Dernière Accueil

When a telegram comes, it leads to an old house, memories, and an old butler.

I've always known my family had ties to Old France, and possessed property that even predated the French Revolution by several generations. I remember fleeting scenes of my days living on the family plantation, back when I had a sister, a brother, a mother and even four family dogs. My father was there too, along with the house of servants and their loving butler, and I could remember my father's occasional bitter laugh as it trailed off in the wind when the children played in the garden. But the scene crept out of my mind for many years and the fates that befell my own blood, my siblings, also extracted themselves from my broken memories.

When the telegram arrived informing me of my father's passing, I was presented little choice other than to pack and take the next train east. The telegram was simple, yet haunted and jaded, just as memory serves to delve into my past. A simple message along with a photo of my father and I as a child with my puny arms swung around him. The photo was taken during a time of contentment, of true happiness, and this fact burned me all the more. The demons of my past began to arise again from the buried clusters of my brain, and I began to wonder just why it was that I left in the first place. I was hysteric--I knew that I had become hysteric--biting, and gnawing at my nails like a starved dog. The pressure of it all--to think that your last remaining relative, your own father, has finally slipped on the rug and croaked, I thought. I was in shambles and my face was surely marked with it. The fact that my last relative passed didn't haunt me as much as the trauma that memory inflicted. People walked past me on the train while silently chittering and yammering on about politics, which I cared little for, and knew they spoke in my direction as I caught their crooked stares. Let them talk, I had thought, let them look upon me. I knew they referred to my haggard appearance, and I drew the curtain closed and left my booth a sultry shadow that loomed eerily in the otherwise bright train cabin. All these years I avoided this spectacle, and all these years I've created for yourself a kingdom of denial, that my own father was my blood, void of other living children save me, who'd one day fade away like a leaf from a tree without a word. It was no mystery that I missed my mother's funeral, and that of my baby brother's, and even my sister's when she was lost to sickness. Oh, how I wore that guilt now so brazenly for all to see, like a dunce hat or a scarlet letter.

The train ride lasted for what seemed several days when it had only been a few hours. When it was time to disembark at the correct station,  I checked my itinerary  multiple times in fear of mistaking my memories and I blundered out of the cabin and hopped onto the bay floor. The air was harsh and bitter, but as the snake of the train cooed its strident call and set off again, the distant recollections of this place returned in a dismal flood of fragmented scenes all playing out in my head like an opera or tragic theatre.

I took a coach down the unpaved roads of the countryside, down the long avenues of the swampy, mucky ground and finally came to a large hill that sloped seemingly to the heavens above. That hill, and the memories of my siblings and I rolling down it appeared cloudy in my mind's eye, and I tightened my grip on my leg, digging claws into the flesh. The carriage climbed that very hill and in the sadistic and careening fields of the scene below stood the magnificent Dernière Accueil, my childhood home.

"There we go! Oh, it has been years, hasn't it? These sunset hills, and the weeping ferns that hang so low that you can smell their cucumber aroma, and hear their sad stories as they fiddle in the wind," the coachman called from his seat in front, half expecting me to peek my head from the doors to see, "Welcome home! I'm so thrilled that you've come back."

I bit my lips in silent frustration.

The coach stopped just at the foot of the mansion. The coachman, who also happened to be my family's loyal butler of sixty-years, released me from the confinements of the mobile cage and I set upon the floor uneasily. The mansion itself was a wall of stone that towered high above me in its frankly austere manner.

It was as I left it: aged, hoary, predating even this decade, and the smell of bitter ferns filled the air like the stench of corpses off in the distance--no far cry from the truth, as I then vaguely recall a family crypt and cemetery in the back. Marble steps led to the main portal of the house--two oak doors that opened inward on both sides. Their ornate carvings decorated the length of the mansion wall, pictures of dragons and gargoyles alike guarding the outside like some sort of spell or antediluvian prophesy. In some places the wall itself cracked and broke from the merciless rage of time, but this was no surprise to me and I wore my expression smug on my face. The butler marched to the main portal and shifted through his keys before releasing me into the confines of the Dernière Accueil mansion.

The door swung open, and the waft of antique venerability filled my nose.

As I stepped capriciously into the living floor of the building, the butler brought me a seasoned tea characteristic of the French Marriage Frères and I set myself in a guarded position at the edge of the floral sofa with an unaccustomed feeling, as if I were the stranger in my own home. The walls with the trophy animal pelts and mounted elk heads stare at me forebodingly, and the entire rooms seemed to constrict me despite its sheer size. The fireplace roared on this cold day and it ate the oak logs fed to it with crackles and pops, but as I stared further into those flames, I began to wonder how many nights my own father sat on this very sofa, wondering where his children had gone and when they'd return to him. I bite my upper lip and throw myself out of that sofa, rising just as the butler reentered the room with a plate of crumpets and salt. He gives me a perplexed look as we both share a moment of subtle rapture, sizing each other up from head to toe. His eyes reflected a burdening sorrow under those warm pupils, such that bespoke of truth from the long and arduous years surviving alongside a diminishing house staff and a deteriorating old man. There were no words to be said between either of us, because even as he continued to serve loyally the patrons of the house, his contract was no longer bound, and it was very clear that he remained out of sheer honor. Those eyes spoke truthfully without saying a word: your father was dead.

"Crumpets?" he asked after a moment of pause, raising the plate to offer it out. I decline his offer and give him a warm smile instead, perhaps the first since I left the privacy of my home in the west.

"There are fresh linens upstairs prepared on your old chamber, I'm sure you remember the way?" he asked me unsurely.

I shake my head embarrassingly.

"Oh... oh, of-course not! It has been years, yes? I do remember you young sprouts always changing rooms and playing that old... oh what was that game? Ah! Tally-Hoe, ha! Yes, it is no wonder you don't remember, oh silly me. I can show you the way." He exclaimed enthusiastically as if his pause gave him a measure of fervor to lighten the mood. His steps were lithe despite his superior age, and his gaunt form floated through the halls of the mansion and up the stairs with ease, as if he had half his life yet ahead of him. I was led. I let myself be led, through the halls and through the many rooms of the mansion until the very heart of the gigantic and broad wonderland began to seem hazy and slightly familiar. I entered the game room, then the upper kitchen, until he led me through a series of doors that evidently contained another dressing and waiting room, along with its own liquor bar and cabinetry. Holstered on the walls sat wicks of candles burning softly and the curtains were pulled back to reveal the outcast world beyond. Two couches flanked either side of the great window as if inviting one to sit and enjoy the sanctimonious scenery. The butler stood just behind them with his hands crossed behind his back and a light expression crossing his face. Scoping the room, I witness a door to his left side that remained shut with a golden keyhole. A dresser sat adjacent to that and it was obvious this space served as the dressing room for the neighboring bedroom; and evidently it was my bedroom. As I walked past the silent butler and attempted to arrest the handle of the door, I gave him a slight nod, customary of silent satisfaction, and swung the door gently to an open.

It was just as I left it, and I could not help but gasp. The bed was in its place all those years ago. The linens were placed masterfully and thoughtfully over the bed as promised, along with a bell and a pair of gloves. Another window welcomed the light and cast the shadows from the corners of the room. I walk silently and uneasily into the room and only then begin to sense the dread that my memories tolled. My observant hand caressed the silk of the bed in a welcoming gesture as if it were an old friend.

A tear came to my eye.

From behind, the sound of creaking wood alarmed me, and I tossed to give it attention hoping that the butler hadn't crept up on me unaware. However, the door swung on its own accord and I notice in the corner of the room loomed a peculiarly trivial brown, wooden box. It was dusty, save for a hand print that sharply outlined the face. I walk to it and pick it up to set it on the bed gently. It had been opened recently. Unable to remember this peculiar brown box, my curiosity surmounts and I open it to take a glimpse inside.

Peering inside, I see the blank and white backs of several sleeves, and then my heart missed a beat. Within lied several photographs--perhaps even hundreds of them!--of my father and I, as well as my mother and my deceased siblings. Their faces are torn with age and rigid, displaying times far gone. I couldn't help but choke up a tear. The door swung open again from behind me.

"Why did you take it from the box?" I ask without tossing my head, knowing that the phantom of age loomed behind me with his tall scythe. I knew, even before I entered, that this house was no longer mine, but the home of Death himself.

Yet I hear a slight stumble from my back, and I knew the butler stood in the frame of the door with fear on his lips.

"I'm sorry?"

"The photograph. You took it from this box."

The butler laughed dryly. "Ah, yes, the photograph from the telegram. An exquisite photo, that one. Certainly one of my favorites, but it was so difficult to choose among the many. I wanted you to remember, you see. Your father always spoke of you throughout the years, and I wanted you to remember in good faith."

My face screwed in and I could not help but feel a tinge of anger rising along the edge of my spine, like a cold blade ran along my skin, threatening to cut me open. The cold scythe of Death. My only reaction would have been to yell, to scream, to voice my jaded opposition to this entire visit and burn all of the photos in this very box. But I remained stoic and cold, and the butler continued on in an attempt to assuage my unpleasant energies.

"I suppose you remember what you uttered to your father when you left home... 'By valley or hell I will not return to this festering pool, for it is-'"

"'cursed, and I refuse to be cursed with you.'" I finished. He stirred and stammered for a moment before confirming my words in surprise. "Why do you bring this up? Why do you insist on reviving the dead as if my father weren't the fool?"

I had had enough of the photos. I sternly shut the brown box after returning the telegram photo, and pushed it away with the tips of my fingers in sudden, violent rejection.

The butler started on. "Perhaps to you, he was such a fool, but he waited everyday for your return. He waited and waited, and then waited until the winery ran dry and the business folded, until he could not afford the household servants any longer, and day by day our lives grew closer to solitude. There wasn't a day that passed when he wouldn't lament on your return or utter your name on his lips. These photographs, these were so dear to him and I just thought they'd be shared by those that loved him, out of good faith. I served him for many years, and I've watched three generations come and go. And then when your sister passed-"

I turned on him in an instant, my face full of absolute rage. "Do not speak of my sister's ghost!"

My voice startled me as it come forth and rolled off the tongue, like it did not belong to me and a demon spoke screamed from my gullet in a flash of hot anger. He doubled back, afraid and astounded by my audacity and will. Despite this sudden rage I reminded myself that I was stoic, to always remain stoic, as that was my gilded nature. I offered words of apology and again turned from him to face the bed with my head drooped low as if shamed. "I apologize, I'm weary," I said, "I'm... I'm sure that if photos could bring back the dead, surely your photo did it, at least in me. Heaven knows I've tried for years to hide away my guilt for leaving Dernière Accueil, for leaving my father and my sickly sister, and the pangs of my wrongdoings have weighed heavily on me ever since. It became so bad that his face tormented me in my sleep, and the cries of my sister only supplicated me, 'come home, come home' she would say to me in my dreams. I still remember that voice, echoing like raindrops in my head." I spoke the words of reason, of admonition, and the butler stood in silence and intrigue.

"Your sister was important to you; more so than your father, and your father knew such things. You were always the type to have a plan and you once schemed to find the greatest of French medicine, or even travel to the Netherlands where medicine had its effective trials, and return before your sister worsened," the butler nasally reminded, "and you were so quick to love others without consideration for yourself. If ever there were a black spot on Derrière Accueil, you certainly overshadowed it. Truly, I remember your child-like self and knew the promises you made to your sister, for I was here too. Were there a greater good, it would be through the eyes of this child, surely."

I was compelled to turn to him now, to look him in the face and show him my true humiliation. And as I did so, I was surprised to see him much closer to me now, within arm's length, head up high and a big smile on his face as if he sensed no wrong from me. It made me feel good.

"I've no capacity to accept love from anyone, so undeserving is this child that my father called kin. How long I've glided through life, avoiding all contractions and ousting the loving touch of humanity, how long I've pondered the meaning of family, I cannot say. These years have been telling for me," I explain, "I've been on sojourn from the mansion to avoid the distinctions of proverbial lifestyles, as if I've cheated fate and avoided Death's touch by not being a witness to it.

"Now he is gone, and he joins my sister, mother, and brother beyond the grave. My family is all gone and I come here alone. Tell me, what kind of human abandons his family and returns when they die, like some sort of vagabond graverobber?" I couldn't help but show the waters of my eyes spill and run down my face like runaway slaves. I felt so tired.

Even as I spoke these words, which hurt like the coals of fire, or the bite of a serpent, I was reminded of the jagged truth: that I was too late to save my sister, too late give her the support she needed. It was a burden I held too close to my heart and I let it eat away like a knife at a slab of meat. Even when there was nothing left, I let it eat away and away, until only my iron and blood remained.

I received a letter signed by my own father, in his personalized signature of the winehouse, exclaiming that my beloved sister had passed in her sleep. Oh, the pain! A single photograph was tucked away in the confines of that parcel, as if by chance, as if it were a blunt taunt! A photo of my sister! Ha!

It was my sorrow that kept me away. I felt angry and betrayed; betrayed by life and unwilling to come to terms with the terrors of morality and the demons of mortality. And so, I knew that I kept away--for years--until that last telegram came and I knew that my father had finally gone.

And then I knew the next obvious truth: There was no one else to blame, save for myself.

The butler stammered once more and tossed his hand to whisk me forward. His hand attempted to reach out, as if to guide me from my sorrow and self-doubt, and exchange a concerned look with me. "Come, come now, it is a common belief that all spirits live on through their photos, yes? Your father would have wanted you to have the photos, as a final gift to you. I believe it was his apology... an apology for not being able to say it sooner." He said this as he worked himself up to say his next words, and I hung on his every sound like an owl in the night.

"He loved you, and your sister and brother. You were his reality, his fantasy, his waking heart. It's no mystery that he waited for your return."

And as I came closer to him and I looked him into the square face, he smiled vibrantly and reached into his back pocket to place a square photograph into the palm of my hand. With a graceful gesture, he closed my fingers over it and patted me lightly on the shoulder. "They will all live on!" he reassured in a whisper, and with that, he started down the hall gingerly, humming a whimsical tune.

I unclasp my hand to glimpse upon the photo, and my eyes could not retain the prisoners any longer. I cried, and I cried until the reds were prominent in my face, letting the sting radiate visibly from staring at the photo. The butler's haunting words rang in my head for many minutes thereafter. It was a photo of my entire family--my mother and her thick blouse, flanked by my baby brother and my gorgeous older sister. Next to my father I was, pulling at his sleeve as he looked on, face full of remarkable pride.

I could not hide a smile.

And then a feeling overtook me by surprise, almost like a sudden storm. It was as much a surprise to me as it was to the butler, and I called after him, turning his head slightly.

"I should like to take more photographs!" I finally called after him, and he turned to me and smiled with a soft tease.

"I'm sure your father would like that, I'm sure he would have liked that much."