Wine-stem fingers, elegant and delicate, cast off their pretenses of the evening and grasped my shoulder with white knuckles and a frenzied intensity. “Roger, you don’t understand.” Her voice was hushed, hissed, and offered an awful melody to the violins pouring out to the balcony from the party. A marble cherub watched from us the corner.
“Margaret, I understand perfectly.” I sighed, long and tragic, making sure she knew the depths of my understanding before I continued further. “You’re afraid of an old man, because he has lots of money and you’re afraid you might lose a bit. But that’s okay, darling. You have plenty to spare, I’ve made sure of that.” I gently patted her arm with a practiced condescension, took her ringed claw from my smarting shoulder, and moved to rejoin the party. I managed to take a sip of my champagne before she grabbed my hand again. I didn’t even turn to her, though I could imagine her big-eyed and terrified behind me.
I lowered my voice into a vicious whisper, hoping to deter anymore nonsense. This was beginning to be absurd. “Margaret! Please stop this ridiculous behavior. It’s verging on barbaric.” She was beginning to be a pest, almost too much trouble for someone who was, essentially, a trophy wife.
“Your father is forcing you out of your own company. If you don’t take some serious action, it is entirely plausible that you will lose everything! Can you not take this seriously for one fucking second?” She had never sworn in front of me before. She was a shrewd woman, and rarely let emotion carry her this far. I turned back to her, and her erratic state was more evident than I’d thought possible. Her large brown eyes were wide and wild, and coupled with her designer gown, she looked like a drug addict who’d stumbled into a Chanel store. I jerked her back to the side of the balcony, where none of the normal people inside might see us. It was a bit rougher than I had intended, and she stumbled and scarped her hand against the wall. But I wasn’t the crazy one, and she obviously wanted to talk. And maybe a little pain wouldn’t hurt the situation. The cherub still watched us from its perch, and I felt like it was judging me. I sent it a glare and dropped her hand, and turned towards her with a snarl.
“Listen up, you little bitch. I’m going to go back into there, and we are going to pretend that we never had this conversation, and you are going to go in there and smile like you’re supposed to.” I tore myself away from my manic wife, and stepped back into the ballroom before she could respond or follow. It was soothing in there, familiar and easy to adapt to. All was well in the world of wealth. I quickly threw myself into the mass of elegantly dressed people, busy with their smalltalk and business maneuverings. They were scavenging wolves, but in the right attire with the right hair, and they were easy enough to manipulate and impress. The domed ceiling and marble columns did the latter well enough.
I finished off my champagne and straightened my bow tie, and placed business in the lines of my face once again, before gliding over to a couple of esteemed clients crowded next to a column, who had been invited to the party because of their obscene amount of wealth. It almost matched mine. Almost. We spoke for a few minutes, but I was still distracted- Margaret had entered the room again, and was making the rounds as well. I found my eyes wandering from their dull faces to her slim form again and again as she wove between the little circles of people that had accumulated. I remembered the conversation after a moment, and because they didn’t matter, I left without much of a goodbye. They understood; they’re mere being allowed here was an honor.
Margaret looked fine for the most part, though her eyes still looked a little feral, and I could see her makeup was smeared just a little bit. Perhaps some tears? That would be good; they’d probably rid her of all that nonsense. Sometimes, it seemed, women were just crazy. A good cry by themselves seemed to do the trick: good to get that out of her system now. I left the almost-wealthy people, and hunted down a waiter with another glass of champagne. Usually, I limited myself to one, but after Margaret being so ridiculous, I felt that I deserved another.
I glanced at her again from my gold carbonation, and saw that she looked a little more recovered. She had moved to another group, and looked to be finishing up a conversation. I thought about going to talk to her, and see if she was feeling better, but decided against it. If there was even a remote chance of her sparking another scene, then I would take measures to ensure that we did not interact with one another before leaving again. I made my way over to another pompous looking waiter, and allowed myself some food, but strayed from the meats and cheeses. My doctors were concerned about my cholesterol, and I wanted to be here for a long time to keep my money from Margaret, even if I had to eat some rabbit food for that to be possible. A couple of vultures descended on me while I finished off my small morsel, and we spoke of golfing for a few minutes, before I excused myself. Margaret had found her way over to my father, which I’m sure had been her plan ever since I’d left the balcony. She was happily chatting and touched his arm, nodding, smiling, laughing; she looked recovered from the earlier incident.
I weaved through crowds of tuxedos and ballroom dresses, quick as I could while still remaining at a decent speed. Some people, unused to the wealth around them, stared up at the paintings below the domed ceiling, mouths hanging open in awe like uncultured children. They blocked my path, and I had to move around their idiocy. By the time I’d made my way across the room, glitter covered the front of my tux where I’d brushed a couple of tacky women, and half my glass of champagne was gone. I sidled up to Margaret, and took her arm. My father looked enchanted by my wife, which was quite commonplace, when Margaret decided to make it be. His blue eyes gleamed and glanced down at his drink, smiling.
Margaret was smiling too, and doing that small, lilting laugh that made her seem deceivingly young, when she was actually quite old for a trophy wife. She was almost my age, and dyed her hair brown, because she was going silver: almost too old for this behavior now. Her eyes had lost their wild edge, and I relaxed. My father had tried to joke, and I realized it after taking in Margaret’s condition. I laughed belatedly and forcedly. They both glanced at me, looking a little confused. I felt my hand begin to sweat, and I let Margaret’s arm drop back to her side. They were discussing a dinner we’d attended last week, when I interjected, determined to lessen Margaret’s speech. Who knew what she would bring up next, after soothing him into a false security? I didn’t want any financial trouble just because she was being stupidly irrational. My father was my business partner, and I had no doubt that he would use any opportunity he got to push me out. Especially not with all the deals that had been made recently- he was already edging me out, slowly and steadily. Best to remain pleasant at all times.
“So Father, how has your health been?” I kept my voice cool, and acted as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Margaret sent me a quick glare, and her full lips went flat in a disapproving frown. I had to keep from triumphantly smiling.
My father, used to games, decided to ignore what was going on between my wife and me. “Fine, fine, Roger. I may be approaching seventy, but I am still faring quite well. You know our family, sticking around for longer than our family wants us.” He winked, and I gave him an embarrassed smile. His father had been 99 before he finally died of old age, and his grandfather had been 97. I checked Margaret’s expression, and she looked fine— still smiling
We all chatted a while, before my stomach expressed its concern for my eating habits. When my father expressed no desire for food, I said my goodbye, took up Margaret’s arm again, and gently pulled her away from the conversation before she could open her mouth again. We glided through the room, exchanging quick, condescending smiles with the attendants, and then I hailed down another waiter for another glass of champagne. I was feeling the tiniest bit tipsy, but it was a pleasant little buzz that made small talk easier. We still hadn’t directly spoken since I’d left her standing on the balcony. I was about to tell her how pleased I was that she had decided to be somewhat decent again, when a sound across the room interrupted me.
It was a cough. Not an anomaly, as we were in a rather large ballroom filled with many people, but I recognized it as my father’s booming cough that had left me in awe when I was a child. And it was hoarse, as if he was choking. I quickly made my way over, towing Margaret behind me, back to my father. He was a large, sturdy man, and was now bent over with his hands grabbing his knees. His knuckles were white and his body was racked again and again with a booming, throaty cough. He gasped for breath in between fits, but soon those stopped too. I went around to his back and smacked it hard with my fist, trying to dislodge whatever was stuck in his throat. Upon realizing that it was futile, desperation crept into my heart.
“We need a doctor!” My voice cracked, I looked around at the circle that had formed around us, looking for someone to step out and take control of the situation. But, my father continued to cough, and no one stepped out to be a leader. I hugged him from the back and tried the Heimlich maneuver to no avail. Soon, he staggered, coughed, and then fell over, like a behemoth column collapsing with a loud thud and then the room was dead silent. The erupting coughs had stopped, and it seemed that no one dared breathe, as if trying to save the room’s oxygen for him. The finality was horrible.
I jumped to him and put my fingers in his mouth, but I couldn’t find anything blocking his breathing. I put my crossed hands on his chest and pushed and pushed until I thought my lungs and shoulders would collapse. Nothing changed the still state of the big, burly man. I couldn’t breathe, just like my limp, broken father lying on the ground. I stood up and still couldn’t look away from him. There must have been something that we could do.
A weight slid off my chin and landed on my shoe. I could feel it through the leather. I felt a vague warmth on my arm and I looked up, right into Margaret, who looked at me with sympathy in her eyes. She was calm. She turned from me back towards the crowd who all stared at my father, shocked. She knelt down beside him and placed her fingers on his vulnerable throat for a moment, an action where he would usually swat away the hand that dared to care and roar, “I am no woman!” But she held her fingers there until she just barely shook her head and stood back up.
Her voice was steadier than my breathing- than my heart beating. “Would anyone care to call 9-1-1?” Her voice was almost a drawl, but held authority in it all the same. She looked around intently, and eventually Mr. Brogard, a stocks broker that we occasionally consulted, recovered enough to pull out his phone and make the call. His voice shook, and he stepped back from the scene to speak to the operator.
It wasn’t until I heard his fading words that I registered all that had happened, the implications of my father, dead, on the ground like a bag of trash.. “Hi, there’s a man here who just choked; he’s passed out and hasn’t been breathing for several minutes.... No, no, I don’t think he has a pulse.”
I finally breathed, and all my breath came whooshing out in a loud sob and a yell. More heavy weights descended from my face, and I inhaled until I thought my lungs would begin crying too. They rattled and shook as I wept, and pulled and dragged and carried me down to my knees. He was gone; the man who taught me everything I knew about anything was gone. The man who I had worked for, had tried to make proud, who never offered praise but for the occasional lack of insult: gone. I felt my hands grasp his arm, which was stiff now, and my body bend about and continue to pour out tears. Margaret helped me up and sat me down in a chair across the room, as I numbly continued to cry and still felt my father’s cold skin against my palm—I couldn’t shake the sensation.
The paramedics arrived several minutes later, took a look at my father, and then pulled a black bag from the ambulance without any further hesitation. There was no need for confirmation; the situation was obvious enough in his drying skin. My hands wiping away my tears made it hard to see, but my breaths deepened and shuddered as he was lifted up by three of the men and put in the white and yellow car.
Margaret came over later and steered me towards our driver, helped me into the car, and calmly sat beside me. She crossed her ankles and primly held her knees with a perfectly straight back, looking as composed as ever, while I loudly wept beside her. I felt like a broken man. She kept coldly to her side of the car, and offered me no more comfort; a couple of times she glanced at me, as if surprised at my extreme reaction, and looked disdainful. The drive seemed to take forever, and my part of the car was steeped in salt and water. Margaret let me get myself out of the car this time, quickly escaping the despair with which I had filled the car. I sat in the car and my face was raw; soon, the tears stopped coming, and I just blankly stared ahead, thinking of my father when we were both younger: the rough way he had taught me business with a scotch in his hand, and the way he never let me have anything easily. It all worked in my head, right up until his death. Then, my face completely dry, I left the car. The driver left before I did, and it was dark outside before I got in the house.
I walked through the front door and stood there, still lost in thought. Margaret came down later, still wearing her black gown from the party, too much like she was in mourning, and gave me a cold look. Her voice was stone and her face was cruel. “I thought I’d married a man who could give me some sense of security. You’re lucky you married a woman who can take care of yours.” She paused for a moment. “I’ve arranged for your father’s cremation.” I wondered what she meant as she walked away. I heard glass bottles clinking from the other room, and figured she was getting something to drink. I continued standing at the door, curious, thinking, calculating what had just happened and then I vaguely remembered her being so close, her hands on his arm, so close to his drink… It wasn’t long before I wished that I’d ordered an autopsy.
Spoiler! :
So, I know this needs work- I don't know if you can tell, but it WAS a murder story type of thing.... I need to make that a bit more obvious I think, and develop the characters a bit more. That type of thing. Any thoughts so far, though?
Thanks for reading!
I'm so sorry it's take me ages to get to this. I've been attacked by a little thing called homework lately. I really hope you don't mind... Better late than never, I suppose. Mind you, by the loks of it, I'm going to be completely useless. 
) had killed him. I'm not sure if that's what you wanted. To be honest, there wasn't anyone else it could have been anyway, but if you didn't want to make the fact that Margaret was the murderer as obvious, I'd suggest trying to adding in some other possible suspects. I get the feeling that you didn't try to hide the fact that it was Mrgaret though, so I won't pres too much on this.
What I mean by all of this is that, at times, I found you using more complicated ways of saying things, when the simpler way would have been more effective. I think this may be slightly due to the fact that you do write a lot of poetry. In poetry, simplicity doesn't often work well. I'm not sure if you get exactly what I mean by all of this, but I do hope you understand where I'm coming from.
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