บท 7: VII.
It can be said that Arthur Dintman is a man of many faces.
Incontrovertibly, he is the current owner and proprietor of Dintman's Delights: a humble antique and thrift store, inherited from his Welsh immigrant father, who arrives at the store, each morning, by foot: travelling an easy distance from his perfectly average home, waving and giving a hearty good morning to all whom he passes that is part of the small, tight-knit, immigrant community that is based in that part of town.
His neighbors know him to be a kind, responsible young man; albeit, few can claim to know him personally: he keeps no close friends, and has no family to speak of--preferring, it would seem, to keep to himself.
For some reason or another, his palms are frequently seen to be stained black, as with the frequent contact of coal.
On the particular morning of the 17th of December, 188X, it is just past the hour of 5'o'clock when he goes for a knock on Marianne's door; whereupon, and despite it being so early, she is predictably near-immediate in her answering: with a breathless, frantic air, and beads of nervous sweat running down her face: her being, in his mind, a fellow lost soul, trapped alongside him in his father's tomb; and yet, he considered her to be so blatantly the inferior, such that her presence never fails to trigger a certain brooding, maniacal malevolence that lay dormant inside him.
"Good morning." He greets her, with a chipper smile--failing to conceal the thinly veiled menace of even just his neutral stare.
"Ah! Mister Dintman." Marianne replies. "It is...quite early."
Thus far she has remained partly behind the door, holding it like a barricade between them, but he forcefully shoves it aside--"Just Arthur." He snaps, with a noticeable snarl of annoyance as though she'd inadvertently committed a horribly offensive slight.
"For the thousandth time, Marianne: just call me fucking Arthur."
She wags her head, in submission. "R-right! Sorry, mist--Arthur. It is just my habit."
Nervous, she shrinks her head into her hunched shoulders.
"Erm...what is it that you needed?"
He grins, deriving a cruel delight from her bashfulness.
"You're possessed of quite the flustered look about you today, Sweet Mary." Arthur says, craning himself: trying to peer beyond her, into the room, as she awkwardly repositions herself to try and block him--without making it appear obvious. "You've had a friend staying over these past several days, haven't you?"
Marianne gawks. "Wha--I mean...how did you know, sir?"
Arthur scowls, at once transforming into the incarnation of rage:
"What an unfathomably stupid question!"
Pulling a fist, he knocks her once in the side of the head.
"Idiotic slut! I could see you both clamoring up and down the stairs, carrying on like a couple of schoolgirls!"
Marianne Wags her head again, sheepishly nursing it. "Oh."
Arthur laughs. "Well, I couldn't care less what goes on in your personal life." He goes on to say, waving his hand dismissively. "Except, I've recently received an order: this one being for one hundred ladies' blouses." He pauses to grin, adjusting his glasses. "So, I hope you aren't too distracted to have those ready for me--by this time tomorrow."
"A hundred by morning!?" She gasps, incredulous. "I'll have to work all day and night to even stand a chance, sir!"
He gives her a pat on the head. "In that case, you'd best get to work!"
"Or else...you wouldn't want me to raise this month's rent again, now, would you?"
Marianne lowers her gaze, her chest flaring with apprehension. "No, sir."
Arthur smiles. "That's a girl!; I knew you wouldn't disappoint."
Thereafter, with his business completed, he departs: leaving Marianne standing there in the doorway, silently devastated in his wake, as Luella stirs with a loud yawn.
"Was someone at the door, May?" She asks. "I heard a man."
"It was...my employer." Is Marianne's stern response, spoken with a subdued intensity, simultaneous to her reclaiming her chair at the sewing machine--at which, she'd already been working since before the crack of dawn. "He came to tell me I must work harder."
"What!" Luella huffs. "Harder than you do already?"
She then briefly gazes across the room: halting, with a gleeful breath, at the point of spotting the previously mentioned worse-for-wear tub.
"Aha! There's an idea:" She exclaims. "I shall draw up a warm bath!"
Marianne waves, just barely listening; her back is turned, with all focus pouring into the machine. "The knob on the left is for the hot water--just give it a few seconds." She says. "As well, be sure to offer any towel you find a proper sniff first, before you use it."
Luella replies with a curt nod.
"A charmed life, indeed." She inaudibly mumbles.
For a time after, there is only the mechanical pattering of the sewing machine to be heard, precluding an eventual rumbling of water, through pipes in the floors and walls: culminating in it gushing, forth, from the rust-eaten spigot that serves in feeding into the tub--all whilst a thin, steamy mist gradually pervades the room.
"This is...most embarrassing." Luella says, after some time waiting on the tub to fill.
Marianne only half-turns to her, consciously wary that she might be undressing, although curiously she is not: rather, Luella is observed to be merely standing beside the tub, ruminating--with no apparent sense of urgency--upon the depths of the tub while it is steadily filling with water; as she is seen to be toying idly with the hem of her slip.
"I...normally have a servant to undress me." she says. "Though, as I am a full grown woman, it is a terrible shame…"
Marianne, perturbed by this inexplicably odd behavior, faces her. "Well, what is the matter?" She urges: still very much clinging onto some bitterness from her recent, aggravating brush with Arthur Dintman. "Be out with it already!"
Luella, at first revealing a rare glimmer of anxiety, quickly dispels it with a flirty giggle. "What I mean to say, is it's proving quite a hassle to undress myself."
Marianne, still failing to grasp the suggestive subtleties of Luella's words, remains oblivious. "What?" She merely questions, as she continues to stare helplessly immune to all of Luella's loud signalling: be it in the particulars of her stance, with legs crossed and one arm bent inward such that the hand rests at the top of her bosom; of her sultry, expectant gaze that never veers; her bated breath, as she demurely waits for a reciprocating return.
It is a reciprocating return that does not arrive, though, as Marianne promptly returns to her sewing; unconcerned. "You're not making any sense."
The sound of the running water ceases. Luella loudly sighs. Again, and for a long while after, there is only the noise of the machine. She is halfway into pulling off her slip by herself, when a faint disruption startles her: what sounds like a thump, followed by a suppressed yelp.
"May...did you hear that strangeness, just now?"
**********
Dintman could hear the water rushing through the creaky plumbing pipes, as well; he could hear it from as far as downstairs, in the store, while he was busy assisting a customer: in their concerns over the officiality of a certain monkey's paw that he has listed for sale.
His previously smooth, laid-back speech at once becomes urgent--making no bones about his burgeoning annoyance:
"Is it real? Of course it's real!; You're holding it right now, aren't you?"
"Does it grant wishes? Yes! I can confirm it from my own personal experience--'twas a monkey's paw that gave me these dashing looks, wouldn't you know!"
"Now, if that's all: I have some business to tend to."
Dintman spares not a moment in traversing across the storefloor at an unmannerful pace, towards the confines of his office; wherein, in one fast swoop: he shuts the door behind him, locks it, and procures a bottle of scotch and a glass from his cupboard.
Pausing to listen, he could still hear the water in the pipes--informing him there was yet still time.
Whiskey in hand, Dintman goes to pull down, and proceed to unfold, a rather secretive set of ladder stairs: which exists there in his office, that serve to communicate with the attic; or, more specifically, with a crawl space that exists adjacent to the selfsame attic in which Marianne lives. Once this ladder is secured, he hurriedly climbs to the top: letting out a surprised yelp, when, in his haste, he stumbles and bumps his knee: quickly covering his mouth, with his free palm, to muffle himself.
After waiting a while, listening, he hears a unfamiliar voice--not belonging to Marianne--coming from the other side of the wall:
"May...did you hear that strangeness, just now?"
Dintman perks up, sidling closer to the shared wall between the crawlspace and the attic, towards a section that is covered with some loose boards and boxes piled with papers; alongside a sketchbook on the floor, set upon by a selection of charcoal sticks of varying widths and sizes.
He pushes the above-mentioned boards away, to uncover a teeny hole in the wall; a hole, barely large enough for but one of Dintman's eyes to peep through, and witness: Marianne, seated at the table frustratedly massaging her forehead temples; Luella, seated on the rim of the tub, as she peels her slip over her shoulders to reveal her naked form--before dipping the first of her gorgeous bare legs into the tub.
Dintman is patient, for he knows it will take valuable time for the hot water to come through. As such, he takes a calm moment to pour out a glass of whiskey: from which he takes a hearty swig, before taking up his sketchbook and the first piece of charcoal he will need.
With these tools to hand, and enough of a buzz going to muffle any still-lingering pangs of broken morality…
The artist begins his sketch.
**********
Marianne and Luella continue, none the wiser:
"What strangeness?" The former asks amusedly, rising from her chair. "Other than that which arrived from yourself, just a moment ago?"
She gawks, for the first time seeing Luella starkly naked before her.
"No, it's--"Luella starts to say: smiling and blushing, timidly hiding parts of herself in spite of her earlier boldness. "Never mind. It must have been a noise from the street."
Marianne's next moves are borne of pure instinct: advancing toward Luella in soft, drawn-out steps, as though out of fear of startling her; embracing her gently, as she trails the impossibly smooth contours of the heiress's impossibly smooth shoulder blades with her own callused, rough fingertips.
"You're nervous." Luella says, smiling to herself. "Yet, I am the one standing as naked as Eve before you."
Marianne wags her head. "Is this the sort of thing lovers engage in, behind closed doors?" The term of "indecency" rings in her mind, as she is unsure of how to proceed; even though the escalation of her heartbeat relays a call to further action; by prompting of some, as of yet secret, carnal knowledge: she finds herself frozen for lack of experience in such manners.
"You wouldn't believe the conduct of some so-called 'aristocrats,' as soon as they're set behind closed doors: the wild, hungry beasts they become--"says Luella, leaning into Marianne's chest with a mischievous glint in her eye--"As you're sure to soon discover."
Craning herself, Luella proceeds to gingerly grasp at the first, tallest button of Marianne's blouse, in commencement of a task of undoing them all.
"I suppose, for now--"she sighs--"it falls upon me to act the servant."
Marianne says nothing, as she remains still--silently acquiescing to Luella, as she resumes, one button at a time; although the event is, on the whole, intensely uncomfortable for such a sequestered being: one seldom touched by another, save to suffer a violent hit, and withal never presuming to have dwelt within any romantic context of any sort. This being the case, however, Marianne can also be said to wholeheartedly trust Luella, as while her outer carapaces are being gradually stripped away, this seemed the logical next step: from first exposing her rawest emotions, into now likewise parading her scars, her wounds, and her warts all; a rising action--to reframe it in authorial terms--of which she knew well enough about without having a name to ascribe to it.
It is almost a romantic moment, and yet: against Marianne bared, thin physique, glowing pale as the drifts outside, the winter air is deathly cold: such that she is forced into shivers, and thus Luella is forced to do away with all the pre-planned meticulous, drawn-out romance rituals, in order to hastily transport her into the safety of the hot bath.
It is while the healing warmth draws into her screaming flesh and bone, giving her steadying relief, that she utters an awkward laugh.
"I am...extraordinarily useless at this, aren't I?"
Luella, soaking in the tub beside her, smiles as she playfully twists a few strands of her matted wet hair.
"You're adorable, May." Luella answers. "I shan't say anything more."
"I'm...honestly unsure of how to feel, knowing you've been intimate with others, like this, before." Marianne admits, quickly adding: "I hope I don't come across as jealous, in saying that."
"Not at all. No doubt, you're curious to know how I managed…"
"Managed what?" Marianne asks warily.
Luella smiles. "I never was given a choice in my suitors, and gradually came to learn that my disinterest, believe it or not, was often mutual; that most, if not all of my suitors were in a similar situation as I: courting more as a matter of security, or at their parents' behest, than through any desire of their own."
Marianne is stunned, and similarly saddened to hear such an account. She had to imagine a lifetime of forced entanglements was a rather lonely existence indeed.
Continuing, Luella rests her head on Marianne's shoulder: "It became a sort of...game, for us. Secretly, I think we all wanted to find someone precious to us; someone to cherish by our own accords: on a deeper, more intimate level, than according to the shrewd, businesslike acumen of our parents."
Marianne turns to her. "I should say I understand, but also that I hope I am not a participant in this game."
At this Luella giggles, shaking her head.
"Oh, heavens no. I had to basically pretend, with all others." She lifts her head and faces Marianne, their gazes connecting. "Whereas, with you...I feel I can finally be my truest self."
Marianne draws closer, so that their foreheads meet.
"I feel...much the same way."
Her heart is pounding, only now it bears an echo: Luella's own perfectly synced palpitations, being communicated by their bare chests pressed so closely together.
It is then, in that serene moment of tenderness, Marianne is compelled to surprise her with an emphatic kiss on the lips: passionately grasping the sides of her face as she does; constantly twisting, and turning, and rotating her head and neck: prompting a succession of accordant minor breaks, and prolonged unions, in a frenzied bout, of what Luella knows and Marianne surmises to be love.
Dintman watches all this unfold, and to say he is a man wrapped by lust, from behelding this lurid spectacle, would be a severe undermining; for indeed, although initially his eyes had spied only upon Marianne's visiting friend: it was ultimately she, the unassuming original, whom captivated him most; whereas previously, he'd only viewed her as a mere gangly, unattractive thing--wholly devoid of charm--a tool to be used for all it is worth, including his paltry entertainment, and one day unceremoniously disposed of, upon his nearest convenience. But to witness Marianne, as she presents now, so candidly caught in the climax of love: her face aglow, with splendorous smiling and laughter; shedding these slight glimpses of her previously withheld cleverness; her heated blood rising, to the forefront of her unclothed flesh--imparting with it a fresh pink allure, like centifolia roses in bloom; to be encountered by all of the above as it exists, unified, into one singular entity: it arouses within him a disquieting intrigue, that overrides all other senses: to such an extensive degree, that--for the first time, by a count of years--he need not defer to his drink for want of its siren calls of intoxication.
Thus armed with this new perspective, of this shimmering beauty that'd laid dormant under his wing for so long, Arthur Dintman is struck by a revelation.
Not only did he need Marianne--he now fervently craved her.
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