A Beauty and the Beast story
By: Yvette Jessen
© 2000 not intended to infringe on any previously held copyrights.
“I will sing sweet music to you, as you watch over me with love,” Missy read aloud as she stood before her 6th grade class. “I will be a sweet reminder to you in the melodies of a song. I will awake in the morning when your soothing voice whispers. And I will never forget that your wind will guide me through the day.”
“That’s the lamest bunch of garbage I ever heard,” one boy said from the back of the room. “Who says stuff like that anyway?”
Missy sighed deeply as she looked helplessly at the teacher who had been listening. When the teacher nodded but said nothing, she took it as a negative sign and slowly made her way back to her desk. I’m a failure; she thought to herself, my stories and poetry don’t hold any meaning to anyone.
“You’re right, Tommy, it sounds like junk from Shakespeare,” a girl spoke up, and Missy recognized her voice immediately. It was Suzy, one of the snobbiest girls in the class. She yawned obnoxiously as the rest of the class dissolved in twitters of laughter.
Missy looked around the room, and when the bell rang, she sighed with relief. Though English was her favorite class, she was glad that it was finally over. She stood up and grabbed her books, sadness enveloping her. This wasn’t the kind of reaction she had expected, nor was it one she had hoped for. She had always taken a great deal of pride in her poetry, and somehow, she wondered if there was anyone in this world who would appreciate the words and emotions she wrote so carefully about.
As she made her way down the hall towards the doors that would lead into a large auditorium, she sighed. This assembly was a far cry better than the humiliation of dressing out for gym class. She had never been very athletic, perhaps such talent had only been passed on to her brothers. All she knew was that she was about as athletic as a slug in a pool of salt water.
Oh well, what did it matter anyway? It was the last hour of the day, time for some sort of presentation on career goals. What did this mean to her anyway; she was only twelve, so why did the counselors think that this kind of thing would be beneficial to a room full of rowdy pre-teens? It could be worse; she thought to herself, I could be suffering through another round of kickball with Suzy and her snobby friends.
She entered the large auditorium and could see a number of kids already seated in the cinema style seats. She approached them and sat down in the front row alone, but somewhat separated from the rest of the kids who were already assembled.
She could see the vice principal as well as various counselors seated on the stage. Off to one side, she could see three men and two women she had never met before and concluded that they were the presenters.
Behind her, she could hear three girls coming to take seats behind her. They were whispering, but loudly enough that she could hear their words. “Hey look, it’s ‘Missy the sissy’. You should have heard those lame poems she recited today in class. Who reads that stuff anyway? Poetry is for the birds.” She turned around and could see that Suzy had sat down directly behind her, and it looked as though the other girl had every intention of humiliating Missy in front of the other kids.
She turned back around and covered her face with her hands. Through her fingers, she could see the notebook she always carried. Perhaps Suzy was right, no one in the 6th grade read Shakespeare, most of them couldn’t even read it, let alone understand it. Her poetry was definitely inspired by his sonnets, but to not receive any sort of encouragement by her teachers or acceptance by her peers, made her feel even more isolated and alone. It was really no wonder she found so much security in her writing. Trying to make friends in this school seemed to be about as likely as her becoming head cheerleader.
By this time, the girls behind her had quieted down and the assembly had started. Missy remained huddled over her poetry notebook until the first of the presenters was introduced. When she looked back up, she could see one of the women on stage looking directly at her. The soft sensitive eyes of the woman gave Missy a small sense of comfort, but after some seconds passed, she looked back down at the notebook that rested in her lap. She opened it to the next blank page and began to write.
The assembly progressed, and Missy found herself getting so involved in her writing that she was no longer paying attention to the presenters. By the end of the assembly, she had composed a twenty-four-line poem. As the other kids were getting up to go catch their busses to go home, she looked down at the words she had written, her eyes filling with tears as she read the words spread across the page.
Will I ever find in the stars and sunshine?
The love in a verse, and the emotion of a sonnet
For the beauty that is within me?
She looked down at the words in the first stanza of the poem. As she did, a feeling of bitterness overwhelmed her and she wadded up the piece of paper and tossed it to the ground. Closing the notebook, she stood up, and turned around, the auditorium was now practically empty. The other kids had left and she was now alone.
Missy made her way back up the aisle towards the door. She refused to look back to the stage; thus failing to notice that the woman who had been looking at her had come down the steps and had retrieve the wadded sheet of paper Missy had thrown on the floor.
The woman unfolded the paper, and as she looked down at the words neatly written on it, a sense of complete understanding overcame her and Catherine Chandler smiled. Missy Parks, she thought to herself, you will one day find that friend through your words, of that I am certain. She tucked the small piece of paper inside her pocket and reached for her briefcase.
~*~*~*~*~
Missy walked slowly through the streets of New York in the direction of the apartment where she lived with her father and three brothers, Travis, Matthew, and Justin. The three brothers had dropped out of school when they had turned 16 and went to work in the family dry cleaning business. The shop seemed to be opened every day, and if there was such a thing as living for one’s work, her father and brothers did just that.
She did not necessarily have a bad time at home, her father and brothers were not unkind to her, but she also never saw them. She was often lonely, and perhaps it was all the time alone that got her into writing poetry some three years ago. Inside her prized notebook was over 200 poems and verses she had written, and her dream was to one day become a professional writer, though she would never admit this dream to anyone.
I wish I had a friend, she thought to herself as she walked. She decided that the best thing to do was to go to the park. There’s no point in going back to the apartment where she lived, her brothers and father would not be home. Even if they were, they would not have time for her.
Central Park was usually relatively quiet, so maybe she could actually sit down beneath the shade of a large tree and write some poetry. As she got closer to the park, she realized that it had been a mistake to even go there. In the middle of a large open space was completely crowded, music was playing and it appeared as though a demonstration was taking place. The music grew louder in intensity forcing her to cover her ears and back away from the throng of people.
Sighing deeply once she was far enough away, she began to ask herself where she could possibly go for some solitude. New York City was anything but quiet, and even the local library seemed to have kids from her school inside, and she realized that there was no way she could even go in there without being hassled by them.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a large drainpipe, and walked slowly towards it. It looked dark inside, but she concluded that maybe there would be enough light for her to sit inside the opening and write. She covered her ears once again when the music grew louder in an attempt to block out some of the echoes that were resonating around her. When she arrived at the entrance, she discovered that the pipe was much taller and wider than she had initially thought. She began to feel the moist, humid air wafting towards her as she came even closer to the opening.
For some reason, she suddenly began to feel nervous, and swallowing the lump that had formed in her throat, she entered the opening and walked towards the darker recesses of the tunnel. The echoes from the music outside grew louder and she realized that it was probably a mistake to even try to come here at all. The hollowness of the music as it resonated through the tunnel made the entire area seem rather eerie. As she walked, she discovered that although the music had finally started to fade, it sounded as though it was being played through a hollow tube.
The further into the tunnel she ventured, the fainter the music sounded, and eventually, all that she could hear were the sounds of water droplets falling from the ceiling.
Missy continued to follow the tunnel deeper in, her hands beginning to sweat as it grew darker and she could no longer see the light from where she had entered. What was really down here, she asked herself, but she found a poetic beauty in this place and continued as though she was in some sort of a trance. Seconds passed, and she abruptly stopped when she heard voices. She remained in the shadows and watched as the wall opposite her suddenly opened and two figures emerged.
She could hear their voices and realized that it was two boys coming out and she wondered who they were and why it was they were dressed in clothing that looked straight out of the Renaissance. For some reason, their appearance wasn’t so strange to her, as she had always longed to wear such unusual clothing herself.
As she watched them coming closer, she remained hidden in the darkness and listened as they spoke to one another in a low sounding baritone. After hearing them speak, she guessed that they were both older than her by at least two or three years. She could not understand what they were saying, as they were speaking softly, but because they were not looking around she figured that they were unaware of her presence. Without even a nod in her direction, they rounded a corner and disappeared in the distance, all the while conversing.
The wall remained open even after they had disappeared, but in the wink of an eye, Missy could hear it beginning to close and without thinking, she rushed towards it, and was inside right as the large rock panel closed behind her.
The first thing she realized once the door had closed was the absence of light. It was an eerie kind of darkness, one that frightened her if she were to walk towards the faint light at the other end of the long corridor, but also one that gave her an extreme feeling of insecurity if she were to remain stationary. Through her own sense of reason, she concluded that she had pretty much no choice in the matter, she had to go to the light or she probably could not ever come out of this underground cavern again.
Without even considering the light, she wondered if it would even lead her away from this underground tunnel. The light did not seem to even come from outside. Instead, it flickered as though it was a single flame burning from a candle.
Missy recalled the two young men she had seen coming through the hollow wall, and then the candlelight. Have I stepped back in time, she asked herself? Will I ever be able to go back home? Do I even want to, or would living here behind the cold stone wall be preferable to going back to school and being called ‘Missy the sissy’ again?
She reached inside her backpack and pulled out her notebook. As she tried to make out the shape of the object in her hands, she was left only to rely on her sense of touch. She could feel the worn cover, but the recognition of this made her sad when she mulled over the fact that she had no real friends. The isolation had run its course with her, and she had no one she could really talk to. There was nothing worse than being 12 years old, and having no hope left.
Maybe it’s all the better if I stay down here forever, then no one would miss me, she thought sadly as she could feel the tears beginning to stream down her cheeks. She wiped her face with the sleeve of her dress as she continued to walk; her poetry in one hand, a pencil in the other, the backpack with her school books hung down from her shoulders and rested against her lower back.
After some moments of silence, she nearly jumped out of her skin when out of nowhere came the resonance of loud banging against the pipes. The sound grew from a dull moan to a very loud clang. She backed up against the wall of the tunnel, afraid that an inhabitant of the tunnels would confront her. With this in mind, her body began to tense up as the frightened tears continued to stream down her cheeks. To make matters worse, it was so dark she could barely see in front of herself, but when the banging abruptly stopped, she wiped her hand over her face rubbing the tears from her eyes. Once she had reoriented herself, she resumed walking in the direction of where the light had originated.
As she continued, she could feel something strange under her feet, and without warning, she felt a net of strong woven ropes coming up surrounding her body. At that instant, she felt her feet leaving the ground pulling her up in some kind of trap.
As she struggled against the ropes confining her, she dropped the notebook and pencil. Both objects slipped through the coils of rope and fell to the ground landing with a thud. She continued to struggle, although her resistances made the net begin to swing about like a punching bag. She pulled frantically on the coils, but none of them seemed willing to give way, and her hands were quickly becoming raw from the futile efforts she made in order to break free.
The net persistently swung violently back and forth, and she could feel herself getting nauseous from the constant motion. She looked down, trying to see between the coils of rope, but in the darkness, she could not see the pencil and poetry book on the ground below. She ceased her struggling and eventually the swinging did stop.
She closed her eyes and contemplated the predicament she was in. The more she thought about it, the more frightened she became. Would whoever set this trap accept her reasons for being in there? Would they understand that she was simply a lonely girl who had entered these tunnels to find some solitude to write?
Her eyes filled with tears when she realized that the light she had seen in the distance had grown dimmer and disappeared leaving her alone in the eerie darkness. The tears continued stinging in her eyes as she attempted to get comfortable in the net. After some moments, overwhelmed with hopelessness, she covered her face with her hands, and began to weep bitterly, her sobs resonating further into the world below.
~*~*~*~*~
At that moment, Vincent was sitting in his chamber. He had been writing, but when he began to hear the sounds of a girl crying in the distance, he laid his pen down and glanced up from his work. Something about living in the tunnel world, the voices of the kids who lived there often would resonate through them making it seem as though they were close by rather than being far away.
He knew that someone was crying, and this disturbed him. Was it one of the children who lived there? Had she fallen down and cried over a skinned knee? Usually if someone in their world had fallen down, they would have stopped crying after some moments had passed, picked themselves up off the ground and dusted themselves off. The kids that lived in the tunnels were pretty tough and could usually handle the bumps and scars of growing up. Seeing as many had already lived through some pretty nightmarish situations, he could not understand why the sobs did not end after some moments, but rather continued. Obviously, this was not one of their children, he concluded, it was a girl, and she probably had somehow found the tunnels, but had lost her way.
He stood up, his writing forgotten as he stepped towards the entrance to his chamber. When he saw Mary coming through the tunnel towards him, he stepped out into the corridor, and went to meet her. Mary had probably heard the crying herself, he concluded, and was looking for someone who could go and find help for the lost child. Normally, they would have immediately gone to Father to ask what should be done. Father would then ask a Helper to go into the tunnel and show the girl how to get back home, but presently, Father was not there, and both Vincent and Mary knew this. The word going around was that he would not be back until later that evening.
“Vincent, can you hear it, too?” Mary asked once he was standing beside her.
“Yes, I think it’s coming from the Central Park entrance, maybe Mouse caught someone sneaking around in the tunnels,” he said.
“It can’t be anything serious, it sounds like a little girl,” Mary said. “The poor child must be so frightened.”
Vincent nodded, “then someone must go to her. Do you know when Father is due back?”
“Not until later, but we can’t wait for him to return, we have to figure out what to do now. That’s why I was coming to your chamber. I thought maybe you could do something about this,” Mary said. “If the child is caught in one of Mouse’s booby traps, then I wouldn’t have the strength to help get her down.”
“I’ll go then,” Vincent said softly. He returned to his chamber and grabbed his cloak. He draped it over his shoulder and walked towards the entrance to the tunnels, which lead to the drainpipe that extended out into the park.
“Are you sure, you know Father’s always warning us about strangers,” Mary asked. “If he knew that you were going alone to get her, he’d hit the ceiling. I mean, you know as well as I, it is better that as few people as possible from up there know about us. There is a potential danger here.”
“Perhaps everything you say is true, but as you pointed out, this is a child, Mary, and I cannot in good conscience leave her alone and afraid in the tunnels. Eventually, she would be discovered, and I think you know that it would be better if someone were to go to her as quickly as possible,” Vincent answered assuredly and walked without a candle towards the tunnel where the weeping had originated.
Mary nodded as Vincent walked past her. “OK,” she conceded, “but do be careful, Vincent.”
“I will, don’t worry,” came his soft response as he took the hood on his cloak and covered his head with it.
He walked slowly through the tunnels and up the spiral staircase that led towards the wall that separated their underground world from the tunnel, which led to the large park in the middle of New York City. As he made his way, he could tell that he was going the right direction, as the weeping had grown louder.
When he reached the spot where Mouse’s booby traps had started, he looked up and saw the silhouette of a child over his head. She was hanging overhead in the net, her face in her hands, her body shaking, and he could see that she was frightened.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said softly. “No one will harm you here, little one.”
The girl seemed not to have heard his soothing words because she continued to weep. He went over to the rope that acted as the control for the net, which kept her hanging over his head and pulled on it causing it to start unwinding and beginning to lower her to the ground. As the girl began to feel this happening, she started to scream when she felt herself falling.
The net loosened and she tumbled down and landed securely in Vincent’s arms. “It’s OK, I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall.”
In response to his words, she threw her arms around him and held onto him burying her face in against his shoulder. He could not tell if she was crying out of relief or fear, but it did not matter, he wrapped his arms around her and held her. “It’s OK, you’re safe now. No one will harm you.”
As soon as her crying had subsided, Vincent lowered her gently to the ground and once she was securely on her feet, he released his hold on her shoulders. She immediately dropped to her knees and began to grope the ground as though she was searching for something.
“What are you searching for, Child, maybe I can help you find it?” he offered.
She said nothing, only continued to search, all the while trying to get away from the voice of the man who was addressing her.
Vincent took a few steps backwards and when he stopped again, he could feel something on the tunnel floor under his feet. He reached down and picked up the object. It was a small notebook and he concluded that this was what the girl was looking for.
He looked up and could see that she was still groping around searching, and at this moment, she was crawling towards another of Mouse’s traps. Luckily I can see much better in the dark than most people, he thought to himself, or else rather than a warning, I might be helping her out of another one of the traps.
“Wait,” he said softly. “You’re moving towards another trap. Come back over to me and I’ll take you some place safe. I found your book, and everything will be OK. Just follow the sound of my voice.”
The girl, obviously not wishing to be trapped again, followed Vincent’s instructions and crawled closer to him. When she could feel the rough boots he wore on his feet, she remained on the ground and looked up at him. She could not see his face, though through the shadows, she could make out his silhouette as he towered above her. “W-who are you?”
“My name is Vincent,” he said softly. “What is your name, Child?”
“M-Missy,” she stammered.
“And what brings you to these tunnels?” he asked gently.
“I wasn’t doing anything wrong, Vincent. Honest, I wasn’t,” she said softly, and he could detect a sort of waver in her speech and knew that she was still frightened.
“It’s OK, Missy, you have nothing to be afraid of,” he said gently.
“It’s just that I was trying to get away from the music in the park,” she said softly. “I wanted to find a quiet place to write.”
Vincent nodded, “I understand. Down here it is rather quiet. But, how ever did you manage to get in here?”
“I was walking near the entrance of the large drainpipe in Central Park. I went in thinking that I could sit somewhere near the entrance and write. But, the music was too loud and I knew I wouldn’t be able to concentrate,” she said.
“So, you went in deeper?” he asked.
“Yes Sir,” she said weakly.
“No formalities, Missy, but do continue.”
“When I got closer to the sliding wall, I could hear voices, and these two boys came out from behind it. I guess they didn’t see me, so after they were gone, I came through the entrance and ended up in this tunnel,” she said softly. “I’m sorry if I did anything wrong.”
“No, you didn’t,” he repeated, “but if you are wanting to write, then perhaps I should take you to a place where you can.”
“You’re not angry with me? I thought I had done something wrong when I got trapped in that net,” she began.
Vincent smiled, “no, the nets are rigged to keep unwanted guests out of our tunnels, but you’re not unwanted,“ he said and she could detect a friendly sort of laughter in his voice. “Come with me, you’ll be my guest while you are here.”
“Thank you,” she said softly as Vincent offered her his hand and helped her off the ground. Once she was on her feet, he led her back through the tunnel. When they reached the light at the other end of the corridor, Missy had to rub her eyes because the brightness caused them to hurt a little. Although the light was somewhat dim, it was better than the dark tunnel where she had been trapped.
They descended the staircase and when they reached Vincent’s chamber, she turned around and finally got her first real glimpse of him. He was tall and she had to strain her neck to see his face, but when she did, she backed away from him. He had the appearance of a lion, but stood upright like a man, and seemed to possess immeasurable strength. “I,” she wanted to scream, but it got caught in her throat, and she swallowed trying to keep her fear at bay. She wrung her hands together in order to calm herself down.
Her nervous movements did not go undetected by him, but instead of addressing her fear immediately, he pulled a chair for her, and backed slowly away from it, trying to appear as serene as he possibly could. “Please sit down, Missy.”
“W-who are you?” she whispered sitting in the chair, which he offered. The last thing she wanted to do was to antagonize him, and she couldn’t imagine what he might do to her if she were to refuse. Somehow, she had the strange sensation that it would anger him if she showed him just how terrified she was.
“I’m the same person who freed you from the net, and spoke with you in the tunnel,” Vincent said softly. “Although, I promised you that no one would harm you here, I have a feeling that you are now frightened of me simply because of how I appear. Are you so afraid of me?”
Missy nodded slowly, but after a few moments of hesitation, she stopped as she remembered the soft and soothing voice she had heard back in the tunnel and how it seemed to match the voice of the person now addressing her. Eventually, she shook her head.
“Yes or no?” Vincent asked gently. “I assure you, Missy, I would do nothing to hurt you.”
“N-no,” she whispered but he could see her body was trembling violently and he knew that she was speaking an untruth.
Rather than continue with this line of questioning, Vincent looked down at the book she had searched for in the tunnel. He still held it in his hand. “May I read something from your book?” he asked trying to change the subject.
Missy, not knowing what to say, shook her head.
“As you wish,” Vincent said softly, and placed the book gently on the table.
When she looked up at him, she could tell that he was somewhat saddened by her answer. After a few moments of silence passed, she finally found her voice and spoke. “W-would you really want to read something I wrote? I mean it is probably not all that great. Some of it I wrote when I was nine.”
“You are your own worst critic,” Vincent said gently. “You may not see much in your work, but the impact it has on others may hold more significance than you can even imagine.”
“I don’t believe that,” she whispered more to herself than to him.
“It is true, Missy. For this reason, I would very much like to read something you have written, but only if you were to allow it,” he said.
“You mean, I would have to say whether or not you can before you would?” she asked.
“That’s right, but you must always keep in mind, you are far more critical of your own work than you are of that of others.”
She reached over and grabbed the book from off the table. “I tried reading something out of here in class today and the other kids laughed and called it garbage.” She hugged the notebook tightly against her chest.
“And I must now conclude that you are afraid to show it because of the cruel words of others?” He asked.
She nodded numbly feeling herself relaxing somewhat in his presence.
Vincent stood up and walked over to where she was sitting. He got down on his knees and rested his hand on her shoulder; she shrank back in terror. “You have nothing to fear,“ he whispered and she relaxed somewhat. “I would never do anything like that to you.” He stood up, took her hands in his, and pulled her gently to her feet. He led her out of his chamber and into Father’s library. “Look around this chamber, Missy, here you will find books filled with stories and poetry of all kinds. Reading is one of my joys in life, and I must tell you that if any one of these authors you see on the shelf had refused to write their works, then there would be one less book in this chamber.”
Missy approached the shelf and began to read the titles on the spines of the books. After a minute of studying them, she turned back around, a book of Shakespeare’s sonnets in her hand. “But these are all great writers,” she objected returning the book to it’s place on the shelf. With her index finger she pointed out authors as she read their names aloud. “Shakespeare, Wordsworth, even Robert Frost is here.” She could feel the tears welling up in her eyes as she turned back around. “Who would want to read the works of Melissa Parks?”
“I would,” Vincent said gently. “May I?”
This time Missy nodded. She walked over to him and handed him the notebook. Vincent opened it and began to read.
I will remember you even when time has an end,
I will understand the meaning of your heart’s song,
I will stand by you though the days may be long and hard,
I will enfold you with my kindness and comfort you in sadness,
I will sing sweet music to you, as you watch over me with love,
I will be a sweet reminder to you in the melodies of a song,
I will awake in the morning when your soothing voice whispers,
And I will never forget that your wind will guide me through the day.
He closed the book and looked at her, “you have a talent, Missy, a wonderful gift with words.”
She shook her head not sure she wanted to believe him.
“Why do you not believe that?” he asked when he could see the insecurity in her eyes. Without waiting for an answer, he asked his next question. “Is this the verse you read to your class?”
She nodded.
“Then I feel sadness for those who were so simple-minded that they could not understand your images,” he said as he handed the book back to her. “I could understand everything you wrote here, and I think the poem is beautiful.”
She looked at him warily. “I guess I always thought that someone like you would not see poetry in this way. I figured simply that you could just do whatever you wanted when you wanted. I mean if I looked like you, I would...” her voice trailed and she blushed slightly unable to finish what she had started to say.
Vincent smiled, “you would what?”
“I just mean,” she began to stammer, but found herself looking down at her feet.
“Speak without fear, Missy, you will not anger me with your honesty,” he said gently.
“I—I just mean that if I were like you, I would be able to do as I pleased,” she whispered.
“I don’t believe you would,” Vincent said softly leading her back into his chamber and over to the chair she had occupied before going into Father’s library. Once she sat down, he continued. “Do you believe that I am capable of doing whatever it is I want?”
Missy looked down at her lap and shrugged her shoulders, but after some moments passed, she nodded.
Vincent chuckled softly and looked at her closely. “I cannot, Missy. I may make you afraid when you look at me, but the fact is, I wouldn’t wish to do anything that would bring you harm.”
“You wouldn’t?” She asked, but in the back of her mind, she remembered his voice when he had read the poem she had written. His voice had been like a melody in a song, so filled with kindness and depth. Closing her eyes, she heard his simple one word answer.
“No.”
She looked down at the small book she held, then back up at him. “I guess I always believed that tough people like you had it made.”
“You view me as being tough?”
She nodded and could feel moistness in her eyes.
“Why do you cry?” he asked noticing the tears.
“They call me ‘Missy the sissy’ in school.”
“For what reason?”
“I don’t know, I guess because I write poetry and think Shakespeare’s writing is wonderful,” she looked down at her lap. “I suppose they say that because even though I am in junior high I still like and understand something most kids my age cannot.”
“The beauty of poetry,” he said simply.
She nodded numbly.
“What are they teaching you in school?” Vincent asked.
She looked back up at him, “I don’t know, sometimes it feels like I go to a modeling agency instead of a school. I make good grades, but the classes are easy, and the teachers let the popular kids get away with everything. I guess deep down inside, I always wanted to be cool like them. I wanted to have people respect and like me, not for what I have, but for who I am.”
“The right ones will, Missy,“ Vincent said gently.
“Perhaps, but when?”
“The time will come, and you will know it, because that respect and admiration will be real, and not based on external wealth,” he said.
“You remind me of someone I once read about,” she said. “You have a wisdom that I cannot explain, but even that doesn’t change how things are now. The only way for me to even begin to make something of myself is to wear the trendiest clothes and act like the others. I don’t resent that I don’t have or do those things, because I know in part it’s about money, or prestige,” she paused taking a deep breath before continuing. “The truth is; my family can’t afford to buy me such expensive clothing and I would never even think of asking my father for such things. I don’t really know if he would do it anyway, but I think if he could, he would.” She shrugged her shoulders, “even then, I don’t know if I would wear them. I don’t want to be a clone, I want to be me, and people should just accept that. It makes me sad that they are always so superficial and judge me by what I wear, not for the person I am.”
“You mentioned your father, what does he do?”
“He and my brothers run a dry-cleaning business. I figure that because I am a part of the family, that I will be expected to drop out of school when I turn 16 and go to work just like my brothers did,” she said softly.
“What is it you want to do?”
“I never told anyone before, but my dream is to be a professional writer,” Missy said softly. “I have always wanted to publish a book of poetry,” she said looking down at her notebook. “I’ve written over 200 poems and just started writing stories, but my father says I’m just a kid, and don’t know what it is I want in life yet.”
“Is your family really so focused on their work?” Vincent asked.
“In a way, but I don’t blame them. My grandfather started the business 30 years ago, and then after he died my father inherited it when I was seven. Now all these larger stores are opening up and my father has become fearful that our store will be closed down. He doesn’t know that I know this, but I overheard him talking to someone on the phone about it.” She looked at Vincent earnestly, “if we loose the business, it will ruin us. Even if I wanted to go to college when I’m 18, I wouldn’t be able to, because without the store, my dad wouldn’t have any means to pay for my education.”
“You have a very mature attitude about all of this,” Vincent said. “How old are you?”
“12.”
“So it’s just you, your father, and brothers?”
“Yeah, my mom died some years ago. I don’t remember much about her except that she would wear rose scented perfumes, and would hug us a lot,” she shrugged her shoulders again. “Other than that, I don’t remember much, I guess because I was only five when she died.”
“I never knew my mother,” Vincent said softly.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Funny, I used to think that it might have been easier to not have known her, but then I realized maybe two years ago that it was actually good that I did.”
When she saw sadness in the eyes of the man seated across the table from her, she looked up at him, her hazel eyes meeting his soft blue ones. “Vincent, do you ever feel lonely? I mean like no one in the world could possibly understand you?”
“Sometimes,” he answered honestly.
“I do all the time, and I hate it. Being alone is fine, but lonely is the most horrible feeling in the world.” She looked around his chamber and then back at him. She wiped her hand over her eyes brushing the tears away. “No one seems interested in getting to know me, or wanting to be my friend,” a pause. “My mom used to tell me that I was special, and I used to believe it, but anymore, I don’t because if I was, then I would be able to find a friend simply by being one. No one has ever really given me the chance.” As she spoke, the tears began to stream down her face once more, and she wrung her hands together nervously.
“I’ll give you the chance,” Vincent said gently standing up and going over to her. When he reached her, he wrapped his arms around her and held her, but as he looked down at her, he spoke, his voice soft. “Please, you mustn’t believe for a moment that you’re not special. Your mother was right, Missy, you are special, you have an impact on others and if you believe in yourself, you will see that beauty which exists in your heart. This I am certain of, as it is demonstrated in your beautiful poetry.”
“You mean that?” she asked uncertainty in her voice.
“Of course I mean it, it’s the truth,” he said softly.
“I have to admit something,” she began. “When you asked me earlier if I was afraid, I lied when I said ‘no’.”
“I know, I could tell by the way you had trembled,” came his honest answer. “Your body language said more than your words could.”
“And you still wanted to talk to me, but, why?”
“Aside from the fact that you needed to talk, it was the only way I know to help you overcome being afraid,” he said. “Tell me, are you still afraid?”
“No,” she looked at him and smiled weakly.
“Then what I tried was successful,” he smiled. “But, there is something I must ask of you, and I hope that as my friend you will understand and respect it without question,” Vincent began, his voice serious.
“I’ll do whatever you wish,” she said.
“Please don’t tell anyone about me or this place. This request is very important.”
She nodded, “I promise I won’t tell a soul, but will I be able to see you again? Somehow I think once I go back home, I won’t.”
“You will,” he said gently, “but you must wait before coming back. I have a friend who will make contact with you and through her, you will be able to see me again.”
“You won’t forget?”
Vincent smiled, “no, Missy, I won’t.” At that moment, both of them heard a woman calling Vincent’s name and Missy froze. “Don’t worry, it’s Mary, she’s coming by to see if you are OK, she had heard you crying in the tunnel earlier and was concerned for you.”
As he spoke, she nodded and looked up to see a kind older woman coming inside the chamber. “Vincent, Father sent Pascal back to let you know that he will be returning sometime later this evening.”
“Is there anymore news?”
“No,” Mary said and turned to Missy. “Hello, I don’t believe we’ve met. My name is Mary.”
Missy smiled, but before she could speak, Vincent had already introduced her.
“This is Missy.”
“Welcome,” Mary said, but when she looked at Vincent, the fear in her eyes was evident. She refused to embarrass Vincent or frighten Missy, but as she walked towards the entrance to the chamber she shook her head slightly hoping that Vincent would understand her silent communication. When she turned back around, she could hear Missy’s voice emerging as the shy young girl thanked her.
“Mary, could you bring us some tea?” Vincent asked. “Afterwards, it will be getting dark and we must send Missy home.”
Mary nodded and went off to fulfill his request.
Once Mary was gone, Missy opened the notebook and looked down at the poem Vincent had read. After some seconds passed, she gently tore the page out of the book and folded the sheet of paper in half.
“I remember who it was you remind me of,” she stood up and walked out of the chamber and into the library once again. Standing at the bookshelf, she pulled one of the books down. “It was from my childhood, a book my mother used to read us.”
“What book was that?” Vincent asked.
Missy opened the book and inside was a golden lion, and a stone table. “Aslan, from The Chronicles of Narnia.”
“But, I’m not Aslan, Missy, this is a fictitious character,” Vincent objected. “C. S. Lewis was an incredible fantasy writer. Much of what he wrote consisted of symbolism and imagery.”
“I know that you are not this character, but I think I make this sort of connection maybe from your appearance, but mostly from your kindness and understanding,” she smiled shyly as she returned the book to the shelf. She walked out of the library and came back over to the table. Once Vincent had followed and they were both sitting at the table, she picked up the piece of paper and unfolded it. “I want you to have this.” She handed the poem to him. “If for no other reason but that you will always remember me.”
“Missy, I will always remember you, you must not give me this to make me remember you, for that is a certainty. If you still wish to give it to me, I am touched, but are you certain that that is what you wish to do?”
“You’re the only friend I have, and I always knew that if I found a friend...” her voice trailed and she wiped her hand over her eyes, but the persistent tears continued to stream down her cheeks. Moments later, she allowed herself to look up and her tearstained gaze met the soft eyes of the man sitting on the opposite side of the table.
Vincent folded the page and tucked it gently in his pocket. “I’m moved by your gift,” was all he said as Mary returned carrying a tray with a teapot, two cups, and two plates with angel food cake.
“Thank you,” Vincent said as Mary left the chamber. He reached for the teapot and poured the steaming liquid into the two cups.
After they had eaten the cake and drank the tea, he led Missy out of his chamber and back up the stairs and through the tunnels. When they reached the portal that would lead back to the park, Vincent turned to her. “Do you know the way back?”
“I think so,” she said.
“Then it’s time for you to go,” Vincent said gently.
“I know, but would you think of me as a bad person if I said I wish I could stay with you?” She asked.
“I would not, but this is not your world, Missy,” he said.
“I don’t have a place in any world, Vincent,” she said softly as she threw her arms around him. “Right now, I feel like Lucy from the Chronicles when Aslan sent her back to England.”
“You’re not leaving forever, Child, we will meet again,” he promised. “Now, you must go home, your family needs you.”
Missy nodded and walked through the portal and as it was closing, Vincent felt the pocket where her poem rested. There had to be a way for her to find her place in the world above, he thought sadly. As he reflected on their conversation and her words, an idea began to form in his mind about a way help the lonely young girl gain the acceptance she deserved.
~*~*~*~*~
That evening, Catherine arrived at her apartment. She tossed the briefcase onto the sofa and immediately went into the kitchen to make some tea. She still held the small wadded up piece of paper from the school assembly in her hand. This poem reminded her so much of Vincent and the isolation he endured whenever he came into her world.
She sat down on the couch as the teapot began to whistle. She went to remove it from the heat, and pulled a teacup down from the cabinet. Returning to the couch, she placed the cup on the coffee table and unfolded the paper and smoothed it out against the hard wood of the table.
“Catherine?” she heard her name being called along with the familiar tapping. It startled her, but as she turned around, she smiled when she could see Vincent through the window on the balcony. She stood up quickly and went to open the door.
“Vincent, I thought I wouldn’t see you, tonight,” she began as she wrapped her arms around him. “Isn’t Father supposed to return tonight?”
“Yes, he returned earlier this evening,” he began to speak once their embrace had loosened. “I came to ask you for some help.”
“What can I do?” she asked. “You look troubled.”
Vincent handed Catherine the folded up sheet of paper Missy had given him. “Just read this.”
Catherine did as he said, and when she got to the bottom of the poem and read the name of the author, she looked at him. “I don’t believe this. How did you get this?”
“She gave it to me,” Vincent began. “She found her way into the tunnels earlier today. Mouse had devised all those booby traps, and she got caught in one. I found her, and brought her to my chamber to talk.”
“Does Father know about her?” Catherine asked, her intention of showing him the slip of paper on her coffee table momentarily forgotten.
“Not yet,” Vincent said, “after we drank some tea this afternoon, I took her to the Central Park entrance before Father had returned. I know I will have to tell him about her, because I would like to meet with her again, and I did make a promise to her.”
“Why?”
“She’s lonely, Catherine,” Vincent said. “She told me that she would like to have a friend, but that no one would give her the chance,” he paused. “She asked me if I was ever lonely and when I told her that sometimes I am, she said that to her, being alone is alright, but to be lonely is the worst feeling in the world.”
Catherine handed the poem back to Vincent, and went back inside and over to the coffee table. Once she retrieved the poem she had found, she walked back over to him. “I think I understand, you feel connected to her somehow, don’t you?”
“Yes,” was all he said.
She looked down at the piece of paper, nodded, and then handed it to him. “Read this, Vincent. When I read it the first time, I thought you probably could have written it.”
He accepted the piece of paper and looked down at the familiar handwriting and began to read. “Where did you get this?” he asked once he had finished reading the poem.
“I found it today at one of the schools where we do those Career Day assemblies,” she said softly as she went back inside to retrieve the cup of tea she had been drinking before he had arrived. She brought the steaming liquid to her lips and once she had finished the tea, she placed the cup near the opened door. “She writes beautifully, don’t you think?”
Vincent nodded, “did you meet her?”
“No I didn’t talk to her, but I did see her. She was sitting alone in the auditorium. The kids seemed to either avoid her or tease her,” Catherine said softly. “Kids can be really cruel sometimes.”
“I know, she and I spent much of the afternoon talking and she spoke of this. I got the feeling that she really needed someone to talk to,” he said.
Catherine nodded, “what do you think we could do for her?”
“I wanted to ask you if there was some sort of creative writing contest where she could possibly get some sort of recognition for her writing,” he said. “I wouldn’t normally do this, but I think Missy has a great deal of potential as a writer, she simply needs to feel the significance in what she writes.”
“I think there is, Joe said that one of the big publishing houses here in town is hosting something along the line of historical style amateur writing contest. Do you think she would be upset if we anonymously submitted the poem she gave to you?” She asked.
“The question is, do you believe she would win?” Vincent asked.
“With this writing, she would at least be a shoe-in for a prize. Come to think of it, I have the magazine here, maybe we can see what the contest rules are,” Catherine went back inside and over to the cabinet where her magazines were being kept. She pulled out the issue and began to thumb through it, she returned to the balcony. “OK, here it is, Varient Publishing hosts it and look, they even posted the winning poem from last year.”
“May I see it?”
“Yes, it’s right there,” Catherine pointed it out once Vincent held the magazine in his hands.
Once he read the poem, he looked up, and shook his head. “The emotion’s not there,” he said simply, “but it says here that the writer of the poem from last year is 39 years old, and after the contest, she published an entire book of poetry. It says here that the publisher has offered this as the first prize.”
“Is there an age limit?” Catherine asked.
Vincent scanned the rules, “no, we can enter her.”
Catherine looked down at the coupon from over Vincent’s shoulder, “we have to get her address and phone number, tonight.”
“Why so soon?” Vincent asked.
“The deadline has to be postmarked by tomorrow, or the entry won’t be counted at all,“ Catherine said. “We have to enter her, Vincent. I don’t know too many adults who can write this well.”
Vincent nodded, “where do we start?”
“I’ll give you the phone book and pour you some tea,” Catherine went into the kitchen leaving Vincent outside on the balcony. She would have liked it if he had come inside with her, but he did not wish to, and she had no intention of forcing the issue. As she came back outside with the book, she handed it to him, and he opened it. As he was thumbing through it, she returned and placed a teacup on the small table within his reach.
“Her last name is Parks,” Vincent said, but when he reached the page, he sighed deeply when he saw two pages filled with people who carried the name.
“This isn’t going to be easy,” Catherine said when she saw all the names.
“Missy said that her father and brothers own and run a dry cleaning business, in fact, that was how I was going to get you in touch with her,” Vincent said. “Does that help?”
“That makes it easier,” she said going back inside. When she returned, she was carrying the yellow pages.
When they found the address, Catherine cut the coupon out of the magazine and placed it on the small table. Returning inside, she pulled out her typewriter out and plugged it into the wall. She turned it on, sat down and typed the poem onto a clean sheet of paper.
When the last line was finished, she pulled the page out, shut the machine off, returned to where he was sitting, and handed both to him.
“Compare them to make sure there are no mistakes in the copy,” she said.
Vincent read the poem line by line and when he found no errors in the copy, he handed that to Catherine and tucked the original back in his pocket.
“It says here the poem needs a title,” Catherine said.
Vincent pulled the paper out of his pocket, and after reading the verse for what must have been the twentieth time, he looked up from the paper. “Call it, The Wind Will Guide Me.”
Catherine wrote the title Vincent gave onto the small coupon. Once she had every box filled in, she walked over to the desk and pulled an envelope out. Returning her place on the balcony, she sat down and began addressing the envelope using Missy’s family’s business as the return address. She licked a stamp and pressed it in the corner of the envelope. This she handed to Vincent, who tucked the coupon and Missy’s poem inside.
“Do you think we are doing the right thing by sending this?” Catherine asked as Vincent sealed the envelope.
“I don’t know, but I believe that Missy has a very good chance of winning,” he said. “She did tell me that her dream was to be a writer, and she hoped that one day, someone would see the beauty in the words she writes.”
“Meeting you made that happen, Vincent. She met someone who has a poetic soul,” Catherine said.
“Perhaps, but I believe she needs it more up here, so that she can find her place in this world. Right now, she doesn’t feel that she belongs anywhere, above or below,” he whispered.
“That bad?” Catherine asked.
Vincent nodded and looked at Catherine, “I believe we are doing the right thing.”
“But, if she does win, she may find herself surrounded by false friends,” Catherine said softly.
“The real ones will be there with her too, and she will know them, for there are friends she has yet to meet. Perhaps, this will be a lesson for those cruel children who have tormented her,” Vincent said gently.
Catherine nodded and pointed to the envelope he held, “then you do the honors and mail this for me.”
Vincent smiled and tucked the letter neatly away. “I will do that, but now dear Catherine, I must go.”
She nodded, “I’ll make contact with Missy tomorrow afternoon.”
“Don’t tell her what we did,” he said smiling.
“I won’t, it will be a surprise.” Catherine said as Vincent left the way he had come.
~*~*~*~*~
Missy woke the following morning and crawled out of bed. Her father and brothers were already at work. She was used to this, it was her every day routine, she left after her father and brothers, she returned and was in bed asleep when they came home.
She went to the closet and pulled out a baggy sweatshirt and a pair of jeans. As she was getting dressed she began to reflect on the events of the past afternoon. She remembered Vincent’s words as she ate breakfast, and smiled when she thought about him. In one afternoon, he had become more than her friend, he had become her mentor.
After she had eaten breakfast, she put on her coat, reached for her backpack, poetry notebook, and left the apartment. She always walked to school, it was only a few blocks away from where she lived and she did not like the bus because it was too loud.
When she reached the school, she opened the glass door and entered the building. Down some hallways, she came to her locker, pulled the books she needed out of the backpack and stuffed it inside. As soon as she closed the locker, she turned around and started walking down the hall in the direction of the room where her science class was held. She walked in and saw that the room was about half full of students. The rest usually trickled in after the warning bell sounded. She sat down in her usual seat, in the back of the room. There she would hope each morning for some silence. This morning, unlike all the other mornings, instead of feeling lonely, she was simply sitting alone.
As soon as the tardy bell sounded, she closed her poetry notebook and looked up to see the teacher entering the room with a tall, slender, boy.
“Class,” the teacher began, “this is Michael, and he’s new here. Why don’t you tell us a little bit about yourself?”
Missy looked at the boy a little more intently. He was definitely cute, his blue eyes seemed to sparkle and he had a warm and gentle smile.
“Yes Ma’am,” he said, his voice coming out a strong southern dialect. “My name is Mike Ross, I’m originally from Paris, Texas, but my folks, kid brother, ‘n me just moved out here when my dad started working at Varient Publishing. I’m not much for speeches, though.”
“Why don’t you sit down then, there’s a seat in the back row next to Melissa?” the teacher suggested.
“Missy the sissy, you mean,” Suzy said loudly causing the other kids to laugh. Missy looked down at her desk, her face flushing crimson.
“That’s enough, Suzy!” the teacher said as Mike looked around the room.
“Who is Melissa?” he asked, and when no one said anything, he saw her hunched over her work, an empty desk next to her. He strolled casually to the back of the room and sat down next to her.
As soon as the class was over an hour later, Missy stood up hoping to make an easy escape. She figured after the humiliation Suzy had subjected her to, that the best thing was to get away so that Mike wouldn’t see that she was deeply embarrassed by the torment the other kids subjected her to.
By the time her lunch hour rolled around, she had pretty much put the events in her science class behind her. She hadn’t seen Mike since then, as he was not in any of her morning classes.
Missy got in line for lunch, and once she had her tray, she went to a table and sat down alone. She ate her lunch quietly unaware that Mike had spotted her from across the room and was coming over to sit with her. It was not until she heard his voice greeting her that she looked up.
“Hi, Melissa.”
“Hi,” she whispered.
“I wanted to talk to you after class this morning, but you left so quickly,” Mike said.
“Yeah, I had some stuff I had to do,” she replied softly.
“Did you?” he asked, “or were you trying to get away from those snobs?”
She looked up somewhat surprised by his question.
“Let me guess, you’re wonderin’ how it is that an old country bumpkin like me could peg those kids for being snobs?” he asked.
“You really think they are?” she asked closing her notebook.
“Yeah, I had ‘em pegged, the moment I walked into that room,” he said. “Miss Ladida and her lipstick and trendy clothes,” he grinned. “Sometimes there’s more than meets the eye when it comes to people. OK, it’s no secret, I was one of the popular kids back home, but the truth is, I saw this stuff happenin’ to my kid brother and my folks told me as the big brother, it was my place to do somethin’ about it.”
“What did you do?” she asked.
“I told my Dad that he should take that job at Varient and give us all a new start,” he said. “My dad listened obviously. Now we live in the middle of New York City. You wanna talk ‘bout being out of place. To you city folk, I talk weird, dress weird, and even eat weird.”
“I think there’s more significance to what one says than how they say it,” Missy said.
“Yeah, you’re right,” he said smiling.
“You really would want to talk to me?”
“Yeah, you’re quiet, but seem much nicer than the others,” he said.
“But, you don’t really know me.”
“I know, but I’m just sayin’ that I want to get to know you better, and that contrary to popular opinion, I don’t think anything bad of you. I’ll tell ya what, if it makes you feel better, then I’ll go to the others and will openly admit to being a sissy too.”
“You’re not a sissy, Mike,“ she said softly looking at him. To call him a sissy would be like calling her a linebacker. There was no way she would ever believe that Mike Ross was a sissy. He was close to the six-foot mark, his sun-streaked blonde hair fell over his brow, and his blue eyes sparking as he looked at her.
“Neither of us is, so you listen to me, Melissa. You can’t let ‘em get ya down, OK?” he said softly.
Missy stood up and reached down for her tray. “Thanks, Mike, I’ll try not to.”
As she walked over to drop her tray off, Suzy’s boyfriend, Charlie, had seen them talking and he approached her, a smug look covering his face as he got right behind her and stuck his foot directly in her path causing her to fall.
Missy could not even react to this, and the next thing she knew, she was on the floor the tray beneath her and chocolate pudding smeared across the front of her T-shirt. She did not dare get back on her feet until she heard Charlie walking away laughing. By then, other kids started chanting ‘Charlie...Charlie...’ as jitters of laughter erupted throughout the lunchroom. Missy could feel the tears beginning to stream down her cheeks, shame evident in her eyes, as she stood up and ran for the sanctuary of the girls’ restroom leaving the tray on the floor behind her.
Mike, had, by this time, stood up, and cornered Charlie. “You Yankee snob,” he snarled and began to punch Charlie, leaving the bully with a bloody nose. “A real man doesn’t bully a girl,” he said loudly and eventually two of the teachers had to come in between and separate them.
Inside the restroom, Missy approached the mirror and could see her face was now red and blotchy. She grabbed a paper towel and ran it under the tap on one of the sinks. She wiped the wet paper over her face trying to wipe away the tears, but when it failed, she locked herself inside one of the stalls and began to weep softly. Vincent, she thought to herself, I wish you were here. I wish you could somehow help me.
When she came out of the restroom some five minutes later, it was time for her to go to class. Mike was now gone, and she guessed that he had no intention of hanging around her anymore. She went through the rest of the school day like a zombie, and when it came time to dress out for gym, she was a nervous wreck.
During the kickball game, Suzy played a mean game, kicking the ball directly at Missy, always aiming for her face. At one time, she had been successful, the ball crashing against Missy’s nose, causing her to fall backwards onto the dirt. The game had to be stopped, and when the coach reached her, he sent her directly to the nurse’s office. She remained in her gym clothes, but walked down the hall with a swollen and bleeding nose. The nurse said that she could do nothing for her, so she simply sent Missy back to class. The coach told her to go change and that she had been dismissed early and should just go home. She returned to the locker room, changed back into her jeans, but left her gym shirt on for the walk home. She wadded up the gym shorts, tucked it under her arm, grabbed her poetry notebook, and left.
One stop at her locker, she picked up her backpack, and walked slowly down the hall towards the exit. This had to have been the single most horrible day of my life, Missy thought as she stepped outside, her head constantly down, her hand covering her nose. She could feel the bright sunshine cascading down from between the tall buildings and onto her arms. She walked slowly in the direction of where she lived not really caring who saw her or what they thought.
She didn’t notice that a car had pulled to the side of the road until the driver had rolled down the window and called out to her.
“Excuse me, but aren’t you Missy Parks?” the woman called out.
“Yes, unfortunately,” Missy mumbled keeping her head down, and her nose in a wad of tissues. She continued to walk.
“My name is Cathy Chandler, I’m a friend of Vincent’s.” Missy stopped suddenly and turned around. She walked slowly over to the car and when she got there, Catherine smiled warmly at her. “He asked me to make contact with you.”
“He did?” she asked looking up slightly.
Missy’s face was streaked with tears and Catherine’s heart really went out to the girl. “Yes.”
“Can you take me to see him?” Missy asked, her voice cracking. “Please!”
The urgency and pain in the girl’s appeal made the decision for Catherine. “I can do that, come on, get in, I’ll take you to him.”
Missy got in the passenger side of Catherine’s car, “thank you.” She sniffed loudly as Catherine drove in the direction of her apartment.
“Bad day?” Catherine asked sympathetically noticing Missy’s swollen nose, and red eyes.
“Every day is a bad day when you’re in junior high,” Missy answered softly.
“I can imagine,” she began. “I saw you yesterday when I did the Career Day assembly.”
“You’re a lawyer, right?” Missy asked.
“Yes, I work for the DA’s office,” Catherine answered, but glanced over at Missy as she was driving. “If you need some more tissues, there are some in the glove box.”
Missy nodded and reached with her free hand towards the knob to open the compartment. Once she had found them, she pulled some fresh tissues from the box, and pressed them gently against her nose. The old tissues, she discarded.
“Is your nose still bleeding?” Catherine asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“Don’t worry, we’re almost there,” she said.
Moments later, she pulled the car up to the curb and they got out. “Where are we?” Missy asked, not recognizing the apartment building, and expecting to see Central Park instead.
“I live upstairs,” Catherine explained. “One stop, I promise.”
Missy nodded and followed.
When they got upstairs, Catherine took off her jacket and once she removed the blazer underneath, she tossed it across the arm of the sofa. Against the legs of the coffee table, she leaned the briefcase she had been carrying. “Why don’t you go in the bathroom and wash your face? I have to change clothes and then we can go. OK?”
Missy nodded and after Catherine directed her to the bathroom, she was able to wash the dried blood from her face being careful not to put too much pressure against her nose. When she touched it, it hurt and the pain was so intense that the tears stung her eyes and she began to feel dizzy. She reached for a tissue and covered her nose with it; the blood was still coming out, though not as intently as it had been before. She could do nothing but hold the tissues under her nose as she walked out of the bathroom.
As she did, Catherine came out of her room; a casual pair of jeans and a sweatshirt now replaced the business suit she had been wearing earlier. “OK, we can go now. We’re going to go down through the basement,” she explained, “it’s much easier than through the park, it’s also safer.”
Without speaking, Missy followed, her head constantly down.
Once they were downstairs and in the dark basement, Catherine led her through it, to a ladder that would extend down into a tunnel. “It’s OK,” she said once they had descended the ladder and had reached the underground tunnels. Missy shrank back in fear. “There are no traps here, Mouse knows better.”
“Who is Mouse?” Missy asked.
“He lives here and is the one who set the traps. Those traps were not intended to scare you, Missy; they are there to protect the people who use these tunnels as their sanctuary. There are a number of people who live down here, many of them children, abandoned and alone. Very few people from up there,” she pointed back in the direction they had come, “know about this place, those that do, we call ‘Helpers’, because they assist the tunnel community. For this reason, Vincent has asked you to not speak of him or of the tunnels to anyone. I’m going to take you to Father first, he’s a doctor, so maybe he can give you something for your nose, OK?”
“Is his real name ‘Father’?” she asked feeling somewhat intimidated about going to see someone other than Vincent.
“No, but it is what everyone calls him. Although he is very stern, he’s a kind man and is very wise,” Catherine answered.
Missy nodded and continued to follow Catherine until they reached Father’s chamber. Vincent and Father were seated inside, a chessboard separating them. Out of relief to have seen him, Missy began to cry as she called out Vincent’s name and ran into the chamber straight into his arms.
Vincent looked up at Catherine somewhat surprised, but after some moments, ignoring the look that spread across Father’s face, he began to cradle the weeping girl in his arms. “It’s OK, Missy, don’t cry, everything will be fine,” he whispered to her.
“What is going on?” Father demanded when he saw Missy wrapped in Vincent’s arms. He stood up and walked over to where Catherine was standing. The look on his face depicted that he wanted an explanation right now.
“Father, I can explain everything,” Catherine began. “This is Missy Parks, she’s Vincent’s friend.”
Father looked at Vincent, “your friend?”
“Yes,” Vincent said softly. “Missy and I are friends, we met yesterday in the late afternoon.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about her?” Father asked.
“I wanted to talk to you about this, but after you returned last evening, there was much joy that you had come back to us,” Vincent tried to explain all the while holding Missy in his arms. “It all happened while you were away. She was trapped, alone and afraid. I could hear her crying, and Mary came to my chamber hoping I would know the source of the weeping child we had heard resonating through the tunnels. I went, and found Missy hanging in one of the traps. I had to free her from the net and after I helped her, I took her to my chamber and we talked. Later, I made a promise that I would contact Catherine and that we would meet again.”
“Father, she begged me to bring her to Vincent,” Catherine tried to explain. “I had gone back to the school to see if I could find her, and when I saw her leaving this afternoon, I could not just leave her to cope with everything alone. I know that perhaps this was my mistake to bring her here, but I also knew that she had made the same promise I had made about maintaining the secret of the tunnel world,“ Catherine paused and looked over at Missy and Vincent. “I know something terrible has happened to her, I do not know what it is, I only feel it.”
“Be that as it may, you both know the rules here,” Father said sternly. “Catherine, you have to take her back.”
Missy, upon hearing Father’s words, tightened her hold on Vincent, the tears falling from her eyes. “Don’t make me go back, Vincent. Please. There’s nothing for me there, no hope, please let me stay with you,” her voice emerged, the misery evident in her pleas.
Vincent looked at Catherine helplessly and then back at Father. Without saying a word, he brushed the hair back from her face and continued to hold her in his arms.
“Father, before you send her back, could you just look at her?” Catherine asked. “She’s holding on to him as though he is her only support in the world. Could you honestly take that away from her, only to leave her in the lonely existence she must endure up there?”
“Catherine, my responsibility...“ Father began.
“Is to the children, correct?” Catherine interrupted him.
“Yes, to our children, but she is not one of ours,” Father said.
“But, she is Vincent’s friend,” Catherine said pointedly, “and you know as well as I that the bond of friendship is very strong. Just look at her, that’s all I ask. If you believe that this child would willingly leave this place without Vincent, then I think you are blind as to what has happened to her.”
“What do you want me to do?” Father sighed and looked at Catherine.
“Well, she does have a pretty severe nosebleed,” Catherine said. “Maybe you should have a look at it.”
Father stood up and walked over to Vincent. When Missy felt his presence behind her, she tightened her hold even more. “It’s OK,” Father finally said trying to make amends with her, “I won’t make you go, but I do need to take a look at your nose. If it is as bad as Catherine believes, I would need to check to make sure you didn’t break it.”
Vincent nodded and he leaned down and began to speak to her. “It’s OK, Missy, no one is going to send you away.” He could feel her trembling under his arms, and continued to speak to her, his voice offering his comfort.
She looked up; tears were still in her eyes. It was then that Vincent saw her nose.
“What happened to you?” he asked.
Missy looked down at her lap. “The kids in school...gym class...” her voice trailed off and she covered her face with her hands unable to speak about what had happened. Shame and sadness were evident in her eyes.
“Don’t be afraid to tell us, we’re your friends, Missy, we’re here to help you,” Vincent said gently. “What did the children do to you?”
“Nothing,” she whispered hiding her face against Vincent’s shoulder.
“Something did happen,” Vincent said softly. “I’m your friend, will you not tell me?”
“I am a sissy, just like they said,” she began to cry bitterly.
“No, you’re not,” Catherine offered. “You’re a brave girl. It takes a very brave person to always believe that life will get better and to never give up.”
Missy turned around from the sanctuary of Vincent’s arms unsure of what Catherine was eluding to. After some moments, she recognized the wadded up piece of paper in the kind woman’s hands.
Catherine unfolded the paper and began to read.
Will I ever find in the stars and sunshine
A friend who understands the beauty in my words
The love in a verse, and the emotion of a sonnet?
For the beauty that is within me?
The visions echoing in my heart,