The Dollhouse

Chapter 41

THE pot luck was a sickening display.

The well-to-do people of the neighborhood brought round fancy plates of perfectly sliced food, and there had been many hours of dusting, wiping down surfaces and fretting from Arabella beforehand. We girls helped with the housework, as Arabella would be scandalized if a nosy neighbor happen to spy even a speck of dirt on her lovely furniture.

Her insufferable mother, Irene, had come down for the Haverbrook Harvest. It was one of the most popular times of the year, where farmers put their produce on display and children ran around with candy corn. The church also orchestrated a local auction, which was as dreary as one might expect.

"It's been over a year since that animal was in this house, but the fur still sticks so stubbornly," Arabella said sharply, her chest heaving from the anxiety of it all. She had rubber gloves up to her elbows and was armed with every nozzle she could unearth from the kitchen cupboards.

I swept the leaves away, and together Violet and I bleached the bathroom.

Back in the old days, I would've been groaning in my head, and Violet would loudly voice her displeasure to anyone who might hear it. But that morning, we were both grateful for the distraction.

Violet scrubbed rhythmically, her eyes glazed over like a member of the walking dead.

My knees hurt from the hard surface of the floor. Irene was reading a novel downstairs, and grumpily I thought it was rude of her not to even offer us a cup of tea in exchange for our hard labor. The strong sting of chemicals caused my eyes to water. A few strands of my hair escaped into my face, which had gone beet-red from effort.

It wasn't long until the afternoon truly died, and the sky outside became a thick and inky black.

I didn't know any of the guests. Well, I had telephoned my friends to slip in with the crowd, but now that Marcus and Joyce were invited, it seemed like a catastrophe waiting to happen.

Arabella played the hostess. She looked as magnificent as the day we met her - pearls at her throat and a smile twisted on her lips, she graciously shook hands and accepted thanks.

There is something so impersonal about a full house. You're restricted from the freedom of your daily routine, and the sound of pleasant voices constantly in the backdrop creates a sense of surrealism. I didn't like my privacy being invaded, but it wasn't even like the guests were expecting a grand tour of my bedroom or anything.

Every glass the family owned had been filled with pricey wines brimming with bubbles, and set out on little trays. Food, provided with neat napkins, varied from cold meats to elaborate salads, as well as platter garnished with carrots and cheese which I'd prepared myself.

People wore their poshest clothes, all trying to outdo each other's anecdotes. It was ridiculous, really.

My mother's last dinner had looked a lot like this. Where she'd employed a charm that seemed to be reserved for woman abandoned by their husbands, and a man had swooped in faster than you could say Crow. I wondered if he wept after her death. He probably wouldn't have given a damn about us. I was starting to believe most men thought offspring as a curse.

"Dear Granny just ordered me to take out the trash," Violet muttered to me as she marched into the kitchen. Her Victorian white lace was no failed garment - she looked like the virgin daughter than Edgar desperately wished she would pretend to be.

"Image is everything." Arabella straightened my shoulders from my preferred slouching position. I had no clue she had come gliding up behind me, her hawk eyes inspecting the atmosphere in each room.  "Your little friends are here. Go and greet them. And it's best to keep my mother away, she's not in a very accommodating mood."