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A. M. Huff
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The high-pitched whir of the engines slowing down and the smooth but sudden jolt as the plane came to a stop caused me to open my eyes and take a deep breath. It was my first time flying and I’ll admit, I didn’t like it much. I’ve been afraid of heights for as long as I can remember.
I took the envelope out of the inside pocket of my jacket while the other passengers began to stir. I pulled the simple flat card out and read it again.
I took the envelope out of the inside pocket of my jacket while the other passengers began to stir. I pulled the simple flat card out and read it again.
The honorable Charles Witherspoon IV
requests the honor of your presence
at Cliffside Manor on the Isle of Mist.
Enclosed please find your airline ticket.
Pack enough for the weekend.
requests the honor of your presence
at Cliffside Manor on the Isle of Mist.
Enclosed please find your airline ticket.
Pack enough for the weekend.
What a strange invitation. I didn’t know any fourths, let alone anyone named Charles Witherspoon. Still, I had been searching for my birth parents for years.
I grabbed my carry-on bag from the overhead and followed the rest of the passengers off the plane. This airport was smaller than the one in Portland where I’d boarded. I imagined it was because we were on an island. At least that’s what I saw when I snuck a glance through the window when the captain said we were landing. Unsure where to go, I continued to follow the moving crowd a short distance to a lobby. The instructions on the note with the plane ticket said to look for a man holding a sign over his head that read “Cliffside Manor.” I spotted him right away. He looked to be in his mid-forties, but I’m not good at guessing people’s ages. He was dressed in a black suit with a white shirt and was wearing a bowler hat.
“I believe you are waiting for me?” I asked as I approached. “I’m Nicholas Nickleby.” Hearing my name out loud, it sounded unfamiliar to me and yet it was my name.
“Yes, Mr. Nickleby,” the man said. “There are a few others who have yet to arrive. Please, have a seat against the wall and don’t stray.”
I nodded and took a seat. I continued to watch the man while he held his sign. His hands didn’t waver. He didn’t move at all. How odd. A normal person would shift his weight from one foot to the other when standing for a long time.
A few more minutes passed and a young girl in a cute summer dress walked up to him. The pattern of cherries and green leaves reminded me of old wallpaper. She shifted her small overnight bag to her left hand and held out her right hand to the man with the sign.
“Hi, I’m Sandy,” she said with a big smile.
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Dombey,” he said without lowering his sign or shaking her hand. “There are a few more guests yet to arrive. Please have a seat and do not wander off.”
Sandy continued to smile as she looked at me. “Hi, I’m Sandy,” she said.
“I’m Nicholas,” I said and gently shook her small hand.
“I’m going to Cliffside Manor,” she said, sounding excited.
“You are?” I said, sounding a bit confused. “Are your parents coming, too?”
“Oh no, they weren’t invited. See.” She held out her invitation that matched the one I had received. Sure enough, hers was the only name on the envelope.
“Do you know Mr. Witherspoon?” I asked.
“No,” she said and scrunched up her button nose. “At least I don’t think I do.”
“And your parents let you come all by yourself?”
“Oh, yes,” she said and looked at me as if to say, what’s wrong with that? “Mummy and Daddy always let me do things. I’m a big girl. I’m nine years old.”
I smiled but was a little shocked. My adoptive parents would never have let me go anywhere by myself when I was her age, let alone fly away to a mysterious island to see a stranger.
A woman wearing dark sunglasses and a fur coat came into view. She held her head high, almost seeming aloof. Her auburn hair was perfectly coiffed. She was beautiful, almost regal. Following closely behind her and carrying two suitcases and a large duffel bag slung over one shoulder was a plain, younger woman. She wore heavy-soled brown shoes, a darker brown skirt, and a stark white blouse. Even her hair was brown and done up in a bun. She kept her head down.
“Ah, welcome, Ms. Summerson,” the man with the sign said with a bit of hesitation. He looked at the burdened young woman. “I believe the invitation was just for one.”
“I don’t go anywhere without my personal assistant,” Ms. Summerson said in a rather matter-of-fact tone. “You’ll just have to make accommodations.”
“Very well,” he said. “Welcome to you both. We have a few more guests coming. If you don’t mind waiting—”
“I do mind,” she said and turned her head. When she caught sight of me, she pulled her dark glasses down and I got a glimpse of her brown eyes. Her lips parted slightly as if she were about to speak, but then quickly closed and she returned her glasses to their previous position. “Over here,” she said and walked to a chair at the opposite end of the row. The young woman shifted the heavy bags in her grasp and started to follow her.
“Would you like some help with those?” I offered as I stood up.
“She’s fine,” Ms. Summerson snapped.
The young woman gave me a slight smile before quickly joining her boss.
The next to arrive were an older couple. The man was dressed in a navy-blue, three-piece business suit. He scowled as he continued to talk into his cellphone. He reminded me of my adoptive father, square jaw, dark five o’clock shadow, greying eyebrows and salt and pepper hair. My adoptive father was always serious and stern, some might even say mean. I suppose that could be true, but for the life of me, I couldn’t recall why.
I assumed the woman following one step behind him was his wife. She was also formally attired, in a modest length, dark blue, almost black, dress and a long black wool trench coat. Every strand of her white hair was in place. When she noticed Sandy, she smiled.
“Blanche, leave it alone,” her husband said when he noticed her starting to head toward the young girl.
Blanche quickly returned to her place, one step behind her husband.
They stopped when they reached the man with the sign.
“Well,” the man in the suit said in an impatient and demanding tone.
“You must be Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Pickwick,” he said.
“Don’t state the obvious, man,” Samuel snapped. “Let’s go.”
“We still have one more guest—ah, here he is now.”
I looked past the Pickwicks and saw another man approaching. He was a hulking man with thick muscular arms and broad chest. He reminded me of a wrestler, but he had the battered face of a boxer.
“Mr. James Trotwood?”
“Yes, that’s me.” He smiled as he held up his invitation. He had warm eyes, and his tone was kinder than I expected.
The man lowered his sign but did not move to take the invitation. Instead, he turned to face us. “It appears we are all here. My name is Sikes. I am the manservant of your host, Mr. Witherspoon. Now, if you would follow me, please, we will go.”
“I’m not going anywhere until someone tells me what this is all about.” Mr. Pickwick crossed his arms.
“Samuel, please,” Blanche pleaded.
“Shut up,” he snapped at her. “I’m a very busy man. I haven’t the time to play games.”
Sikes raised an eyebrow. “Interesting choice of words, Mr. Pickwick. But I assure you, this is one game you will not want to miss.”
“Bah,” he muttered in response.
We all followed Sikes outside to a black limousine where he once again faced us. “You may leave your luggage here and our driver will put it into the trunk.” Everyone put their bags down on the sidewalk. Suddenly, another man dressed in black with a chauffer’s hat seemingly appeared out of nowhere, but I’m sure he was always there. I must not have noticed him before. Sikes opened the first passenger door at the rear of the limo and held out a welcoming hand.
Ignoring all manners, Mr. Pickwick barged ahead and pushed the women aside.
“I’m so sorry.” Blanche’s cheeks bloomed red. “He’s not usually like this.”
I had the feeling he was.
“Blanche! Get in here,” her husband yelled at her. She obliged.
Once she was inside, Mr. Pickwick grabbed the door and slammed it shut.
Sikes looked shocked but moved to the next passenger door. He opened it and said, “Please, you’re next, Ms. Summerson.”
She nodded and stooped down as she entered and took her seat.
“Miss?”
“It’s Carol and thank you,” the personal assistant said before entering the limo.
“Your turn, Miss Sandy.”
I watched as Sandy entered the limousine without having to duck her head.
“Mr. Nickleby and Mr. Trotwood,” Sikes said.
We climbed into the limousine. I went ahead of Mr. Trotwood. I was surprised by the size of the interior. There was a bench seat in the rear that faced forward. Mr. Pickwick was already on the phone with his briefcase on his lap and his wife seated dutifully beside him. On the driver’s side, against the outer wall, was another bench seat. Sandy sat in the middle. A third bench seat was positioned with its back against the glass wall behind the driver. Ms. Summerson and Carol were seated there.
Mr. Trotwood headed toward the empty seat next to Blanche in the back.
“Hold it right there!” Mr. Pickwick said. “Don’t even think of sitting beside my wife.”
“I get sick if I don’t face forward. I’m sure you wouldn’t want me vomiting all over your nice suit.”
Pickwick appeared to think for a moment and then turned to his wife. “Sit beside the girl,” he ordered.
Awkwardly Blanche and Trotwood crawled past each other before taking their seats.
“Don’t you get any ideas,” Pickwick said, looking at me.
“Don’t worry. I wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, trying my best to sound condescending. I sat down beside Carol.
Once everyone was settled, the tinted window divider between us and the driver lowered. Sikes smiled. “Get comfortable, it’s a two-hour drive to Cliffside Manor.”
“Two hours!” Pickwick shouted as the window rose. “For God’s sake, we’re on a small island.”
“It’s still two hours, Mr. Pickwick,” Sikes said with a smile, though I think he would have liked to have booted the insolent man out on his rear. The window closed again.
The limousine rocked as it pulled away from the curb, then settled into a gentle bouncing that gave me the feeling that we were flying again.
“So, let’s introduce ourselves,” Sandy said. “My mom always says to make friends you need to know each other’s name. So, I’ll go first.”
“Just shut up, little girl. Let the adults have some peace and quiet,” Mr. Pickwick said.
“Samuel!” Blanche gasped and gave her husband a disapproving look.
“Look at me like that again, and I’ll knock it off your face.”
Blanche shrank back in her seat and once again looked embarrassed.
“It’s okay,” Sandy said and patted Blanche’s hand gently. “My dad’s like that, too, sometimes. Mom says it’s because he has a lot on his mind and doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
“I’m not your father, little missy.”
“I know,” Sandy said, nodding her head. “My dad is back home with my mom.”
“Home? Where is that?” I asked, trying to direct her attention away from the rude Mr. Pickwick.
Sandy cocked her head slightly to the right and put a finger on her chin. Then she shook her head. “I don’t know. Where are you from?”
“I’m from Portland,” I answered, “at least I think I am.”
“Portland, Maine?” Ms. Summerson’s assistant asked.
“No, Portland, Oregon,” I said. “By the way, I’m Nicholas.”
“I’m Carol,” she said.
“Well, I’m happy to meet you, Carol.”
“What do you do there?” Carol asked.
“I’m a genealogist.”
“You are? What an unusual profession,” she said. “How did you come to that?”
“Well, on my thirteenth birthday my cousin told me I was adopted. At first, I thought he was joking, so I asked my mother. Turned out he was telling the truth. Ever since then, I’ve been searching for my birth mother.”
“Did you find her?” Ms. Summerson asked.
“Not yet. I did find out she was quite young when she had me. She kept it a secret from everyone.”
“So, you know her name?” Ms. Summerson asked.
“Yes, her name was Katherine Murphy.”
“Was? Is she still living?” Blanche asked.
“I don’t know. I haven’t been able to find any information on her. I figure she may have died. So, now I help other people locate their missing families,” I said.
“What about you, Ms. Summerson?” Sandy asked.
“Me?” She suddenly appeared a bit nervous. “You don’t know who I am, dear child?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Oh, for the love of God, she’s a movie actress you dolt,” Mr. Pickwick snapped. “Now, will you people shut up. I’m trying to work here!”
“Look, Mister Big Shot,” James Trotwood said through clenched teeth. “I’ve had about enough of your being rude.”
“I don’t care. I could buy and sell any one of you.”
Before anyone realized what was happening, Mr. Trotwood rolled down his window. There was a rush of air that blew some of Mr. Pickwick’s papers around the inside of the limo.
“Close that window, you imbecile!” he shouted and shoved his briefcase aside while he scrambled after the loose papers.
Mr. Trotwood grabbed the briefcase and threw it out the window into the night.
“You son-of-a-bitch, what have you done? Stop the car!” he shouted and banged his fist on the ceiling of the limo. “Stop! I order you!”
I could feel the limousine slowing down. The window behind the driver’s seat lowered again. Sikes turned in his seat to face us.
“What seems to be the problem?” he asked.
“This ape threw my briefcase out the window. We need to go back and get it. There are some very important papers I must have.”
“I’m afraid we can’t. The road is too narrow for us to turn around.”
Turning to James, he ordered, “You threw it out; get out and go get it.”
“You’re not my boss, you pathetic little maggot,” Mr. Trotwood said and smirked.
Mr. Pickwick’s jaw dropped, and his mouth gaped. It was obvious to me that he had never been spoken to like that.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Pickwick,” Sikes said. “The wind is too strong on this part of the coast road. Anyone who gets out of the vehicle could be blown over the edge onto the rocks below.”
I watched as Mr. Pickwick seethed. He looked at Trotwood. “Get out,” he said. “You’re a big enough man to withstand a little wind. Get my briefcase and I won’t press charges.”
I had to admire Mr. Trotwood. He was not intimidated in the least by Pickwick.
“If you want it so badly, get it yourself,” he said.
Mr. Pickwick clinched his fists as if he were about to punch Mr. Trotwood.
Without looking at the man, Mr. Trotwood said calmly, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
Mr. Pickwick tightened his jaw and seethed for a moment. Looking at his wife, he said, “Blanche, go get my briefcase.”
“Don’t you dare move, ma’am,” Mr. Trotwood said. He turned to face Mr. Pickwick. “It’s your briefcase, your important papers. If you want them, get them yourself.”
“How about you butt out. She’s my wife—”
“She’s not your slave.”
“It’s okay, Mr. Trotwood,” Blanche said. “I’ll go get it.”
“No!” Sandy shrieked and grabbed Blanche’s arm. “Don’t go! Mr. Sikes says you’ll blow away.”
“Just forget about it,” I said. “Everything’s probably already gone. You’ll never find it.”
“What do you know?” Mr. Pickwick sneered.
“We know your type,” Mr. Trotwood said. “Speaking for myself, I’ve worked for a jerk like you before.”
“Like me?”
“Yes, an arrogant bully who thinks the world revolves around him. Well, guess what, none of us work for you. You’re a nobody here,” Mr. Trotwood said.
“You can’t speak to me like that!” Mr. Pickwick said, looking shocked.
“What do you mean? I just did. Didn’t you hear me?” he said. “Or is your brain so small you can’t hear good?”
Mr. Pickwick didn’t say a word. He looked at everyone and then lunged forward out of his seat. “Fine! I’ll get it myself.”
“Samuel, stop!” Blanche said as he crawled between her and Mr. Trotwood.
He opened the door on the driver’s side of the limo. It slammed shut. He tried again and pushed harder. The door opened and he stepped out of the limousine. Once he took a step away, the door slammed shut again and we all heard his scream fade away as the wind took him over the cliff.
“No!” Blanche shrieked and grabbed for the door. Mr. Trotwood caught her before she could try to get out.
“He’s gone,” Mr. Trotwood said.
“No,” she groaned and fell to her knees on the floor.
Mr. Trotwood lifted her up onto the seat beside him. He put his arm around her as she continued to sob on his chest.
“Give her something to drink from the minibar,” Mr. Sikes said.
Funny thing, I don’t remember seeing a minibar in the limo, but there it was in front of me against the passenger side wall. I reached out and opened the small fridge. Tiny bottles of booze of all sorts filled the shelves in the door. I grabbed a couple not sure what they were and handed them to Mr. Trotwood. He opened one and gave it to Blanche.
“Here, drink this,” he said.
Blanche did as she was told.
“Here’s another one,” he said and gave her the other bottle. She drank it too in one gulp.
Blanche slowly regained her composure. She stayed resting her head on Mr. Trotwood’s chest and looked at each of us. “I know you are probably wondering why I would stay with such a man, but he wasn’t always like this. I met him when he was a simple clerk in a grocery store. He was kind and gentle, but he had a boss from hell. After we married, he received a promotion to manager. He promised he would never become like his former boss, but with each promotion he changed into the man he hated.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“I know what it’s like to be bullied,” Mr. Trotwood said. “You won’t believe me but when I was a kid, I was a scrawny weak thing and was bullied. After graduating from school, I went to work for a man like Mr. Pickwick. He took pleasure in humiliating me to make himself look more important. Then one day I walked into a gym and that changed everything. I’m no longer bullied, and I don’t tolerate those who do.” He looked down at Mrs. Pickwick who was quietly listening to him. “I’m so sorry, ma’am.”
“Don’t be,” she said.
“Tell me,” Ms. Summerson said, removing her dark glasses. “Where were you born?”
She was looking directly at me. I began to feel nervous for some strange reason.
“I was born in a home for unwed mothers outside of Portland in Oregon. It’s no longer there.”
“What date were you born, if I may be so bold?”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I was born on August 26, 1988.”
Ms. Summerson’s hands began to tremble as she tried to put her sunglasses back on. She gave up and turned her head away to look out the window.
Carol moved to sit beside Sandy.
“What’s your name?” Sandy asked.
“Carol,” she answered.
“What do you do?”
“I help Ms. Summerson.”
“How?”
“Oh, I—” She looked at her boss. “I do a lot,” she said turning back to Sandy. “And what do you do?”
“I go to school. I’m in the fourth grade.”
“Do you like school?”
“Yes. I like it a lot. I get to play with my friends at recess and I like my teacher, Mrs. Cratchit.”
“What about your family? Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“No,” she said and scrunched up her little nose. “I don’t think so.”
Ms. Summerson turned to look at me. “Young man, there is something I should tell you.” Her voice quivered as she spoke. I looked at her. “When I was a young girl, I found myself in a most difficult situation. I was sixteen and had just been accepted into Julliard School of Performing Arts for their fall term and I was pregnant. My boyfriend wanted nothing to do with the baby and I couldn’t get an abortion without my parents finding out, so I hid my pregnancy. In the summer, I convinced my parents to let me work at a home for unwed mothers. I told them it would be a good way to learn about such things in case I ever needed to play a part in a movie. They believed me. So, I checked into the home and on August 28th of 1988, I gave birth to a baby boy, and no one was the wiser.”
My whole body felt the rush of adrenaline. “But your name isn’t Katherine Murphy.”
“But it is. Summerson is my stage name,” she said. “You are the child I gave up for adoption.”
Now, I began to tremble. My eyes watered and blurred my vision.
“We’ve arrived,” Mr. Sikes said.
“We have?” Sandy said and stretched her neck to see out the windows.
Everyone had been so caught up with their stories that none of us felt the limousine moving.
The window between us and the driver inched closed. The limousine went dark.
I heard someone’s voice say, “Three, two, one.”
Suddenly I was seated on a chair with bright lights shining in my eyes. The thunder of applause and cheering was deafening. I looked across from me where Mrs. Pickwick sat with Mr. Trotwood but instead of seeing them, I saw a thin young man with black rimmed glasses and acne scars. Beside him was a young girl with red hair wearing a black dress. I looked at Sandy, but it wasn’t Sandy. Instead, it was an elderly woman in a dress with cherries and leaves. She smiled nervously and looked confused. Beside her, where Carol should have been, was a young woman with long, silky brunette hair. She was gorgeous and looked like a magazine model. Finally, I looked to my right, at Ms. Summerson. She was young, about my age from what I could tell, and beautiful. She had blonde hair and blue eyes. She looked at me and then looked away as though embarrassed. I had a pain in my chest, as if I had just lost someone dear to me.
“Weren’t they all fantastic?” a man standing in front of us said to the people. He turned around and smiled while he applauded.
Sikes? I was confused.
“You were all wonderful. Thank you for participating in a little experiment.”
Experiment? What experiment?
A man stepped out of the darkness. The chauffeur! He directed us off what turned out to be a stage. I turned around and looked, there was no limousine, no narrow windy road, only a cluster of folding chairs in front of a black backdrop.
As I reached the bottom of the steps I turned to look back at the stage. Another man walked onto the stage. “Let’s give another round of applause to Charles Witherspoon, hypnotist extraordinaire.”
Hypnotist?
Slowly, still lost between dream and reality, I stumbled toward the exit.
“Keith! Where’re you going?”
I stopped and turned around. My best friend Tony was standing by his seat in the fourth row.
“Come back here,” he said, motioning to me and pointing at the empty seat beside him.
I walked back up the aisle and scooted across to my seat. Tony kept clapping his hands with the rest of the audience and laughing.
“You were amazing,” he said, bumping his shoulder against mine.
“What do you mean? What did I do?”
“I almost believed you were this Nicholas Nickleby guy.”
“Nicholas—you mean the Dickens character?”
“Yeah, but not the real character. That was just the name Witherspoon gave you. After you and the others were hypnotized, he gave each of you your parts. Then, he let you adlib the rest. Oh, he would interact with you a little, like when he told you about the wind, but he let you all do your own thing.”
“What about Mr. Pickwick?” Hearing me say the name out loud, I couldn’t believe I actually thought it was someone’s real name. “What happened when he got out of the limo?”
“First of all, there was no limo,” Tony said, still laughing. “He was great. At the mere suggestion of there being a strong wind, he looked like he was struggling to stand up. He even tumbled over backward until he fell off the stage onto a mat. That’s when he came to. He went back to his seat. Oh, but watching the one called Sandy was hilarious. She really acted like a nine-year-old girl.”
“Where did he come up with all that stuff, about the bully, about Sandy’s family, about my being adopted and Ms. Summerson being my mother?”
“You all came up with it on your own.”
“So, you’re telling me it was all just an illusion? A figment of imagination?”
“Yes. It was,” Tony said as the applause died into silence.
“But it felt so real,” I said and settled back in my seat. I couldn’t shake the sadness that stirred deep inside. I truly believed I was on the Isle of Mist and that it was all real.
I couldn’t wait to get home and see my parents.
I grabbed my carry-on bag from the overhead and followed the rest of the passengers off the plane. This airport was smaller than the one in Portland where I’d boarded. I imagined it was because we were on an island. At least that’s what I saw when I snuck a glance through the window when the captain said we were landing. Unsure where to go, I continued to follow the moving crowd a short distance to a lobby. The instructions on the note with the plane ticket said to look for a man holding a sign over his head that read “Cliffside Manor.” I spotted him right away. He looked to be in his mid-forties, but I’m not good at guessing people’s ages. He was dressed in a black suit with a white shirt and was wearing a bowler hat.
“I believe you are waiting for me?” I asked as I approached. “I’m Nicholas Nickleby.” Hearing my name out loud, it sounded unfamiliar to me and yet it was my name.
“Yes, Mr. Nickleby,” the man said. “There are a few others who have yet to arrive. Please, have a seat against the wall and don’t stray.”
I nodded and took a seat. I continued to watch the man while he held his sign. His hands didn’t waver. He didn’t move at all. How odd. A normal person would shift his weight from one foot to the other when standing for a long time.
A few more minutes passed and a young girl in a cute summer dress walked up to him. The pattern of cherries and green leaves reminded me of old wallpaper. She shifted her small overnight bag to her left hand and held out her right hand to the man with the sign.
“Hi, I’m Sandy,” she said with a big smile.
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Dombey,” he said without lowering his sign or shaking her hand. “There are a few more guests yet to arrive. Please have a seat and do not wander off.”
Sandy continued to smile as she looked at me. “Hi, I’m Sandy,” she said.
“I’m Nicholas,” I said and gently shook her small hand.
“I’m going to Cliffside Manor,” she said, sounding excited.
“You are?” I said, sounding a bit confused. “Are your parents coming, too?”
“Oh no, they weren’t invited. See.” She held out her invitation that matched the one I had received. Sure enough, hers was the only name on the envelope.
“Do you know Mr. Witherspoon?” I asked.
“No,” she said and scrunched up her button nose. “At least I don’t think I do.”
“And your parents let you come all by yourself?”
“Oh, yes,” she said and looked at me as if to say, what’s wrong with that? “Mummy and Daddy always let me do things. I’m a big girl. I’m nine years old.”
I smiled but was a little shocked. My adoptive parents would never have let me go anywhere by myself when I was her age, let alone fly away to a mysterious island to see a stranger.
A woman wearing dark sunglasses and a fur coat came into view. She held her head high, almost seeming aloof. Her auburn hair was perfectly coiffed. She was beautiful, almost regal. Following closely behind her and carrying two suitcases and a large duffel bag slung over one shoulder was a plain, younger woman. She wore heavy-soled brown shoes, a darker brown skirt, and a stark white blouse. Even her hair was brown and done up in a bun. She kept her head down.
“Ah, welcome, Ms. Summerson,” the man with the sign said with a bit of hesitation. He looked at the burdened young woman. “I believe the invitation was just for one.”
“I don’t go anywhere without my personal assistant,” Ms. Summerson said in a rather matter-of-fact tone. “You’ll just have to make accommodations.”
“Very well,” he said. “Welcome to you both. We have a few more guests coming. If you don’t mind waiting—”
“I do mind,” she said and turned her head. When she caught sight of me, she pulled her dark glasses down and I got a glimpse of her brown eyes. Her lips parted slightly as if she were about to speak, but then quickly closed and she returned her glasses to their previous position. “Over here,” she said and walked to a chair at the opposite end of the row. The young woman shifted the heavy bags in her grasp and started to follow her.
“Would you like some help with those?” I offered as I stood up.
“She’s fine,” Ms. Summerson snapped.
The young woman gave me a slight smile before quickly joining her boss.
The next to arrive were an older couple. The man was dressed in a navy-blue, three-piece business suit. He scowled as he continued to talk into his cellphone. He reminded me of my adoptive father, square jaw, dark five o’clock shadow, greying eyebrows and salt and pepper hair. My adoptive father was always serious and stern, some might even say mean. I suppose that could be true, but for the life of me, I couldn’t recall why.
I assumed the woman following one step behind him was his wife. She was also formally attired, in a modest length, dark blue, almost black, dress and a long black wool trench coat. Every strand of her white hair was in place. When she noticed Sandy, she smiled.
“Blanche, leave it alone,” her husband said when he noticed her starting to head toward the young girl.
Blanche quickly returned to her place, one step behind her husband.
They stopped when they reached the man with the sign.
“Well,” the man in the suit said in an impatient and demanding tone.
“You must be Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Pickwick,” he said.
“Don’t state the obvious, man,” Samuel snapped. “Let’s go.”
“We still have one more guest—ah, here he is now.”
I looked past the Pickwicks and saw another man approaching. He was a hulking man with thick muscular arms and broad chest. He reminded me of a wrestler, but he had the battered face of a boxer.
“Mr. James Trotwood?”
“Yes, that’s me.” He smiled as he held up his invitation. He had warm eyes, and his tone was kinder than I expected.
The man lowered his sign but did not move to take the invitation. Instead, he turned to face us. “It appears we are all here. My name is Sikes. I am the manservant of your host, Mr. Witherspoon. Now, if you would follow me, please, we will go.”
“I’m not going anywhere until someone tells me what this is all about.” Mr. Pickwick crossed his arms.
“Samuel, please,” Blanche pleaded.
“Shut up,” he snapped at her. “I’m a very busy man. I haven’t the time to play games.”
Sikes raised an eyebrow. “Interesting choice of words, Mr. Pickwick. But I assure you, this is one game you will not want to miss.”
“Bah,” he muttered in response.
We all followed Sikes outside to a black limousine where he once again faced us. “You may leave your luggage here and our driver will put it into the trunk.” Everyone put their bags down on the sidewalk. Suddenly, another man dressed in black with a chauffer’s hat seemingly appeared out of nowhere, but I’m sure he was always there. I must not have noticed him before. Sikes opened the first passenger door at the rear of the limo and held out a welcoming hand.
Ignoring all manners, Mr. Pickwick barged ahead and pushed the women aside.
“I’m so sorry.” Blanche’s cheeks bloomed red. “He’s not usually like this.”
I had the feeling he was.
“Blanche! Get in here,” her husband yelled at her. She obliged.
Once she was inside, Mr. Pickwick grabbed the door and slammed it shut.
Sikes looked shocked but moved to the next passenger door. He opened it and said, “Please, you’re next, Ms. Summerson.”
She nodded and stooped down as she entered and took her seat.
“Miss?”
“It’s Carol and thank you,” the personal assistant said before entering the limo.
“Your turn, Miss Sandy.”
I watched as Sandy entered the limousine without having to duck her head.
“Mr. Nickleby and Mr. Trotwood,” Sikes said.
We climbed into the limousine. I went ahead of Mr. Trotwood. I was surprised by the size of the interior. There was a bench seat in the rear that faced forward. Mr. Pickwick was already on the phone with his briefcase on his lap and his wife seated dutifully beside him. On the driver’s side, against the outer wall, was another bench seat. Sandy sat in the middle. A third bench seat was positioned with its back against the glass wall behind the driver. Ms. Summerson and Carol were seated there.
Mr. Trotwood headed toward the empty seat next to Blanche in the back.
“Hold it right there!” Mr. Pickwick said. “Don’t even think of sitting beside my wife.”
“I get sick if I don’t face forward. I’m sure you wouldn’t want me vomiting all over your nice suit.”
Pickwick appeared to think for a moment and then turned to his wife. “Sit beside the girl,” he ordered.
Awkwardly Blanche and Trotwood crawled past each other before taking their seats.
“Don’t you get any ideas,” Pickwick said, looking at me.
“Don’t worry. I wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, trying my best to sound condescending. I sat down beside Carol.
Once everyone was settled, the tinted window divider between us and the driver lowered. Sikes smiled. “Get comfortable, it’s a two-hour drive to Cliffside Manor.”
“Two hours!” Pickwick shouted as the window rose. “For God’s sake, we’re on a small island.”
“It’s still two hours, Mr. Pickwick,” Sikes said with a smile, though I think he would have liked to have booted the insolent man out on his rear. The window closed again.
The limousine rocked as it pulled away from the curb, then settled into a gentle bouncing that gave me the feeling that we were flying again.
“So, let’s introduce ourselves,” Sandy said. “My mom always says to make friends you need to know each other’s name. So, I’ll go first.”
“Just shut up, little girl. Let the adults have some peace and quiet,” Mr. Pickwick said.
“Samuel!” Blanche gasped and gave her husband a disapproving look.
“Look at me like that again, and I’ll knock it off your face.”
Blanche shrank back in her seat and once again looked embarrassed.
“It’s okay,” Sandy said and patted Blanche’s hand gently. “My dad’s like that, too, sometimes. Mom says it’s because he has a lot on his mind and doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
“I’m not your father, little missy.”
“I know,” Sandy said, nodding her head. “My dad is back home with my mom.”
“Home? Where is that?” I asked, trying to direct her attention away from the rude Mr. Pickwick.
Sandy cocked her head slightly to the right and put a finger on her chin. Then she shook her head. “I don’t know. Where are you from?”
“I’m from Portland,” I answered, “at least I think I am.”
“Portland, Maine?” Ms. Summerson’s assistant asked.
“No, Portland, Oregon,” I said. “By the way, I’m Nicholas.”
“I’m Carol,” she said.
“Well, I’m happy to meet you, Carol.”
“What do you do there?” Carol asked.
“I’m a genealogist.”
“You are? What an unusual profession,” she said. “How did you come to that?”
“Well, on my thirteenth birthday my cousin told me I was adopted. At first, I thought he was joking, so I asked my mother. Turned out he was telling the truth. Ever since then, I’ve been searching for my birth mother.”
“Did you find her?” Ms. Summerson asked.
“Not yet. I did find out she was quite young when she had me. She kept it a secret from everyone.”
“So, you know her name?” Ms. Summerson asked.
“Yes, her name was Katherine Murphy.”
“Was? Is she still living?” Blanche asked.
“I don’t know. I haven’t been able to find any information on her. I figure she may have died. So, now I help other people locate their missing families,” I said.
“What about you, Ms. Summerson?” Sandy asked.
“Me?” She suddenly appeared a bit nervous. “You don’t know who I am, dear child?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Oh, for the love of God, she’s a movie actress you dolt,” Mr. Pickwick snapped. “Now, will you people shut up. I’m trying to work here!”
“Look, Mister Big Shot,” James Trotwood said through clenched teeth. “I’ve had about enough of your being rude.”
“I don’t care. I could buy and sell any one of you.”
Before anyone realized what was happening, Mr. Trotwood rolled down his window. There was a rush of air that blew some of Mr. Pickwick’s papers around the inside of the limo.
“Close that window, you imbecile!” he shouted and shoved his briefcase aside while he scrambled after the loose papers.
Mr. Trotwood grabbed the briefcase and threw it out the window into the night.
“You son-of-a-bitch, what have you done? Stop the car!” he shouted and banged his fist on the ceiling of the limo. “Stop! I order you!”
I could feel the limousine slowing down. The window behind the driver’s seat lowered again. Sikes turned in his seat to face us.
“What seems to be the problem?” he asked.
“This ape threw my briefcase out the window. We need to go back and get it. There are some very important papers I must have.”
“I’m afraid we can’t. The road is too narrow for us to turn around.”
Turning to James, he ordered, “You threw it out; get out and go get it.”
“You’re not my boss, you pathetic little maggot,” Mr. Trotwood said and smirked.
Mr. Pickwick’s jaw dropped, and his mouth gaped. It was obvious to me that he had never been spoken to like that.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Pickwick,” Sikes said. “The wind is too strong on this part of the coast road. Anyone who gets out of the vehicle could be blown over the edge onto the rocks below.”
I watched as Mr. Pickwick seethed. He looked at Trotwood. “Get out,” he said. “You’re a big enough man to withstand a little wind. Get my briefcase and I won’t press charges.”
I had to admire Mr. Trotwood. He was not intimidated in the least by Pickwick.
“If you want it so badly, get it yourself,” he said.
Mr. Pickwick clinched his fists as if he were about to punch Mr. Trotwood.
Without looking at the man, Mr. Trotwood said calmly, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
Mr. Pickwick tightened his jaw and seethed for a moment. Looking at his wife, he said, “Blanche, go get my briefcase.”
“Don’t you dare move, ma’am,” Mr. Trotwood said. He turned to face Mr. Pickwick. “It’s your briefcase, your important papers. If you want them, get them yourself.”
“How about you butt out. She’s my wife—”
“She’s not your slave.”
“It’s okay, Mr. Trotwood,” Blanche said. “I’ll go get it.”
“No!” Sandy shrieked and grabbed Blanche’s arm. “Don’t go! Mr. Sikes says you’ll blow away.”
“Just forget about it,” I said. “Everything’s probably already gone. You’ll never find it.”
“What do you know?” Mr. Pickwick sneered.
“We know your type,” Mr. Trotwood said. “Speaking for myself, I’ve worked for a jerk like you before.”
“Like me?”
“Yes, an arrogant bully who thinks the world revolves around him. Well, guess what, none of us work for you. You’re a nobody here,” Mr. Trotwood said.
“You can’t speak to me like that!” Mr. Pickwick said, looking shocked.
“What do you mean? I just did. Didn’t you hear me?” he said. “Or is your brain so small you can’t hear good?”
Mr. Pickwick didn’t say a word. He looked at everyone and then lunged forward out of his seat. “Fine! I’ll get it myself.”
“Samuel, stop!” Blanche said as he crawled between her and Mr. Trotwood.
He opened the door on the driver’s side of the limo. It slammed shut. He tried again and pushed harder. The door opened and he stepped out of the limousine. Once he took a step away, the door slammed shut again and we all heard his scream fade away as the wind took him over the cliff.
“No!” Blanche shrieked and grabbed for the door. Mr. Trotwood caught her before she could try to get out.
“He’s gone,” Mr. Trotwood said.
“No,” she groaned and fell to her knees on the floor.
Mr. Trotwood lifted her up onto the seat beside him. He put his arm around her as she continued to sob on his chest.
“Give her something to drink from the minibar,” Mr. Sikes said.
Funny thing, I don’t remember seeing a minibar in the limo, but there it was in front of me against the passenger side wall. I reached out and opened the small fridge. Tiny bottles of booze of all sorts filled the shelves in the door. I grabbed a couple not sure what they were and handed them to Mr. Trotwood. He opened one and gave it to Blanche.
“Here, drink this,” he said.
Blanche did as she was told.
“Here’s another one,” he said and gave her the other bottle. She drank it too in one gulp.
Blanche slowly regained her composure. She stayed resting her head on Mr. Trotwood’s chest and looked at each of us. “I know you are probably wondering why I would stay with such a man, but he wasn’t always like this. I met him when he was a simple clerk in a grocery store. He was kind and gentle, but he had a boss from hell. After we married, he received a promotion to manager. He promised he would never become like his former boss, but with each promotion he changed into the man he hated.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“I know what it’s like to be bullied,” Mr. Trotwood said. “You won’t believe me but when I was a kid, I was a scrawny weak thing and was bullied. After graduating from school, I went to work for a man like Mr. Pickwick. He took pleasure in humiliating me to make himself look more important. Then one day I walked into a gym and that changed everything. I’m no longer bullied, and I don’t tolerate those who do.” He looked down at Mrs. Pickwick who was quietly listening to him. “I’m so sorry, ma’am.”
“Don’t be,” she said.
“Tell me,” Ms. Summerson said, removing her dark glasses. “Where were you born?”
She was looking directly at me. I began to feel nervous for some strange reason.
“I was born in a home for unwed mothers outside of Portland in Oregon. It’s no longer there.”
“What date were you born, if I may be so bold?”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I was born on August 26, 1988.”
Ms. Summerson’s hands began to tremble as she tried to put her sunglasses back on. She gave up and turned her head away to look out the window.
Carol moved to sit beside Sandy.
“What’s your name?” Sandy asked.
“Carol,” she answered.
“What do you do?”
“I help Ms. Summerson.”
“How?”
“Oh, I—” She looked at her boss. “I do a lot,” she said turning back to Sandy. “And what do you do?”
“I go to school. I’m in the fourth grade.”
“Do you like school?”
“Yes. I like it a lot. I get to play with my friends at recess and I like my teacher, Mrs. Cratchit.”
“What about your family? Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“No,” she said and scrunched up her little nose. “I don’t think so.”
Ms. Summerson turned to look at me. “Young man, there is something I should tell you.” Her voice quivered as she spoke. I looked at her. “When I was a young girl, I found myself in a most difficult situation. I was sixteen and had just been accepted into Julliard School of Performing Arts for their fall term and I was pregnant. My boyfriend wanted nothing to do with the baby and I couldn’t get an abortion without my parents finding out, so I hid my pregnancy. In the summer, I convinced my parents to let me work at a home for unwed mothers. I told them it would be a good way to learn about such things in case I ever needed to play a part in a movie. They believed me. So, I checked into the home and on August 28th of 1988, I gave birth to a baby boy, and no one was the wiser.”
My whole body felt the rush of adrenaline. “But your name isn’t Katherine Murphy.”
“But it is. Summerson is my stage name,” she said. “You are the child I gave up for adoption.”
Now, I began to tremble. My eyes watered and blurred my vision.
“We’ve arrived,” Mr. Sikes said.
“We have?” Sandy said and stretched her neck to see out the windows.
Everyone had been so caught up with their stories that none of us felt the limousine moving.
The window between us and the driver inched closed. The limousine went dark.
I heard someone’s voice say, “Three, two, one.”
Suddenly I was seated on a chair with bright lights shining in my eyes. The thunder of applause and cheering was deafening. I looked across from me where Mrs. Pickwick sat with Mr. Trotwood but instead of seeing them, I saw a thin young man with black rimmed glasses and acne scars. Beside him was a young girl with red hair wearing a black dress. I looked at Sandy, but it wasn’t Sandy. Instead, it was an elderly woman in a dress with cherries and leaves. She smiled nervously and looked confused. Beside her, where Carol should have been, was a young woman with long, silky brunette hair. She was gorgeous and looked like a magazine model. Finally, I looked to my right, at Ms. Summerson. She was young, about my age from what I could tell, and beautiful. She had blonde hair and blue eyes. She looked at me and then looked away as though embarrassed. I had a pain in my chest, as if I had just lost someone dear to me.
“Weren’t they all fantastic?” a man standing in front of us said to the people. He turned around and smiled while he applauded.
Sikes? I was confused.
“You were all wonderful. Thank you for participating in a little experiment.”
Experiment? What experiment?
A man stepped out of the darkness. The chauffeur! He directed us off what turned out to be a stage. I turned around and looked, there was no limousine, no narrow windy road, only a cluster of folding chairs in front of a black backdrop.
As I reached the bottom of the steps I turned to look back at the stage. Another man walked onto the stage. “Let’s give another round of applause to Charles Witherspoon, hypnotist extraordinaire.”
Hypnotist?
Slowly, still lost between dream and reality, I stumbled toward the exit.
“Keith! Where’re you going?”
I stopped and turned around. My best friend Tony was standing by his seat in the fourth row.
“Come back here,” he said, motioning to me and pointing at the empty seat beside him.
I walked back up the aisle and scooted across to my seat. Tony kept clapping his hands with the rest of the audience and laughing.
“You were amazing,” he said, bumping his shoulder against mine.
“What do you mean? What did I do?”
“I almost believed you were this Nicholas Nickleby guy.”
“Nicholas—you mean the Dickens character?”
“Yeah, but not the real character. That was just the name Witherspoon gave you. After you and the others were hypnotized, he gave each of you your parts. Then, he let you adlib the rest. Oh, he would interact with you a little, like when he told you about the wind, but he let you all do your own thing.”
“What about Mr. Pickwick?” Hearing me say the name out loud, I couldn’t believe I actually thought it was someone’s real name. “What happened when he got out of the limo?”
“First of all, there was no limo,” Tony said, still laughing. “He was great. At the mere suggestion of there being a strong wind, he looked like he was struggling to stand up. He even tumbled over backward until he fell off the stage onto a mat. That’s when he came to. He went back to his seat. Oh, but watching the one called Sandy was hilarious. She really acted like a nine-year-old girl.”
“Where did he come up with all that stuff, about the bully, about Sandy’s family, about my being adopted and Ms. Summerson being my mother?”
“You all came up with it on your own.”
“So, you’re telling me it was all just an illusion? A figment of imagination?”
“Yes. It was,” Tony said as the applause died into silence.
“But it felt so real,” I said and settled back in my seat. I couldn’t shake the sadness that stirred deep inside. I truly believed I was on the Isle of Mist and that it was all real.
I couldn’t wait to get home and see my parents.
Copyright © 2024 James M. McCracken
JK Press
All rights reserved.
JK Press
All rights reserved.
