#Yes l said a bad word. It was befitting of the circumstances.

[the-pirate-captain]

What the hell is a green fog doing stealing people out of thin air l thought this was Voyage of the Dawn Treader????

[dontshootmespence]

Through the Pages

Chapter 22

Nearly a month had passed since Spencer bought Eleise’s engagement ring and he’d spent just as long wondering when would be the right time to propose. Nights were spent tossing and turning. Days were spent at his desk staring at screens and papers with thoughts of far away. Every waking moment (and even some dreams) were spent trying to find a way to ensure Eleise would be able to return to her world whenever she wanted. Everyone they loved, minus Spencer’s mother, knew the circumstances of their relationship -  of the door that separated their worlds and the possibility of it turning to dust once and for all – but no one had any answers.

After a number of conversations about where they would go and why, the pros and cons of each side, Eleise decided that upon their marriage she would move to his time. No matter how much she loved Spencer, and she did, with every fiber of her being, the thought of never seeing her parents again weighed heavily on her mind, and Spencer knew it. 

As he paced the wooden floors of his apartment flipping the ring box around in his pocket, he took note of the time. Eleise would be at work, as would Alfred, but he wanted to ask her father for his permission to marry his daughter and he couldn’t do that with Eleise in the house. Asking her parents for their blessing wouldn’t be easy; they knew what was at stake, but he wanted to marry her, raise a family and no matter when he asked the possibility of the door vanishing would remain. They’d already met and fallen in love under impossible odds so it didn’t matter what came their way, right? They would be able to weather the storms together?

Slipping on his jacket, he picked up the book and watched the door materialize in front of him, stepping through with an overwhelming sense of purpose and yet uncertainty. Instead of taking a right out of the alley to head toward Eleise’s home and Scotland Yard, he turned left in search of Alfred’s firm, hoping that he would find the older man with a free moment or two where he could stumble over his words in asking one of the most important questions of his life.

Rarely had there been a day where he’d visited and hadn’t been greeted by rain, but today, as he strolled down the street, he saw the sun peeking out from behind a cloud, bringing a smile to his face. Maybe it was a good sign. 

Arriving at Alfred’s firm, the ring sat like a concrete block in his pocket. “Spencer, what brings you here?” He asked, clearly surprised to see his daughter’s suitor at his job once again.

“Hello,” he greeted shyly. “I actually came here because I have s-something I’d like to ask you and I can’t with Eleise in the house.”

Immediately, a range of emotions washed over Alfred, and Spencer could see it in his eyes. The Victorian man knew this day was coming, and sooner rather than later, but now that the moment had arrived, he couldn’t reconcile the tremendous sense of joy at his daughter’s near betrothal and the imminent feeling of dread that bubbled in his stomach knowing what was to come. Though he felt a bit sick to his stomach, he smiled, noting how similar Spencer looked to him when he’d asked Eleanor’s father if he could marry her. “Go ahead,” he said, smiling.

“Sir, I love Eleise with all my heart and soul. In our future I see happiness. I see a family. I see myself falling more in love with her every day, but it is important to me that I have your blessing. Mr. Griffiths, will you give me permission to ask for Eleise’s hand in marriage?” That might have been one of the most nerve-wracking moments of his life, but he felt amazing, especially when Alfred’s lips turned up into a smile.

“Promise me that you’ll love my daughter for as long as you live and you have it.” 

Spencer felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes. “For as long as I live and more.”

“Do you have a ring?” Alfred asked, after a moment of silence passed between them.

Finally able to breathe again, he pulled the ring out of his pocket. For some reason he hadn’t taken a look at it when he walked through the door and was pleasantly surprised to see the ring was just as beautiful – bright platinum now a beautiful silver, two bands entwined together and a shining purple stone on top. “She will love this. It’s beautiful, Spencer.” He could his eyes start to water and cleared his throat to push away the unwanted emotion. This was a happy occasion and he wouldn’t allow his fears to dampen the excitement of the day. “One other thing,” he added. “I also ask that you go to our home and ask Eleanor as well.”

“Absolutely,” Spencer said quickly, his heart beating a thousand miles a minute. “And thank you again. I promise you that I’ll endeavor to make her happy for as long as I live.” 

With a small wave, he thanked Alfred a third time and headed out the door, practically sprinting to Eleise’s home to ask Eleanor’s permission as well. Like her husband, she was surprised to see Spencer without Eleise, but after a moment’s thought she knew why. “Do you want to marry my daughter, Spencer Reid?”

He gently nodded. “How did you know?”

“Alfred looked the same way when he asked my father. Don’t tell Alfred, but I’d been spying on him at the time so I knew it was coming.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” he laughed. “Yes. I want to marry Eleise. I want to love her until the day I die.”

“Have you already asked Alfred?”

“Yes. He gave his permission and asked that I come here as well.”

Eleanor chuckled softly at her husband’s gentlemanly nature. Many friends of hers had husbands that never asked their decisions on anything, but Alfred was one of a kind – like Spencer. “Do right by my daughter and you have my permission as well.”

A tear fell down Spencer’s cheek when he thanked her profusely, proudly showing her the ring he’d picked. Like the man, the ring had a mother’s approval. “May I ask a favor?” Spencer wondered aloud.

“Yes, of course.”

“There is a place nearby where I would like to propose to Eleise – the large pond near the church, surrounded by trees. With the leaves changing color, I believe it would be the perfect place, but I don’t want to put her at risk for social ridicule. With you there, observing, she would still appear the chaste Victorian woman she is.”

Eleanor smiled. It was a proposal befitting of her daughter. “What time?”

                                                           ------

At quarter past six that evening, Spencer paced the ground near the church, a mirror image of the small clearing of trees and the sunset reflecting in the water nearby. He’d been there for nearly an hour even though he’d told Eleanor exactly what time to be here. He just had no idea what to do with himself. He couldn’t sit still. Finally, the moment arrived when Eleise and her parents walked toward the church, the younger woman none the wiser in regards to being brought her at such an odd time.

“Spencer!” She caught his eye and had to keep herself from running toward him, still wanting to uphold the perfect Victorian image for the sake of her parents. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to ask you something,” he started, glancing toward where Alfred and Eleanor stood about 100 feet away. “When we first met, I knew there was something drawing me to you. I didn’t know what it was, but I would be in my apartment and I wouldn’t be able to get you off my mind. Then I knew why. I love you. When you’re not around, my eyes search for you. I hear the sweetness of your voice linger in my ears. As a man of science, I’ve always wanted to know what came next. I needed the answers. I don’t anymore. I know that we’ll laugh together and we’ll cry together. I know we’ll face good times and bad, but I want that all with you. Every beat of my heart says I love you and if you will let me I will spend the rest of life showing you just how much. Eleise…will you marry me?”

Whenever Spencer had imagined this moment, he assumed he’d stumble over his words, but no message had ever been more clear. Eleise’s eyes glazed over with tears. “Yes, Spencer. I will!”

Glancing around, she saw her parents tear-stained cheeks, but no one else and jumped into Spencer’s arms, the wind flowing through her hair as he twirled and set her down near the lake, lips meeting in a chaste kiss full of future possibility as the sun set on the horizon.

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[sisterofshahrazad]

Shirley

To say that my most recent work has caused a stir in the contemporary literary community is something of a great understatement. Indeed, I have probably received more postage in these past two weeks from people I would have never known by name otherwise than I have in all my 32 years. Oh, and how vibrant that mail has been! If this, dear reader, is how politely you request information from authors, I would hate to hear what you have to say without the anonymity borrowed from your pens. In any case, I suppose I feel drawn to my typewriter today not in the interest of  explanation, but simply in the hopes that my ordinary story, the product of a boring commute for groceries, finally reaches an equally ordinary conclusion. 

It was a day most would remember only for its warmth. In a place with so much snow that Hell itself seemed preferable to finishing my last year of high school, why was anyone ever surprised at my self-cloistering? For that matter, who thought it a good idea to send me out of the house at all, let alone for some trivial luncheon of Sister Adeline's? These things and more, I pondered, light from the midmorning sun trickling down onto my face, my mind only half attentive to whether or not my skirt matched the color of my blouse and whatnot (it was 1934, those who used to care about such things had probably jumped off high rises like lemmings by then), the remainder of my energy fully devoted to that odyssean task of moving me not only out the bedroom door, but the foyer's one, as well. Success in this was, as in most pursuits my mother had set out for me, less of a cause for celebration than anticipation; people, after all, were not books. They had semantics and custom and all things I considered welcomely absent in books. At the very least, this wasn't another of father's evening parties, more onslaughts of comments on my weight and lack of friends than real gatherings; no, this was for errands. Bread, beef, blackberry jam. Bread, beef, blackberry jam. I would have giggled at the sing-songy alliteration if not for the circumstances. 

Bread. You know, it really wouldn't have been so bad if all those stores were closer together. At this point in my journey, I had already rehearsed my order to the butcher three times before exiting the bakery (a sign of a good day—often, only once or twice was typical), and had two more stretches of sidewalk to traverse before reaching the shop. I wondered if, had Tessie been there, it would have seemed less sluggish, the whole thing. What was the Latin phrase? Yes: Tempus fugit. Time flies. A glance at the ticking clock above the counter (10:24) assured me that this was most certainly not the case that day.

Beef. Tessie was an interesting girl, now that I think about it. Her family had only moved in a few years ago, and, as a result, they had not yet picked up on some of our- the others’, subtler precepts of etiquette. I found it difficult to judge; it wasn’t my people that had been driven out of land after land, only to find that this place, once the greatest industrial marvel of the world, had not only collapsed in on itself come 1929, but bore pointed hoods and smoldering crosses as welcome gifts. “We must be thankful”, Mother said, “that we do not tolerate such barbarism in our neighborhood”. I really did pity Tess, on some level; the only person who could somewhat qualify as her friend was me. I even debated making a sudden addition of pot roast to my purchase, as a gift to her and her mother and father. By the time I reached the end of the line, I decided against it. Adeline would see the receipt and think I was pilfering more for myself again, and I didn’t even know then whether it was beef or pork that wasn’t kosher.

Blackberry jam. As much as I despised these occasional outings, I would be lying if I didn’t ever so slightly enjoy my visits to the fruitier. He was one of the few who could tell when that which was inside me was better left undisturbed (that is to say, always), and the rows upon rows of preserves gave me a sense of vicarious nostalgia, channeled through the stories mother told of the time before; before the crash when you could buy reams of vivid linens and velvets for pennies; before the era of unabashed revelry regardless of your middle-agedness gave way to meagre, prescribed get-togethers amongst women who fancied themselves cultured.

In essence, before I was alive.

Somedays, I would take a jar of whatever struck my fancy—be it rhubarb or raspberry or current, never intending to buy it, but only to turn it over in my hand, admiring how the light from the windows made the thing’s contents shine like amber. Perhaps, if I was feeling particularly neurotic, I’d realign all of them so the modest pencil-on-tape labels were facing the same way. Never did I dream of putting one back where it didn’t belong. Mother, in matters organizational, taught me to associate such behavior with impropriety, and impropriety with scolding.

And how vicious her discipline was. So many afternoons spent in the living room listening to lectures on the merits of friendliness and agreeableness; “We didn’t birth you and clean you and dress you and feed you all those years to never set foot outside of a library.” Ironically, reaching out to Tessie yielded a similarly caustic response: “You know, dear, that she is a child of the Lord as we all are, but must you associate with people who refuse to see it?” I paid no heed to those words then, at the time simply an obstacle in the path back to my books and my privacy. Only now, as I walked down the street to Adeline’s and saw the embroidered signage on her door (Corinthians 15:33, all in green and blue cursive) did they ring in my ears again.

“Shirley, dear! Ah, I see you’ve brought all that we need for brunch. Virginia, won’t you help her into the dining room?” 

It was Mrs. Graves. What a befitting name for a woman who looked so close to death, if not for a thin layer of cosmetics. The proceeding few minutes went as I’d prepared for; introductions to various newcomers from the church group, feigned showings of gratitude and cheerfulness (on their part, for spending time with “them old ladies” instead of the great assortment of friends my own age I presumably had, on mine, for their inviting me in the first place), typical things. The meal was set out (an unexceptional one, but still substantial enough so that we all could have a piece of meat and a teacake), and we said grace. It was only about 10 minutes into the entrée when there came a knock at the door. Such things were no surprise; mail came and went sporadically then. It was Mrs. Adams’ turn to let them in, or, if not that, then at least to get off her creaking feet. A few seconds passed, giving me enough time to nibble once more on my bread (well, the bread I bought, anyways), before she spoke. “Well hello, there! Tes-“

And then, they were upon her.

Not even finished with her greeting, and already the others were upset as if their drinks were suddenly spiked with vinegar. Not in the way I was accustomed to, of course. The discomfort they conveyed was in their eyes and the shifting in their seats and the hiccoughs they supposed would go unnoticed if they were quiet enough, not some gossipy whispers or giggles. A queer thought, that the body’s words were more truthful than any of the tongue’s. 

“…Tessie.” 

“Y- yes’m.”

“Well, might I ask why you’re here this fine morning?”

“O- of course, miss. You see, my father and mother—the ones right down the street, well, they got to thinking and figured that we’d greatly enjoy a meal with you all. We’d seen the flyer for it outside on the church bulletin, and…why, won’t you let me come in?”

“Well, of course you can! Just give us a minute to find you some space.” As a lifelong sufferer of social anxiety and expertly covert recluse, I trust you believe me when I say I have never heard- no, felt, such a forced tone of joy. 

“Oh, thank you, miss!”

The window of time between the door shutting and locking felt painfully long to me. As much as I would like to say I did something of any worth then—be it tossing my napkin in disgust and walking the girl home, or smearing the jam onto Mrs. Adams’ Saturday dress in disgust, even raising my voice for a glass of water, this was simply not the case; some more of my mother’s words, “some people simply can’t tell when to change for the better” had resurfaced in my mind, albeit with an entirely novel meaning. The women’s looks of disgust morphed back into comfort (or at least the aura of it), and the luncheon proceeded as if nothing remarkable ever happened. It was minutes later when Mrs. Graves had gone to the washroom that we began to hear muffled sniffling seeping in from the entrance’s all-too-thin walls; at around 1:00, when we were reaching the end of dessert, I indulged the urge to glance at the window, and she had gone. 

On my way back to safety, past all of the “thank you”s and “call us anytime”s and putrid lavender perfume, I visited the fruitier for the last time in a while: I wasn’t leaving the house in flames, at this point. I handled the jar I last lifted from the shelf (I’d left that one—peach marmalade, tilted an iota to the left), and at last committed one tiny act of defiance against those fools. Now, on the shelf partitioned for blackberry jelly, laid a single orange growth, alone, yet there nonetheless. How ironic, to think that the most surprising thing I’d seen that day was the jar still there by the time I walked out the door.

So, there you have it. The story of my story. In all honesty, I’m surprised The Lottery garnered as much attention as it did; as if the average reader had enough time to read my work in such detail, let alone articulate how terribly my name will be remembered in the ever-expanding oceans of history for having the Tessie of that story receive a stoning rather than a washing machine as a prize. Will it really be the piece I’m remembered for, my legacy? If so, entertain for a moment the comedic potential of my epitaph: Shirley Jackson: Loving mother, brilliant novelist, and fantasizer on the stoning of children. If not, I still hope it lives on for some people, even if only for students of that school I attended back then, a dusty reminder that, “yes, someone from Brighton wrote this, and somehow emerged from this town more sane than those around her!”

In fact, I wouldn’t mind like a legacy like that. 

Not at all…