I Am Briefed

See Chapter One

Leaving London from Kings Cross, we plunged into a countryside so green that it seemed to have been colored in by hand.

 

Chuckles said it would about 45 minutes. And - forty-five minutes later - we were there. A little surprising, since the only time I’d traveled on Amtrak, the train was three hours late.

 

What I saw of England from the train looked like America: controlled access highways, new subdivisions, strip malls, office parks. But there were also stately old homes in the middle of spacious grounds - and my Uncle’s house is just one of those.

 

A testament to English brickmaking in the reign of Queen Victoria, it’s a 3-story pile in the middle of 21 acres: roughly four miles from the university campus.

 

It was certainly built to last. It will probably be standing, in the same spot, a thousand years from now.

 

At the time, it didn’t strike me as an odd place for a professor to live. But, now that I understand real estate a little better (buying a house in Hawaii was an education in itself), I’m sorry that I haven’t asked my Uncle for more financial advice.

 

He makes a very good living. But how he’s able to afford that place - and all the land underneath it - working within the English tax system....

 

I’ll just admit that, to this day, I’m not sure how he does it.

 

All English houses have names, but the real name of this one - etched on a brass plate - was overgrown under some ivy. Since it didn’t seem to matter to anyone else what it might be called, I dredged up a name from something that I’d read somewhere, and decided on Baskerville Hall.

 

And this was even before I knew about the dogs.

 

 

I dropped my bags in a north-facing room on the second floor: where my windows looked off toward green pastures, and wide seams of hedgerows, leading up to a little bump called Falcon Hill.

 

The sun was out, momentarily, and - having arrived to provoke, and astonish, and annoy - the first thing I discovered was that I was living in a kind of picture postcard. The only things I could see worthy of interest, just then, were sheep - a couple of miles away, going nowhere in particular - and a teeny little car (like a toy) bouncing up the drive toward the house.

 

The arrival of the car was the signal for what they call “tea”, and what we call “dinner”.

 

And I was formally introduced: the women of my Uncle’s circle adding and subtracting as they observed that (yes) I did seem to be wearing panties underneath my microskirt - although I had chosen (yet again) not to wear a bra. They couldn’t fail to notice that part of my hair was still tinted blue, that I tended to favor clunky unattractive shoes, and that I applied eyeshadow with a trowel.

 

They also discovered that I was incredibly foul-mouthed. Something which did not endear me to them.

 

 

 

Even though Chuckles was what used to be called an “eligible bachelor”, I soon discovered that his household was firmly feminine - and they were all waiting for me, downstairs, that first afternoon.

 

On my left, Mrs. Kelley - born and raised in Jamaica" was the housekeeper and cook. With my own eyes I have seen her take a whole handful of cayenne pepper and dump it into a pot that really didn’t seem that big: her great virtue, in my Uncle’s eyes, being that she had mastered every capsaisin-based cuisine on the planet.

 

Hunnan, Szechuan, Cajun, Indian, Mexican. You name it. Kelley had the hot sauce at hand.

 

Uncle James loved to finish meals red-faced, and sweating - his nose running like a faucet - his taste buds basically numb. That was what he wanted in a cook, and Kelley kept it coming.

 

She could also make a very nice BLT, while her oatmeal was outstanding.

 

Since she had learned English as an adult, I needed subtitles - at first - when she spoke. But some of her language stylings have stayed with me. I surprise my academic colleagues, these days, when I refer to someone as “a good egg”, or say something like “OK! Now we gonna go on down der rights now!”

 

Kelley had her own version of English, while Mrs Rzepczynski - sitting to my right as we sipped tea - seemed to have no English at all. Straight out of Poland, and wearing a uniform of some kind.

 

She had to be a nurse. But for who?

 

Suffice it to say that she’s a mystery that I’m going to save for later. She sat through the whole meal without saying a word: only smiling, slightly, as she was introduced.

 

 

 

And across from me, as we sipped tea, was Candace: the person whose car I had seen pull up from the vantage point of my room.

 

Once I had spent more time in Britain, I would come to recognize her as a British “type”: a daughter of minor aristocracy (a distant connection with the Royal Family) she is - to this day - very measured and controlled.

 

Her hair is under control. Her facial expressions are under control. Her suits are tailored. Her shoes are sensible (I assume that she wears sensible underwear). Her conversation is measured. Her accent tells you that she’s never been to a school where they didn’t wear uniforms. And even her passions are strictly governed (or so she would have you think).

 

In complete contrast to Uncle James - who finds humor in the unlikeliest places - Candace doesn’t even find humor in the likeliest places that humor can be found. Although, underneath all that British reserve, I know her to be a compassionate, caring, and hopeful person: who I came to trust completely.

 

My Uncle, who loves to laugh, loves someone who doesn’t laugh at all.

 

(But, of course, opposites attract. This fact is widely known.)

 

 

 

After tea, Candace and my Uncle took their walk - which they did almost every night - Mrs Rzepczynski disappeared, and Kelley cleaned up.

 

Back at my window, I could see that nothing had changed outside, except the light, and I wondered how I would live here without going right out of my f*****g mind.

 

The possibility that I might not stay seemed worth considering, so everything was still in my suitcases when Uncle James knocked quaintly on the doorframe - and then closed the door behind him as he came in.

 

Giving me a jolly smile as he walked past the four-poster bed where I was propped up on some pillows, he, too, was drawn to the view outside the window: now that the sunset was wrapping everything in an orange light, and throwing long shadows across the ground.

 

He paused for dramatic effect: looking something like a cross between Mr Pickwick, and George S Patton, Jr.

 

Then spoke without looking at me.

 

“One of the most beautiful landscapes in the world. I never tire of it. I’ve had the privilege of traveling quite a bit. Yet this always says ‘home’ to me. ‘This royal throne of kings, this scepter’d isle, this earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, this other Eden, demi-paradise. This happy breed of men, this little world, this precious stone set in the silver sea. This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.’”

 

I understood this was some sort of quotation. But I didn’t know from where.

 

“I consider myself to be quite blessed. To live in this place I love. To love the women I love. To have the life I love....”

 

Now Uncle James began to pace up and down the room - his hands behind him, in a very old-fashioned kind of way: as though he was the captain of a ship, walking the quarterdeck.

 

“And now, here you are, to disrupt everything I’ve arranged....”

 

Then (of course) he laughed. But not in a way that made me think it was funny.

 

“Your father"”

 

I interrupted him angrily, moving to the edge of the bed.

 

“We need to keep him out of this!”

 

“My dear, he’s paying for your incarceration here. He’s out of sight, but he can’t be out of mind.”

 

“I won’t talk about a man who hates me so much"”

 

“But we can’t possibly agree on that. If he hated you, then you wouldn’t have wounded him. And you have wounded him"”

 

“I would love to think that I have"”.

 

“He is disappointed, and he is discouraged. He’s at his wit’s end. It humiliated him to contact me. He didn’t want to do it. Yet he has turned to me as a last resort, because he knows that I wish to help even, at the same time, understanding how finely balanced this perfect life of mine is. He did not want to impose on me. But he honestly feels he has no choice. So he is giving me money to cover the cost of your imprisonment here. And he has given me a complete free hand in dealing with you. So ... Rebecca ... beginning with this conversation, what I tell you is your new reality"”

 

“My new reality?”

 

“Precisely. You have made your father feel helpless. You have driven Danny, my brother, to despair. You have driven your Aunt Billie to tears. But here, things will be different.”

 

“Bars on the windows, I suppose.”

 

Right on cue, he paced back to the windows again.

 

“We won’t need them....”

 

“Then I’ll be gone....”

 

He shrugged.

 

“Then you’ll be gone....”

 

He gestured off toward his right.

 

“About 2 miles in that direction is the M-road. Roughly equivalent to an American Interstate, and funneling a huge amount of traffic into London. If you select the right attire, and stand near one of the ramps, you should be picked up almost right away. Without spending a penny, your future will begin.”

 

He gestured in another direction.

 

“The train station, as you recall, is that way. You probably have enough money in your luggage for the fare right now. Whatever method you choose, you are free to go.”

 

He paused for dramatic effect.

 

“What you are not free to do is come back....”

 

Standing stock still, in the middle of the room, he made eye contact with me - while I made eye contact with him - and no one said anything for almost a minute.

 

“If I did leave, I would be fine....”

 

He laughed.

 

“A notable career as a fish and chips maker? A few minutes prosperity as an underage prostitute? Perhaps an assassin for organized crime? I agree. The possibilities are endless....”

 

By the time he’d stopped laughing he was pacing again - and I waited until he stopped laughing.

 

I snarled at him.

 

“I’ve heard this all before....”

 

“I agree! And that is the root of the problem, I believe....”

 

“What root would that be?”

 

“You’re honestly confused, Rebecca. And I certainly understand. Whenever you’ve done your damage, people have threatened you. And then did nothing. The judges you faced warned you. And then did nothing. When you were expelled from one of your exclusive schools, there was always another school willing to take you because your poor father was always willing to pay, and pay, and pay. You have been untouched by the misery you’ve created in other people, and I’m sure the reckless road ahead seemed endless. Before you arrived here, you were certain that you’d never be called to account. Again: before you arrived here....”

 

“Most of that wasn’t my fault"”

 

A wave of my Uncle’s hand threw all that away.

 

“Please. The first refuge of a scoundrel. To push your wretched behavior off on someone else.”

 

Suddenly, I was angry.

 

“What if I left tonight?”

 

“What if you did?” 

 

He gestured toward my suitcases.

 

“It seems to have crossed your mind....”

 

“And what if I did?”

 

“You’d arrive in London with something to sell. And it’s a wonderful marketplace for people who are wishing to sell something.”

 

“You’d call the police, naturally.”

 

“I would not say a word. Although the police might call me. When the body was found. Or when you were placed behind bars.”

 

“Think what he’ll have to say if something does happen to me. My father"”

 

“But I thought that he hated you. That’s been your argument this whole time. For years ... I believe. If he truly hates you, it would stand to reason that he would want you dead. That’s logical, isn’t it?”

 

I don’t remember saying anything at this point. I do remember looking at him for a long time.

 

As if to give me a better look, he stopped - again - in the center of the room: a beaming smile on his face.

 

“Do you have any questions for me, so far?”

 

“Did he really tell you that you can do anything with me that you want?”

 

He spread his hands, in a gesture of Christian humility.

 

“Desperate times call for desperate measures. There are only four of us. Three brothers - and our sister, Rebecca, for whom you were named. Only Barry was fortunate enough to have a child. As a family, we’ve decided that you must make a choice. Either begin to follow a better path. Or begin your life alone. Without a family, without a home, without friends, without anyone wishing you well....”

 

He let this sink in, then walked slowly back to the window: looking out into the freshly minted darkness outside.

 

He didn’t look at me as he started to discuss logistics. Because he wasn’t making a suggestion. He was giving me an ultimatum.

 

“Here are the non-negotiable features of our arrangements while you are living with me. We’ll begin with the run of the house and its adjoining grounds. But no further....”

 

He gestured at the bedroom around us - as if it represented everything else that belonged to him.

 

“After six months of responsible behavior, your range of motion will be gradually expanded. So you could anticipate going as far as the village, unaccompanied, sometime next summer. If you follow the schedule I propose, I think you’ll find the combination of countryside and village to be very comfortable. And, of course, there’s the city. You’ll be going into London, from time to time.”

 

“But not alone....”

 

“Of course not.”

 

“With security?”

 

“With companions. But not world-class sprinters. Just Kelley, or myself. Candace, perhaps, if she can find the time. Should you want to make your escape, then, you would be free to go. Just as you are free to go now.”

 

“But if I stay?”

 

“I’ve described the terms of your confinement to you.”

 

“What about school? Are you going to leave me ignorant?”

 

“Definitely not. I think it’s an abomination: the way you’ve neglected your education. The way you’ve thrown your opportunities away. Disgraceful, really....”

 

“The world needs idiots"”

 

He didn’t laugh at that.

 

“The world already has idiots! In great supply! Many more than we need! And you won’t be one of them if I have anything to do with it!”

 

“So you say"”

 

“So I say indeed. You will be tutored. It’s our plan to use this time to prepare you for some sort of academic program. Because of all your school troubles - all of those private schools who decided you were too much trouble - you’re well behind where you should be. Staying here, with us, means that you will be caught up, finally. Prepared for college.”

 

“What college would I go to?”

 

“You would choose yourself.”

 

“Oxford? Cambridge?”

 

“I could pull some strings. But I wouldn’t count on anything like that.”

 

“Suzie Wong’s School of Massage Therapy and Oral Satisfaction?”

 

“It would depend on the curriculum.”

 

“Who would be my tutors?”

 

“I have advanced study students who’re so poor they’re cooking over candles, and living in their automobiles. For a reasonable rate, they’ll be happy to help, and they’re quite capable, intelligent men. Very intelligent, and with the big noses to prove it.”

 

“But you’re not worried about me starting any funny business with them.”

 

“They’re wise enough to understand the consequences of that.”

 

And now, there was nothing more to say for a moment.

 

Then Uncle James walked over, and put a fatherly hand on my shoulder.

 

“I am hopeful that I will see you at our table at breakfast in the morning. But - should you decide to go - please don’t bother to say goodbye. Lock the door behind you, and go. No one will come to look for you, and anything you leave behind will be burned. Burned tomorrow. Destroyed, the moment we understand that you’re gone. You father will declare you to be ‘emancipated’, and it will be just the same as if you are dead.”

 

I echoed that word.

 

“Dead....”

 

“So say we all. This is a consensus decision. The whole family is behind me. I speak, not only for myself, but for them....”

 

I shrugged.

 

“I’ve heard all of this before....”

 

This was the cue for him to give me a fatherly kiss on the forehead.

 

“You have heard it all before. But not from me....”

 

 

 

I closed the door behind him after he left, and turned off the only light burning in my new bedroom: trying out the armchair in the corner for the first time - sinking into it, as though surrendering to the arms of a lover.

 

The freshly-minted darkness immediately filled the space and poured over me: flowing down my shoulders, and immediately starting to seep through my skin.

 

The dark. A place where I had learned to feel free, and defiant. A different person than the young girl that everyone had been assessing over tea that afternoon.

 

Sitting there, I felt very sure that Uncle James would be less concerned about me - less willing to make me into a placid member of the human community - if he knew that he had a stone cold killer in the house.

 

The mayhem I had caused had not just been firecrackers in school toilets, illicit drinking, and clumsy sex.

 

Although it was a fact known only to me: two people had died by my dainty feminine hands, and I was to blame for the suicide of a third. Functioning in the freedom of darkness, taking full advantage of being unseen and unknown, I had done things that I could never admit to anyone.

 

No one could really love me - or nurture me - if they knew what I really was.

 

To tell the truth, I actually deserved an ugly death at the hands of an greasy Euro pervert, with ringside seats for resident cockroaches. I deserved to live a streetwalker’s life: putting my lips on stinky men in stinky cars, in exchange for the few pounds they would give me.

 

I shouldn’t be looking for redemption, or forgiveness. I should be written off. It seemed proper that the family name die with me: since I didn’t want to be my father’s daughter. Since (most of the time) I wished that I could kill him, too.

 

I should have stood up, just then - packed a smaller, more efficient bag - and hurried out the door, without looking back. 

 

 

But, when it came down to it, I didn’t have the energy to go and be punished for my manifold sins.

 

I didn’t walk over to the M-road. Or to the train station, either.

 

I settled into the velvet re-assurance of the darkness, and the armchair’s embrace: falling into a light sleep, then shuddering back to a kind of groggy half-wakefulness at about one-thirty in the morning.

 

I couldn’t remember where I was, at first.

 

But then I had enough self-possession to strip down to my underpants - and slip beneath the high-thread-count sheets that Kelley had fitted to the bed - before passing through a soft, dreamless time to find Candace resting her hand on my shoulder: telling me that my tutors were joining us for breakfast. 

 

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