The Price We Pay
Alice
My palms are raw, and my knees ache, but I wouldn’t dare complain, not when Henry is drunk. Sitting in the den next to the fire, he’s talking to himself, going on and on about how no one appreciates him.
I’m scrubbing the kitchen floor. After he spilled a bowl of soup all over the tiles, he had to blame someone. It was my fault. I’d been in the room at the time, after all. It wasn’t that he was already so sloshed at 4:00 in the afternoon that he couldn’t keep his grip on the bowl. Our cook, Mary, offered to help me, but he shut that down immediately. “Let the little bitch clean it herself,” he’d said, pointing at the closet where the bucket and scrub brush are kept. “Perhaps it will teach her some humility.”
I know better than to let up until he’s fast asleep. This isn’t the first time in the last month since my mother passed away that he’s taken his aggression out on me. No, I’ve spent many hours toiling away, cleaning up his messes, taking the blame for his missteps and emotional outbursts.
Peggy, one of the maids, slips into the room quietly. I only know it’s her because there’s a hole in the toe of her left slipper. She’s a few years older than me, and I would say we are friends, but Father–as he makes me call him now–would never allow his daughter to befriend such a lowly woman.
I guess I’m not above falling on my knees to complete her chores, though.
“Do you need help?” Peggy whispers.
Without looking away from my work, I shake my head. “He wouldn’t allow it.”
“But…”
I lift my head and meet her eyes. She has tears in her dark eyes. “It’s fine. Really.”
She hesitates before she nods and slips away.
It’s not fine. Nothing has been fine since Mother died. Of course, nothing was really fine before then, either. But I’m finding out my mother did much to shelter me from Henry’s abuse. Now, I wish that I had realized just how much she had endured. Perhaps, I might’ve been able to talk her out of staying. We would’ve lost the money, but if Henry has taught me one thing in this life it’s that money cannot buy happiness. I’d give all the gold in the world to be able to escape this wretched man.
About an hour later, Peggy slips back into the kitchen. “He’s asleep.”
My back aches. I place a hand near my tailbone and stretch up for the first time in hours. “Thank you.”
She offers me a hand, and I take it with gratitude. My knee pops as I come to stand. “You shouldn’t have to do this.”
“None of you should either,” I point out. The staff is underpaid and abused as much as I am.
“But you’re… his daughter,” she points out.
I shake my head. “I will never be his daughter.”
Later, in bed, I fall asleep with wet cheeks reaching for the memory of my mother’s face. It fades away more and more each day.
I stay in my room as much as I can, but Henry insists I take all of my meals with him. The next evening, I make my way down the wide staircase, stepping in all the right places to avoid the creaks and groans I know will call attention to myself. With any luck, I’ll be able to slink my way through dinner without another incident, and I’ll be able to go back to my room in an hour or so.
On my way to the formal dining room, I walk past Henry’s office. He’s usually not in there this time of day, but I can hear his voice filtering through a crack in the door. “No, I understand. You’ll have your money, I assure you. Just give me a little more time.”
Despite knowing it’s best not to know what’s going on in his office, I find myself lingering, listening. Who is he talking to? What money? My father’s money?
“No, no, Mr. Severin. I assure you. It’s on the way. Just… give me a few more days. Yes, yes. Thank you, sir.”
As Henry says goodbye, a fire lights beneath my keister and I scurry off as silently as possible. I hear his office door creak open just as I duck around the corner. Did he see me? I’m sure he’ll let me know if he did.
I’m already seated at the table when he drags himself in. He’s paler than normal, making his bloodshot eyes look even creepier than usual. He stops in the doorway and stares at me, and for a moment, I’m reminded of that man in the cemetery. A shudder goes down my spine. I look away.
Henry clears his throat and takes his normal seat at the end of the table. The staff glides in silently, going about their business as if they are specters who can’t be seen, and therefore, cannot be chastised or injured.
I’m almost through with my chicken and roasted potatoes when Henry drops his knife and fork onto his plate with a clatter loud enough to make me jump. I lift my eyes to him and see that he is glaring at me, his hands steepled beneath his pointy chin. “You little whore.”
I lean back in my seat, barely managing to swallow what’s in my mouth. He’s called me plenty of names, especially recently, but this one is new.
“She knew it, you know? She knew what an insolent little spider you are, how you coveted her riches, how you longed to empty the coffers and steal away with one of those boys in town who’s always coming by the house inquiring about you.”
All I can do is blink, dumbfounded. I have no idea what he’s talking about. To my knowledge, no boy has ever come calling on me, unless he simply doesn’t tell me.
“You know, she probably did it on purpose, don’t you? She likely couldn’t handle being your mother anymore, so she plowed right into that truck, hoping the good Lord would put her out of her misery.” His eyes are narrowed to slits, the corner of his mouth turned up in a snarl.
A few of the maids stand in the opening between the dining room and the kitchen, mouths agape, not sure what to say or what to do.
I don’t know what to say or do either, so I just sit there–dumbly.
“Fuck!” Henry pounds his fist on the table, and everything shakes. “You want to continue to live this lavish lifestyle, little whore?” I don’t answer, just gape at him. “Well… everything comes with a price–bitch.”
I don’t know what he’s talking about, but something tells me I’m going to find out soon enough.
Like it or not.