Darling

ENOLA WAS SET to arrive in an hour. The mansion seemed cleaner than usual, and I suspected the workers spent all night making sure everything was spotless. I wore a white knitted shirt with light green stripes and brown dress pants. We sat on the tower roof of the estate, our legs dangling from the side of the building dangerously, looking ahead at the dirt road in front of us, which was ominously shrouded in darkness. Isla looked dazzling. She wore a form-fitting dark green dress that shined under the moon's decorous light, her black heels sitting next to her on the ledge. She looked like she belonged in a place like this, in Edenbridge. It was as if she had lived there her whole life. She took a packet of cigarettes from her tiny black purse and lit one, inhaling deeply and letting it flow out of her nostrils and slightly agape mouth. 

    "I didn't know you smoked," I said, surprised.

    "Don't tattle," she said coolly. "Do you find me terribly unattractive now?" 

    "I could never." 

    I kissed her, tasting the residue on her breath. She pulled me closer with her free hand, tugging at the neck of my shirt and twisting her tongue in between my lips, inviting mine to dance. I accepted, and away they went, circling each other, chest to chest, noses nearly touching, never letting go. When we finally parted, we looked at each other's eyes, not daring to look away. 

    "I think," she began. "Oliver has a little thing for you." 

    "I think," I mimicked. "You might be right." 

    She leaned in for another, but right as I did, she turned her head, chuckling. I called her a tease, and she said she had to find some amusement for the night. Isla wasn't like this with other people, only me. I considered it a gift to see the parts of a person they hide from the world. The confident flirt, the oozing sensuality; she was none of these things, yet all of them simultaneously. She continued by saying that she suspected Oliver was starting to resent her. I told her not to be so presumptuous and that it would take a lot of wrongdoing to make someone like him resentful of anyone. I could tell she didn't believe me, and I didn't even believe myself. Oliver was more than capable of being unjustly cruel. Anyone who grows up with the power he had has the innate ability to be nasty to those with far less. 

    "After dinner," I said. "Spend the night with me?" 

    "Sure," she said, putting out her cigarette. "Don't hog the sheets this time." 

    The sound of rolling tires on dirt and gravel could be heard, and we both turned our attention to the oncoming headlights in the distance, cutting through the darkness like a knife. Enola was arriving earlier than expected. Her car parked below us, and we ducked behind the ledge, only peeking our heads out. She stepped out of the backseat, wearing a loose purple dress that covered her entire body except the back of her neck and shoulders. From what I could tell, she had a dirty blonde French bob that perfectly suited her disposition. Her driver stepped out and opened the trunk, taking out multiple luxury suitcases that magically fit inside. Two other footmen rushed out to help, and she disappeared from underneath us. 

*

OLIVER SAW THE two of us come down to the dinner table together. He greeted Isla with a wretched look that I had never seen on him before. It was almost frightening how angry he seemed, even scarier witnessing such a mask disappear instantaneously when his mother entered the obscenely large candle-lit room. Her dress looked even more appealing up close. Interestingly enough, she hardly wore any makeup, though I took into account the long trip and her apparent exhaustion. Still, from what Oliver told us, I assumed she'd go to any lengths to look her absolute best regardless of the circumstances. I suppose she didn't see us as worth much time and energy. 

    Oliver and Celeste seemed happy to see her, though not as much as I imagined. A hug, a kiss on the cheek, a verbal greeting. That was the extent of their affection, and I suddenly realized that their bountiful wealth did not translate to familial love. Moving on to Archie, she was far more enthusiastic. I couldn't tell if she was putting on a show or if she really enjoyed outsiders' company more than her own children. Archie seemed different too, not his usual sardonic self. He was certainly putting on a show that made me dislike him very much at that moment. Enola finally reached me, and I extended my hand. She ignored it and gave me a hug instead. 

    "You must be James," she said joyfully. "Oh, darling, I'm so happy to meet you. Oliver absolutely adores you, and I can see why." 

    "Oh," I said, a little stunned. "Thank you so much, um-" 

    "Enola, darling," she interrupted. "I can't stand that Mr. and Mrs. nonsense." 

    She smelled of expensive liquor and old cigarettes. Her car must have reeked. 

    "You are absolutely stunning to look at, dear, absolutely stunning! I've never seen such a

shade of brown. Most brown irises look almost black in the dark, but yours are extraordinarily brown. You must be bombarded with compliments everywhere you go. Ugh, absolutely stunning." 

    Oliver seemed to shrink with embarrassment, and Archie looked like he smelled something appalling. Celeste was primarily unperturbed by Enola's exaggerated cheeriness and vaguely flirtatious demeanor. She'd seen this before, countless times. I may have been the latest in a long line of Summer fixations. Enola turned her attention to Isla, who stood beside me patiently. 

    "I'm so sorry, love," Enola said. "I didn't catch your name." 

    "I'm Isla," she said tensely. "Isla Waters." 

    "You're perhaps even more beautiful than James!" she exclaimed. "You two make a lovely couple." 

    "They're not-" Oliver interjected, pausing for a second. "They're not a couple." 

    Awkward, painful silence. Enola didn't know what to do with that information and clearly didn't care. Archie coughed, and Celeste sat down to eat. Everyone followed suit and moved on to the more typical dinner conversation subjects, mainly school and job hunting. Enola seemed to stick to the topic with an intensity that confused me initially, but once I noticed her frequent glances at Celeste, I realized she was sending a message. Not in school, Celeste spent most of her days at the estate doing nothing. While Oliver went off to Cambridge, she was left alone with their mother, where she was undoubtedly pestered about her apathy towards an education. Celeste didn't seem to have a passion for anything. She was lost in the world her mother raised her in, lost in her abundance and lack of struggle. Contented with a life of dull comfort, Enola was clearly sick of it, sick of her. She must have hated herself for letting such a thing happen. After her fourth glass of champagne, Enola was becoming more audacious with her questions, and although her drunken state was a sore sight, her boldness was amusing. 

    "Enola," I said, finishing up my cheesecake. "I hope you don't mind me asking, but are you married?" 

    "Married?" she asked with an exasperated laugh. "Of course not, darling, of course not. I haven't been married in a tremendously long time. I don't miss it either, married life. Their father was a big boar of a man. A big prick of a man with nothing to show for it, if you know what I mean. He was a terrible cheater who couldn't even be bothered to wipe the lipstick off his ugly face when he got home. I obviously didn't know this when I got married. No woman marries a man because she wants to be betrayed, unless it's some masochistic desire, in which case I wouldn't judge. I'm not a magistrate on these things. I know Celeste has some peculiar desires, but I won't speak on those. I wouldn't want to embarrass her (Celeste turned bright red, holding her fork tightly). Anyway, he was a fool. It's a wonder, one of the world's great mysteries, how he made the money that he did. I suppose I have to thank him for all of this. Old money goes a long way, but he made even more. I have to respect the dumb brute for that, at the very least." 

    "What happened to him?" Archie asked, breaking his timid silence. "Is he-" 

    "Dead? Yes, of course. He's in the ground, in the graveyard, actually. Have you all seen it yet? It's a sight to behold. Quite ghastly when you take into account that everyone in the family, his side of the family, died tragically. My theory is that they all got what they deserved. The money they made isn't the kind that you earn. There was a woman here, her name escapes me, but she was a gorgeous little thing, much like you, dear (she turned to Isla). She married a man named Deacon, one of Oliver's dead relatives. Oh, yes, Oliver's father's name is Oliver. Isn't that wonderfully pretentious? So, the story goes, at least the way Oliver told it, is that this beautiful woman married Deacon the first night they met. He was on a trip to Paris, and it was love at first sight! He was absolutely enamored by this girl, and I suppose she felt the same way, so they married, and she came back to Edenbridge with him. At the time, the entire Falls family lived on the estate grounds. It's certainly not supposed to be this barren. I'm sure you've noticed, James, that a castle with hardly anyone in it makes for a… what's the word, darling?" 

    "Sad," Celeste said, not looking her mother in the eyes. 

    "Yes! It was a disappointing affair. Very disappointing indeed. So, this young woman and Deacon live happily ever after, but only briefly (she finished her sixth glass). One night, the girl hears strange noises coming from Deacon's office. She gets out of bed, wearing only a see-through nightgown, and explores the halls, walking closer and closer to the wretched noise. Oliver, Oliver's father, said it was a kind of moaning, but not the pleasurable kind. No, it was the kind of moan that animals let out before they die, the kind a deer makes when it's been shot. She finally finds the room where the pained cries are coming from, and she presses her ear against the door. Eventually, her curiosity gets the better of her, and she opens the damn thing! Can you believe that? What a fool! I would have been miles from the estate in a heartbeat. She opens the door and finds Deacon hunched over like a little goblin out of some cheap, old horror film, skinning something she can't quite make out. He's not skinning it with a knife or a tool; he's using his bare hands and nails! He's ripping the flesh off the poor thing, and he's the one letting out pained wails! The girl asks, 'Deacon, my love, what on earth are you doing?' He doesn't answer and continues to scrape and peel like he's under some nasty spell. She asks him again and again and again, eventually gathering enough courage to walk towards him and put her trembling hand on his shoulder. That's what got her killed, really. Touching that man, marrying him, quite literally forfeiting her life for him. She was found dead in the closet the very next morning by one of the help. Her flesh had been ripped off her body, much like that animal. The odd thing is, there was no trace of the poor beast. There was only her. She didn't belong, that girl. She didn't belong in a place like this." 

    Enola's tone suddenly became despondent. 

    "How did Oliver's father die?" I asked, wanting to know more. Oliver shot me an icy glare. 

    "Syphilis, darling," she said plainly, almost defeated. "I like to say he killed himself." 

    She had nothing more to say, for she was falling asleep at the table. Oliver called one of the footmen to pick her up and take her to her bedroom, leaving the rest of us in silence. We looked at each other, not knowing what to do or what to say. The stillness was deafening. It felt as though standing up would be too loud, too abrasive for the moment. Oliver had his face in his hands, and Celeste stared at her untouched dessert. She picked at it with a fork, squishing her cheek against her left palm. Isla put her hand on my thigh to get my attention, signaling us to leave. I whispered I'd meet her in my room, so she was the first to go. Archie was next, letting out a whispered "Jesus H. Christ" as he stepped out. Celeste left too, moving with the silence, submitting to its current. I moved next to Oliver and asked him if he was feeling alright. He said it was nothing he hadn't already seen. I apologized for humoring Enola's drunken tirade, though I told him it was unintentional. He believed me, of course, because I told myself it was unintentional, too. I was reminded of my father's drunken fits, though he was far too violent for me to draw any accurate comparisons.

    No one knew about my home life, and I intended to keep it that way. For some inexplicable reason, I found the idea of confessing my past far too invasive, even to those I liked very much. 

*

I RECALLED THE first day I met Archie and Celeste. Things were so different then. Although it was only two months before our dinner with Enola, our relationships with each other were far more lively than what they eventually became. 

    I looked out my bedroom window and saw Oliver with Archie and Celeste. Archie looked about my age, twenty years old. He was wearing ivory swim shorts and flaunting his Ray-Ban sunglasses like it was the first expensive accessory he had ever bought. The way he interacted with Oliver seemed familiar. It was clear they had known each other for years, probably since childhood. Celeste was sunbathing beside the pond they rested next to, reading a book and wearing a revealing one-piece dark brown bathing suit. It was clear to me, even from afar, that she was effortless in her style. I watched Isla introduce herself; the phoniness of her entire being was blinding, and I felt a pang of something unexplainable in my gut that made me want to turn away. Celeste lowered her sunglasses to the bridge of her nose and looked at Isla from top to bottom, extending her hand elegantly and saying a few words. Archie seemed much more excited to meet her, giving her a tight hug that she reciprocated wholeheartedly. Yet another performance for the ages. 

    I left my room, journal in hand, wearing sky blue swim trunks. Oliver had never seen me without a shirt before, and I couldn't help but want him to notice me. As I walked towards them, they all turned their heads one by one, except for- 

    "Archie," Oliver said, introducing me. "Archie Wycliffe. He's my best friend, and I hardly get to see him. He's spending all his time at Oxford." 

    "Oxford?" I said, surprised. "Why spend your time at such a lowly university?" 

    "I just wanted to feel close to my brothers and sisters, you know?" he responded sarcastically, matching my humor. "Get in touch with my roots." 

    "You should have tried Spelman," I said, moving next to Oliver and giving him a sly wink. "They really know how to make one feel at home." 

    "I'd rather slit my wrists and bleed all over Oliver's lovely marble floors," Archie said, putting down his copy of Brideshead Revisited and finally looking up at me. He had a devilish smile and surreptitious eyes. I shot him the same clandestine look. Before Oliver could introduce me, Celeste stood up and gave me a hug. She was warm, and I could feel her chest push up against me. 

    "It's really wonderful to meet you," she said excitedly. "James, yes? Oliver can’t shut up about you, really." 

    "Is that so?" I asked, looking at Oliver's expression of subtle worry. 

    "Nothing bad," she said as if to reassure me. "He just likes you very much. From the looks of you, I don’t know how anyone couldn’t." 

    "God, Celeste, you're such a pervert," Oliver exclaimed with disgust. "Can you try to act normal with our guests for once?" 

    "Oh please, I doubt James here minds having a little fun once in a while," she said with a crooked smile. "Do you? Aren't Americans supposed to be party animals or something?"

    I looked at Isla. She was focusing incredibly hard on the little water ripples in the pond, trying to ignore Celeste's blunt wooing.

    "Of course not," I said. "I like fun." 

    "See!" Celeste declared. "James isn't a prude." 

    I eventually sat down and took out my journal. I didn't have the urge to write, but I wanted to look busy while everyone else attended to their own little activities. Archie continued reading, Celeste continued sunbathing, and Isla and Oliver decided to take a dip. Instead of writing, I decided to sketch the scenery. I started with the healthy blades of grass that grazed the back of my neck, then to the pond, and then to Isla as she pushed through the water with the force of her body. Oliver dived under it, letting the liquid swallow him whole. Small ripples turned into tiny explosions as they swam together. As I drew Isla, I could see the character she was attempting to sell earlier was slowly crumbling away in her moment of unadulterated joy. I found her beautiful again, and I couldn't help but add more detail to her body than Oliver's, though he wasn't without his infectious qualities. When my gaze moved onto him, I suddenly thought he knew I was staring. The way his body moved in the water changed. He moved with purpose, methodically. The wetness of his skin seemed staged, like it wasn't even actual water, like the pond itself was counterfeit, like the grass wasn't real, the mountains in the distance, the sun, the estate, the whole world. Everything was a farce, tailored perfectly to my wants and needs, which begged the question, did I want Oliver? And if so, did I want him more than Isla? Did I want them at the same time? No, I didn't. I wanted the life he had, the pond he was ruining with his day-old muck, the grass he desecrated with his footsteps, and the mountains he rarely looked at. 

    "Where's your mother, Oliver?" I asked as nonchalantly as possible. 

    "Mum isn't going to be back until August," he yelled from the water. "She's out on a business trip. We’ll have the place to ourselves for a while." 

    "Plenty of time to get up to no good," Archie said, not looking away from his book.

"Don't you agree, Isla?" 

    Isla turned her gaze onto Archie, confused as if she didn't expect anyone to converse with her. 

    "I'm sorry," she said, flustered. "What did you say?" 

    "Nothing important!" I shouted, catching Archie's eye. "I think I'll join you two!" 

    I put down my notebook and ran into the pond, splashing water everywhere. We spent the rest of the afternoon out on the lake, and as time passed, everyone seemed more comfortable with one another. Once the sun started setting, Oliver told everyone to head inside for some drinks. 

*

I COULD HARDLY articulate a single thought. The club was bursting through its cement seams. Flashing lights, the taste of alcohol on my tongue, the stench of weed and cigarettes all swirled together like a forbidden brew. My clothes were sticking to my body, and Oliver was pushed up against me on the dance floor, his face nearly touching mine. We moved in sync with the beat of the music. For a moment, it was as if we were the only two people in the club. We moved with the intimacy of lovers, and I suddenly felt compelled to taste the vodka on his lips. Archie joined our private dance, Celeste quickly followed, separating us with the walls of their sweaty bodies. Archie wanted a go at me, and I humored him. His face was mere centimeters from mine, his thick, curly hair tickling the tip of my nose. An almost menacing smile appeared on his perfectly centered features, and I couldn't help but smile too. I felt the tips of Celeste's nails run softly across my back, her chin resting on my shoulder as the music began to slow down. She gave me a kiss on the cheek. Archie and Oliver gave an exasperated look of feigned repugnance and quickly laughed in drunken delight. Isla was missing out. 

    Once we had our fill, we stumbled out of the club. 

    "Maybe I should drive," Celeste said, barely able to stand up, leaning against the car door with one hand and stifling a burp. We all laughed hysterically, Archie releasing what sounded like a pig squealing in pain or elation. 

    Oliver took the driver's seat, arguing that if his car was going to get wrecked, he would be the one to do it. Celeste fell asleep in the backseat, her head on my lap and legs tucked in close to her breasts. The drive back was silent, or as quiet as it could be. Oliver said he needed total concentration, and other than the sounds of Celeste's snores, there was absolutely no noise. I had been on the verge of vomiting for the last seven minutes, not knowing if looking out the window or at the back of Celeste's neck made me more nauseated. I closed my eyes instead, which was a somewhat okay alternative. Occasionally, I would feel the car turn sharply, but I refused to open my eyes. They remained closed when we swerved to the left, when the sound of cracked laminated glass and dented metal pierced my ears, and the tires screeched to a halting stop. When I opened my eyes, Celeste sat sharply upright, eyes wide. Oliver's hands gripped the steering wheel with such tightness that the whites of his knuckles were showing. I couldn't see Archie, but judging by his unmoving, stoic figure, he clearly hoped this was all a horrible dream. 

    "Is everyone okay?" Oliver managed to say. 

    No one answered. I was the first to step out of the car. It was pitch-black outside, the only light source being from Oliver's car. 

    "Put your hazards on!" I yelled. He did, and with every yellow flash, I could just scarcely make out the figure of a large animal. I no longer felt drunk. My entire body was shaking, yet I wasn't scared in the slightest. I heard the rest of them step out of the car, walking behind me like I was their own personal human shield. The closer I got to the figure lying on the asphalt, the more I could hear its low, fragile heaves as it struggled to breathe. I was now kneeling over the dying deer. I looked at its black eyes, filled with tears that refused to run down its bloody, furry face. It wanted to run away from me but was incapable. I could see that the deer recognized this as its final moment. As the blood spread, the small pool of red touching my shoes, I heard a guttural squelch behind me. Archie vomited his breakfast, lunch, and dinner, Oliver rubbed his eyes in disbelief, and Celeste kneeled down next to me, rubbing the back of the deer's ears with tears streaming down her face. 

    "We can't leave it like this," she said, choking on the words.

    "I know," I said. "Oliver-"

    "No," he said immediately. "We're not doing this! No way!"

    "It's the quickest way to do it," Celeste said fervently. "We have to!" 

    "No, we don't," he said spitefully. "My car is already banged up as is. I'm not letting you run this thing over again." 

    "Oliver, you prick!" Celeste shouted. "It's the right thing to do…" 

    Their voices trailed off as my vision became hyper-focused on the deer. Its eyes darted back and forth, not knowing what was coming next, not knowing if its suffering would be ended or if we would leave, forcing it to bleed to death. I shut my eyes and took a deep breath, kicking their now-screaming voices out of my head as I picked up a large stone and smashed it against the deer's skull. I didn't feel regret for the splatter running down my cheeks and lips, the bone fragments scattered across the road like broken glass, the sloppiness of the whole thing. I swung down the stone like a giant hammer on a nail until my body was too exhausted to lift it back up. Heaving, hardly able to inhale without coughing, I placed my hand on the deer's stomach. It was no longer breathing. It was over. 

    I turned around, and the three of them were holding each other tightly as if letting go would kill them too. Oliver looked at me with a horror I was too preoccupied to care about. He couldn't recognize me, it was like I was some stranger who found his way into his home, a stranger with morally ambiguous intentions and a murder weapon. 

    "James," he said warily. "There's blood on your face. It's smeared." 

    I touched my face delicately with my fingertips like I had a severe injury. 

    "Let's go," I said flatly. "I need a shower." 

*

THE HOT WATER burned my skin, but I didn't flinch. Diluted red ran down my neck, stomach, and legs, eventually seeping into the drain, gone forever. Isla was on the couch when we arrived. We did our best not to make a sound, but once I came out of the shower, towel wrapped around my waist, hair still wet, she was sitting on my bed. I leaned on the bathroom door frame, my arms crossed, steam escaping from the cracks. I felt sheepish to be caught shirtless, but it quickly passed. 

    "It's three in the morning," I sighed heavily. 

    "I'm aware," she said quietly. "Did something happen tonight?" 

    "Why?" 

    "I heard Celeste crying in the bathroom." 

    "Yes," I said wearily. "But it’s nothing I want to talk about right now." 

    There was a knock on my door, followed by Oliver opening it. 

    "Oh," he said, slightly startled. "Am I interrupting something?" 

    "No," I said quickly. "What's wrong?" 

    "Archie and Celeste want to know if you want to sleep with us downstairs," he said. "We can't, you know-" 

    "I see…" 

    I could tell Isla felt left out, which I found funny, considering this was the kind of thing no one would have wanted to be a part of.

    “We'll be down soon,” I said.

    Oliver nodded and left, closing the door behind him. I sat beside her and said we'd tell her everything when we were well-rested the following day. I told her I'd meet her downstairs with everyone else, and she left. I decided to sleep alone that night. Enola's dinner was in two days, and I needed to think. 

*

NO ONE WAS shocked when Enola was found dead the morning after dinner, dry vomit staining the sides of her mouth and pillowcases. She wore a dress no one saw her live in, flats no one saw her walk in, rings no one saw her hands in; Celeste was the one that discovered her. I didn't know what to make of her reaction or Oliver's. They looked impassive, unmoving as if they had seen a cockroach scurrying across the floor instead of a dead body. When the ambulance and police arrived, they questioned anyone who could string along more than a few words. After a shockingly short amount of time, the police found a suspect. One of the footmen, a young black man. A ploy for power, a desire for revenge, a psychotic craving, an act of desperation; it didn't matter what the reason was. We could hear his pained declarations of innocence echo throughout the eerily empty hallways of the estate as the police dragged him away and shoved him in the back of a large caged vehicle. The four of us sat inside, wine glasses in our hands, hair messy, our faces greasy, strewn about the room like week-old party decorations. 

    We followed the paramedics from afar as they carried Enola's body outside. Her limbs flailed off the side of the gurney, bobbing in all directions with every bump in the gravel. She looked like a doll figure, a wax dummy molded by a starving artist, with pale skin and darkened globes in the lifeless sockets of her face. Just the night before, she was a mother. Burying the dead always seemed a little comical to me. I struggle to subdue a laugh when someone gets lowered into the ground. It feels so childish, like hiding something you've stolen from your parents, finding no other alternative other than to dig your nails into the dirt and get rid of the evidence. Death is evidence of life. I read that somewhere. So, if death is the evidence of life, the actions of one's life are infractions, unjustifiable, and almost impossible to hide, so our only solution is to bury it deep in the ground, never to be seen again. Out of sight, out of mind. 

    "Do you think he did it?" Celeste asked as we all watched Enola being lifted into the ambulance rig. 

    "Does it matter?" Oliver said, downing the rest of his red wine with one big gulp. 

    "Not to them," Archie said calmly, as if he expected this outcome somehow. "They found what they wanted to find." 

    He turned to me, unblinking, unphased. Isla took my hand and squeezed it. 

    "What if he's innocent?" Isla asked, genuinely concerned. "She seemed in a bad way last night. I wouldn't be surprised if she just-" 

    She stopped herself. 

    "I'm sorry," she said, meekly. 

    "I'll see you guys back at university," Oliver finally said, turning around and walking back inside, dragging his feet and letting the weight of his arms pull him down like anchors. "Thank you all for staying with us. You made it a Summer to remember." 

    I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, letting Edenbridge sit in my lungs and bones and blood vessels for as long as possible before exhaling. I felt very cold, and I couldn’t stop shivering.