A Night to Remember

By Anne Petersen

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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.