Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Jun 23, 2008 18:00:59 GMT -5
Title: The Thirteenth Cell
Author’s Disclaimer: I do not own A Series of Unfortunate Events or any of the characters or places mentioned herein. They belong to Lemony Snicket a.k.a. Daniel Handler.
Rating: PG
Genre: Angst/Drama/Romance
Story-Type: One-Shot
Summery: With her faithful and supportive husband by her side, Esmé Squalor returns to a place she never thought she would visit again.
Author’s Note: Due to my inability to be bilingual (which is absolutely pathetic coming from a girl who’s half Porto Rican ), it was necessary for me to run Jerome’s French dialogue through an online translator, so forgive me if it isn’t perfect. ^_^;; Oh, and kudos to anyone who can guess the title of the film that Esmé and Jerome discuss— although it’s pretty obvious.
This fanfic also contains a few spoilers for A Twisted Turn of Events, so don’t read any further if you would rather be surprised.
“Esmé, are you sure you want to do this? It isn’t too late if you want to change your mind. I’ll just ask the driver to let us off at the next stop.”
Esmé Squalor turned her face away from where she had been gazing through the smudged window of the bus for the last ten minutes. Smiling at Jerome from beneath the wide brim of her black hat and matching veil, she shook her head. “I’m more concerned for you,” Esmé said. “The last thing I need is for you to suffer a nervous breakdown.”
“I’m no stranger when it comes to death,” Jerome said. “Remember, I was a member of the organization for as long as you were.” As he said this, he reached over and traced the tips of his fingers down Esmé’s arm, the three long scars there concealed by the sleeve of her black dress. “I worry we made a rash decision and that the result will do more harm than good.”
“I’ll be fine, Jerome,” replied Esmé calmly, and returned her attention to the window. “Believe me when I say that I can handle it.”
Jerome bit down on his bottom lip, refusing to argue with his wife. “I believe that you can, darling. I wasn’t trying to imply otherwise.”
“All I ask is that you stick close to me. If anyone recognizes me, then it may be necessary for us to make a run for it. The last thing I want is to be separated from you. Once was enough. I don’t know what I’d do if it happened a second time.” In order to show Jerome how serious she was, Esmé squeezed his hand that had been holding hers ever since they’d climbed the steps of the bus. “I need closure, and this is the only way I’ll ever be able to obtain it.”
Leaning forward, Jerome planted a gentle kiss on his wife’s pale cheek. “I promise I’m not going to let anyone hurt you,” he said. “If just one person so much as points a finger at you then I’ll… well… I’ll give them a good punch for you, alright?”
As Esmé smiled at him once more, Jerome saw for the first time that she wasn’t wearing her usual coat of bright red lipstick. Instead, she had applied a shade that was only a little bit darker than the natural color of her lips. Another thing he noticed was that she appeared to have covered up the birthmark between her bottom lip and chin with concealer.
They rode along in silence for the remainder of their journey, the only exchange between them being the occasional smile or reassuring squeeze of the hand. Jerome was just getting up the nerve to tell Esmé for the tenth time that morning how beautiful she looked when the bus halted in front of a flat, deserted landscape.
“This is it,” Esmé said. “We’ve arrived.”
“At the Village of Fowl Devotees?” Jerome asked. “But all I see is a flat, deserted landscape.”
“Automobiles are forbidden from entering the village. It’s one of the rules made by the Council of Elders.”
“How much further is the village from here?”
“About five miles.”
Jerome didn’t ask anymore questions until he and Esmé had piled off the bus and they heard the doors close behind them. “What’s that black mist hovering in the distance?” Jerome asked, pointing.
“Crows,” Esmé said. “They are preserved by the council and are sacred in the Village of Fowl Devotees, just as cows are in India.”
Jerome looked down at his wife’s feet, taking notice of her stiletto heels. “Are you sure you’ll be able to walk the next five miles in those? Not that I’m trying to start an argument, darling, but your feet aren’t exactly dressed for the occasion.”
“I am perfectly capable of walking in these heels, Jerome.”
Ignoring the sharpness in his wife’s tone, Jerome reached into the inner pocket of his black sports jacket for his cell phone. “Perhaps we should call a taxi,” he suggested.
“That’s impossible,” Esmé said. “There aren’t any telephone wires within miles of here. You’d never be able to pick up a signal.”
“Then I guess we have no choice but to walk. Let me know if you get tired or if your feet start to hurt. I’ll be more than happy to carry you.”
Lacing her long delicate fingers through her husband’s short stubby ones, Esmé began to lead him down the landscape toward the black mist.
“You know,” Jerome said after they had been walking for a few minutes, “I guess it’s better that the bus let us off here. Maybe a little walking will help me to lose some of the extra weight I’ve been carrying around for the last ten years.”
Esmé seemed to freeze in place, and as she turned her head to look at Jerome he saw that she had the strangest expression on her face. It was an expression she only wore when she was extremely disappointed, such as when an item she had been particularly fond of was no longer in. “Please don’t say that, Jerome,” Esmé said, and to his surprise her bottom lip began to quiver.
“Oh, come now, dear. You know as well as I do that it’s true.”
“So what?”Esmé let go of Jerome’s hand and turned full circle, reaching up to put her arms around his neck. “Did I ever once give you the impression that it bothered me?”
“Not that I can recall,” admitted Jerome, wrapping his arms around Esmé’s waist and pulling her close to him.
“Well, if you want the truth,” Esmé said, taking back her arms so that she could adjust her husband’s tie to her satisfaction, “I think the fact that you’re a little chubby now makes you look even more handsome than when I first met you.”
“Really? Even if it’s not in?”
“Honestly, Jerome. You’re married to the city’s sixth most important financial advisor and the most fashionable woman in the world. Therefore, you’ll always be in.”
Jerome bowed his head and kissed Esmé on the nose. “I do love and adore you, Esmé Gigi Genevieve Squalor,” he said. “And I still can’t get over just how much you’ve changed.”
Esmé threw her arms around Jerome and leaned in closer, pressing her lips firmly against his. “I love you, too,” she said. “And I always will.”
Using his finger, Jerome traced his wife’s nose from its center slope to its upturned tip. “We had best continue on our way, dearest. We don’t want to be only halfway to the village by the time the sun sets.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have let you watch that movie the other night.”
“But you allowed Emma to watch it,” Jerome pointed out.
“That’s only because she doesn’t scare as easily as you do,” Esmé reminded him. “I was actually surprised that I didn’t wake up and find you trying to install a trapped door in one of the unused rooms.”
“Oh, Esmé, really. I’m not that bad, am I?”
“On the contrary, Jerome. I find you to be absolutely smashing.”
This was enough to reassure him, and a moment later he was tugging Esmé along down the road. He could tell by the way she stumbled every now and then that she was having difficulty keeping her balance in the stilettos she had insisted on wearing. But rather than risk an argument with his wife on a deserted landscape, Jerome was secretly enjoying watching her be vulnerable for once. He couldn’t help it, and after seeing Esmé nearly fall flat on her face several times, he finally decided to make his feelings known.
“You know, Esmé,” Jerome said, “you really are cute right now.”
Esmé smirked at her husband right before stumbling to the side on one heel, only to have him yank her up onto both feet once more. “I’m always cute,” she answered defensively, and Jerome laughed.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to carry you?”
“Quite sure.”
“Because if my calculations are correct,” continued Jerome, “we have another three miles left to go before we reach the village. It’s just that you’ve been stumbling along for the last two, and I’d hate to have you twist an ankle.”
“Oh, for goodness sakes, Jerome,” Esmé said. “I’m not an infant! I’ll just take my shoes off and walk the rest of the way barefoot.”
“But there might be jagged rocks or broken glass scattered about. What if—”
But Esmé was already taking off her shoes. “For the last time, Jerome, stop worrying. I’ll be just—”
However, she never got the chance to finish what she was saying before she found herself being thrown like a sack of potatoes over her husband’s shoulder.
“Jerome, stop!” Esmé insisted. “I demand that you put me down immediately. I’m perfectly capable of—”
“Why, darling,” Jerome said, “have you gained a little bit of weight?”
Of course he was joking, but Esmé— being Esmé —didn’t see it that way at all. She reacted by hitting Jerome in the head with the sole of one shoe, until he had no choice but to set her down. He did so carefully, despite how she found it necessary to continue whacking him in the head with not one but both of her shoes. He was just lucky that she wasn’t angry enough to use the actual heel part of her shoe on him.
Her feet still bare, Esmé turned and stomped several paces away from Jerome before spinning around, her face red with anger. “You’re horrible!” she spat. “How could you say that? After all I’ve endured, you honestly think you can get away with saying something so insensitive?”
“I thought you would laugh!” Jerome wailed, ignoring the fact that he now sounded as childish as his wife. “I honestly thought you’d retort with a joke of your own. I never expected you to strike me in the head with your shoes!”
“You know where my depression derives from, and just— just because I don’t obsess over my body the way I used to doesn’t— it doesn’t mean that I… I…” Esmé swallowed back a sob, and Jerome felt a sharp twinge of guilt in his heart as he watched the first tear fall from one of her pretty blue eyes. “It doesn’t mean that I still don’t have those same negative feelings…”
Jerome stood helpless as Esmé sunk to the ground, throwing her shoes lightly against the ground in frustration. He waited a moment or two and then approached her.
“Darling, I’m so sorry,” Jerome said sadly. Kneeling down beside her, he took the shoes from her and set them aside just in case she had any ideas about using them as weapons on him again. “Of course I don’t think you’ve gained any weight. Not a single ounce. You’re as light as a feather— too light, in fact.”Brushing some strands of hair back from Esmé’s neck, Jerome leaned down and kissed the four scars lining it.
“I’m sorry, too,” Esmé said at last. “And I hope I didn’t hurt you too badly when I whacked you in the head before.”
Jerome reached up and rubbed the sore spot in back of his head, hoping that his wife wouldn’t notice. “Oh, I think I’ll survive,” he said.
Esmé raised her head, her face barely visible from beneath her wide-brimmed hat and black veil. “Jerome?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“If I promise not to hit you again,” Esmé asked softly, “then will you carry me? Please?”
“Well, when you put it that way,” Jerome said, and reached beside him for his wife’s shoes.
After slipping them back onto her feet, he hauled her easily onto his back and together they continued in the direction of the black mist.
Esmé didn’t say much following her argument with Jerome. By the time they arrived at the Village of Fowl Devotees, they still had several hours of daylight ahead, which meant they had plenty of time to locate what they had come in search of.
Esmé couldn’t help but feel as though she were being regarded with some suspicion by the crows, which were nesting in several of the buildings and trees that made up the town. Sliding off from her own perch atop her husband’s back, she looked around.
“Just keep holding my hand,” she said. “And don’t let go.”
“I won’t,” he said. “I promise. Not unless you tell me to.”
As the Squalors began their descent down the cobblestone path of the village, Esmé saw many familiar sights. She saw the town hall, which she advised Jerome to steer clear of because it was the place where the Council of Elders usually gathered. Granted, most of them had probably long since passed on, but Esmé would rather not take any chances. After all, how forgiving could an angry mob be to a woman who had once harpooned a helpless crow?
Esmé and Jerome saw Fowl Fountain, the place where she and Olaf had attempted to conceal Duncan and Isadora Quagmire. The memory sent a chill up Esmé’s spine, and she had to force herself not to look as she and Jerome passed by it.
For a long time, the only sound to be heard were the rustle of feathers as some of the crows switched their positions. The ones that had been roosting in the branches of trees and on the sills of windows flew down onto either the steps of buildings or to the ground. Meanwhile, the crows on the ground decided that they were ready for a much higher change of scenery and flew up onto the empty areas to nest.
“This place certainly has its share of crows, doesn’t it?”Jerome asked, trying to lighten the dreary mood.
“Yes,” Esmé agreed, rubbing a little at her nose, “though these feathers aren’t doing much to improve my sinuses.”
“Did you remember to take your antihistamines before we left this morning?”
“No. I was worried that they would impair my sense of direction and so I left them at home.”
Jerome reached into his top pocket and pulled out his handkerchief. “I thought you might say that. Here you go, darling,” he said, trying not to smile as he handed the handkerchief over to his wife. He wasn’t going to tell her just yet that he had a box of antihistamines hidden inside his pocket. The only way she would even find out was if she squeaked just once for her husband.
“Thank you,” Esmé said, taking the handkerchief from Jerome and holding it in front of her face. She felt a little silly walking around in such a way, but she supposed that it was better than having a cloud of disorientation hanging over her.
The Squalors continued to make their way uptown until they came to another place that Esmé remembered well— perhaps too well. Like the Fowl Fountain, this place in particular was also one that she found difficult to look at. Almost without knowing it, she ducked behind her husband and peered out from over his broad shoulder at the jail.
The same jail in which Jacques Snicket had expired overnight.
“This is it,” Esmé whispered in Jerome’s ear. “This is where it happened.”
He reached behind him for her hand. “You mean where—”
“Jacques Snicket was murdered.”
“We don’t have to go inside,” Jerome said.
“I know that,” said Esmé, taking a step out from behind him. “But I have to.”
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
“Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
“But you told me not to leave your side,” Jerome reminded his wife.
“Then come with me,” Esmé said as she began to approach the jail. “But this is something that I must do, with or without you.”
“Why?”
Esmé stopped short and looked over her shoulder at Jerome. “Because I need this to end. Because in order for me to achieve closure, I must first learn to forgive myself for what happened here more than thirteen years ago.”
As Esmé began to ascend the steps of the jail, Jerome followed quickly after her, catching her hand just as they reached the doors. “Je vous donne ma force et mon amour tous,” he said. “Pour vous, mon cher, sont loin d'être méchants. Et lorsque vous décédez et devant les portes du ciel, je vous promets que je serai là pour vous accueillir à bras ouverts. I give unto you my strength and all my love. For you, my dear, are far from wicked. And when you die and stand before the gates of heaven, I promise that I shall be there to welcome you with open arms.”
Drawing the handkerchief away from her face long enough to smile at Jerome, Esmé said, “Why, Jerome. That is beyond a doubt the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me. Wherever did you learn to speak French?”
“Fernald,” Jerome said. “He’s learning Colette’s language and was kind enough to lend me the audio CDs once he was finished with them.”
Esmé was about to turn back toward the jail when she was suddenly taken over by a sharp, gasping breath, followed quickly by three more. When at last she sneezed (a high-pitched, smothered squeak), it was so strong that it would have sent her tumbling down the steps had Jerome not been there to catch her.
“Oh, darling,” he said, and sighed.
Silently, Esmé untangled her husband’s limbs from around her and straightened back up. Taking him by the hand, she led him up the steps and through the doors of the jail.
The Squalors soon found themselves standing in a dark, deserted hallway. There did not appear to be anyone else present, and the only sounds to be heard were the fluttering of the V.F.D. crows outside. Esmé sneezed again, and the sound it made echoed off the brick walls of the jail.
“However did you get along in the Village of Fowl Devotees the first time?” Jerome asked as they began to walk down the long hallway.
“A very strong allergy shot,” Esmé told him.
Jerome slipped his arm around her, and she nestled a little closer to him as they rounded a corner. They were getting closer to the cell in which Jacques Snicket had died, and Esmé was beginning to rethink her entire decision of returning to the Village of Fowl Devotees.
“Which cell was it?” asked Jerome after a few minutes.
“The Thirteenth Cell,” Esmé said, her voice slightly stuffed up. “It’s located on the left-hand side.” The fact that the jail was cold and damp wasn’t doing much to help her allergies, either, but she was not about to complain.
“It doesn’t appear as though this place has been used in some time,” Jerome said, gazing around at all of the deserted cells with their open doors. “I’m beginning to think that the entire village has been deserted. Look at these doors— they’re all rusty.”
However, Esmé did not appear to have heard him. They had come to the middle of the hallway, and she was too busy staring at a small cell with a wooden bench to pay much attention to anything else.
“There,” Esmé said, lifting up one long-nailed hand and pointing a finger straight ahead at the Thirteenth Cell. “This is where he… where I…” She sank to the floor on her knees before she could finish what it was she was saying and began to weep softly, covering her face with her hands.
After leaning down to kiss Esmé on top of the head and patting her affectionately on the shoulder, Jerome walked over to the cell. He pushed open the door and went inside, causing the door to creak a bit as it scraped against its hinges. Sitting down on the wooden bench, he took a moment to gaze around. He had never been in prison before (after all, he had never done anything that would put him there), and he could only vaguely imagine how his dear friend had felt during the last few hours of his life. For the first time since he had learned the truth behind Jacques’ death, Jerome Squalor wondered how his friend would view his determination to protect one of the people who were partly responsible.
Jerome was just about to return to his wife’s side and suggest that they leave when he noticed something carved into the wall. Peering closer, he realized that it was an inscription.
The final three letters of the name were missing, but even with the presiding four Jerome had no trouble recognizing the writing style that had once belonged to his oldest and dearest friend. Esmé was still over on the floor crying, and Jerome called softly to her. “Esmé,” he said. “Darling, come over here for a minute. I want you to have a look at something.”
Drawing her hands away from her face, Esmé asked, “What is it?”
“Come into the cell and see for yourself.”
Esmé seemed to hesitate for a moment, but in the end rose to her feet and made her way slowly over to the cell. As she stepped inside Jerome stood up, giving her the chance to sit down on the bench in his place.
“Look,” he said, taking a seat beside her as he pointed to the inscription.
Esmé read it aloud, and by the time she had reached the final line her eyes were so blurred by tears that she failed to notice that there were three absent letters.
Jerome placed his hands on Esmé’s shoulders. “Just as I do now,” he said, “Jacques Snicket was another person who never stopped seeing the nobility in you. Even when it was masked by a disguise or a sinister outer shell, he never forgot the person you once were. Do you see what I’m saying, Esmé? This is what I meant when I said that I always knew you could be a noble person again.”
Using her fingertips, Esmé traced the inscription on the wall. “All this time I was under the impression that he hated me,” she whispered, “when all this time he actually believed in me.”
“Why else would he use his final moments to express it?” Jerome said, wrapping his arms around Esmé from behind and kissing her on the cheek.
“I never even noticed this before. I don’t know how I could have overlooked it.”
“Well, you were wearing that motorcycle helmet.”
“I was also blinded by greed,” Esmé said sadly. “When that happens, you tend to overlook the little things. Back then, all I could think of was getting my hands on the Baudelaire and the Quagmire fortunes. Nothing else seemed to matter.”
“Until the fire,” Jerome pointed out.
“Sometimes I worry where I’d be right now if there hadn’t been a fire.”
“What would you have done?”
“I probably would have left Carmelita in an orphanage somewhere,” Esmé answered. “As for Emma, the name of an abortionist may have very well shown up on one of your credit card statements.” As she said this, Esmé felt two tears loosen from her eyes and watched the tears as they splashed onto the floor. She began to sob again, feeling Jerome’s arms as they tightened around her from behind.
“Even if you had gone through with such a decision,” he said, “I could never, ever hate you for it. I had already fallen so deeply in love with you, that to renounce my feelings would have been impossible.”
Esmé covered Jerome’s hands with hers and closed her eyes. “I’m sorry that it took me so long to realize my feelings for you,” she said. “It wasn’t planned, but in the end I realized that I wouldn’t be anywhere had it not been for you. And I suppose that’s when I first fell in love with you. Without your love and strength, then I would have nothing. You and our children are my greatest joy. You are everything to me, Jerome, and I wouldn’t trade you for all of the stiletto heels, parsley soda, or aqueous martinis in the world.”
Author’s Disclaimer: I do not own A Series of Unfortunate Events or any of the characters or places mentioned herein. They belong to Lemony Snicket a.k.a. Daniel Handler.
Rating: PG
Genre: Angst/Drama/Romance
Story-Type: One-Shot
Summery: With her faithful and supportive husband by her side, Esmé Squalor returns to a place she never thought she would visit again.
Author’s Note: Due to my inability to be bilingual (which is absolutely pathetic coming from a girl who’s half Porto Rican ), it was necessary for me to run Jerome’s French dialogue through an online translator, so forgive me if it isn’t perfect. ^_^;; Oh, and kudos to anyone who can guess the title of the film that Esmé and Jerome discuss— although it’s pretty obvious.
This fanfic also contains a few spoilers for A Twisted Turn of Events, so don’t read any further if you would rather be surprised.
************************************************************************************************************************
“Esmé, are you sure you want to do this? It isn’t too late if you want to change your mind. I’ll just ask the driver to let us off at the next stop.”
Esmé Squalor turned her face away from where she had been gazing through the smudged window of the bus for the last ten minutes. Smiling at Jerome from beneath the wide brim of her black hat and matching veil, she shook her head. “I’m more concerned for you,” Esmé said. “The last thing I need is for you to suffer a nervous breakdown.”
“I’m no stranger when it comes to death,” Jerome said. “Remember, I was a member of the organization for as long as you were.” As he said this, he reached over and traced the tips of his fingers down Esmé’s arm, the three long scars there concealed by the sleeve of her black dress. “I worry we made a rash decision and that the result will do more harm than good.”
“I’ll be fine, Jerome,” replied Esmé calmly, and returned her attention to the window. “Believe me when I say that I can handle it.”
Jerome bit down on his bottom lip, refusing to argue with his wife. “I believe that you can, darling. I wasn’t trying to imply otherwise.”
“All I ask is that you stick close to me. If anyone recognizes me, then it may be necessary for us to make a run for it. The last thing I want is to be separated from you. Once was enough. I don’t know what I’d do if it happened a second time.” In order to show Jerome how serious she was, Esmé squeezed his hand that had been holding hers ever since they’d climbed the steps of the bus. “I need closure, and this is the only way I’ll ever be able to obtain it.”
Leaning forward, Jerome planted a gentle kiss on his wife’s pale cheek. “I promise I’m not going to let anyone hurt you,” he said. “If just one person so much as points a finger at you then I’ll… well… I’ll give them a good punch for you, alright?”
As Esmé smiled at him once more, Jerome saw for the first time that she wasn’t wearing her usual coat of bright red lipstick. Instead, she had applied a shade that was only a little bit darker than the natural color of her lips. Another thing he noticed was that she appeared to have covered up the birthmark between her bottom lip and chin with concealer.
They rode along in silence for the remainder of their journey, the only exchange between them being the occasional smile or reassuring squeeze of the hand. Jerome was just getting up the nerve to tell Esmé for the tenth time that morning how beautiful she looked when the bus halted in front of a flat, deserted landscape.
“This is it,” Esmé said. “We’ve arrived.”
“At the Village of Fowl Devotees?” Jerome asked. “But all I see is a flat, deserted landscape.”
“Automobiles are forbidden from entering the village. It’s one of the rules made by the Council of Elders.”
“How much further is the village from here?”
“About five miles.”
Jerome didn’t ask anymore questions until he and Esmé had piled off the bus and they heard the doors close behind them. “What’s that black mist hovering in the distance?” Jerome asked, pointing.
“Crows,” Esmé said. “They are preserved by the council and are sacred in the Village of Fowl Devotees, just as cows are in India.”
Jerome looked down at his wife’s feet, taking notice of her stiletto heels. “Are you sure you’ll be able to walk the next five miles in those? Not that I’m trying to start an argument, darling, but your feet aren’t exactly dressed for the occasion.”
“I am perfectly capable of walking in these heels, Jerome.”
Ignoring the sharpness in his wife’s tone, Jerome reached into the inner pocket of his black sports jacket for his cell phone. “Perhaps we should call a taxi,” he suggested.
“That’s impossible,” Esmé said. “There aren’t any telephone wires within miles of here. You’d never be able to pick up a signal.”
“Then I guess we have no choice but to walk. Let me know if you get tired or if your feet start to hurt. I’ll be more than happy to carry you.”
Lacing her long delicate fingers through her husband’s short stubby ones, Esmé began to lead him down the landscape toward the black mist.
“You know,” Jerome said after they had been walking for a few minutes, “I guess it’s better that the bus let us off here. Maybe a little walking will help me to lose some of the extra weight I’ve been carrying around for the last ten years.”
Esmé seemed to freeze in place, and as she turned her head to look at Jerome he saw that she had the strangest expression on her face. It was an expression she only wore when she was extremely disappointed, such as when an item she had been particularly fond of was no longer in. “Please don’t say that, Jerome,” Esmé said, and to his surprise her bottom lip began to quiver.
“Oh, come now, dear. You know as well as I do that it’s true.”
“So what?”Esmé let go of Jerome’s hand and turned full circle, reaching up to put her arms around his neck. “Did I ever once give you the impression that it bothered me?”
“Not that I can recall,” admitted Jerome, wrapping his arms around Esmé’s waist and pulling her close to him.
“Well, if you want the truth,” Esmé said, taking back her arms so that she could adjust her husband’s tie to her satisfaction, “I think the fact that you’re a little chubby now makes you look even more handsome than when I first met you.”
“Really? Even if it’s not in?”
“Honestly, Jerome. You’re married to the city’s sixth most important financial advisor and the most fashionable woman in the world. Therefore, you’ll always be in.”
Jerome bowed his head and kissed Esmé on the nose. “I do love and adore you, Esmé Gigi Genevieve Squalor,” he said. “And I still can’t get over just how much you’ve changed.”
Esmé threw her arms around Jerome and leaned in closer, pressing her lips firmly against his. “I love you, too,” she said. “And I always will.”
Using his finger, Jerome traced his wife’s nose from its center slope to its upturned tip. “We had best continue on our way, dearest. We don’t want to be only halfway to the village by the time the sun sets.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have let you watch that movie the other night.”
“But you allowed Emma to watch it,” Jerome pointed out.
“That’s only because she doesn’t scare as easily as you do,” Esmé reminded him. “I was actually surprised that I didn’t wake up and find you trying to install a trapped door in one of the unused rooms.”
“Oh, Esmé, really. I’m not that bad, am I?”
“On the contrary, Jerome. I find you to be absolutely smashing.”
This was enough to reassure him, and a moment later he was tugging Esmé along down the road. He could tell by the way she stumbled every now and then that she was having difficulty keeping her balance in the stilettos she had insisted on wearing. But rather than risk an argument with his wife on a deserted landscape, Jerome was secretly enjoying watching her be vulnerable for once. He couldn’t help it, and after seeing Esmé nearly fall flat on her face several times, he finally decided to make his feelings known.
“You know, Esmé,” Jerome said, “you really are cute right now.”
Esmé smirked at her husband right before stumbling to the side on one heel, only to have him yank her up onto both feet once more. “I’m always cute,” she answered defensively, and Jerome laughed.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to carry you?”
“Quite sure.”
“Because if my calculations are correct,” continued Jerome, “we have another three miles left to go before we reach the village. It’s just that you’ve been stumbling along for the last two, and I’d hate to have you twist an ankle.”
“Oh, for goodness sakes, Jerome,” Esmé said. “I’m not an infant! I’ll just take my shoes off and walk the rest of the way barefoot.”
“But there might be jagged rocks or broken glass scattered about. What if—”
But Esmé was already taking off her shoes. “For the last time, Jerome, stop worrying. I’ll be just—”
However, she never got the chance to finish what she was saying before she found herself being thrown like a sack of potatoes over her husband’s shoulder.
“Jerome, stop!” Esmé insisted. “I demand that you put me down immediately. I’m perfectly capable of—”
“Why, darling,” Jerome said, “have you gained a little bit of weight?”
Of course he was joking, but Esmé— being Esmé —didn’t see it that way at all. She reacted by hitting Jerome in the head with the sole of one shoe, until he had no choice but to set her down. He did so carefully, despite how she found it necessary to continue whacking him in the head with not one but both of her shoes. He was just lucky that she wasn’t angry enough to use the actual heel part of her shoe on him.
Her feet still bare, Esmé turned and stomped several paces away from Jerome before spinning around, her face red with anger. “You’re horrible!” she spat. “How could you say that? After all I’ve endured, you honestly think you can get away with saying something so insensitive?”
“I thought you would laugh!” Jerome wailed, ignoring the fact that he now sounded as childish as his wife. “I honestly thought you’d retort with a joke of your own. I never expected you to strike me in the head with your shoes!”
“You know where my depression derives from, and just— just because I don’t obsess over my body the way I used to doesn’t— it doesn’t mean that I… I…” Esmé swallowed back a sob, and Jerome felt a sharp twinge of guilt in his heart as he watched the first tear fall from one of her pretty blue eyes. “It doesn’t mean that I still don’t have those same negative feelings…”
Jerome stood helpless as Esmé sunk to the ground, throwing her shoes lightly against the ground in frustration. He waited a moment or two and then approached her.
“Darling, I’m so sorry,” Jerome said sadly. Kneeling down beside her, he took the shoes from her and set them aside just in case she had any ideas about using them as weapons on him again. “Of course I don’t think you’ve gained any weight. Not a single ounce. You’re as light as a feather— too light, in fact.”Brushing some strands of hair back from Esmé’s neck, Jerome leaned down and kissed the four scars lining it.
“I’m sorry, too,” Esmé said at last. “And I hope I didn’t hurt you too badly when I whacked you in the head before.”
Jerome reached up and rubbed the sore spot in back of his head, hoping that his wife wouldn’t notice. “Oh, I think I’ll survive,” he said.
Esmé raised her head, her face barely visible from beneath her wide-brimmed hat and black veil. “Jerome?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“If I promise not to hit you again,” Esmé asked softly, “then will you carry me? Please?”
“Well, when you put it that way,” Jerome said, and reached beside him for his wife’s shoes.
After slipping them back onto her feet, he hauled her easily onto his back and together they continued in the direction of the black mist.
***
Esmé didn’t say much following her argument with Jerome. By the time they arrived at the Village of Fowl Devotees, they still had several hours of daylight ahead, which meant they had plenty of time to locate what they had come in search of.
Esmé couldn’t help but feel as though she were being regarded with some suspicion by the crows, which were nesting in several of the buildings and trees that made up the town. Sliding off from her own perch atop her husband’s back, she looked around.
“Just keep holding my hand,” she said. “And don’t let go.”
“I won’t,” he said. “I promise. Not unless you tell me to.”
As the Squalors began their descent down the cobblestone path of the village, Esmé saw many familiar sights. She saw the town hall, which she advised Jerome to steer clear of because it was the place where the Council of Elders usually gathered. Granted, most of them had probably long since passed on, but Esmé would rather not take any chances. After all, how forgiving could an angry mob be to a woman who had once harpooned a helpless crow?
Esmé and Jerome saw Fowl Fountain, the place where she and Olaf had attempted to conceal Duncan and Isadora Quagmire. The memory sent a chill up Esmé’s spine, and she had to force herself not to look as she and Jerome passed by it.
For a long time, the only sound to be heard were the rustle of feathers as some of the crows switched their positions. The ones that had been roosting in the branches of trees and on the sills of windows flew down onto either the steps of buildings or to the ground. Meanwhile, the crows on the ground decided that they were ready for a much higher change of scenery and flew up onto the empty areas to nest.
“This place certainly has its share of crows, doesn’t it?”Jerome asked, trying to lighten the dreary mood.
“Yes,” Esmé agreed, rubbing a little at her nose, “though these feathers aren’t doing much to improve my sinuses.”
“Did you remember to take your antihistamines before we left this morning?”
“No. I was worried that they would impair my sense of direction and so I left them at home.”
Jerome reached into his top pocket and pulled out his handkerchief. “I thought you might say that. Here you go, darling,” he said, trying not to smile as he handed the handkerchief over to his wife. He wasn’t going to tell her just yet that he had a box of antihistamines hidden inside his pocket. The only way she would even find out was if she squeaked just once for her husband.
“Thank you,” Esmé said, taking the handkerchief from Jerome and holding it in front of her face. She felt a little silly walking around in such a way, but she supposed that it was better than having a cloud of disorientation hanging over her.
The Squalors continued to make their way uptown until they came to another place that Esmé remembered well— perhaps too well. Like the Fowl Fountain, this place in particular was also one that she found difficult to look at. Almost without knowing it, she ducked behind her husband and peered out from over his broad shoulder at the jail.
The same jail in which Jacques Snicket had expired overnight.
“This is it,” Esmé whispered in Jerome’s ear. “This is where it happened.”
He reached behind him for her hand. “You mean where—”
“Jacques Snicket was murdered.”
“We don’t have to go inside,” Jerome said.
“I know that,” said Esmé, taking a step out from behind him. “But I have to.”
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
“Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
“But you told me not to leave your side,” Jerome reminded his wife.
“Then come with me,” Esmé said as she began to approach the jail. “But this is something that I must do, with or without you.”
“Why?”
Esmé stopped short and looked over her shoulder at Jerome. “Because I need this to end. Because in order for me to achieve closure, I must first learn to forgive myself for what happened here more than thirteen years ago.”
As Esmé began to ascend the steps of the jail, Jerome followed quickly after her, catching her hand just as they reached the doors. “Je vous donne ma force et mon amour tous,” he said. “Pour vous, mon cher, sont loin d'être méchants. Et lorsque vous décédez et devant les portes du ciel, je vous promets que je serai là pour vous accueillir à bras ouverts. I give unto you my strength and all my love. For you, my dear, are far from wicked. And when you die and stand before the gates of heaven, I promise that I shall be there to welcome you with open arms.”
Drawing the handkerchief away from her face long enough to smile at Jerome, Esmé said, “Why, Jerome. That is beyond a doubt the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me. Wherever did you learn to speak French?”
“Fernald,” Jerome said. “He’s learning Colette’s language and was kind enough to lend me the audio CDs once he was finished with them.”
Esmé was about to turn back toward the jail when she was suddenly taken over by a sharp, gasping breath, followed quickly by three more. When at last she sneezed (a high-pitched, smothered squeak), it was so strong that it would have sent her tumbling down the steps had Jerome not been there to catch her.
“Oh, darling,” he said, and sighed.
Silently, Esmé untangled her husband’s limbs from around her and straightened back up. Taking him by the hand, she led him up the steps and through the doors of the jail.
The Squalors soon found themselves standing in a dark, deserted hallway. There did not appear to be anyone else present, and the only sounds to be heard were the fluttering of the V.F.D. crows outside. Esmé sneezed again, and the sound it made echoed off the brick walls of the jail.
“However did you get along in the Village of Fowl Devotees the first time?” Jerome asked as they began to walk down the long hallway.
“A very strong allergy shot,” Esmé told him.
Jerome slipped his arm around her, and she nestled a little closer to him as they rounded a corner. They were getting closer to the cell in which Jacques Snicket had died, and Esmé was beginning to rethink her entire decision of returning to the Village of Fowl Devotees.
“Which cell was it?” asked Jerome after a few minutes.
“The Thirteenth Cell,” Esmé said, her voice slightly stuffed up. “It’s located on the left-hand side.” The fact that the jail was cold and damp wasn’t doing much to help her allergies, either, but she was not about to complain.
“It doesn’t appear as though this place has been used in some time,” Jerome said, gazing around at all of the deserted cells with their open doors. “I’m beginning to think that the entire village has been deserted. Look at these doors— they’re all rusty.”
However, Esmé did not appear to have heard him. They had come to the middle of the hallway, and she was too busy staring at a small cell with a wooden bench to pay much attention to anything else.
“There,” Esmé said, lifting up one long-nailed hand and pointing a finger straight ahead at the Thirteenth Cell. “This is where he… where I…” She sank to the floor on her knees before she could finish what it was she was saying and began to weep softly, covering her face with her hands.
After leaning down to kiss Esmé on top of the head and patting her affectionately on the shoulder, Jerome walked over to the cell. He pushed open the door and went inside, causing the door to creak a bit as it scraped against its hinges. Sitting down on the wooden bench, he took a moment to gaze around. He had never been in prison before (after all, he had never done anything that would put him there), and he could only vaguely imagine how his dear friend had felt during the last few hours of his life. For the first time since he had learned the truth behind Jacques’ death, Jerome Squalor wondered how his friend would view his determination to protect one of the people who were partly responsible.
Jerome was just about to return to his wife’s side and suggest that they leave when he noticed something carved into the wall. Peering closer, he realized that it was an inscription.
Even as impending death reaches for me
I still remember the girl you used to be
Once you were noble
Now you seem so far away
But maybe someday
You’ll recapture that gracious aura
That still exists within you
—Jacq * * *
I still remember the girl you used to be
Once you were noble
Now you seem so far away
But maybe someday
You’ll recapture that gracious aura
That still exists within you
—Jacq * * *
The final three letters of the name were missing, but even with the presiding four Jerome had no trouble recognizing the writing style that had once belonged to his oldest and dearest friend. Esmé was still over on the floor crying, and Jerome called softly to her. “Esmé,” he said. “Darling, come over here for a minute. I want you to have a look at something.”
Drawing her hands away from her face, Esmé asked, “What is it?”
“Come into the cell and see for yourself.”
Esmé seemed to hesitate for a moment, but in the end rose to her feet and made her way slowly over to the cell. As she stepped inside Jerome stood up, giving her the chance to sit down on the bench in his place.
“Look,” he said, taking a seat beside her as he pointed to the inscription.
Esmé read it aloud, and by the time she had reached the final line her eyes were so blurred by tears that she failed to notice that there were three absent letters.
Jerome placed his hands on Esmé’s shoulders. “Just as I do now,” he said, “Jacques Snicket was another person who never stopped seeing the nobility in you. Even when it was masked by a disguise or a sinister outer shell, he never forgot the person you once were. Do you see what I’m saying, Esmé? This is what I meant when I said that I always knew you could be a noble person again.”
Using her fingertips, Esmé traced the inscription on the wall. “All this time I was under the impression that he hated me,” she whispered, “when all this time he actually believed in me.”
“Why else would he use his final moments to express it?” Jerome said, wrapping his arms around Esmé from behind and kissing her on the cheek.
“I never even noticed this before. I don’t know how I could have overlooked it.”
“Well, you were wearing that motorcycle helmet.”
“I was also blinded by greed,” Esmé said sadly. “When that happens, you tend to overlook the little things. Back then, all I could think of was getting my hands on the Baudelaire and the Quagmire fortunes. Nothing else seemed to matter.”
“Until the fire,” Jerome pointed out.
“Sometimes I worry where I’d be right now if there hadn’t been a fire.”
“What would you have done?”
“I probably would have left Carmelita in an orphanage somewhere,” Esmé answered. “As for Emma, the name of an abortionist may have very well shown up on one of your credit card statements.” As she said this, Esmé felt two tears loosen from her eyes and watched the tears as they splashed onto the floor. She began to sob again, feeling Jerome’s arms as they tightened around her from behind.
“Even if you had gone through with such a decision,” he said, “I could never, ever hate you for it. I had already fallen so deeply in love with you, that to renounce my feelings would have been impossible.”
Esmé covered Jerome’s hands with hers and closed her eyes. “I’m sorry that it took me so long to realize my feelings for you,” she said. “It wasn’t planned, but in the end I realized that I wouldn’t be anywhere had it not been for you. And I suppose that’s when I first fell in love with you. Without your love and strength, then I would have nothing. You and our children are my greatest joy. You are everything to me, Jerome, and I wouldn’t trade you for all of the stiletto heels, parsley soda, or aqueous martinis in the world.”
The End