The Redemption of Marvin Fuster-Ch. 11 by Patrick Sean Lee (an ebook reader .TXT) 📖

single, undignified outburst of delight.  “Marvin, either you’re the world’s greatest liar, or else someone touched by some power I can’t imagine!”

      Marvin left the stage and walked with aplomb to the patroness seated in her chair.  He bowed slightly, in deference to her position.  “Madam, as you can see, I lie not.  Wouldst thou have me, they lowly servant, entertain thee further?”

      Maribeth took her cue, stood in the radiant afternoon light across from him.  She tipped her head, just so, and reached across the table with the palm of her hand down.

      “No, gentle bard.  I knight thee.

      “Where did I lay my sword?”

      “Then you believe me?” Marvin asked, taking her hand in his.

      “No.  Not really.  You might be an overnight phenomenon, a miracle…but angels?  I don’t know.”

      “Are you religious?” he asked.

      “Not exactly.  Catholic by birth and upbringing.  I see where you’re going.  Bible stories are one thing; fascinating, yes, but this is the Twentieth Century.”

      “Nothing changes, essentially.  Truth is truth, no matter the era or the social mores.  Either it was fantasy then, or it was not.  Let me prove the truth of it, dear child.”  He held her hand, Anselm’s fingertip atop them.  A gentle warmth radiated in a circle around the touch of fingers; the flesh of youth, and the decay of age.  Maribeth reacted as though she was standing on a precipice, slipping, unable to halt her movement forward.

      “How?” she breathed.

      The die was cast.  Anselm spread his wings, and the temper of the air in the garden gazebo turned from incredulity to awe.

      How, Marvin wondered?  Very simple.  Rewrite biological reality.

      “I need books.  Every book ever written on genetics.  And I need a room,” he added as a veiled reference to his need for light, if nothing else.

 

      It was nearly six o’clock when Maribeth threw caution and good sense to the wind after hearing a dissertation on faith, imagination, and desire—on Amy, a woman from a dream, of all things.  Marvin Fuster was a shambles, at least physically, but beneath the exterior of the wraith standing before her she saw the spark of brilliance, and the lyricism of every poet from every age.  His eyes, suddenly, had begun to sparkle, as though deep inside him a universe of atoms had begun to collide.  When she had discovered him dead to the world on the lawn, he was blank; a blackboard wiped clean of what once might have been something of lasting value.  Within half an hour he had filled the slate with chalk of immensely varied and dazzling color, and words of incomprehensible allure.  What could she do but adopt him as her own?

      It would have been easy, rational, sensible, to send him on his crazy way.  She had no idea that Marvin had already made an enemy in the person of Robert, but even if she had, the passion and frightening eloquence of Marvin’s dream, his quest, stirred an equally passionate response, stirred by a different but equally powerful thread winding its way inside her heart, if not her head.

      And so.

      “Daddy and Mums are gone.  Hurry then, let’s get you situated,” she said, taking hold of Marvin’s hand as she bit down on her lower lip.  “Daddy’s going to kill me…”

      Maribeth spirited Marvin through the garage door into the home.  A long hallway with windows on the yard side opened at the far end to the kitchen.  Immediately to the left, five feet in, was a paneled door.  She opened it quickly and motioned for Marvin to follow her.  A broad switchback stairway led down the wainscoted walls to the mansion basement, originally a spacious cellar for storage of coal for the home’s boiler, non-perishable staples, boxes of papers, the overflow of non-essential goods of the families who lived and died in the house.  More recently it had been cleaned out.  The old boiler was replaced in an earlier administration, and the coal bin dismantled.  Modern accoutrements and décor were added for the overflow of entertainment; a place the governors could retreat to with friends in a relaxed, non-official atmosphere.

      “Your room is right down here,” she said as she led him along.  The short, narrow hallway at the foot of the stairway opened into a cavernous room, in the center of which stood an opulent billiard table, and for a moment Marvin wondered if the gigantic felt-top might become his bed until father found his presence sometime in the near future.  He dispelled the notion of having to climb up onto the uncomfortably hard surface, though, when she led him to a doorway leading into an adjoining room.

      Walking behind her across the room, Marvin glanced at the walls; rich mahogany lining it.  The thick carpet was deep red, and one wall was dominated by a fully stocked bar.  It reminded him of the interior of a decadent nineteenth century brothel.  He vowed never to tell her that, however.  He imagined His Lordship The Governor might very well have had some interesting parties in a room like this.

      “Do you like Daddy’s playroom, Marvin?” she asked looking back over her shoulder. 

      “I think so.  It reminds me of a whorehouse, though.”  He cursed his stunning lack of ability to keep a promise, and at the same time found his eyes taking inventory of the wealth of bottles lined up like soldiers behind the bar.

      Maribeth laughed at his statement.  “That’s exactly what I told him after he had it remodeled.  I remember that he looked a little shocked, and he asked me how I would know something like that.”

      “And what did you tell him?”

      “I just said, ‘Daddy, your only daughter is an avaricious reader.’  This city had more than its fair share of those kinds of places…the archives are full of them.”

      She opened the door and flipped on the light switch.  Marvin was torn between following her or remaining close to the source of a potentially endless drunk.  The thread arose and squirmed, and he dispelled the very notion of it.

      “Do you think I can crack the mystery of time and aging,” he asked Maribeth as they walked toward the small anteroom.

      “She turned and looked back at him sadly.  “No, not really.  Still, it beats sitting in the drunk tank for the rest of your life and dying out there on the streets, I guess.  Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s a perfectly noble quest on your part, but it seems way too big for an angel-seeing drunk, if you don’t mind my saying.  Sorry.”

      “No, that’s all right.  Half the time I think I’m nuts, I really do.  I appreciate your picking me up and offering to help me, though.  You’re probably as crazy as I am.  Even so, all this stuff that’s been going on…there must be something to it.”

      “We shall see,” she answered. 

Imprint

Text: (c) Patrick Sean Lee, 2012
Publication Date: 05-08-2013

All Rights Reserved