Abigail Sheaffer

The Tower

 

 

 

England: 1972

 

She watches herself from the tower.

 

It is a quiet October day, save for the broken caws of the crows. The sky is cornflower blue and cloudless. The maple and oak trees are just beginning to turn scarlet and gold.

 

Turning away from the window now, she watches herself recede into darkness. Margot feels the milk thistle between the blades of her fingertips and walks towards the pond. Her mother sits in taciturn on the wrought iron bench whose onyx spires pierces up into the brisk air. Margot notes her jowls and her clownishly white makeup. Her mother looks up at her, her eyes milky and blue, her bright magenta lipstick bleeding into her much wrinkled lips.

 

Ducks swim in the pond and reeds wriggle up like snakes in the putrid water. Their estate sprawls behind them. Steadily now, Margot asks her mother if she’d like her to brew some tea.

 

Silence. Even the crows stop cawing.

 

Margot reluctantly walks toward the house, pausing for a moment under the eaves. From the corner of her eye she glances at the tower, and sees herself watching herself.

 

 

*

 

Gloaming, and the forest behind the estate are restless. Margot listens to the great horned owl outside her cracked window. Light reflects oddly through the stained glass, bathing the room in an uncomfortable ochre glow. There is an uneasiness to dusk, and she would prefer to ensconce herself in the cold blackness of night.

 

She wanders down the spiral staircase, towards the dining room. She listens as plates slide and water glasses clink as the maid sets the table. The china is rimmed with gold leaf paint and the crystal makes tiny rainbows under the halo of the chandelier.

 

“Are we having company?” she asks her mother. Her mother sits by the hearth, dwarfed in a large burgundy armchair upholstered with velvet. Their Great Dane sits beside her.

 

“Yes,” she responds, her sibilant “S” like a match sizzling with fire.

 

“I should bathe then,” Margot says, and stares down at the Oriental rug. No answer from her mother, just a gimlet-eyed stare that makes Margot catch her breath. 

 

*

 

The maid finishes filling the claw-foot tub and tests the water for Margot. It is cold. Margot says nothing, only stays in the water until her lips turn blue.

 

Getting out now, she wanders listlessly to her vanity. Glimpsing in the dirty mirror, she notes her collarbone and her thin shoulders. The thin straps of her slip cling to her skin. She gathers her titian hair into a braid and coils it atop her head, twice. She secures the braids with her pearl pins. Stepping into a dress now, she chooses the white one with the high ruffled collar. With purpose, she walks to her jewelry box and chooses the three strand pearl necklace. It has a giant onyx at the center, like a black mirror. She chooses the red mules and slides them over her feet.

 

The party has begun downstairs. Music swells despondently. She descends the staircase. The parlor is filled with people quietly sipping claret and sherry. The house is filled with the smell of roast beef and rosemary.

 

Her mother stands stark in the middle of the room, a black lace veil over her face. The caul has receded from her eyes. She purses her lips in a deviant smile, her scarlet lipstick powdered to keep it from bleeding into her wrinkles. A chill goes up Margot’s spine.

 

Oscar approaches her, his eyes heavy with shadows. Through thin lips and clenched teeth he greets her.

 

“Margot, how good to see you again,” his Adam’s apple bulges from beneath his violet silk cravat as he brings his long, skeletal fingers up to her hand, holding her fingers in a limp handshake before bringing his cold lips to her skin.

 

The fragrance of cloves behind her, and Margot turns apprehensively to greet Lady Margaret. Lady Margaret has a full bosom and a ruby necklace that lies in wait between her décolletage. She smiles knowingly; her scarlet lips are striking against her milky white skin. Margot at once wishes to be her and to make to love to her. Teasingly, Lady Margaret leans in and greets her with a kiss, lingering over her neck.

 

“Margot, the countryside is treating you well I see,” she says in her mellifluous voice. Margot lifts her hand to Lady Margaret’s elbow, but she moves away quickly, slinking past her like a black cat towards George, and George takes in the room with his arctic blue eyes.

 

Margot stands alone in the crowd, feeling naked. George gazes at Lady Margaret with intent and they wander out of the parlor and to the courtyard. As they close the glass door, Margot watches as George grabs Lady Margaret’s breast and kisses her with fervor. Lady Margaret feels Margot’s gaze and smiles.

 

*

 

Margot sits across from her mother at the long oak table. Lady Margaret and George sit beside each other. They exchange whispers while Oscar leans towards Margot. His shadowy eyes bulge at her, the recesses of his maroon eyes twinkle.

 

“What a lovely party,” he coos; his milky teeth reveal themselves from beneath his thin lips. Lady Margaret moans in delight as George steals a kiss from her neck. Margot’s mother sits in silence, the caul over her eyes has returned.

 

The roast beef is carved by the cook, it bleeds red onto the silver platter. In an instant Margot sees maggots wriggling within the meat. She inhales sharply, but in an instant they are gone, a trick of the eye.

 

Lady Margaret laughs mockingly.

 

Margot’s mother is roused; she pierces her daughter with a striking glare. Dinner is at once cacophonous with conversation and deathly quiet. Oscar drains his sherry as Margot watches herself from across the room.

 

*

 

After dinner they retire to the parlor. Margot’s mother insists on retiring to bed. Oscar, Margot, George, and Lady Margaret sit by the roaring hearth. Lady Margaret sips her tawny port while George kisses her neck. Margot watches with disgust and longing.

 

“Come now,” Lady Margaret says, and pulls out a bottle of a tincture of opium.

 

“No,” Margot says. The brocade walls of the manor laugh at her.

 

“Aw, sweet little Margot!” Lady Margaret says, bringing the blades of her fingertips to rest softly on her face. Margot moves her cheek towards her palm and Lady Margaret rubs her thumb to her chin. Margot’s heart races as Lady Margaret moves closer, bringing her scarlet lips to hers, a flitter of tongue. Margot begs for more. George looks on.

 

Bringing Margot’s hand to her breast, Lady Margaret speaks.

 

“If you want to make love to me, take this,” Margot rubs her breast. Lady Margaret speaks softly again.

 

“Come dear, take your medicine.”

 

Full of longing, Margot opens her mouth.

 

*

 

The world moves at long exposure. Lady Margaret and George fuck slowly, then quickly, on the sofa.

 

Margot sluggishly rests by the fire. Oscar sits, plaintively in the armchair. He is long and thin like a skeleton.

 

Lady Margaret breathlessly expels air between kisses.

 

“…Margot, Margot,” she moans. Margot looks up at her from her spot on the floor. “You should pleasure Oscar.”

 

But Oscar is still.

 

“Do it,” she says as George nuzzles his face between her breasts.

 

Margot crawls towards Oscar, towards the darkened chair where he sits. She brings herself up on her knees, and unzips his black wool pants. His cock is hard and pale. She brings her lips to his perineum. He gazes upon her, bringing his limp hands to her hair. She begins to suck.

 

She senses herself beside her. Looking up quickly, it is only a shadow. Oscar brings his long fingertips down within the collar of her dress. In one swift motion, he unbuttons the collar. His cool fingertips move over her exposed shoulders.

 

She feels her fingertips now, on her knees, but her hands are still on his cock.

 

He asks her to stand up. She does. The dress falls to her knees as Oscar finishes up. In a flicker of firelight she glances back at Lady Margaret and George. They lay together, entangled in a heap. Lady Margaret’s chin smeared with blood.

 

A flicker of firelight again, and she prods Margot with pleading eyes.

 

Thunder roils in the slate black sky.

 

*

 

“Take me to the tower,” Oscar says. Margot stands cold in front of the roaring hearth.

 

“No,” she responds.

 

Oscar stands, his shadow lording over her.

 

“Don’t you want to see yourself?”

 

Margot grimaces.

“Don’t you want to see yourself?” he barks again, his mouth foaming.

 

“I’M RIGHT HERE!” She cries, gripping her fist. Her fingernail falls off, like forgotten shale.

 

Oscar grabs her wrist with force.

 

*

The staircase to the tower is ancient and full of rotting wood. Termites crawl between the grains of wood. Pungent soil burdens her nostrils. She fights him, pulling away from him, biting him.

 

Still, Oscar is silent.

 

Still, his grip gains more force.

 

A vein bulges in her white arm.

 

“Don’t you want to see yourself?” he mocks.

 

“Let me go! Let me go!” She screams, a murder of crows ascend the gray sky.

 

He unbolts the door and unlocks it with a rusted skeleton key. He pushes his weight against the heavy door, still grabbing her wrist that now has a livid purple bruise.

 

“Don’t you want to see yourself?” he says.

 

Margot wanders into the room, her back and brow perspiring.

 

“But I’m not here, I’m here,” she whispers.

 

“Yes you are here,” she says to herself.

 

*

 

Bluebirds sing sweetly as Lady Margaret and George join Margot’s mother on the patio. Oscar sits happily in a white linen suit.

 

“Lovely day for a garden party!” Lady Margaret squeals, adjusting her hat.

 

“Yes, quite,” George says, smoking from his pipe. Lady Margaret indulges in a Pimm’s Cup, a strawberry floats merrily on top of the ice.

 

“Mm, really Anne, you’ve outdone yourself this time,” she coos.

 

Margot’s mother smiles, her bright blue eyes twinkling.

 

“Oh, Margaret, you’re too kind,” she says.

 

Oscar leans against an oak tree, and shielding his eyes, gazes up at the tower.

 

“It’s a shame she had to have another one of her bouts this weekend.”

 

A pregnant pause as Anne considers it.

 

“I’m glad you all could come down and rally around her.”

 

“Yes, well, anything for you, Anne.” Margaret says before biting into the flesh of the strawberry.

 

“Mania is a such a wicked thing,” Margaret says as she gazes at herself from the tower.

 

 

 

Abigail Sheaffer is the editor-in-chief of Chicago Literati and The Vignette Review. Her fiction has been published in Bird’s Thumb, Bluestockings Magazine, Literary Orphans, Lit Literature, and Crab Fat Magazine.