Parlor Tricks

Chapter 2

Hank always welcomed fall like an old friend. The passing of summer's oppressive heat and humidity favored his disposition towards the decay of autumn. The sun setting on summer meant it no longer threatened to scorch his pallid skin. He welcomed the moonlight and enjoyed the glow of his ethereal complexion with its peculiar bluish glow. He tugged on his black pork-pie hat to shield his eyes from the fading watercolors of the sunset, confident that any children in view would shudder away as though he were some messenger of hell; crypt keeper, vampire, perhaps even death himself. He heard the whispers when they thought he was out of earshot. He greeted the talk as he never entirely understood children, even when he was one himself. The rumors of his ghastly background simplified the distance he preferred from others.

When Hank had arrived, he noted the setting sun had dipped enough to set off a comforting grey-scale across the Dillard's lawn.

"Rosie," he somberly greeted the maid with the quick removal of his hat and the subtle bow of his head. Somehow, despite being a stocky 6'4", Hank's constant slouch and shy demeanor chased away any imposing manner.

Rosie nodded and stepped aside, allowing, albeit not welcoming, him into the home. Her chilly demeanor must make her a favorite of Elise, Hank thought to himself. He spun his hat between his hands before Rosie snatched it with a bit more bite than he felt was necessary. He watched as she dropped it on a peg of the coat rack and fought the childish impulse to pluck it back into his hands.

"Mr. Carroll is here," Rosie announced before swiftly departing.

Hank lingered in the doorway for a moment, trying to resist his urge to run from the entire evening. He regretted not slowing his stroll through the twilight, wishing for a few more moments in the moon's company. The moment's hesitation was not unnoticed as Peter welcomed him to the gathering, almost drowning out the disapproving click of Elise's tongue. Hank gave another, this time silent, nod as he entered to a handshake and clap on the shoulder from Peter before sinking to a chair that served as more fashion than comfort. Once settled, he then added nods to the Webbs sitting on the sofa across from him. They gave forced smiles in acknowledgment without missing the cadence of their conversation with Elise. Hank hoped to rely on the others to carry the conversation, content to linger on the outside, but Peter pulled attention to him at the first lull.

"How is your mother?" Peter asked as the room's eyes fell on Hank.

Hank responded with his canned answer. "Well. Her knees are still troubling her, but she still has her sharp wit." It was a response he always had prepared. It was detailed enough to impede additional prying, but lively sufficient that Clara would be pleased should she somehow get word back.

Elise and the Webbs murmured polite thoughts on visiting her. At first, it would have sent Hank into a spiral, as guests were not what the Carroll Mansion needed, but in time, he learned the promises were as empty as the Carroll bank accounts.

Rosie appeared again, announcing dinner.

Hank was more comfortable at the dinner table. He always found that his mind would quiet when his hands had a task, and when his mind was quiet, he could feign interest. He once again let the others partake in conversation through the salad course as he attempted to set his expression to one of interest while allowing his mind to wander. Hank absently nodded as he dug into the plate of dressed greens. Poppyseed, he assessed from the sweet and pungent dressing. He thought of old Poppy, Clara's beloved white Maltese. Henry and Hank had lobbied for a bird dog, but as usual, they lost the battle.

The Irish ghosts in his blood rejoiced at the appearance of a roast with potatoes. The table dithered on about the inheriting generation's career crises and marital problems, the generation that Hank had once belonged. Now 'touring Europe,' Sarah Williams had been the head cheerleader; Johnathan Smoot, having lost millions to gambling, had been the class president; but Wendy Graham captured his attention. He trained his eyes on his plate as they spoke of her in a mix of feigned grieved gossip and gasps. The snippets floated through him like shadows.

"All alone in that house with just the children," "some 20-year-old co-ed," "I hear she has another on the way."

Hank's mind filtered to Wendy, the Wendy that was locked in his mind. Her tiny little laugh rang through his memories of her soft blond tendrils falling around her heart-shaped face as her sweet strawberry perfume filled his nose, and his lips recalled the soft feel of gentle kisses along her wrists that would always draw a leap of her tiny blue veins.

His boyhood memories filtered away like the conversation with the searing condemnation from the table "a woman her age with three children and now no husband."

Hank's knuckles went white around the silver in his hands as the muscles of his neck tightened. The table fated Wendy because of an unfaithful husband. Meanwhile, the man's infidelity was little more than a plot point. He shut his eyes to painful tight tucks, willing the emotions away and returning his face to the safety of placid boredom.

As if beckoned to the table by the acidic nature of dining room gossip, lemon tarts arrive before the guests. Peter reminisced on Harriett's baking, as they all tucked into dessert. The pastry fork felt undersized in Hank's hand, but he fought the urge to pick the delicacy up with his bare hand.

"Your mother was always a fan of tarts," Peter directed to Hank.

"Yes, sir," Hank's voice came out with the creak of neglect.

"We'll have one wrapped up to go home with you." Peter's smile had long ago revealed him as an older man; his once full lips were thin, and the taut of the smile deepened the pleats of his face.

Endings are fast, a course set, and achieved in a matter of moments. The Webbs' gracefully declined an after-dinner drink citing the hour. Hank stumbled on his alibi and found himself in the Dillard's parlor with Peter. The harsh tone of Elise imploring her husband to come to bed soon still hung in the dusty air. Peter didn't bother asking Hank for a drink request; he poured himself a scotch and settled into an uncomfortable rose-toned chair across from him. Hank did not drink in social situations. He did not partake beyond the single Jack and Coke at Willie's, a barrelhouse bar where it was easy to blend into the smoke-filled funk of packed-in patrons.

"How are you, Hank?" It was a pleasant question from Peter, but it devolved into an urgent tapping at words unsaid over time and now hung with the expected implosion.

Hank responded with a muted "well" and a slight tip of his head. "Clara is well. She will appreciate the tart." The flicker of the lie crossed his lips as they both knew his mother wouldn't eat a morsel of the delicacy.

Peter nodded to the lie before taking a long drink from his glass as his eyes tipped to the ceiling. "I'm an old man now, Hank. It seems like it snuck up on me, but I fear I am closer to the ghosts than the living." His eyes fell on Hank; a blend of sadness and envy that formed the appearance of guilt swirled across his face. "You are too young to have so many ghosts. If my Isabell were here, life would have been different."

Hank let his gaze fall to his hands.

"Gah," Peter added after having broken free from his lament. "An old fool and his prattling. Off you go; no need to stay around here with the relics." A toothy smile crossed his face, peaking at his hazel eyes as he downed the last of his scotch.