Tag: Writing Community

Chapter 3: An Appointment

The old lady’s jaws worked restlessly. “I need to consult you about this matter we mentioned. I am in possession of some knowledge-“

“I’m hardly an expert,” Jacquetta interposed hastily.

“I consulted a worldly expert,” snapped the old lady. “He made it clear to me that I need someone else.”

She then amazed Jacquetta by pulling from her bag an ancient leather book labeled “1910.” Did she know what year it was?

“Depends where you are,” quibbled Jacquetta. The day she was supposed to enter the monastery! But lunch was only lunch. She was curious. It could work.

“Glasstown,” said the old lady. “Named after the family’s factory. We wanted to call it Iridium, but town fathers are so pedestrian.”

“You’re a…Rainbeaux?” It was a famous family – the most famous family in the area. “Your stained glass is so beautiful.”

“Alas, the factory is defunct. Once upon a time artists were content to toil anonymously for the glory of the work, now it’s all about pensions, breaks, insurance and overtime. We were forced to close.”

“I’m Jacquetta Strike,” said Jacquetta. “My church – St. Barnabas – has some of your windows. They are truly glorious.”

“Tomorrow’s Friday. Will that suit?”

“St. Barnabas!” The old woman seemed thunderstruck. “How very curious. I was there…only recently.”

Certainly that church was an out of the way church for a Glasstown resident but Jacquetta did not inquire further. She reached out a hand and the old woman enveloped it in a pair of claws knotty with tarnished rings.

“I’m Beatrix Rainbeaux,” the old lady introduced herself. “My house is in the middle of town, across from the police station. Enormous glass rainbow over the door – you can’t miss it. Shall we say noon sharp? I cannot bear unpunctuality.”

This was simply irresistible. The sisters did not really expect her until Vespers. They had been so understanding about every difficulty.

“I’m looking forward to it,” said Jacquetta.

Chapter 1: A question of evil

On a winter day in 1980, two women who had just met found themselves discussing evil in a train compartment. It had been Jacquetta Strike’s last day at work, and she’d had little to do other than anticipate a cavalcade of “last things”; such as of looking out of a grubby train window and watching the glittering

lights of New York give way to the somber darkness of New Jersey. But her contemplation was shattered by the noise of an old woman having an altercation with the conductor.

“Three more dollars! Why, that’s robbery! My ticket says Princeton Junction right on it! It was perfectly good when I came in this morning, and it’s a round trip ticket. I insist on talking to your superior.”

She was a very short old woman with features too big for her face: eyebrows wrestled like caterpillars at the bridge of her nose and her big coarse ears looked as if they could do with a more thorough washing. She carried a black velvet carpet bag with tarnished silver handles and her sealskin coat had probably been all the rage in the last century, but her rubber tipped cane was pathetically utilitarian.

“This here is an off-hour ticket,” explained the tired conductor, “And you’re riding a rush hour train. See all those people standing? Well, they’ve got better tickets than yours. You needed to wait for the six-thirty.”

“I’ll pay the three dollars,” said Jacquetta, forking it over. Anything for a little peace and quiet to assess the massive change that had just taken place in her life. After all, what was money? The least important thing in the universe. But the old lady turned to Jacquetta with an expression of outrage.

“I can’t allow that! This carriage is as crowded as a cattle car! They should charge less, not more!”
With unseemly haste, the conductor punched a new ticket, eager to be gone.

“It’s the law of supply and demand,” explained Jacquetta. “Everyone wants eggs; eggs are ten dollars. No one wants eggs then they’re giving them away.”

“It’s foolishness,” said the old lady. “And that man was very rude.”

“He was only doing his job.”

The old lady snorted. “That’s a modern excuse for irresponsibility! In my day people were proud of their work, worked long hours with no overtime just to get things right. Nobody cares any more in this terrible world.”

Jacquetta was surprised to see a look of real pain distort the aging face.

“People used to leave their houses unlocked and women could stroll the streets unmolested. People are eviller, that’s all. Everyone’s out for what they can get.”

Jacquetta couldn’t let this one past. “I think there was plenty of awfulness and we just didn’t know about it,” she offered mildly. “The media simply provides a mirror and we’re frightened by what we see.” Our own face, she thought. That’s what scares us.

“Blame and excuses,” disputed the old lady, “The problem is evil. People born without a conscience don’t care what they do.”

“Sociopaths,” said Jacquetta. “I think that’s the clinical term.” Giles de Retz? Vlad the Impaler? Was sociopathy such a modern invention?

“And then some people choose evil,” the old lady insisted, “So they can get what they want. Appetite! You can ride the devil, but you can’t get off.”

“We all have dangerous potential,” agreed Jacquetta. Who would have thought she’d be having a conversation like this on her last day!

“I’m not talking about potential,” said the old lady, “I’m talking about people who’ve murdered! Soulless killers. They’d squash a human being the way you or I would swat a fly.”

“Someone you know?” queried Jacquetta. This seemed more personal than a news story.
The woman’s face buckled like old leather. She nodded. “I’ve looked evil in the face,” she whispered. “I was terrified.”