MISC «morose! morose! morose!»

XXV.

XXV.

   The Victorian house is ancient. Infinitesimal.

Poppies in garden, wild children with long untamed hair, airy lawns, passages that seem endless, and in there, that abysmal morning he discovered his darling wife.

Coughing, looking for attention, crying for the third time this morning.

"Mommy!" Nora says, "its time for your medicine!"

Right. The pills.

Poor child, he thinks. Looking after a parent at such a tender age, mustn't that be difficult?

In wonder, he encounters his wife pulling one too many tactics to elicit sympathy, and his fingers tighten around the rosewood table as no traces of complaining is found on Nora's face.

What was he thinking? Marrying a wealthy lady twice his age, getting her pregnant too? Oh right he wasn't.

"Father, your tea is here."

Then there's Eleanor Penn.

The natural heir — seeing as to Nora too naive and Wes excessively stupid, its her throne.

"The braids are very becoming of you."

"Why thank you," such dead eyes, such civility, such ruthlessness.. Any other man would be slightly unnerved by her intensity and the way her immaculate movements produced lavender tea and stirred — not Mr Penn though.

"Is Westerly regular to his classes, hm?"

"Fairly," she says. "I lent him a copy of Pinter's The Caretaker. Hasn't returned it yet."

Maybe he misplaced it, Mr Penn smiles. "He'll soon. You worry not."

"Normani said something similar."

"She did, didn't she?"

"Mhm. I must take my leave."

"But won't you have tea?"

She's already making her way out. He watches her leave, not knowing what more he could have said. In later years — she'd say — "I wish he told me I'm his pride. I knew, how could I not? But a parent's approval goes long way. Direction is better than assumption."

The poor hag will be dead before knowing that vital information.

"I'm organizing mother's medicine cabinet," she takes one last look over her shoulder. "I'll see you tomorrow, at the garden then."

"Bring Achilles."

Mr Penn is breathless. Lungs on fire, strange pulsating; he felt somebody injected stimulant of the low kind in his veins — of course he knew stimulants, how else does a lad entangle himself in a social jungle of ugly marriage and gangly kids? Luxurious habits, luxurious solutions.

"Westerly Penn!"

Not this again. There's an unsightly, minty gum on the side of his desks. "Come here I say!"

So he appears. Just like that. A disgusting human being, had he been taking cues from his mother? "What is this?"

"That's limited addition peppermint gum."

"Why is it on my work desk?"

A shrug. "I sought your permission before borrowing."

That he always did! Quite infuriating.

An ugly, pale figure — white dress shirt with blue linings, red pants of 60s, indents on his face. "Don't scratch your pimples."

"My pimples?" Self consciously, the numbskull feels it.

Mr Penn exhales. "The issue at hand is, why would you not throw this piece of crap out? Haven't you had enough?"

The question turns hamsters-operated wheels. Several. Furrowed brows and then raised, mouth gaping. "But Ella said four hundred dollars is quite pricey. So I thought I-"

"You're such a moron! A complete fool! Fou- Good lord, what does your brain do, huh? Why doesn't it work?"

"I apologiz-"

"For your foolishness? Countless won't be enough! You little, you scoundrel! I say, throw this ugly thing and lock yourself in a room -"

"A room?"

"Any room! The Penn villa is huge!" The blond boy looks shaken. Well good. He better not be wasteful of money. Money, the result of his father's sacrifices.

Money, the love of Alexis.

Beautiful Alexis in her prime and lustre and godlike stature, a fine woman. "Just go somewhere where I can't see you!"

"Yes!"

"I best not see you for a hundred days, given your reckless abandon, do you understand?"

The boy nodded, vigorously, ashamed to his core, mostly terrified.

He bolts. His legs ache, face hidden, he hides the following evening in the Lady's chambers. The sight of bandages and disposed cotton and bottles of various sizes is very comforting.

Meanwhile, Mr Penn is still cross. Fuming and pacing. Self introspection but angrily. "What do I do that will teach that brat a lesson? How can I mold him to be Ella?"

Ironically, thoughts eluded him.

"Why does he collect things no longer useful?"

Then it strikes him.

Cutting it loose, that's the way to go. That's the way of societies. Ah.

***

author's note : am I back or what!