The Confabulator Cafe

Tag: Straeon Manor

  • Secrets of Passages

    The door was stuck. Not the first time it’d happened to me but no less infuriating for it. There should have been an instruction card near to hand for the occasion so I thumbed on my flashlight app.

    The light popped on just above the bridge of my nose. I furrowed my brow so that the beam would be tighter. Less chance of it shining through the cracks around the door. I moved my head back and forth methodically.

    No card.

    Damn it, Boston. You’re crap at details.

    “It’s one of the Great Houses,” you told me. “That shit always works.”

    Not this time, apparently.

    I smooshed the the heel of my hand against my forehead to shut off the light. Now there was a chance this whole thing was some kind of trap. In the dark again, I ran my fingers up and down and around the frame. Along the top were two latches. Locked from the inside. I wondered who passed through here last and why there was a need to lock the door after.

    Some small effort was rewarded with both latches flipping open though neither wanted to. Rather than barging out, I listened for sounds of anyone near the other side of the door.

    Nothing.

    I pushed the door open a crack and waited. Still nothing. Deep breath, slow release and I went through.

    Nice hallway. I didn’t recognize the portraits on the wall opposite me. A quick glance left and right. I was alone in the hall.

    “Welcome.” A female voice. Nice. Quiet. Another voice and another until there was a mob of voices welcoming me. I was still alone in the hall. The dull red carpet, the white walls yellowing at the top, the brass sconces that needed dusting and the portraits were all the company I had.

    Of course, the portraits. The owner had infused the voices of the subjects into the house system. I supposed there’s a certain comfort in being surrounded by people you knew all the time. At least they’d never talk back.

    “Jimmy Cavanaugh,” a strong lady’s voice said. “I thought never to see you again.” (more…)

  • Timber

    http://www.thetortoisetable.org.uk/common/files/catalogue/55/large/falseacacia%20_lr_nov092.jpgI held still.

    The forest all around me soughed with the gentle breeze and I closed my eyes and listened to the symphony of oaks and maples and larch and locust and poplar. Each leaf gave an individual sound, the wind breaking through the different shapes and sizes and positions. I understood the complexities of playing a clarinet or bassoon suddenly even though I’d never picked up a musical instrument in my life.

    Tools I understand. I’m a Builder. That’s why I was in the forest.

    *

    “You have to do this for me,” my brother said. He lay in a hospital bed dying of colon cancer. He was too young for this and younger than me. Life isn’t fair. “You have to.” His voice was not even a fourth what it had been when he was strong. Now it was reedy, full of too much air and almost hollow.

    He held on to my hand with a strength he’d always had but never showed.

    “I will, Ollie. I promise.” I hated this. I was crying and I didn’t want my little brother to see me crying. Our sister would have torn me up for showing emotion like that. Susan was a bitch but I loved her and Ollie more than almost anything. My own family were the only ones above them. I sniffed and stopped trying to hold back the tears.

    “I can’t go until you do, Jamie.” Ollie always had a penchant for gravitas and that’s what made him good at what he did. He could write copy like no one else and he had that shelf of awards to prove it.

    “I’ll go out there first thing in the morning,” I said. I sniffed again.

    Ollie nodded and let go of my hand. The drugs finally took him and let him rest.

    *

    Out in the hall I stopped to hug Ollie’s wife. We both cried and held tight to each other. In another world, I might have won her affection if I hadn’t met Marta around the same time. Charlene chose Ollie, picked him from all her suitors and made sure he knew just how much she loved him. Being a former Miss Texas USA, she attracted all sorts of men – and women – just by being in a room.

    “What does he want you to do?” She hadn’t put on any makeup and her face was blotchy from crying.

    “A small thing,” I said. I looked at the floor. “Tomorrow morning.”

    “Oh god.” Charlene wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. “Jesus.”

    I took a step back. “He’s sleeping now.”

    “You haven’t told me.”

    “What?” I shuffled to my left half a step.

    The glare she shot me withered away any resolve I might have had. Still, she didn’t need to know everything. I sighed.

    “There’s a tree out on our parents’ property. He wants me to use it in the house.”

    Her face melted from stern reproach to confusion. “I don’t understand.”

    “You don’t really have to, Char,” I said. “This is what he wants me to do for him.” (more…)

  • The Builders

    I wish I’d never seen the things.

    I wish I’d never gotten into this business.

    Now it’s too late.

     

    “You ready for this?” Martin said. (I won’t use any last names. I can’t bring myself to rat out my friends.) He had his hand on the doorknob and he looked dead serious. “Once you go through, there’s not turning back. You can’t unsee this, or unknow it, either.”

    What did I know? He hadn’t told me anything yet. Foolish, I nodded.

    We went through the heavy oak door and into a room that reminded me of a Viking mead hall. Candlelit chandeliers hung from bare rafters and there was only one table. Our footsteps echoed off the stone floor. The hall extended in either direction so far that it disappeared into darkness.

    Around the table were ten men, all looking like they’d come right off the construction site, same as me. Martin clapped his hand on my shoulder as we reached the table.

    “Guys, this is Tom. The one I told you about.” (more…)

  • Sensitive

    “This is beyond unorthodox.”

    The seller’s agent shook his head but didn’t unlock the front door of the house.

    “Gerry, I know,” the buyer’s agent said. Her blond hair blew across her face and she brushed it away. “I’ve never had anyone do this. I hope it’s not a trend.”

    “You know what it is? It’s that damn book by what’s-his-name… Anson.”

    The woman nodded. “Probably. You know they’re making a movie out of it?”

    He chuckled. It was a hopeless sound. Gerry looked at his watch and tapped its face. He’d made plenty of money selling real estate and even though it wasn’t a Rolex yet, it would be someday.

    “Maybe we should go see it together,” Jerry said.

    “What?”

    “That movie.”

    She paused. “Oh, I don’t know.”

    “I know you like me Jeri, and you know I like you.” He smiled. It was the smile that always closed the deal and he knew it. They were about the same age and had known each other for years.

    “Well…”

    “Think about it,” Gerry said. He pointed with his chin. “Here they come.”

    The little Ford, bright and shiny, well-kept, pulled into the drive. Both Gerry and Jeri had parked on the street. Jeri waited for them to get out of the car before approaching them.

    Gerry watched her interact with them and admired her skill in the situation. She’d probably spent less than four or five hours total with these people and she seemed as intimate as an old friend. She hugged the woman and put her hand on the man’s shoulder. They were maybe ten years younger than both Gerry and Jeri, and this was going to be their first home together.

    “Hello, again,” Gerry said, extending his hand when Jeri escorted the couple to the front door. “Good to see you Phil, Tara.” He shook hands with them both. “Are we waiting on —?”

    “Mrs. Vecsey,” Phil said. He was taller than Gerry, more muscular. “She chose to drive herself. Said she wanted to get a sense of the neighborhood.”

    “Well,” Gerry said, taking out the key to the house. “Let’s go inside, then, and wait for her. She knows the address?”

    Tara nodded. She was pretty, dark-skinned. Gerry decided she must be at least half-Japanese. Her enormous brown eyes lit up as he held the door for her.

    (more…)

  • Four Shots

    Dining Room, Storm Shelter – 2000

    Cellar Door by Michael Chan
    Cellar Door by Michael Chan

    At midnight I head down to the dining room for a cup of tea. My textbooks are still piled in the corner of the dining room table, my notebook open. I tighten my robe around my waist before I sit down and curl my legs up under me.

    I read the same line about DNA four times before I slam the book shut and stand with my tea, pacing in front of the doors. Mother’s car isn’t in the driveway — odd, considering the hour. Pacing gives way to exhaustion, though I still feel too keyed up to sleep. Every time I started to fall asleep, I heard Uncle Al in my head.

    I’m dozing off in front of my biology textbook when the sound rips me out of it — the bang that feels like it’s stopped my heart and forced the breath from my lungs. I blink rapidly. I’m almost convinced that the noise came out of my dreams when I hear a second and third gunshot in rapid succession. (more…)

  • A Delicate Man

    Upstairs Guest Bedroom 2037

     

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    Loyal Barstow chewed his fingernails and looked around. “Panic room,” he said. “Panic room. But I’m not panicked.” He patted his nonexistent pockets.

    His bathrobe was open and he wore a tee shirt and sweats, both stained with red and brown. He hadn’t showered in several days, he wondered if there was any water. For two weeks now he’d been locked in a room originally provisioned for three or four days.

    “They can’t get in,” he said and sprung across the bed, grabbed for a plastic bag and turned it inside out. Nothing in there. Loyal flung it away and sighed. “No one can get in. And I don’t want to get out.” He huffed and puffed and rolled onto his back. “I don’t want to get out.”

    The guest bedroom had been converted during The Scare of ‘17, not to be confused with the Panic of ‘22. No, it wouldn’t do to confuse the two. The year after The Scare, there had even been a militarized assault with fourteen black-uniformed men wearing night vision goggles. Loyal’s father told the story with gusto, especially the end. (more…)

  • The Graveyard, 1869

    The Graveyard — 1869

    Penelope Worthington walked, solitary, up the windswept hill to take refuge under the spreading branches of a chestnut tree. She wore the dove grey of half-mourning, and carried a basket, from which she took out a warm woolen shawl. She spread the shawl carefully on the grass and sat down, arranging her full skirts just so. From the basket she took bread, cheese, an apple, and slices of cold turkey and ham, and arranged them just as carefully in front of her. Finally a glass and a small bottle of wine. She filled the glass, and admired the way the light shone through the ruby depths.

    “It’s from your father, of course,” she remarked to her companion. “He’s been teaching me about wines.” She sipped. “Of course, he would tell me that red wine should be paired with beef or mutton, not chicken, but I think it will complement this cheese nicely.”

    She gazed over the rolling hills as the breeze tugged tendrils from her carefully arranged hair, as a lover might. Her eyes held an old grief, faded with time and as comfortable as a favorite dress.

    “I had a letter from Father yesterday. He wishes me to return to Hartford, to keep house for him, and perhaps look for a husband. I must consider carefully how to respond.”

    (more…)

  • Bells

    Rocking Horse Room — 1943

    Straeon Manor - Rocking Horse RoomFrom the attic to the wine cellar, their voices whispered my name, “Eliza. Eliza. Eliza.” I had come home for Christmas. I had returned to Straeon Manor.

    The rocking horse wallpaper had been replaced by utilitarian white paint. The child’s bed gone, replaced by a single adult bed. The nightstand – where I kept my mother’s bible to comfort me during the long, dark nights – had been replaced by a small dresser where sat a small tray of food.

    A rocking horse sat in the corner of the room. Had it been mine once upon a time? Perhaps I had left it behind when we moved. I couldn’t remember. This was no longer my bedroom, just as this was no longer our house.

    (more…)

  • Out of Time

    Library/Secret Room — 1968

    aluminum branchMadge was not impressed with the pink, aluminum Christmas tree in the library. Stella seemed to think it was the height of fashion and that their employers had remarkable taste. Madge preferred real trees that grew from soil, not some factory in Wisconsin.

    She plucked at the cold metal needles and tried to arrange them in some sort of natural arrangement. Her nose wrinkled in distaste. No matter what she did with it, the gaudy thing still looked like a mistake.

    “Hand me the box of green balls, Stella,” she said.

    (more…)

  • Dearest Mama

    Ballroom — 1815

    Dearest Mama,

    It snowed again last night, and this morning I awoke to gardens dusted with a fine white powder. Hopefully the snow will not impede the travel of any of the party guests. Aunt Millie has assured me that it will not. I do wish that little Lizzie was in better spirits. I should dearly have liked to have you here for my first ball.

    My first ball, Mama, can you imagine that? It seems just yesterday I was dashing about in pinafores with my hair in plaits sticking out from under my bonnet. My aunt promises me that I shall look every inch the lady tonight. I do so hope the evening goes well.

    Has papa returned from France? I had hoped that, by now, all the soldiers would have returned home. Surely with Bonaparte’s defeat this past summer, they can have no reason to keep papa abroad. I am sure his return home would be just what Lizzie needs to cure her cough. My aunt agrees with my statement, though assures me that by the time you receive my letter, Lizzie’s health will be much improved.

    I shall return to my letter momentarily, my aunt is calling me away. (more…)