Chapter Eight --PART ONE

 

Chapter Eight:

Late the Following Morning

Rosewyck Manor, Juniper Island, Canada

“...he hadn't written anything, come to think of it, as the pencil and blank pad laid on the floor. Tossed there carelessly. I didn't get a chance to say anything, before Ronald crossed the room, backing me into the shelves, knocking some of the items to the floor, and was kissing me. Damn it, he was kissing me! Holding my face in those strong hands, smothering my mouth with his...”

She was supposed to be working.

That was the entire reason Odette Dufrense had pushed the pocket doors of Michael Jackson's library open, and had entered, armed with a fluffy feather duster, a few rags and a bottle of wood polish—she was to dust and tidy up around her lover's prized, private literary space.

At least, that was what she had been instructed, when Mavis divvied up the day's work between herself, Odette and Elsie. (With Elsie winding up with the much-maligned task of rolling up several of the heavy, hooked Persian rugs from the second floor, carrying them outside into the cold and beating whatever dust and other sediments might have settled onto them in the past week. A decision that Odette was convinced hadn't been an accident.)

While Mavis had taken herself to the dining room to clean and polish the silver ahead of dinner—and gab with her dear husband, Gus—Odette had taken to The Library.

And aside from stopping to let in the young Chinese man dropping off a pile of freshly starched shirts from Wong's Laundry on the mainland, Odette had been undisturbed.

For about the first hour or so, she'd been on top of her duties; dusting table tops and chairs, stacking various books into more appealing piles on the low coffee tables, gathering old newspapers to be balled and kept in a decorative enameled box to be used to help start fires in the hearths around the mansion.

Then Odette had ventured to the chaise, (Michael's Chaise in her mind as she'd seen him stretch across it's brocade surface more times than she dared count) straightening the plump, tassel-adorned throw pillows into a less messy display and dump the few spent butts from the ashtray, when her attention had been drawn to an open book left on the table.

Her Mr. Jackson was quite well-read; she was always finding two or three volumes on the side table that he had been voraciously working his way through. How he was able to read and comprehend the books at the same time, was a wonder. Odette had the attention span to only read and understand a single book at a time, and longed for the intelligence to retain multiples instead.

But,that morning, it seemed he'd managed to constrain himself to just one volume this time.

It was a wide, yet thin book; less than three hundred pages.

It laid open, maybe a quarter of the way, a piece of silk, black with pale silver and gold flowers embroidered on it, marking the page.

Curious as to what Her Mr. Jackson had been reading she flipped it back to look at the cover—maroon, leather-bound, with “Tales of Temptation by T. M. Benoit” stamped in golf leaf.

She returned to the marked page, skimming it.

And nearly dropped the book from outright shock.

“...Standing in the room, I felt my eyes swelling in awe.
Standing all around the bare, whitewashed room were what had to be at least sixty women. All of various races, all very pretty, and like me, all very nude. It was almost like a cattle call of women.
Why…why were there so many women? What was going on? Were we all going to be sold? Into some sort of slavery? Made into prostitutes? This was the worst decision I had made in my life... all these worries nagged me, and going to the woman closest to me, I started to ask,
“Hey,what is this? Some kind of gag-”
“Shut the Hell up! No talking! I want silence! Absolute silence!” Came the bellowing order from the other side of the door.”

Odette was stunned. Absolutely stunned.

Flipping back a few pages, she saw that the title of the story was The Invitation, with a subtext below it declaring it had been published in Earle's Stories of the Erotic, August 1922.

Erotic?

That word—she knew what that word meant!

A quivering hand came to Odette's mouth.

These were...erotic, sexual stories?

And Her Mr. Jackson had been reading them? Had a book of them—he'd sought out and bought a book like this?

Grey eyes, widened and glassy, came up, scanning around the room, the two-story room, packed floor to ceiling with tomes.

Were there more like this?

Hidden among classics, biographies, comedic fiction, picture books? Encyclopedias, medical journals, almanacs and atlases?

More stories of people fulfilling the more basic of needs and urges of their humanity?

Books like this existed? There were authors who sat behind typewriters or with a pencil and pad and created stories like this?

Of such a sordid topic?

Lewd fiction—God, she only hoped it were fiction!

Yes....the answer was yes, much to Odette's surprise, as her eyes began roving the page, devouring the duplicitous details.

Her work supplies abandoned as she dropped down onto the chaise, starting the story from the beginning.

As the title denoted, the tale, was told from the point of view of a young woman named Hannah, whom had received a summons to join a mysterious fringe group called The Seven Year Club.

It wasn't until she arrived that Hannah realized it was a gathering of women—the naked grouping the book had been left open to—where a group of unnamed men chose a lover for the evening. All the women were between the ages of eighteen and twenty-three—the aforementioned seven years.

Anonymous, casual, non-marital bed sex.

Carnal relations with a stranger that had only been met minutes earlier.

Poor Hannah didn't even learn her partner's name until after coitus.

The most disturbing, damning line, was that even though she'd been used for a man's most basic of needs, and had garnered none of the other benefits—a boyfriend, a husband, going steady, marriage, etc—she ended the recollection hoping to receive another invite for a repeat of the evening!!!

Why it was preposterous!

There was no misunderstanding what she was reading; every bit of the unspeakable acts were described with vivid, direct language; it's crystal clarity both scaring and marveling the young, naive Odette.

Perhaps literary laws in Canada were looser than in The States; she was certain a book like this would have been banned back in Louisiana. Possibly even burned for its explicitness in describing unclothed people doing more than just holding hands.

Unwed couples having sex.

Sex was an activity meant to be reserved for marriage. Between a husband and wife.

Odette was certain had whomever this T.M. Benoit was, he'd be hung for breaking so many indecency laws, some hadn't even been drawn up and passed yet.

Of course men were insatiable, irascible creatures, but it would have never entered her mind that a man would commit words to paper about it. So that other men could read all about it—even Her Dear Mr. Jackson!

Odette knew that type of man lurked in Michael. She'd seen it, been exposed to it, touched by it that day not so long ago when the two of them had shared his bed.

They hadn't gone as far full intimacy, but had made enough headway as it was.

In spite of this, heart pounding, hands shaking, Odette couldn't seem to put the book down.

When one story ended; she eagerly turned the page to begin another.

In all, Tales of Temptation contained twenty short stories, all of which described acts—some Odette had only the barest comprehension of, others she'd never thought possible, such as two women doing what a man and woman usually did together with false appendages—time got away from her and the task she'd set out to do, but a memory to her.

So engrossed in Tales of Temptation was she, that Odette never noticed the sound of a lock disengaging above her.

In the far, upper corner of the room, where one would step off the curlicue iron staircase onto the inner balcony of the second level of the library,,fronted by a case of books, a concealed door swung.

Though it, stepped a statuesque figure, slim yet strong, draped in silk pajamas of a myrtle green, piped in contrasting ecru.

It was a quarter-past eleven that morning, in which the rest of the world was at full-swing, knee deep in it's daily routine...

But, for one wealthy Mr. Michael Jackson, a cup of steaming coffee in hand, his third so far, his day was just beginning, as he'd decided to sleep straight through breakfast and had almost slept through the upcoming lunchtime hour when he'd been awakened by Elsie, bundled to the point she resembled a yellow tick about to burst, beating all the dust, dirt and Hell out of the rugs on the second-level wraparound porch outside.

He'd staggered across to his office where a warming cistern kept coffee for the ready and helped himself.

With the blessed brown elixir in his system, feeling like something close to human, and deciding he wanted to devour another book, had slipped into his library.

Michael had expected to find the Library cold, dark and silent.

What caught his attention first, was that the room was warm; a fire having been lit in the hearth.

Coming to the railing and leaning over, he saw why.

Reclining on the chaise, pumps kicked off for the maximum in comfort, was Odette, nose pressed into a book, the table-side lamp casting a glow over the upper half of her body.

Looking lovelier than ever in her little grey uniform.

Smiling mischievously, he left his cup on the railing and made quick work of tiptoeing down the spiral stairs as quietly as he could.

Arriving at the foot of the long chair, those arched brows rose across his forehead at just what his little sweetheart was reading.

He wanted to laugh aloud, how he wished he could have photographed Odette's face in that moment.

The way her little pink mouth hung agape, her eyes huge, the redness in her cheeks spreading to encompass the visage he treasured above all else.

Crossing his arms over his chest, he announced, causing Odette to fly up onto her feet, the book falling to the floor, with a gasp that seemed to vacate her entire lungs,

“I've met T.M. Benoit on several occasions. Speaking to her, you'd never guess she the the sort of material she does... she's bright, polite, soft-spoken...”

“Michael, you scared the life out of me!” Odette cried, hand pressing her heaving bosom, eyes snapping shut. Her rounded brows bounced together as what he'd said hit home to her and her eyes opened again, head cocking in confusion.

“She? Her? She?... You mean to tell me--”Odette was sputtering as Michael came around, stooping to pick the book up.

Beaming.

“T.M. Benoit is a woman. An authoress, and a damn good one, at that. I consider myself a fan of her work. I have all five of her books and plan to get the new one I hear she's releasing in the Spring.”

The book was shut and placed back on the tabletop.

“But...but how?...a woman writing such...such a book...?” Odette was flabbergasted, with it never crossing her mind as to how Michael had snuck up on her in the first place.

“Should only men dare write about such subject matter? Hmm?” A playful tap was given to the tip of her little nose. “Men aren't performing such acts alone, My Dear. There's women—and those women are willing participants. Not dragged kicking and screaming against their will—no. They're eager to do such things, just like the men.”

Large hands fell on small shoulders, kneading them gently.

“It's the nineteen-twenties, Odette. In less than six years, it shall be nineteen-thirty! This is a new, modern age, with new, modern minds. Women nowadays are more... liberated. Carefree. Flappers. That's what T.M. Benoit is—a flapper. The bobbed hair, the smoking, the drinking, carousing...out to have a good time. That's what Tarynn—that's Benoit's first name—is, and writes for those like her. And those who aspire to be like her. This new type of woman.”

“Do...do you want me to be like this?” Odette questioned, glancing between the shut book and Michael's placid face.

“Do you even know what you want to be like, yourself?”He counter-asked and saw more of that disarray twist her pretty features.

“For the greater part of your life, you had to do and live how that Lenoir beast wanted you to. You couldn't make a move or even breathe too loudly without her reprimanding you--”
“--beating--”

“...in some type of way. That female broke your spirit and I'll be damned if I don't build you back up. Better than before.” There was a grimness, a tightness to his face suddenly, as with a gentle push, he sat her back down on the chaise and dropped to his knees.

Picking up one pump, he took her foot, pecked it at the ankle and slipped the shoe on, adding.

“I don't think you're a Flapper, Odette. Not fully. You can wear the fashion, paint up, maybe even learn the dances and slang, but I don't think you'll ever truly be a Flapper, a red hot Jazz Baby, and that's not a bad thing, don't be fooled.”

A long finger poked directly into her left breast.

“You're different, in there. In your heart. A bit more old-fashioned. You're very staunchly religious, I can tell. I don't think you'd ever believe in having a revolving door of bedfellows, being fast, acting in crass and crude ways. You don't even smoke! You're a proper lady. And that's not taught, it's born. Some women are only here for a good time, and others are here for the long-term. You're one of the long-terms.”

The other shoe was put on and Odette pulled to her feet.

“Now, come along...” He leaned to peck her mouth. “...I do need to discuss some things with you, that are of utter importance my little nymphet.”

Warm all over, at the idea that Michael thought even more highly of her than she'd ever imagined, she took his hand and allowed him lead her back towards the curling stairs.

Midway up them, she paused, tugging at his sleeve. A question was nagging at her.

“Hmm, Darling?”

“You said you met that Benoit woman—where?”

There was a strange, soft noise and it took Odette a moment to realize it was the sound of Michael grinding his teeth tensely.

“Michael?”

“I...ahem...” He hesitated and was playing with a lock of her hair. “I...met her at Taj's house on a few occasions. Um...don't get excited, alright?”

Something was amiss. Something was wrong and Odette could feel it.

Why would he warn her not to get excited?

Was Benoit one of the two women he'd loved before her?

What he said next, floored her.

“For a while, Tarynn was Taj's mistress, but they aren't seeing each other anymore. Not since Tarynn married some Spaniard in Seville a few years ago.”

The art of speech of left Odette Dufrense, and as she was pulled, the rest of the way up the steps and through the hidden door, which led into the far end of Her Mr. Jackson's office, she was trying to wrap her mind around it.

Taj Jackson had had an other woman, like his scalawag sibling.

Taj Jackson.

The straight arrow. The bastion of respectable manliness.

He'd cheated on his wife. Committed adultery.

Sinned against his vows to Talia!

It didn't matter if it had ended “a few years ago”, the fact still stood.

And now—what had TJ called him?—the golden boy stood tarnished.

With Odette feeling betrayed.

Illusion shattered.

* * *

“...I'd like the tomato bisque, with cheese toast, put a lot of gruyere on it, please; you know I like my cheese toast gooey...”

Michael Jackson spoke softly, as he shifted behind his desk, the large leather chair squeaking, as he reached for the open red enameled box, removing one of the hundred cigarettes jammed into it.

“Yes, Sir, Mr. Jackson.” Gus stood at attention to his side, jotting the order onto his ever-present notepad with a stub of a pencil. “...would you care for a beverage, Sir? Coffee, a soda pop, hot chocolate?”

Dark eyes left the well-lined face of his skilled chef and focused across on the young woman seated in one of the two tufted, brocade guest chairs.

It tickled him that Odette seemed not to care in the slightest about what was to be presented to her to chase away the midday hunger pangs—he could hear her stomach growling quite plainly—and her mind appeared to be elsewhere.

“...hot chocolate please...”

“Dessert, Sir?”

He was so busy admiring his little Southern transplant's beauty—how pale her soft cheeks were, the way her grey eyes glistened and deepened next to the grey of her starched uniform, how plump and glossy her rosy lips were—he never noticed the truly troubled expression on her face.

Indeed, Odette Dufrense was troubled.

Reeling.

She simply could not force her mind to comprehend, begin to comprehend, the very idea that Taj Jackson had had a mistress.

Nevermind that the affair had started and mercifully ended years before she ever knew Taj or Tarynn Benoit existed.

It was the principle of the thing!

Dr. Taj was married. With a wife and child.

And had been just a few years ago, as Michael had put it.

So casually. So nonchalantly.

She shook her head, jet waves swaying.

As if it were the most natural thing in the world for a man, whom had vowed himself away to a woman, would seek out another in which to give himself.

How did someone do such a thing?

Yes, a great deal of Odette's free time had been spent reading stories, where affairs, trysts and secret rendezvous were the topic of choice, were the real meat of plot, but those were stories.

At least...Odette thought so; people—other than that scalawag, black sheep of the Jackson family, TJ—didn't really engage in affairs.

Didn't they?

These were real people, with real hearts, feelings, emotions.

What would drive a person to do such a thing? Defy a sacred vow that they'd made before God in a Holy Church?

It was sacrilegious!

“...is any of that apricot layer cake from last night still in the kitchen...”

“Yes, Mr. Jackson, almost half.”

“A large slice for me and for Odette, please. She's helping me settle some business.” Michael beamed across at her, now wearing a small frown, her smooth brow puckering.

“I'll get that to you right away, Sir.” Gus was nodding as he made a break for the door, Michael calling after him gaily,

“Thank you! God Bless You!”

Once the door shut, Michael rose from his chair, stamping out the other half of his cigarette in the ashtray.

He was quiet, pensive as he moved around to where Odette sat, playing with a lock of her flowing hair once more.

“I....can tell you're surprised to hear about Taj, given how upstanding he seems...” He hit the nail on the head, standing closely to her as she stared down at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap. “You have to understand, Odette, Taj married extremely young. He and his brothers all did. Times were very different. War had come to Europe. The boys joined up against their parents' wishes. They had been courting the girls that would become their wives. They were all shipping out in Medic Units. No one knew if any of them would come back. The combat was right in their back yards—family was being sent here to Canada and The States. They were all still practically children. Should anything have happened, they wanted their girlfriends taken care of and looked after. They married so the girls would get their pensions if the worst did happen. Thankfully, it didn't.”

Michael sat, Indian-style at her feet, idly tracing a finger around the joint of her ankle.

“They were all younger than you are, now, Odette. Nowadays, I think it's illegal for kids to wed that young, but ten years ago—times were different. Taj was eighteen, Talia was almost fifteen...”

He sighed and stared up at her grimacing face. Disappointment leeching from her.

“Taj is far more discreet than TJ ever was. He didn't flaunt it. Everyone knows TJ has Mei-Ling, probably others, but almost no one knew Taj had Tarynn. Taj had the decency to hide such things--”

“There's nothing decent about an affair.” Odette spoke in an angered whisper, still staring from him.

Was Her Mr. Jackson really trying to justify this immoral act? Odette was baffled.

“It was well-hidden. Even from me.” Michael repeated, hand rubbing after her calf, through her stocking. “I found out about Tarynn Benoit by sheer accident. I arrived at his house, unannounced, to borrow a tennis racket. I had a match with my brother, Marlon, who was in town for the summer. And mine hadn't yet been restrung. So, I went to his house and knocked. I should have known something was up when Taj answered the door himself. He has a girl who usually answers the door—Anna, I believe. But he came to the door looking woolgathered—no glasses, hair all over the place, shirt wrinkled. One thing about Taj Jackson, he's very fastidious. Almost always impeccably dressed. But as he was at home, I overlooked it. You see me in lounging pajamas all the time at home. As I chatted with Taj, in the open doorway—the twins were away at music lessons and Talia was out of town visiting a sick cousin—Tarynn went waltzing by, drinking champagne straight out the bottle, wearing nothing but a bowler hat...”

At the realization this woman had been walking around in Dr. Taj's house, nude, Odette turned with disgust, only to have her knee grasped and her body turned back towards him in the chair.

“Taj begged and pleaded with me not to tell Talia—it wasn't my secret to tell. Do not look at me that way, Victoire.”

A finger wagged in reproach at the girl gasping in stunning.

“And don't you fault me for not tattling on him. Taj came clean to his wife sometime later, and they made up. Talia made the decision to continue their marriage, rather than divorce. And it was her decision to make. She is Taj's wife. Perhaps...”

He raked a hand through his own loose hair.

“Perhaps that's why I've gone unwed for so long. Taj is something of an exception, as Talia forgave him and they moved past it. Remained together. A few of my brothers have gotten divorced for having a wandering eye. One's on his fifth wife now.”

Odette gasped softly but kept civil tongue in her head.

“Most of the men in my family are impetuous and run after other women...into other beds, without thought. I've waited for you...I've waited forty-five years for you.”

One of her hands was pried free and squeezed in his.

“Try not to fault Taj. I've no idea what drives people to seek love outside of their marriages. And I don't want to know. Odette...”

He was on his knees leaning against her lap, gazing up at her, his features softening.

“I only want you. No other girl interests me. I wouldn't ruin what we have. I wouldn't betray you. Not after waiting my entire life. I want you to believe and understand that. I'd...I'd rather slit my wrists right now, than shatter your trust and love for me....I love you, passionately.”

Her mouth was pecked and Michael pushed himself back to his feet.

“Now...that's settled....I wanted to talk to you about tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Still riding the fence about the way the world seemed to truly work, she was distracted and looked up with interest.

“Yes, tomorrow is February thirteenth, the day before St. Valentine's Day. You will be going out to The City, Honey...”

“I will?”

He placed himself behind his desk, lighting up the remnants of his cigarette and taking a drag.

“I've arranged a full day of beauty for you, over at Cecelia's—Cecelia herself will look after you. Hair, manicure, makeup, the whole lot. You'll be in wonderfully capable hands. ”

“Are we going out for Valentine's?” Odette was giddy and couldn't hide it, starting to smile, her eyes shining.

Oh, how her mind was spinning and creating grandiose scenarios!

“We are; I've reserved a table at the Nautilus Club for ten p.m.” Michael was nodding, blowing a smoke ring.

“Oooh, why so late?” Odette was giggling like a school girl at what she deemed the cosmopolitan idea of eating dinner at such an advanced hour.

And stopped.

Across the top of the desk, Michael was placing an item.

A small, squat glass jar.

“Read the label.” He instructed solemnly.

Picking it up, Odette squinted at the fine script.

“SmoothEx Depilatory Creme. For the removal of superfluous hair on the face, arms, legs, underarms and personal areas.”

It took a long moment, but the idea got from Point A to Point B quickly enough.

She inhaled shortly and stared at Michael.

Her Mr. Jackson smiling peacefully at her and nodded his head once more.

She couldn't breathe.

He...he intended...he wanted her to...

St. Valentine's Day was the day....she'd become a woman!

Only two days away.

Soon, so very soon.

Suddenly, she felt drunk.

“Michael...”

Behind them the doors flew open with an almighty BANG!; Elsie Moore half falling into the room, out of breath, her freckled face drained of color. This was unlike Elsie, who usually showed about as much emotion as a rock. Now she was all up in arms.

“Elsie, what in Hell--” Michael threw his cigarette, in aggravation, that so tender a moment would be interrupted.

“Mr. Jackson!” She sprinted across the room, and was gripping at his bicep, coming close to overturning his chair as she yanked on him. Her next words took the heat out of the room.

“It's Dr. Taryll, Sir! Something terrible has happened!”

The leather chair was thrown back as Michael leapt to his feet in alarm.

“Where--”

“The front parlor!”

And Michael Jackson was gone, running away as fast as his legs could carry him.

“Elsie...” For the first time since she'd met her, Odette felt no animosity, no hatred in her heart for her adversary and laid a hand on her skinny arm only to find it trembling. “...what happened?”

Bugged eyes turned to her, and she was wringing her mitten-covered hands and waved her on, both exiting out into the upper hallway.

“I was working, beating the rugs, like I have been all day. Outside, of course. I heard tires screeching in the distance. I look up and I see Dr. Taryll's blue coupe—I knew it was him, no one else on the Island has a Pierce-Arrow—flying like a bat out of Hell! Thank God the gate was still open from when that Chinaman came with the laundry. If he'd crashed into the closed gate, it'd have killed him! He came to a screaming stop in front of the house, and fell out the car. He...he just fell out! I didn't know if he'd passed out of not so I went and got Mavis and she told me to get Mr. Jackson and she ran to get Chester and Gus. He must be having another one of his spells!”

“Spells?”Odette echoed, mystified.

Elsie went to reply but was drowned out.

Screaming.

Loud, wild, incoherent screaming that frightened Odette to her very core.

She'd never heard anything like it and came close to jumping into Elsie's arms.

Like that of a caged animal—they couldn't possibly have come from a human being.

They were too primal.

“Odette! Odette! Victoire!”

Michael appeared at the bottom of the steps, flagging for her attention.

“Get on the phone. Call Taj's office—Julius will connect you! If you get Ondine, the secretary, tell her to tell him to drop everything! Taryll's having a crisis! Now! Run, GO!”

As Odette made haste, heart pounding out her chest, she heard Gus yell,

“Damn it—he bit me!”

“Elsie, get the iodine and a bottle of sherry!”

“Yes, Mr. Jackson!”

“No--Taryll! Taryll Adren! Stop! Goddamn! Don't throw my Faberge egg! That's a real sapphire in it! Your grandmother gave that to me!”

Odette skidded into the office and flew to the phone.

She'd seen Michael use it enough to know the tap the cradle three times and she did so.

“Number, please--”

“Julius! It's Odette over at Rosewyck--”

“Oh, hey Odette, how's every little thing--”

“Get me Dr. Taj Jackson's office, now! There's an emergency!”

“Frick! Hang on!”

The line rang four times and with each ring, Odette could feel a tense sweat running down her spine. Accumulating right above her butt.

What was going on?

What was happening?

What the hell was a spell?

All she knew of spells was Voodoo and Hoodoo.

Was Taryll Jackson cursed?

Finally, the line picked up.

“Doctors Jackson and Jackson's Office--” An incredibly heavy French accented voice answered.

“Ondine?”

“Mais oui--”

“Ondine—I'm one of the maids at Rosewyck! Dr. Taryll has arrived in a state! He won't stop screaming! Someone said it was a spell—tell Dr. Taj to drop whatever he's doing and come here!”

“He's not here, Miss--”

“WELL, YOU FIND HIM!”

As the receiver was slammed back into the cradle, there was a loud crash downstairs and several voices shouting shrilly.

The erratic screaming never did cease and continued above all.

Odette didn't even feel her feet touching the stairs as she ran back down, herself starting to give in to panic.

“Hold him! Hold him!”

“He's too fucking strong!”

“Mavis, move out the way! I don't want you to get hurt!”

“Gus, your heart!”

“Mavis, do like I say and move, Baby! You too, Elsie!”

“Shit! There he goes again!”

There was more crashing and what sounded of furniture being shoved around.

As Odette reached the last step, a blur of green slid past on the floor.

Michael!

She had to blink to make sure her eyes weren't deceiving her!

It was Michael Jackson, sliding backwards on his ass, clear across the hall and off into the dining room.

Had he been pushed? Punched? Worse?

“Oh, God!”

She was turning to run off into the dining room where Michael had collided with one of the chairs at the table, but halted, a round blob catching her eye.

It was so red and contorted, it didn't register that she was looking at a person at first.

A face.

The crazed face, the incoherent, guttural noises, sweating, crying, convulsing.

But it was Taryll Jackson.

Stripped to the waist, wearing only his trousers and suspenders, which flopped freely behind him.

Behind him, in the front parlor, Gus and Chester were getting up off the floor, an entire davenport overturned. A table also sat on its side, but Mavis and Elsie held onto the glass, crystal and porcelain knickknacks for dear life to avoid them breaking. Especially those damned Faberge eggs!

All were sweating and wild-eyed.

Had one man truly torn up the front parlor like that. Tossed about heavy, solid wood furniture like feathers?

“Why are you here?” Taryll shouted at Odette grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her violently and catching her off guard with her dumbly answering,

“I live here--”

“No one's supposed to be here! If the Germans find you, damn it, they'll kill you!”

“The Germans? Taryll—stop!” She cried, tears of confusion flowing from her eyes. The Germans? What Germans?

This, this wasn't her friend. She didn't know who this was!

He continued babbling, his eyes staring into the distance, seeing only something he could.

“You have to run away! You have to get away! Before they get you! Do you know what the filthy Germans do to girls like you? RUN! RUN! RUN!”

“Let her go,Taryll!” Mavis was begging trying to come forward and being stopped by her spouse.

His grip tightened and Odette winced in pain.

“Help--”

“Run before they find you! Kill you! Burn you! Don't you see the fires? Don't you see the people burning? Can't you hear them screaming? God, the screaming! Why don't they stop screaming! They're already dead!” He was nearly spitting in her face through grit teeth. “Run little girl—RUN!”

Odette was shoved harder than she'd ever been in life and went flying out, through the vestibule and crashed into someone, who threw their arms around her to keep her from tumbling down the front steps and into the snow.

The world spun as she looked up and into Dr. TJ Jackson's angular face.

“TJ?”

“Are you alright?” He asked, serious for the first time in his twenty-five years of existence, Dr. Taj beside him, syringe in hand, showing a pale blue liquid. Both in their white jackets and pressed trousera.

Looking too polished and professional for the wild scene unfolding.

“Odette, are you alright?”He repeated, gripping her arms as Taryll had, but it with a much lighter touch.

Catching her breath as the wintry breeze blew, causing both their hair to dance, she managed to nod, gulping,

“Yes, he just pushed me.”

“Where's Michael?” Golden eyes searched her face as Taj was leaning cautiously into the vestibule, calculating his next move.

“In the dining room—I think Taryll punched him!”

“Stay here! Stay right here!” TJ instructed, he and his brother, jogging inside.

Sniffling, Odette leaned against the door frame.

Watching as Michael staggered from the dining room, on his feet, and jumped right in to small group starting to circle his nephew.

Taryll was pulling at his own hair in anguish.

Teeth grit and grinding.

Chest heaving as sweat seemed to flow freely from every pore on his reddened dermis.

The unhinged, glazed look in his hazel eyes, pupils dilated.

Briefly, Odette wondered if he were high on dope.

“Don't you hear it? Can't you hear it? The gunfire? The gunfire! The shells! The fucking shell! It never stops! Day and night! Day and night. Bang! Bang! Bang! They don't care who they kill! Men, women, children! Damn it, they kill innocent children! Babies crying in their mother's arms!” He was pounding a fist in TJ's chest, not to hurt him, but to accent his point. Clutching the white fabric in bruised fists. “I've seen them kill everyone! Men, women, children! Doesn't matter! You get in the way, they get you OUT the way!”

“We know....we know....it's okay....it's okay, Bro. It's okay, Taryll...” TJ was nodding, eyes wide as Chester and Gus inched in to help grab him.

“I want Pops! Where's my Pops! I want to go home! I don't want to be in this fucking foxhole! I want to go home!” Releasing his brother's jacket, Taryll cradled his scarlet face in his hands, weeping.

“You are home...Taryll, you're home. You're in Canada...you're not in Europe any more...it's over...the War is over... you're not in England anymore...” Taj spoke soothingly from behind him, as if comforting a child.

“What's it for? What's it all fucking for?” Taryll was sobbing, and threw himself into TJ's arms, hugging him tightly. “Everyone's dead! Bodies everywhere! Why! Why! WHY—ow!”

Taj took his chance and latched on to Taryll's arm, driving the needle into his bulging, slick bicep.

“They got me...filthy bastards...” Taryll slurred this last statement, whatever he'd been given taking hold almost immediately.

His eyes rolled and mouth dropped open.

“He's going out! Help me!” Dr. TJ exclaimed as Taryll began to slump, his full body weight dragging his sibling to the ground, both falling to their knees.

As Chester and Gus rushed in to aid the Doctors Jackson with hauling an unconscious Taryll upstairs, each taking a limb, Michael came forward to check on the womenfolk.

“Odette, Mavis, Elsie...are you alright? You're not hurt?”

There were weary mumbles of the negative.

“He didn't hit any of you ladies, did he? No one was harmed?”

He said this but was looking at Odette, still clinging to the frame, a step outside in the unforgiving cold.

“No, Sir.” They chorused, eyes downcast.

A hand waved over the messy front parlor.

“Don't worry about this just yet. Go, sit, have a drink or something. Get your nerves together. You too, Odette. I'm going to do up to see about my nephew.”

As he slinked away, shoulders sagging, Odette tried to ask what had caused all of this.

Mavis patted a warm fat hand on her shoulder, saying

“Ask Dr. Taj. He can explain it to you better than any of us, Child....”

Turbulent eyes went to the stairs.

“I just hate to see that nice man in so much pain and no one can really reach him when he gets worked up like that...you can never tell when it's gonna happen when he gets worked up like that, until you're in the middle of it, and by then, it's too late.”

“My heart bleeds for that man...a man like him...he was too nice...to sensitive to have ever gone to War.” Elsie whispered to no one in particular, head lowered..

Arm around her shoulders, Mavis fell instep with Odette, Elsie bringing up the rear, all needing a big glass of wine.

Odette wanted to drink the whole bottle to erase what she'd seen and heard.

It seemed a nightmare, but was real.

Poor Dr. Taryll.

Poor everyone, under the roof of Rosewyck Manor that day.

On any other given evening, Odette Dufrense, once of Louisiana, currently of Juniper Island, would have been excited at the prospect of having one of her very favorite meals for dinner: a dozen or so plump, battered, deep-fried shrimp, buttery roasted red potatoes and garlicky, wilted spinach with pearl onions. Though it would have appeared terribly greedy of her, she'd have likely had two helpings.

But on the evening of February the twelfth, nineteen twenty-four, shortly after six p.m., an appetite for the plate steaming before her could not be found.

The table had been set for four.

At the head of the table, a plate mirrored her own, showing the same fare, a glass of dry white wine half consumed beside it.

For Mr. Michael Jackson.

(Odette had a glass of root beer—she'd already had two heaping glasses of merlot with Elsie and Mavis and though any more alcohol than that would have been unladylike.)

Across from her, two more plates showed a different protein, roasted pork chops topped with pear preserves, as the other gentlemen, Doctors Taj and TJ Jackson, didn't care much for seafood and had been catered to accordingly.

Like Odette's, none of the other plates had been touched.

The loss of appetite appeared to be catching.

The chair at the head of the table was vacant; Michael having taken it upon himself to go into the kitchen and personally oversee the preparation of dinner for Taryll.

The dining room was silent, save for crackling of the fire.

“...Mr. Jackson...you need to eat, Sir...you ain't had a bite all day! I can take it up for you...” Mavis was close to whining, as the door swung, following her boss, whom carried the sterling silver platter, a domed lid covering it.

“I will do it, Mavis, thank you.” He said this politely, but with an unmistakable tone of authority. “Dr. Taryll is my nephew. He's my responsibility; has been since the day he was born. He's my family. Go, finish your dinner, please. You've had a long day and need a hearty meal. I'll see to it he eats this chowder.”

“Y-yes, Sir...if you say so...” This had been spoken with unsaid reservations Mavis obeying and slipping back into the kitchen.

Lips forming a tight pink line below his upturned nose, Michael moved quickly through the room and out to the staircase.

Odette watched him go, then turned her attention to the men across from her.

Rumpled, dark circles beneath their eyes, TJ smoking his fourth cancer stick in a row, squinting upwards at nothing in particular overhead; Taj head down, running a finger around the edge of his empty wine glass.

“Dr. Taj...?”

Stormy eyes came up and peered over his spectacles. Brows raising in question.

“Yes?”

“Wh-wh-what happened today? To Dr. Taryll? What caused him to act that way? I've never seen anything like it—why, it frightened me! And...and everyone acted like this is something that happens frequently--”

“It does.” Dr. TJ interjected this flatly. “Every few months, since we got back from The Front, it's happened. No rhyme, no reason. Taryll goes bonkers. I'm just glad he didn't kick me in the ribs again. Called me a—well, I can't repeat such things in front of a dame—but I had the bruise for weeks. Don't know how he took my Black ass for a German!”

“Tito Joe!” Taj hissed glaring at him. “You know full well when Taryll slips into one of his episodes, he doesn't know what he's doing. What he's saying! He's not in the here and now—he's back on a battlefield in the middle of nowhere England...you know damn well what he's seen. You were there yourself!”

“Yeah...” TJ was nodding to the point his wild hair bounced. “I saw action just like he did, but you don't see me running around tearing shit apart, screaming and carrying on--”

Odette jumped as Taj slammed a fist on the table top, almost yelling at his sibling,

“And you better be on your hands and knees every night thanking God you can sleep at night! Taryll can't! Now shut up before I shut you up!”

TJ scoffed and shook his head but said no more.

“Odette...” The kindly physician was adjusting his glasses, neck showing red as he tried to control himself in the face of TJ's indifference.

. “...considering you came from a very rural area in The States, I'm not sure how much you know of The Great War and what's happened in the years since it's ended.... there's been talk of a disorder...”

He paused, producing a case of onyx and silver, removing a cigarette. He took his time to light it and have a puff, smoke leaking from his nostrils,

“You see, a great many of the soldiers coming home from abroad, had problems. Tremors, paralysis, screaming fits...more. Couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, up all night with nightmares. Some were catatonic. Stared into space drooling on themselves. Others laughed for hours on end maniacally at nothing...essentially, they were broken.”

Taj slumped in his chair and heaved a sigh that sounded like it had come up from his knee caps.

“Have you ever heard mention of the term “Shell-Shock” before, Odette?”

She had been scooting a crustacean around her plate and through the blob of tartar sauce for dipping.

There was that buckling of her forehead again.

These were foreign words to her.

Shell....shock? How did a person get shocked by a seashell?

Did they conduct electricity—were some made of conductive metal?

Had Dr. Taryll been electrocuted?

“No...” She glanced from Taj to TJ and back, ignorance clouding her face. “...what's that?”

There was another of those kneecap sighs, Taj taking the time to remove his eyeglasses and fold them away beside his plate.

“Some psychologists, including a couple I know personally, believe, that, given the constant atmosphere of bullets and shells going off overhead and around them, and witnessing the horrors of war—killings, deaths, gas attacks, worse—that the trauma of all that did something to the soldiers.” He was tapping himself in the temple.

“All the noise, bloodshed, illness, it did something to their brains. Caused something to shift, to change, and these servicemen carry it with them. Replays at random, a flashback...That's what Taryll had today. That's what you witnessed unfortunately and I'm sorry you had to see it, Odette.”

The young girl bit into a shrimp, chewing but not tasting it .

“But...what causes it? Was he injured—was he shot or gassed--”

“We don't know.” Taj was shaking his head, mouth twisting to the side. “All three of us were sent to The Front, but in different regiments, in different places. I know Taryll saw combat in England, Germany and what was Austria-Hungary. He didn't fight. He was a medic, we all were.”

There was a haunted, faraway look to Taj's face.

“Taryll wasn't injured, not physically, beyond a small scar from a bayonet on his thigh. He wasn't shot or gassed. But...he saw something. He's never told anyone what it was, not me, not TJ, not Pops or Mother. Not even his wife, Amelia knows. I just know, one day, not long after we'd come home and reopened our practice, he had the first episode I'll never forget it.”

Taj had that same, haunted, faraway look...staring through time and space.

“I was walking back from the apothecary with medicine for an elderly patient, when I saw people come running out of the office like a bomb had gone off. I asked Molly—that was the girl we had before we got Ondine —what happened and she said Taryll started screaming and throwing things. Out of nowhere. He was screaming in German.”

“Damn it.” TJ fidgeted, stamping out his cigarette, scowling and added bitterly, “I always figured he saw something in Germany or to do with the Germans on our turf. Whenever he goes to cutting up, he mentions the Germans. Every single time. Didn't mention any other nationality—not English, not Austro-Hungarian—only German. The War's been over since nineteen-eighteen, almost seven years, and we still don't know. In seven years, he's never let it slip!”

“The only good thing of it...” Taj spoke up and tore a piece of the chop loose and threw it in his mouth just to have something for his hands to do. “...now, Taryll seems to be able to tell when one of these spells comes on him and he takes off. It usually comes on in his office, I reckon seeing sickly people reminds him of the wounded he tended to. But he leaves. He's a very well-respected Colored man, Colored physician, in town and after his first outburst, he didn't want to be caught in public like that ever again. He didn't want to hurt the family's reputation. We've all worked very hard to establish ourselves. That's why he came here. He knew Uncle Michael would try to help him. Hand to God, I don't know how Taryll made it from downtown, over the ferry and way out here, but God works in mysterious ways...just it...”

“Causes mayhem.” A new voice intoned and Michael Jackson was slowly returning to the table, empty handed.

“Is he awake?” TJ asked, as Michael rounded the table stopping behind Odette and placing a hand on the back of her neck, through her thick hair.

Squeezing lightly he confirmed, “Yes, he's calmed down considerably. Apologized profusely. Told him he didn't need to; I understood. He's eating now.”

The hand slipped from Odette and Michael seated himself, taking his fork and starting to eat—the only one to truly do so that night—continuing,

“You fellows will stay here tonight. I called Talia and Lorena, Amelia too, they'll send over some changes of clothes for you, toiletries and things.

“Thank you, Michael--”

“Taj, I need you to do me a favor, please?”

“No.” He said this quickly, but was smiling, some of the tension in the room releasing.

“Will you drive Odette in to The City in the morning? She's spending the day at Cecelia's preparing for Valentine's--”

“Why don't you just admit it?.” Taj groaned, he and TJ staring across the table at their relative.

“Now is not the time, Tariano.” Michael spoke his given name through a mouth of cold spinach leaves, spearing more onto his fork.

“Uncle Michael, we all know, damn it.”A straight brow on Taj's forehead raised with TJ sucking on his teeth loudly beside him.

“...Oh...”

Odette's heart fluttered, Michael reaching to grasp her hand.

“Victoire...may I--” He was squeezing her hand tightly, excitedly.

Dark eyes dancing in his face, red in the cheeks, pale as porcelain elsewhere.

She knew what he was asking...in front of people! In front of his nephews.

“Yes!” She consented before the inquiry could be completed.

He didn't have to ask...Michael Jackson didn't have to ask!

Her chest was tight, her breath being held.

She couldn't breathe, God, she couldn't breathe!

He was leaning forward, so that his forehead met hers.

Warm, dark eyes penetrating soft grey ones growing ever larger in their sockets with glee.

With is free hand, Michael lifted her dress sleeve, revealing the diamond bracelet she refused to ever take off.

“Odette...my dear, darling Odette...is my sweetheart...”

The words were hushed, spoken slowly, as though he couldn't believe his luck himself. “...and has been, since the moment I met her...”

“There!” Taj clapped large hands together. “Now did that hurt, Michael? Did it kill you? Did the world suddenly come to an end? I'm glad that's finally out in the open!”

Odette did note the expression of aggravation on TJ Jackson's handsome face, with him remaining silent, lighting another cigarette in his mouth.

“No, it did not...” Michael conceded, tilting his glass to his mouth, gulping, “it does feel good to say it aloud. I do so adore My Odette.”

My Odette—it felt so wonderful to belong to Michael Jackson.

Her cheek was pinched lovingly and she smiled at him brightly.

“Just, this is something to be revealed bit by bit. Mother and your aunts know, of course. I've told you; you're free to tell everyone else in the family now. I will hold off a bit longer with the servants here and...”

He touched after his own chin thoughtfully.

“Odette will make her public debut as my girlfriend at Mass on Sunday.”

The same finger swiftly pressed to her lips to keep her from denying the suggestion as he knew she loathed the townsfolk and all whom conspired to keep him in the old choir loft at church.

“Things are really about to change around this damn Island.”

“About time!”Taj agreed, and appeared relaxed for the first time since his arrival. “Pass the salt, please.”

As Taj and Michael conversed in low tones, mostly speculating how the town's reaction to Odette's true title would go, she glanced at TJ.

He was disgruntled, flustered, and had been staring unblinking at her.

That is, until he saw her returning the gaze, to which he promptly stood and declared he was going to the kitchen for more wine, ignoring Michael's telling him he could just ring for Mavis or Elsie to fetch it for him.

Odette Dufrense watched him go, intertwining her fingers with Michael's as he leaned to kiss at her cheek.

With no idea that the admittance of their relationship in open air had put a complete halt to TJ Jackson's perusing of her.

For the time being, anyway.

* * *

The night between the twelfth and thirteenth of February passed with little event. Around ten, while Odette had been closing up the first floor and had been about to lock the front doors and doors of the vestibule, she'd seen them.

Headlights.

A single vehicle, which as it neared the mansion turned out to be a Ford Model T, one of the earlier models from the oughts, pulling in.

From it disbanded a thin White girl, not much older than Odette, bundled in a colorless coat, hat and mittens. A frightened looking creature with eyes too large for her face as she came forward, speaking in whispers.

Announcing herself as “Anna, Dr. Jackson's housemaid, Ma'am...”

Did she not realize Odette was also a housemaid herself, at least for the time being?

Anna had been sent to deliver the extra clothing and things for the Doctors Jackson as passed on by their wives.

In rapid succession, three large suitcases, of fine imported leather appeared in the front hall. During this interval, Michael Jackson had ventured down from his room in search of a snack, and had tried to invite Anna in for a warm cup of cider. “Something to take the chill off after your long journey from The City.”

To which Anna declined, stating Mrs. Jackson—Talia—was awaiting her return and she'd be disciplined if she tarried.

Not much more was said and that quickly, Anna was gone in the night.

With a hand on the small of her back to push her along, Michael told Odette to go to bed; she had a long day the next day and needed her rest. He'd take the things upstairs.

Odette had started away, and stopped turning back to Michael.

Asking if Taryll were truly alright?

Michael bore the same grim expression as Taj and TJ had and his response was vague.

“He's not screaming anymore...that's a start.”

At first, Odette had done as told, taking her nightly bath, slipping on her gown and snuggling underneath the quilts.

After about two hours of tossing and turning, Odette found she wouldn't get a wink of sleep if she didn't set eyes on Taryll Jackson herself.

She hadn't seen nor heard a people out of the middle Jackson brother, since he'd been toted away unconscious from a tranquilizer injection hours earlier.

He had to have come around. He had eaten dinner and allegedly apologized to Michael for the scene he'd caused.

But for some reason, for her own peace of mind, she wanted to see him for herself.

Maybe it was out of a feeling of duty as she was now going to be a part of this family, but Odette found herself tiptoeing through the darkened hall, out to the front foyer and up the stairs.

She rounded the corner at the portrait of Katherine, and stopped.

She saw the door to Michael's office cracked and though low and murmuring like a brook in the middle of an abandoned forest, she could make out the voices of Michael, Taj and TJ conversing softly.

A few doors down, past the all-pink room that had been reserved for the Jackson Nieces, the door to the room next to it stood open, a dim light glowing.

Timidly, she made her way to the door.

It was another lavish bedroom, in shades of pewter with dark wood, a fire dancing in the hearth.

Next to the large bed, a small silver and green Tiffany lamp was lit, throwing a shaft onto the figure curled beneath the silk sheets and comforter.

Taryll Jackson.

His outfit from the day had been tossed across the foot of the bed and he now reclined in dotted pajamas.

On the floor at the foot of the bed, his suitcase sat open, contents spilling out willy-nilly.

Odette lingered along side the bed, studying his face, features slack, breathing even, one arm resting atop the covers.

At least he was sleeping, whether naturally or from the remnants of whatever his brother had shot him up with, Odette was relieved.

Seeing for herself that Taryll was, indeed, alright finally, she turned to scurry back downstairs before anyone discovered her wandering the house.

“...I didn't want to do it...”

Odette stopped steps from the door.

“...I had no choice...I swear...”

Turning, she could see Taryll's breathing had changed, increasing.

“...I didn't want to do it...he made me do it...”

She returned to the bedside where Taryll was mumbling, restless.

“...I tried to run away...damn German...”

With a deep gasp, his eyes flew open.

“...I had to do it!...I had to...” He started to whimper and trailed off, seeing the woman in white standing there.

“Are you an angel? Please be an angel.”He whispered hopefully, free hand reaching for her.

Then he squinted, recognition coming into his face, with him eyeing her more closely.

“Odette—what are you doing in here?”

“I...I came to check on you...I was worried.”She admitted quietly, noticing he was still reaching for her. “Are you alright, Taryll?”

“I suppose so...” He chuckled dryly. “To be honest, I don't remember much of today. I know I had another 'crisis', Uncle Michael told me. But I hardly ever remember them. I just...black out.”

He didn't remember it? All the hollering, screaming and tearing an entire room apart?

Not to mention slapping Michael Jackson clean out the room!

Intrigued, Odette grabbed and dragged a small armchair to the bedside, sitting upon it.

“What do you remember—can you tell me? Forgive me, Taryll, but I've never seen anyone have...trouble...like that before.”

She could have stated that fact with a bit more tact, but with her slumber-deprived brain it was a wonder she could even link a coherent sentence at that hour.

It was then she noticed, he still had his hand extended to her and she grabbed onto it, allowing him to squeeze it.

“You have little, soft hands like my Amelia...” Taryll's voice was dreamy.

“I don't remember much...” He repeated, and his brow collapsed into wrinkles.

“...I was in my office, taking care of one of my patients. It was a burn...Mrs. Kaufman had a burn on her forearm from spilling hot stew on it. I was tending the wound. She was talking about how good her stew was, how she simmered it for a whole day...she'd make a pot for me and my wife sometime...then the room started spinning....”

Odette's hand was gripped tighter.

“I...I knew it was coming on then. And when it comes on, I can't stop it. Lord if I could, I would, I swear...” His eyes were huge with pleading and patting the top of his hand Odette nodded,

“I know, I know...it's beyond your control.”

“I had to get out. I didn't want my patients or anyone to see me like that. It's unseemly, unprofessional. If people think my mind isn't sound, then I'll be out of business. And I have to take care of my wife and child. We have homes, cars, servants. My daughter has private school tuition, her music lessons...I can't bring shame to Amelia or Corny, or my parents or the rest of the family. “

He let out a withering whimper that crushed Odette.

“The last thing I remember is running through the office, past Ondine—I remember cause she was putting on her lipstick at her desk and Taj and I have told her time and again not to do it where the waiting patients can see her cause it's tacky. Next thing I knew, I woke up in this here bed.”

Odette stiffened.

He didn't remember anything past that? She questioned in disbelief? Not leaving town, riding the ferry or arriving at Rosewyck?

She glossed over his turning the front parlor inside out—he was remorseful enough as it were.

Taryll stated he honestly didn't recall anything he'd done past leaving the medical practice.

He just knew he had to 'get to Uncle Michael'.

When asked why he didn't just go to his own home as surely it was much closer, Taryll shook his head violently.

“No! I don't want my neighbors to see me like that...I can trust Uncle Michael. He's family. He looks out for me. Odette...”

Hazel eyes peered into her grey ones with great intensity,

“You have to understand, because of who I am, what my name is, who I'm related to, I'm always walking on eggshells. Things I do, don't just affect me. They ripple out and can affect everyone. My wife, my child, my brothers...I can't be seen when I have my spells like I do. I can't even go see a shrink to talk it out for fear it could come back to haunt me...”

His other hand was now clutching hers.

“I...I know you're my uncle's girlfriend. Just, please, be careful of what you do and say. Because you're a Jackson Lady now, and people will be looking at you, scrutinizing you. Waiting for your foot to slip. I already know I'm a liability--”

“You're not, honest you're not!” Odette tried to assure him and watched him scowl.

“Will you stay with me?” He pleaded in a whisper. “Will you stay until I go back to sleep? Please, Odette?”

“Of course, Taryll...” Her mind was racing but she managed a sweet smile for him.

“Thank you...I'm sorry you had to see me at my worst...” He apologized, shutting his eyes once more.

“Think nothing of it. We all have off days.” Odette heard herself say this, but didn't believe it.

Now she was more confused than ever.

Eventually, his breathing evened out, and Taryll Jackson had drifted back to sleep.

Gently, Odette unfolded his fingers, freeing her hand and stood.

Gingerly, she petted his forehead, saying a silent prayer that he have some peace.

Somberly, she left the room, shoulders sagging.

Learning for the first time that if anyone in the family had any type of woes, they automatically became her own.

Taryll was her family now.

All the Jacksons were.