LITTLE TREASURES 3-4

 3. A Drag of a Guy

Chloe picked up the pouch that the jacks came in and ran her finger over the monogrammed initials of its former owner. S.E.T.

One of the first things Chloe found out about her family, the thing that lead to their discovery, was that Stanley Thomas had died in odd circumstances when he was eight years old. 

'That's morbid.' Guy took the pouch and threw it back in the box.

'I just think it's interesting. The boy who played with these jacks was murdered a few miles away from here. You don't find that interesting?'

'What's more interesting is that you'd rather play with a dead kid's toy than contemplate what a potential goldmine you're sitting on. Anyway, murder was never proven.'

'What do you think happened, then?'

'I think he saw one too many westerns, decided to camp out in the woods, fell down a hole, and accidentally set himself on fire.'

'I think it was murder.'

'Well whatever it was, keep quiet about it. Dead people don't add value to houses...unless they were famous.'

Guy took out his phone and left her to it, and while he was frolicking about the house, chirping away to property experts about restoration, and interogating historical societies to see whether anything significant happened on the property that was worth milking, Chloe took the box out to the back porch to explore its contents in peace. She wiped the cobwebs of an ancient porch swing and sat, setting the box down next to her. The next thing she pulled out was a gold cigarette case and matching lighter. The owner's name - E.M. THORPE - was engraved on the cigarette case, but there was only room for her initials on the lighter. 

Chloe was a smoker when she met Guy, but Guy insisted she quit, less because of the health risks and more because he didn't want to kiss an ashtray. Chloe supposed she could've pointed out that Guy's taste for raw onions made her eyelashes curl, but she let it go because as foreign a concept as it seemed to her now, she was in love with him then. If she was honest with herself, it was the idea of him that she was in love with. Her parents, the ones who raised her, were loving to a fault. Not a day went by where Chloe hadn't seen them kiss at least once, they held hands whenever they went out in public, and on the rare occasions that they argued, they never went to bed angry. It was this last example, set by two people who made marriage look as effortless as breathing, that had stuck with Chloe. She wanted what they had so badly that she not only overlooked Guy's myriad of faults, but very often took on resposibility for them. But her parents were gone now, and the veil of romanticism that had blinded Chloe to Guy's more irksome qualities was lifting a little each day. 

The siren song of Pall Mall Lights hadn't called to her in years, but looking at the old world glamour of the lighter with its filigree pattern glinting in the sunlight, she wanted a drag more now than ever. 

4. The Ice Man Cometh

When Stanley's body was found in an old hunting trap by tracker dogs a week after he was reported missing, the only thing that alerted police to his identity was a single uncharred swatch from the argyle vest his mother made him wear year-round. No one knew how to react upon hearing the news, until Aunt Emma blew in and assumed matriarchal duties in lieu of her niece's ability to do the same.

'Terrible business, but that's the trouble with children: give them an inch and they bow to their feral instincts. Turn into savages. This is what comes of sparing the rod, Dahlia. Take me, for instance. My father raised me with an iron fist, and I turned out alright. I might've loathed the man, but if your children love you unconditionally, you're doing something wrong.'

She took one of the long, thin cigarettes that made her withered fingers look dainty out of her cigarette case, lit it, took a long drag, then exhaled.

'Yes, yes, terrible business. And to be found in such a condition; black as the ace of spades!'

She took her niece's arm and led her into the house.

'Still, we must press on. We have a funeral to prepare. It has to be plain and dignified, none of this flowery nonsense. The eyes of society are everywhere, Dahlia, and make no mistake, society is a bitch. All it takes to fall out of her favour is an indiscreet sniffle...'

The girls watched in awe for the next three days as their mother took on the role of obedient child, lead around and told what was good for her by the only person in the world who could ever manage such a feat. The funeral was a study in how to grieve for the morbidly rich: plenty of dignified emotion on the part of the onlookers, none whatsoever on the part of the family. On Aunt Emma's advice, Dahlia stood prostrate, arms at her sides, eyes downcast, and solemly instructed her remaining children to do the same. Shirley was her mother's mirror image, doing her duty as the eldest daughter to support her all the way, and Stella did as she was told purely to make the day less trying for her but June, who inexplicably seemed to be feeling the loss of her brother more keenly than her sisters, refused to tow the line.

She spent the entire service and reception with her arms folded, donning a scowl that would've sent nannies the world over scurrying. She stuffed her face with cucumber sandwiches, guzzled copious amounts of tea, and committed the ultimate sin when a group of unwary mourners, led by Aunt Emma, ventured over to pay their condolences.

'My great nieces. Fortunately, most of them inherited their looks from our side of the family.'

'Yes,' said one crone, inspecting the girls like a farmer weighing up which hen she wanted to sacrifice for the Sunday roast, 'such lovely fair skin.'

She reached out to touch on of June's curls but immediately retracted her hand when June reeled back and let out a belch that sounded and smelled as though it was summoned from the soles of her feet. Mindful not to make a scene, Aunt Emma paid no attention to her behavior except to apologise for it, after a fashion. 

'Do pardon the child. This has all come as rather a shock to my niece, you see, and she's understandably been a little remiss with the discipline. But, now that we've farewelled young Stephen, things can go back to normal. We need to make sure these girls marry well, that will be our next...'

'Stanley.'

Emma looked at Dahliah without turning her head.

'I'm sorry, my dear?'

'Stanley, Aunt. My son's name was Stanley.'

'Yes, of course,' Emma cleared her throat, 'How silly of me. It's this terrible heat, you know; clouds the mind.'

Aunt Emma took Dahlia into the house and ordered the girls to stay outside and play as soon as they returned from the funeral. The girls sat on the porch swing, listening to the single raised voice bounding off the walls and journeying down the hall through closed doors.

'It's what's best, Dahlia, for the child and for yourself!'

None of them could quite make out what their mother was saying, but they were slowly filled in on the topic of conversation with each of Emma's frequent, loud interjections.

'The finest school in Europe!'

'Mistress Hildebrand. Marvellous woman!'

'She'll thank you for it!'

'For Heaven's sake, stop being such a damned weakling!'

Angry tears ran down June's face. Say what they would about her, nobody, but nobody, insulted her mama and lived to tell about it. She was in the house and marching down the hall before Shirley or Stella could stop her, and when they saw the defeated, brow-beaten look on their mother's face, they didn't try.

'Leve my mother alone!' 

June stood before her formidable enemy, arms behind her back like a general and, for a moment, it looked like she had won. Then a large, bejewelled hand connected with June's china doll face and knocked her to other side of the room. 

At last, Dahlia found her nerve.

'Cora,' she called.

The new maid, a younger, more eager to please model than her predecessor, scurried into the parlor. 

'Yes, Ma'am?'

'Aunt Emma is leaving. Go up to the guest room and pack her things.'

'I'd think about this if I were you,' warned Emma.

'Then have a taxi cab take her to the train station.'

The maid looked from the dowager to the dame, genuinely confused as to who was in charge.

'THANK you, Cora,' said Dahlia.

Visibly relieved, the maid mounted the stairs at a trot and half an hour later, the Thomas family stood united on the front porch and watched their beligerently benevolent house guest stride down the front walk, determined to wait for her transportation off the property, seeing as she obviously wasn't considered family anymore. She turned at the gate and addressed them all one last time.

'From this day forward, you can expect no more assistance from me, personally or otherwise.'

She opened the gate, yanked her suitcases away from the terrified maid, and lugged them out to the curb. Dahlia smiled and went inside. Stella and Shirley started to follow, but then they noticed June. She was leaning on a post, staring intently out at the road.

'What did you do?' Stella and Shirley whispered.

June smiled and pointed. It was a fair distance between the house and the road, but the glint given off by the object laying there was unmistakable. Predictably, Aunt Emma opened  her handbag and reached in for her cigarettes. She searched frantically, even taking the undignified step of turning the bag upside down and shaking its contents out onto the sidewalk before the glint finally caught her eye. Without hesitation, she stalked out into the street and bent down to pick up the cigarette case, then found it empty.

'Hideous creatures.'

Had she seen or heard the ice truck rounding the corner, right on schedule, she might have affected a look more befitting a woman of her stature, but the collision happened so quickly, there was no way she could have known that a common, dog-like snarl would be the expression she would take to her grave.

'Poor old thing,' the mortuary attendant spoke with candor, not realizing that a relative had entered the room, 'no one should meet their maker with a face like this.'

Dahlia smiled.

'Best she's ever looked.'