The Brownie of the Alabaster Mansion: A Short Story Page 2
rooms, halls that began to form cohesive wings truncating in both east and west directions. The main residence sat firmly in the middle and was the oldest structure of them all.
The most recent addition was a multi-vehicle garage housing the many cars Booker Tarwick had collected over the years, including a 1928 Rolls Royce, a 1948 Cadillac Convertible Coupe, a 1940 Buick Super Touring Sedan and Booker’s favorite, a 1936 Buick Three Window Business Coupe. Very few were his “driving” cars. They mostly sat beneath tarps and canvases on highly polished floors.
Above the ground floor was the stately floor of the Alabaster Mansion. It had many colorful rooms that Chelsea Tarwick had named accordingly; not liking the names Martha had chosen decades ago and those Aubrey Tarwick picked originally. A balcony overlooked the foyer and was adjoined on one side by a media room and on the other by the formal dining room that got most of its use at holidays and special gatherings.
The third floor held the main living quarters of Booker and Chelsea, along with their two daughters. Although the floor was large enough to have separate bedrooms for the gentleman and lady of the house, they slept in one and let the girls have their own separate rooms. Each bedroom had a sitting room, dressing room, one or two sitting halls off the dressing room, and a closet that in most houses in the county would have been called a room unto itself. The rooms were festooned in the finest linen draperies; walls hung in tapestries and family portraits by popular artists. An elliptical room overlooked the pool, gardens, tennis and basketball courts of the backyard.
All floors had multiple fireplaces inset with ponderous andirons and were overhung by carven mantles and family portraits going back to Winston and Aubrey Tarwick.
Being patriotic, Booker named the guest bedroom after a famous president. As a natural extension of this patriotism, it was no secret in the county that he was a man of conviction and high-minded principles. Although the situ of the Alabaster Mansion was in one of the wealthiest counties of the region, there were certain pockets of poverty. The family had always been generous in their charitable giving to deserving families. Yet there are many in the county who felt they should give all their wealth away to the poor, even if they were lazy and did nothing to help themselves or others.
Combined with his rather bullheaded way of getting his point across, Booker was looked down upon for never compromising in his many ultimatums issued from an impossibly long table in the boardroom of Tarwick Timber Corporation or the mahogany library of the Alabaster Mansion. This was especially true amongst leaders in the county who, if truth be told, wanted him and his family, with their anti-environment business and high-minded values, to leave the Alabaster Mansion for good. This attitude was only exacerbated when Tarwick Timber Corp. began having financial difficulties. The buyers for the company ran up huge deficits and the finance department lent money on very unfavorable terms. When key suppliers in the wood industry began filing for bankruptcy, the book value of Tarwick Timber Corp. sank. Booker was forced to lay off many workers. No department was unscathed.
The Board blamed Booker for lack of oversight and he blamed the Board.
II. A Peculiar Spectacle
This weighed on Booker that particular late fall evening when he was making a few last phone calls of the day from the library. He heard a most peculiar sound in 6/8 metre that had never been heard on the grounds of the manse before despite the many social gatherings held under its porticos on summer evenings. He flung open the drapes and stared outside where he noticed an odd jumble of people dancing and strutting up the winding driveway of the manse in the grandest of fashions. Booker had no idea how the party had made it through the gate that was always to remain locked without a passcode as they curved off the driveway and were making an arching path up the verdant lawn.
Leading the pack was a riding lawnmower team that at first did not strike Booker Tarwick as out of the ordinary. The acre upon acre of verdant lawns surrounding the Alabaster Mansion had to be maintained by a fleet of groundskeepers on a weekly basis. Yet what struck him as out of place was to see the group riding in tandem—synchronized mowing if you will—all dressed in coal black uniforms and perched on machines that matched.
Marching right behind the lawnmower brigade was a band—consisting of three violins, two guitars, two trumpets, and bass—playing in the mariachi style. Their music was difficult to hear over the rumble of the riding lawn mowers. The band wore wide-brimmed hats and gilded dark outfits. They all wore shiny black boots.
Behind them was a knot of ladies dressed like Scarlett O'Hara in her Sunday best. Their frilly gloved hands were holding signs that read Flower Matrons. There were proudly kicking their legs out in front to reveal sable garters. Each held a pail in one hand from which they were throwing dark flower petals into the air.
At mid-lawn the group stopped, led by the riding lawnmower team, and parted right down the middle; the mowers looking back at the marching band, the band craned their instruments back toward the dancing ladies, and the southern belles extended their arms behind them to reveal the most bizarre person in the entire impromptu spectacle.
There was a wisp of a man bringing up the rear of bus, so to speak. He was dressed in a cheap pinstriped suit that flapped open below the lapels to reveal a crimson necktie. Above the tie a cigarette dangled from his mouth. There was a definite swagger in his walk as he made his way up the front lawn, hands cupping behind at each step. It struck Booker as more of a strut or sashay than a walk.
In the twilight, it was difficult to make out his facial features.
The little man stopped in the grass and flung both hands into the air. He began waving crazily as though the entire world loved him and were bursting with excitement at his arrival. Booker scanned the surrounding area but saw no one there except those in the parade. Booker noticed that the little narcissist did not quit waving until he had made a full turning circle.
At the dropping of his hands, the members of the parade filled in the center gap and marched another fifty yards to the front of the mansion. Just as Booker was about to call the police, the parade once again stopped and from its middle emerged a chunky preacher that had previously gone undetected by Booker Tarwick from his windowed position in the library. The timber magnet knew the man at the forefront to be a man of the cloth for no other reason than he held a large Bible in one hand.
The lawnmowers were shut off and he began to preach in a manner that did little to bring Booker closer to God, especially in his agitated stated. The short and peculiar sermon focused only on patterns and high fashion. It soon became evident that he was promoting only his style and hated all others.
The preacher’s bizarre sermon ended in a flurry. “Let the polka dots rot. May the stripes be wiped. The herringbones shall be dethroned. Let the plaids die rad. May the minds of the paisleys turn lazy and may God deliver a wrecker for the checkers.”
With that the lawnmowers revved and the band struck up their instruments. The parade curved back toward the driveway, which was to the west of the Alabaster Mansion, and when they reached the snaking driveway again—right at the point where they moved off it—they marched away in formation across the gravel-shot with the mowers spraying pebbles twenty feet in either direction. The previously immaculate lawn now looked horrible.
Booker Tarwick slammed his eyelids shut. He had clearly been working too hard of late. I didn’t just see that, he reasoned as he clutched the draperies. I was forced to sign those new executive guidelines. I didn’t want to but I am a man of high principles.
He took a few deep breaths, afraid to open his eyes. This was useless in blocking out the auditory whir of humming blades and high-pitched horns.
With one eye open, he saw that the parade was almost out of sight and with it the funny little man who brought up the back of the bus and for whom, apparently, the extravagance had been for in the first place.
III. In the Mansion
In the ground floor library, Booker Tarwick fell asleep in his studded
leather chair. He had worked longer than anticipated. It was restless sleep as he mulled over the strange events that did—may—did not—happen on the front lawn. He had said nothing to Chelsea or the girls to prevent their alarm. Besides, he was increasingly unsure if it had all been a figment of his overworked imagination; a stain on a guilty mind for being handed wealth instead of having earned it no matter how well he had taken over the reigns of Tarwick Timber Corporation; a stain on a guilty mind for letting the company slip into financial difficulties over the last couple years.
“What about the O carved into the lawn?” asked a tiny voice. “The Big O.”
Booker’s mind was working overtime. He glanced over at the clock—8:37 P.M.
“And the noise?”
He tried to focus on anything but the events of twilight. He rotated from hip to hip. The leather chair gave off a squeak.
“Uh look at the flower petals on lawn. ‘Black violas’ is what they called them. Go touch one. Touch it!”
Shut up, Booker thought to himself or had he mumbled the response into the dark room? The agitating thoughts were coming through so clear now, as though someone was whispering to him from behind the chair.
“The flower of treachery, hee, hee, hee.”
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“Gravel-shot everywhere!” came the whisper.
It’s all a trick of light. Every bit of it.
Booker extracted himself from the chair, moved slowly down the long hall and began climbing the stairs to the third floor. His head was pounding. Half way up he heard a high-pitched scream that was unmistakably Chelsea’s. He raced up the steps.
When he reached the third floor he could tell the scream was coming from the master bedroom. By the time he reached the threshold, Chelsea was dashing out of the bathroom where she had been taking her nightly shower.
“In there,” she cackled, pointing behind her with nothing but a towel on. “A little man in a suit.”
Booker moved into the bathroom. He looked for a heavy object to defend himself, but in the large space the marble countertop, with its solid pewter soap dishes and bottles of fine perfume, was a good three steps away from the door.
He saw nothing out of the ordinary. He quickly scanned the framed oval mirrors over the sinks for a reflection of the man behind the door. Nothing. He looked at the massive shower that had showerheads directed at every part of the body and arched entrances on both sides. The water was still pulsing. A cloud of mist was pushing toward the high ceiling. With its slightly opaque glass walls, Booker was able to see if a person was inside it. Nothing. Same with the “commode closet” as they called it. He searched around the bottom of the claw foot tub and again came up empty.
Booker stepped back into the bedroom where he found his wife visibly shaken as she sat on the edge of their four poster bed. “All clear. There’s no one in the bathroom.”
“I swear I saw a man. . . or he saw me, rather. I was taking my shower when I noticed two beady eyes staring at me over the top of the wall. He must’ve been standing on the clothes hamper. The peeping tom was giggling.”
“What did he look like?”
“I didn’t get a good look at him before I ran out. He had big, round ears, cropped hair, beady eyes—”
Booker got to thinking. “What was he wearing? Can you remember that?”
“A suit. A cheap pinstriped suit and necktie. I already told you that, I think.”
Booker let Chelsea know that it was safe and further that no one could have run out without one of them seeing the inquisitive fellow in the first place. And as he ratcheted down into this calming mode of one-sided conversation that every husband becomes versed in at some point in his marriage, Booker was thinking of the small hinged door that was cut into the back wall of one of the lower master bathroom cabinets, the one his grandfather told him about before he died in 1974 of kidney failure.
Like any manse expanded over the decades, it had secret doors and hidden passageways that led into rooms or onto one of the porticos that stood in columned splendor on the south side of the Alabaster Mansion. Chelsea didn’t know about this particular one and Booker was certainly not about to let her in on the secret now. This included the strange events at twilight that were becoming more real by the moment.
Booker pulled on his silk pajamas. He too noticed something peculiar in regards to his nightclothes. The armpits of each shirt had apparently been sprayed with a dark liquid that made it appear he had been sweating profusely.
Booker held one up for Chelsea to view. “Would you look at this?”
Chelsea noticed but didn’t notice. She was not convinced that it had all been in her brain as evidenced by her pinched brow. She made her way over to the dresser and slid out her undergarment drawer. It took but a few seconds for her to ask Booker, “Do you smell that?”
He took a deep breath. “Yeah, almost like rotten—”
“It’s coming from my drawer.” Chelsea reached down and took a whiff of one colorful panty after another. “They all smell like . . . fish!”
She immediately scooped them up in a large armful. As she did a fetid sardine dropped out of the pile and thumped onto the bottom of the drawer, its dull eye lolling in its socket. Booker rushed over.
They both agreed the maids were to get a stern lecture in the morning. The family had always paid them well and treated them with respect. If the sardine embedding and armpit spraying was intentional, the whole lot of them was gone. Though the Tarwicks had always hired illegal immigrants to work in their home, in public they spoke out against those who did not have a working visa in order prior to entering the county from a bordering foreign county. Booker had gone so far as to offer to pay for a fence along the entire border, which angered many in the community.
While Chelsea pulled on her nightclothes, which consisted of flannel pajamas in the fall and winter months, they agreed they needed to get as far away from their bedroom as possible to calm their nerves. Chelsea suggested they grab a new book from down in the library. As they headed out of the bedroom, Booker pinched the sardine between his fingers and carried it with him.
All was quiet in the Alabaster Mansion, perhaps too quiet. They reached the ground floor and made their way down the long hall to the library. On their way past the parlor Chelsea
noticed a pinpoint light winking in the darkness. She knew the security devices were attached to the windows and quickly ruled that out as a possibility. It occurred to her that one of the girls must have left a toy on in the room, perhaps a broken headlight on the bus Jan had become enthralled with of late. She grabbed her husband by the arm and flicked on the overheads.
Booker and Chelsea could not believe what they saw in the chair by the fireplace. A little man in a cheap suit sat there with his shoes propped up on the fireplace screen, drawing on a cigarette. On either side of his cropped black hair were set funny round ears that appeared to move as he puffed. Deep wrinkles formed a pair of parentheses at the sides of his thin set lips. It struck Booker that it could’ve been a math equation with a minus sign in it. A large mole—or perhaps wart—glowered from the side of his nose.
“Nice pad,” he said.
“That’s him! That’s him!” exclaimed Chelsea. “He’s the one who was looking at me in the shower.”
At this the funny looking man raised his eyebrows and winked.
“Who are you” demanded Booker, “and what are you doing in our house?”
With this the man sitting next to the fire glow responded, “The better question is, ‘Why are you . . . waving a fish . . . at me . . . in a threatening manner?’ Very square.”
Made conscious of the sardine, Booker tucked it behind his back. “I’ll call the police,” he warned, “if you do not leave our premises this minute.”
“Chill, Daddy’O. Talking is always better . . . than acting. Nice silk threads.”
Booker noticed the way the creature would stop every four or five words and pause. This broken staccato rhythm annoyed him to no end.
By this time the girls had heard the commotion and wandered downstairs in their pajamas rubbing sleep from their eyes. Claire stood next to her mom and Jan took a flanking position that peered through the legs of her father.
Claire began pointing. “What the book said really worked. It’s our brownie!”
The last word got Booker thinking about colors and he realized that it was hard to know what color the brownie actually was. In the glow of the firelight his skin had tinges of brown, white and yellow, but yet he was very green. It was impossible to know the true color of this kaleidoscope creature. There was no way to pin a color on him.
“What’s your name?” asked Booker in a terse voice.
The brownie responded with a long flurry of a name that none of the Tarwicks could understand. Phonetically, Jan probably came the closest. To Chelsea it sounded Middle Eastern. Everyone in the