The Conflagration of the Fripperies | Chapter the Second [10.15.02]
Good evening, ladies and germs! After typing until my fingers were bloody stumps over the past couple days, I have completed Chapter the Second of my latest work, "The Conflagration of the Fripperies," which lies below. It helps to have read Chapter the First before plunging into this latest chronicle of the misadventures of the always-eccentric Graves family, so feel free to do so a bit farther below. I hope you enjoy Chapter the Second, and any feedback with which you can provide me will be greatly appreciated. Chapter the Third is in the works as we speak, and I shall post that here as soon as it is completed. As I said before, please do visit my Stories.com portfolio at http://www.writing.com/authors/orpheum/ to see the newest additions to my literary canon.
Until next we meet, my friends, I bid you farewell. Au revoir, tout le monde!
[Listening to: Destination Unknown (Mest); Last Stop Suburbia (Allister); Rock The Plank (Mad Caddies). Reading: Phantom (Susan Kay); The Picture of Dorian Gray (Oscar Wilde).]
[Exit Orpheum.]
The Conflagration of the Fripperies: A Comedy of Manners
Eric L. Jeffus, Esq.
Chapter the Second
An ominous pall hung over the city as the members of the Graves family prepared for their respective days, the towering skyscrapers downtown wrapping themselves in the dense clouds like women draping furs over their shoulders.
Gwen looked out of her two-story window and hoped it would rain. She enjoyed the rain's presence, was comforted by the muted pitter-patter above her head while she slept. And, after the rain subsided, Gwen relished the cool, fresh breeze that seemed able to cleanse her of all strife, purge from her the negativity that roiled deep within, banish the darkness from her soul and allow the sun's rays to enter the dank catacombs of her heart. Although the rain hardly seemed necessary, as the new love of her life had already made some considerable chinks in her armor of indifference and disarmed her caustic tongue of a sword. Gwen sighed contentedly at the thought of seeing Arthur again, and, taking a blouse from her bedspread, danced merrily around the room with her imaginary partner leading. A week before, she would have condemned herself of falling into the tired rut of clichÈ, but in her exultance she could not muster even a mild admonishment.
This morning, Gwen had taken great pains to look her best, shunning her usual dress of khakis and a sweatshirt for a pretty white blouse and elegant black skirt that brushed her ankles; she wore her hair down, allowing its ebon luster to come through. She hummed to herself as she got dressed, imagining how Arthur would sweep her off her feet and confess his undying love for her. She grabbed her backpack off a nearby chair and bounded down the stairs, her step as light as her heart.
As she came into the kitchen to grab a quick breakfast, Gwen found her mother and father eating in silence, he reading the business section of the newspaper, she perusing a bodice-ripper romance novel. They looked up, startled by the sudden intrusion, and gaped at Gwen, taking in her attire, her hair, the sheen of her eyes.
"Are you feeling all right, Guinevere, darling?" Elise asked, genuine distress showing as she looked upon this splendid creature before her. She thought she had sensed that something was amiss the night before, judging from her daughter's strange behavior. Elise made a mental note to make a call to Dr. Canard, the family physician, that afternoon to schedule an appointment for Guinevere. Elise put her money on fever.
"Simply marvelous, mother," Gwen said, letting her elation take flight and soar around the room. Let them sic more shrinks on her, she thought; she felt able to vanquish any foe with the strength of Arthur behind her. With love as her shield and hope her blade, Guinevere Graves would venture into the unknown knowing that Love truly does conquer all. (Omnia vincit amor had never before been one of Gwen's maxims, but she was beginning to see the wisdom behind what she had hitherto considered saccharine.)
"Are you sure, sweetheart? Let me feel your forehead." Elise crossed the room and made to assess her daughter's temperature with that motherly thermometer, the hand, but recoiled at the sound of Gwen's joyous laughter as if she had been shot. "Oh my..." Elise said, putting her hand to her own forehead and looking as though she might faint.
"Guinevere Agnes Graves, are you taking drugs?" Remington boomed, standing to his full height and stabbing his finger at her to create what he thought was an imposing figure. He had had quite enough of this tomfoolery. Remington had, after much internal debate, rejected the idea of schizophrenia, as she seemed to be not so much suffering from hallucinations as she was simply inexplicably blissful. It was also unlikely, in his unprofessional opinion, that this sort of drastic change in personality could come about from natural chemical imbalance. The next logical choice in Remington's mind was that Guinevere was a junkie, no doubt shooting up at every opportunity. And no daughter of his would ever be caught in public under the influence of drugs, by God! In polite society, such things were to be kept behind closed doors. The very thought of how the Pavonine family would react to such ignominy made Remington quiver with rage. Years of humiliating ingratiation and carefully cultivated social protocol could be for naught.
"Dear, are you feeling all right?" Elise asked her husband, seeing him shudder. It seemed that the fever had become an epidemic; she promised herself to call Dr. Canard's office posthaste. Elise idly wondered if they quarantined for fever.
"What on earth are you talking about? Of course I'm not using drugs!" Gwen said, and could not help but laugh at her father, her melodious giggle a wind chime caught by a sudden zephyr. As if the idea of her being a drug user were not preposterous enough, Remington's ramrod posture of Correctitude, creased brow of Indignation, and waggling finger of Morality made his outrage a caricature. His only response to her laughter, however, was enraged silence.
Remington's worst fears were confirmed. The Guinevere he knew would never simply laugh off such an "ill-founded and malicious allegation," as she had often put it; her twisted sense of Injustice was normally far too heightened to accept accusation of any kind. She must be high as a kite, Remington thought. He wasn't sure what it meant for eyes to be dilated, but decided that Gwen's certainly were.
Deep within the Accounting department of his brain, neurons were calculating the cost of rehabilitation and weighing it against the dowry promised by Guinevere's marriage to Percival Pavonine. Remington subconsciously concluded that although he would suffer the emotional trauma of having polite society know of his daughter's controlled substance abuse, it might make him a tragically supportive character. He would be a Pillar of Strength, the unyielding mast to which his irresolute daughter may lash herself so that she may resist the sirens of mind-altering substances.
"Well, I have to get going, or I'll be late for school. Goodbye!" Gwen gave both her parents pecks on the cheek and ran through the door, skirt flying behind her. Remington and Elise Graves stared after their daughter. He shook his head, futilely attempting to understand what had just happened. She looked about to cry.
"Oh, my. I just can't believe our dear Guinevere would use drugs. It's so unlike her," Elise said. She wrung her hands and looked to her husband for strength, as she was feeling dizzy again. Remington looked at his wife and hoped she wouldn't faint. She had grown rather heavy since donning the mantle of matron, and he didn't relish catching her.
"What do you mean, 'so unlike her'? Rubbish. I've been suspecting it for years. That girl is grossly maladjusted. Ungrateful little wretch has always taken all that she's been given for granted. Why, without her social standing, what would she be? Nothing. But she has spit in the face of this family time and time again," Remington said as he pounded his fist into his other palm with each word to emphasize his point. He loved being an orator, because he was able to take full advantage of his stentorian voice. "And now this: drugs. Like common filth she has become dependent on cocaine, or some such rot." Remington spat this last word, as if it were something putrid into which he had just bitten.
"Sherlock Holmes used cocaine, dear, and he's perfectly lovely. Not filth at all," Elise said in her daughter's defense.
"That's not the point!" Remington boomed, pointing a finger in the air, then covered his face with his head and slumped in a nearby chair. He had dabbled in Shakespeare in college, and imagined himself to be quite the master at tragedy. "She has tarnished the Graves name, and something must be done to rectify this deplorable situation."
"I'm going to call Dr. Canard's office this afternoon and schedule an appointment for the family. I think a fever's going around. Maybe that's what's causing our little Guinevere to act so strangely," Elise said.
"I wish that were the case, Elise, but I'm afraid it's much darker than that. The vile presence of drugs has stolen our own daughter from us. The only choice we have is to send her into rehabilitation. I've heard of a wonderful place in the mountains, very secluded. Perhaps our fellow literati will not find out about this shameful happenstance until the demon of addiction is exorcised," Remington said. "If Pierce Pavonine were to discover that his future daughter-in-law was ensnared in this sort of disgrace, years of hard work could be ruined." Suddenly Remington knew he had said far too much, and was tempted to slap his forehead as a proper cultural symbol of his own stupidity.
"Pierce Pavonine's daughter-in-law? You don't mean that our little Guinevere is going to marry Percival Pavonine? Oh, how delightful!" Elise exclaimed, beaming at Remington, all vestiges of worry forgotten.
"Yes, blast it all, but don't be a twit and prattle about it to everyone. I had rather planned on surprising the family with the news." Remington was sorry that he had ever mentioned the marriage. He knew how hard it is for Elise Graves to keep any sort of secret, especially one of this magnitude, and from her own daughter.
"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it, dear, of course," Elise said, although she certainly had dreamt of it, and now yearned with every fiber of her blabbermouth being to tell her daughter the exciting revelation as quickly as possible. For her husband's sake, however, she would fight her most basic instinctual urges and keep the marriage a secret.
She did hope that Remington told the family soon, though, as she wasn't entirely certain how long such a delectable surprise could be kept from escaping her lips like a prison inmate desperate to see the light of day, filing at the enamel bars of her front teeth in search of glorious freedom.
"I'm glad to hear that, honey," Remington said with a smile that belied his true emotions, "but I need to get to work. I'll be in my study if you need me."
"Of course, Remy, dear. I'll call you for lunch." Remington flinched at that unholy bastardization of his wonderfully dignified name, but remained civil. It simply would not do for one of polite society's most elite members to throw down the gauntlet over his wife calling him an endearing pet name, aggravating as it may be.
"I'll have lunch in the study, thank you." Remington walked toward his sanctuary, eager to flee from the madness that had commandeered his life. He had installed a small refrigerator in his study so that he could eat alone, apart from the entropy that always threatened to overtake him. The refrigerator was tastefully designed to fit in a specially made commode, of course, to avoid a vulgar resemblance to a bachelor pad.
"All right, sweetheart, if that's what you'd prefer," Elise called out to her husband, who was rapidly moving out of earshot. She was once again reminded of everyone's odd behavior, and made a point of going to the telephone to call Dr. Canard's office now, while she was still thinking about it.
Although she knew the number by heart (Elise, unfortunately enough, was a hypochondriac, and found many reasons to call Dr. Canard), she followed the familiar custom of thumbing through the family's address book, finding the entry for the doctor's office, and carefully, deliberately, punching out the number. If ever she needed the comfort of order and routine, it was now, with these troubling events unfolding around her. The receptionist at the other end of the line recognized Elise's voice in an instant (she was, after all, their best customer), and wasted no time in scheduling yet another appointment for the Graves family.
***
Grim, gray buildings frowned down on Gwen as she walked to school, their shutters raised superciliously at her cheery disposition. She felt nothing but sunshine, however, in spite of the looming cloudbanks that threatened to rain upon the earth their icy volleys. The radiance of her smile alone seemed able to dispel the tenebrous thunderheads skulking in the skies above, and she found herself humming a cheerful tune as she approached the campus of H.P. Lovecraft High School. Even the school's solemn grounds seemed brighter to Gwen; so this is what it means to look at life through rose-colored glasses, she thought.
The foreboding main hall of Love, as most students referred to the school with a healthy dose of irony, had been designed by legendary Gothic architect Aurelius Baudelaire IV, whose dark genius had wrought a conception that would have made the school's namesake proud. The building itself seemed to shun light, casting an aura of gloom over the schoolyard, its turrets and pinnacles clawing at the black skies. Grotesque gargoyles snarled from their roosts on the embankments, and dramatic flying buttresses lunged away from the hall as if they, too, wished to flee the horror.
Gwen Graves saw nothing of these atrocities ó with the holy light of Love bursting from her heart, she was aware only of how strangely unhappy her fellow students seemed. Her thoughts on the matter were interrupted, however, by a shout from behind. Gwen turned and watched as her friend Orange "Ace" Chesterstreet sauntered toward her. Despite the inclement weather, he appeared to be dressed in a full zoot suit, complete with a peacock feather in his jauntily titled fedora. Gwen shook her head in disbelief and amusement as he tipped his hat, pulled a pocket watch from the exceedingly baggy pleated pants, and twirled it with a wink.
"Hey, toots. How are ya? Well, doll, ain't you slicked to the nines," Ace said in his best hepcat impression.
"I could say the same for you, Ace. What's with the get-up?" Gwen asked her friend, who was infamous for his eccentricity. She figured that with a name like Orange Chesterstreet, one would have to be a bit odd, though very few knew him by his first name. He had gone by "Ace" as long as she had known him, and he would not even allow substitute teachers to call him Orange.
On the rare occasions that people actually did discover Ace's real name, he took great pleasure in fabricating increasingly absurd stories on how he had been given such a bizarre name: he had been adopted by a family of navel oranges during a stint in Florida; his parents were aliens, and had mistaken a grocery list for a baby name book; or his personal favorite, that he had been born the vivid color of a carrot, and had only grown out of his orange skin in recent years. Gwen was one of the few who knew the truth, which was almost as strange.
Mr. and Mrs. Horatio Chesterstreet, unfortunately, were rather vacuous drug users. Ace had essentially raised himself and his younger sister Caitlin, taking on part-time jobs as soon as he was old enough, as their parents were normally either trolling the alleyways for drugs, slumped on the couch in a catatonic state, or in prison for various reasons. Ace learned how to fend for himself and those he loved at an early age.
Ace's parents claimed that his father was one-sixteenth Anasazi (or perhaps Hopi, as they could never keep their story straight), and, being born in an orange grove, Orange was christened in the American Indian tradition of naming children after the first thing seen at birth.
Orange later discovered that this was, of course, complete codswallop. As it turns out, is parents had been living at 221b Chester Street in the Californian city of Orange the year he was born. Stoned beyond comprehension the day of his birth, they were far too impaired to name their son. (One positive note: Mrs. Chesterstreet, steeped in opium as she was, did not require any painkillers to assuage the excruciation of childbirth.) At the hospital, his birth certificate was misread: an exhausted nurse, pulling her third graveyard shift that week, saw "Chesterstreet Orange, CA" scribbled down and assumed that it was his name. Thus Orange Oberon Chesterstreet was born. (His middle name was later taken from his great-uncle, an artist who drank and smoked himself to death. For some reason, this conjured romantic images for Orange's mother, and she decided to give him a besotted bohemian for a namesake.)
Ace paused for a moment, presumably reflecting on Gwen's question, then grinned, his eyes twinkling in sudden mischief before his face settled into wide-eyed innocence.
"Get-up? What get-up, Gwen darling?" Ace asked, utter guilelessness marking his blandly handsome face. He had ditched the accent, and now his clear voice, no longer traveling incognito, rang through.
"Well, Ace, I realize that your parents are aliens, and probably weren't able to tell you much about the world around you, but it's generally considered strange for teenagers to show up for high school in a zoot suit. Swanky outfit, by the way," Gwen said drolly.
"Thanks, toots. You're a swell-lookin' dame, too." Ace removed his hat and bowed gracefully. He was the King of Swing once again.
"I am not a 'dame,' Ace Chesterstreet. I am a mature young woman," Gwen huffed.
"Right, babe, and I'm the Sultan of Sudan."
"Pardon me my insolence, Your Majesty. Please spare me thy vengeful wrath," Gwen said reverently, cringing as if anticipating a blow. She laughed cheerfully.
"Woah, woah, hold on here. I need to check the happiness reading; I think it might be at levels too toxic for Mistress Mordant to survive," Ace said in a mock-scientific tone as he pulled an imaginary device from his jacket and swept it around Gwen like a Geiger counter. "Mistress Mordant" was Ace's nickname for Gwen, and usually it suited her personality quite well, for her humor was biting if nothing else. Ace shook his head solemnly at the imaginary readings. "Yep, I thought as much. With the air this contaminated with contentedness, our Dark Lady must have suffocated by now. Alas, however shall we live without her sarcastic wit?"
"Oh, do be quiet, Ace. So I'm happier than usual," Gwen said, blushing. She hadn't thought it so obvious that her outlook on life had changed.
"'Happier than usual'? You mean happy at all, don't you?"
"What do you mean? I've been plenty happy. Why, I love writing editorials."
"Taking pleasure in 'censuring the unwashed masses' doesn't count, love," Ace said, adopting an impressive British accent. "You're really, truly happy now, and I'm not sure I've ever seen that. What's the deal?"
"There's no 'deal,' you silly sod. Now let's get to class before we're late," Gwen said, slightly irritated that her friend would not leave her be, but at the same time bursting to tell him everything. She would wait until after she had seen Arthur.
"Ah, I'm close to the answer. I can feel it. So be it, Gwen; I'll leave you alone for now, but I'll be watching you. The game is afoot!" Ace shouted gleefully, then motioned for her to wait. "Just one moment, miss. I have something to show you."
Ace presented Gwen his open palms, waved them over each other, and snapped his fingers. She felt a sudden weight in her left pocket, and found that a deck of cards had materialized there. Puzzled, she pulled it out. Ace shook his head, apparently disappointed in this amazing feat of sleight-of-hand.
"Blast! That's the third time that's happened. Hold on to those, would you?" Ace said as he again showed Gwen empty palms, clapped them together, and opened them to reveal another deck of cards, identical to that which she held in her hand. "Ah, that's better," he said, wiping at his forehead with a handkerchief he seemingly removed from Gwen's nose. She blinked at this, surprised at finding that a rather large square of plaid fabric had evidently been lodged up her right nostril unbeknownst to her. Gwen knew, of course, that it was an illusion, merely a case of his hands being swifter than her eyes, but it never ceased to amaze her just what he could do, especially up close.
"How did you...?" Gwen asked, although she knew that Ace was an unflinching advocate of the Magician's Code: Never reveal the secret of a trick.
Orange "Ace" Chesterstreet had been given his nickname because he was the consummate card sharp: he had mastered every card game in the book, from Go Fish to Contract Bridge; could awe even the most jaded with his incredible tricks, some of which he had invented himself; and handled cards as if they were an extension of his deft fingers. Without the nurturing care of his parents to guide him, he had turned to books of magic to find suitable role models, and had found them in Houdini, Kellar, and Thurston. He spent his spare time poring over ponderous tomes exhuming the centuries-lost mysteries hidden in the muscles of the hand, and practicing in front of the mirror for hours on end until he was satisfied with his ability to conceal the pass of a card. What had begun as a hobby for Ace soon became an obsession, a method of escaping from the cruel reality of his life, until only in the fluid maneuvers of prestidigitation could he find peace.
"Never mind how I did it. What did you think?" Ace asked.
"I worship at your feet, O Liege of Legerdemain." Gwen fell on her knees and bowed.
"Hey, quit it! People are starting to stare," Ace muttered, his face turning a pleasant shade of crimson. Despite his apparent bravado and utter absence of fear or embarrassment, Ace was, at heart, rather shy.
"Did it ever occur to you, Daddy-O, that they're staring because you're wearing a zoot suit?" Gwen got up, brushed the grass off her skirt, and gave him a pointed look for a moment before again laughing.
"No, they're probably wondering who the gorgeous new girl is. You realize, of course, that you look completely different dressed like that and with your hair down," Ace said, once again taking in the glow that surrounded his old friend.
Now it was Gwen's turn to blush, as if some invisible hand had brushed rouge on her cheeks. She never wore make-up, subscribing to the increasingly popular belief that natural beauty is something that should be treasured, not obscured by powders and other foul-smelling trappings. Nevertheless, it had a charming effect on her striking, albeit usually quite dour, facial features.
Somewhere high above the courtyard, in the towering apex of Lovecraft Hall, a jarring bell sounded, a piercing klaxon that lacerated the air and made tatters of tardy students' hearts. Gwen was reminded of a line from John Donne's "Meditation XVII," in which he speaks of the bell that churches once sounded when someone died or was on the brink of death. The bell of Lovecraft Hall, with its demoniac howl of anguish that reverberated off the souls of the truant Doomed, was, Gwen thought, a death knell.
"'Never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee...'" Gwen whispered as she glanced at Ace. They both made a dash for the immense oak door to the hall, and for the first time that morning Gwen's mind was not on Arthur Paladin, whom she would see in her first class, Economics. Ace had Trigonometry first period, and silently waved to her as he shot up a nearby spiral staircase toward his class, which was in one of Lovecraft Hall's many turrets.
Gwen's Economics teacher, Miss Gertrude Primthorne, was an authoritarian, joyless travesty of a human being, her pinched countenance culminating in an uncompromising bun of her steel-gray hair. Hatred and bitterness had twisted her features as a thunderbolt does a once vivacious tree; her hands were but atrophied claws, and she seemed almost mummified, preserved only by her intense enmity toward young people. Ms. Primthorne (for no sane man would dare attempt even to court this foul creature, much less marry her) had an unwavering tardy policy: If students value their lives (or at least their grades in her graduation-prerequisite class), they never come late to class.
As Gwen carefully turned the doorknob, praying that Primthorne would not notice her entry. She winced at the gentle sigh of metal scraping against wood as the locking mechanism disengaged, and began inching the door open. She could hear Primthorne's acidic tone as she lectured about the complex relationship between Gross Domestic Product and the supply curve. Gwen was careful not to breathe as she continued opening the door, still hoping that her teacher's sharp eyes would not fall on the surreptitious scene unfolding in the far corner of the classroom.
While Gwen eased open the door, however, a deafening screech sent her heart plummeting. As is typical of high school classes, every head turned as one toward the door. She could see reactions ranging from sympathy to mild amusement in the eyes of her classmates. One especially mirthful boy mimed hanging himself.
"Nice of you to finally join us, Miss Graves," Primthorne said, but Gwen knew that nothing could be farther from the truth.
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