My Darling, Darling Margo
by Karen S. Riggin
The invitations have been sent, gold-streaked and copper-plated. I have no doubt that the recipients will read them with great delight. And yet will anyone come to my party?
I have set up the great hall with white tablecloths and candelabras of silver. The chandeliers are draped with golden chains of freshly minted coins that gleam like mirrors. The room sparkles with gaiety, even though the music I’ve chosen reminds me of my mood: melancholy and sad — Beethoven at his most sublime.
But no one who enters will doubt the reason for this party. In huge black letters in the entryway the announcement proclaims it. They will know then, but it will be too late. They will have arrived.
I release all my pets: seventeen black widows, three cobras, and one small black bat. They scurry into position, behind, among, between, and under. And I laugh, a laugh she would have recognized. I laugh until the halls of the castle echo with my mirth. Then I turn away to prepare for what is about to occur.
The staircase, as old and withered as my days, cherishes my footsteps; each step receives one slow groan and then a complaining purr of age. Thirty-two steps I ascend, dragging my right foot behind my more-willing left. And when at last I reach the top, I wipe my forehead, that wrinkled brow that now resembles nothing more than summer clay, cracked and wrought with creases. But not a drop of sweat lies upon my brow. My aged lungs have propelled me to the top with scarcely a heavy inhalation. In my anticipation, I breathe like a young man, as easily as with the high step of a lad’s first dance.
Again I laugh, but at this height, the peal of it does not carry far. The castle walls wrap the sound like a present to be handed out at some future date.
What a pity, I think as I turn away, but it doesn’t matter. She will hear my laugh where she lies, beneath the roots of the lemon tree, nestled snug in her bed of soft and fertile soil. Her ears will always hear my laughter. She’ll know that what I do, I do for her.
I turn from my thoughts and proceed to my dressing chamber. No servant leaps to my aid. I scorn them, preferring to dress alone. My fingers are not so old that I am incapable of pulling on and buttoning up a silk shirt and wool tweed suit. Yet still my fingers shake, for I recall her touch as she used to thread button into hole and how she used to fix the ascot at my neck.
Where is the stud she gave me, with its heart-shaped ruby? Ah, yes, in the box. Why, of course. In the ebony, scrimshawed box.
My fingers stroke the delicate carvings. I remember the birthday when she handed it to me, wrapped in silver paper; a pale blue ribbon holding a cookie heart was the trim she’d placed on top. I can almost taste the sweetness of that almond-flavored icing. Cookie and kisses blended together like small bites of precious love.
Tears form in the corners of my eyes, but I cannot weep now. I must not. Ah, Margo, how many days has it been? Days and years that I have been dragged through the mud of despair. Too many fogs of tears have passed.
“I will revenge you tonight, my beloved. Revenge your sweet breath and the lips that whispered, ‘Goodbye, my love, goodbye’.”
Down below, the bell chimes that they have come, its echo loud in the long, empty halls. Servants will invite my guests in. I do not need to rush forward. I can take my time remembering.
Nine have been invited this evening. Nine guilty souls. Which one will my pets dispense with first? My lips curve at the thought, but something shadows my pleasure. It tugs at my sleeve, boring into my mind.
“No, my love,” Margo speaks to me. “No revenge. For if you do, you cannot come to me, and you must, you must, you must.”
“They deserve it!” I argue, but she has left me again. The agony of her departure is a stab at my heart. I clutch the organ that betrays me and wait for the pain to ebb. But I know at that moment I cannot go through with my plan. Is it too late to stop?
Shoeless, I run from my room, dashing down the stairs. “Stop,” I yell out to the party who have come, and they halt, staring at my reddened eyes.
The pain in my heart thunders, but I ignore it. “We shall go into the other room,” I say. “The library is warmer.”
My servants eye me strangely but do not argue as I lead my guests away from Death. We are cramped inside the firelit room, but it does not matter. .
Thus we spend a cozy night, saluting the short life of my beloved Margo, she with the rust-colored tresses. And as we chat, I feel the touch of a ghostly cold hand in mine; her gentle breath an icy wind stroking the nape of my neck.
Thus I know I have pleased Margo with my revengeless sacrifice. I grit my teeth and continue on with the enemies of my life.
The hour of midnight finally tolls. I escort the men outside and bid them farewell. I brush away the tear that falls as the last soul waves goodbye.
My tread up the stairs is slower than before. No longer do my lungs feel young. I cough and pause at the mid-way turn and clutch my strangely beating heart. Then at the moment when I seek to resume, I see her visage smiling.
“Margo,” I cry out and my legs take flight and I soar down the staircase.
No matter. I am smiling as my body drops. Smiling, for I know she has returned for me.
On the ground I lie as my heart beats its last, and my lips draw apart for the sweetness of the lovely kiss of my darling, darling Margo.
Copyright © 2011 by Karen S. Riggin
