Saturday's Storyteller: "...This is going to end in an orgy, isn't it?"
by Belinda Roddie
"...This is going to end in an orgy, isn't it?"
Robert Finch, a gray-bearded millionaire, lit a cigarette and grinned through the smoke stream. The dame before him was of course referring to the cluster of young men and women swarming around the chocolate fondue fountain, giggling and spilling wine all over the place. He smirked.
"No, not tonight," he said. "I only have orgies on Thursdays, after tea."
Mrs. Gertrude Dreyfuss arched an eyebrow, but she at least seemed satisfied by Robert's joking retort. More often than not, he felt as if her sardonic sense of humor was taken far too seriously, like she was being dry and stuffy and even paranoid. And since the death of her husband Alvin, who had owned a large jewelry company in New York, she hadn't slowed down in that regard.
The two of them maneuvered around the Finch nieces and nephews and cousins, who had nestled themselves with the Shermans and the Harveys and all their blatantly English mannerisms, and ignored the enormous intake of alcohol and small cakes laid out for them on various tables. The rest of dinner had been cleared away, and now the garden lay empty save for Mr. and Mrs. Simon Elwood admiring the roses planted in late July. Everyone else was in the living room, parlor, and dining room, all clustered together in masses like insects seeking out sugar water or remains of honey.
Robert didn't really mind. It felt good to be back in his London home after spending the spring in Brooklyn with his business friends, and he had accepted his retirement from the oil industry with a sense of grandeur as well as a cup of New York coffee. He much preferred English Breakfast, but he didn't mind a darker drink once in a while.
Mrs. Dreyfuss was twenty years Robert's senior, but the two were now going gray and dim-eyed and Robert enjoyed the eighty-year-old lady's company. She had dressed modestly tonight, as opposed to the dripping diamond on her throat and ears that drooped down into her satin dresses. It was as if someone had reminded her of her age, but the upturned-nose dignity still pervaded her every pore. That never went away.
"Your gardener tends rather well to your flowers, I must say," she said in a crisp tone, far beyond the humor that Robert had become accustomed to throughout the years.
"I don't have a gardener," he replied. His upper lip itched a bit from the weight of his mustache and he had to resist scratching it. "My grand-nephew tends to it."
"Your grand-nephew?" Mrs. Dreyfuss sounded incredulous. "Which one?"
"Stanley. The youngest."
"Stanley?" she repeated. "I never imagined he'd have a green thumb."
"Neither did I," Robert murmured, and as he let the tip of his cane brush against a wall of carnations, he realized he was being rather dishonest during this evening of revelry.
***
"Kiss me again."
Stanley ignored the lanky body in the bed. The noise had not subsided from downstairs. Dessert was still probably being eaten.
"Stan."
Again, he said nothing.
"Please."
"Don't touch me," he whispered, drawing his wrist away from the white fingers.
Isaac Sherman lifted his shaggy blonde hair from the pillow and watched as Stanley got dressed. The young Finch boy's necktie was severely askew, but he buried the awkwardness under his jacket.
"Why do we still go to these things?" Isaac yawned. "We should ditch this place, you and I."
"My father wants me to keep in touch with my great-uncle," Stanley coldly replied.
"That old tycoon. Always throwing these parties."
"He raised my father like his own son." Stanley buttoned the cuffs of his shirt and stared at Isaac. "Why do you dislike him so much?"
"Why are you being so frigid?" whined Isaac.
Stanley breathed sharply through his nose. He really didn't have to answer that question. He brought his hands to his face and inhaled and smelled sweat and moisture. That, and the remains of soil from yesterday's work of pulling up weeds in his great-uncle's garden.
***
"But what does he do for a living?" Mrs. Dreyfuss asked Robert as they made their way toward the small pond. The crickets were rattling out harmonies at this time.
"Office work," Robert replied dismissively. "He's an executive assistant to the CEO of a non-profit company."
"And what, pray tell, does this non-profit company do?"
She seemed so inquisitive tonight. Until now, she had never expressed an interest in hearing about Robert's family. She was simply the next-door neighbor who had always be obligatorily invited to the festivities.
"Er...they work with children of dysfunctional families, I believe," he intoned. "As in, they have parents with drug or alcohol problems, or, unfortunately, both."
"Thanks for the clarification," Mrs. Dreyfuss chirped, "otherwise I'd think we'd all qualify for some non-profit assistance."
***
Stanley stumbled down the stairs and left Isaac behind in that room. His ears were burning red in the light of the chandelier that hung over the large dining room. The chocolate fountain had stopped running and was probably going cold, but the clusters of his relatives and family friends still hovered around as more bottles of wine and champagne were opened.
He saw his brother William talking rather loudly to Lizzie Harvey, who had teeth that belonged to a horse and a nose that didn't suit her much better. Then again, Will was probably very drunk, and as Stanley passed him it was as if he could smell his approach.
"Stan," he gurgled and slapped a hand on Stanley's shoulder, with noticeably shook under the weight. "How've you been, love? Where'd you go?"
"Out," Stanley said.
"Out? Out where?"
Stanley bit his lip. "I was looking at the flowers."
Will snorted. "Looking at the flowers, my arse." He then cast a look at Lizzie, who whinnied with exaggerated laughter. "C'mon, you've been shagging someone, haven't you? Upstairs."
Somehow, the room seemed quieter before. Stanley rested his fingers on the edge of the chocolate fountain and scowled.
"No, I haven't," he said simply.
"What, you takin' the mickey out of me?" Will snapped. "Think I ain't smart enough to know what's goin' on? Who's the lucky girl, Stanley? ...If it's a girl at all?"
Stanley could feel his eyes blaze, but his fist went faster. In one crackling sound, he sent his brother keeling off to the side with his cheek wobbling from the impact. And as Lizzie shrieked, the older Finch disappeared into the chocolate fountain with his legs flailing in the air.
***
"Well," Robert said with his voice still being remarkably calm. "I certainly didn't expect this."
He had witnessed, while he was leaving the garden with Mrs. Dreyfuss, several guests pull a brown, cussing William out of the chocolate fountain. As he cursed and spluttered while standing in a puddle of the stuff, Mrs. Dreyfuss pursed her lips.
"Well, I don't suppose your grand-nephew dove in there himself, now did he?" she asked.
Robert felt as if the grin on his face was going to split his face in half. In the corner, he saw his grand-nephew Stanley beckon a disheveled Isaac Sherman into the rosebushes nearby. He didn't dare give away his glance to the old woman beside him.
Instead, he said with a slight chuckle, "Well, my dear, even without an 'orgy,' I'd say this was the best party I've ever had."
The prompt for this week's Storyteller was provided by Antony Walsh.
"...This is going to end in an orgy, isn't it?"
Robert Finch, a gray-bearded millionaire, lit a cigarette and grinned through the smoke stream. The dame before him was of course referring to the cluster of young men and women swarming around the chocolate fondue fountain, giggling and spilling wine all over the place. He smirked.
"No, not tonight," he said. "I only have orgies on Thursdays, after tea."
Mrs. Gertrude Dreyfuss arched an eyebrow, but she at least seemed satisfied by Robert's joking retort. More often than not, he felt as if her sardonic sense of humor was taken far too seriously, like she was being dry and stuffy and even paranoid. And since the death of her husband Alvin, who had owned a large jewelry company in New York, she hadn't slowed down in that regard.
The two of them maneuvered around the Finch nieces and nephews and cousins, who had nestled themselves with the Shermans and the Harveys and all their blatantly English mannerisms, and ignored the enormous intake of alcohol and small cakes laid out for them on various tables. The rest of dinner had been cleared away, and now the garden lay empty save for Mr. and Mrs. Simon Elwood admiring the roses planted in late July. Everyone else was in the living room, parlor, and dining room, all clustered together in masses like insects seeking out sugar water or remains of honey.
Robert didn't really mind. It felt good to be back in his London home after spending the spring in Brooklyn with his business friends, and he had accepted his retirement from the oil industry with a sense of grandeur as well as a cup of New York coffee. He much preferred English Breakfast, but he didn't mind a darker drink once in a while.
Mrs. Dreyfuss was twenty years Robert's senior, but the two were now going gray and dim-eyed and Robert enjoyed the eighty-year-old lady's company. She had dressed modestly tonight, as opposed to the dripping diamond on her throat and ears that drooped down into her satin dresses. It was as if someone had reminded her of her age, but the upturned-nose dignity still pervaded her every pore. That never went away.
"Your gardener tends rather well to your flowers, I must say," she said in a crisp tone, far beyond the humor that Robert had become accustomed to throughout the years.
"I don't have a gardener," he replied. His upper lip itched a bit from the weight of his mustache and he had to resist scratching it. "My grand-nephew tends to it."
"Your grand-nephew?" Mrs. Dreyfuss sounded incredulous. "Which one?"
"Stanley. The youngest."
"Stanley?" she repeated. "I never imagined he'd have a green thumb."
"Neither did I," Robert murmured, and as he let the tip of his cane brush against a wall of carnations, he realized he was being rather dishonest during this evening of revelry.
***
"Kiss me again."
Stanley ignored the lanky body in the bed. The noise had not subsided from downstairs. Dessert was still probably being eaten.
"Stan."
Again, he said nothing.
"Please."
"Don't touch me," he whispered, drawing his wrist away from the white fingers.
Isaac Sherman lifted his shaggy blonde hair from the pillow and watched as Stanley got dressed. The young Finch boy's necktie was severely askew, but he buried the awkwardness under his jacket.
"Why do we still go to these things?" Isaac yawned. "We should ditch this place, you and I."
"My father wants me to keep in touch with my great-uncle," Stanley coldly replied.
"That old tycoon. Always throwing these parties."
"He raised my father like his own son." Stanley buttoned the cuffs of his shirt and stared at Isaac. "Why do you dislike him so much?"
"Why are you being so frigid?" whined Isaac.
Stanley breathed sharply through his nose. He really didn't have to answer that question. He brought his hands to his face and inhaled and smelled sweat and moisture. That, and the remains of soil from yesterday's work of pulling up weeds in his great-uncle's garden.
***
"But what does he do for a living?" Mrs. Dreyfuss asked Robert as they made their way toward the small pond. The crickets were rattling out harmonies at this time.
"Office work," Robert replied dismissively. "He's an executive assistant to the CEO of a non-profit company."
"And what, pray tell, does this non-profit company do?"
She seemed so inquisitive tonight. Until now, she had never expressed an interest in hearing about Robert's family. She was simply the next-door neighbor who had always be obligatorily invited to the festivities.
"Er...they work with children of dysfunctional families, I believe," he intoned. "As in, they have parents with drug or alcohol problems, or, unfortunately, both."
"Thanks for the clarification," Mrs. Dreyfuss chirped, "otherwise I'd think we'd all qualify for some non-profit assistance."
***
Stanley stumbled down the stairs and left Isaac behind in that room. His ears were burning red in the light of the chandelier that hung over the large dining room. The chocolate fountain had stopped running and was probably going cold, but the clusters of his relatives and family friends still hovered around as more bottles of wine and champagne were opened.
He saw his brother William talking rather loudly to Lizzie Harvey, who had teeth that belonged to a horse and a nose that didn't suit her much better. Then again, Will was probably very drunk, and as Stanley passed him it was as if he could smell his approach.
"Stan," he gurgled and slapped a hand on Stanley's shoulder, with noticeably shook under the weight. "How've you been, love? Where'd you go?"
"Out," Stanley said.
"Out? Out where?"
Stanley bit his lip. "I was looking at the flowers."
Will snorted. "Looking at the flowers, my arse." He then cast a look at Lizzie, who whinnied with exaggerated laughter. "C'mon, you've been shagging someone, haven't you? Upstairs."
Somehow, the room seemed quieter before. Stanley rested his fingers on the edge of the chocolate fountain and scowled.
"No, I haven't," he said simply.
"What, you takin' the mickey out of me?" Will snapped. "Think I ain't smart enough to know what's goin' on? Who's the lucky girl, Stanley? ...If it's a girl at all?"
Stanley could feel his eyes blaze, but his fist went faster. In one crackling sound, he sent his brother keeling off to the side with his cheek wobbling from the impact. And as Lizzie shrieked, the older Finch disappeared into the chocolate fountain with his legs flailing in the air.
***
"Well," Robert said with his voice still being remarkably calm. "I certainly didn't expect this."
He had witnessed, while he was leaving the garden with Mrs. Dreyfuss, several guests pull a brown, cussing William out of the chocolate fountain. As he cursed and spluttered while standing in a puddle of the stuff, Mrs. Dreyfuss pursed her lips.
"Well, I don't suppose your grand-nephew dove in there himself, now did he?" she asked.
Robert felt as if the grin on his face was going to split his face in half. In the corner, he saw his grand-nephew Stanley beckon a disheveled Isaac Sherman into the rosebushes nearby. He didn't dare give away his glance to the old woman beside him.
Instead, he said with a slight chuckle, "Well, my dear, even without an 'orgy,' I'd say this was the best party I've ever had."
The prompt for this week's Storyteller was provided by Antony Walsh.
Comments
Post a Comment