“I’m not swearing anything to you, brother, but it’s quite obvious that Seraphine didn’t send you a letter. What good would that do?”
“No good, unless it was meant for our father.”
“Is it addressed to you?”
“It’s addressed to the Dumonts,” I tell him, staring at the address on the envelope. It’s typed, and the stamp is from France.
“Then it’s probably for Father, not you,” he says, yawning. “Looks like the truth can’t stay buried for long. Good luck with that. If I were you, I’d take those letters as a sign to leave.”
“So I can do what you did, take off to another country? Like a coward?”
“Goodbye, Pascal,” he says, and before I even get a chance to ask how he is, how the baby is, he hangs up on me.
It’s just as well. The less I know about them, the better.
I hang up, even more disturbed than before. I knew it wasn’t Seraphine, and yet I’d hoped it was her, just so I could forget about it.
What I need to do is try to find out where the letter came from. When I came home from work, it was on the floor with the rest of the mail, spilled out on the tiles beneath the mail slot. My mother and father were out for dinner at the time, so they hadn’t seen it.
I have to wonder if perhaps there had been a letter prior to this one. If so, then either my mother or father would have opened it and yet not said anything to me.
I should ask Charlotte. The thought flits across my mind.
But Charlotte, my personal maid, quit two weeks ago in a fiery rage. Something about me being cruel and careless, which is an odd accusation considering she’s someone I’ve rarely given more than a second thought to. She was just a maid.
Unfortunately, she was someone I do need in my life. With Blaise and Seraphine no longer working for the Dumont brand, I’ve been entrusted with all the new hires, making sure everyone and everything is working smoothly. As much as I hate to admit it, if I’m the backbone of the company, then Blaise and Seraphine were crucial organs the label needed to survive.
As a result, I’m working long hours, and I need someone to tend to my every need when I come home. For the last year, that’s exactly what Charlotte did, and though in hindsight I can see she was crazy and emotional, she at least knew how to do her job.
My problem is I’m picky and I’m busy, so there isn’t a lot of time for me to find a suitable candidate. It has to be someone discreet and professional, who won’t burst into tears if I hurl a few insults her way when she’s behaving like an idiot. That’s not always easy to find.
Though it’s late, I go out into the hall and walk down it toward my mother’s room, portraits of Dumonts staring down at me from the walls. Blaise used to say he felt judgment in their following eyes, but I like to think they’re just envious.
The door to my mother’s room is ajar, and I lightly rap on it.
There’s no response, so I push the door open and peer inside.
She’s on her couch, eyes closed, head back, an empty bottle of gin beside her, the TV illuminating her in shifting shades of light.
It’s not unusual to find her passed out like this, and I’m not about to wake a sleeping beast. I start to close the door when suddenly she sits upright and says, “What is it, Pascal?” while staring right at the TV.
My mother can be motherfucking creepy.
“I didn’t want to disturb you,” I tell her.
“You’re my son. I can feel your presence from a mile away,” she says and then finally looks at me. Still creepy. “Come in. What is it?”
I step inside her room. I’ve never found it odd that my parents have had separate bedrooms for as long as I can remember. Her room is all white walls and gold accents, with gaudy art and even a statue of the Venus de Milo beside the bathroom. She has everything she needs in here, and the best part, to her, is that it doesn’t contain my father.
“I’m going to need your help,” I tell her, wincing inwardly for muttering those words. My mother is no different