By Anne
Petersen
-
The Chandelier
He
was in the chandelier today.
It
wasn’t that he was just in it, either. He was the chandelier.
He
swung and rattled over the party, the swinging jazz echoing off the four walls.
He
had one job.
Back
when he was alive, he had many jobs. He’d been the best salesman around. He
could convince anyone to buy anything. It was just something he was good at.
He’d managed all of his wealth. He’d hired everyone who worked at the mansion
and made sure the family had enough dough to keep going, and they did.
Enough
that Gigi could throw as many of her infamous parties as she wanted, even after
he was gone.
It
had been a sunny morning, the day he died. He remembered packing his briefcase
with all the pens and papers he’d need that time. Back when he’d been Banks.
That
time, he’d been selling shoes to the Nelsons.
They
were a mysterious bunch. He hadn’t been sure why they had requested him
specifically. That was, until he did.
His
daughter had begged incessantly to come along, and for once, he relented. What
was the harm of showing her how businesses were run?
He’d
stepped into the Nelson’s dark mansion, his anxiety growing with every step. It
wasn’t until Prosper had stepped into the foyer with his shiny pistol that he
realized he hadn’t been called there to sell shoes at all.
He
found out that he was a roadblock. The Nelsons wanted to expand, and he had
signed a contract with the wrong people.
Then,
he had died. And his daughter was injured beyond repair.
All
he could think about before the shot rang out was his legacy. What would become
of his name, his reputation, his family, everything he had built up? Would it
all come crashing down?
So,
he existed with the sheer power of his will. He was only the essence of what he
had been, but for him, that was enough.
Banks
haunted the mansion he had once owned. He made the curtains flutter when there
was no wind. He was the sound of the house creaking at night. He shattered
priceless vases, rattled chandeliers.
Banks
couldn’t let go of his past, couldn’t move on from what he had been. He was
simply unable to.
He
had one job.
He
couldn’t let anyone forget him.
The Ballroom
Opal
stood in the middle of the Wiltsey ballroom in a crowd of faceless people.
It
wasn’t that she couldn’t see them; she knew none of them. Every once in a
while, she had a sense she recognized a pair of eyes, a nose, a flashing smile.
Then it would escape her again, like the fleeting memory of a melting
snowflake.
And
she was in the center of it all.
She
laughed without feeling it, her champagne nearly splashing onto her glittering
silver flapper dress. She was the life of the party, the shiniest person in the
room. She was the mirrorball.
She
was surrounded by a crowd of strangers, and she was talking sporadically to
each of them. She’d been going to her mother’s parties like these since she was
young. They had meant more back then than they did now. She remembered those
faces. Those people.
She
could hear the chandelier clinking above their heads through the sounds of the
saxophones.
She
grabbed the hand of someone she guessed was her friend by her short, blond bob
and pulled her onto the dance floor. Her friend laughed, joining her as they
twirled each other around in their heels.
Opal
wished she could know what her friend felt. She sounded jubilant and thoroughly
happy.
Even
with a smile plastered on her face, she felt nothing. Not
since it happened.
After
a while, she pulled away, back into the realm of casual conversation. She
caught sight of Gigi, who was her mother and the host.
It
had
changed everything. While Opal had lost her face recognition, her mother had
lost her hope.
“Life’s
a game,” Gigi always said to her. “And I’m stuck in checkmate.”
Opal’s
dress glittered all over the room as she approached her mother. Strangers—at
least, strangers to her—glanced at her with sympathy and squinted at her with
curiosity. Opal felt suddenly out of place. She wished that she could remember
everyone as well as they remembered her.
Gigi
saw her coming. “Opal, my darling!” Her arms were spread open, and her plum
hued lips were stretched into a smile.
Opal
smiled broadly. “Hello, mother.”
“How
are you enjoying that giggle water?” Gigi asked, gesturing to Opal’s untouched
champagne.
Opal
laughed. “You’re nearly caught up with the times.”
“I’m
a hamster in a wheel, Opal dear. I will never catch up with you.”
“Well,
you’re more caught up than most.” Opal said, deflecting her mother’s pessimism.
“Ah,
I simply cannot wait for the end of this,” Gigi said softly. “But what’s the
use! Then it’s back to just us, and waiting for the next party. What’s a woman
to do?”
“You
could try to enjoy this party,” Opal suggested.
The
sound of the live jazz filled the room.
Gigi
sighed after a tense moment. “You know I can’t do that, Opal.”
“Why
not?” Opal asked. She knew better. She wouldn’t ever get the real answer. But
she did it anyway.
Gigi
rambled on about how she was a bird, and then a statue. She decided the party
was boiling water, a closed door. She babbled ceaselessly about the ways that
she was stuck in one place, that she couldn’t change enough to live.
Opal
dropped her champagne.
It
was intentional. She knew she shouldn’t have. There just wasn’t any other way
out.
Her
glass shattered on the floor in slow motion, the sparkling wine shimmering like
the silver dress she wore.
The Gardens
Eliot
was pulling weeds by streetlight in front of the Wiltsey Mansion. He was doing
splendidly.
He
whistled a merry tune as he did the simple work, thinking about how pleasant
the night was, the muted sounds of the jazz indoors accompanying his task.
He
thought about how it had been.
He
grew up in a house like this. He’d gone to all the parties. He was well
educated on how to waltz, how to tango. He’d drank out of the clearest glasses.
That
was before.
Then,
at fifteen, it all went awry.
A
man in a big, black suit came to their door, requesting for his father. All
Eliot heard was some muttered whispering.
That
was the beginning.
Then
his father shouted to him and his brother to go grab their things. They were
leaving. For good.
Eliot
had been too naïve to realize what was happening. He dawdled around, sorting
out his best clothes from the more drab. By the time he had emptied all his
drawers, his mother came in and pulled him up and dragged him out of the house.
They
drove a black Model T, ripping through the back streets of New York City,
chased by cars with flashing red lights.
Eliot
sat in the back seat, clutching his favorite pair of overalls that he had
managed to snatch.
He
knew they were done for.
After
his parents were sent to the caboose, he was sent to the Ambrose Orphanage.
Those
had been the worst few years of his life.
Sure,
living with mobsters hadn’t been great. The parental component had been
significantly lacking. Other than that, it hadn’t been so bad. They had a nice
house, nice car, nice food, nice trinkets.
He
felt truly free when he was of age to leave the orphanage. He wasn’t stuck
behind those doors anymore; he could do anything in the world.
So
he chose to be a janitor.
There
were actually quite a few reasons he chose to do this. For one, it was good,
honest work. He would never be chased by the police for doing his job. Another
thing was that Eliot loved cleaning stuff.
When
he had lived in his old mansion, he had been the honorary janitor, as his
parents had been too scared to actually hire one in case they got turned in.
He
cleaned everything.
He
enjoyed it, too. Everything was always shiny, brand new. And it was all thanks
to him. He always felt so awfully happy after he was done. It felt like he
actually meant something, that he had something to do. His parents even mentioned
how they appreciated his work on rare occasions. Eliot figured that the only
reason they said anything was because they benefitted from it, but his mood was
bolstered all the same.
Another
reason was that he got to hang around the same places he grew up in.
He’d
always had a fascination with the life of the rich, what they were like and how
they lived. He’d never felt like he’d been rich until he had been homeless.
And
he got a lot of pleasant music to listen to, too.
He
was too focused on pulling the sparse weeds from the flowerbeds that he didn’t
hear the butler calling his name. It was only when the butler was right next to
him that he realized he was talking to him.
“Eliot!”
the butler said. “Hurry. They need you inside.”
Eliot
was surprised for a second, wondering why they would need him. Then he
remembered that he was a janitor now. They probably needed something cleaned
up. He grabbed his bucket and headed into the music.
It
had switched to a slow, soft groove with a trumpet and piano.
He
sighed because he felt so grateful to be there. How many janitors got to listen
to free jazz all the time? He caught sight of the spilled champagne and he got
out a rag from his belt.
He
could hear some whispering around him.
“What
a ragamuffin.”
“Ugh!”
“What
is that filthy kid doing in here?”
Eliot
ignored their gripes, even as he felt a flare of indignation. If not for the
unfortunate events of his life, he would be attending this party as a guest. Not
that he really cared to associate with this sort of people.
He
quelled his annoyance. They had sent for him, so they had to live with him for
a few seconds. And besides, he was used to it by now.
While
he was picking up the last shards of glass carefully with his rag, he glanced
up to see who had made the mess.
It
was rather obvious. A girl in a glittering silver dress watched him curiously,
hands on her hips.
He
froze, eyes wide. It couldn’t be . . .
Eliot
stood up to go throw out the glass, but the girl stopped him.
“Wait,
don’t go!”
Eliot
stopped, an eyebrow raised.
“It’s
just—you look more, I don’t know, real.”
“Yeah?”
Eliot said cautiously.
The
chandelier clinked above them, and Eliot watched it rattle.
The
girl was still staring at his face in absolute bemusement. “Who are you?”
Eliot
carefully shifted the rag with the glass in his hands. “Why do you want to
know?”
“Because
. . . I remember you.”
Now
Eliot understood. His wished he didn’t. “What do you mean?”
“I
haven’t been remembering faces properly, not since three years ago.” The girl
looked suddenly shy and awkward, which was something that looked rather out of
place for this sort of girl.
A
frigid breeze blew past Eliot. He shivered.
Eliot
didn’t want to tell her that he remembered her, too. He didn’t want her to
remember who he really was. And that he knew exactly what had happened.
Because
he had been there.
But
then he realized that Opal reminded him of himself. She was living in something
he had lived in for so long. She was his younger self, who he had been at the
orphanage. She looked empty. And Eliot could tell that she wasn’t trying to
mess with him, even if she was crazy. He decided to tell the girl who he was.
“I’m
the son of Prosper Nelson. I’m sorry.”
The
girl’s eyes went wide. She was just as surprised as he had been.
“I’m
sorry that it happened. It must be horrible to lose someone that way. And your
injury was terrible, too.”
The
girl nodded. “Yes.”
Eliot
was now questioning the wisdom of telling her. He added, “I didn’t have
anything to do with it. I never knew anything about what my father did. I’m
sorry.”
The
girl shook her head. “Oh, no, it’s not that. You just surprised me. And you
don’t have to be sorry. My father is one of the few people I still remember. I
will never forget him.”
Eliot
nodded, understanding. He left the room to go throw out the glass. He watched
the shards fall into the black bin like spring rain.
The Chandelier
The
chandelier wasn’t enough. No one was paying attention to the ceiling.
Banks
slipped away from the crystals, sending the fixture swinging madly. He floated
over the heads of the revelers, catching sight of his old wife, Gigi. She was
immersed in conversation with one of his old business partners.
He
felt a pang of sadness. If he’d still been alive, he would have been the one
talking to her.
But
he wasn’t.
He
caught a glimpse of his daughter talking to the janitor he saw around every
once in a while.
He
so despised him.
Son
of his killer, how could he not? Surely he could have done something to stop
his father. He’d been old enough, he thought.
Banks
gusted toward him, freezing the air. He flew straight through the kid before
pausing to hear what he was saying.
“I’m
the son of Prosper Nelson. I’m sorry,” the kid said.
Banks
stopped, frozen in hatred. He hadn’t heard that name for years.
Opal’s
eyes went wide.
Banks
felt a pang of grief for his daughter. His daughter. How could something
so terrible happen to someone so innocent? And why hadn’t he been able to
protect her from her head injury? Why had he let her come in the first place?
Now
she didn’t give a second thought about her dead father.
“I’m
sorry that it happened. It must be horrible to lose someone that way. And your
injury was terrible, too,” the boy continued. He seemed a little lost for
words.
Opal
nodded briefly. “Yes.”
Banks
watched her closely, expecting her to change the subject at any moment. That
was Opal, after all. At least, before it happened.
The
boy spoke again unexpectedly. “I didn’t have anything to do with it. I never
knew anything about what my father did. I’m sorry.”
This
was new information. Banks tilted his head, considering. Perhaps this kid
really was innocent. Maybe he really just had been living in the same house as the
mobster, if he truly didn’t know what Prosper had been doing.
Opal
shook her head, seeming to recover herself. “Oh, no, it’s not that. You just
surprised me. And you don’t have to be sorry. My father is one of the few
people I still remember. I will never forget him.”
Banks
studied her face, and he realized something that he had never realized before.
She meant it.
Maybe
he’d just been too caught up in himself before to notice it.
Her
eyes shone bright with fresh sadness, even as the janitor boy excused himself.
She studied the ground for a moment, before letting the grief fall from her.
She returned to the crowd, back to the person she’d been before.
And
with that, Banks decided that it wasn’t up to him to make people remember.
If
he had really meant anything, those who mattered would never forget him.
He
floated toward the ceiling, disappearing into the rafters and vanishing into
the night as he let go.
For good.
About the Author
Anne Petersen is a senior at Morton High School who loves to write and create art. She has written two sci-fi/fantasy novels and is working on getting the first one published. She also enjoys making drawings and paintings, playing clarinet, and reading young adult fiction.
