A short story offering from Barbara Avon - The Ill-Fated Ball

 

The Ill-fated Ball

1918

 

“Lina, darling. You made it!”

            Camilla greeted her with a kiss on each cheek.  Her teal gown was adorned with tiny beads that sparkled like the white lights surrounding the perimeter of the room.  The neckline showcased her generous curves, winning the attention of more than a few sets of eyes.   

            “It's Mackenzie's doing.”

            “Well, then, I really should thank the man. Come now. Let us find Belle. She'll be pleased to see you.”

            They walked holding hands, threading their way through throngs of tuxedos. The women stood in one corner sharing gingerbread recipes and discussing the latest gossip that was sure to make its way into the society section of the morning's Herald. 

            Lina readied herself for the barrage of questions that promised to turn her stomach. She had attempted to opt out of attending the party and was met with Mackenzie's not-so-subtle warning suggesting unemployment if she refused. The previous night, she took to Mrs. Werner's sewing basket and made herself a passable costume and promised herself she would leave at the first opportunity. 

            Camilla played host, and paused to engage in pleasant banter with colleagues, drunk on Christmas cheer. She came to Lina's aid and answered one intrusive query with an anecdote, causing the curious fat fellow to fall back. 

            “Do you intend to play Saint Nicholas this year, Albert? Have I ever told you about the time that my Uncle Charles found himself stuck in the chimney?”

            “I don't believe you have. You'll have to entertain me at a later time. If you'll excuse me, I believe my wife is searching for me.”

            “Of course! Don't let us keep you from the lovely Mrs. Lawson.”

            The two women burst into a fit of giggles, and Lina felt herself relax, if even by a degree. They walked towards the refreshments where Belle stood waving frantically. 

            “Coming, Belle!” Camilla shouted over the crowd.  She lowered her voice to deliver the unfortunate news.  “Don't look now, but Thomas is making eyes at you.”

            “He isn't.”

            “He is! Why don't you go have a chat with him and catch up with us later? Why, speak of the devil.”

            “The devil is no match for me,” Thomas said, sauntering up to them. “Good evening, ladies. Lina,” he said, nodding.

            Lina felt the blood rush to her face. She sensed the man's eyes pierce right through her gown and settle on a sacred place where her husband’s lips last lingered.

            “I'll leave you two alone,” Camilla said, squeezing Lina's hand. “Don't keep her to yourself too long, Tom.”

            “I wouldn't dream of it,” he said, handing Lina a cup of punch.

            She accepted it without gratitude and drank from it, averting her eyes from evil.

            “It's good to see you out and about.”

            “I won't be staying long.”        

            “That's a shame. Won't seem like much of a party if you're not here to keep me in my place.”

            “I...yes.”

            She struggled to keep up with the repartee. Every breath she took was expelled in wistful wisps, draining her of her Joie de Vivre. She wished to perish and be done with the charade. Draining her cup, she placed it on a table next to her. 

            “Can't have that, can we?” Thomas picked up her glass, walked over to the refreshment table and refilled it.  He was back by her side in a flash.

            “Thank you,” she managed to say.

            “You're welcome. I'm glad we have a moment to ourselves. There's something I've been meaning to ask you.”

            “I can't imagine what that might be.”

            Chaney's Four kicked things up a notch by belting out their rendition of Lonesome, eliciting a few groans from the revellers.  

            “Mackenzie should have spent the extra penny on a Christmas band,” Thomas said, bumping his shoulder against hers.

            “I hired this band.”

            “Right. Well, about this thing I've been meaning to talk to you about. I was wondering if you'd look something over for me. I'm taken by the way you compose the staff newsletter every month. Perhaps you could tell me if I'm on the right track?”

            “What is it?” Lina asked, draining her glass once more.

            Tom held his tuxedo lapel like a proud peacock, “I have been given the honour of writing a wedding speech for a happy couple. Half of which is my own flesh and blood. I would hate to embarrass my brother on his wedding day. What do you say?”

            Lina scanned the room and met Camilla’s and Belle's eyes. They were huddled together discussing God-knows-what. She imagined the sound of their malicious laughter, and the lewd jokes told her at her expense. The floor moved beneath her. She swayed slightly on her feet.  A slap of hot air caused her to want to purge. 

            “Are you all right?”      

            She saw her dead husband beneath Thomas’ tuxedo, chastising her for engaging with another man.

            “Yes. I mean, no. It's so warm in here.”

            “You look faint,” Tom said, pulling out a chair for her. “Sit a spell.”

            “I...can't. I have to go.”

            “You only just arrived. Lina!”  

            She ran through the crowd, ignoring the inquisitive glances and cruel smirks of her colleagues, pulling her gown above knees to better escape. The flight of stairs leading outside beckoned her. The sound of her heels clicking on the wood echoed, until she realized that it was a different set of soles that followed her to the street. 

            Beneath the stars, she gulped air as if needing it to survive. Like a voyeur, Thomas watched as she leaned on the stone wall, gagging, and choking on nothing. He grasped her around the waist to support her. Lina grew hysterical. His hand muffled her scream. Pulling her into a darkened alley, he repeated her name over, and over. 

            “Stop it, now. You're all right.”

            Thomas pushed her against the brick wall. His hand was like a muzzle. His eyes were fierce and adopted the colour of the bourbon he had consumed in solitude. She begged him by shaking her head back and forth. Slowly, he removed his hand. She screamed for help once more.  The single syllable faded on the night air.

            “There's no need for that,” he whispered in her ear.  He silenced her by pressing his mouth on hers. She struggled, but he was too strong for her. His actions were fueled by alcohol, and an insatiable hunger. 

            Pulling at the silk fabric of her gown, he found warmth between her legs. Her tears failed to fall. There were none left. There was nothing left, except the distant sound of a trumpet, courtesy of Chaney and his three. 

 

© Barbara Avon