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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Feb 6, 2009 20:48:09 GMT -5
[Don’t worry one bit about the length. Your post was brilliant, and I loved the flashback scene. ] Jerome waited until he and Esmé were within the safety of their penthouse, before attempting to acquire any further information about the person she had mentioned back inside the parking garage. Esmé was sitting in the bathtub, her long, bare arms wrapped securely around her knees. Though the temperature was a warm fifty-five degrees inside, the entirety of her body was covered in goosebumps. Jerome was knelt loyally next to her outside the tub, his large rubbing up and down her back in an attempt to soothe her. “Darling,” he asked, “who is James Fitzgerald?” Esmé took a deep breath, and closed her eyes before answering her husband’s question. “James Fitzgerald,” she said, and took a long, silent breath before continuing, “was my mother’s first husband.” Jerome stared at her, although his hand never wavered in its pace on her back. “Your mother was married before she met your father?” he asked. It wasn’t that he minded— after all, Esmé had been involved with Olaf long before she’d met Jerome. It just came as a shock, seeing that he knew what he’d been under the impression was everything about her. “Yes,” Esmé replied, and laid the right side of her face between her knees so that she faced Jerome. “But not in the way you’re thinking.” Jerome nodded thoughtfully. “Did you ever meet him?” he asked. “Once, when I was five. I was shopping with my mother, and we lost sight of one another in a crowd. I was scared, and didn’t know what to do. I was just starting to panic, when a well-dressed man approached me. He told me that his name was James, and that he thought he’d caught sight of my mother at the bank. He offered to take me to her, and I saw no reason not to accept since he’d already told me his name. “When we arrived at the bank, there were my parents, though they didn’t look at all like I’d expected them to. My mother looked frightened, and my father… well, my father looked angry. At first I thought he might be angry because I’d gotten lost, but the reason became clear a moment later when James grabbed my mother by the wrist. “He said something about broken legs,” Esmé continued. “I remember that part vividly. He said that if she hadn’t been taught a lesson through that, then maybe having lost sight of me would educate her. Thankfully, my father put a stop to James’ behavior before he could do my mother any real harm. “I remember her taking me aside after that, and telling me that if I ever saw James again that I wasn’t to speak a single word to him. As I got older I learned that he had been her first husband, and that he had treated her very badly.” Esmé laughed bitterly. “They say that children sometimes repeat the mistakes their parents made,” she added. “I suppose that my relationship with Olaf was proof of that.”Jerome kissed Esmé’s cheek, which was now stained with fresh tears. “But you [/i]didn’t,”[/i] he told her honestly. “Olaf wasn’t your husband— I am. The only connection I see between you and your mother is that you both managed to escape from abusive relationships.” Esmé laughed again, shaking her head. But just like before, it wasn’t a laugh filled with humor. She lifted her head from her knees, and Jerome watched sorrowfully as two tears rolled down her cheeks. “You’re wrong again, Jerome,” Esmé said. “I’m nothing like the woman my mother was. Unlike me, she was brave and was planning to divorce my father, but I… I was never planning to leave Olaf! The only reason I did was not by choice, but by circumstance. If we hadn’t broken up with me that morning at the Hotel Denouement, then I would have stayed with him forever. I had no place else to go, no family left. And I was far too ashamed after all I’d done to go crawling back to you, at least until I found out about Emma. Let’s face it: I’m nothing but an ignorant, dependant, worthless…” Esmé’s words trailed off into harsh, shuddering sobs, and Jerome leaned forward to wrap his arms around her. “No, darling,” he soothed, running his large, slightly damp hand through her soft, dark hair. “You aren’t any of those things! Please, please don’t do this to yourself.” Jerome let his wife sob into his chest for a while, until they faded and she seemed to be calming down. He then let go of her just long enough to hand her a towel from the rack beside the tub. He waited until she was perched on the (closed) toilet seat before leaning over to drain the tub. Afterward, he kissed her on her (slightly puffy) crimson lips and then escorted her back into the bedroom. While Esmé sat down on the edge of the bed, Jerome went over to the closet and selected his wife’s favorite pair of pink pinstripe pajamas (which included a camisole top and Capri bottoms with lace on the edges). Jerome returned to her side and handed Esmé the pajamas, grinning and blushing as he watched her pull them on. As always, the camisole rode up just over her ribcage, revealing her pale, post-baby stomach. He leaned down, kissing his wife just below the bellybutton, before scooping her up in his arms and depositing her into bed. As Jerome brought the blankets up to Esmé’s chin, he squatted down on the floor beside her. “I want you to try and get some sleep,” he said. “You know you always feel better after you’ve had a nap.” “Honestly, Jerome. You’re treating me like a child,” Esmé said, although it was clear to see that she was smiling. She was feeling better now that her panic attack had past, and even more so that she’d had her husband to help her through it. She wanted to ask him if he could possibly rub her belly, but she could feel her eyelids sliding closed and figured she would be asleep before she could really enjoy it. “I’m sorry, darling,” he said. “I don’t mean to, I just… I worry about you. You know that.” “Yes, you do,” Esmé agreed. “Sometimes too much.” Jerome kissed her on the nose. “Perhaps. But it’s only because I love you.” “Then love me. Just don’t worry about me.” “I’m sorry,” Jerome said again. “But that, my dear, is impossible.” Esmé didn’t argue, and purred blissfully as Jerome snaked his hand slowly up the corner of the blanket and rested his palm on the soft curve beneath her bellybutton. He began to slowly massage her stomach, and in a few moments she was fast asleep.
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Post by Jenny on Feb 7, 2009 7:37:54 GMT -5
There were, of course, many questions Jerome still needed to ask about James Fitzgerald. He didn't like the sound of the man at all--anyone who behaved in such a way towards anyone else deserved nothing more than utter contempt--but he supposed if finding him would stop his wife from losing the job she so adored, then he was going to have to do it. He wasn't sure if James Fitzgerald was going to be happy to speak to Esmé--from the sound of her story it didn't seem like he'd been very pleased exactly that Adelle had wanted to divorce him and remarry--but he supposed he was just going to have to hope that the once-violent man had changed.
He looked down at his wife, curled around her pillow, and smiled. Everybody had the capability of change, after all.
~
Colette had dutifully returned to work after seeing Esmé and Jerome drive off. No matter how much she tried to concentrate on other matters, she wasn't able to forget about what her best friend had said. Colette knew that now she had a job at Mulctuary Money Management in her own right, but she still felt extremely dependant on Esmé's presence at the bank if she ever needed help. She knew it was a selfish was to think of it, but if Esmé lost her job because of this silly mix up with her birth certificates, what was Colette going to do the next time she didn't know how to deal with a customer's request? She hardly thought anyone else would have the time or patience to voluntarily deal with her. Not to mention the fact that if Esmé lost her job at the bank she was going to be exceptionally unhappy. Colette knew that finding a job she was good at had helped Esmé to become more confident and had helped her to forget about some of her experiences beforehand. She didn't want to think about what Esmé might do without something else to occupy her but thinking on her own areas of insecurity.
Colette was far too preoccupied with this thought to notice that Mr Poe was behind her until a sickening, loud cough brought her back to reality. She tried to conceal her fright and disgust at the noise, and turned around to face him. Mr Poe wasn't exactly her favourite person now after finding out that he had been the one who had made Esmé upset, but as usual she did her best to be polite.
'Mrs Widdershins,' he said, coughing into his hankerchief. 'If you wouldn't mind coming into my office? There are a few things I need to find out about---' another cough cut him off. '--you.'
Colette nodded, but inwardly was dreading this. Colette hadn't ever seen her birth certificate--she supposed the orphanage she had lived in in Southern France still probably had it. If not, only Madame Lulu would've known its whereabouts, and she certainly wasn't going to be able to get in touch with her. She hoped that this wasn't going to mean that she too was going to lose her job about some disrepancy that had no effect on her working ability, and she thought back on the way Fernald had looked when he'd been demoted the other day. Losing her job would certainly have been something the Widdershins' family didn't need.
'As you know,' Mr Poe said, having just recovered from another coughing fit. 'I haven't yet had chance to properly speak to you about your new role here at Mulctuary Money Management.' Colette nodded, and folded her hands nervously in her lap. 'I'm also aware that I haven't yet been able to have a look at your CV, or to properly interview you.'
Colette felt as if her blood might've simply frozen inside her veins. CV? Interview? Where was Esmé when she needed her? Colette knew all too well that she had absolutely nothing tow rite on her CV--she hadn't recieved any qualifications from a school (she'd never attended one), had never been to college or undertaken any work before except as an unpaid circus performer.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Feb 7, 2009 13:39:23 GMT -5
Colette found little comfort in the fact that the only people she had lied to in connection with her previous employment were the three women she and Esmé had gone to lunch with. Colette hated to think what might happen to her if she had lied on her résumé, a question which had, in fact, crossed her mind as she had been filling it out.
As Colette watched Mr. Poe slide open one of the top drawers of his desk, she was beginning to wish she had lied about her past employment, or at least stretched the truth more than she had. Being surrounded by those who were perceivably better off than herself had always greatly intimidated the contortionist, but she was learning to cope— especially now that she was working for one of the most upscale companies in the city. But she honestly had no idea what she would do if it turned out she could no longer occupy her job due to what her past employment had been.
Colette’s heart was racing as Mr. Poe lay what she recognized as her résumé— which Esmé had kindly helped her to fill out —down on the table. He peered closely at it, and Colette struggled to ignore the idea that he might be judging her.
“It says here that you worked at a carnival,” Mr. Poe said, and Colette was pleased by his attempt to be polite. “How long did that last?”
“I started when I was nine,” replied Colette. She was far too nervous to be able to calculate the number of years her employment at Caligari Carnival had begun to when it had ended inside her head. “Until I was twenty-eight.”
“Ah, I see.” Mr. Poe turned away to cough into his handkerchief, and Colette sat quietly until he had recovered. “That’s almost twenty years. And what was the reason for your exodus?”
His last word did not register to what Colette considered to be her rather limited vocabulary, and she felt the need to inquire on its meaning so as to avoid any further confusion. “Pardon?” she asked.
Mr. Poe smiled, and the look on his face assured Colette that he had no intention of mocking her. “The reason you left,” he clarified.
“Oh.”
This was going to be difficult— at least in terms of lying, which was something Colette absolutely hated. She was grateful that she and Esmé had prepared for this, having gone through a list of anecdotes that the contortionist could use during her interview. After having talked it over together, they had decided that Colette had worked as a contortionist at a carnival, but in Southern France rather than in the United States. She had renounced her services after the death of her employer (who was old, and had died of natural causes). Without anyone to run the carnival, it had closed down, and Colette and the other employees had been forced to find work elsewhere.
She had then traveled to the United States with the money she’d made working at the carnival, and shortly thereafter had met her husband. (Esmé didn’t think it would be necessary for Colette to give an account of her life story to anyone at the bank, but in case someone did ask her about it, then that was what she would tell them.)
“My former employer passed away,” Colette told Mr. Poe confidently. “There weren’t really a lot of jobs for people with only a partial education, and so I decided to go elsewhere to look. And so I traveled here, and soon met my husband. We married and had a child, and so it was a while before I was able to find work, since all of my time was spent caring for her.”
Mr. Poe nodded thoughtfully, and glanced once more at Colette’s résumé. “What about your education?” he asked. “You mentioned before that it was limited. Did you ever attend college, or complete high school?”
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Post by Jenny on Feb 7, 2009 14:38:33 GMT -5
Colette wondered whether she would be better off bending the truth a little with regard to her education. Nobody would know, after all, and it would make her seem so much better than if she simply said she'd never sttended a school in her life before.
'Well--' she began, with the intention of spinning a tale about her education for Mr Poe, but then something inside her head told her not to try lying. She didn't know the first thing about the education system in France, and that was where she'd grown up, she only knew about schools because of Faust. What if she got it all wrong and Mr Poe knew? She'd lose her job for certain then.
'To be perfectly honest,' she said, after a lengthly, hopeless sigh. 'It was more than limited. I've never been to school. I didn't take any exams or anything, and I didn't even go to high school, let alone college.'
Mr Poe said nothing for a few moments.
'But I can read and write,' Colette said, as if this unhelpful piece of information made any difference to him. 'And...Well I;m not stupid. I can count money OK, and Esmé taught me how to use the computer the other day. So you could say' she attempted, her fingers curled in her lap. 'That I am, effectively, fully qualified.'
Unfortunately, Mr Poe laughed before descending into another coughing fit. 'As amusing as that is,' he chuckled, and she cursed herself even for trying. 'You must realize that the interview process would have been very, very difficult for you with those credentials.'
She cringed inwardly.
'But, luckily,' Mr Poe said. 'You have already proved that you;re capable of doing the job.'
Colette breathed a sigh of relief. 'I'm glad you think so,' she said politely, trying to stop herself from looking too delighted.
'So all I need from you,' Mr Poe said, and coughed loudly. 'Is a copy of your birth certificate, and your address and telephone number.'
There were several things that Colette found wrong with that. Number one was that she had never ever seen her birth certificate. The second problem was that her home telephone number wasn't working as of yesterday evening (they had probably not paid the bill for a significant amount of time). And the third was that she would have much preffered that Mr Poe didn't know that she lived in possibly the least desirable area of the city.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Feb 7, 2009 15:21:32 GMT -5
“Well, you see,” Colette responded, though somewhat unsurely, “that’s going to be a bit of a problem.” “What do you mean?” Mr. Poe asked. Colette struggled to come up with three very believable excuses. She supposed she could tell Mr. Poe about the phone having been shut off, and then explain that she didn’t own a copy of her birth certificate, and would therefore have to contact the orphanage in Southern France in order to obtain a copy of it. “Well, for one thing,” Colette said, “my telephone service has recently been disconnected. I’m going to need some time before I can get a copy of my birth certificate, and I’m not so sure how long that will take.” Mr. Poe nodded, and Colette felt her anxiety start to rise. Was this how Esmé always felt right before one of her panic attacks? “Alright,” Mr. Poe said finally, and Colette was grateful that he seemed to have forgotten about his request for her home address. “I’ll give you six weeks to get everything in order. You can keep your job, but it might be best if you do as Mrs. Squalor is and take this time and tend to what I consider to be far more important matters.” Although relieved that she wasn’t going to be fired, there was one other question that lay heavily on the contortionist’s mind. “Will I still be paid?” she asked. Mr. Poe coughed into his handkerchief and then said, “Yes, though I can only afford to pay you for the time you’ve put in, which happens to be one week. Unless you’d care to use up your vacation days, which amount to two weeks.” “Perhaps it’s best that way,” Colette said, her mind drifting back to Fernald and little Faust. “Alright, Mr. Poe. I’ll do that, then.” As Colette left the office of Mr. Poe, she cursed herself for not thinking to do a thorough search of Madame Lulu’s tent before Count Olaf and his associates had set Caligari Carnival on fire fourteen years earlier. *** Esmé woke from her nap just after one in the afternoon, and ventured out into the hallway in search of Jerome. She eventually found him (unsurprisingly) in one of the kitchens, though for once he was doing anything but eating. He was sitting at the table in his reading glasses, doing what appeared to be a thorough search through the phone book. “What are you doing?” Esmé asked sleepily from the entranceway. One arm was pressed up against the wall, while the hand of her other tried in vain to tug down her top. Jerome turned his head in the direction from which the voice had derived, and he smiled when he saw his wife. “I was just looking for James Fitzgerald’s listing,” he explained. “Did you know that there are more than forty men with that name in this city alone?” “Then I suppose we’re just going to have to call all of them, aren’t we?” Esmé asked as she waltzed into the kitchen. She situated herself in her husband’s lap and drew her long arms around his neck, before kissing him on the cheek.
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Post by Jenny on Feb 8, 2009 9:17:54 GMT -5
Jerome adjusted his reading glasses. It was obvious that he was concentrating--he had a certain look about him whenever he was thinking particularly hard about something. 'Are you even sure that the James Fitzgerald you're thinking of lives in the city?' he asked.
Esmé had never thought of that. The city was so vast it was difficult sometimes to imagine live outside of it. 'I think so,' she said. 'Certainly he did when he was married to my mother. I suppose there's nothing to say that he hasn't moved since then.'
Jerome sighed. 'We're just going to have to hope that isn't the case,' he said, and reached for the phone. Before he started dialling numbers, he paused.
'What should we ask?' he said, and shifted so that his wife was no longer putting his left leg to sleep (he tried his very best not to make it seem like she was too heavy for him). 'We already know that all their names are James Fitzgerald, and that they all live in the city somewhere. Should we ask if they know you? You don't know any other James Fitzgerald, do you?'
'No,' she admitted, and found a chair of her own. 'But I don't know this one very well either. It's been over thirty years since I saw this man, Jerome, and I only met him briefly. It's likely he doesn't even remember me.' She once again tried in vain to pull down her pink camisole, but her husband reached over for her hand to stop her. She continued. 'We should ask if they were in any way related to Adelle Salinger--' she thought on that for a moment. 'Robinson. If they ever knew an Adelle Robinson. That was her maiden name--if we find him, he might respond better to that. After all, it's clear he wasn't exactly happy about my mother marrying my father.'
Jerome nodded. He knew it was a possibility that they would not be able to find James Fitzgerald, and that even if they did he might oot be entirely pleased about the prospect of discussing Esmé, who was nothing to do with him.
Regardless of this, Jerome put his thick index finger against the first listing of James Fitzgerald, and dialled the number.
The voice that greeted him on the other end was far too young to have belonged to the correct James Fitzgerald. Nevertheless, Jerome thought he was best to ask all the same.
'Hello,' he said. 'My name is Jerome Squalor. I'm trying to find someone named James Fitzgerald.'
'Well, that's my name,' the man on the other end of the line cheerfully returned.
'Were you ever acquainted with an Adelle Robinson?'
'No, I'm afraid not,' he voice replied. 'Is there anything else I can do for you?'
Jerome sighed. 'No thank-you,' he said, and hung up. He then proceeded to have the exact same phone call ftwenty-two more times, and by his twenty-fourth call to the twenty-fourth James Fitzgerald on the list his enthusiasm was certainly fading. His wife reached over and placed her hand over his.
'I think you've called enough James Fitzgerald's,' she said sympathetically. 'I'll call the remaining sixteen, I think.'
Jerome smiled gratefully, and handed his wife the telephone, kissing her on the cheek before crossing the room to make them both something small to eat. Neither of them had eaten lunch, and although he was aware that his wife would refuse any food offered to her he himself was extremely hungry.
Esmé had jus finished dialling the next number in the list. To her surprise, a high female voice answered her call.
'Good afternoon,' the surprise voice said. 'How can I help you?'
'Hello,' Esmé replied, holding out very little hope. The woman who had answered her call was not James Fitzgerald by any means. 'My name is Esmé Squalor. I'm looking for James Fitzgerald.'
'May I ask what is the purpose of your call?'
Esmé was a little taken aback by that. 'We;ll, I think he may be a...relative of mine, you could say,' she said. 'And I'd like to get in touch with him.'
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Feb 8, 2009 14:23:36 GMT -5
“Wait just a moment,” returned the voice, “and I’ll connect you.”
Esmé waited anxiously, scraping the long, crimson nails of her other hand against her bare skin absentmindedly. Jerome was reminded of all the times his wife had deliberately hurt herself, and he reached over to take her hand. She smiled just as someone picking up the telephone sounded on the other end, and a rather aged male voice answered.
“Hello,” came the voice. “This is James Fitzgerald speaking. How may I help you?”
“Mr. Fitzgerald?” Esmé asked, having no idea how to properly address the man she had met no more than once in her life. “I’m not sure if you’ll remember me, but my name is Esmé Sq— Esmé Salinger. We met many years ago on Dark Avenue. I’d gotten separated from my parents, and you took me to find them.”
There was a long, uncomfortable pause on the other line, in which time Esmé’s worried eyes darted back to her husband. She went to take back her hand, but he held it firmly in his grasp, not trusting her to merely lay it in her lap.
“Yes,” returned the voice of James Fitzgerald eventually. “I do remember. But I’m confused… what reason can you possibly have to contact me after more than thirty years?”
“It’s a personal matter, really,” Esmé confessed. “You see, I’m an employee of Mulctuary Money Management. My supervisor is currently running a background check on everyone who works there, due to a situation that occurred a few weeks ago. It seems there was an error with my birth certificate, since they both contain two separate dates. I’ve no relatives I can contact, and I thought that since you were once acquainted with my mother, then you might be able to help me out.”
There was another extended silence, during which time Esmé could hear James Fitzgerald breathing on the other line. She supposed he had figured out by now that his former wife was dead, and Esmé felt badly that she had been forced to be the bearer of such dreadful news.
“I’m sorry,” she said at last. “You must not have known that my mother was…”
“No,” James responded, and the sadness in his voice was evident. “I knew. You have my everlasting sympathies and condolences.”
“Thank you. Mr. Fitzgerald, about the matter concerning my birth certificate— did my mother ever…”
“I received a box containing several of your mother’s belongings four years after her death. It contained a letter explaining that whomever had sent it had been unable to get in touch with her immediate family— something about them having moved away from the city —and that I had been considered the next of kin. I believe it contained a copy of your birth certificate. You’re more than welcome to it and the boxes. I’ll give you my address, and you can come by my estate at your convenience.”
Esmé pressed her hand against the mouthpiece of the telephone, and turned to her husband. “Jerome, fetch me a pen and paper,” she said. “I need to take down James Fitzgerald’s address.”
While Jerome went to retrieve the items his wife had requested, Esmé turned her attention back to her conversation with James Fitzgerald.
“I don’t mean to pry,” Esmé said, “but how did you know about my mother’s funeral, when not even any of my mother’s relatives attended?”
The funeral of Adelle Salinger had not been, sadly, overrun with an enormous crowd of mourners. The only people in attendance had been Esmé, Fernald, Olaf, and Joseph Salinger. Esmé— who back then had not seen her father in half a year’s time —remembered the service vividly. She had been standing with Olaf on one side of her and Fernald on the other, watching as the casket containing her mother’s body was lowered down into the pit. At that moment, something inside the thirteen-year-old had snapped, making her realize that she would be forever separated from her mother. It wouldn’t be like the afternoon she had lost sight of her mother while they’d been window shopping, because they’d been reunited shortly thereafter. But this time their separation would be infinite, and the sacrifice was just too great a thing for Esmé to bear.
She had screamed, before rushing forward and throwing herself down onto the closed lid of the casket with a loud “bang!” The sound echoed off the wooden box, frightening a flock of birds that had been perching in the treetops high above the cemetery to take off, their wings flapping stridently. As Esmé began to cry, her father had become so upset that he had removed himself from the heartbreaking situation in front of him. Fernald had managed to haul Esmé out of the pit, but she’d torn herself from his arms and dashed off, being careful not to trip over any of the tombstones.
She was halfway to the parking lot when she saw a man she thought was her father, and she’d called out to him. He had turned, and she was surprised and a little embarrassed to see that it wasn’t Joseph, but rather someone else.
Someone who looked very familiar to her indeed…
“It was you,” Esmé said into the phone at last. “You were there, at my mother’s funeral. I saw you.”
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Post by Jenny on Feb 8, 2009 14:53:40 GMT -5
There was a short, uncomfortable silence on the other end of the line. Esmé, still thinking back to the day of her mother's funeral, was still wondering how she at the time had not connected the face of the man who had returned her to her parents at age five to the one standing at a safe distance observing her mother's funeral. She supposed she had been too distressed to realize anything at all.
'Yes,' said Mr Fitzgerald. 'Yes, you saw me and I saw you. I couldn't let your mother's funeral pass without paying my condolences, even if I wasn't able to get any closer to her than the parking lot..'
Esmé felt like she should have asked why he thought he'd needed to be there--in the versions of the story she'd heard, James Fitzgerald had been nothing but a cruel, violent brute of a man who had not taken well at all to the prospect of a divorce between him and his wife. In her mind she had painted him as a heartless, abusive, dreadful man. Perhaps she had been wrong.
He narrated his address to her and she scribbled it down hastily.
'My husband and I will probably come by---'
'--You're married?' the aged voice on the other end interrupted, as if it was such a great shock.
She paused a moment. 'Well, yes,' she said, and ran a hand embarrassedly through her hair, unknowingly mimicking her husband's idiosyncracy. Jerome smiled. 'Why, I've been married for fifteen years, almost.'
She didn't say anything else about it, and the man on the other end coughed nervously as if by asking the question in the first place he had embarrassed himself.
'We'll probably come by next week,' she said, but then her husband made a gesture with his hands that caught her attention. She looked up quickly, and he mouthed 'today'. She supposed he had a reason for that--he had mentioned earlier that he wanted her to be free of the worry about her job b the time they had to go to the Hotel Denoument for the Weekend From Hell.
'My husband and I could actually come by now, if that's not too inconvenient,' she tested. 'We're going away at the weekend, and I'd rather not have to worry about all this mix up with my birth certificates while I'm trying to....relax, I suppose.'
'Perfectly understandable,' James Fitzgerald replied. 'And it's certainly not too inconvenient.'
~
The Squalors had of course rushed out immediately after that phone call, with only James Fitzgerald's home address in hand. Of course, Jerome and Esmé had forgotten how far-reaching the city was. They managed to locate one Gatsby Avenue--where James Fitzgerald lived--but it had not been the correct one. Eventually, though, they managed to find the correct address. James Fitzgerald's home was huge and elaborate and a little intimidating. It was located on the very edges of the city, so that some fields and open space surrounded it. Esmé had to wonder whether this was where her mother had lived, and if so how she had ever, ever adjusted to living on Lousy Lane in a house with a leaking roof.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Feb 8, 2009 17:27:49 GMT -5
[Gatsby Avenue! OMG. How did I not see that coming? *loves*]
There was a pair of black metal gates closing off the property, which forced Jerome to roll down the car window and announce their arrival into an intercom.
“Hello,” he said to no one in particular. “My name is Jerome Squalor, and my wife and I have arrived for an appointment with James Fitzgerald.”
Jerome and Esmé waited, and a moment later the gates parted, bidding them entrance to the vast property. They drove up a rather extensive driveway and rounded a large, white fountain before coming to a stop a brief distance away from the steps leading up to the mansion.
“It’s quite exquisite,” Esmé marveled, gazing up in awe at the abode that she and her husband would soon be entering. “Isn’t it?”
“Well, it’s certainly impressive,” Jerome admitted as he unbuckled his seatbelt. He certainly hoped that Esmé wasn’t going to beg him to sell the penthouse apartment and purchase a mansion like James Fitzgerald’s. Jerome sincerely doubted that Esmé would do that (after all, she was very much aware of the importance of his promise to Jacques to “never, ever sell it”).
Esmé smiled as Jerome slid out of the car, and then circled it to her side and opened the door for her. He held out his hand, which she accepted graciously before climbing out of the car. Her stiletto heels clicked against the pavement, and she wound her arm through Jerome’s as they climbed the steps leading up to the front doors of the mansion.
There was a large, brass emblem shaped like a lion’s head with a knocker hanging from its mouth. Jerome gripped it, and used it to knock three times on the door.
The Squalors hardly had to wait at all, as the door soon opened and a pretty young woman with dark brown hair dressed in a maid’s uniform appeared.
“Hello,” she said pleasantly. Esmé felt the need to glance at her husband’s face to see if he was at all intrigued by this other woman’s beauty. “You must be the Squalors. Mr. Fitzgerald is expecting you.”
Esmé knew by now that Jerome had absolutely no interest in anyone except her, but that didn’t stop the financial advisor from worrying constantly over the idea. She was dreadfully aware of her age (although forty-three could hardly be considered old, especially since Esmé looked ten years younger than she actually was). She was hoping that when she finally gazed upon her birth certificate, that it might help to set her mind at ease in more ways than one.
“Yes,” Jerome replied, and gave the other woman no more than what Esmé or anyone else would interpret as a friendly smile.
“I’m his housekeeper,” the woman explained. “Antonia. Mr. Fitzgerald is waiting for you in his study. Please, come inside and I’ll escort you to him.”
Without letting completely go of her husband, Esmé stepped inside, followed by Jerome. Antonia shut the door, and the Squalors followed her down a long hallway draped in red carpet. There were a variety of photographs decorating the white walls, and Esmé thought she recognized her mother in one or two of them.
They soon came to a closed door at the end of the hallway, on which Antonia wrapped her fist firmly. “Mr. Fitzgerald,” she announced. “The Squalors have arrived.”
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Post by Jenny on Feb 9, 2009 2:41:02 GMT -5
Antonia looked a little surprised hen the door opened before she had chance to open it herself, and the Squalor's looked a little surprised at the way the old man in the dooway seemed to stand perfectly still, the picture of shock. Hadn't he known they were coming? They'd only called an hour--
'Adelle,' was the first word that crossed James Fritzgerald's lips, and squinted down at Esmé. For a man in his late seventies, he was extremely tall--being able to look down at Esmé when she herself was five-foot-nine was quite an achievement for a man who was now quite old. Then he cleared his throat, and rubbed his eyes. 'No, of course not,' he reprimanded himself quietly, and then offered the Squalors a kind smile. 'Do come in. Thank you Antonia.'
Anotnia disappeared promptly--Esme still a little unsettled by the presence of the pretty dark-haired young woman--and the Squalors follwed James into his office. If Esmé looked hard enought at his features she could still place the handsome stranger that had found her when she'd been lost.
'Hello,' said Esmé, and held out a hand for him to shake. It was a formal way to introduce herself to a man she felt in some ways that she already knew, but she didn't know h ow else to go about greeting him. 'I'm Esme,' she told him, and he chuckled.
'That much was obvious, my dear,' he replied nicely. 'I might have lost my sight a little bit over the years, but not so much that I can't see that you're almost identical to your mothher.'
She didn't know exactly how to respond to that. After all, this was the violent wife-abusing man who'd thrown her mother down the stairs. Perhaps looking so much like her mother wasn't a positive thing.
'And this is Jerome, is it?' he continued, and held out a shaky hand to her husband, who had grasped her arm and had no intention of letting go any time soon.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Feb 9, 2009 13:30:13 GMT -5
“Yes,” Esmé clarified, “my husband.”
James gestured for Esmé and Jerome to sit down in a pair of chairs on the outside of a large, mahogany desk. As the Squalors did so, James seated himself in a chair behind it. He crossed his right leg over his left and folded his hands together, resting them on his knee before resting his eyes on the couple in front of him.
Esmé— who was shaking slightly, though not to the point where someone whose sight was poor would notice —gazed around the room. It was quite extensive for someone living all alone, with a bookshelf on one end and a fish tank with an assortment of tropical fish on the other.
Esmé’s eyes soon settled on a framed photograph that had been placed on the desk in a way that just barely enabled her to distinguish the person in it. The photograph showed a young woman who could not have been any older than seventeen or eighteen standing on a beach. Her long hair had been fastened into a single ponytail which hung over her left shoulder, and she was wearing a sundress with a flowery pattern on it. She was looking directly at the camera, and had a poignant expression on her face that illustrated her feelings.
Jerome thought— but certainly didn’t say —that the woman’s expression was identical to the one his wife had shown many, many times before. This, in turn, caused him to wrap his arm tightly and protectively around her soft waist.
“That’s your mother,” James Fitzgerald said, and Esmé looked up. “That picture was taken when she was eighteen, just a few weeks before we were wed.”
Esmé extended her long-nailed hand toward the photograph, stopping only inches away from it. Her eyes floated up from the picture and rested on the face of the man seated in front of her. He nodded at her.
“Go ahead,” he urged gently. “You don’t need my permission to pick it up.”
Her hands trembling as if she was preparing to pick up her beloved sugarbowl, Esmé slowly lifted the photograph from its place on the desk. As she set the photograph down in her lap and continued to examine it, she saw that the girl looking back at her through those sad eyes was indeed her mother. Naturally, it didn’t require a genius to guess the reason for the young woman’s misery, and Esmé couldn’t help but relate it to her own feelings for Jerome when she’d first married him. Like Adelle’s marriage to James, Esmé’s marriage to Jerome had not been one of consent. But unlike her mother, Esmé had learned to appreciate all of Jerome’s qualities, and in the end had fallen more deeply in love with him than she or anyone else could have possibly imagined.
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Post by Jenny on Feb 9, 2009 15:07:28 GMT -5
James Fitzgerald looked at Esmé's expression as she studied the photograph. It was clear just exactly what she thought of it. He supposed it would be difficult for other people to understand that, no matter if Adelle had not been delighted about marrying him, he had loved her for years and years and had always hoped she'd learn to feel the same way about him. He supposed for her daughter it would be hard to understand that the man who intentionally hospitalized her could be the same that had once loved and adored her so unconditionally.
'I know what you're thinking,' he said, and Esmé looked up. 'And you're prefectly right, of course. She looks downright miserable, doesn't she?'
'Maybe poignant might be a little bit more accurate?' Esmé kindly offered.
James, however, simply chuckled bitterly once again. 'A little more pleasant, perhaps,' he said. 'But I'd say my version was more accurate, I'm afraid. I suppose Adelle was very, very young at the time, and there's no hiding the fact that she never liked me much. She was miserable about being forced to marry me.'
Jerome glanced sideways at his wife, and then wondered why he had. The last thing he wanted was to upset her, after all, but it appeared by the way she turned her eyes on him that she had already taken note of the slip, but had also chosen to ignore it.
'I don't blame her,' James continued, almost to himself, and Esmé rested the picture carefully back down on the desk in the exact same way as it had been before. 'It wasn't her fault, after all. I'm sure if she could have chosen to love me, then she likely would have.' He smiled. 'Unfortunately it doesn't work like that, does it?'
The Squalors were silent.
James Fitzgerald looked even older as he climbed out of his chair shakily, and crossed the large room to fetch a cardboard box, and carry it back over to the desk.
'This is the box I mentioned to you,' he said to Esmé. 'There a re a few things in here that I didn't understand that perhaps you might.' He handed the box over to her, and, despite it's size, she lay it on her lap, wary of placing it anywhere near the immacualtely arranged and polished desk.
On top of the box laden with her mother's belongings was, folded, a beautiful cream dress she had and never wore. It was decoratied in beautifully intricate lace, and Esmé, as a child, had thought it magnificent. Whether the dress had aged badly, or Esmé had simply grown up, it now seemed more of a faded old day-dress than an exquisite gown. There was something extremely poignant for Esmé to see how much she had changed over the years, and she tried her best to blink away the tears from her eyes.
Surrounded by various trinkets and pieces of old jewelerry, the first of Esmé's tears dripped down her pale cheeks when she caught sight of a copy of The Catcher In The Rye, and, though some pages were torn and the cover wa brown and unimpressive, it might have been one of the most precious and special things that Esmé had ever held in her hands.
Before she could begin to look at the other many trinkets and strange-looking objects in the box, her long fingers traced across paper and she pulled out her birth certificate. Jerome, whose arm had been wrapped protectively around her all the while, leaned over her shoulder to read it.
'Adelle and Jospeh Salinger,' she said, almost reverently, and then paused, and covered her mouth with a gasp. 'October twentieth,' she said quietly, almost under her breath, and Jerome lurched forward to read it himself. '1959.'
'But that isn't right,' Jerome blurted, before he could stop himself. His wife's eyes were focused confusedly on the paper. 'Darling, that isn't--'
'It was 1965 when I met you, if that's of any use whatsoever,' James Fitzgerald said. 'And in the summer. That would have made you five years old, and that's about how old I think you looked at the time.'
Esmé nodded.
Jerome, however, was still in total and utter shock. 'But you're born in ]1957, Esmé, in December. That's the way it's always been.'
'We were wrong, though, weren't we?' she said softly. 'This is the original one, Jerome. This is the one my mother had.'
'Well, how did the other one appear, then?' Jerome asked.
'I don't know,' Esmé said, and a strange little smile appeared on her pretty face. 'But you do realize, don't you? This makes me forty-one.' She grinned. 'That's excellent news.'
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Feb 9, 2009 19:34:21 GMT -5
Jerome couldn’t say he wholeheartedly agreed to Esmé’s interpretation of ‘excellent news’. He soon found himself calculating the numbers between his age (which was forty-five) and his wife’s true age inside his head. What if there was another birth certificate that the Squalors had yet to discover existed, and it turned out that Esmé had only been fifteen when he’d married her the first time? “That makes you the same age as Colette,” Jerome stated, not wanting his wife to think he didn’t share her enthusiasm. He was just starting to think of what he could say next, when Esmé cupped her hands around his chubby cheeks and kissed him fully on the mouth. Jerome smiled, if only for his wife’s benefit, as she pulled her mouth away from his. There were tears sparkling in her eyes, and she looked so truly happy that he didn’t have the heart to tell her that the source of her joy was also the source of his anxiety. “Jerome? Darling? Are you alright?” Esmé asked, and he silently cursed himself for not being able to hide his emotions better. Jerome forced himself to smile once more, even though inside all he wanted to do was break down and cry. “Never better,” he said, and kissed his wife on the cheek to prove it. “I’m happy that everything worked out for you, my love.” Jerome hoped that Esmé wouldn’t read too much into the fact that he had said “for you” rather than “for us”, but the contented grin on her face told him clearly that she had overlooked this. “Esmé,” James Fitzgerald said. “That is, if you’ll allow me to call you that. Would you and your husband be interested in joining me for tea one day next week?” The question caught Esmé off guard, and even though Jerome’s obsessive thoughts were running rampantly inside his head, he heard the question as easily as one would hear the screechings and scrapings of their son-in-law’s violin. The Squalors both turned simultaneously to face James Fitzgerald, who smiled kindly back at them. “It would mean a great deal to me,” he went on, and his eyes never left Esmé’s, “if you would accept my invitation. I have an old movie projector, and some film reels of your mother I think you might enjoy.” As if seeking consent, Esmé turned to Jerome, who nodded his head in approval. “We’d be honored,” he said. “May we bring our daughter?”Esmé asked hopefully. “Certainly,” replied the elderly man. “I’d like very much to meet her. What’s her name?” “Her name is Emma, and she’s fourteen.” “Why don’t the three of you come by a week from tomorrow? Say around four o’ clock?” “That sounds perfect, Mr. Fitzgerald,” Esmé said. “Jerome and I look forward to it with great pleasure. And I’m sure that Emma will be thrilled to pieces when we tell her.” “It was lovely to have met you again, Esmé,” James replied, rising slowly out of his chair. “And you, too, Jerome.” Jerome nodded politely, and took the box from his wife as James escorted them to the door of his study. “Antonia will see you to the front door,” he explained, and Esmé and Jerome were surprised to see that Antonia was already standing there to meet them. “Have a lovely evening.” “Thank you,” Esmé said. Had she and James Fitzgerald been better acquainted, she would have thrown her arms around him the way she had her own father so many years ago. *** Esmé didn’t take notice of Jerome’s unusual behavior until they were back inside the Lexus. “My sweet husband,” Esmé cooed affectionately, as she laid her head on Jerome’s broad shoulder. “What’s wrong? I can always tell when something’s bothering you.” Jerome didn’t have the heart to ruin what was evidently the happiest his wife had been in a number of years, and he shook his head as they approached the two front gates. “Nothing,” he said. “It’s just been a very long day, and we still have that journey to make to the hotel. What time is it?” Esmé glanced at the Lexus’ digital clock. “It’s almost five o’ clock,” she said. “Emma’s been at the Hotel Denouement for nearly two hours now. Did you still want to head over to Mulctuary Money Management like we planned, or stop by the penthouse first?” “It’s probably best if we head over to the bank now, dear. The Widdershins are probably there waiting for us.” Esmé nodded, and Jerome smiled a bit at her determination not to lift her head from his shoulder. “I’ve brought along a special surprise for you,” she said mysteriously. “It’s in my suitcase, but you aren’t allowed to see it until tonight.” Jerome’s thoughts had drifted back to Esmé’s birth certificate, and so she was forced to tug slightly at his sleeve as the car descended back down the hill. “Jeromey-rome?” Esmé asked sweetly. “Didn’t you hear me?” “Esmé,” he said without taking his eyes off the road. “How old were you when Count Olaf first adopted you?” The abrupt change of subject both surprised and irritated the financial advisor, and her face betrayed her displeasure quite plainly. “I was almost thirteen,” she replied after a few moments. “But as it turned out, I was almost eleven. Why?” “Did you ever see your birth certificate before your parents placed you in his custody?” At Esmé’s attempt to be romantic, Jerome had gone and ruined the moment by bringing up her violent ex-boyfriend, which forced her to practically snap her following response. “I don’t know, Jerome. What difference does it make? Even if I had seen my birth certificate before going to live with Olaf, what makes you think I’d remember the date on it?” Esmé was positively fuming now, and she folded her arms and redirected her gaze to the floor, pushing her lower lip out into a most prominent pout.
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Post by Jenny on Feb 10, 2009 15:36:46 GMT -5
This, of course, caused a lot of blushing from Jerome, and a lot of stuttering. Esmé simply huffed and turned away towards the window. Jerome, however, just this once, was not willing to drop the issue.
'But, my love,' he began nervously. 'What I'm trying to say is, how could you not have known what age you were? At some point someone must have gone about changing it to something different.'
Esmé shrugged. 'My parent's were too poor to celebrate my birthday,' she reminded him. 'And so I never really knew when it was. And then when I moved in with Olaf, and stopped really attending school because I was too busy with chores, and all the days started to blend, and I felt like I was in that apartment for years, it was hardly surprising when---'
She cut off, and something came back to her like a wave. Suddenly it all made sense. She remembered being fourteen--or so she thought--and being shown a copy of her birth certificate by Olaf. She remembered saying she always thought she was fourteen. But, having no reason to distrust her guardian and no reason to trust her own judgement, she didn't question it any further. She had always been tall, and as a teenager had looked older than she really was. And so when, at the beginning of the next year, Olaf packed her off to boarding school as a sixteen-year-old first-year at V.F.D, she hadn't looked strange next to the sixteen-year-old's. She never once remembered feeling any younger than they were, but now she knew she must have been.
Jerome took note of his wife's silence. He cursed the fact that he was driving and was not able to lay a hand on her shoulder or turn her towards him.
'Darling?' he prompted, and she sighed, as if somethings he had been trying to remember for a long time had just come back to her in glorious technicolour.
'I know where the other one is from,' she said after a moment, and Jerome's eyebrows raised of their own accord. 'It was Olaf. I remember being fourteen--I thought--and the Olaf telling me instead that I was sixteen. He must have used a fake certificate to get me into V.F.D when he wanted to get rid of me.'
Jerome's face was a picture of shock.
'What?' he cried, and Esmé almost jumped at the foreign tone of his voice. 'Esmé, what? Do you realize what this means?'
His wife shook her head. All he could think of now, looking at her, was how she had never looked her age. It was hardly surprising now that he knew the facts. He rubbed his eyes, and pulled over. He had realized in these past moments that he was not going to be able to deal with this revelations and keep his eyes on the road.
Once he was able to take his hands off the wheel and begin gesturing wildly, he explained.
'It means,' he began, his face the picture of the horror that Esmé herself should have been feeling. 'That you were always two years older than you actually were.'
Esmé rolled her eyes jokingly, and reached over to playfully swat his shoulder gently. 'Well, I know that, Jerome,' she said cheerfully, and then frowned at the expression of deep shock still evident on his face.
'You were only twenty-eight when you had Emma,' he said. 'Not thirty. You were only twenty-six when I married you. You were only fourteen going to V.F.D. You were only eighteen when you had that dreadful ordeal with your abortion, you---' he cut off with a ragged gasp, and put his hands embarrassedly over his eyes. 'You were only sixteen when---Esmé, you were two years older than Emma and you were sleeping with[/i[ somebody who was thirty-three.'
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Feb 10, 2009 18:46:05 GMT -5
Jerome’s outburst caused Esmé to feel as though someone had just stabbed her in the heart. Of all the times she had seen her husband upset, this was by far the most distressed he had ever been, and it stung her deeply. Her mouth pursed slightly so that it formed the shape of a heart, and she blinked her blue eyes sweetly up at him.
Jerome didn’t dare to smile, or else he knew that he’d lose control of his tears, and the last thing he wanted to do was to make his beloved wife cry. Rather than risk it, he turned his face toward the window as she had done before, the only sound being that of the passing traffic.
Esmé sat quietly beside her husband, desperately struggling to force back the terrible notion that was true whether she wanted it to be or not. Olaf had known that Esmé was under eighteen, which would have made her a minor in the eyes of the law, yet he had still lain with her as if she had already been a full grown woman. It had been one of the most unpleasant encounters of her young life, full of pain and uncertainty on her part. Although everything they had done had been consensual, it didn’t change the fact that she had been underage at the time, and the idea that Olaf had used this to his own twisted, sick advantage absolutely enraged the financial advisor.
Tears came to Esmé’s eyes faster than she could blink them back, and her entire body began to shudder. Jerome was still gazing out the window, and so he didn’t see what was happening until his wife actually spoke.
“J-Jero-o-ome.” Esmé’s voice was shaking so much, that she had to try very, very hard in order to get the words out. “I— I think I— I’m…”
Jerome’s eyes snapped away from the passing cars and trucks, and settled on the astoundingly pale face of his wife.
“Esmé…”
She held out one of her long-nailed hands, her jaw slacked as she saw just how badly it was shaking, and then looked back at her husband.
Jerome knew what to do.
Snatching the blanket he had brought along for just such an occasion, he wrapped it tightly around his precious wife, holding her close against him. He had been a soprano in his younger days, a talent which had always served both himself and Esmé well during her most extreme anxiety attacks.
And this was by far the worst of them that the billionaire had ever seen.
As Jerome began to rock Esmé gently in his arms, back and forth, he closed his eyes and began to sing (trying as best he could not to let his sobs interfere with his speech):
“I was a quick wet boy, diving too deep for coins All of your street light eyes wide on my plastic toys Then when the cops closed the fair, I cut my long baby hair Stole me a dog-eared map and called for you everywhere—”
Esmé sniffed, her breath trembling as she pressed her wet cheek closely against her husband’s silk tie for comfort.
“Have I found you Flightless bird, jealous, weeping or lost you, American mouth Big pill looming—”
She made a small noise, as she felt Jerome’s lips kiss the top of her head. In response, she pressed her hand against his stomach as she whispered the words, “I love you.”
“Now I’m a fat house cat Nursing my sore blunt tongue Watching the warm poison rats curl through the wide fence cracks P***ing on magazine photos Those fishing lures thrown in the cold And clean blood of Christ mountain stream—”
Esmé could feel the rampant flood of anxiety surging through her starting to vanquish, as Jerome came to the final verse of the song. She blinked back the last of her tears, smiling at the feeling of his warm body so close to her own.
“Have I found you Flightless bird, grounded, bleeding or lost you, American mouth Big pill stuck going down.”
The last of Esmé’s shaking breaths came and went, but still Jerome went right on holding her. She knew he wouldn’t let go until she asked him to; and had it not been for the Widdershins family waiting for them at Mulctuary Money Management, she would have stayed right there in the comfort and safety of her husband’s arms.
*Lyrics taken from “Flightless Bird, American Mouth” by Iron & Wine.
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