Toronto looked no cheerier in the daylight and the previous evening's event replayed incessently in Michael's mind. When sleep eluded him, he'd set up a divination. It didn't ease his mind any to see the blood spray. He eventually passed out with his hands in the divination bowl sitting naked on the hotel room floor. Holmes, who had grown accustomed to the brothers' oddities, merely shook him awake and commented on the bed being comfortable.
Moving to the bed did, indeed, prove more comfortable, but the brief bout of sleep gave Michael's mind the break it needed to once again play last night's events ad infinitum. He lay still for ten minutes before telling Holmes to order him breakfast. He found he had no appetite but forced the food into himself anyway. The pain in his stomach afterward was almost a welcome break from the monotony of his obsessive thoughts. He fell back into a fitful, stress-induced sleep, clutching pillows to his chest.
The room phone ringing startled him awake. Holmes answered it in half a ring. Michael arose and mechanically went through his morning routine. He vaguely remembered his diplomatic agenda. When he emerged, he finally spoke. “Who was that?”
“A Miss Linda Dwight, sir.”
“Did she leave a number? She's supposed to be serving as my attache.”
“I told her you were indisposed. She stated she understood and would come by to collect your abstracts. They'll try to continue without your aid.”
His hands fumbled with the lock on his briefcase. He carefully went through a folder and placed it in Holmes's hands. “This is what she needs. I'm going to get dressed,” he said blearily.
Michael washed his face and went through the motions of shaving, but after nicking himself twice, he tossed his straight-edge razor aside, wiped his face off and pulled out an electric shaver. Afterwards, he realized he'd neglected to sharpen his straight edge beforehand and his hand was shaking.
“Sir, your face is bleeding.”
“Yes, I know. I should have let you do it. Is there any blood on my shirt?”
Holmes carefully straightened Michael's shirt that was carelessly laid on the basin counter and inspected his singlet. “No, sir.”
Michael considered foregoing a necktie and collar and even dispensing with a simple, single-breasted suit. His poor mood didn't seem to tolerate the complex dressing rituals he normally favored. “I begin to see why so many prefer simple oxfords and casual Fridays. Holmes, I hate to keep imposing on you, but...”
“Hardly an imposition, sir. And it's quite understandable, given the situation.”
Michael passively stood while Holmes attached and stayed his collar, folded and cuffed his sleeves, knotted his tie and gartered his socks and even slid on his belt. Michael thanked him and wandered to the door before turning and asking Holmes if he wanted to go to the hospital with him. Holmes answered he might visit for a brief period later.
As he left the hotel, he felt a keen sense of emptiness, almost a sharp echo of pain in his psyche. Suddenly, he understood his mood. The emptiness receded a moment later, fading back to the soporific depression. He suddenly moved with a more quick purpose.
February 18, 2009
February 17, 2009
Always a Lady of Worth
Margaret surprised him by meeting him at the airport when he came home. He hugged her and smiled and wondered if she'd merely been bored that day and came to see him home. She said she didn't know what motivated her to come out. While sitting next to him in the limosine, she confessed she wondered if he kept women in other places where he did business. He considered her for a minute before responding. “Do I keep other women? No, just Karen. Do I stray occasionally? Yes.”
“I always wondered why you were open with our marriage. It was just a formality for you.”
“You knew it was a formality when you agreed to it. I need a son, and am desperate enough to be lobbying for special remainder for Charles. It looks likely that it will be granted.”
“But what if my feelings have changed since?”
Michael smiled and unsuccessfully tried to muffle a laugh with his hand. “Aaaah.... I apologize, and I am sincerely sorry that my feelings haven't developed to quite the same ... depth that yours have. I do find you a charming, companionate, intelligent and lively woman and a commendable lady, but I don't ...” He stopped talking when her eyes went glassy.
He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “You've fallen in love with me?”
“You make it sound so unbelievable.”
“I have been desired for my looks, my wealth, my power, my cologne. I'm used to women and one-night-stand lust. I never thought of myself as the kind of man a lady would want on character.”
“I have never seen you not comport yourself as a gentleman. You are a tolerant and loving father, a devoted brother, an attentive husband, and a forgiving employer. And you always made me feel special. The day we met, when you looked at me, it was like you didn't expect me to be-”
“I didn't. Beautiful wasn't on my list of prerequisites.”
“Eh... you had a list?”
“Oh, yes. Intelligent, organized, educated, diplomatic, well-bred. You fit the bill. No one told me ahead of time you were an English rose.”
She smiled abashedly. “And if you'd met me the evening before would I have just been a conquest?”
“Only if you wanted to be. I don't prefer disposible women, but sometimes they offer themselves up. After Nicole and Krystie, though, I've been a lot more careful with how and whom.”
Michael took Margaret's hand in his and cozily kissed it. “I can't say I'm deeply in love with you, but I do find you pleasant company and I have no plans of replacing you.”
“I don't know if I would have seen you the same way after a fling.”
“It would have altered my view of you, too. I would have seen you as shallow or impressionable, neither of which you are.”
“Then, I guess it's a good thing I didn't speak to you the night before.”
Michael smiled, leaned forward and kissed her cheek.
“I always wondered why you were open with our marriage. It was just a formality for you.”
“You knew it was a formality when you agreed to it. I need a son, and am desperate enough to be lobbying for special remainder for Charles. It looks likely that it will be granted.”
“But what if my feelings have changed since?”
Michael smiled and unsuccessfully tried to muffle a laugh with his hand. “Aaaah.... I apologize, and I am sincerely sorry that my feelings haven't developed to quite the same ... depth that yours have. I do find you a charming, companionate, intelligent and lively woman and a commendable lady, but I don't ...” He stopped talking when her eyes went glassy.
He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “You've fallen in love with me?”
“You make it sound so unbelievable.”
“I have been desired for my looks, my wealth, my power, my cologne. I'm used to women and one-night-stand lust. I never thought of myself as the kind of man a lady would want on character.”
“I have never seen you not comport yourself as a gentleman. You are a tolerant and loving father, a devoted brother, an attentive husband, and a forgiving employer. And you always made me feel special. The day we met, when you looked at me, it was like you didn't expect me to be-”
“I didn't. Beautiful wasn't on my list of prerequisites.”
“Eh... you had a list?”
“Oh, yes. Intelligent, organized, educated, diplomatic, well-bred. You fit the bill. No one told me ahead of time you were an English rose.”
She smiled abashedly. “And if you'd met me the evening before would I have just been a conquest?”
“Only if you wanted to be. I don't prefer disposible women, but sometimes they offer themselves up. After Nicole and Krystie, though, I've been a lot more careful with how and whom.”
Michael took Margaret's hand in his and cozily kissed it. “I can't say I'm deeply in love with you, but I do find you pleasant company and I have no plans of replacing you.”
“I don't know if I would have seen you the same way after a fling.”
“It would have altered my view of you, too. I would have seen you as shallow or impressionable, neither of which you are.”
“Then, I guess it's a good thing I didn't speak to you the night before.”
Michael smiled, leaned forward and kissed her cheek.
February 16, 2009
In the Cold of the Eve of a New Year
Ante Mortis
On the day of Dad's funeral, Marius Holmes, my uncle's life-long valet, retired. He stayed for the funeral service and to see the young man he watched grow up get interred. It was chilly, bleak, and gray. My father had held the family's title of baron, and was entitled to entombment in the masoleum, but he wanted “to be buried outside, in the earth with which I share I kinship, and so that my brother may be laid to rest beside me at the end of his days.”
The audience hall had been packed with friends, relatives, well-wishers, diplomatic acquaintances and business associates. I got a awe-inspiring sense of how many people my father touched from the large crowd that gathered to eulogize him.
When asked to speak during the funeral service, Uncle Morgan stood up and, after going nearly mute for the past week, started singing. His voice was dry and melancholy, and yet he managed to convey Dad's joie de vivre fairly well. My Dad was such a vivacious, outgoing, and florid man, that my uncle often seemed more like the lodestone around Dad's neck or, more benignly, Dad's shadow he kept in the closet. But listening to Morgan sing made me realize he probably understood Dad better than any of us.
At the end of the service, the casket was opened for immediate family. We left tokens of our life with him. I left a ring Dad gave me as a little girl in his jacket pocket. I whispered goodbye to him and kissed his waxy forehead. My pocket cloth was already soggy by that point. After everyone else had gone, no one wanted to disturb my uncle who sat head down, eyes vacant. My stepmother finally nudged him and told him he should say goodbye to his brother. When he stood, he had a dark square of fabric folded in his hands.
“Every time I brought this out, you felt like you were losing your brother. Every time I put it on, it broke your heart that I was I going away. You never said it to me, but I heard what your heart was saying, and it was true. There is so little of me left. I have lost my dearest friend and my dearest servant and my life's work. Your son will be in good hands. Margaret is far better at running the barony than you or I ever were. Nicole will run your company. I ... I do not know what I have left or if there is any place left in this world for me. So, I leave this to you, Michael, to keep you warm, wherever you may go, because I cannot follow.”
He tucked it under Dad's folded hands. Then, he kissed him. As Uncle Morgan knelt before Dad's casket, a slight, fine-boned woman walked up behind him, grabbed the cloth and hissed at him, “How dare you!”
The acoustics of the hall made her words reverberate much louder than she expected. My uncle seemed to develop a wheeze. “Mother, I dare because I love him and I am mourning his passing and honouring his memory. Now, how dare you?”
The woman's eyes widened a bit and he took the cloth from her and reverently placed it back. “Morgan, you...”
“Are no longer under your control? No. It was his final gift to me.”
He proceeded to say something in an odd language. The woman fled.
Graveside, my uncle stood in stony silence. He hugged Mr. Holmes and we left him standing next to the headstone marker. Mr. Holmes reminded us to check on him or he might stay frozen out there. We said we would and he sadly departed.
As the day wore on, my mother showed up. She apologized for being late, but had gotten lost on the way. Krystie and I hugged and welcomed her. She seemed in better health than the few times I'd seen her before. She mentioned that an icy rain had started falling. We looked out the window and small hailstones were smacking the building.
We spent a good couple days reacquainting ourselves with our mother. Finally, Mr. Shay came calling and said Dad's will was ready to be executed. He stated he just needed Uncle Morgan to approve a couple of things. We realized in horror that no one had seen him since the burial.
On the day of Dad's funeral, Marius Holmes, my uncle's life-long valet, retired. He stayed for the funeral service and to see the young man he watched grow up get interred. It was chilly, bleak, and gray. My father had held the family's title of baron, and was entitled to entombment in the masoleum, but he wanted “to be buried outside, in the earth with which I share I kinship, and so that my brother may be laid to rest beside me at the end of his days.”
The audience hall had been packed with friends, relatives, well-wishers, diplomatic acquaintances and business associates. I got a awe-inspiring sense of how many people my father touched from the large crowd that gathered to eulogize him.
When asked to speak during the funeral service, Uncle Morgan stood up and, after going nearly mute for the past week, started singing. His voice was dry and melancholy, and yet he managed to convey Dad's joie de vivre fairly well. My Dad was such a vivacious, outgoing, and florid man, that my uncle often seemed more like the lodestone around Dad's neck or, more benignly, Dad's shadow he kept in the closet. But listening to Morgan sing made me realize he probably understood Dad better than any of us.
At the end of the service, the casket was opened for immediate family. We left tokens of our life with him. I left a ring Dad gave me as a little girl in his jacket pocket. I whispered goodbye to him and kissed his waxy forehead. My pocket cloth was already soggy by that point. After everyone else had gone, no one wanted to disturb my uncle who sat head down, eyes vacant. My stepmother finally nudged him and told him he should say goodbye to his brother. When he stood, he had a dark square of fabric folded in his hands.
“Every time I brought this out, you felt like you were losing your brother. Every time I put it on, it broke your heart that I was I going away. You never said it to me, but I heard what your heart was saying, and it was true. There is so little of me left. I have lost my dearest friend and my dearest servant and my life's work. Your son will be in good hands. Margaret is far better at running the barony than you or I ever were. Nicole will run your company. I ... I do not know what I have left or if there is any place left in this world for me. So, I leave this to you, Michael, to keep you warm, wherever you may go, because I cannot follow.”
He tucked it under Dad's folded hands. Then, he kissed him. As Uncle Morgan knelt before Dad's casket, a slight, fine-boned woman walked up behind him, grabbed the cloth and hissed at him, “How dare you!”
The acoustics of the hall made her words reverberate much louder than she expected. My uncle seemed to develop a wheeze. “Mother, I dare because I love him and I am mourning his passing and honouring his memory. Now, how dare you?”
The woman's eyes widened a bit and he took the cloth from her and reverently placed it back. “Morgan, you...”
“Are no longer under your control? No. It was his final gift to me.”
He proceeded to say something in an odd language. The woman fled.
Graveside, my uncle stood in stony silence. He hugged Mr. Holmes and we left him standing next to the headstone marker. Mr. Holmes reminded us to check on him or he might stay frozen out there. We said we would and he sadly departed.
As the day wore on, my mother showed up. She apologized for being late, but had gotten lost on the way. Krystie and I hugged and welcomed her. She seemed in better health than the few times I'd seen her before. She mentioned that an icy rain had started falling. We looked out the window and small hailstones were smacking the building.
We spent a good couple days reacquainting ourselves with our mother. Finally, Mr. Shay came calling and said Dad's will was ready to be executed. He stated he just needed Uncle Morgan to approve a couple of things. We realized in horror that no one had seen him since the burial.
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