Brawny Leaves

As the brawny leaves of the downy birch tree fell faster, summer came to an end. There’d still be quiet gatherings and roaring parties as the temperature crawled to a bleak chill, but it was the summer air, the tenacious rays of warmth, that completed festivities. It was then that Scott Beauchamp found himself to be terribly, terribly bored. He had never been one for parties, (or any social event for that matter) but with the final wisps of summer floating away, he couldn’t seem to find any inspiration for the new book he’d been working on for the past two months. It was meant to be a contemporary novel, but he’d found himself in 1863, under a blistering sun with the rifle of a confederate soldier aimed at his rather unfortunate nose. It’s not that Scott was any sort of Civil War buff, but the need for something patriotic had been gnawing at his skull ever since he’d left the states for the gloomy British Isles. Of course, the weather wasn’t quite as awful as he had anticipated it to be, but after mere days of the musty tears of whatever rested in the Heavens, the young writer couldn’t help but grow restless. America was the land of fresh air and good exercise, not a place to be preceded by oceanic rainstorms and the constant reek of London smog.

The oppressive hands of time moved forward, and Scott became increasingly aware of the empty crystal glass resting in his fist. It had been drained nearly half an hour ago, but the comforting weight of a whiskey glass seemed to calm his heavy nerves. Scott didn’t love the drink, but he felt that as a fiction writer he needed to reserve some appreciation for the burning embers so many funneled down their throats to erase the disturbances of what should be a peaceful existence. Scott shut his eyes for a moment, thinking a brief nap was what he chiefly needed, but sleep would evade him as the shrill voice of his wife, Theda Beauchamp went off like an alarm inside his mind. She had stormed the porch, a bottle of champagne in one hand and a strand of pearls in the other. Protecting her jewelry had become a bit of an obsession for Theda lately, ever since Scott had suggested selling some of it to the local pawn shop to make a little extra money. Even if the pearls clashed greatly with the shimmering, yellow concoction she wore in the evening, fear, and perhaps greed, wrapped her dainty hands around the strand at all times.

“Darling!” Her voice rang through the night, the sound of an unwanted caller demanding that you pick up the phone. “Darling I am in such a state. Today I heard news of that Mr. Kepler coming back into town. The one who threw all of those parties that you would never let me attend-oh darling- think of the fun we would have. The glamour of a grand party- why I would be paralyzed with happiness!”

The champagne must have been a ruse, an attempt to persuade him to allow her to meddle with the glitz and glamour of those without proper breeding and reputations to ruin. The thought of Mr. Kepler gave Scott a sour feeling inside. He’d met the man once, that is, he’d seen him when someone had pointed him out. And what a handsome man he was! Such charm, such a way of stirring around the minds of vulnerable young women who’d never encountered the true horrors of the modern world. Scott had been like that once, half a step away from innocence and devoid of cynicism. But time had offered truth, giving him a certain hardness that only came with clarity as to what the world really is. It’s a dark place where monsters fester in forgotten corners, judgements bestowed by those unqualified to criticise. And a bitter stench floats above all, wrapping itself around the minds of stupid and corruptible youths. They spend their days in  aquamarine sports cars and and flounce upon checkered dance floors, nights tangled in sodded sheets, inhaling narcotics and giggle water to make their eyes shine with intensity.

It was then that Scott turned his attention back to his wife. She had a desperate sort of look in her eyes, Theda so longed for the bellowing of jazz musicians and the fizz of freshly poured champagne. Scott doubted that the bottle in her hand would be quite as exciting-it was a new bottle, but it was the cheap kind that you could get at any other liquor store. Forbidding her to attend the parties would lead  to an argument, something Scott was much too tired to consider. And if she went, perhaps she would realize how pointless such affairs really are.

“I suppose you want to go to one of these parties.” Scott muttered, making sure his voice was void of any distaste which might spark aggravation within his wife.

“You know I do Scott, I wanted to do so ardently that last time dear Mr. Kepler came to visit, and I want to now. It’s only a party after all, what could possibly happen?”

“If it’s only a party, then why do you want to go so ardently?” Theda’s kohl encompassed eyes narrowed, unaware that her husband was merely mocking her.

“Scott.” Her voice had gone down nearly an octave and the writer let out a dramatic sign.

“We’ll go to the next party he throws, but if it gets too out of hand we’re going straight home.” Theda seemed surprised by his assertive tone, but the light returned to her eyes all the same.

“There’s one this Friday, the whole street was invited-oh darling- thank you, I’m sure we’ll have a gorgeous time.” Scott didn’t believe her, but smiled at his wife who fluttered back into the house in an excited frenzy, leaving him alone again with an empty glass and a now unpalatable future.