook or rook or crook, not a penny of my money goes to you, do you understand?”

“Is that all? It’s not really your money, it’s Father’s.”

Your father was a self-made man. He could do what he liked with money. It came dancing into his pockets at a glance—a very different glance from the sort of dog-like glances your mother knew, for these other glances, familiar to his fellow-financiers, were hard as steel and alert and concentrated as a hawk’s. He had an unerring instinct for attracting money, and, having attracted it, for manipulating it with the easy mastery of genius. Invariably he bought at the exact right moment, and sold at the exact right moment. He was a generous spirit, that Jewish man, generous with his emotional warmth in a way that brought the same out in others.

“You should remember that every bit of all this—your flower-filled rooms, the extravagantly wasteful amount of stuff to eat that often goes untouched on the tea-table, and you yourself, sunk in softness, wrapped in probably wickedly expensive garments for all their air of simplicity,—everything in this house, every stitch on your back, is yours because of his generosity. Legally, Father didn’t have to give you one-tenth of what he insisted you have.”

“Well, of course, it was ridiculous of him to settle a fortune on me. But then, it would’ve been ridiculous for me to refuse, wouldn’t it? Twelve years with the wrong husband? It should be rewarded. Of course, I thanked him for the very generous settlement he made on me. But for you, there will be no more money. From here on in, your life will be very different,” Fanny said as she paused, in the chilly voice natural to one whose decency was doubted.

Her chill annoyed you. You glared at her. You were asking yourself if this was really your mother, this cold thing, and whether her heart had grown as fleshless as the rest of her. “We’d get along.”

“Yes. Making over old, secondhand clothes, selling your artwork which is nothing more than mediocre copies of another man’s genius, and sleeping in cheap motels.”

“Unlike you, Mother, I can live without the latest luxury. Your threats are hollow, don’t you see? How do I make you understand? I couldn’t care less. I am not some victim for you to save from consensual, adult relationships.”

“Very well, do as you please. No one takes my advice. Go after Jim, then. If you think he can make you happier than John will. But remember the day that you marry him, I will disinherit you.”

“Is that supposed to frighten me? Marriage is just an idea you old people are trying to force onto us, and we don’t want your baggage. As of now, I’ve no interest in being a wife. I want fun. Lots of laughs. All the married people I’ve seen…why, they’re a little bit short on laughter, aren’t they, Mother? But if my mind were to ever change, I will marry who I please, and I don’t care anything about your money. So what if you have no duty and I have no claim? Why worry about the future? If I’ve got anything coming to me, it’ll come. I know I’m right. About love, I mean. I don’t wanna be stuck here like you, my poor mother, frozen in time and denying the passage of it all her life. I’m just trying to have a good time.”

“Are you sure you’re in love?”

“Of course I am. What makes you think I’m not?”

“Well, you ate an enormous meal.”

“Your mother doesn’t want you to be trapped before you’re completely sure.” Manby tried to placate you and keep the peace.

“But I am sure! How many times do I have to say it? Am I so weak you believe I could be talked out of giving my heart in five minutes flat? Believe it or not, I will stay true to him.”

“Mrs. Skeffington’s right. It’s a very big thing to give up your whole world.”

“Thank you. Listen to her if you won’t listen to me.”

“But I’m not giving up my world! If you want to give me up, that’s your affair. I’m perfectly happy to carry on being friends with everyone.”

“Married to Jim Masters, the former chauffeur?”

“Yes. If we ever change our minds and decide that’s what we want.”

“So you'’re quite sure of your feelings. I mean, you know, people sometimes get carried away. Come to their senses again with a jolt.”

“You’re right, Mother. Here’s hoping you come to yours sooner than later.” You got your luggage and took one last teary-eyed look at her before shoving past her and making to leave the room.

Fanny sighed shakily as she felt her resolve waning. She let herself fall into one of the plush armchairs, unable to speak through her sobbing. She looked up at you and she knew you won.

“You know, this reminds me of something I once read in one of the books Dr. Jaquith lent to me: A hypocritical businessman, whose fortune had been the misfortune of many others, told Mark Twain piously, ‘Before I die I intend to make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. I want to climb to the top of Mount Sinai and read the Ten Commandments aloud.’ ‘I have a better idea,’ suggested Twain. ‘Why don’t you stay right at home in Boston and keep them?’ While I’m out enjoying my life, why don’t you stay here and cry some more. It’s about the only thing you’re fucking good at.” You heard someone gasp. Whether it was Manby or your mother, you couldn’t tell, but you didn’t care either way. You gave your mother one final look of disdain and walked out of the house. Her face was red and her tears had already made streaks through her makeup. She only managed to smear it more as she attempted to wipe the tears away with her sleeve.

#Jim masters x reader #mr skeffington #now voyager #the wolf man #claude rains #bette davis #crossover au #crossover #crossover fic #pls tag me if you’re inspired by this #I’d love to read it

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Part 2/7 💜📸📝

“I didn’t like the way he stared at her.”

“Who? Oh, Mr. Masters? I didn’t notice.”

“Well, I did. He’s still looking.”

“Who, Fanny?”

“Mr. Masters.”

“Don’t look at him, then.”

“Do you think he’s after her, George? I rather hope not, if I’m honest.”

“Why? He has a bit of money. And he’s clever.”

“But is he just looking for a wealthy socialite?”

“Well, he seems quite taken by your daughter’s beauty, and he wondered—”

“Why? I mean, why should he wonder?”

“He wondered if there was anybody— Well, that is, anybody she liked.”

“Did he ask you to find out?”

“Who, me? No, no. I just—”

“Well, you may tell him that we don’t like anybody in our house. That is, we like a great many people, but we don’t like men. Oh, we like men, too, but don’t like men who wonder about who else we Skeffington women like. My daughter is too young and far too clever to bother about who wonders about her. It’s ridiculous, that’s all. Ridiculous.”

“Why don’t you ask Mr. Masters to dinner? You can look him over and learn the worst. Give him a real chance, and perhaps you’ll like him even more than Sir John Talbot.”

“That won’t be necessary. An agreement between Sir John and I has already been reached.”

“Still invite him. You can size him up and he can size you up. If you don’t invite him, Fanny, then I will.”

You got eyes for Jim Masters, the chauffeur. Fanny had her suspicions, but there was some part of her that didn’t want to believe it. Manby said when you told your stories, Jim always made everyone be quiet so he could hear well. Jim was super likable. Everyone liked everything about him. You couldn't stop smiling when Jim started talking. The smiles you gave him made your mother want to puke. You smiled as if your relationship with Jim meant much more than the one you had with her. She’d never seen you smile like you smiled when you were around him. She told you to bring him to the house for dinner but you said he wouldn’t come because he was too shy and wouldn’t have time between his work, but Fanny wondered if that was the truth. Something changed. She felt it. It could have been so simple only if Jim didn’t get in the way. Both you and Jim kept saying nothing was going on between you. But she wasn’t about to believe everything was just rainbows and butterflies. In her eyes, Jim was using you to fill his sad, empty life. Fanny knew she had to do something. You’d been growing the idea of leaving New York since you came back from Berlin. Living with her didn’t help much with you being attached to your hometown. She and you never got to talk about it seriously, you didn’t really want to, but every time you hinted about leaving, Fanny tried so hard to ignore what it meant for her. Even those pictures in the morning newspaper were laughing at her... They were making fun of her impending doom. They were all saying,

“Ha ha ha. See? You’re gonna die alone here.”

She couldn’t let that happen. Then she remembered. Jim wrote secret letters to you. Manby got hold of the most recent one and gave it to her. In it, he was asking you to meet him. She locked it up so you wouldn’t ever read it. You weren’t allowed to see Jim of course and if you never saw that letter maybe you would think he didn’t like you anymore and maybe you would stop liking him. Your father would’ve known what to do. Fanny wished he was here. Unbeknownst to you, she knew where you kept your diary and letters. But they had no special meaning for her. Until curiosity got the better of her. What if you wrote something about Jim in your diary? What if your diary had something to do with Jim’s existence not just in your life, but in hers? She started digging. The first few pages were nothing outstanding. Just about your new school.

August 1932

When you live in one place your whole life, your next door neighbor is kind of like, your default friend. And Jeremy only got weirder over the years. With Janie Clarkson as his mother… I can’t put him completely at fault for how insufferable he was when he was a kid. Moving away has been a good excuse to...not see him anymore, but he did say he had plans to move out when he turned eighteen... I wonder if he’s going to follow through with those plans. Maybe he was just saying it because he was sick and tired of his overbearing mother and wanted to separate himself from her. Whatever his decision, hopefully the years have done him some good and he’s freed himself from his mother’s clutches. Hopefully he’s grown out of whatever his mother’s influence did to smother his individuality and corrupt his personality and behavior when we were in school together. Can’t say I don’t empathize with him. He and I share the same sentiment about our mothers. Maybe I'll give him a call to see how he’s doing.

September 1932

Starting at a new school is a right of passage at certain ages, yet when you are the only new person you feel that there is a spotlight on you. But in that attention there is a chance, right? There is a chance to find new friends to connect with. Going in with a positive attitude is easier said than done, but when you make a great leap, you have to commit to it, right? That's how you land with grace on solid ground. So this new school, I’m gonna make it be okay. I can do that. Starting at a new school is a chance to start over, to have a reboot of who I want to become, a chance to make new friends. On this first day of school I’ll go to meet my other family, the one I will spend years learning with. I will gain new brothers and sisters from various walks of life. I will become part of their community and begin that journey of growing into the fine lady I am destined to become.

October 1932

[…] As for now, I’m just gonna leave those POI on my ‘To Do List’ which is already filled with a crazy amount of homework. I now know why youngsters of Zurich will try their best to get as far away from school as possible after class: to escape from choking on the pressure that teachers give them! Even on weekdays, pretty girls like Stephanie will have their boyfriends give them a ride, and others make use of the power of PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION to get to the more crowded part of town. It does feel too quiet since I’m no longer in public school, but at least I don't feel as lonely as I did in New York. At least I don't have to watch everyone I know turn their faces away like I’m some kind of a demon spawn. At least I don’t have to be reminded how fucked up things can be in a single moment.

November 1932

[…] but people in this town see graffiti as nothing but trashy doodles. I want to show the hidden side of girls—their impulses, their urges. What are YOU hiding inside…? Fanny, Uncle George, Father… they all tell me, “Don’t worry about what people think. Be proud.” How could I ever be proud of myself…? My classmates talk about me…

“Well! I don’t think you suffer as I do. You don’t have to go to school with impertinent girls who label your father just because he’s Jewish.”

“If you mean libel, then say so, and stop talking about labels as if Father was a pickle bottle.”

“I know what I mean. And you needn’t be satirical. It’s proper to use good words and improve one’s vocabilary.”

“Vocabilary?”

Father told me that it’s important to have goals in life. I wonder what life goal I should have. I wonder what Father’s goal is. Might not be a bad idea to leave town, actually… The great thing about graffiti is, the world’s your blank canvas, your home, begging for you to paint it with your hopes and dreams. I can have fun anywhere. Maybe that should be my goal. I’ve decided that’s what I want to do with my life. I’m going to travel the world, painting, photographing, and documenting my own finds! Well, as soon as I’m old enough to escape Mother, that is. There was an explosion in my brain... the good sort... the type that carries more possibilities than I could be conscious of... but there were hundreds of ideas there in that buzz of electricity... I could feel it. It was the calling card of adventure, of paths awaiting my feet.

Fanny kept flipping through the pages, until she found what she was looking for. It wasn’t even a challenge. She saw just how far back your and Jim’s affiliation went. It was beautiful. She found the perfect story, all she had to do was fill in the ending.

September 1934

So funny to find this diary again! I must have forgotten it at the bottom of the drawer during my travels. I still remember how innocent I was then... So many years ago... I remember being thirteen going on fourteen. I wanted to learn photography, so Father hired Rupert to be my tutor. At first, I thought he would be too old to teach. Plus, his techniques were probably too ancient. But when he came, I was surprised that he was a very humble person. Despite our age differences, we talked for hours. I felt comfortable around him. Then he showed me the photos he took. They were beautiful. It was around that point that I figured out that Rupert was perfect as a tutor, that I shouldn’t have been so quick to judge the old man. I'm glad Rupert was my teacher. I spent nearly five years under his tutelage and it’s paid off! Though I am only eighteen going on nineteen and will never get a degree in photography, Rupert said I’m a professional in my own right!

September 1934

Today I climbed a great pine tree at Wakeforte Park to try to get a shot of something. I can’t remember what I was even trying to photograph, but I didn’t realize how far up I had climbed until I fell out of the tree! I met a kind man when I hurt my leg. He rushed over and helped me, asking if I was okay and if anything was broken. Luckily, nothing was.

You know that feeling where the first moment you see someone, it's like they have a big gold star around them, and you have to get to know them? Well, there's this man. I had no idea how I would ever, like, have an excuse to talk to him... until he opened his suitcase to take out some bandages and I noticed all the pictures, stickers, and souvenirs that decorated both the outside and inside of it. He was a seasoned traveler from the looks of it and, when I mentioned it, he said he just came back from a trip in Hong Kong a month ago and he was now visiting Switzerland. Just passing through, really. Maybe I should have been frightened of him. This older man who saw that I was alone, who possibly felt like I owed him something, which was the worst thing a man like that could feel. He looked grim, all right. I could see how his face might frighten a lot of people, but I couldn’t imagine being afraid of him. Somehow, I... I rather liked him.

“You have a very bad habit of climbing trees. This is no place for children.”

“You think of me as a child? Well, you’re wrong. I am much younger than that!”

“You think my face frightens people, do you?”

“Did I say that out loud?”

“Yes. So you must’ve been thinking it.”

“Yes... sir. Frankly, I do. You understand, I don’t think you mean to frighten them, but your face— Well, you asked me, sir, and, yes, I do think so. But you don’t frighten me. You intrigue me. You’ve been to Hong Kong, huh?”

“My girl, there’s no spot on this earth I haven’t been.”

“Tell me about your time there. What was it like? What did you do?”

“Well, I confess once in Hong Kong when I was desperate I sold a relic of which I was only a part owner.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. Being a citizen of San Francisco I sold my share of the Oakland ferry to an Australian who wished to make a gift of it to his fiancée. And a very lovely fiancée. You know, she had the most beautiful… Well, that’s another story.”

“I’ve bet you got a satchel full of stories.”

“Mhm. I got the stories, all right. Trouble is, finding somebody who’ll listen.”

“Well if there’s a couple of bottles of beer around, I might be persuaded to lend an ear.”

“If there isn’t any, I’ll make some. Drink up, my good woman. The Earth’s a savage garden.”

“…It was the third day. I had fallen in with a group of Moorish travelers. One of them was suffering, struck with the curse of Scrofula, so I prayed with them for her fortitude, that she might reach the Cave of the Mother with all speed. They told me that a temple was within two day's journey, should all go well. Yet there was an obstacle still to overcome. The path went through the demesnes of one Idris Hannachi, a robber-baron of the Ottoman people. Pilgrims had to pay a heavy tithe to use his water, and to travel the mountain pass. I had spice, and three thalers left. I prayed it would be sufficient…”

“…Nigh a tenday I’d gone without honest fare worthy of the name - drank naught but what the sky offered for my thirst. Why, some bread, cheese, and a cup of wine would’ve appeared unto me a feast! Surely those fine people wouldn’t begrudge me a mite of rest and repast before I got ‘out with it’? Fine, fine. I turned a deaf ear to the clarion calls with which my scorned stomach beseeched me. Graver matters were at hand. Plenty to digest, after all. A good deal to stew over, if you will. Words ladled with import should be savored so as to better absorb their meaning, wouldn’t you agree?”

“…And so I drank the native wine, signifying eternal friendship. It was a touching scene as I bade the Mahabus farewell. For eight years, I said, I’ve been your chief. I give you modern plumbing, surrealist art, and a smattering of air conditioning. I hope that in time you forgive me. And so I leave you, before I bequeath you any more of the horrors of civilization.”

“I’ve listened to you for two hours. And two hours more solidly packed with bologna I’ve never listened to in all my life.”

“Well…perhaps I did lie a little. I like my stories. Like to hear myself talk. I like a little drama, I do. Mind you, lately there’s enough of it about. Do you know, my dear, as you grow older, you’ll find there’s nothing fuller than the truth. The whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

“You’ve kicked around the world all this time and you got nothing out of it at all. I wanna see this world too. That’s all I care about. I wanna get out of this hole. But it’s not wanderlust with me. Who cares about what New York or Copenhagen or Singapore looks like? They probably all look like Sacramento.”

“They all do. Except Sacramento.”

“What’s going on in this world? Things are happening all around us. Why are they happening? You ever seen so much hate in one universe? Well, who sets it off and why? You read this in the papers and that. One person tells you one thing and another person tells you something else. Well, who’re you gonna believe? They all got an axe to grind. I’m shut up here. I know from nothing. But I’m gonna find out. I’m gonna find out for myself. And let me tell you one thing. They won’t keep me in the dark.”

“Well, listen. Don’t take it out on me. I’m not keeping you here.”

“I’m sorry. I get too excited. Let me tell you another thing. When I find out, I’m gonna do something about it.”

“Okay by me. And with that, you rather like me, do you?”

“Yes, I do. I really do, in spite of everything.”

“And I like you.”

“What is your name, please?”

“Don'’t you think secrets are fun? Just refer to me as a wayfaring stranger.”

“But I owe you so much for coming to my aid. I should pay you back somehow.”

“You are paying me back by lending an ear. I want to know who’s letting me talk her ear off. You haven’t told me your name either.”

“Don’t you think secrets are fun?” you parroted his words back to him with a smile. “Just refer to me as an ambitious tree climber.”

“It sounds so mysterious. From where do you come?”

“I am of the wind whose sound is heard, yet none can tell from whence it comes or where it goes.”

“Well, the next tour group gathers within the hour. Try not to blow away before then.”

When I was a girl, Dad always told me to not trust strangers, especially men, but I’m a woman of eighteen, soon to be nineteen now and I don't think he’s a bad guy. If he was, why would he go out of his way to help me? They do say we sometimes become friends with those who are at the opposite ends, so maybe it's not such a weird thing. I’m exhausted but hyped up beyond my limits. I can’t sleep. How can I when the whole day just feels like a dream? Maybe if I meet him again at the park, I can tell him stories of my own.

October 1934

I’m finally focused on my studies, so I think I might pull an all-nighter. It won’t be good for my skin (I can just hear people calling me "troll" and "nerd"), but I don’t care. I have to make it to college. Dad is counting on me to do well. I’ll make him proud by getting into my first choice. All right, time to hit the books till morning! My future isn’t in Switzerland or New York, it’s wherever college life is waiting for me. Everything’s riding on my entrance exam next year. I have to get out before I go stir-crazy.

February 1935

Today I went to Wakeforte Park again, and he was there! I raised a hand to wave and he spied me in an instant, sitting by the water fountain as I was. His face split into the grin I had imagined him to wear often. Then he came over in fast, easy strides and took my offered hand in his two, shaking and squeezing. I hadn’t seen him in over four months. I thought I was imagining him at first, seeing things. But it was him! I told him about the book I read last night. It was about the species of plants and flowers and that even now not all of them are discovered! I told him I want to be the one to discover them, but I’m not good at science. Then he said if I don’t give up, I can do it. I’m happy I told him. It was as if no time passed between us at all and we picked up right where we left off. He finally told me his name - Jim. Jim Masters. I like being with him. I can be myself in front of him. He doesn't judge me, or tell me what to do. He cares about what I think. He makes me happy. He talks a lot to me recently, and I feel comfortable whenever he’s around. I can be myself in front of him. He said we could meet here at Wakeforte for as long as we’re both in the area. I wonder if this is what friends are like.

“Where were you born?”

“The corner of Market and Cherry Street. Same hospital my father was.”

“Market and Cherry? Where's that?”

“Foot of the East River. It's about ten miles, I should say, from the nearest governess.”

“How do they call you?”

“Skeffington.”

“Curious name. Skeffington. That’s a strange name for Market and Cherry.”

“You mean, is that my real name? Yes and no. When my father was a child and he came over with my grandparents, the immigration official on Ellis Island wasn't a good speller...and ‘Skeffington’ was the closest he could get to Skevinzskaza. That’s my father’s real name. But Skeffington is what he goes by, so it says Skeffington on my and my sister’s birth certificates.”

“Market and Cherry… That’s in New York, isn’t it?”

“It is. I grew up on Charles Street.”

“You are far from New York, Miss Skeffington. Do you miss your family back home?”

“There’s not much of a family to miss. My father and sister are here, and my mother and Uncle George are back in New York. There’s my aunt, Martha Tintagel, but she lives in London, so I’m not very close to her. I’ve only seen her face on Christmas cards and such and have never heard her voice or met her in person. She’s a Lady and has a husband and three children - two boys and a girl. She’s a happy mother, always wrapped up in them. She loves being tied up, and is sure she can’t stand five minutes on her own feet unassisted. My other aunt, Nigella Pontyfridd, is wife to my Uncle George, but she kept her maiden name and they have no children. She doesn’t mind, though, because her heart is full to the brim of Uncle George. They’re not really my aunts and uncle, though. They’re my mother’s cousins. We’ve just always called them that for simplicity’s sake. As for everyone else… They’re dead. And they died before my sister and I were born, so we never knew them. Anything we know about them comes from the word of others. I miss Uncle George and Aunt Nigella, but my mother…”

Sensing that you didn’t want to talk about it, Jim changed the subject. “You have quite an art studio here. Did you bring all these art supplies from America?”

“A few of them.”

“May I look at them?”

“Of course. I even painted something for you to take with you on your journeys. Something to remind you of me.” You showed him the painting. It was small, a miniature portrait really, but the detail was exquisite. It was a painting depicting the exact spot you met, more specifically, the tree you fell out of and the surrounding area.

“This is beautiful. Looking at this, I can feel as if I’m actually there. You know, some works are so familiar. Looking at them is like being home again.”

“That's a nice music box you got there.”

“Most of my belongings I could bear to leave behind. I sold almost everything I owned to get my passage to come here, but this… Never. It's one of the few things I brought with me from the States. I will carry it with me everywhere I go.”

“What’s that little song playing?”

“Do you like it? A man composed it for a young violinist he once knew, a girl of infinite beauty and sensitivity. So far apart in age, yet a pair of misfit beauties they were. I can see why they both ran to the other. As for this… A remarkable painting by the hand of an even more remarkable painter.”

“You flatter me, sir. But I’m so happy you like the painting. I was thinking of you when I painted it. I knew you’d be able to tell.”

“Why do you always call me ‘sir’? You know my name.”

“Well, perhaps if I saw you oftener than once every two or three months. When you happen to be passing through.”

“If you think it’s on my way, you’re mistaken. When I left Spain my tour required I proceed direct to Paris. So…you see?”

“Then take me with you, please. You promised.”

“My dear, an attractive woman doesn’t go to Paris. She lets Paris come to her.”

“Meaning you, I suppose? You are so wise and so clever. Paris is a good place for a new life. I believe Paris is where you go to reinvent yourself. Will you be returning to Sacramento, Mr. Masters?“

“For God’s sake. Jim. Call me Jim. Please. Mr. Masters was my father.”

“Jimmy,” you said teasingly with a smile to match.

Jim laughed but then turned serious. “No. Jim.”

“All right. Jim,” you said, liking the way his name sounded on your tongue. “I better get going. My sister, Fanny, is waiting on me. Goodbye, Jim.”

“And when may I have the pleasure of seeing you again?”

“When Paris no longer comes to faith,” you teased him again before walking off.

Since he was heading out soon, he offered to give me a tour of the city.

“I was just going.”

“I’ll walk home with you. I’m afraid I’ve neglected my gentlemanly duties too long. Maybe I ought to go in and say goodnight to your old man and sister, huh?”

“Now listen. If you’re going to come around here to see me, you’ve got to promise to be friendly with my father, but not too friendly with my sister. While I want her to like you just as much as I want Dad to, she’s the pretty and sweet one of the two of us. We’re twins, but we’re nothing alike, you see. I wouldn’t be surprised, but I’d be greatly disappointed in you if you fell in love with her at first sight.”

“Who says I’m coming around to see you?”

“Who says you’re not?”

“Are you a natural brunette?”

“Practically. A chocolate rinse now and then.”

“I’m taking the boat out tomorrow at six. The main wall.”

“I’ll be there.”

“If you’ve got a good book, stay home and read it.”

“I don’t like reading. I was never much good at it in school. I couldn’t stand the snobs with impeccable taste. Still can’t. These people say: ‘I'd rather a good book than a shallow person’. They could cry over the plight of a fictitious character but they shamelessly insult real people because real people are ‘shallow’ and according to snobs these ‘shallow people’ don't deserve to live.”

“You don’t like reading? But last time we met, you told me about a science book you liked.”

“That was an exception to the rule. I can read, but only because of the efforts of my former psychiatrist, David Jaquith, and his wife, Charlotte. Adventure is allowing the unexpected to happen to you. Exploration is experiencing what you have not experienced before. I prefer spending my time doing something and actually experiencing it, instead of reading about it in some book. Do you know what I mean?”

“I think so. In that case, I guess…I guess I should let go of this. I won’t need it after tomorrow. Just one final reminder of bad memories I can do without. You can take this. I've already read it. If you read this and tell me what you think of it, that bad memory will become a good one.”

You looked at the cover. “Pulp horror fiction?”

“Yeah…sorry.”

“No, not at all! It’s my guilty pleasure.”

“Mine too. This one's great, You ever heard of Henrik Creighton?”

“I can’t say I have.”

“Oh! Well he—”

“Wait, we’re getting off-topic. Why did you mention taking the boat out if you don’t want me there anyhow?”

“All right, all right. Be there. Make that five instead of six. And uh, better bring your book along.”

“I’m sure there’ll be no need. You’ll have plenty of stories to tell me.”

“Don’t forget my jacket! It might get chilly later on,” Fanny called after you just as you were about to rush out the door for your…outing…with Jim. You didn’t want to call it a date. It wasn’t a date. Just a tour around town with a friend.

“You’re a darling. Wish me luck.”

“Aren’t I going to meet him?”

“What? And have him wonder why he picked me? No, you’re much smarter and better looking than I am. I’m only the intuitive one. We’re going out for dinner afterwards, so you don’t need to wait up for me.”

“I’ll wait up. If I want to.”

“And what will you tell Father when he asks?”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll handle him when he gets home. Although you might have to tell him something when you get back. The truth, preferably. I might not wait up for you, but he undoubtedly will.”

“I don’t know why I’m making such a thing of it. You’re right. I could tell him the truth and he wouldn’t mind very much. He’d be happy I have a friend here.”

“We better not waste any more time dawdling. Isn’t Jim waiting for you outside?”

You gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “You’re right! Gotta go!”

Out the window I could see the weird gigantic hill that was also visible from Jim’s motel room. He revealed that it's his secret base of some kind since few people actually visit Wakeforte Park and the surrounding area. He jokingly said he could take me there when I’m old enough. After dinner, Jim dropped me off at home and drove off. The second I went inside and closed the door behind me, Fanny was there waiting for me. She was sneakily watching me and this mystery man of mine from the window and now had a million questions. It was impossible to keep anything from my sister.

“Yoo-hoo! Hey, anybody home? Fanny, where’s Father? Isn’t he home? Is he asleep?”

“No, he’s still in Kreuzberg. There was a mixup and he has to take a later train. He called to tell me he’d be home tomorrow and to let you know. Lucky you!”

“Fanny, don’t tease.” Your admonishment was more playful than serious and Fanny knew that.

“Why, darling sister, who is he? Where’d you meet him?”

“Look, Fanny. I met him five or six months ago, but I’ve really only known him for two weeks at the most. He travels a lot. When we do meet, it’s mostly by chance. Well, he just came back last week. He's so handsome.”

“Where’d you meet this time?”

“He was with Mr. Hunneker. He drove up in a great, big, gray car.”

“Mr. Hunneker? As in Hamilton Hunneker, the Polo player?”

“That must’ve been the one.”

“Sister, you say the handsomest...”

“Well, make that the most distinguished.”

“Is he tall?”

“Well… Yes and no.”

“Is he young?”

“He’s young enough.”

“And he’s rich?”

“He is as poor as one might imagine an itinerant philosopher to be. Yet, as the hours go by I see that he is unfailingly generous to me. I am grateful to have a friend.”

“What did you say his name was again?”

“Jim. Mr. Jim Masters.”

“He can’t be so very rich.”

“He’s comfortably moderate in his money, But he’s rich in knowledge and experience. He asked me to go sailing with him Friday night. I accepted.”

“You didn’t?”

“I did.”

April 1935

I got some materials from my first choice in the mail today! I really want to be a college freshman at the Roski School of Art and Design in Southern California! If I got in, I’d be so, SO HAPPY! Dad, I’m going to work my ass off and be the best daughter ever! Thank you so much for everything!!!

May 1935

I’m so stupid sometimes. I was telling Jim that I was applying and hoping to get into my summer college program thing, and I was all making plans, telling Jim he should come visit me, stay in my dorm room. But he said, “Darling, I leave on June 6th.” I was like... “leave? You’re going? To where?” He said, “To Peru! What did you think I was doing all that stuff for?” I guess he’s been planning to continue his journey. And I guess he’s really going to do it. So I said, “I’m just... never going see you again?” He said, “Let’s just have fun while we can.”

May 1935

I asked Jim what he had to do to get ready for his trip to Peru. He said, “Not a lot, really. As a rule, I don’t allow myself to bring too much with me— the more I carry, the more slowed down I become. I have only a few possessions, but unlimited contact with the outside world while I’m…on the road, so to speak. I just wander every day. And then I keep on wandering from there.” So.. he’ll just go away. To Peru and then… to who-knows-where. The other side of the country? The other side of the world? My mind can't process it. That he’s really going to be... gone. Just gone.

June 1935

Jim had his going-away party with me tonight. He’s so incredible... When he was telling his stories, I could practically forget...everything... That we only had forty-eight hours left... That I don't know what comes next... That I can’t live without him. Then, he dedicated the last story...to me. And I couldn’t take it. I was out on the curb in the alley, sobbing till my ribs hurt. I would follow him anywhere. But I can’t, not where he’s going. After a long time he found me. He said he was sorry. He said, “I wish things could be different. I just wanted to make you happy.” I said, “I don’t think you can anymore.”

June 1935

We agreed our last night together would be our happiest ever, and we’d forget tomorrow was going to come at all. It worked for a while— We had a good time seeing Gabriel off, then ran up to the attic to look through our photos, to find one for Jim to take with him...and looking at them, I realized they were all in the past, and there wouldn’t be any more, and I didn’t know what I was going to do, and I cried, and he held me. He said he knew it was hard, but life would move on. I said I didn’t want my life to keep moving without him. That’s when he cried too. I was so exhausted, I must have fallen asleep like that, in his arms. In the morning, I woke up, and I was finally alone. I thought I found my happily ever after, but it was all a dream. I have to get out of here. I want to disappear. But where would I go? This is all a bad dream. This is all a bad dream. This is all a bad dream.

Darling,

Meet me at our secret place in Wakeforte Park. You know where. I need to see you one last time before I go to Peru. From there, I’ll go to Greece to make myself worthy of you. Be assured, my darling, it is you I want, and not your family. Please, do not do anything we will regret. Just in case I’m held up and can’t get away to meet you in time or something, I will leave a message for you with your sister so she can give it to you. It’s a puzzle, a sort of belated birthday gift for you. In that puzzle, you’ll have to visit both yours and my favorite locations in Switzerland. In each location lies a clue that I had written on the wall of the building exterior. The clues, when put together, will point to you the location of your gift. I thought it was a neat idea. I like vexing your brain, because when you are thinking real hard, like when you’re trying to capture the perfect shot or drawing the perfect subject, you are more beautiful than anything in the world. You’re always drawing in that sketchbook, looking so intense. While I’m gone, you can keep busy by looking for what I hid. Start by using this piece of paper to mark where all the rock pictures are. They will tell you what to do next. Your favorite flowers, start keeping them in mind too. Find my hidden treasure, darling. It’ll explain everything better than I could before.

Your friend,

Jim

June 1935

Dear Miss Skeffington,

After carefully reviewing your application, we regret to inform you that we are not offering you admission to Roski School of Art and Design. We realize that this decision may come as a real disappointment. We also hope that you will understand the decision as a reflection only of the extraordinary talent represented in our applicant pool, not a judgment about your own abilities. This year’s pool of applicants was the largest and most accomplished we’ve ever received, making our decision very difficult. Although we’d like to extend admission to all our applicants, we have limited space in each admitted class. Of the more than 19,000 individuals who applied to Roski School of Art and Design, most are fully capable of doing successful work and making a unique contribution to the Californian community. It is painful to us that we must turn away so many superbly talented students. You may be tempted to ask what was lacking in your application. In truth, it is usually difficult for us to point to obvious weaknesses, when so many applicants have demonstrated real achievement and potential for the future. Our decisions say far more about the small number of spaces available and the difficult choices we make than they do about a candidate’s personal and academic promise. While regretting that we were not able to respond positively to your interest in Roski School of Art and Design, we want to wish you every success in your educational pursuits. Experience suggests that regardless of our decisions, most of our candidates will be welcomed by other outstanding colleges. We acknowledge the time and energy put into your application and congratulate you on your academic accomplishments. We invite you to reapply in the future and extend our best wishes for the coming year.

Best regards,

Roski College Admissions Team

All that hard work was for nothing?! No way! I can't stay here! I can't be stuck here in New York with Mother!

June 1935

Jim is gone, and I can’t stop reminiscing on the time I spent with him. It all happened so fast. I was outside in the park reading when Jim appeared out of nowhere (again). He said “hello” and I started telling him how I actually enjoyed the book and how I never read the same book twice in my life.

“Well, I’ve come to entertain you. I’ll read aloud, and you can listen. I do love to read aloud.”

“I’d rather just talk, if you don’t mind.”

“But this is German romantic philosophy! We throw off all our constraints and come to know ourselves through insight and experience. But it got out of fashion now.”

“Not in the Skeffington family, I’m afraid. It’s just that there comes much emphasis on perfecting oneself.”

“Ah! This gives you a problem?”

“I’m hopelessly flawed.”

“If only we could be ourselves without perfection, like your poet, Walt Whitman, who rides up and down the streets of Broadway all day shouting poetry against the roar of the carts. ‘Keep your silent woods, O nature. Your quiet places by the woods. Give me the streets of Manhattan.’ I think we are all hopelessly flawed. Oh, no. I love to talk, too. Very well. Let’s talk.”

Ten minutes later we were passing Bess’ Bakery. Home of the world famous Belgian waffles. “You’d find no better waffles than in Belgium itself,” said Jim.

There was also a gym across the diner. Fanny hated those kinds of places because they were teeming with creeps. I found my own POI: a bookstore! It was weird seeing a bookstore and a gym standing side by side though. At the end of the tour I finally got to taste that sweet Belgian waffle Jim worshipped. I miss Bess’ Bakery. Fanny never shut up about its doughnuts when we were children. The doughnut shop was her MUST GO TO place. Personally, I enjoyed the blancmange we’d get at another little shop. It was soft, so it would slide down easily. So tasty. But the doughnuts DID taste sweet. Just like Jim’s heart. Each bite was another memory to savor. But just like a doughnut, it had an expiration date. It turned cold and bitter. I miss its warmth. I miss its sweetness. I need it. I need to eat it up.

Why? Because after all those months, I just can’t forget about what used to be the light of my life. (I know. Overdramatic, much?) Resonating with Jim as much as I did is bound to leave that big chunk of residue. Let’s just say this diary is what’s left of our relationship. I miss him. Even when I’m with him. I see him. Even when he is not looking. As the time we spent together grew longer, one question kept on growing with it. What does the ME in Jim’s eyes look like? Does he see me as I see him? Does he see me as I see myself? Does he see me as I want him to? Things were so much easier back then. Jim could just say, “Hello”, and I would say “Hello”. Nothing but spending time together after that, with the occasional visit to Wakeforte Park. We had such a good thing going.

Every time I was around Jim, my head spun faster than a tornado. I didn’t “get” Jim sometimes. Like, his walk and his talk and everything were all “anti-authority,” but he said he was in JROTC and did drills in perfect formation, following orders, no question. He went to join the Army and had to lie about his age, about who he was. He said, “they didn’t need to know what they didn’t need to know,” like it was no big deal. This coming from the man who punched a man so hard the poor bastard was knocked out cold to defend my honor... I learned when to stop arguing though. I don't think Jim “gets” Jim sometimes. The person I saw depended on who he was talking to and what he wanted. He could be everything from invincible to vulnerable, albeit with a new story of each new situation. He had an infinite number of childhoods. His parents were happy, divorced, fighting, abusive, or dead. His father had been a banker, a road digger, a burglar, or unemployed. His mother had been a drunk, a politician, a Sally-home-baker, or a tart. He was an only child, the last of eight, brought up in a foster home or the heir to a fortune. Part of me wanted to walk away, but I was the only one he could tolerate. Why? Because I never asked to see behind his ever-changing disguise. Inside that body was a kid, a kid locked in at some emotional age far younger than his forty-something exterior. I’ll never know what happened to him but, whatever it was, it just stopped his development at that age. It was a one-way friendship, I knew that, but he needed someone.

July 1935

At night when I kneel to say my prayers I rest my elbows on the hope chest Uncle Fred gave me for my eleventh birthday. “We’re going to make a family someday, just you and me,” you’d said. Inside that chest are our dreams, Jim. I’m keeping them safe on my end, so you do your part over there and we’ll be right as rain soon enough. Moving on won't be easy but as long as I keep myself busy it won't be that hard. As for my weekend plan... I’ll just improvise in the morning. Write you later!

“Doesn’t it feel odd to have the rooms back? And only asked to sit in them. I suppose we’ll get used to it.”

“I don’t want to get used to it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know what it is to travel now. To walk around for a full day, to be tired in a good way. I don’t want to start dress fittings or paying calls or standing behind the guns.”

“But how does one escape all that?”

“I don’t know yet. Oh, Fanny, truly I don’t know if I could ever be good like Father. I rather crave violence. But I’m not dreaming of hitting anybody. I’m just unhappy.”

"Then you’d better have your tea while it’s hot.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said before. You’re not just as shitty as them. It’s just that I feel very lonely and overwhelmed. But I love you. I’m just unhappy, indeed,” you sniffed. “If only I could do like Father did and go to war and stand up to the lions of injustice.”

“And so Mother does in her own way. And Uncle George, with his charities.”

“Yes. But I want to do something different! I don’t know what it is yet, but I’m on the watch for it.”

“You’ll find it. And thanks for the apology, sis. I know it isn’t ideal living in this house… But I’m here for you, no matter what.”

“No matter what, huh? Let’s both go back to bed, Fanny. I’m tired.”

“Sure. Goodnight.”

July 1935

Let’s see, Dad. I hope your dear friend can help a girl out. Come on Corporal Mark Pearce, I’m counting on you. Ahem. ‘Dear Miss Skeffington, my dear, I remember your father well and am forever in debt to his many sacrifices in the name of freedom. He was a frank man, so you’ll forgive me for being frank when I say that he'd have a conniption if he knew I put his sweet girl in the line of duty.’ W-what? Fa-Father would be proud of me! I’ve had more conniptions in my first twelve years of life than Father has had in his entire lifetime! Oh, well. No point in having one over the first rejection. If at first you don’t succeed, try again. Back to the drawing board.

July 1935

Aha, the WASPs! Boy, I’d like to slip into the cockpit of a Twin Beech! ‘Thank you for your interest in the Women’s Airforce Service Pilots. Unfortunately, all of our WASPS must be at least 21 years of age, at least five feet and two inches tall, in good health, in possession of a pilot’s license and 500 hours of flight time. Our records show you do not meet all of these requirements.’ Well, that’s just FOOLISH! I’m a fast learner and… Oh. No use crying over spilled milk! Once more unto the breach!

August 1935

From the office of Harold Perkins. Oh yes, the fellow from the local recruiting office. Surely they’ll have something for me to do overseas. ‘Dear Miss Skeffington, We appreciate your numerous requests to be placed in the field, but believe me when I say the most action you’ll see is from behind a desk.’ Excuse me? ‘I’m sure you’re a top notch typist, so why don’t you come down to the Boston—’ Typing? I wonder what an itchy trigger finger would do to a girl’s word-per-minute. Oh, cheer up! Miss Skeffington, you’ll get there yet. No point in being all down in the mouth. Mother might begin to suspect something. She almost did at dinner. “Tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk. You’ve barely touched your plate, my love. Go on, have some more,” she said. She’s got a point. My body needs the vitality for action.

August 1935

To trust yourself when all doubt. To lead from a danger only you can see clearly. To explain enable the blind to see. To give people the power to hear the extraordinary in the ordinary, the everyday and normal encryption of the spoken word. To show them the messages and conversations that happen all around us to different levels of the brain. That’s quite the challenge. That’s quite the challenge when, until you can prove it, they will think you mad and threaten you with the consequences that come to the insane. To speak and risk the twisting of the knaves of sophistry. That is what they ask. Last time I complied I almost died. I almost lost everything for nothing. So, tell me again why, tell me why this is the time, because even if it is now or never, I won’t act unless I can win. I know more than most what these adventures into the world of the saviors costs...and the cost is never to myself alone. You know what? I do trust myself. I do. It’s every other bastard out there I don’t trust. This is a world of monsters. So many monsters.

Those bastards. Kraut…bastards. You don’t belong over there. I do! When I find that gun I’m going over there and there will be hell to pay! Oh, for Heaven’s sake, where is that gun? Now, Dad, don’t you fret. I’ll find that gun lickity split. No soldier worth his salt ought to carry those shoddy government-issued pistols. Plastic handles? Pshaw! Give me checkered walnut any day. Practice, practice, practice. I don’t need fancy tools to disassemble a gun. See the cartridge here as a screwdriver. Just like Uncle George showed me. Next time, we should get a stopwatch and have some fun.

September 1935

Women’s Army Auxiliary Corp, you’re my last hope. ‘Dear Miss Skeffington, thank you for your enthusiasm. While we are always eager for more Women’s Army Auxilary Corp, we are unable to offer you—’ …malarky! Fine. Let’s see what I can do at home. At the very, VERY least. I won’t— I won’t be deterred. Perhaps I could appeal again to Mark. He might listen to reason.

September 1935

Here it is, my last shot. Come on. ‘Dear Miss Skeffington, I’m not sure what you mean by being “ready and able” to fight. You’re five foot nothing, and a hundred and ten pounds soaking wet. How could you ever hold your own against a German brute? Think about holding down the fort instead. Think of the good you can do with a victory garden and a can drive. I’m sure a nice girl like you could certainly help out at the…women’s club bake sales downtown…’ Why won’t anyone give me a goddamn chance?

September 1935

I haven’t really been in a good mood since this morning. I got a letter at breakfast, but I didn’t have time to read it or even see who it was from since my schedule for the whole morning was filled. I left it in my dresser drawer to read later, and didn’t think much of it. It was midday by the time I got back. I’ve tried to lose myself in my art, but I’m not feeling it. Maybe it’s because Mother and I argued this morning? Probably not. We’ve clashed before. I’ve known for a long time we value different things. I just couldn’t stand Mother’s preaching attitude so I yelled back at her. I know I shouldn’t have done that but I’m so frustrated. She said that I’m not trying hard enough. What does that mean? I pressed her to keep talking, but she wouldn’t tell me anything after that. Is it because the Orwood girls teased me? I doubt it. They don’t know me. They’re just taking their issues out on someone. As awful as this morning was, this afternoon is looking up! Jim has written to me, and he’s coming to New York - more specifically, to Charles Street! Thanks to me, he heard about Mother’s advertisement for a new chauffeur that was put in the paper. Also thanks to me, the position still hasn’t been filled. Fingers crossed neither of us fall at the last hurdle and Jim gets the job!

Miss Skeffington,

It seems my luck has finally turned around. I received a phone call from the Silver Star Line, and it turns out I won a trip…to New York. I’ll be boarding the flagship Silver Star next week, and will soon be crossing the ocean to come see you. Or rather, your mother for a job interview. Hang tight, I’ll be on my way in no time. I can’t wait to see the look on your face when you see me!

Your friend,

Jim Masters

“Mr. Masters calling on Mrs. Skeffington. He’s here for an interview.”

“Oh, for the chauffeur position. Of course. Won’t you come in, Mr. Masters?”

“Thank you, I will. Hello, Mrs. Skeffington.”

“Hello. Let Clinton take your coat.”

“Thank you.”

“Let’s have some tea. How many lumps?”

“Uh…two, please.”

“Well, Mr. Masters, now do tell me all about yourself. Of course, I know all about your school and how you ran away to join the army. But before that, what?”

“Well, I used to live in San Francisco with my parents—”

“San Franscisco? My cousin, George, lives around there. I went to California when I stayed with him, you know.”

“Really? When?”

“During my pregnancy. Of course, at the time, I didn’t know it would be twin girls.” The mere mention of it brought forth a memory to the forefront of Fanny’s mind. A memory of Job. She tried to think of something or someone else but, once it began to play out, she couldn’t stop it.

“You’re laughing at me again. I suppose I’m just as fond of children as anybody else. Well, it’s just that... It’s just that babies grow up, and everybody expects you to grow up with them.”

“You’re not afraid of growing old, are you, Fanny?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Well, babies stay young for quite a long time.”

“Other people’s babies, never your own. Do I look puffy yet?”

“You look beautiful, Fanny.”

“I don’t know why. My face is all tear-stained.”

“Just enough to be becoming.”

“Well, I wanted to keep on crying, but I didn’t have the strength. You see, the sedative the doctor gave me made me very drowsy. Job, George is going to California in a week. I want to go with him and have my baby there.”

“You don’t want to have your baby in this house?”

“No.”

“But, Fanny, you love this house so much. Why, when we were married, you made me give up my home and live here.”

“Of course I love this house, but it’s too close to my friends. Soon, I’ll be all swollen and puffy and ugly. I don’t want anybody to see me like that. I couldn’t bear it. I won’t have them see me all swollen and ugly.”

“You’ll never be ugly, Fanny. And I don’t care how swollen you look. Fanny, a woman is beautiful when she’s loved. And only then.”

“Nonsense. A woman is beautiful if she has eight hours' sleep and goes to the beauty parlor every day. And bone structure has a lot to do with it too.”

“But I’m so busy in New York, and California is a six-day train trip. I won’t be able to see you very often.”

“I’ll write you every week, Job.”

“Fanny, that’s not the point. I want to be near you.”

“I’m so sleepy.”

“All right, Fanny. You can go to California if you want to. Fanny, aren’t you really happy about having...?”

Wanting to dispel the visions of Job and his sad, brown puppy dog eyes from both her mind and her sight, she quickly changed the subject back to what it was before. “Did you and your parents get on?”

“Yes, we got on very well. I’m an only child and, after my father died, I started to work for my mother as a sort of companion. Oh! And what a nervous, fidgety soul she was, too. Well, anyway, my mother had rheumatism, and the doctor thought, baths. Oh-ho, not that she hadn’t got baths. She had a very nice one in her house. Did you go to the baths while you were in California, Mrs. Skeffington? I mean, for your rheumatism.”

“I haven’t got rheumatism.”

“Oh, neither have I, but, you see, I figured baths wouldn't do me any harm, that is to say, while I was there. But I’ve always wanted to go to Europe. Not for the baths, of course, not at all, but for my writing. It's so good for writers. You see, my mother— Oh, but you don’t know my mother. What were you going to say, Mrs. Skeffington?”

“I wasn’t going to say anything. And I’m not Mrs. Skeffington. Not really. My husband and I divorced years ago, but I still go by his name.”

“I see. Well, Mrs. Skeffington… How are you getting along without him?”

“Oh, fine, fine, once I got used to it.”

“And your daughters?”

“You know, my daughters are... Well, they’re all right.”

“But they could be better?”

Around thirty or so minutes later, Jim emerged from your father’s office. You had been loitering outside, pretending to keep busy with drawing in your sketchbook so the servants wouldn’t question or bother you.

“How did it go? What did she say?”

“Your mother asked if I would like to be the chauffeur. She said your last driver wants to spend more time with his grandchildren, and is planning to retire. I have by the end of this week to decide.”

“And?”

“It’s a good opportunity. I’d get a raise in salary and I’d get to travel around the country. I think I’ll say yes.”

November 1935

It’s been almost two months since Jim first began driving for us. Instead of getting a taxi, Jim drives me. I know how to drive, I have my license, but this is one of the few times we can be together. Though we planned this scheme together, and I recommended him for the job under false pretenses so Mother would be none the wiser, it still feels strange that he’s the chauffeur and is technically below me. Social status serves as an invisible barrier between us when we’re in the company of others. As he’s driving, we talk freely as we always do whenever we’re alone together. I’ve been opening up more to him, telling him about the struggles I’ve been faced with, my rocky relationship with Mother, how I really dislike the confines and limitations of high New York society. I expressed that, despite having a successful art career, I felt empty and tired. Jim said that he wished he could do more to comfort me, since I’m going through so much right now. Sometimes, he will give me some suggestions when I ask what I should do. Other times, I just want someone to listen to me. Mostly, I am just happy to be with him. If only we could confess to everyone how much respect we have for each other, how much we admire each other. We’ve confessed to each other every opportunity we get, in different ways. I wish we didn’t have to hide, but keeping our friendship in secret will have to be enough for now.

“Hey, look, who’s taking you to dinner tonight?”

“Jeremy Clarkson.”

“Well, couldn'’t you speak to him?”

“I guess I could.”

“And who’s driving you to town tomorrow?”

“Matthew Jones.”

“Well, couldn’t I speak to him?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“And who’s taking you to dinner tomorrow night?”

“Brenda Jenkins. But nobody has to speak to her. We don’t like each other, so she probably won’t want me there, either. She was probably pressured into sending me an invite.”

“In that case, would you like to have dinner with me?”

“Oh, I’d be delighted.”

“Shall we go to the Waldorf?”

“Not the Waldorf. That’s where I’m not having lunch with Brenda Jenkins and her friends.”

November 1935

I told Mother and Uncle George that I was going to a double feature with Ann Lemp and that I wouldn’t be home till the morning. That’s only the half-truth. I did go to a double feature, but it wasn’t with Ann. Only Fanny knows who I was with. Afterwards, Jim and I crashed at a nearby motel. There was only one bed to sleep on, so we shared it. We kept our clothes on, only taking off our shoes and jackets so we’d be comfortable. He slept on top of the covers while I laid under them. The lights went out... I was turned toward him... My eyes started to adjust, and then I could see he was looking at me, too. In the dark, he smiled. My heart was beating so fast. I rolled over, I felt so... I don’t know, nervous? After a minute he put his arm around me and turned me back to face him, and he was so close, and whispered in my ear, “I really do love you, you know. In a way I thought I’d never love again.” I just nodded my head and I really hope he could tell. I really hope...that he meant what I think he did.

“Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in.”

“Oh, Fanny! It’s only you. You startled me.”

“How was the double feature?”

“It was good, though I don’t remember most of either film, to be honest. We got distracted.”

“It’s past lunch time. You must be starved.”

“What makes you think I didn’t have any dinner or breakfast?”

“Well, you were out with Jim Masters. If you got potato chips, you were lucky. I saved you some leftovers. Turkey leg’s in the kitchen. If you’re hungry.”

“It’s beautiful. Can’t be Manby’s work. It’s too neatly arranged.”

“Manby did the cooking. I did the assembly.”

“Thanks. Mother very much worried?”

“No. I told her you’d be a little late because you had gone to Selena’s to do some shopping this morning. You called while she was out, and since it’s Sunday and the servants’ day off, I answered the phone.”

“I don’t understand. Why did you lie?”

“Mostly from force of habit. Although I did rather gather that Mother wouldn’t be too pleased if she knew that you were out with Jim.”

“I see. I can understand Mother’s attitude, though. You can’t grow very fond of a daughter you’re always trying to keep on a leash and out of trouble. She keeps herself separated from the servants, always strictly professional and impersonal. She expects the same of us. She doesn’t know Jim the way I do.”

“Of course not.”

“You saved this food for me, and you lied for me, and you like Jim. You sure nobody’s home?”

“Nobody.”

November 1935

A week passed since my movie night with Jim. Fanny and I were looking out my second story bedroom window at Jim, who was out on the driveway, working on one of the cars.

“There he is. Fanny, stand back a little. Well, I'm glad he's a man. Certainly would like to know a man for a change and have a little fun.”

“Don’t let Mother hear you say such things.”

“Hello! Good afternoon!” Jim called up to you, raising his arm to wave at you.

“That dreadful man, he waved back.”

“You’re every bit as bad as he is.”

“I know. I wonder how I could get to know him. I wish we had a dog or a cat, and it would get lost and he’d bring it back, then we’d get to talking...”

“I don’t think that’s very romantic.”

“Who said anything about romance? I’m going to go down. I’m going to talk to him.”

“And if Janie Clarkson or one of her friends catches you? What will they think? Stopping to talk with the chauffeur.”

“I don’t care. Anyway, Janie and her friends weren’t very friendly to Jim. They wouldn’t even say ‘good afternoon’ or ‘hello’ to him whenever they saw him when they passed by our house.”

When I came out the front door and walked down the driveway to meet Jim, he was wiping his hands off with a cloth.

“Miss Skeffington. Why do you sit at your window looking out at me when I’m working on the driveway or in the garage?”

“It’s my family’s property, and I can look out as much as I like.”

“I saw you. I waved to you, but you didn’t wave back.”

“I was embarrassed you caught me. It's rude of me, I know, but you always seem to be having such a good time. When I watch you work on cars, it’s like looking at a picture and I want to commit it to memory. I wish you could come inside. Then you’d be a part of the picture. But Mother mightn’t approve. She doesn’t believe Fanny or I should be too friendly or overly familiar with the staff. How muscular your arms are when you roll up your sleeves, your skin glistening with sweat from the summer sun as you comb your hair back from your forehead with your fingers while you pop the hood of a car to tinker with an engine…”

“Miss Skeffington.”

“Oh no. Did I say that last part out loud?”

“You did.”

“I’m sorry. My mouth has run away with me again.”

“No, Miss Skeffington. It’s your mouth that has me hypnotized.”

“Watching you just reminds me of when we were in Europe. You asked me to see a wrestling match with you and stay over at your friend's place in the city after. That was a lie-to-Mom-and-Dad situation. But it was sooooo worth it. The men in the arena were just so big and muscular and sweaty, and everybody was moving together like one intricate dance. Between two matches you leaned over and said, ‘how do you like your first wrestling match?’ I was so happy I felt tears starting in my eyes, and then you up and hugged me. I think you could tell I was crying.”

“I could, but I didn’t want to say anything and ruin the moment.”

“Sometimes you just have to lie to Mom and Dad, just like we did last week. You know, I’m going to tell you something. Everybody in this neighborhood likes you, except for Mother and her followers.”

“Isn’t your mother and her followers practically everybody?”

“Exactly my point. In fact, there’s a popular front against you. Mother formed it last night, and it’s made up of her circle of so-called friends, lovers, and their envious wives.”

“Guess I deserve it.”

“I don’t know about that. Maybe you do and maybe you don’t. But I don’t feel the way Mother does. If you ask me, I think you’re all right.”

“Do you?”

“I’ve always had a lot of fun talking to you. You know, you’re not such an ogre after all, no matter what they say.”

“In fact, I have a couple good qualities if you look deep.”

“You certainly do. You’re very understanding and you like Fanny and Dad. That definitely shows a lot of character. I wouldn’t be surprised if we became more than good friends after a while.”

I’ve felt like a shook-up can of nerves ever since. I hope we have a chance to talk again before I explode.

December 1935

Mother wasn’t home, something about doing some Christmas shopping, so Jim made an excuse and came into the house today. He came into my room and said he had a note for me from Fanny, just something to get past Soames. I told Soames I could manage from there and dismissed him, and then Jim and I were left alone. But everything was...different. He was sitting at my desk chair while I sat on my bed. He wouldn't look at me. Finally I asked him what was going on. He said he felt like he’d done something wrong that night in the city, that I must think... But I said no, there was nothing wrong. I just wanted to say... But I couldn’t find the words. I felt like I was going to cry, but I wasn't sad. He got up and sat next to me on the window seat. I looked at him. “Jim... do you...think...you could ever...” And that’s when he kissed me. A kiss should be the simplest thing in the world. Not this gentle stirring, like wind through the underside of leaves, inexorable as the glacier grinding behind us. So hot and yet it doesn’t scorch. No, with every breath, with every touch, his kiss carves.

January 1936

It’s different now. I mean, we still see each other all the time like before. But now when no one else is around...well, you know. So you COULD say we’re dating. But it’s secret. Secret dating? I don’t know. I mean I guess that’s the real difference: Now, when we get off the phone, or go home for the night...or it’s just quiet and we’re alone...we say, “I love you.”

March 1936

Mother’s birthday is next Thursday, the 12th. Instead of celebrating on the day, she’s hosting a birthday ball at the house this Saturday. Probably to ensure she’ll have the largest turnout possible. She’s invited everyone, even me and Fanny. Weird that she sent for us so she could tell us this HERSELF instead of having Soames, Clinton, or Manby do it for her. Even weirder is that she wants either of us there. Surely she wouldn’t want us, reminders of Father, to be there? I was expecting her to ask us to go to the theater again or make some other excuse to get us out of the house so that we wouldn’t take any attention off of her. Heaven forbid one of us talks to a man for more than five minutes while she’s in the same room. We’re her daughters, yet we’re seen as competition to her. Normally whenever she sent for us, she recited the same script along the lines of, “I wanted to explain to you and your sister, Fanny... l’m giving a dinner party on Thursday for some very old friends of mine. And I’m sure it would be a frightful bore for both of you. You understand? Why don’t the two of you go to the theater? I hear there are some very good plays now.” and we’d take that as our cue to make ourselves scarce. We’d always say, “Oh, yes. Yes, of course we do. All right, Mother.” After all, I reasoned that Mother, who considered herself a very sensible woman, was soon going to have a fiftieth birthday, and on reaching so conspicuous, so sobering landmark in one's life, what more natural than to hark back and rummage, and what more inevitable, directly one rummaged, than to come across Father? Perhaps it was the highly unpleasant birthday looming so close that set her off in these serious directions.

“Good morning, Mother.”

“Good morning, girls. Come in. What sweet dresses.”

“Oh, thank you.”

“You don’t think, perhaps, they’re a little old for you?”

“You sent for us, Mother?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, I wanted to explain to you, girls...l’m giving a birthday ball on Saturday for myself and some very close friends of mine. And I’d like you and your sister to attend.”

“Would you really, Mother?”

“Yes, very much. A lot of my friends have sons and daughters that are around your age. It’d do you both some good to mingle a little, make friends. Do you understand?”

“Yes, of course we do.”

“Mother, do I really have to go? There’ll be all those people,” you asked, your voice laced with anxiety.

“Oh, it would hurt my feelings if you stay in your room or go elsewhere. Besides, dear, you must learn not to be afraid of people.”

March 1936

St. Mary’s is an old school and very well respected. Though Mother didn’t care for it. She wouldn’t, even if it was where Georgia O’Keeffe herself learned to paint. I teach nice young ladies to paint. What could be more respectable? I only kept it a secret because I knew she’d be angry and/or disappointed. She found out about it the same afternoon as Uncle George, so she thought my contempt for them both was at least consistent. But I don’t have contempt for anyone. “George, why didn’t you stop her?” she asked, to which he asked in return, “Me? What could I have done?” It doesn’t seem to bother Uncle George that I teach at the school, or Fanny. Mother tried to tell me that the people in charge at the school feel sorry for me, that’s all. She’s wrong. Not everyone is as cruel and mean-spirited as her. I said as much. “Is it cruel to mind it when you stamp on our name and drag it in the mud? Now, get out of my way!” she huffed, and stormed off. Neither I nor Uncle George made a move to stop her. She just needed time to cool off and get used to the idea. I suppose in any other circumstance, I’d have to drop it. But I won’t. I’ve given my word to the headmistress, and I’m not going to break it. Things may be uncomfortable, but so what? I won’t be put in a cage! Soames came in and asked if everything was all right. He heard our shouting, which is unusual in this house. It... It was unusual, yes. But every now and then, I wonder if it isn’t good to shout a little and let off steam.

“Masters, when you’ve finished unloading, run down to the school and remind my daughter that we expect her here for dinner. And tell her I mean it. Really. She’s working herself to death like a canary in a coal mine.”

“I think she enjoys it though.”

Fanny turned around to put him in his place. “Please tell her to come home in time to change.”

Jim nodded grimly and returned to the car.

“I can’t possibly come! Really, Mother is incorrigible!”

“It’s not poor Masters’ fault.”

“But what is the point of Mother’s soirees? What are they for?”

“Well, I’m going out for dinner tonight and I’m glad. Is that wrong?”

The sudden act of courtesy was enough to leave me frozen. But to think of it, a self-conscious beauty queen like her would love showing off how ‘tolerant' she could be. I learned that very often the most intolerant and narrow-minded people are the ones who congratulate themselves on their tolerance and open-mindedness. I’d prefer celebrating quietly with her in her room, but since the party is practically being held for her and she is my mother, I thought it would be somewhat rude of me to not be there. Maybe I can use this birthday party as an opportunity to sneak away out the back door and spend more time with Jim. He has been nothing but sweet on me since Mother hired him, so the least I could do is show up, make my rounds of saying hello and exchanging pleasantries and engaging in idle chitchat with a few of the guests, then make my move. It’s not like anyone would miss me. I know Mother especially wouldn’t. Maybe…just maybe I could even piss Mother off if I manage to strike conversation with Jim. A Skeffington spending the entire evening with the chauffeur? Mother would be beside herself, fuming about how I mess up her ecosystem. No peer pressure, Miss Skeffington. Just clean drinks and hopefully some casual talk with Jim. What could possibly go wrong?

You finished your hair as Fanny entered.

“Mother said you were honoring us with your presence at dinner.”

“It’s easier there in the school. And I can always get changed back into my painting clothes if I need to. This stuck-up thing. Oh, dear. It shows.”

“I don’t know what you’re going to do.”

“I’ll blend it right in. I can do it with just a few strokes of the brush. Splendid. I’ll stick to every chair in the place.”

“I thought if I pinned this bow over it—”

“A bow? There?”

“I’m sorry, darling, but you’ll just have to sit on it.”

“Sit all evening?”

“You could stand if you’d keep your back to the wall.”

“You’d better hurry, girls,” your mother said as she came in to check on you. “Guests are arriving.”

“Oh... Oh, how I hate to be elegant.”

“Oh, how I detest rude, unladylike girls.”

“And I hate affected, niminy-piminy chits.”

“Oh, the dress is lovely, darling. Just lovely.”

“Oh, thank you, Mother, for letting me wear your velvet and pearls.”

“They’re old, but you’re young and very pretty.”

“Oh, thank you, Mother. Well, my shoes are too tight, and I have nineteen hairpins sticking in my hair and a curling iron burn mark on the back of my dress, and I feel dreadful.”

“Where are your gloves?”

“Here. They’re stained with lemonade. I don’t think I’d better wear them.”

“Why, you must. You can tell a lady by her gloves.”

“Not this lady.”

“A lady barehanded? You have to have gloves. You can’t dance without them.”

“Ha! I can’t dance and keep a back to the wall anyway. I’ll crumple them up in my hand.”

“At least wear one of my nice ones and carry one of your ruined ones.”

“Oh, all right.”

“Don’t stretch it. Your hands are bigger than mine. Don’t eat too much. Wait until you’re asked. Don’t be afraid, darling. Have you and Fanny got clean handkerchiefs? And don’t put your hands behind your back or stare. Don’t stride about or swear. Don’t use slang words, darling. Vulgarity is no substitute for wit, and wit is very fashionable at the moment.”

“All right.”

“And please don’t talk about Europe all the time. And especially don’t mention Cascade. You’ll embarrass me and yourself.”

Though she didn’t bring it up by name, I could tell she was referring to that infamous dinner party, when my unpleasant characteristics became especially evident, where I, unknowingly to myself, embarrassed her by singing and playing badly. I was only a child then, and was regarded as the plain-looking sister. Though much more sensible than my mother, I was still considered to be very silly by her peers. Despite the fact that my father was studious and once described as the most accomplished in the neighborhood, I lacked genius and taste.

“And stop whistling. It’s so boyish.”

“That’s why I do it.”

“I just want to make things easier for you.”

“For me or for you?”

“Don’t disappoint me, darling. Not now that you’re here.”

“Not to worry, Mother. I’ll be prim as a dish. Let’s be elegant or die!”

“Oh, so boyish.”

“Mother, you’re perfect.”

“Oh, thank you, darling. And you. Aren’t you the pretty one? Walk toward me, darling, that I may appraise you. Go on. Walk to me. Stand up straight. Turn around. Shh. Mm, yes. Oh, it’s quite as I expected,” she said. “You know, you’re very tall for your age.”

“Really? But, Mother, I’m nearly... Well, yes, perhaps I am.”

She placed her hand under your chin to cup your face. “You possess a woman's chin. Skin is a little dull. Have you not noticed? Observe her mouth, Fanny. And as for you, darling, now that you turn up your hair, you should realize you’re a young lady. My daughter...a woman. She’s beautiful, isn’t she? She’s going to be a stunning woman, don’t you think, Fanny?”

“Yes, she’s going to be.”

“I’m not! And if turning up my hair makes me one, I’ll wear it down or in two tails till I’m ninety. I won’t grow up and be Miss Skeffington. I won’t wear long gowns and look like a China aster. Oh, I’ll never get over my disappointment of not being a boy, and look at me! I’m dying to go and fight like Father did in the last war. Fine soldier I’d make. And here I am sitting and knitting like a poky old woman.”

“Knitting. Bless me. Poor you. Almost a lady. You must spend less time with the neighbor boys, and more time with me.”

You’ll never guess who I bumped into as I left the party that night. Oh, Fanny, it was meant to be. It was so perfect. There I was, weeping on the terrace, and there he was, Jim. He waited outside so he could give me some time without going too far.

Jim heard heels clicking on the garage floor and glanced up from the car engine. He did a double take as he saw you in your evening gown. You tilted your head shyly, waiting for him to say something. It was the first time you wore a dress since you were a baby.

“Don’t you dare laugh.”

“You look very fine.”

“Everything I own is trousers and shorts. Too boyish, according to Mother. Usually if I have to wear a dress or a skirt, Fanny lends me something. Mother lent me this dress from her season before the previous war. It’s very old, but she wants me to try to wear it out. If you ask me, it’s already there. Yards of fabric and I still feel naked.”

Jim continued to check you out.

“Where have you been all day?”

“Nowhere. I’ve just been busy.”

“I thought you were avoiding me.”

Jim walked purposefully forward. “Of course not.”

“But you haven’t come up with an answer yet, have you?”

Jim ducked his head and stared at the floor. “Not yet, I’m afraid. I know you want to see the world and play your part in its troubles, and I respect that, but… I have a lot weighing on my mind, and I need to sort it out before I can make a decision about us just yet. It won’t be long until I give you an answer. So, will you wait?”

“I’d wait forever.”

“I’m not asking for forever. Just a few more weeks. Darling, there’s something you should kn—”

“I’ve been thinking about us lately. Of course, I don’t want Mother to know that I deserted her so quickly so, if anybody’s around, you don’t mind if I act sort of cool and distant? To keep up appearances. Do you know how it is?”

“I certainly do. I understand perfectly.”

“Why are you smiling? I thought you’d be angry.”

“Because that’s the first time you’ve ever spoken about ‘us’.” Jim smiled with a sigh of relief and leaned forward to kiss you, but you held back.

“Yes, you can kiss me, but that is all until everything is settled.”

“For now, God knows, it’s enough that I can kiss you. The rest will be worth waiting for.”

You smiled at his reply and shared a kiss.

“In the meantime, you act as snippy as you like toward me so your mother and everyone else will think the front is still on.”

“Good. We’ll just act as if we never had that talk or shared that kiss. You know what I mean?”

“I know what you mean.”

“This can be good enough for us. It has to be good enough for us. I envy you. I feel so flat after the rush and bustle of the last two or three years. They were all sighing for the old days at dinner, but all I could do was think about how I wish everything could’ve gone back to the way it was in Europe, about how much more I want from life now than I did then. I wish I knew how an engine worked, for example.”

“I can teach you, if you like. But it’s very late. I think you’d better go back inside now, sweetheart.”

“Oh, please. Please, I can’t go back inside. It's dull as tombs in there. This is by far the most boring party I’ve been to in the last seven or eight years. Every time I go to one of these, l ask myself: What the hell am I doing here? I hate cocktail and dinner parties and all the schmoozers that come here.”

“Well, it’s a chance for all those people who admire your work to meet you.”

“No one gives a damn about art. All they care about is how much money they're gonna make out of it. They’re here for Mother and only Mother.”

“Are you sure it’s not too chilly for you out here?”

“Oh, no, I’m quite comfortable, thank you.”

“Does your mother know you’re here?”

“No.”

“Won’t she and the others worry?”

“They’re all so excited, they won’t care where I am. Come on, let’s have a drink! All the excitement of this whole thing has made me thirsty, so I brought a little pick-me-up. Shall we have a nightcap?” You pulled out the bottle you had stashed and hid underneath your dress skirts. Dresses could have their usefulness, you supposed.

“Scotch, neat as usual?”

“No. Bourbon.”

“Okay! But you know what your doctor would say...”

“Yeah... Well, he can kiss my ass! I’m old enough to choose my own medication.” Forsaking a glass, you took a small sip straight from the bottle, not caring how unladylike it looked, and then passed it to Jim as you leaned against the hood of the car together. You looked up towards the night sky from the open garage door.

“Why the fuck did I come back here?”

“Here?” Jim was, of course, referring to the garage and looked around. “To…drink?” He took a drink and handed you the bottle back.

“Back to New York.” You took another sip. “I spent the first twelve years of my life trying to get out of this place. And I succeeded. I should’ve stayed in Guatemala even after that school program ended. Sure, they got volcanoes and kudamundis everywhere…”

“What’s a kudamundi?”

“It’s like a little raccoon thing. They get into shit. People hate them.”

Jim took a swig when you passed the bottle. Instead of passing it back, he held onto it. “So is that what drove you back to New York? Kudamundis? Up in your shit?”

“No. It was the unrest in Germany. Dad thought maybe Fanny and I’d better come back here to Mother. We wrote her we were coming, from Berlin. But she never received the letters. I guess the censors must have confiscated them. We wrote her what we thought about the Nazis.”

“The Nazis. Yes, of course. Did your father come with you? I haven’t seen him, so I did wonder…”

“No. He’s still in Berlin. The Nazis don’t frighten him, but they frighten us, so...”

“So here you both are.”

“Here we are. It’s not at all the way I pictured it. It’s been done over, hasn’t it? Fanny and I were the last people Mother was expecting to see. Fanny…” you grabbed the bottle from him and took a long swig. “She’s the good one. When we were twelve, she got this binder where she planned out her whole life, and I swear to God, she’s going to stick to it. Bullet point by bullet point. Job, husband, house, kid. And when one sister is so on top of her game, it almost demands the other become a fuck-up, right?”

“What is ying without yang?”

“That’s how I see it. In Europe, she was off, doing life. And I was doing…something else. Backpacking, mostly. Surfing couches. Bumming around.”

“You did good getting off that boat when you did. St. Louis is dull as dishwater.”

“Jim, do you ever think of the old days there in Wakeforte Park?”

“Now and then, in the shower or in the car.”

“I felt quite at home there. More than I do here. Even back in New York, Fanny and I… We’re still like we were when we were kids. She will invite me places every once in a while. For the big events. Wedding. Baby shower. I’ll always say, ‘Sorry, sis. I’ll get the next one.’ But I never attend any of them. Too awkward. Too ashamed.” You took another swig. “I came back for Dad, and I’m staying for Dad. It’s weird living in someone else’s shadow. When the light shines on your life for the first time, it doesn’t look too good. Here I am. Nearing twenty. No roots anywhere. Except New York. So I figure I’ll make something of myself. I apply for college, hoping I can enroll somewhere to get a degree, then I tried to enlist in the war effort by applying to every branch and organization that accepts women... I wanted to do something my dad would be proud of… but I got rejected by all of them…” You trailed off and nearly fell asleep on your feet. Jim had to steady you before you collided face-first with the concrete floor of the garage.

“Um... You probably had enough to drink for tonight. A bit too much. My darling, you must be very weary to have drank so much. I’ll get you some water, help you to your room…”

“No, I can’t go to bed. Not yet.”

“You must, darling. I brought you a gift.”

“A gift?” His words had your attention for about three seconds, but you turned towards the sound of the front door opening. “There’s Mother and Manby now. Must be time for cake and presents. I better get out of here.”

“Let me walk you to the door at least.”

“It’s not that far. I can make it. Goodnight, Jim.”

“Goodnight.” He then stopped you for a moment so he could whisper in your ear, “And I give you leave to look in at me whenever you like.”

After you went inside with your mother, Manby walked towards Jim with a raised eyebrow. “I guess that irresistible charm of yours didn’t work on Miss Skeffington.”

“I’m saving it for you, Manby.”

March 1936

Oh, man… everything’s gone wrong! All my senses are screaming in pain. I don’t even remember drinking that much booze! Am I really such a lightweight? I had a tray sent to my room and slept in, but the pain only escalated the moment I came down after breakfast and Jim asked me, “Are you feeling okay?” No, I was not okay, and WHY IS JIM ASKING ME THIS? Did I do something to him?? It’s so unfair how because he’s a man and his body is built differently, he has a higher tolerance for alcohol than I do. He drank more than I did, but isn’t affected by it at all! According to Jim, I went from being quiet to crazy-happy and cute (his words, not mine) real quick. I was so close to being the center of the party that he had to bring me back to my room when Mother asked him to. We went upstairs to my bedroom and I wanted to wait it out, to make my triumphant return to Jim after Mother’s friends had left and everyone had retired for the night and fallen asleep. But my body had other plans, because I fell asleep minutes after my head hit the pillow. I didn’t even bother to change out of Mother’s dress and pearls. Why can’t I remember any of this??? Congrats, Miss Skeffington! You’ve reached a new low in life! Shit, is this how I die? I sincerely asked Jim if there was a good place to kill myself before I died of embarrassment. He said, “Maybe now would be a good time to show you my other secret hideout. Consider it an early birthday present,” since I passed the test by showing the whole room of Mother’s admirers and “friends” a different me. Is he seriously going to take me to another secret hideout of his?? I’m going to the Red Fern Gardens, the so-called most romantic place in New York with Jim (according to him). There’s something in my head that’s keeping me awake. And it’s not the hangover.

March 1936

Oh my god! Jim actually took me to the Red Fern Gardens. The hideout he mentioned was on a hill and had a wonderful view of the city. The whole place under the golden sunset. The best part of this spot was that it is quite hidden and unsafe. You could easily roll down the hill if you are careless or drunk, and no one could find you for days (how awesome is that?). Luckily, enough time had passed and most of the Bourbon had left our systems. I could tell the worst of its effects had worn off, but I still felt a lingering tingle or warmth in my blood. But being drunk in that wonderful moment didn't cause any accident, though. We sat there for less than an hour but it felt like an eternity. I can't even remember what we talked about. I do remember, saying how beautiful The Red Fern Gardens are and Jim being all indifferent about it. I guess you can get fed up with views like this too. There’s a motel nearby, so we have decided to make it our secret hideout from now on. That’ll turn it from something ordinary to something really special. Mother is uninterested in me, which should keep Jim and I safe. She won’t ever know that we are secretly meeting.

Today’s only regret is that I failed to bring the true essence of the Red Fern Gardens back with me (Photography can only capture so much. There’s so much more that can be seen with the human eye). At least the close up shot of Jim was not half as bad. When I came back down from the hill, it became clear that my life just became a bit more messed up now. I know because I really want to talk to Jim again soon. I know I promised myself to stay away from people, stay away from the drama. But when I look at Jim, when he talks to me, it feels like, maybe, just maybe it’s okay to have a little drama for myself. I'm not ready to define what this feeling is, but for now, I’m going to label it as ‘looking for a hand to hold' and just shove it under my bed just like the pictures I took. Help me get to sleep quickly today, Diary.

March 1936

Mother passed the crisis last night. Manby called Henri’s Beauty Salon to get Mother everything she’d… ”need”. He’s very familiar with Mother’s hair, so he’s made wigs for her. He’s also given her a face pack, muscle oil, wrinkle cream, tissue builder, massage cream, eyelashes, and astringent. She’s home now. She looks so…so…different.

“That must be Mother now.”

“Welcome home, Mrs. Skeffington.”

“Thank you, Clinton.”

“Darlings. Fanny, dear.”

“Hello, Mother.”

“Georgie, I had no idea that you were here. You know, it's heavenly to be back home again. Manby, shouldn't you go and see that the luggage is taken care of?”

“Yes, Mrs. Skeffington.”

“Georgie. This is such an unexpected pleasure.”

“Fanny, my dear.”

“Welcome home, Mother.”

“Thank you.”

“We’ll have some tea, Mother.”

“Oh, I think that would be delightful. Oh, this looks so cheerful after that depressing rest home.”

“Notice how Fanny arranged the flowers?”

“Oh, how sweet of you, Fanny. They’re perfectly lovely.”

“Sit here, Mother. Let me help you with your coat.”

“All right. You know, I’m not really such an invalid. Well, wasn’t it just like me to contract a child’s disease? Georgie, I look dreadful, don’t I?”

“Fanny, you could never look anything but adorable.”

“You’re lying. I know perfectly well how I look. But after a few weeks' rest I’ll be quite recovered.”

“Of course you will.”

“Henri saved my life. I don’t know what I would have done without him. He’s so clever. Of course, here I am, chattering on about myself. Fanny, what have you been doing?”

“Oh, nothing very much, Mother.”

“Have you seen Johnny Mitchell?”

“Yes, I’ve seen him.”

“How is he?”

“Oh, he’s just fine.”

“And what are you up to, darling?”

“Nothing much. Drawing and photographing. I don’t have time to get up to anything else.”

“Only, Fanny and I were talking about you. You know, the other day.”

“Oh?”

Your sister looked at you, just as caught off-guard as you were. She hadn’t spoken to your mother once throughout her illness. From across the couch, she looked at you with wide confused eyes and mouthed, “I didn’t say anything.”

“Yes, you see, sometimes in war, one can make friendships that aren’t quite…appropriate. And can be awkward, you know, later on. I mean, we’ve all done it. I just want you to be on your guard.”

“Appropriate for whom?”

“Well, don’t jump down my throat, dear. I’m only offering friendly advice.”

“Darling, I never said anything to Mother, honestly.”

“I believe you, Fanny. How could you have done? She didn’t want any visitors. But why did she suddenly start talking about inappropriate friendships out of nowhere? Could she be hallucinating?”

“She thinks you must have a beau, and if we don’t know about him, then you have to be keeping him secret. It’s just Mother being Mother. Don’t make such a thing of it.”

“Fanny, you know how Mother is not exactly... super open-minded about things. It feels like every minute I don’t spend with Jim, I spend worrying about her finding out about us. And what would happen if she did...”

April 1936

I don’t get it. Why would Mother suddenly forbid me to be around Jim? Is it because he’s not rich? Or because of our age difference? Is that why she also forbade us from seeing each other? Mother is so judgmental and hypocritical! She doesn’t want me to be near Jim, saying that I should find someone who is closer to my age and of the same class as me. What does that even mean?? Who determines what class Jim is in? Did she find out about us? Does she know we’re in love? Did she talk to her friends? Did those odious women say something to her and get into her head? Jim didn’t say anything to me about it. Maybe he doesn’t love me anymore? Or maybe he doesn’t know about what Mother said yet? I feel so confused.

I’m not too young. You’re just jealous and angry. You’re so accustomed to hogging all the men, but now that they’ve all left you with no thought to return, you can’t stand seeing me happy and in love with a man of my own choosing. If you can’t have a man who loves you, I can’t either, Mother? Is that it? This is all your fault. Everything. You're a heartless bitch. You STOLE my only friend from me, my place in this world, ALL of it. And you don’t even care. I’m invisible to you. I fucking HATE you. You’re not talented! You’re not special! You wasted your life away, and then came out of nowhere, suddenly decided you wanted to try your hand at parenting and ruined EVERYTHING! FUCK OFF FUCK OFF FUCK OFF FUCK OFF FUCK OFF FUCK OFF FUCK OFF!!! Get the fuck out of my life, you puffy, over-perfumed PRIMADONNA!!

I hate Mother for trying to stop me from seeing Jim. And I hate her even more for going so far as to drag John into it. John doesn’t deserve to be mixed up in this mess that she’s created. None of us do. She must be out of her damn mind if she thinks I’ll ever walk down the aisle or say “I do”. My engagement with John is just for show. I know it, John knows it, Jim knows it, and Mother knows it. When I mentioned to Jim that she seems to be really bothered by the name Nan or Nancy, he tensed up. I could tell by the way his hands gripped the steering wheel and flexed. When I asked if he knew her, he told me he did, and that he’d tell me about her and about himself, but not now, not in the car. It’s a conversation that requires the both of us sitting down. I let the subject drop for now. Nothing he could tell me could stop me from loving him.

Jim was there. He’s always been there. When you cut your knee from falling out of a tree, when you sobbed at night in a room you didn’t recognize, and when…you kissed him in the garage during her birthday party. You had no interest in men whatsoever and suddenly now you’re staying out late into the wee hours of the morning with a man more than twice your age?? That moment, Fanny got tired of doing nothing. You were in trouble. Jim was not for you. She didn’t know how to explain it, but…his presence here added to his enchantment. Somehow you thought your father’s charm glowed in him. It wasn’t George’s fault, but his stamp of approval was on Jim. If he stayed here, you’d run off with him, she was sure. And then he’d do to you just what he did to his first wife. Somewhere out there, there was Nan, Fanny thought, another woman who felt like she did that day she discovered Job’s infidelity with his secretaries. Nan was young and stupid when she married Jim and when she divorced him. It happens. She’s not the first girl to have been taken in by words that evaporated as soon as they were said, but it still hurt Fanny to see you, her daughter, potentially put yourself in the same situation. Did you even know about his past? Could you even begin to comprehend what life was like for Nan and those four girls after he scooted off? Jim was the cause of that woman's anguish. What do you—

She was sure you were headed for the same misery even now she couldn’t bring myself to describe, and you would assuredly wind up with a broken heart yourself because of him if you carried on as you’ve been doing. Fanny knew she couldn’t prevent that and, if Jim were to break your heart, you might not be as strong to cope with it as Nan was. But if your heart was to be broken, it wouldn't be because of her. She’d do the pleading now with Jim. If he really loved you like he said he did, he had to leave. Leave, and never come back. Only then you would know your place. It was looking more and more like George might’ve been right. She had to invite Jim herself. As you and Manby were downstairs in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on a meal that you would undoubtedly take most of the credit for, Fanny knew she had to make the best of it. You were all going to have a wonderful dinner, and you would appreciate what she had done, even if you didn't know the half of it.

“Masters— that is, Jim... I must see you. Will you come to the house tonight? You needn’t stay but ten minutes. I must talk to you.”

“Anything wrong, Mrs. Skeffington?”

“Maybe. I don’t know yet. Could you come over for dinner tonight?”

“Whose invitation? Yours or your daughter’s?”

“Mine this time. Say, seven o’clock?”

“All right.”

“Good.”

As soon as Jim set the phone down, he heard a knock at the door. Who could that be? It couldn’t possibly be you, and you were the only person he would’ve expected. When he looked into the peephole, he was taken aback and took several steps backward. What was she doing here? He hadn’t seen her since… He thought that maybe if he didn’t answer, she would go away. But when she continued her persistent knocking after a few minutes of silence, he was proven wrong. It seemed that she would wait him out, no matter how long it took. Having no other possible escape route and no other choice, he took a deep breath and braced himself before opening the door.

“Hello, Jim.” She stepped past him into the room. Jim said nothing as she looked around, only stared at her in silent astonishment, disbelieving that she of all people was really there. “You’re awfully quiet, which is so unlike you. Don't you recognize me, Jim? Look hard. Look into my eyes. You called them the most beautiful you'd ever seen once, a long time ago.”

“I’m afraid you’re making a mistake.”

“No, Jim.”

“My name is—”

“Don’t pretend. I know who you are.”

“And who am I?”

“You’re Jim Masters, My ex-husband.”

“Your ex-husband? My dear woman, Perhaps if you’ll tell me who you’re looking for…”

“Oh, stop it. I saw the picture In the newspaper announcing Miss Skeffington’s engagement to Sir John Talbot. But I couldn’t help but notice you in the background, looking at the couple, or more specifically, her, your eyes filled with jealousy and longing and…something else I dare not name.”

“Nan. What are you doing here? You’re an awfully long way from California if you’ve only come to see me.”

“I had to come to see if it was true. It is.”

“What are you talking about? What’s true?”

“I can’t explain it. I only know it’s happened.”

“What’s happened? Nan, what are you implying?”

“You’re going to marry someone else, and leave her, just like the way you left me.”

“Oh, Nan. Nan. You misunderstand. We’re not—”

“Jim, it’s wrong. You can’t go on hurting people.”

“Nan—”

“I can’t let you marry her, Jim.”

“Nan! Would you just listen to me for a second? I know what you must be thinking but, as I said before, you misunderstand. Miss Skeffington and I aren’t getting married. Not anytime soon, at least.”

“You’re not? But you love her.”

“Yes. And she loves me.”

“And you want to be with her.”

“Yes. And she wants to be with me.”

“So, what do you have in mind?”

“Nan, this is hardly the time and place—”

“No. You must have something in mind. Otherwise you would not be conspiring to run away with her.”

“How do you know about that? Who told you?”

“Nobody. I just know you, Jim. It’s the kind of person you are. Flighty, running away from responsibilities… So what will you do to make a living? Do you think you’ll go on ringing doorbells trying to sell streamline refusCans and she will wait till you’ve scraped enough pennies together so you can be married?”

“If you must know, yes, we do have a plan. I’ve got a job on a paper. I’m a journalist now, but I’m not a fool. I’ve got brains. I could go into business. She could pursue her art career and work on commissions, sell sketches and paintings for money. She could have everything she wanted.”

“Young men’s talk. Oh, you would still want to give her those things. But you don’t know Mrs. Skeffington if you think she’d let you do it.”

“Of course she wouldn’t want me to run away with her daughter. Would you, if you were in her shoes?”

“No.”

“I’ll stay here at the inn until she’s ready to make her departure. I don’t want to cause her unnecessary stress by pressuring her to get a move on. She has important matters to attend to involving her family and Sir John Talbot. Loose ends to tie up.”

“Loose ends to tie up or ties to sever?”

“Nan, don’t be cruel. You can insult me all you want, I know I deserve it and more after everything I put you through. But don’t insult Miss Skeffington’s intelligence and independence by insinuating that she has no idea what she’s getting herself into. She may not be very book smart, but she’s an emotionally intelligent woman who can make up her own mind. She’s not a mindless doll to be molded into what I want her to be, only to get thrown away as soon as I get bored of her. I’m many things, I’ll admit it, but I’m not her puppetmaster, stringing her along and playing with her feelings. I’m not manipulating her thoughts or actions in any way, shape, or form. She knew very well the risks of carrying on with me. It took a long time, but eventually we built trust between each other and finally there came a day when I felt I could tell her everything. So I did. About you, about our daughters, about what my lifestyle has been for the past twenty years, what a life with me would truly entail. The good, the bad, and the ugly. I urged her to think through the implications, and I gave her all the time she needed. She listened intently the entire time. She thought about it long and hard and, in the end, she realized the pros far outweighed the cons. She’s made her choice. I did nothing to sway her one way or the other. So don’t for a second imply that I’m forcing her to give up her family. If they want to cut her off, that’s their decision. It’s not her doing, it’s not her fault. Nor is it mine. I know nothing I can say can convince you of my sincerity. To you, I’m a monster. But to her, and to myself, I’m a man. I’m just a man who’s in love and who is loved in return. Everything I feel for her, and everything she feels for me, is genuine. As soon as she comes to me, as soon as she lets me know she’s ready, we’ll go.”

“Go where?”

“I don’t know yet. Anywhere. It doesn’t matter. We’ll figure that out when we get there. The point is, we’ll be together.”

“So she’ll live with you? Unmarried?”

“Sure, why not? Nan, we’re not in the 1920’s anymore. The world has changed. People have changed. Many unmarried couples live together nowadays and nobody bats an eye at them. It’s much more practical, and not just from a financial standpoint. Don’t go clutching your pearls and acting aghast as if it’s too scandalous of a prospect. Many couples do it now as a sort of compatibility test, to see if they can actually stand living together before marriage. I’d never do anything to jeopardize Miss Skeffington’s reputation or put a black mark on her.”

“But this plan of yours… The worst of it is, you’d never know her disappointment. She’d never reproach you by a word or a look. But you’d always know what you’ve done to her life and so would she.”

“Well, let’s look at the other side of the picture, Nan. You say I can’t be with her. I’ll get over that, I suppose. But what about her? She gets excited about all my crazy dreams, but what happens to her dreams?”

“Well, you can run away if you want to. But listen, Jim. You couldn’t make her or anybody else happy. Do you know why? Because there’s only one thing in this world you’re good at. And that’s making people miserable.”

“Ahh. Don’t give me any of that paper cover philosophy. You listen to me. I quit selling whale’s teeth because of her. I wear ties because of her. I watch my English because of her. Well, look, I even went to work because of her. She has reformed me, and I’m not giving her up. Thank you for coming, Nan. Though I wish your visit had been under different circumstances, it’s good to see you. And thanks for all the things you didn’t say. You might’ve pointed out the beautifully poetic justice of a man deserting his family twenty years ago and being deserted by them in turn. Or you might’ve thrown together a few matsims, sins cast upon the waters, coming home to roost. Or you might merely have reminded me this is my past catching up with me. A final accounting. A case of delayed bookkeeping. You might’ve said all these things. But you didn’t. I don’t know if my prayers get much attention in Heaven, but they’re not just for Miss Skeffington. Of course, I thank God every day for how He made her, but I still have prayers for you and Sam, and the girls and their families. But I think it’s best you leave now. As much as I’d love to stay to chat and reminisce on our shared past and what we used to be, I have an engagement this evening.”

“What sort of engagement?”

“I have been invited to dinner by Mrs. Skeffington. Goodbye, Nan. I’ll give your regards to Chief Mahabu when Miss Skeffington and I are on the other side of the world.”

Instead of driving to the Skeffington residence, Jim instead opted to walk there. It wasn’t very far from the hotel, and Nan’s unexpected visit, though he wouldn’t go so far as to say she was right in her arguments, had still managed to shake him up. Though he hated to admit it, he was having second thoughts and could use the air to clear his head. But while he was walking, he could see a group of women up ahead, a circle of friends no doubt gossiping amongst themselves as he passed by them. Janie Clarkson was among them, and she had her legs crossed and was tapping her fingers on the armrest of the porch swing she was sitting on. Her hair was even neater than usual and her dress was new. She looked up from her magazine, smiling in that tense way she did when she was about to vent. She put her magazine down gently and smiled just the same way she did for her friends. They never knew the difference, but Jim did.  “Did you hear about Rodger?” she began, her attempt to keep things light already waning.  “Oh, no. What about him?” Mrs. Ridgefield took another sip of her coffee, trying not to lose all of her lipstick on the rim. “He got his PhD last week, he called me, all excited. Those three letters just mean he wasted three years of his life and is massively in debt.” Then, despite the rising tension in her voice, she snickered. “What a fool, eh?” Mrs. Ridgefield pursed her lips. She'd known Rodger a good deal longer than Janie and he'd always been a sweetheart. Not her type, but as far as friends went, he was a keeper.

With no other alternate route available to him to avoid the women, Jim squared his shoulders and kept walking forward towards the Skeffington residence, straight into Janie’s line of sight. As expected, as soon as she and her friends noticed him, she, though she didn’t greet him with so much as a “hello” or “good evening”, changed the subject to him. She was none too subtle as she purposefully spoke at a volume that let Jim know she wanted him to hear her conversation.

“Look, Gladys, Sir John Talbot is being announced.”

“He would be punctual.”

“That’s his car. Isn’t it a beauty?”

“It looks paid for. I’d still like a white horse.”

“Gee, Vera, an open car. It will muss Miss Skeffington’s hair up every which way.”

“No, it won’t. If she’s sensible, she’ll wear a scarf.”

“Well, what do you think of that man of hers? Miss Skeffington’s friend who's coming for dinner, Mr. Masters?”

“I’ve heard about him.”

“You have? I see. And have you reached a verdict?”

“Yes, I have. I think— Never mind. I’ll be quiet again.”

“I don’t like the way my color looks plain. Has anybody got a bright red lipstick? Mine’s grown anemic.”

“Here, I believe this is for the lips. Make yourself beautiful for Alan.”

“Oh, I didn’t think of that. Maybe I better blacken out a couple of teeth. Now what do you think of him?”

“We all know what to think of him. The problem is how to get rid of him.”

“Why? Is he staying? Say, Fanny isn’t going soft on him, is she?”

“I don’t think so. She didn’t say a word about doing such a thing.”

“But Fanny must be planning to accept him, make him one of the family.”

“You’re talking nonsense. Miss Skeffington is engaged to Sir John Talbot.”

“Do you think Mr. Masters is interested in her too?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Instinct.”

“Fanny’s also got it into her head that he’s interested in her daughter.”

“Mr. Masters seems to like her enormously. I think he may be, but I question his motives. He hasn’t been here for a while, has he?”

“No, he hasn’t.”

“And I know why.”

“Are you going to enlighten us?”

“She must be planning to dissolve her daughter’s engagement to Sir John in favor of Mr. Masters.”

“I’m not so sure. Miss Skeffington is determined on a love match for herself. She wants to be happy. But Fanny has big dreams for her daughter. If she was going to dissolve the engagement, why announce it tonight all of a sudden? She would never put Masters in the class with Sir John Talbot. She will be a very rich young woman with him. If I was in Fanny’s shoes, I would have felt very guilty selling Miss Skeffington to that Masters. She deserves better than a fortune hunter. Or shouldn’t I say that?”

“You can say it to us.”

“And if anyone plans to marry her for money, he’ll need much more to offer than Jim Masters.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I know his kind like a book. He’s the ‘I-sold-papers-when-I was-a-kid-now-look-at-me’, type. I’ve got Miss Skeffington’s type neatly cataloged, too. Any bets? At any birthday party, she’s the sort that always piped up with: ‘I-never-had-a-birthday party-or-got-a-present’. Isn’t that right?”

“From what I can find out, he must be a fine one. It was a pity he backed off when Fanny had that trouble with her illness.”

“Maybe he thought she’d be too busy to bother with him.”

“You mean he wasn’t sure she’d survive the scandal.”

“Why? What’s he done?”

“I heard he has a daughter by his former maid that he refuses to provide for. Sent the maid and the child away to fend for themselves and live off scraps before the girl even popped.”

“Who?”

“That Masters.”

“Ha! I didn’t know the old fusspot had a child. Was it really born out of wedlock?”

“Mm, that’s not true. You’re talking nonsense. That’s quite enough on the subject.”

“You really think Sir John Talbot is worthy of all this here fuss?”

“Why sure he is, honey-child. Sir John Talbot has got money and lots of it. What Fanny wanted when she married was butlers like the Rawlings, with servants to order around. Now she wants the same for her daughter.”

“Then why allow another man in the house? I know the choice of husbands is eccentric in that family. They already claimed a Jew and soon they can boast a chauffeur, but even so—”

“Did anyone notice his eyes? They’re rather nice. Blue.”

“What are you doing? Defending him? Give me a piece of tissue.”

“Just because I happened to say he had nice eyes. Read your history. Some of the foulest people had the nicest eyes.”

“Well, I noticed them. They’re only fair.”

“Besides, they’re not blue. They’re brown.”

“Well, you’re crazy. They’re blue—”

“Oh, why are you always—”

“Now wait a minute. We’re not getting any place. What we need is a plan in case he intends staying.”

“Why does he stay? A man who’s wandered around the world all his life. You’ve got too much powder.”

“Whether he plans to stay or not, we’ve got to get rid of that-that indescribable monster as soon as possible.”

“Right.”

“Now wait a minute. I’m still not trying to defend him, but after all, I don’t think we ought to call him an indescribable monster. We don’t really know him.”

“All right. If you want me to, I’ll describe him. But the hair will be blue.”

“I dislike him just as much as you all do, but didn’t he fight in the last war?”

“First he ran away from his family.”

“That's the bravest thing I’ve ever heard of.”

“They couldn’t trace him anywhere. When they did find him, he was in an army hospital, wounded. He’d joined up under another name and lied about his age.”

“How perfectly splendid.”

“All right. That entitles him to one more night’s lodging. That better?”

“Much better.”

“But if you ask me, he’s got to go.”

“We don’t need a definite plan. All we’ve got to do is show him that he’s not wanted. We’ll freeze him out.”

“Freeze him out? Not with a man who’s been to Siberia.”

“It’s agreed then. We’re to keep the popular front against him ongoing, with or without Fanny. And nobody weakens.”

“Nobody. Gladys?”

“Nobody.”

“And in case anybody does begin to feel sorry for him, remember our motto: He shall not pass.”

“Well, I should be off.”

Jim entered the drawing room purposefully. Everyone stared.

“Yes?”

You tensed in anticipation.

Jim looked at your mother. “I’m here.”

Your mother got up and walked over to Jim. “I don’t think this is such a good idea. We mustn’t worry Manby.”

“You’ve asked me to come, and I’ve come.”

“Would someone please tell me what is going on, or have we all stepped through the looking glass?”

“Your maid has as much right to know as anybody else.”

“Why don’t I find that reassuring?”

“Miss Skeffington. How well you look.”

“Er, John. This is Masters, our chauffeur. Masters, this is Sir John Talbot.”

“Hello, Sir John.”

“Hello, Mr. Masters. Miss Skeffington never told me you were coming.”

“I didn’t know he was.”

“Well, the thing is, I was driving down from Rye and I suddenly realized I’d be passing the neighborhood.”

“What were you doing in Rye?”

“Oh, I was doing various car things.”

“I see. How do you know Miss Skeffington, sir?”

“Well, I don’t. Not really. But, uh, I want to. Very much.”

“We cannot always have what we want,” your mother mumbled.

“Oh, Mother, John, Masters is teasing. You know, before he was our chauffeur, Masters was our neighbor.”

“Or at least, my grandfather was. I was saying to Miss Skeffington, we should all see more of each other.”

“Maybe. Have you brought a dinner jacket?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you were very well-equipped to do your ‘car things’ in Rye.”

As John and Jim talked amongst each other, you went over to your mother and pulled her aside, speaking in a hushed tone so the men wouldn’t hear. “Did you plan this?”

“I might have said if he was coming from Rye, then he’d be driving quite close.”

“Rye is an hour or more from here. Don’t think I’m amused. I dislike my hand being forced.”

“No one’s forcing anything.”

“Just send John away! As quick as you can. For all our sakes.”

Instead, she then turned towards Jim and John, and raised her voice to grab their attention. “Now you’re here, Sir John, I hope you’ll stay the night at least.”

“Perhaps John is in a hurry to get home.”

“No, no, I’m not.”

“It’s settled then. Clinton, will you please tell Manby to set up a room for Sir John and to set a place for Masters at the table? He’ll be joining us for dinner tonight. And ask someone to unpack for Sir John.”

“Don’t tell me that Manby is the cook again tonight, Mrs. Skeffington.”

“Indeed, and why not?”

“Well, I think it’s time that I tried Miss Skeffington’s cooking.”

“Don’t worry, you will. Well, shall we sit down?” you said. Once John and Jim went into the dining room, you turned to your mother and hissed under your breath through gritted teeth, “This is so precisely not the way to win me over!”

Dinner that evening was an uneventful and uncomfortable affair. Nobody remembered anything about it except that time seemed to slow down to an unbearable slog. It was so unbearable that you, sick and tired of putting on the pretense, snapped. Whatever you said didn’t matter. What mattered was that you openly displayed your frustration as you threw down your silverware with a loud, metallic clatter and abruptly scooted your chair back. It made an irritating squeak against the fine wooden flooring as you threw your napkin on your plate and left, retreating to your room. Your plate was barely touched but your wine glass was emptied. You were so stressed that you had no appetite and were afraid that eating more than three bites would cause you to be sick and throw it all back up.

#Jim Masters x reader #mr Skeffington #now voyager #wolf man #claude rains #bette davis #x reader #daughters courageous #crossover au #crossover fic #crossover #pls tag me if you’re inspired by this #I’d love to read it

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free-for-all-fics · 7 days

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So… Turns out I wrote waaaaaay more than I thought because what I was hoping would be only a 3-part fic at most turned into 7 parts due to post limits. Whoops? Anyway, hope you Claude Rains fans enjoy this crossover fic. If you’re inspired by it at all pls tag me and I’d love to read it! 1/7 💜📸📝

Warnings: Harsh language, intense anger issues, bullying, time-period sexism, religion and antisemitism mentions, violence, age-gap romance (you’re in your 20’s, the Claude character is in his 40’s) Fanny Skeffington bashing and strained/tense mother-daughter relationship (in the context of the story, you’ll see.)

“I’m very happy, Fanny. How about you?”

“Well, at the moment, I'm more surprised than happy.”

“Don't you like children?”

“No. They always seem to be so wise.”

“Well, I think any child of ours has a fair chance of being stupid, Fanny.”

On April 16, 1916, Mrs. Frances “Fanny” Skeffington unexpectedly gave birth to twin girls, you and your sister, Fanny. When you were born, you screamed like your body was rebelling against your existence - as if you’d arrived in a world that made no sense at all. When you were very little, one thing ever upset you and brought tears to your eyes: When your father went away. While either of you were awake, Job would never leave your sister or yourself for more than an hour or two. But being a Skeffington meant he had duties to perform. As much as he missed his daughters when he was away, especially if it was for days at a time, and would have loved to have taken you and your sister with him on various business trips, even he had to admit that it was no place for children and, sometimes, you and your sister were better off staying in the safety and warmth of the house on Charles Street. You seemed to disagree most days. Temper tantrums were inevitably bound to happen, especially in very young children. Job knew this. You were so little, you just didn’t know how to regulate your very confusing emotions yet. Job didn’t think much of it back then. But there was one day where it was especially bad.

You, your father’s darling daughter, were sat in the middle of your nursery. Your small face was red and scrunched up in displeasure. Tears were streaming down your cheeks and onto the carpeted floor below. It was half past seven o’clock in the evening. You were supposed to be put down for bedtime thirty minutes ago, but nothing seemed to work. When it was bedtime, Fanny usually fell asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow. But you were usually a bit fussy and didn’t want to sleep. You wanted more food, you wanted to play, you wanted to be held, you wanted something. The nanny put you in your crib like always, but you just tossed and turned, rolling this way and that until you kicked off your blankets, like always. You used the wooden bars to support yourself and stand up. You couldn’t climb over and out, so you just stood there, watching and waiting. The nanny tried everything she could think of, but you were determined to stay awake. So she brought in your father for help. Maybe you wanted him. He picked you up and lifted you out of your crib and, after holding and rocking you for a few minutes, placed you on the floor. It made your father’s heart hurt to see you this way, but nothing he said or did seemed to console you.

“I’ll be back very soon, my darling,” he cooed from where he was crouched in front of you, brushing back some of your baby hairs from your forehead. “It’s only for a short time. Then I’ll be back.”

Though you were little more than a baby at the time and couldn’t possibly comprehend what he was saying, it was almost as if you didn’t believe him. After a short pause, you leaned back and inhaled, and then let out a great wail of anguish.

Your father winced. “Please, sweetheart.” He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket to wipe your tears, but you turned your head every which way, hating the feeling of the soft cloth on your sticky, wet face. Job snatched a cushion off the nearest chair and threw it on the floor on the other side of the short-legged tea-table before lowering himself to the floor, sitting squarely opposite you. He moved quickly and quietly, sweeping you onto his lap and crossing his legs, allowing you to rest easily on his thighs, and gaze up at him. “It’s all right. No need for such tears!”

“Mr. Skeffington, I can fetch the nanny,” Manby said from her place by the door in a small voice. No doubt, she didn’t think it was suitable for him to be on the floor, holding a wet and weeping child.

“Nonsense. She’s my daughter, I can handle—”

His words were cut short by another wail, one so loud he doubted it even came from you. Was such a thing even possible? You were so small, and the voice was so loud… Suddenly, Fanny, his wife, swept into the room. Manby, still stood by the door, bowed her head in a polite nod to acknowledge her Mistress’ appearance. Fanny caught Job’s eye and, upon seeing him on the floor, frowned slightly. Clearly, it wasn’t just the household staff that thought the image of the Master on the floor of the nursery was an interesting one.

“I wondered what had happened to detain you,” your mother said slowly, making her way into the room.

“Apologies,” he replied, raising his voice slightly to be heard over you who, on seeing your mother, had begun to squirm and cry even louder than before. He turned his attention back to you. “There’s no need for that, my love,” he huffed, a sound halfway between amusement and a sigh. “As you can see, I was preoccupied,” he continued, bouncing his legs slightly, mimicking the flap of butterfly wings, hoping that the action might’ve pleased you and gave you a respite from your tears. It didn’t as, once again without warning, you let out another wail.

“What in all the world has happened to warrant such tears!” your mother asked your father with wide eyes.

Still bouncing his legs, Job explained, “I made to leave.”

Your mother didn’t understand, but Manby understood immediately. Job looked down at you with a small and sad smile, before raising his head towards the door. “You can go ahead and leave us, Fanny. Inform Mr. and Mrs. Malloy that I will not be at the dinner this evening.”

“Well… If you’re certain, Job.”

“I am. I’m sure Chester and Freddie won’t mind if I don’t come along.”

Fanny exited the nursery, Manby following and closing the door behind her, leaving just you and your father alone, the nanny not having been called. You sat in silence for a moment, your father watching as you sniffled and looked up at him with your large, wide eyes. Your face was still damp with tears and the color in your cheeks had dulled to a flushed, rosy pink. You were seemingly much calmer now, as if you heard the door click shut and had the keen awareness that your father had given in and opted to stay with you after all.

Suddenly, Job let his relieved smile, that he had stifled in your mother’s presence, show. He leaned forward to run his hand down your face. You finally let him brush away the drying tears and, while he was at it, he took the opportunity to also brush back your hair, trying to tame the wild strands that were messy and poking up in every direction. “Well, darling, looks like it’s just you and me tonight. I’ll tell you a secret: I didn’t want to go to that dinner party anyway. I’m sure Chester and Freddie will be pleased. Come on, sweetheart. Come on,” he said, somewhat gleefully. He picked you up like you were expecting but, to your disappointment, he laid you back down in your crib and covered you with the blanket. You were about to pout and fuss again, but his voice stopped you. “Darling?” your father asked carefully, “Would you like to see something? Something special?”

Another thing that you had in common with your father: A burning curiosity. You nodded furiously, and Job smiled. You watched, enthralled, as your father held a mobile in his two pale hands out in front of himself. He hung it up over your crib. It was beautiful, with butterflies of all kinds, all painted beautiful shades of blue, green, and purple. The light from your room illuminated it in a way reminiscent of the moon as it reflected off the spinning mobile. You watched in awe as the small butterflies began to move and fly out in all different directions. You laughed and wriggled, before reaching out your hands in the direction of the butterflies, as if to grab them. But you had no luck in reaching them, they were too high up.

“Dada!” you whined suddenly, dropping your hands in defeat.

Job froze, as did the nanny who had come in to check on you.

“Dada! Dada!”

The nanny raised her head to Mr. Skeffington, intent on sharing a surprised look, but instead, she noticed his eyes had filled, and he looked ready to cry, and yet he was smiling.

Nine years after your birth, your chubby little baby face had developed into a beautiful little girl. In your mother’s words, your sister, Fanny, inherited all of your father’s brains and none of her looks. As a matter of fact, Job said she looked like his grandmother. You, the other daughter, however, were the exact opposite. You inherited all of Fanny’s looks but none of Job’s brains. By the time Fanny was only six, she was as gentle as a hummingbird. She knew her courtesies well. Not only that, she was a model student. She had her struggles in certain subjects like every child but, unlike her, you were struggling and failing almost everything. It was around the time when you were both nine years old that the people around you, especially your father and Uncle George, began to really notice your behavioral problems. You began to exhibit hostile behavior. The littlest things seemed to set you off. One day at school, you and Fanny were playing on the playground, complete with a swings carousel, jungle gym, and a tall corkscrew slide made to look like a rocket ship, just like the other kids. You played amongst yourselves, but then you noticed something that made you stop short. A girl approaching on a bicycle. It was Emily. You didn’t know her last name, nor did you care. All you knew was that she was your main bully. She acted as ringleader to a group of girls whose mission it was to make your life harder than it needed to be.

You had a Christian mother and Jewish father, but you and Fanny were raised without an affiliation to either religion. You’d always considered yourself non-religious despite your regular conversations with God. You didn’t understand that your mother and father were of different faiths, nor the importance of it. Until you realized that, in New York, all the neighbors and other kids’ parents were either Christian or Jewish and their children were raised to be the same. One or the other, but never both. The group of girls always called you names. You didn’t understand what “crossbreed” and “kike” meant. You felt you had to make a choice to "belong", so you decided to do your own research about faith. You attended two Christian services with your mother and one Jewish service with your father, but you found the services boring and hard to follow (as you didn’t know the songs or the meanings of anything), and spent the time counting hats. You also dealt with the issues of growing up and puberty—including worry over periods, feelings about boys, getting your first bra, and jealousy about others. The girls at school pulled your hair, messed with your personal belongings… But Emily was the worst of them.

They didn’t go after your twin sister, Fanny. Just you. She wasn’t bullied, harassed, or tormented by other children like you were, probably because you were the much easier target. Fanny was a little lady, practically perfect in every way. She was everything you were not, but you didn’t envy her. She could be shy and soft-spoken at times, but she made friends easily, got good grades, and dressed and behaved in a way a girl should. You, on the other hand, were cursed with your late uncle’s temper at times, and the rudeness was all yours. You were furious when Fanny’s friend’s parents insisted that you both must be a Christian because your mother is one and faith passes through the mother—and they could overlook the "sins" of your father being Jewish. You were already angry at them for coming to visit at all, but them insisting on you being Christian was your rage breaking point.

“I found it odd you didn’t join us in saying Grace at dinner. With your father, it’s understandable, but... Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t want to.”

“Your sister did.”

“She wanted to. I didn’t.”

“Are you one with Christ like your mother and sister, Miss Skeffington?”

“Your parents didn’t raise you and your sister to be of different faiths, did they? That’d be rather…unheard of.”

“How about you shut your damn mouths?”

“Language, young lady! Don’t use such words. The Lord hears everything, even after we say ‘Amen’.”

“You’re guests in our house. I’ll say whatever I damn well please. If you don’t like it, you can leave.”

“Won’t you tell us a story? My old man, God rest his soul, used to say that Jews are good at telling stories. You must have your father’s Jew blood in you.”

“You want a story? Fine. There once was a man who came to know Christ in a monastery. He wanted to be a priest. And under the guidance and discipline of the monks who lived there, he came to memorize both the testaments, the writings of Assisi, Aquinas, Erasmus, all the saints and scholars. His father, a vulgar man, did not think much of this education, and so he and his brothers conspired to pull him out, lock him away, where, between beatings, starvations, and the failure of Christ to intercede the beatings and starvations, he slowly forgot all about the testaments. Assisi, Aquinas, Erasmus, all of it.”

“Stop.”

“And so to answer your boring question, there is an ocean between Christ and myself. I hope that satisfies you. But who can say. Your brain must be collecting dust in your skull from years of disuse, you pigheaded fool.”

“Stop!”

“Then don’t do that shit here! Not with me, not with my sister, and not with my father. You understand?”

They left the house and never came back after that. You weren’t sorry to see them go, of course. You were only sorry that Fanny lost a friend because of you. Going back to school was awkward. Both for her and for you.

October 1925

Today was P.E. and we played soccer. Jasmine and I were team red. I think Kristina wanted to be team red too. Jasmine is really good at soccer. P.E. is the only subject I’m good at. I’m failing almost everything else. I hope Mother and Daddy won’t be mad at me. I don't like after school programs, especially ballet. It's difficult, and boring. And I hate proper etiquette. What's wrong with being myself? I don't need to be like Mother. Miss Brook came to pick me up from my after school program and defended me today. The kids walked away when she said her brother is going to catch them and put them in jail. He’s a politician or something. I don’t know. I want to be like her. I want to be the next Miss Brook! That way, no one will ever bully me.

November 1925

Yesterday’s classes were the worst! Mr. Davis was usually very nice, so I was happy to be in his class again today. But this morning, I was disciplined for the first time. During class, Mr. Davis caught me daydreaming again. I didn’t realize what I was doing until he called my name two or three times. He made me show him my slate, (a test to see if I was paying attention? A test I was doomed to fail?) and, instead of spelling, there were doodles all over it. I pleaded and insisted that I didn’t remember drawing anything, but…I must’ve. Why else would those doodles be on my slate? I said that I wouldn’t do it again, but he didn’t believe me because this wasn’t the first time. He had me stand up and come to the front of the classroom. He struck me. In front of the entire class. Something about being an example. I was terrified, but Mr. Davis said it needed to happen for me to learn and grow. He struck me. He hit the palms of my hands with his ruler so many times, it made me want to scream. I wished I could go numb to what was going on. I don’t want to experience it ever again. I can cover the marks with gloves and Mother’s makeup for now, but I just hope nobody will notice. It hurts to even hold a pencil or piece of chalk.

“Class is dismissed.”

“I hope this will teach her a lesson. Stuck up thing.”

“Miss Skeffington, you may close the door.”

“Mr. Davis, if I solemnly promise not to draw anymore on my slate when I'm supposed to be practicing my spelling, may I go?”

“Have I your promise?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. Give me your slate.”

“Oh, no.”

“Your slate, Miss Skeffington.”

“I beg of you.”

“The slate. Did you draw this, Miss Skeffington?”

“I-I think so.”

“Hand me the ruler. Hold out your hand. Higher. Higher.”

“I'm ready, Mr. Davis.”

“You may go, Miss Skeffington.”

“Oh, thank you. Thank you. Oh, thank you, Mr. Davis.”

Emily pretended to not see you and just rode right by. You watched, your face strangely slack, then started to follow her. Fanny gave you a confused look, but tagged along. You found Emily’s bike parked nearby where she was playing. There were kids playing and moms and dads watching. You ignored them all. Emily was climbing on the jungle gym with some other kids. You walked over with Fanny in tow and just watched Emily play. When Emily saw you watching her, she made a face. You just stood there, staring.

“What are you looking at?”

No response. Fanny tugged on your arm, but you were rooted in place, staring blankly at Emily. Finally, Emily couldn’t take it. She climbed off the jungle gym and walked away, and you watched her go. Emily got on a swing but, just as she started to get some height, you were right there, staring at her again. Fanny happily grabbed a swing for herself, but you were fixated on Emily.

“Stop staring at me! Stop it!”

But you were unwavering and couldn’t take your eyes off of her. Emily got off the swing and ran away, while you walked after her. You looked calm on the outside, but inside you were simmering with rage. She had to pay.

“Go away! Stop following me, freak!”

Fanny saw you following Emily and grudgingly got off the swing, hurrying to catch up. Emily gave the both of you an angry look as you followed her across the park, Fanny still uncertain about what was going on. Emily headed for the tall corkscrew slide. Steep stairs led to the enclosed top, the tip of the rocket ship.

Emily started up the stairs, then paused. She turned to you. “You go first.”

You didn’t move, but Fanny gladly took her turn. After a beat, you followed Fanny up the stairs. Emily stayed behind, watching. Fanny went down the spiraling slide, but you just stood at the top, looking down at Emily.

“Go!”

You continued to stare down at her for a beat, then turned and disappeared from sight. Only then did Emily climb up. Fanny ran to the stairs for another turn, while Emily reached the top and looked around. She saw Fanny, but where were you? She turned, and suddenly, you were right in front of her. You didn't go down the slide, you were just crouched out of sight. Emily gasped - then you spat In her face and pushed her down the stairs. Emily screamed as she fell, her limbs flailing out of control. She landed hard in the dirt and just laid there crying, clutching her arm and bleeding from a gash in her forehead. Emily’s scream drew alarmed looks. One of the playground mothers came running to help. But Fanny stood frozen, gaping at you in total shock. You stared blankly down at Emily from atop the slide, utterly emotionless. Emily’s father arrived on the scene. Emily said something to him and pointed at you and Fanny, who watched from a distance. The principal was called, who in turn personally called your father to come pick both you and Fanny up, cutting your school day short. You and Fanny waited outside the principal’s office, sitting in uncomfortable plastic chairs while he and your father were having their private discussion about the incident at recess and your involvement in it. You couldn’t hear anything of their conversation except for,

“Well, to begin with, your daughter has many good qualities. She’s intelligent. She has imagination...”

“Oh, this is gonna be even worse than I thought.”

And then the heavy wooden door closed, preventing you from listening further. Twenty minutes felt like an eternity to the two of you, especially since you couldn’t hear a word of what was being said from inside.

“Are you going to tell on me?”

Your sister shrugged, unsure what to do.

“I didn't mean to hurt her. I just wanted her to stop picking on me.” When you noticed the look your sister was giving you, you continued, “Don't you hate it when someone is mean to you for no reason? Wouldn't you do almost anything to make them stop?”

A beat. Fanny nodded. Finally, mercifully, the door opened and your father emerged.

“Come on, girls. Let’s go.”

You and Fanny both immediately got up, eager to be free from the hard plastic chairs. Your father walked between the both of you, holding your hand in his right and Fanny’s hand in his left. In your free hand, you clutched a sketchbook held together with a rubber band. Your feet were encased in saddle shoes and they clicked on the concrete as you walked outside to your father’s car. Activity on the playground stopped as the girls watched you leave. None of them looked sorry to see you go. You ignored them. Your father put your things - your backpack and your paintings - in the trunk of the car.

November 1925

Manby saw the marks on my hands and helped me. She cleaned my wounds. It was painful. I told her what happened, told her that I could not stand the degradation of being forced to attend school with a lot of ill-mannered girls who stick their silly noses into other people's business. Manby said I should be patient. But they threw stones at me. Manby told me to forgive and forget. She said they don’t know what they’re doing. I like Manby, but I hate the other kids.

"Sweet child, it is a myth that the strong bully the weak. It is those who cannot handle their stress with grace, who attack the gentle natured. You are attacked because you have self-restraint, a trait often only seen in adults. You are mature beyond your years, although you are still a child. Those bullied are often the "too much" children. They are too clever, too pretty, too kind... The things said to justify the abuse are false. They are excuses and no more. No person can tell you who or what you are, for you build yourself with your own choices, as do they. With every choice to be unkind, they build themselves to be unkind. You're different. That's good. With every choice you make to be kind, you build yourself into a kinder person. Every great person I know was bullied as a child. That which makes you a target now, will make you great in your lifetime. Through sadness we learn empathy, to know how others feel in pain transforms us, and we make ourselves kinder all the more."

She told Daddy. That made me panic. What did he do? What did he say to Mr. Davis? Is Mr. Davis going to punish me more? She said he didn't say anything to Mr. Davis. Not yet, at least. When she told him how I'd been humiliated, he merely told her that he would most certainly take me out of that miserable school. He told her he could not stay to discuss the matter with me just now as he had to prepare for Uncle George’s charity gala he’s attending tonight, but he will as soon as I get up and have my breakfast tomorrow. It’s a school night, but Fanny and I don’t have to go. He still expects us in bed at the usual time, though.

November 1925

Daddy told me this morning after breakfast that I won’t have to go to school anymore. He was looking at other options for Fanny too, but Fanny is gonna stay because she likes it there, has friends, and is a good student. Her teachers are nice to her, but Daddy says he’ll pull her out too if he ever gets even a whiff of trouble like he did with me. He says he's gonna teach me out of books and things. He says it'll be better for me. But everybody goes to school. I don't. Not anymore. Maybe I can't ever go anywhere. Maybe I’ll just have to stay home all the time.

You sat alone in your painting room in the attic. You could hear your parents below, but didn’t pay attention to what they were saying until you heard your name. You stopped painting and listened, suddenly apprehensive. Though you couldn’t see your parents, your mother sounded troubled by what your father had told her.

“We’ll talk to her about it tonight.”

“You think that’s enough?”

“What do you suggest?”

“I could take her to Dr. Jaquith.”

“I don’t think we need to call in the shrink just yet. We already had Dr. Melton examine her. We're not going to keep taking her to doctors until you hear what you want to hear.”

“That’s not what I'm trying to do, Fanny. I want this to work just as much as you do, but there are serious questions that we still don't have the answers to. If the school principal, Mr. Benson, was right about her, then children are getting seriously hurt because of her.”

“Maybe. It still could’ve been an accident. Kids fall off of things all the time. He didn't really believe that our daughter would intentionally hurt another child.”

“He didn’t want to believe it. But he was worried enough to think we should put her in Dr. Jaquith’s care until we found out for sure.”

“For all his good intentions, Mr. Benson is not a trained psychologist. I get what you’re saying and I’m not trying to dismiss or diminish your concerns, Job, I just don’t want to make a bigger deal out of it than it is.”

“The incident at the playground yesterday… It just reminded me of what Mrs. Saunders said. We really don't know that much about her.”

“She had certain suspicions about her and they turned out to be wrong. Dr. Melton told us she’s just going through a phase and that she’ll come out of it on her own. Why can’t you accept that?”

“And what if, down the road, somebody else thinks there is something seriously wrong with her? Somebody like Janie Clarkson? If it’s a dead end, I’ll drop it. But we have to get a second opinion at this point, and Dr. Jaquith is a specialist.”

Fanny considered what Job was saying. She didn’t want to be unreasonable. If you could be helped in the way she wished she could’ve helped Trippy, she’d take that opportunity. She nodded. “All right. See what you can find out.”

“Emily says you pushed her.”

“That’s not true! We were just playing and she tripped! I swear!”

Your father turned to ask Fanny, “Did you see what happened?”

You eyed Fanny expectantly. She hesitated, but eventually said, “It was an accident, Daddy.”

Job sighed, not entirely convinced. The door opened, and Soames appeared in the doorway of the parlor.

You turned on him with extraordinary violence. "Didn’t I give you the strictest orders not to come in?" you cried.

So much violence about so small a thing. Why shouldn’t Soames have come in? The poor man, still obviously in a state of inner turmoil, only wanted to take away the tea. You were their daughter and all that, but the strict orders and the violence did seem rather overstepping the bounds of what you might and might not do. Funny, how everybody and everything was that day. Nothing, since your mother left her bedroom that morning, had been in the least what she was accustomed to. Soames, met by this outburst, hesitated on the threshold. Yes, he had been told not to come in but, after a while, he had found it impossible to stay out. He was much too frightened. The silence, the death-like silence downstairs, had frightened him enough to begin with, but it was nothing to the fright which overwhelmed him when you started screaming blue murder. When you finally exploded, you didn’t go for the pictures or tchotchkes as usual, you went straight for him; pummeling, hitting, kicking, biting. Your father was quick to intervene and break up the distressing scene, grabbing you and pulling you away from Soames while you thrashed and bucked like a wild animal. Your father glanced uneasily across at Soames. This was the final straw. Despite your mother’s reluctance, your father knew he needed to consult with Dr. Jaquith immediately. It couldn’t be put off any longer. He should’ve gone to him months ago, but both he and your mother were still in denial, under the illusion that either you’d grow out of it or they could help you without needing a doctor’s assistance. Dr. Jaquith was a renowned psychiatrist that specialized in working with both children and adults. He’d know what to do, much better than anyone else in the household. Job knew it was time to swallow his pride.

“Fanny, darling, go find Marie and play with her for a while. Soames, call the doctor. It’s too late in the evening now and the last train has gone, but there may still be a late one if he drives into Waterbury. If not, tell him that we need him to get on a train to New York as quickly as he can. We’ll reimburse his travel expenses if we have to. Just get him here,” was all he said, and Soames hastily bowed and turned on his heel, eager to flee the room and follow his Master’s order. Fanny was a bit more hesitant, obviously concerned about you. A part of her wanted to stay but, after staring at you for a few more seconds, she realized her presence wouldn’t help you in this situation, so she left the room to find Marie as she was told to. Hopefully Dr. Jaquith would be here by the day after tomorrow and, until then, Job could find ways to console and calm you down.

“Messy things, pipes. I like them. Mr. Skeffington. Mrs. Skeffington. How do you do? I’m Dr. David Jaquith.”

“Dr. Jaquith. Of course. You’ve taken us by surprise. We weren't expecting you until tomorrow.”

“Yes, there was a mix-up. I had to take an earlier train. I apologize for dropping in on you unexpectedly. I know you may not want me here at this very moment since I’m a day early. If this is a bad time, I can go to my hotel and come back tomorrow.”

“Hotel? Don’t be silly. There’s plenty of guest rooms here. We can have Manby make one up for you. And it’s quite all right, Doctor. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Come in, come in. Clinton can take your coat. So long as you help our daughter, you’re welcome under our roof here. We’re happy to have another set of eyes and hands looking after her, but we do hope you know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“How grave you make it sound. Of course, I want you to know that I’m here to help you with anything you need.”

“That’s real kind of you, Dr. Jaquith. Would you like a cup of tea?”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Skeffington. Though I could use a coffee, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not. Manby, could you make Dr. Jaquith a cup of coffee? Well, thank you for coming, Doctor. Really, we’re honored by the visit of the foremost psychiatrist of the whole country. We think it was pretty sweet of you to come all the way from Vermont to New York. We know that, generally, you don’t come to see people. They go to see you.”

“That’s from lack of time, not from vanity. But the phone call I received from one of your staff - Soames, was it? - sounded very urgent. I had to come in person so I could properly assess the situation and determine for myself if your daughter is an urgent case or not.”

“The people who recommended you said you treat adults, too.”

“That is correct. But I’ve always found children’s minds to be more interesting.”

��What we’d like to know, Doctor, is if you can cure our daughter. Before we end up in a heap of ash.”

“As a psychiatrist, I treat mental and emotional disorders in my patients, and I try to alleviate their condition. I do not presume to cure them. If you don’t mind, I’ll have to ask you and Mr. Skeffington some questions first.”

“Of course. Ask us anything you like.”

“Soames said she’s been throwing inexplicable temper tantrums, that she’s been lashing out violently. How long have these tantrums and acts of violence been going on? Do you have any idea what could have triggered the first episode?”

Job had a flashback to when you were five years old. You pulled the rope next to your bed to ring the bell and call your nanny into the room. You asked her to retrieve him, hoping against hope that he was still awake at such a late hour. You knew he was rarely less than ten steps away. When he arrived you were crying in the corner, sucking your thumb with a teddy bear in your arms. He picked you up and held you, patting you consolingly on the back and combing his fingers through your hair while he paced back and forth around the room as you cried and screamed. At the time, Job thought it had just been a terrible nightmare. But maybe…maybe it was something more. Whatever it was, you just needed to let it out… Surely, if he could find a better outlet for you, then these episodes would stop or, at the very least, decrease in frequency.

“Since she was five years old, she’s had a history of temper tantrums and fits of violence. We didn’t reach out for help sooner because I was often called away on business, Fanny had her own engagements, and we didn’t think it was anything more than the usual temper tantrums and aggressive behavior that come with being a toddler. She was a holy terror but we thought that, with our help, she’d eventually get past it, grow out of it once she reached a certain age. But it’s been over four years and not much has changed. Now she’s nine and hasn’t shown much improvement, despite our best efforts to console and help her. I wish I could be here more but, as a banker and businessman, I’m always being called away without warning and without any say in the matter. As much as I’d like to, I can’t take my daughters with me everywhere I go. I’d much rather be here with her. Although…”

“Mr. Skeffington?”

“It’s just that it hasn’t been very easy for me to talk to her lately. Whenever I called her from abroad while on my business trips, which was at least once a day, she always seemed to fly off the handle for no reason. We’d be talking about the weather or school or something equally innocuous, and suddenly she’d bellow at me and slam the phone down, which doesn’t make sense. My other daughter, Fanny, has always been extremely level-headed and even-tempered. She never gets angry. But with her…”

As Job spoke of you, he mused on you, how you weren’t anything like your sister, but you weren’t like your mother either. You were like him in some ways but oddly, or maybe not so oddly, in many ways, you reminded him of Trippy, Fanny’s brother. Was it possible that you took after him instead? He kept that thought to himself.

“Are you sure you didn’t inadvertently say something…you know, argumentative?”

“I promise you, these rages of hers are totally uncalled for and quite…unbearable. Everyone in this house loves her dearly but…she is making things very difficult. Frankly, talking to her is something we’ve been quite unable to do lately. These temper tantrums of hers make rational discourse well nigh impossible. We’re just about at our wits’ end. We don't know how or why she is the way that she is, but we do know she's a good kid, underneath it all.“

“Maybe she’s just unhappy here.”

“We don’t know why. I mean, she was thrilled to start the new school year and couldn’t wait. Something has changed her. We’re just as bewildered and upset by her behavior as any parent would be.”

“The last doctor that examined her said that aside from a little dry skin, which is not unusual for her, she was perfectly fine,” Fanny interjected.

“I didn’t trust his judgment, Fanny, so I had to get a second opinion from a doctor who wouldn’t be afraid to give us an honest assessment, even if it upset you.” Job turned from his wife to the doctor. “My father used to say that when a child misbehaves, it’s a parent’s duty to correct that child. Now as a father myself, I’m inclined to agree, but… Never mind. You asked for signs and symptoms. The first signs of a tantrum begin with her breath turning from quiet and regular to a panting gasp. She sucks at the air like it’s suddenly become thick and is now almost too difficult to draw in. She becomes deaf to my soothing words, and I’ve had to rapidly back-track on my previously tough stance, offer her more than what she had asked for in the first place. But by then, it’s irreversible. Her next stage is always to smash whatever she can lay her hands on. Fanny and I have seconds to hide everything we care about. Most parents, like my father, would have just held the child down until their energy was spent or they became too big, but I don’t want to do that to her. That’d only frighten her and make an already bad situation even worse. There’s got to be a better way, but… I just don’t know what more I can do for her. I feel like I’ve tried almost everything. Please get to the bottom of this, David. You’re our last hope.”

“She’s just testing us, there’s no doubt about that. But I know we’re doing a good job. Maybe we’re not strict enough with her, but it’s been nowhere near as bad as we expected.”

“I’ll have to be the judge of that, Mrs. Skeffington. Can you describe to me her behavior during these fits? What kinds of things has she been saying and doing? Can you tell me of any incidents that stand out to you?”

“Impertinent. Upsetting rules. Thinks she can run the works. Talking back to me. Purposefully disobeying. I've been going out so much lately that, by the time I get back, I have no energy. I was exhausted after attending a dinner party and said I just wanted to relax...but the banging on the walls and slamming of the door was making it hard for me to unwind. If she would just be quiet for a little bit, everything would be fine. But…”

“Anything else? Mr. Skeffington?”

“Last year, there was the dinner party Fanny and I were invited to by the Cookhams. It was Sunday, the nanny’s day off. We had planned on leaving the girls at home and having George watch them, but something came up at the last minute and he couldn’t. So we brought them with us. Fanny was on her best behavior, but our other daughter hated the dinner we shared. I could hear my parents’ voices in my head, telling me I should probably teach her to eat things she doesn't like. I was forced to eat things I hated when I was a kid, but we were poor. You have no idea how poor.”

“You weren’t actually hungry?”

“My father sold chocolate bars with almond nuts on a pushcart. When he had a good day, we ate meat. When he had a bad day, we ate chocolate bars with almond nuts. The bad days had a slight edge. It had to be done. But then… My brother died of a food allergy when he was young. We couldn’t afford the medicine that might’ve saved him.”

“You remember a lot about when you were a little boy, don’t you?”

“Especially the lack of plumbing. I was afraid that same allergy might’ve passed on to her or Fanny, but I thought that limiting what my daughters did or didn’t eat because of an uncertain possibility could be just as damaging to their eating habits as the allergy itself. The world of medicine isn’t what it used to be when I was their age. It’s evolving every day. I can be thankful for that. There’s medicine and treatment now to cure many food allergies, not to mention safe and controlled allergy tests so that medical professionals can find out what patients are allergic to without putting them at risk. So that’s what I did with her and Fanny. I took them both to get tested, and they both got off scot-free. No allergies detected. With her and Fanny, the only rule I enforced when it came to food was that they had to at least try it first before deciding if they liked something or not. She and Fanny aren’t extremely picky. They’ll eat practically anything you put in front of them. It wasn’t the food that bothered her, but she threw her plate onto the floor, breaking it and making a mess. I had to take her outside, apologizing profusely to everyone, especially the staff.”

“What’s wrong with her? My friends looked annoyed when we left. Our friends, our neighbors… I hear them in the church… They’re whispering about what’s happening in this house. And now certain friends of mine don’t visit as much as they used to. I hope they don’t hate me... She definitely needs some form of discipline, but she still won’t take to it. If I don’t figure something out, I may never see those friends again.”

As a psychiatrist, Dr. Jaquith was always making notes. Not just on paper, but mentally as well. And what he was noting about Fanny’s attitude and priorities was…troubling. Though she didn’t say it, Dr. Jaquith had a feeling that Fanny used you, her daughter, as an excuse to arrive and leave dramatically and make herself the center of attention. Though Dr. Jaquith was a professional and kept his face neutral, he was less than impressed from what he was inferring about the household environment, if the parents were anything to go by. And, in almost all cases, it most definitely was.

“And she dropped some rather vulgar language on me a few days ago. I can’t bring myself to repeat it. It was language that is unbecoming of a lady, especially a Skeffington. I swear, we didn’t teach her to say such things. At first, I thought she could have picked it up anywhere. She probably heard it at school. But this wasn’t something she overheard. She knew what it meant. And the way she said it… I don’t even think she expected to get in trouble over it. If she’s saying it to my face, what’s she saying or doing when we’re not around? We have to be thinking about what kind of influence she’s having on Fanny.”

Dr. Jaquith raised his eyebrows in comic, exaggerated surprise. “No explanation necessary. I don't think there is anything that girl could say that would surprise me. But this is important so I must ask, is she only talking back and disobeying you? Or does she behave the same way with you, Mr. Skeffington?”

“Not with me, no. She’s never once disobeyed or talked back to me, at least…not deliberately. If she ever did either of those things, it was because she was in the middle of an episode and couldn’t hear me or focus enough on my voice to listen to what I was saying, like her body was there but her mind was elsewhere, somewhere far away and beyond reach.”

“I see. Soames mentioned acts of violence. Have there been any incidents where she hurt either herself or another person?”

“Well… A girl she and Fanny were playing with in the school playground got hurt. There were some broken bones.”

A beat. Dr. Jaquith was suddenly apprehensive, but tried to cover by asking, “Really? Is the girl all right?”

“She broke her arm and had to have something like eleven stitches, I think. She was lucky.”

“She doesn’t sound very lucky.”

“She's lucky she didn’t break her neck.”

“She broke that girl’s arm only days ago, and now this! Poor Emily. They had a…small fight. She just pushed her, but she had a bad fall. I’m so ashamed… Her parents must think we raised a savage.”

Dr. Jaquith seemed troubled by this. “May I meet her?”

“Of course. She’s in her painting room. She adores drawing and painting. Fanny wouldn’t allow her to paint or draw in her bedroom. She was afraid she’d get paint on the carpet or the furniture, so I suggested that perhaps she might like her own area in the house for her art. It was a good compromise. The attic was largely unused, so I had it refurbished and repurposed so she could have her own space to get as messy as her heart desired. I still remember when I first surprised her with it last year…”

Enveloped in darkness and trusting your father as he led you through echoing hallways was something you never imagined you would be doing on what had, so far, been a typical Tuesday. He was brimming with excitement though, and the smile on his face had been so genuine that you had let him tie a silk blindfold over your eyes so he could properly escort you to the surprise. You needed a bit of cheering up and, besides, his anticipation was catching. Well, that and the fact that his hand wrapped tightly and comfortingly around yours was sending little sparks of electricity that you knew to be excitement throughout your body.

“There’s a ladder here, darling. Watch your step. I’ll be right behind you in case you slip, but no peeking!”

Despite being blindfolded, you realized you were going up to the attic. You’d gone up there many times before, usually after school. It was your safe space, your tower. The temptation was so strong, but you refrained from peeking. If your father went to so much trouble to make something special for you, you didn’t want to ruin the surprise.

“Excuse me, darling. I just need to reach over you to open the door.”

You bit your lower lip to conceal a grin, one eyebrow arched above the blindfold. You felt your father’s chest pressed against your back as he reached an arm over and past you. You heard a door latch turn, and the creak of hinges.

“Okay. You can step forward, darling. The attic is just there. One more step.”

Once you climbed up and your feet touched the familiar wooden flooring, you walked a few paces forward to give your dad enough space to follow behind you. You had stopped and waited. "Can’t I take this off now?"

“Not yet. I told you, I want this to be a surprise.” Once again his hand slipped into yours, your fingers interlacing easily and naturally. He squeezed your hand and drew you forward. Immediately you were assaulted with familiar smells…but weren’t able to place them.

“Now?”

“Impatient girl,” he chided, tweaking your nose. “Not yet!”

He moved away, letting go of your hand, and you could hear the rustle of fabric. The darkness around you grew a tad brighter, as if he had opened curtains to let the sunlight in. You couldn't hide your smile. “Now?” You felt him loosening the knot at your nape, his energy rolling down your spine like a physical being. The blindfold loosened.

“Okay…now,” he said, and slid the silk away from your eyes.

Immediately you gasped, a hand fluttering up toward your mouth, changing its mind, and then settling against the base of your throat in amazement. Golden sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating the twenty easels that stood guard over hundreds of pristine canvases, all waiting for an artist. Tall tables, regular tables and low tables were placed casually around the room, piled high with every medium on the face of the earth, oil paints, watercolors, charcoal, pencils, inks, acrylics, woodblocks, stained glass, beads, and brushes that ranged in width from the size of a Hoover vacuum cleaner to the size of a pinhead. In addition, stacked neatly along one wall were sketch books; two pieces of light shale wrapped in cotton with pieces of vellum and parchment sandwiched between. Everything you would ever need. A small platform with candles placed strategically around it for a model to pose from, and drop cloths in perfect rolls swinging from a hammock that was suspended from the cathedral-like ceiling. Tears glistened in your eyes as you walked slowly around the room.

“I don't believe it…I've never seen so much…in my whole life!” you said, awed and unable to find all of your words.

Your father saw the mixture of tears and happiness on your face and smiled nervously. “Does this please you?”

You beamed at him over your shoulder. “Yes, oh, yes!”

“Then it is yours,” he said.

No one had ever given you something so wonderful, so perfect for you. You rushed to him, taking his hands in yours and, without thinking, rose on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Thank you, thank you so much, Daddy!”

In surprise, he turned his head slightly towards you, questioning to himself if this was indeed the same angry and violent little girl who was responsible for that horrid playground incident. But you were so overwhelmed with joy that you didn't notice. In the span of one second it was no longer his cheek under your mouth, it was your forehead under his lips. You wrapped your arms around his neck and he locked his arms around your back, and you held each other in a warm hug as you both cried tears of joy and maybe relief. You lowered your head, blushing furiously and unable to meet his eyes, as if you suddenly came to your senses and were embarrassed by your emotional outburst. One hand rose to cup your chin, and lift your face to him. He was as cool and refined as ever, and only smiled at you, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. He didn't draw unwanted attention to your own tears, only used his thumbs to stroke your cheeks and wipe your tears away. In this emotional moment, your familial bond grew stronger.

“You’re welcome, my dear.”

“But, Job, painters are not highly thought of in good society. And there is nothing so difficult to marry as a painter, especially one who’s female.”

The statement was so absurd, it snapped Job out of his reminiscent reverie and Dr. Jaquith out of his train of thought.

“Marry?”

“Marry? But, Fanny, she is not yet thirteen. She’s a bit young for us to be thinking of such things.”

“Not now, but someday, I mean.”

Of all the things to take away from what was being discussed about her daughter, Fanny’s main concern was her future marriage prospects. Disappointing? Yes. Surprising? No.

“She’s been really absorbed in her work lately. I thought she might finally be free of her despair, her anger, because she never before felt this inspired. She said she was going to put every last bit of herself into this piece. I found her painting today. It was almost done. While I did in fact encourage her to take up this new hobby, after seeing this piece I… Well, it sickened me. It made me question my own advice. It wasn’t her technique that gave me pause but, rather, her subject matter. She decided to paint two girls jumping off a roof. They looked exactly like herself and Fanny. When I asked her about it, she said they weren’t falling, they were flying without wings and that she’d like to think they left this place for something better. It’s a strange, swirling vortex painted in dark watercolors. My head throbs when I look at it.”

“Won’t she be coming down?” Dr. Jaquith asked as he stood up.

Mr. Skeffington followed suit. He took Dr. Jaquith’s arm and lowered his voice to a confidential tone. “It might be better if you went up. She’s a bit upset. There was a little trouble here this morning.”

Dr. Jaquith gave Mr. Skeffington a quick look. “What kind of trouble?”

Mr. Skeffington was quick to follow up with, “Nothing serious.”

Dr. Jaquith and Mr. Skeffington could hear humming coming from down the hall or, to be more precise, above it. They followed the humming to a room that was overhead. The ladder was already down, so Mr. Skeffington climbed the rungs. “Wait here a moment. She doesn’t let just anyone come inside, so I have to clear a path for you, tell her you’re a friend and can be trusted. She doesn’t trust easily.”

“Of course. I’ll wait here.”

You sat staring at the unfinished painting on your easel, willing yourself to just bring your brush down to it, to feel inspired, to feel anything other than numb. But instead of adding to your creation, you sighed and brought your brush to the cup of water. You watched as the colors stained the water red until nothing was left on the brush but the taupe of the pokey bristles. Lately you'd been feeling like the brush, like all the color had been drained out of you. This feeling wasn't foreign. Sometimes you felt stagnant, letting moments pass you by. Being there but not being a part of them, at least not how you wanted to be. From the floor below, your father knocked on the attic trapdoor in a unique rhythm. A secret code to tell you that it was him. Your humming stopped.

Dr. Jaquith could hear a little girl’s voice telling Mr. Skeffington to come in. As he waited, he could hear your father talking to you.

“What’ve you got there? Are you drawing something?”

“Nothing special. I’m just bored.”

“How’s it coming?”

“All right.”

“What’s it supposed to be?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you mind if I join you? What’s the title of the painting?”

“I don’t know.”

“Darling, I hope you won’t mind, but I’ve brought someone to come and meet you today. He’s my very good friend, Mr. Jaquith. I ran into him on the street and brought him by for tea. I thought your mother and sister would be pleased, and I hoped you would be too. I’ve told him what a bright and talented girl you are, and he would very much like to meet you. May he come up? He’ll help you to paint. That is, if you don’t mind. Of course, some people prefer to do a painting alone.”

“I guess… If he’s your friend, Daddy, then that would be okay.”

“Wonderful! You can come up now, David.”

Given the all clear, Dr. Jaquith climbed the ladder to the attic. Light slanted in from a big-window, shining on you, a little girl in blue jean overalls and a striped shirt. You hated skirts and dresses since you were old enough to walk. Before that, ever since you were born, you’d always take off the bows and headbands your mother tried to put on your head or in your hair. Since your parents were always too busy, and Uncle George couldn’t be trusted to be knowledgeable when it came to girl’s fashion, Miss Brook often took you and your sister, Fanny, shopping, especially in the summer when a new school year was about to begin. But for you, it never went well. Trying to get you to conform to what was socially acceptable for a girl to wear was like pulling teeth. As you and your sister looked through racks of children's clothes, Miss Brook pulled a dress with flowers embroidered on the pockets. The material would be perfect for playing outside, while looking very stylish and pretty. But you scrunched your face in disgust and shook your head.

“This is cute,” she insisted.

“Dresses are ugly.”

“But, sweetie, you have to have something you can play outside in.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to look like a doll.”

As unconventional as it was, you spent most of your time in trousers. Girls often teased and bullied you for “dressing and acting like a boy” and called you mean names.

And there you sat in front of an easel, all alone, painting another extraordinary picture. Dr. Jaquith watched, curious. You ignored him and your back was to him, so he couldn’t see your face, just your hair messily pulled back, strands of it coming loose from your shoddy attempts at tying it back with a bandana or hair tie. It spilled down a bit over your shoulders and clung to the back of your neck, but so long as it didn’t get in your eyes, it didn’t bother or distract you. You never learned how to properly do your hair. Your mother tried to teach you, but you were stubborn and refused to learn, believing it to be a waste of time. She gave up on teaching you the importance of a beauty regimen quite early on. The paintbrush froze mid-stroke as you turned to face him, as if you suddenly decided you were ready to acknowledge his presence in your space. Like your sister, you had pale skin and bright, doe-like eyes, your delicate features framed by Shirley Temple curls. Yours was the face of a porcelain angel, a perfect little living doll, friendly and inviting.

“Why, what’s this? Did you do these? Are these paintings all yours?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Well, the point is how you could. They’re really professional. Do you mind if I look at them?”

“No, I don’t mind. They aren’t very difficult. Daddy gets the paints and materials from New York, so I have the tools. It’s just a matter of the doing.”

“And the skill. You know, this is very good detail. I have a great admiration for people who are clever with their hands. I was always so clumsy with my own.”

“I should think you were the least clumsy person I’d ever met. Do you really like them? Really, really?”

“Very much. They’re remarkable. Where did you learn how to do this?”

“I’ve just had lots of time to practice, I guess. My unfulfilled ambition is to paint a great many things, to tell stories about my adventures. I do know a thing or two about pirates.”

“What adventures?”

“I’ve yet to have them, but they will be perfectly thrilling. My paintings are stories that come from my imagination. This one’s about a sad mother wolf who can’t find her cubs. She’s dreaming about her babies. It’s the only thing that makes her happy.”

“Well, I hope she finds them.”

“She will. Look.” As you spoke, you dabbed your brush and painted little wolf cubs curled up in front of their sleeping mother. “They were lost in the jungle and they were so scared because they didn’t have a mother or father. But just when they thought they’d be alone forever, they found their mother sleeping under this tree. And they felt so safe that they fell asleep too. Now when the mother wolf wakes up, her dream will have come true. She’ll have her family again. Isn’t it lovely? Look at my new paintings.” You took Mr. Jaquith’s hand and led him around the room, eagerly showing him your other paintings.

He noticed a gothic mansion in several of your older paintings. “Is that a real place?”

“No. I just made it up. It’s a haunted castle where a beautiful princess was locked away. She waited so long and was so sad that she filled the moat with her tears, but then a handsome prince swam across it and rescued her. I like happy endings. Don’t you? I’ve even done a portrait for everyone in the family. And a painting of everyone together. Come see!”

The painting of your family was indeed extraordinary. You were all smiling and holding hands. But Dr. Jaquith couldn’t help but notice that your mother was missing from it. It was just your father in the middle, with you and your sister on either side of him.

While you were looking elsewhere, Job tapped Dr. Jaquith on the shoulder and whispered in his ear, “I wish she would have drawn her mother as well...”

In an equally hushed tone, Dr. Jaquith said, “Maybe she doesn’t realize she is part of your family?” He then turned to you and said in a normal volume, “That’s one good-looking family you’ve got.”

“I know. Aren’t they perfect?”

“You know, these are excellent.”

“You may have one if you like.”

“May I? Any one?”

“Of course. All except this one.” You took a ruined canvas off its easel and put it off to the side. “When I was working on it, my mother sent for me. My brush slipped and I spattered paint on it.”

“A pity to ruin such a nice painting.”

“Yes. I’ll get you something to wrap it in.”

“Oh, don’t bother.” But it was too late. You were already rummaging through drawers for brightly colored tissue paper. “Well, then any old piece of paper will do.”

While your back was turned, Dr. Jaquith and your father shared an amused look. Once you haphazardly wrapped the painting in pink tissue paper, you handed it to him with a big smile, showing off your baby teeth, though some looked to be missing or growing in. The tooth fairy had paid you a visit or two, it seemed. You then took him by the hand and led him from easel to easel. Dr. Jaquith saw all that you were working on, including the pencil and charcoal sketches pinned to your wall. In most of your paintings, you had captured the subject perfectly, but there was nothing special about them, nothing to show your personality, your personal touch.

“These are perfect copies of reality. But painting is not about replicating the world, it’s about interpreting it, improving on it, showing something you see.”

“Can you help me with my painting? Daddy said you might.”

Dr. Jaquith grabbed a blank canvas and set it on the easel in front of you and handed you a palette of paints and a brush. “Here, try looking from a new perspective, a different approach. Try to imagine something that doesn’t exist. Something you’ve never seen. Now, concentrate…on how it makes you feel…and let your hand drift across the canvas.”

You looked down at the palette of paints and your brush, then to the white canvas in front of you, waiting to be colored in. You dabbed your brush into the paint and closed your eyes, and just let your imagination guide your hand. You didn’t think too hard about it. In fact, you didn’t think about much at all. You just painted what you felt, what you questioned about yourself. Your identity…anger, doubt, hope, pain, sadness, belonging…who were you? What was hiding deep down inside you, just waiting to come out? When you opened your eyes, you took in your creation. Your masterpiece. It was almost done, but there were still some things missing.

“Give me more blue, please!” When you held out your palette, Dr. Jaquith did as you requested, grabbing a tube of blue paint and squeezing some out. “Thanks! Now, can you give me some red?” Again, he fulfilled your request. But the bottle of red paint was nearly empty and made a sputtering noise as he squeezed out what little was left. It wasn’t enough for you. You needed more to complete your creation. “More red, please!”

“I’m afraid the red is all out. Maybe you could use magenta or orange instead?”

“Out?…But…But we can’t be out.”

“It’s okay, you can ask your father for more and—”

“You’re hiding more red from me... I know you are.”

“I’m n—”

“GIVE IT HERE!”

And suddenly you snapped and lunged at Dr. Jaquith with teeth bared and nails out. But you were grabbed and held back by your father before you could make contact with your intended target. You were like a feral wolverine as you fought against his hold, foaming at the mouth and ready to bite or claw at anyone who came too close. You were desperate to make Dr. Jaquith bleed if it meant you could get your precious red paint. As you kicked and screamed, you accidentally kicked the light switch off, shrouding the attic in total darkness. While your father was about to turn the light switch back on, he stopped. Dr. Jaquith did too. The paintings they saw… The mother wolf and her sleeping cubs… The cubs were now dead and the mother's mouth was dripping with blood. The paintings that looked like typical family portraits in normal light were now nightmarish visions of death and violence. In one, your eyes had been gouged out. In another, your throat had been slashed. In the picture of the whole family, you and Fanny and your father looked normal, but your mother appeared in the background, only visible under darkness, and she was a decomposed corpse. You stopped fighting, but your father didn’t notice. He was frozen. He staggered back in shock, still holding you, while Dr. Jaquith just looked at you, expressionless. The telephone rang, startling all of you.

While you were sitting by yourself in a corner and curled up in a ball, the doctor said to Mr. Skeffington, “A violent temper is often the result of trauma brain architecture, which is a form of developmental mental illness. It can be fixed with a bouquet of coping strategies, from a calmer environment, to exercise and talk therapies. Music, dance, and the expressive arts are all wonderful for gaining good insights into the self. We can expand positive role models via movies or stage plays, because this is how we dream together, expanding the healing power of dreams into the community. We need to see the temper as a symptom and really tackle the cause, the need to develop a healthier brain, with multiple solutions at once.”

Later, you weren’t sure exactly how much later, you had calmed down and were suddenly very remorseful for your outburst. You apologized to Mr. Jaquith immediately, but were very afraid that he wouldn’t accept it. You didn’t mean to snap. You didn’t want to hurt Daddy’s friend. You didn’t want to hurt anyone. You just…you didn’t know. You didn’t know why you said the things you said, thought the thoughts you thought or did the things you did. It was like you blacked out and someone or something else took control of your body.

“Of course I accept your apology, Miss Skeffington. I’ve worked with many children just like you, so I know you didn’t mean to do it, that you couldn’t help it. I know it’s scary, even for you. But I promise that, through it all, I’ll still be your friend.”

What did he mean he’s worked with other children just like you? Was he a teacher? Or was he a doc…? You suddenly became apprehensive, unsure if you could trust a word he said. “My friend?”

“Yes. And since we’re friends, I wonder if I might ask you a favor. Would you be nice and show me around this house? You must be an expert and know this house in and out. One doesn't often get the chance. Yes, that's right, I had a look at the downstairs when I came in. There's nothing like these old New York homes anywhere. On Marlborough Street or Beacon Hill, you see them standing in a row like bastions. Firm, proud, resisting the new. Houses turned in upon themselves, hugging their pride.”

“Introverted. That’s what my teachers call me.”

“I wouldn’t know about that. I don’t put much faith in scientific terms. I leave that to the fakers and the writers of books.”

You didn’t take his hand again, wanting to keep him at arm’s length just in case it turned out he couldn’t be trusted after all, but you signaled for him to follow you. You climbed down the ladder, and Dr. Jaquith and your father followed. Your father was smart on his feet and quickly made an excuse to leave so he could give you and Dr. Jaquith some much needed one-on-one time. It’d be better if Dr. Jaquith got a chance to know you, the real you, without him lingering over your shoulders. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a mass of letters to write and phone calls to make before lunch. I’ll leave you to it. If you need anything, I’ll be in the library. Darling, please be a good girl for Mr. Jaquith while you show him around.”

As soon as your father left, you turned to face Mr. Jaquith. You suddenly eyed him skeptically, suspecting he wasn’t a Mister at all. The ruse fooled you at first, but you wouldn’t let it go on any longer. You were keenly perceptive, far more than most children your age. “I know who you really are.”

“You do? Who am I?”

“You’re not Daddy’s friend. You’re my new doctor.”

“No, I’m not. You’re quite wrong.”

“You can’t fool me. And I know why you’ve come here. To make sure I don’t run away from this place again.”

“Did you run away from here once? I didn’t know. Where were you headed when you ran away?”

“I don’t know. Anywhere but here, I guess.”

“What’s your name?”

“You know my name. That’s why you stood there and stared at me.”

“That was very rude of me. But, you see, you reminded me of somebody.”

“Who?”

“Well, if you must know…my wife, Charlotte. Of course, at your age. You’re about eleven, aren’t you?”

“I’m nine...nearly ten. You know my name, but what’s yours?”

“David.”

You nodded once then continued giving Dr. Jaquith a tour. “My mother’s room.”

“And your father’s also?”

“No.” The conviction with which you said the word made Dr. Jaquith raise an eyebrow.

“Your parents sleep separately?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know why?”

“They just do. It’s always been that way. I don’t want to talk about this. What difference does it make anyway?”

Clearly you didn’t want to talk about it anymore, so Dr. Jaquith let the matter drop. But already he was making mental notes.

“Fine room.”

“Do you think so?”

“Of course, I’d prefer to see what your room is like. Is it nearby?”

“I’m not your patient yet, Doctor.”

“Well, now, nobody thinks you ever will be. I’ve seen the rooms of lots of people who aren’t my patients. My friends. Of course, if you don’t want to...”

“It’s on this floor, down the hall.” You then brought Dr. Jaquith to your room. You stopped sharing a room with Fanny when you were six years old. You took out a key. “She locks her door, Doctor. Make a note of it. Significant, isn’t it?”

“Well, it signifies that it’s your door. I never heard it said that a girl’s home is not her castle.”

“My castle, Doctor.”

“You know, stuff like this was built to last a lifetime. Solid.”

“Enduring and inescapable.”

“Are you comfortable here?”

“I try to be. I’m here a good part of the time. It’s so boring here.”

“You don’t play outside with the other girls in the neighborhood? Sounds like they’re having fun.”

A beat. You were hesitant. “I don’t like playing with the other girls. I like going outside, but…the other girls and Fanny usually prefer to stay inside. That way they don’t get their dresses dirty.”

“Well, that’s very responsible of them, but couldn’t they find something else to wear when playing outside?”

“No. Image is everything.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know. But I hear Mother and the other ladies say it a lot.”

“What about at school? Don’t you play then?”

“I don’t go to school anymore. I’m homeschooled. When I used to, sometimes during recess, Fanny and I played amongst ourselves or we split off and she played with the other girls while I played with the boys. They weren’t afraid to get dirty and were much more fun.” You knew many things that boys talked about. You played more with boys than with girls, and liked them better. You were a picture of energy and aggressiveness. You were common, but with a frank and engaging commonness. “The girls were prissies.”

“Upon my soul, how children are educated nowadays. Where did you learn that word? It’s not a very nice word.”

“I’m afraid I am not learned at all, Doctor. It’s true! They were all cowards. They were boring and just played with their ugly dolls and lame dollhouses. Dolls are ugly and stupid, and sometimes creepy. I don’t know why Fanny liked playing with the girls. They were stuck-up. Total snobs. They thought having the most popular or most expensive doll made them better than other girls. Karla and Jessica showed off their Princess Eliana dolls. During recess, Katie couldn’t play with them because she only had the Dearly Doll. She liked her Dearly Doll, but she thought Princess Eliana was really pretty and wanted to play with them. But they told her to go away. They wouldn’t let girls who didn’t have the same dolls play with them. I didn’t get why. Those girls were dumb and they made up dumber rules. I didn’t think it was fair for some girls to have plenty of lovely things and other, prettier girls to have nothing at all. Fanny’s too prim. If she doesn’t take care, she’s going to grow up and be an affected little goose.”

“Aren’t there any boys in this neighborhood you could play with?”

“No, there aren’t. So I stay inside. I want to explore the woods, but Mother wouldn’t like it if I tracked mud and dirt into the house, so Marie doesn’t let me go beyond the park. But there’s nothing to do at the park. I’m not even allowed to climb trees. I'm just different from everyone, I guess.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being different.”

“Yes, there is. Everybody says there’s not, but it isn’t true.”

“I’m just saying you could probably go outside and make friends, if you really wanted to.”

“I don’t care what they think. If I’m sad or lonely, I just come to the attic and paint a story with a happy ending and when people say they like my paintings, like you did, it makes me feel better. I think people should always try to take the bad things that happen to them and turn them into something good. Don’t you?”

Dr. Jaquith was taken aback. Before he could respond, your father came back.

“How is everything?”

The two men shared a look and gave a subtle nod to each other. Dr. Jaquith had seen enough. It was clear to him that you were a very precocious child and could be sweet at times, but that you’d need to spend a considerable amount of time at Cascade. Weeks, maybe even months depending on how you progressed. You definitely had spunk. A Skeffington needed that to get along in the world, but you needed to learn there were better times than others for it. Though they both knew you’d take it very hard and that it was going to be a big and scary change for you, it really was for the best, for your own benefit. Now was the time to tell you their decision.

“Your father has told me much about you. Both he and your mother have told me a great number of things, some good and some…not so good. What your mother and father have described to me, and what I’ve seen for myself, your latest peculiarities...your fits of crying, your secretiveness...indicate you’re on the verge of a mental meltdown.”

“I’m not melting down!”

“Now, nobody said you were. Not definitively, at least. But your uncontrollable fits of anger and violence, your lashing out is—”

“What Dr. Jaquith is saying, darling, is this is why we worry about you. We have given this a great deal of thought. Darling, believe me, we’re only trying to help you. Dr. Jaquith has a sanitarium in Vermont, I believe. Cascade has an excellent reputation. He’s suggested you spend a few weeks there.”

“A sanitarium? But that’s a terrible place, everyone says so! It's like a jail! Probably one of those places with a high wire fence and yowling inmates. If I go with him, he’ll drive an ice pick through my skull! I’ll be a vegetable!”

“Well, now, I wouldn’t want anyone to have that mistaken notion. Cascade is just a place in the country. People come to it when they’re tired. You go to the seashore. They come there. What you’re describing is called a lobotomy, a procedure that went out of fashion years ago and isn’t practiced anymore. At least not by any reputable doctors who still have their license to practice medicine. I promise you, you won’t be subjected to inhumane experiments. I’m a psychiatrist, not a mad scientist. I only want to help you.”

“But I’m not sick! I’m not a bad person, I’m really not! Daddy, tell him! Tell him I’m perfectly fine and don’t need to go!”

You looked close to tears and Job felt something tear at his heart, but he was determined.

“Of course you’re not a bad person. But, darling, sickness can present itself in many different forms. It’s not always a fever or common cold. There are people, both children and adults, who are afflicted with sicknesses of the mind. Now, while Dr. Jaquith may not be able to cure you, he can help you manage your anger, if you let him.”

“No! I won’t go! The other children will laugh at me! I’ll be the local failure! I’ll just die from shame! I’ll just die! I’ll just die!”

“Darling, please don’t dramatize!”

“There’s nothing shameful about my work or frightening or anything else. It's very simple, really, what I try to do. People come to a fork in the road. They’re confused. They don’t know which way to take. I just put up a signpost: ‘Not that way. This way.’"

“Girls emerge from there as refined young ladies well-versed in etiquette and manners, both of which you are sorely lacking. There’ll be girls and boys there that are around your age and just like you. Maybe you’ll even make friends with some of them.”

“But I don’t want to be one of those girls.”

Your mother entered the room, curious as to what was causing so much commotion. “Which is precisely why you must go. I cannot let your unbridled nature ruin your chances for a respectable future. Remember your courtesies, young lady. You will thank us for this. A lady, especially a Skeffington, needs to know how to control her temper!”

“Fanny, please.” Though she meant well, her presence and comment certainly weren’t helping. Your father turned to you with apologetic eyes. “I’m sorry, but we have to do what’s best for you, sweetheart. You’ll be angry with me at first, but you’ll see that this is for your own good!”

“I won’t do it. I’m not like those girls. I won’t go! I won’t go!” You fumed and angrily threw objects across the room, uncaring if they were breakable or not.

“Dr. Jaquith, could you leave us for now? I and the servants will get her all packed and ready to go and we’ll meet you outside within the hour. If you could just wait for us in the foyer?”

Forty-five minutes later, your bags were packed. Dr. Jaquith walked out to his car, concerned as he helped Soames load your bags into the trunk. He didn’t see you spying down from your bedroom window, just staring at him with that strange, blank look. Five more minutes passed, and Dr. Jaquith, your father, and yourself were in the car and on your way to the train station. You turned around in the backseat and looked out the window as Uncle George, Fanny, your mother, and the servants watched you go and waved goodbye. You put on a smile and waved back, but once the car pulled out of the drive, your smile faded. You seemed vaguely troubled as Dr. Jaquith drove, your father in the front passenger seat. You didn’t pay attention to their conversation. You were too deep in thought. Even when the three of you were on the train, you didn’t say a word the entire ride. Neither your father nor Dr. Jaquith pushed you too hard after their first attempts at engaging with you and making conversation failed. They realized you were still angry at them and giving them the silent treatment. They knew they wouldn’t get a word out of you while you were like that, so they let you be. You only focused on either looking out the window or drawing in your sketchbook.

Once you arrived at Cascade, Dr. Jaquith gave you and your father a tour of the facilities.

“The exercise room is over here. The music room is down the hall. The dormitories are upstairs, and you may have seen the playground. You look as if you like playing outdoors.”

Patients, both children and adults, were sitting on benches and sunning themselves, swinging on swings, playing games and sports, etc. So many patients were smiling and seemed to be having fun and enjoying themselves. It really was a beautiful place. It wasn’t at all what you thought it would be, nothing like the horror stories you heard, but you still didn’t want to be there. Your father stayed for a few hours to ease you into being there. He knew the transition would be uncomfortable at first, but he couldn’t stay forever. When it came time for him to leave, you cried and clutched onto him, begging him not to go. You didn’t care if you were making a scene. You didn’t care if people were staring at you. You were afraid. Deathly afraid. You didn’t want to be abandoned and left all alone here, surrounded by people you didn’t know. It was only when your father promised you that he’d write every week and call you every day that you relinquished your hold on him.

“Promise me you’ll be a good girl and try to make friends while you’re here?”

“I-I’ll try,” you hiccuped. You did your best to cease your crying and put on a brave face.

Your father nodded. Trying was better than nothing, and he was proud of you for wanting to make an effort. “If you ever need anything, please don't hesitate to call,” he told both you and Dr. Jaquith.

“We will.”

Your father shook hands with Dr. Jaquith before giving you one last hug and kiss on your forehead. Then he was gone.

A violent temper in the home harms the developing brain of the child in the same way as combat harms a soldier. Their PTSD is massively under-diagnosed. Additionally, such emotional harm influences the expression of over nine-hundred genes via epigenetic toward poorer health - survival mode over longevity. The child learning to cope with their own stress in positive ways through meditation, mindfulness, and self-awareness could be the most important thing Job and Fanny could do as parents.

At the end of your lesson, you were fuming at the nurse who doubled as your teacher. Your head pounded and your eyes were sore from constantly staring at the page. You left as soon as the lesson ended. You never wanted to see your nurse ever again. In fact, you would run away from the sanitarium and make your father miss you so much that he would find you and have to take you back home. That would really show him. You loved your father like none other, but he could be stiff at times. He was a great businessman and banker, you reminded yourself, and he was Jewish, which meant he was held to different standards than most men, though you didn’t understand why. Why did it matter if you could or couldn’t read? You would, in all likelihood, get married to a handsome and intelligent man when you were older, and you’d manage the house while your husband managed the money and signed all the important papers, just like Mother and Daddy did. Miss Trask tried to get you to do your homework, but you just ran away from her. You could hear her calling after you, but you didn’t listen and kept running. She couldn’t keep up and you left her in the dust as you ran and ran and ran until you reached your sanctuary. Here, you could be alone, enjoy peace and quiet as you listened to the sounds of nature. You climbed one of the trees and tried to forget all about your lesson by doodling in your sketchbook. You didn’t have any particular live subject. You just let your imagination run free and drew whatever came to mind, like how Dr. Jaquith showed you to do when you first met. Here you could lose track of time. You could stay here for hours, even as the sun set and the sky began to darken. You’d stay in the great outdoors forever if you could.

There was a quick, rapid knock on the door, and Dr. Jaquith looked up, frowning. Everyone knew not to disturb him when he worked on his patients’ documents. It must’ve been something important. He called for them to enter. It was Miss Trask, one of the nurses.

“Dr. Jaquith,” she began. Then she stopped talking.

“Yes?” he said, looking straight at her. “You came into my office during a critical time. Clearly you have something important to tell me.” Dr. Jaquith could see her swallow away the lump in her throat. His fingers drummed the desk, and he glanced at the stack of documents on it.

“Sir, it’s about Miss Skeffington.”

When Miss Trask said your name, Dr. Jaquith’s attention was immediately piqued. His stomach dropped. He wanted to swallow nervously just out of habit, but refrained from doing so. Oh, God, what happened this time? He thought you had been doing so well in your therapy sessions, but he knew that slip-ups and relapses into old habits could still happen. You’ve had them before. After all, this was a long process and progress wouldn’t be obvious right away. But did you do something as bad as break another kid’s arm again? Or something worse? Miss Trask, though, couldn’t tell his mind was going a mile a minute with worrying, for he kept his same stoic expression. A perfect mask of impassivity that took over a decade of hands-on experience to perfect.

“She’s not doing well in any of her classes. She’s failing almost everything except for P.E., and is especially struggling with her reading. I’ve been doing my best to help her, but she’s being stubborn and won’t cooperate. Now she’s run away again. I tried to chase her, but she was too fast and slippery.”

“Oh, dear. Again? Not to worry, I know where she is. I’ll see to her now. Thank you, Miss Trask. You may go.”

She nodded and left the room.

Dr. Jaquith looked over at the pile of documents on his desk. He had managed to finish the bulk of them, and had hoped he’d be able to finish them all, but it looked like they’d have to wait until tomorrow. He had to see to you, see what the trouble was right then. If Miss Trask personally came to his office to seek out his help instead of that of another nurse or Dr. Brine, it must’ve been more than serious. It must’ve been an emergency. Unlike his paperwork, you unfortunately couldn’t wait until tomorrow. He left his office, giving only a nod of acknowledgement or a quick but polite “Hello” or “Good Afternoon” to the patients and staff he passed by as he walked briskly through the sanitarium. Not wanting to alarm anyone unnecessarily or look unprofessional, he refrained from running or sprinting, but his pace was fast enough to signal to people that he had somewhere to be and couldn’t be bothered to slow down or stop for even a moment. He went through the gardens, then followed a dirt trail in the woods for about five minutes. It was technically outside the bounds of the grounds of Cascade, but was still safe. It was a perfect place where you could wander, explore, climb up trees…you could do almost anything there. Sure enough, Dr. Jaquith found you seated on a low yet sturdy tree branch of one of the larger trees. You looked to be sketching, so deep in thought that you didn’t hear his approaching footsteps. He cleared his throat so as to alert you to his presence without startling you too much. He didn’t want to make you jump and fall out of the tree. You weren’t very far off the ground, but you could still hurt yourself if you fell.

Your heart stopped. You turned to look at him and, seeing him standing there, it was as if you realized the danger you were in with his arrival. You swung your legs over and jumped off the branch and to your feet, smoothed your clothing and stood before him. Even though he grinned at you, you felt a shiver pass up your spine. You had been more than a little frightened of him.

“I want to talk to you.”

“Who, me?”

“Yes, you.”

“I thought you might.”

“Miss Skeffington, does Miss Trask know that you are skipping your lessons to go wandering in the woods by yourself?” He knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it from you. “Why aren’t you in your lesson, Miss Skeffington?” he asked, cutting to the point.

“I don’t like my nurse. She’s a boring tutor.”

“You’re learning to read, amongst other important life skills. Lots of children your age don’t get that opportunity. Someday you will thank me for everything I’ve done for you,” he said.

You glared up at him. “I just don’t like reading. I’m not good at it, and I can’t do it. No matter how hard I try, I don’t understand the letters.”

“Is that so? Have you told Miss Trask?”

The mention of that odious woman gave you flashbacks to your lessons with her and no matter how much you tried to forget it by coming here as some form of escapism, the memory of your horrid experience with her just minutes ago was brought to the forefront of your mind.

“What are you doing here?” you asked as Miss Trask entered your room.

“You need to study outside of your lessons,” she said firmly. “Where are your books?”

“I just got out of my lesson! I need a break!” you cried.

“Your mind is sharpest right after a lesson,” she said. “Do you want to learn to read or not?”

“I don’t want to learn!” you snapped. You had crossed a line, and you knew it.

Miss Trask’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You will read those books, Miss Skeffington, and I won’t ask you again,” she said in a low voice. “Your father went to a lot of trouble to get you treatment and an education here. You wouldn’t want to disappoint your father, would you?”

“No…”

A determined look flashed across Miss Trask’s face. “There was a boy that was like you. He was angry with me too, but now he can read. Ever since, I thought this might happen again with another child… and it looks to me like that child is you.”

“And how did he learn how to read?”

“I sat him down with me for three hours each day, which is exactly what I’ll do with you.”

“Miss Trask!” you cried.

She cut you off. “Be quiet. Don’t dramatize.”

“But three hours!”

“I expect you downstairs with your book in five minutes.”

You shrunk back, fighting back the tears that threatened to escape your eyes. You hated disappointing your father. He was your hero. But Miss Trask just didn’t understand how hard it was for you to read! You watched as she left the room. You didn’t move for a moment and, when she was gone, you threw your easel against the wall. You picked up the book and tried to read it, determined to show both Miss Trask and your father, but the more you looked at it, the worse your headache got and you found you just couldn’t do it. You didn’t want to visit Miss Trask, but maybe if you just studied for many hours at once, you could get it all done and over with. Hugging the book, you stomped past your broken easel and out the room. Every step taken was torturous. You really, really did not want to see Miss Trask. What did that old lady know anyways? Why couldn’t Dr. Jaquith have given you a fun nurse to be your teacher? You bet even he himself would’ve been more fun than Miss Trask. She was waiting at the table, but you walked right past her. When she called after you, you ran. You were worried that if you didn’t get away, you’d do something you’d regret. You were sent three hundred miles away to be educated. But what your parents didn't understand was you only wanted to step just outside your fence...so you did.

“I tried, but she just said I’m not working hard enough. But I am working hard! Really, really hard, Dr. Jaquith! I spent two hours looking at the same page, and when Miss Trask asked me to read aloud, I just couldn’t do it,” you argued. “All I do is stare at the page. I know the letters. I see her write them, and I can go through the alphabet. She says my penmanship is wonderful, but when I have to read a word, the letters move around on the page and I can’t make any sense of them!”

Dr. Jaquith nodded, and you were quiet. He had heard of this sort of learning disability before, but it was rare. So rare that not very many teachers had ever personally dealt with it before, or even acknowledged it. You gathered your things that were resting by the base of the tree, including the book that Miss Trask was trying to force you to read. “I’m going to go now, if that’s okay. I don’t like to stay too long in the same place. Dr. Brine might find me.” You made to leave, but Dr. Jaquith’s voice stopped you in your tracks as he turned around to face you.

“Where are you off to now?”

You stared at him, fingers clutching the book. You wanted to run, but you knew you needed to be brave. He wasn't really a monster. He was frightening, but he was still your doctor and he only wanted to help you. Tina Durrance, so far the only child - heck, the only person you befriended - got along with him, and you trusted her judgment. If she could trust him, you probably could too. “I’m going to Miss Trask,” you said shortly. “I’m learning to read.”

“When you said you didn’t understand the letters… Are you mixing up the letters on the page?” Dr. Jaquith asked in a gentle tone.

“Um…” How did he know that was your problem? Did Miss Trask tell him? Or maybe Charlotte did? He was her husband, after all. But Mother and Father were husband and wife too, and they didn’t tell each other much, if anything. Maybe, as your doctor, he just had a way of knowing. Like a sixth sense. “Yes…”

“Just like some children that came before you, or so l hear,” he said. “You don’t need to go to Miss Trask anymore. I’ve already cancelled her. She'd only further bore you to tears with her lessons. It looks like she already has.”

He had a point. More than once you woke up with your face buried in a book. Books were makeshift pillows for you many times. Every time it happened, you panicked slightly but, by the sky outside your window, you knew it wasn’t time for supper yet. You’d always sigh with relief, then pick up the book.

“But I have to learn to read so Daddy will be happy,” you snapped, embarrassed.

“Yes, we must keep your father happy.”

“I need to go.” When you turned away, Dr. Jaquith gently laid a hand on your shoulder, turning you back to face him. You froze, remembering what your classmates had told you about shrinks. Dr. Jaquith looked kind of funny, but could he really be a monster like the inhumane doctors at insane asylums?

“D-Doctor,” you stammered, voice squeaking. You knew you’d been impertinent and were afraid he’d call you on it. You had been acting like you were no longer his patient, like you'd become a member of his staff with how often you tried to test and push boundaries.

“I have a proposition to make to you. Mightn’t Charlotte be your nurse instead? She will teach you to read.”

“Do you really mean it?”

“Well, I’m crazy, but if you promise to behave yourself and not to do anything like what you and Tina did again without asking my permission first.” His tone was final, but soft. It was true he was probably softer with you than most doctors were with children, but it was because you reminded him so much of his dear, sweet Charlotte. “I’d also teach you if I could, but I’m afraid my days are sacrosanct and I don’t have the luxury of the time necessary to properly dedicate to one-on-one lessons. Charlotte, however, doesn’t have anything to do with her time, so she’ll be teaching you instead. She’s read a lot and, like me, she’s even stumbled on some of the studies of the human brain that recorded other children with the same problems you were having.”

“You’d do that? Just for me?”

“Of course. We’re here to help you.”

“So Charlotte is going to be my new nurse?”

“Not just your new nurse. She’ll be your friend, if you’ll have her. She’ll stay with you. Pay attention to you. Make you feel wanted and important. Go back to your room for now. I’ll speak with both Charlotte and the other nurses and doctors about the changes in your scholarly pursuits. You won’t learn to read by supper, I’m afraid. You’ll have to come back each day, but I promise you Charlotte will make it much more painless than Miss Trask’s method. You’ll be reading in no time. Once you learn how to read, a great many worlds will open to you, worlds beyond this one that your imagination wasn’t able to comprehend before.”

Your lips quivered for a moment before breaking into a shy smile. You looked to be on the verge of tears again, but it was happy tears that time. You suddenly hugged Dr. Jaquith and he didn’t know what else to do other than stroke your hair. Though you didn’t say anything, he knew this was your way of thanking him. You gave him one more tight squeeze around his waist before letting go and stepping back.

“You're only on probation. Remember what it says in the Bible, ‘The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away.’”

“How does it feel to be the Lord?”

“Not so very wonderful since the Free Will bill was passed. Too little power.”

And then you ran off. He watched you go, slightly amused, but slightly exasperated at your behavior. You were often unpredictable, always keeping him on his toes. He still remembered the day you and Tina skipped your lessons and went to the park to play without permission. That was a big offense, but since you and Tina were both found unharmed and it was the first time either of you had smiled or laughed in days, you were both given only a mild punishment and had to promise Dr. Jaquith that if you wanted to leave the grounds again, you’d have to ask him or a nurse for permission first so you could have a trusted adult to watch you. Maybe he liked your impertinence. Just a smidge. No day at Cascade was ever boring with you around, that was for sure.

You had been visiting Charlotte ever since. With Charlotte as your teacher, you were able to see improvements you never thought possible. Even Miss Trask praised you when you actually read two pages aloud and only had to pause a few times. What really confused you though was that you were actually starting to like your lessons. What would Mother say? Perhaps Father would be happy for you. Charlotte was kind to you and very patient when you made mistakes. She was constantly egging you on, but in a way that showed she really cared.

“You know this word,” she said as you hovered over the same word for over a minute. “You can do it...”

“Elfan... No, that’s not right.” The letters were moving again. “El...eh…Elephant!”

Charlotte applauded you, and you blushed. You then read the full paragraph aloud:

“‘She was a happy little train. Her cars were full of good things for boys and girls. There were all kinds of toy amin…animals. Gir…Giraffes with long necks, teddy bears with no necks, and even a baby el…elph…elephant. There were all kinds of dolls. Dolls with blue eyes and yellow hair, dolls with brown eyes and brown hair, and the funniest toy clown you ever saw. There were toy trucks, airplanes, and boats. There were picture books, games, and drums to play. The little train carried every kind of toy that boys or girls could want.’”

“Wonderful!” She said, “Wonderful! Can you read the next paragraph?”

“‘But that was not all. The little train carried good things to eat, too. Big, round oranges...fat, red apples...long, yellow ban…banan…nana… bananas...fresh, cold milk...and lawl…loli…lollipops to eat after dinner. The little train was taking all these good things to the other side of the mou…mountain.” Your voice went up a notch at the end. You glanced up at Charlotte, praying you'd gotten the paragraph mostly right and, by her smile, you knew you had. And again she applauded you.

“I did it! I’m learning to read, Charlotte! You’re the best!”

You kept improving, and you actually sought out books to try and read. Most of them you couldn't, but you could understand a lot more than you could before. Four days later, you were in yet another lesson with Charlotte. She and Dr. Jaquith no longer frightened you, and the words of the other kids at school seemed to fade from your memory. Those kids had no idea what they were talking about. Charlotte was ever so nice.

June 1926

Today a new girl came to Cascade. Her name is Christine. She is close to my age. Maybe I can be friends with her. I really like her, but I’ve never been good to new people. Nobody else seems to like her, so she must be a really awkward person. That’s okay, because I’m awkward too. I promised Daddy I would try to make friends. I overheard Charlotte and Miss Trask talking about her.

“By the way, her room is next to yours, so you’ll share the same bathroom. Don't be disturbed if you hear her crying. She has spells of it. Just ignore it. It’s one of her little tyrannies, like refusing to eat. Just ignore that too. Only if you could manage to get a little food into her tonight, it would help.”

“I’ll try.”

She was sitting alone at a table, a puzzle in front of her. She wasn’t at all interested in working on it, though.

“How’s it coming?”

“All right.”

“What’s it supposed to be?”

“I don’t know.”

“Here’s the little girl’s other slipper. Do you mind if I join you?” You sat down next to her. “What’s the title of the picture? Oh, ‘The Proposal.’ I’ll collect all the pink pieces, that is, if you don’t mind. Of course, some people prefer to do a puzzle alone. How long have you been at Cascade?”

“Ten days. Nearly eleven.”

“You don’t like it much, do you?”

“No.”

“Neither did I at the end of ten days. The first two weeks are the worst.”

“I shall never like it.”

“Do you want to go home?”

“No.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“I don’t know. My mother doesn’t want me at home. That’s why it’s helping Father for me to be here.”

“My mother doesn’t want me at home either. But Daddy said being here would be good for me. I didn’t believe him at first, but he was right. I stay here for Daddy. I know it’s wrong to have favorites, but I love my daddy more than my mother.”

“So do I.”

Whenever either you or Tina were feeling homesick, Charlotte made you feel better by helping you fall asleep or taking you out for ice cream and letting you call your dads.

“It’s me, Tina. Don’t be afraid. What’s the matter? Oh, Tina.”

“Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t till you’re asleep. Tell me, what’s the matter?”

“I’m ugly and mean, and nobody likes me.”

“You?”

“I’m not pretty in the least. You know I’m not.”

“Well, whoever wants that kind of prettiness, Tina? There’s something else you can have if you earn it, a kind of beauty.”

“What kind?”

“Something that has nothing to do with your face. A light that shines from inside you because you’re a nice person. You think about it. Someday you’ll know I’m right.”

“Will they like me then?”

“Who are they?”

“Everybody. All the kids at school, Miss Trask, and the nurses and the doctors. There must be something awfully wrong with me.”

“Do you like them? The kids at school, and Miss Trask, and the nurses and the doctors?”

“No, I hate them.”

“That’s something else you’ve got to grow up with. If you want people to like you, you’ve got to like people. That’s why Miss Trask asked you to cooperate, and that’s what Dr. Jaquith means when he tells you to play the game.”

“I bet you’re only fooling me.”

“You try it and see. In the meantime, if it’ll help you any, I like you. I think you’re very pretty, and very sweet.”

“All right?”

“All right.”

“Why are you so good to me?”

“Because somebody was good to me once when I needed somebody. Now, go to sleep. Close your eyes and let your muscles go all limp. That’s better. I’ll tell you a story. Once upon a time, there was a little girl who was afraid. A little girl who was afraid because she thought she was alone…”

“Listen, Tina. There’s the telephone booth. And here's my change purse. Do you think your father will be home tonight?”

“You mean I can call him now?”

“That’s exactly what I mean. Go ahead.”

“Help me, will you, please? I’m not sure I can run it.”

“Of course.”

“Number, please.”

“Long distance, please.”

“Long distance.”

“I want to put in a person-to-person call to...”

“Jeremiah Duveaux Durrance. Mount Vernon 2940.”

“...to Mr. Jeremiah Duveaux Durrance. Mount Vernon 2940.”

“2940?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Deposit 50 cents, please.”

“All of that?”

Depending on whose turn it was, either you or Tina would sit at the table with Charlotte so whoever was on the phone with their dad could have some semblance of privacy. It was your turn.

“I want to put in a person-to-person call to...Mr. Job Skeffington. Charles Street 2926.”

If Dr. Jaquith was the Lord, then Charlotte was an angel.

Job Skeffington hadn’t gotten much sleep the past few days, in part because the fools over at Wall Street were shortsighted and wouldn’t know whether to buy or sell or invest if common sense slapped them in the face, but mostly because he laid awake at night thinking about you. He had been pouring over documents and filling in terms and conditions and signatures all morning but, after lunch, he found himself again sat in his study, staring at a half-blank page as he tried to draft a letter to you. The postage stamp on your letter was not neatly in the top right-hand corner of the envelope, yet creatively positioned as if its landing place was an act of random joy. Job could only suppose that it was your first attempt at sending your own letter and he found himself smiling as he opened and read it. Never before had putting his thoughts to paper been so difficult. What could he have possibly said to you that he hadn’t already said over the phone?

My dear daughter,

I was sorry to see you in tears when I left. They say we cannot feel the pain of another, but your screams were agony seeping into my skin. I took it in, let myself feel it, and stayed right there to radiate the love I felt for you. Daddy understood - you were crying because you were being left alone. But today I made a discovery - All people are alone in some ways and some people are alone in all ways. Even after someone is grown up, she can be alone.

Dr. Jaquith told me that once you mastered being alone, then you were ready for the company of others. That didn’t make it easy though. When everyone's life journey separated from your own, when the only heart beating in this house belonged to you, it wasn't something most children would be able to take. There were days when your brain became a cold fire. Perhaps that was what others called panic, but when you were alone, who were you going to call? I guess the good news is that, in time, after many unpleasant days, you’ll be okay. Then you’ll find joy again, or maybe it will find you. After that, your journey can change, take on new and exciting adventures… I wish I could wave a cure for you who are alone, but there are some things you must learn the hard way, my love.

He couldn’t get your tear-stained face out of his mind. He didn’t particularly like upsetting his daughter, but he was determined to give you the best life he could. Being a father as well as a banker and businessman could be difficult at times. It was a delicate balancing act, and he worried he’d tip too far to one side. You had been much more rebellious than Fanny, so he at least should have been grateful that he didn’t have to deal with that when it came to her, but it didn’t make having only one daughter at home much easier. It had been two weeks, and while Dr. Jaquith kept him informed, he had to be honest about how you were doing, even if it wasn’t what he wanted to hear. He told him that, while you were showing signs of improvement, progress was slow. Though he tentatively suggested two weeks at Cascade, as the two weeks almost came to an end, he told Job that you’d have to remain at Cascade for the foreseeable future, maybe even another year or two. To take you out of Cascade prematurely would only be detrimental to your treatment and everything you’d worked so hard for would be lost. He trusted Dr. Jaquith’s judgment and agreed to keep you there for as long as the doctor saw fit, but that didn’t make him miss you any less. He talked to you on the phone every day, but he regrettably hadn’t been able to come see you at all in the two weeks you’d been away. Just when he thought he could get away, he was pulled back in by something. He couldn’t seem to catch a break from the incessant phone calls, business meetings, and so-called “emergencies” that his partners and associates seemed to find themselves in. Not since Russia had declared war on Germany in 1914 had he witnessed mass-panicking of this magnitude. He was heartsick for you. So was your sister, Fanny. She wrote you letters too and he felt awful that he couldn’t take her with him to visit you yet. He was broken out of his thoughts by his phone ringing.

“Hello? Yes? Hello? Hello? Hello?”

“Hello? Hello, Daddy.”

“My darling girl! Anything wrong?”

“Oh, hello, Daddy. Are you all right? Oh, Daddy, I just wanted to hear you speak to me. When are you and Fanny coming up to see me? I'm so lonesome here. Why can't you come tomorrow?”

“I’m sorry, darling, but I’m afraid I can’t. Tomorrow I’m meeting Mr. Parker at the station. We’re leaving at an early hour for a business trip up country.”

“But, Daddy, you promised.” Your voice was almost a whine as you said it, but you couldn’t mask your disappointment after waiting for so long, only to be told you’d have to wait even more. Two weeks felt like a lifetime.

“I know, I know. But I have other commitments that unfortunately can’t wait and need to be attended to first. It’s all rather dull, but it’s very important I finish with the bulk of my work before handing it off to someone else. Dr. Jaquith has been telling me what a good girl you’re being and I’m so sorry to have to break my promise, but as soon as I can get away, Fanny and I will come see you. The next time I see you, I’ll make it up to you. That’s a promise I will not break. Do you remember your promise you made me about making friends?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Have you had any luck?”

“Well… I’m not going to have a nurse anymore. I’m just going to have Charlotte. She’ll be my... What are you?”

“Your friend.”

“Yes. She’s going to be my friend. And she’s from Boston. And she’s ever so nice.”

“Tell her t…”

“What’s that, Daddy?”

“Tell her ‘thank you’.”

“He said to tell you thank you.”

“Charlotte sounds like a lovely person, but have you made friends with any of the other children?”

“Well… I did make one friend. Her name is Tina Durrance. Really it’s Christine, but she wants me to call her Tina. She was so unhappy here, but I’ve gotten to know her.”

“That’s such wonderful news! I'm glad to hear you’re coming out of your shell. I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.”

“It’s just one friend.”

“One is better than none. And if you ask me, it sounds like you have three very good friends. Keep at it, and I’m sure you’ll make more in time.”

“And just as soon as Dr. Jaquith said we could, Charlotte made plans to take us camping in the woods. Tina adores camping, just like me. Of course, I couldn’t do it without your permission. I wouldn’t. We’re supposed to be heading out tomorrow, but if you want me to stay and study…”

“No, I want you to go. Camping sounds like a wonderful break for her and for you. Daddy’s got to go now, darling, but I’ll call you again tomorrow at lunch, as always. Have fun on your camping trip. I love you. Goodbye.”

“I love you too, Daddy. Goodbye.” You hung up the phone and turned to Charlotte. “Thank you for letting me call him. Thank you, thank you.”

The next morning, it was Saturday. Time for you, Tina, and Charlotte to go camping. It was your favorite activity. You loved it just as much as you loved your art.

“There you are, Mr. Skeffington. I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Hello.”

“Good to see you again. Where’s Mrs. Skeffington? Isn’t she with you?”

“No, I’m afraid not. She had a prior engagement that she couldn’t cancel or reschedule, so I’ve brought her cousin, George Trellis, with me in her stead. He’s my daughter Fanny’s godfather and like an uncle to both of my girls. George, this is Dr. David Jaquith.”

Dr. Jaquith and George shook hands cordially, but the disappointment in the doctor’s eyes was hard to miss. “Well… I can’t say I’m not disappointed that her mother isn’t here to see her, especially after so many months of hard work, but I’m glad you’re here in her stead, Mr. Trellis. it’s very nice to meet you.”

“And same to you, Doctor.”

“And of course, you remember Fanny, my daughter. Say hello, Fanny.”

“Hello, Dr. Jaquith.”

“Hello, young Fanny. It’s good to see you. I’m glad you could come along to see your sister. Maybe you could help to lift her spirits.”

“Sorry we’re late. We lost our way a bit. Tell us, how is she?” George asked.

“Better every week. In fact, she’s almost well, but she doesn’t believe it. The prospect still looks dark to her. Going through a sickness like hers is like going through a tunnel. It’s pretty dark right up to the last few hundred yards.”

“Have you seen my daughter yet?”

“Literally speaking, no, but I did talk to her. Not that she told me anything. As I said, she’s in low spirits. You’ll find her feeling depressed today because this morning, I told her she’s a fledgling now.”

“A fledgling?”

“Well, it’s time for her to get out of the nest and try her own wings. Contemplation of going home has struck her pretty hard. I haven’t told her there’s any alternative.”

“Then you think well of my alternative?”

“It’s a gift from Heaven. But we won’t tell her about it till you’ve gone. Now, don’t expect to find her looking well. She’s a pretty sick girl.”

You were in your room, painting and cleaning with Charlotte. You hung up some of your paintings to dry as she did some tidying up around the room. You were a mess. Your hands, face, hair, and clothes were stained with both dirt and paint. Clearly you had been playing outside earlier in the day. Your father didn’t expect anything else, and it was a welcome sight. Your eyes lit up and you smiled when you saw him, Fanny, and Uncle George, but they quickly dulled again and your lips drooped lower when you suddenly remembered what Dr. Jaquith told you just that morning. Your excitement had been overshadowed by the realization of what their presence here meant. Fanny was quick to run up to you and give you a hug. You hugged her back.

“Darling, I’m so glad to see you. Dr. Jaquith says you’re much better, almost well,” your father said.

“Yes, that’s what he says.”

“Mr. Skeffington, Fanny, Mr. Trellis, this is my wife, Charlotte. She’s chief of my police force here and has been acting as Miss Skeffington’s nurse. Charlotte, this is Mr. Job Skeffington, Mr. George Trellis, and young Fanny, her father, her mother’s cousin who’s like an uncle to her, and, of course, her twin sister.”

“How do you do?”

“What’s this, sweetheart?” Your father put his arm around your shoulder and kissed you on the side of the head as he looked over at the canvas you were currently working on.

“I’ve been helping Miss Skeffington with her painting. Now you’ve come, if you’ll excuse me, I have a million things to do.” Charlotte and her husband shared a knowing smile as she left the room.

“How’s Mother?” you asked nervously as you played with your hands and picked at your fingernails before stuffing them in the pockets of your trousers.

“Fine. She’s been having a wonderful time entertaining, paying visits to all her friends and blessing them with her presence at parties. She’s spending the day with Mrs. Thornton and her sister at present.”

“Has Dr. Jaquith told you?”

“Told me what?”

“He says I’m well enough to leave here now. I’ve got to go home. Daddy, I dread it so terribly. I know it’s awful not to want to see Mother, and it’s wrong...”

“Stop, look, and listen. New England conscience on the track.”

“Perhaps you don’t have to go home.”

“Mayn’t I tell her, Dr. Jaquith?” Fanny asked.

“Later, maybe. We’ll see how she behaves.” When you looked at Dr. Jaquith quizzically, he explained, “We have a scheme, your father and I. Your sister knows about it.”

“What is it?”

“I’m not telling you yet. Marvelous chance, though, to use your re-education. Well, my time for pleasure is just about up. I thought I’d show your Uncle George around the place a little. You can show him and your father the rest of the works when we get back. Meet me outside in a minute, Mr. Trellis?”

“Oh, I’ve been thrown out of better places than this, Doctor. Fanny, would you like to come with?” Taking their cue, your Uncle George and Fanny followed Dr. Jaquith out of the room, leaving you and your father alone for a tearful and heartfelt reunion. As soon as the door closed, you hugged your father tight. You didn’t want to let him go. You told him all about your time at Cascade, not sparing any detail of your experiences and adventures, both good and bad. Though you often rambled incoherently in a way all children do, your father avidly listened to every word. He responded to you, asked you questions, matched your energy. He cared about you and your interests, even if they were so different from his own, and that meant the world to you. You couldn’t wait till you could show him the big surprise.

You never cared much for keeping a diary. You tried, but only wrote a handful of entries before your time in Cascade. But Dr. Jaquith said it could be a good outlet for you to let out all your pent up emotions and encouraged you to take it up again. Since you would be at Cascade for the next two weeks, possibly even longer depending on how you progressed, it seemed to be a good time to start keeping one again. When your time at Cascade went from two weeks to two years, you were so glad you followed Dr. Jaquith’s advice. Journaling the day’s events and what you were thinking and feeling helped you in more ways than one. Even after you were deemed well enough to return home and your time at Cascade came to an end, you still kept the diary going.

September 1927

It’s finally Daddy’s day off today but I can’t show him my drawings or how I’m coming along in my reading just yet. Daddy is so busy. He said that he was sorry, but he was hung up with Thomas, the lawyer. When he wasn’t sleeping, he was talking to Thomas on the phone. He seemed mad at him. I don’t know what lawyers do, but it sounds boring and tedious. Daddy is always working now, so I only see him on his day off. The babysitter’s name is Hannah. We talk about Daddy sometimes. I think she is Daddy’s friend. I am glad Daddy has someone who cares about him. She picked Fanny up from school yesterday since Daddy was too busy. Daddy said never to go with strangers, so Fanny had to call him just to be sure Hannah could be trusted. Hannah’s nice, but I don’t really like having babysitters.

You found yourself outside your father’s study. He would be finished with his paperwork any moment. You waited there, going over again and again Charlotte’s cheers in your mind. The door opened, and your father stared down at you, as if surprised to find you there. You drew yourself up as tall as could be, but he still towered over you.

“Do you need something, sweetheart?” he asked.

You nodded, but didn’t answer. Without a word, you strode right inside his study. You heard your father close the door behind you and follow.

“Is something wrong? Are you hurt? Sick?” he asked you.

You shook your head.

“Have you finished your studies today?”

You reached up and took the first bit of parchment off the stack.

“Careful, darling, those are important documents. They can't be lost—”

“Public notice… Pending dem…demo…demolition… This property will be demol…demolished as ordered by the Department of Ins…inspec…inspections and Lice…Licenses.” You looked up from the random sentence and hid your smile. Then you continued, and you read the entire letter out loud to your father. “No person may remove this notice prior to the approval date which the demolition may commence. The owner of this property has not been found and therefore this dwelling unit and the surrounding land will be placed under ownership of the state. The area is to become a natural wildlife refuge until further need or sale approval by the state courts. The structure and fou…founday…foundation of this property are not stable. Anyone entering the premis..is…is…premises under permit must take pre…preca…precautions and care. Multiple injuries have occurred due to the structural inte…inte…gritty…integrity of this property.” When you finished, he actually laughed, and you felt your cheeks go red. You loved it when you pleased her father. You had seen his smile more times than you could count, but you rarely heard a laugh.

“You see, darling? You are a Skeffington! You always had it in you!” he said. “You've got quite the attitude, but I'm proud of you. Keep up the good work.” He touched your face and then embraced you. “Come now, supper is waiting for us.”

You beamed at him, and you headed to the dining room together. You recounted the story to Uncle George, and he laughed first and then congratulated you. Then he hugged you. After supper, you returned to your room to practice some more and then prepare for bed. You still had much farther to go, and the letters still got jumbled, but you were determined to work hard. The next morning, you once again found yourself pouring over a book. You finished reading the paragraph aloud and looked up at Marie. She was absent-mindedly working on something with a needle.

“Um… Marie, I have a question,” you said.

“Ask away,” she urged you.

“Well, it’s just about something that I overheard. One of the neighbors said a Miss Rosalyn seduced her husband. She called her a whore. Marie, what does seduce mean? And what’s a whore?”

The needle suddenly slipped and pricked her finger. You felt bad for giving her an ouchie.

October 1927

Although they live in the same house, Mother and Daddy hardly speak to each other. Mother was very upset because Daddy had lady friends that came to visit him in his office at the bank, but Mother has gentlemen friends that come to see her at the house, so I don’t see the difference. Why was it wrong for Daddy to have friends? Mother and Daddy are always telling Fanny and I the importance of making friends. Can’t they just all get together for a play date like me and Fanny did at recess? It’s after dinner. Fanny and I have been sent to our rooms. Mother and Uncle George are arguing with each other. They're talking about divorce. Weren’t Mother and Daddy supposed to work everything out? Did something happen? What changed?

“Five secretaries in a row? I’m not that forgiving.”

“The second secretary must have forgiven him for the first. The third for the second, and so on. Can’t you be as forgiving as a secretary?”

“As a matter of fact, I’m very grateful to Job for making it so easy for me to divorce him. I must admit, at first I was very angry. And then suddenly, I realized that the five secretaries were five gates to freedom.”

“And now you can live with your conscience.”

“Well, yes.”

“I hope the two of you will be very happy.”

I thought I was being so careful, but Mother saw me peeking from the railing.

“What do you think you're doing, young lady? Upstairs. It’s books and study. Besides, your father and I have something to discuss.”

November 1927

I think I’m finally finding my study groove. My test scores are really good. I’m worried about how much my parents are fighting recently, though. They were yelling at each other again today. I asked Mother why, but she wouldn’t say.

December 1927

This is it. Test day tomorrow. But this Monday isn’t going to be like other Mondays. It’s different because it’s the last big exam day before the end of the semester. Daddy told me I should be proud of myself since I've worked so hard, so l’m feeling great. He’s not around very much, but I know he loves me, and I love him. Daddy, I’m going to ace this test tomorrow for both you and Mother!

December 1927

I did really well in all my tests! I studied really hard. I still have two more semesters to go, but I wanted to show Mother and Daddy. Maybe they will become happy if they see how smart I am. It’s winter break and I’m going to enjoy not having to do any lessons for the next week or two.

January 1928

Where’s Daddy? We haven’t seen him since Christmas. Uncle George won’t say. Fanny and I have been talking and playing almost all day, every day, except for the time we have to do our homework. Homework is boring, but it’s nice being in the same room together.

February 1928

It’s the day after Valentine’s Day. Usually it’s Mother’s favorite day of the year because she gets spoiled with even more attention and affection than she does on any other day of the year. Abundant gifts of chocolates, flowers, and other pretty and sparkly things from men take up so much space in the house, the servants don’t know what to do with it all. I don’t think even Mother knows what to do with it all. This year was much of the same. The men gave her presents and impassioned proclamations of love, but there was no payoff. But, today, she was very angry and upset. When I innocently asked her where Daddy was, she snapped at me and said he wasn’t coming home anymore. What happened? Did Daddy get a time out?

February 1928

Mother keeps getting visitors. Peter is still here. He showed up again with a smile on his face and flowers in his hands from the new place he was raving about. He was here last week too. I now know why the neighbors say Mother and Peter are more than friends. I would have called them a couple too if only Mother wasn't so…so… I don’t know what the right word is. I mean, she spends more time looking in a mirror than looking at people when she’s talking to them! Today, Peter got Mother a gift made from Goldstone. It’s already her second since he came here! Are there other presents I don’t know about? He bought Fanny and me a bunch of books and toys. He must’ve thought, that should be enough to keep us occupied, right? The last present I got from Daddy was at Christmas. When he still lived here. I know Peter is doing this just because he’s worried about us. He wants us to feel more comfortable with him in our home. Did he really think these things would be enough to keep us occupied and out of his way? It might be enough for Fanny, but not me. I feel like he’s giving way too much to Mother. I know I’m immature to think this way. Daddy hates when people are immature. Everything seems to be going well now that they’ve been going out on dates. But I don’t trust Peter whatever-his-last-name-is. He’s trying to take Daddy’s place. I won’t let him. I’ve taken a permanent offense at him and I’ll make sure he knows it. I’ll look him right in the eye and I’ll tell him, “I don't know who gave you the right to call my mother your wife. She's not your wife yet and will never be your wife.” I wish Daddy would come back. I need to stop thinking about stupid things.

February 1928

If only Mother and Daddy could make up. Mother, Daddy... Can you try to behave like a happy couple? Or wouldn’t that be rather dishonest? They haven't separated yet, but it is too late. Mother and Daddy are liars. They always told me I need to make up with my friends when we fight. They told me to forgive Sarah whenever she took and broke my stuff. But they won’t make up. Even though they aren’t together anymore, I still hear them fighting over the phone. Sometimes Daddy says he is going to keep Mother away from us. Daddy says that he is going to rescue Fanny and I from Mother. Why can’t they just stay together? Would it kill them to put on a show for a few more days? The thing is, I don't want to give Janie Clarkson any ammunition by extension. I’m “friends” with Brenda, who’s friends with Janie’s son, Jeremy. I know Janie and Mother don’t like each other. Yet Janie keeps trying to go out with Mother to lunch. Grownups are so confusing.

March 1928

I got a letter in the mail. It was one from Brenda again, asking how I was feeling about Mom and Dad’s break up. With a flick of the wrist, I threw it in the trash. It was none of her damn business how I felt. None. Just because Brenda had been the one I’d gone crying to, it didn't give her the right to keep on prying. Nosey parker. She was probably having a good old laugh about it with her friends. I know she’s a blabbermouth and is friends with Jeremy Clarkson. I didn’t tell her anything, so how did she find out? Fucking Jeremy. The twerp always sticks his snotty nose into other people’s business. Like mother, like son. He said his uncle saw Daddy at a speakeasy with a lady who wasn’t Mother. Miss Eleanor Morris. And that Mother was also there with a man who wasn’t Daddy. Max MacMahon. Neither of them knew the other was there, so their running into each other was an unpleasant surprise. Usually he’s full of shit, but this…I don’t want to believe it, but…it’d explain why Daddy is gone so much. I don’t know. I’m still mad at Brenda for telling Jeremy about Mom and Dad. Well, I’d show her. Come exam day I’d get the top grade. If there was anything I didn't understand I’d have Brenda explain it, then I’d go in and beat her. It worked like a charm every time. When Brenda didn't understand something I would just pretend I didn't get it either, even if I did. The phone is ringing. It’s probably Brenda again, something about a family emergency and she needed to talk. The last thing I needed was some crying mess wrecking my day. There’s more important things to do.

You sat at your easel, painting. Your father entered and sat down on one of the chairs. You bid him enter the attic, but you didn’t look at him. You were painting a sophisticated, stylized royal portrait of a fluffy cat dressed like it was a man from the Renaissance era. Why? You saw a stray cat in the neighborhood and thought it was pretty. Other animal portraits were already leaned up against the wall. You were either experimenting or going through a weird phase.

Your father shifted uncomfortably. “We need to talk about last night.”

“Do we?”

“Yes. There are certain things that grownups do, that kids aren't supposed to see. And that was one of them.”

You kept painting. You still didn’t look at him. It was the first time he was home in weeks, and the first thing he did was…that. With another woman. He hadn’t realized that when your mother, uncle, and sister went out for the evening, you had stayed home because you made an excuse that you weren’t feeling well. You didn’t want to believe Jeremy, (you mentally nicknamed him “germy” for good reason) but now you had to, because you had more than just his word. You saw the proof with your own eyes. When he realized you were there and what you had seen, your father was quick to react by hurriedly cleaning himself up and sending Miss Morris home, all but pushing her out the door with a million apologies on his lips. But the damage was done.

“Darling, I need you to listen to me.”

You paused. You deliberately set your paintbrush down and turned to your father. An awkward beat.

“See, when two grownups love each other very, very much, they like to…show that love to each other.”

“I know. They fuck. Like Mrs. Ledger’s basset hounds. Do you love Miss Morris? More than Mother?”

Your father was dumbfounded. You regarded him with a bored, aloof look.

April 1928

I miss you sometimes, Daddy. Today was a cleaning day and Manby found some of your books and cologne bottles that you left. I miss you. I smell your favorite cologne bottle just to remind myself what you used to smell like. Mother got so upset when she saw the bottle. She made me throw them away. I secretly kept one. I miss you, Daddy. Sometimes when you went to visit other places, you’d come back with candy for me and Fanny. You told me that you would write to me if you went somewhere else. That was three weeks ago now. No one wants to tell me if you went somewhere else. The neighbors and servants just tell me to keep my lips zipped. I'm sorry for what I said about Edward and Freddie at dinner. Is that why you aren’t coming to stay at home anymore? I know Mother likes them, I just— I just want you back and didn’t want them to replace you. I miss you, Dad. I love you, Dad.

I haven’t seen you for a while. I wonder when you’ll be back to visit me. Every time I entered Dr. Jaquith’s office, I could smell his tobacco. It reminded me of your study room, even though you don’t smoke. It was the perfect reminder when you were gone for so long. I miss you, Daddy. Mother wrote, but she never visited. She was always busy with her friends. She has no time to spare for me. Sometimes I wonder if Mother loves me. Maybe I should call Charlotte or Manby my mother instead.

For your whole life, seeing the world had only been a dream, but, with your parents’ divorce and your father taking you to Europe with him after gaining full custody of you and Fanny, it could be a reality.

#mr Skeffington #the wolf man #daughters courageous #now voyager #Claude rains #bette davis #crossover au #crossover fic #crossover #pls tag me if you’re inspired by this #I’d love to read it #x reader

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