V.F.D. Training Days - Chapter 24

Al Funcoot is really Count Olaf, right?

Wonderful chapter! You captured the feelings of Cora perfectly! I know that nothing good is going to come...
I await the next chapter eagerly

Oh, yeah, of course! It took me a few seconds to figure out who his daughter is - but, knowing Emma's ficverse, I'm now real certain of who it is.

Well, that sounds interesting. I guess that means Andrew also wouldn't like Stairway to Heaven that much, while Jerome probably would. Which is kind of funny, since Over the Hills and Far Away is my favourite Led Zeppelin song - but I never cared much for Stairway to Heaven. I know you weren't that familiar with Led Zeppelin, but they do also have a number of softer songs - even if, Stairway to Heaven aside, they are more known for their harder rock songs. I guess your Jerome is sort of like my Klaus, while your Andrew is more like my Quigley - as far as musical tastes go. Duncan is the one that likes it all.

Well, looking forward to the next chapter.

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It[/i] was the day of Jerome’s first tutoring session with Al Funcoot, and Cora Squalor had just finished setting out the refreshments. Maxwell had come into the parlor where she was earlier and glanced scornfully at the coffee table. On it she had carefully placed a teakettle, three matching teacups, and a plate of chocolate chip cookies. He rolled his eyes then, though not without commenting on how Al Funcoot had not taken time out of his busy schedule to make a social visit. No one in the Squalor mansion was ever able to escape Maxwell’s criticisms, and Cora had lowered her head in embarrassment. At the same time Jerome was sitting in his father’s rocking chair, which was off limits whenever the billionaire decided to visit the parlor. Jerome had been casually sipping a bottle of root beer through a straw, but when his father entered the room he had pretended to be thirsty just to avoid speaking to him. Jerome was nervous enough as it was, and the last thing he needed was to be scolded by his father for stuttering. Which was what occurred each time Maxwell attempted to start a conversation with his son. It was one of the reasons, Jerome supposed, for his father’s lack of patience with him. Fortunately for Jerome, Maxwell had decided to pay as much attention to his son as he had his wife’s refreshment arrangement. He had glanced at the boy with what was almost pity and then exited the parlor.

The sound of the doorbell ringing suddenly filtered into the parlor from down the hallway. While Cora hurried to answer the door, Jerome rose from his place in the rocking chair and approached the coffee table. With his root beer clutched firmly in hand, he was stooping to take a cookie from the plate when his mother unexpectedly paused and turned to face him.

“Jerome David Squalor,” she chided gently, and Jerome blushed in embarrassment just as she had earlier in response to her husband’s statement. “Where are your manners? Those cookies are for our guest.”

Jerome’s hand hovered shakily above the plate for a moment before he stepped back and collapsed into the rocking chair. Clutching his root beer in both hands, he lowered his head and concentrated hard on the carpet. It didn’t take much to embarrass him or make him uncomfortable. He rarely ate in front of anyone who wasn’t his family or who he didn’t know well; if only because he had managed to convince himself that those who saw him were thinking he was overweight. The fact that he had always been largest in his class as far back as he could remember merely strengthened this belief. He had been teased about his weight only a few times before, back in elementary and middle school. He assumed that the only reason it was no longer going on was because no one knew who he was. He had a tendency to fade into the shadows like a poorly performed play fades into the depths of people’s memories.

Taking into account her son’s fragile self esteem, Cora Squalor suddenly felt her attitude soften. “Darling, what I meant to say was you can have one after I’ve invited our guest inside.”

The heat having had time to evaporate from his cheeks, Jerome felt confident enough to raise his head and smile at his mother. His face was still very round for a boy of sixteen—though he supposed he should be thankful that people no longer insisted on pinching his cheeks the way they had when he was still a child. His mother smiled back, happy to know they were on good terms once more. Though she loved both her children equally, Cora had always felt closest to Jerome. They were alike in so many ways, from their shyness to their flair in the kitchen. She only hoped her son would be luckier in love than she’d been, and that he’d find a woman who would love him for who and what he was. She absolutely hated the idea of him ending up with someone who controlled his every move the way Maxwell controlled hers.

After smiling once more at Jerome, Cora exited the parlor and went to answer the door. Remembering how impatient Al Funcoot had appeared during their telephone conversation, it worried her when the bell rang twice more before she arrived at the door. Her hand shaking like her son’s had when she’d caught him reaching for a cookie, she placed her hand bravely on the brass knob. She twisted it to the right and pulled the door forward to reveal a tall, gangly man. He was garbed in a mismatched suit—that is, a black sport coat and charcoal trousers—and black loafers that appeared to have seen better days. The cuffs of his trousers were a few inches too short and revealed his bony ankles. Cora was a little surprised to see he wasn’t wearing any socks. The only thing that didn’t surprise her was the tattoo of an eye on the man’s left ankle—the same symbol worn on the ankles of both Thomas and Linda Snicket.

“Good afternoon,” greeted the man in a courtly yet raspy tone. He reached up to remove his black fedora, which looked quite old and whose brim was frayed. His chestnut brown hair was frizzy, as if he had spent a great deal of time in the rain. His eyes were the darkest shade of brown Cora had ever seen and shone like two black pearls in the dim light of the hallway. “This is the Squalor residence, I presume?”

“Yes,” said Cora almost immediately. “And you must be Al Funcoot.”

The man smiled, showing a set of sharp, jagged teeth.

“We spoke on the phone earlier in the week. My name is Cora Squalor.”

“I thought I recognized your voice.” He held out his hand, and the two shook. She thought his hand felt rough, as if he washed with Brillo Pads and cheap soap. “Though I must say that I never expected you to be this pretty.”

Cora blushed. It was something she hadn’t done in years, not since her wedding day when Maxwell had lifted the veil away from her face to kiss her. Taking her delicate hand in his, Mr. Funcoot raised it to his lips and kissed it gently. Had she not been a married woman with two children, Cora didn’t doubt for a minute she would have collapsed into a faint.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mrs. Squalor,” he replied. “I hope I’m on time.”

“Oh, you’re right on time,” Cora assured him, the sound of her own voice quickly drawing her out of her daydream and back into reality. “Please, Mr. Funcoot. Won’t you come inside? Jerome’s waiting in the parlor. It isn’t suited for teaching, I’m afraid, but my husband promised you could use his study. If you like, I thought you and Jerome could get to know each other a little first before beginning the lesson.”

Mr. Funcoot grinned, as if Cora had just said something very funny. “I think a personal meeting with your son would be a fine way to start off our first day together as student and teacher.”


Jerome was still sitting in his father’s rocking chair when Cora returned to the parlor with Mr. Funcoot. Without his father present, there had been no reason for Jerome to continue nursing his root beer. But when his eyes made contact with those of the man standing beside his mother, the teenager found himself reaching once more for the bottle beside him.

“Jerome,” Cora announced before her son had so much as brought the bottle to his lips, “this is Mr. Funcoot. He’s going to be the one to help you with your theatrical studies.”

“Jerome Squalor,” Mr. Funcoot said, “at last we meet. Your mother has told a great deal about you that it’s nice to finally match a description with a person.”

When Jerome failed to answer, Cora turned apologetically to Mr. Funcoot. “You must forgive my son, Mr. Funcoot. He’s very timid, and sometimes fails to realize that some people might mistake his behavior for rudeness.”

“That’s quite all right, Mrs. Squalor. No harm done.”

With a smile that was a mix of apology and appreciation, Cora ushered Mr. Funcoot over to the settee. While he sat, she made a movement with her hand for her son to come join them. Hesitantly, Jerome rose from the rocking chair and made his way slowly across the room to the settee. His hands were so sweaty that he feared the bottle of root beer would slip between them and spill across the incredibly expensive (and very difficult to clean) Oriental carpet. It was a relief when he finally sat down and set the bottle on the coffee table where it couldn’t possibly cause any trouble.

“So,” Mr. Funcoot began after he had turned his attention to his new pupil, “your mother tells me you’ll be attending the V.F.D. Training School. An excellent academy, if I do say so myself. Are your parents members of the organization?”

Jerome shook his head.

“Jerome, dear,” said Cora. “When Mr. Funcoot speaks to you, the polite thing to do would be to answer him.”

Jerome smiled nervously at the man his mother had hired to tutor him. “N-no, sir. Th-they aren’t.”

“Some close friends of ours are, though. They have two sons and a daughter who are all the same age as Jerome who will be attending the academy,” Cora intervened.

“How fortunate!” Grinning like the Cheshire Cat, Mr. Funcoot clapped his hands together, causing both Jerome and his mother to jump. Both were skittish by nature and abhorred sudden loud noises. However, Mr. Funcoot took no notice of his hostess’ idiosyncrasy or that of her son. Instead, he set his focus to what he said next. “You know, when I was your age and my parents shipped me off to the academy, I didn’t know anyone. Of course, it didn’t take me long to make some acquaintances, seeing how I was always so popular among my peers.”

“Perhaps you’ll be able to teach Jerome a thing or two about making friends. He’s always had difficulty when it comes to that.”

“Well, once he’s perfected his acting skills, he’ll be amazed at where such talents will take him.”

“Why don’t I leave you two alone for now?” Cora suggested. “I can see that you have a lot to cover, and it’s already half past two.” She pivoted and began to head toward the parlor’s exit. She was halfway there when she suddenly paused and turned back. “Oh! Would you like me to show you where the study is, Mr. Funcoot?”

He shook his head at her. “That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Squalor.” He smiled at Jerome. “I’m sure your son will be more than happy to show me the way.”

“All right, then. I’ll meet you in the study in an hour to see how your work is progressing.”

As Jerome watched his mother exit the parlor, a memory from his childhood suddenly flashed through his mind like a streak of lightning. It was not a memory he reminisced about often, nor was it a pleasant memory. But it was a memory nonetheless, and one he saw clearly like one does a brilliant summer’s sky. The memory Jerome Squalor was currently experiencing had to do with the first time he’d been separated from his mother. It was his first day of nursery school and he was three years old. Cora had just kissed him goodbye with the promise she would be back that afternoon to pick him up when she turned to leave. She had barely gotten one foot out the door when Jerome called for her. When she didn’t turn back, he called again, and when she still failed to acknowledge him, he screamed. It wasn’t until he started to cry that Cora rushed back through the door and over to her son’s side. He had stopped crying just long enough for her to comfort him, but when she got ready to leave again he went into hysterics. Only this time, she didn’t look back. She didn’t return. Jerome hadn’t known it then, under the restraint of his teacher, but Cora was crying too. Because it hurt her every bit as much to be separated from her son as it did him to be separated from his mother.

Jerome had been frightened then, but only because he hadn’t known what to expect. Within fifteen minute’s time, his teacher had him calmed down enough to introduce him to a little girl with hair the color of wheat and movie-star-style glasses. She had been playing a quiet game of alphabet blocks and had been more than happy to have someone else to play with.

But Jerome wasn’t three anymore, and his teacher wasn’t a kindly woman who had dedicated her life to young children. He didn’t have Kit Snicket and her brothers to fill his hours with until his mother returned for him. All he had now was a man he’d known for all of five minutes. And as the man’s shiny, shiny eyes surveyed him, Jerome Squalor wondered if his confidence would ever truly change.

I just read this, and was very impressed. You've created a set of really interesting and believable characters.

Poor Jerome. For some reason, I thought your Jerome was tall and thin. Maybe I was thinking of somebody else's.