This story was conceived by the merging of two events in May of 2003. The first event was my rereading of H.G. Well's "The Island of Doctor Moreau" followed closely by the second which was a result of my cleaning out of my classroom closets prior to retirement after 37 years of teaching. I found material dating back to the '60's in those closets! A lot of it consisted of things I had acquired thinking to use them in class, then totally forgot about, and never used. One of those items was a copy of "True Love Stories" magazine from May, 1930. As I leafed through the magazine, it became apparent that it was close to crumbling to dust. There was no way I could save the whole magazine, but I had been impressed with the illustrations and decided to try to save them long enough to scan them. I eventually saved nine illustrations from five different stories. As I looked at them. an idea began to form. I printed each one on its own sheet of paper and began shuffling them around on my dining room table. After several shuffles, the story which you are about to read formed in my mind. Because there are nine pictures, "Byron the Bastard" will be posted in nine chapters, each inspired by one of them. I hope you enjoy it.

This is dedicated to my fellow authors and, I hope, my friends Angel O'Hare and Maddy Bell, who have honored me by including me in their stories. You two are in this whether you like it or not! :)

 

Byron the Bastard

by Jezzi Belle Stewart

©2004 Turn Right Productions

 

Part II, December 25 - 31, 1933, Carol

  

The closing front door left Carol alone. She had had to argue quite strongly in order to get Angel to leave before Jack arrived, but she was sure, she told her friend, that Byron was off somewhere drinking up her pay and wouldn't be back till morning. She wanted Angel to get home and get to sleep; she didn't want those two darling angels Tammy and Teesee to have a grumpy mother come Christmas morning.

No longer having to keep up appearances, Carol wandered back into the living room and collapsed into her special chair to the right of the fireplace. she didn't cry - She had cried herself out in the arms of her friend. - but her thoughts were in a whirl. How could Byron be like this? And on christmas eve, too? Her happiness at her condition had disappeared, replaced by apprehension. Would the Byron she had seen tonight rejoice with her over the news of their baby ... babies?

She loved Byron deeply, though, and soon began to make excuses for his behavior. It had been, after all, Christmas Eve. Glancing up at the big clock over the fireplace, she noted that it was now 12:05, Christmas morning. The clock was unique; set into a slab of gold bearing rock, it had been made for her father by a Yukon gold miner who attributed his striking it rich to her father's snowshoes. As it ticked away, Carol became calmer. Byron had probably stopped after work to toast the season with some of his friends and just got over enthusiastic, she rationalized. Everybody it seemed was drinking a lot these days, she thought, probably the result of the release of pent up desire after the repeal of prohibition. By the time she heard a car in the driveway, she had convinced herself that Byron had simply needed the money to pay back a friend who had lent him money to buy drinks. he would be his old self when he returned in the morning. She got up and went to the door to let Jack in.

It wasn't Jack. Byron walked in. He walked past her as if she didn't exist, went into the library and lifted the small statue of the Egyptian goddess Hathor in her cow form that rested on the fireplace's four inch thick granite mantle. The horns of the cows' heads of two anthropomorphic statues of Hathor supported the mantle, and the "Bromanhotep" cartouche was carved into it's front. This tableau surrounding the fireplace was the only concession to the Egyptian furor of the early twenties in the house. It was also a concession to the 18^th amendment. The lifting of the statue caused the two flanking statues to pivot outward revealing a well stocked mini-bar on either side. It was not a coincidence that Hathor was the Egyptian goddess associated with alcoholic beverages.

Byron poured himself a tumbler of newly legal Canadian whiskey, downed it in one quick swallow, and refilled his glass. He walked over to his chair, to the left of the fireplace facing Carol's, set the drink down on the end table by it, and collapsed into it, all this without a word to carol. He picked up the glass and continued drinking. Carol sat opposite him, waiting. Nothing. No apology for earlier. Nothing. Thinking of the babies, she put aside her hurt feelings. She decided, quite wrongly as it turned out, to give Byron his big present ... their big present. In a conciliatory tone she started, "Byron, dear, I ..."

"What?!" he snapped

"I just thought," she continued, now nervously, "that you seemed so agitated earlier, and that you might want your christmas present a bit early. We can open the ones under the tree in the morning, but this one is special, and," she glanced at the clock, "it IS christmas."

Byron shook his head as if to clear his mind. "Christmas? he asked in a puzzled tone. Carol's heart sank. He had forgotten Christmas! But then he gave a thin smile. "yes, I suppose it is Christmas. well, let's have it! What is this special present?"

Carol got up, walked over to him and knelt before him. The firelight reflected off her red satin gown and revealed the depths of her green eyes, shaded by long luxurious lashes. In her kneeling position Byron could, had he cared to look, seen the milky white tops of her breasts gently rising and falling as she breathed. She radiated the message, "I am woman." Her scent was the scent of a woman in love. New maternal feelings caused her to glow. Any man would feel lust; a husband would, should, feel love ... but not Byron. It seemed only that his annoyance at being interrupted in his drinking was momentarily outweighed by his mild curiosity over this mysterious present his wife had gotten him. "Well? ..."

Carol rushed to get it out, the same thing she'd said to Angel. "Oh, Byron, the rabbit died!" When no response was forthcoming she glanced up, just in time to be almost knocked over as Byron abruptly stood up.

"What!? You don't mean..."

"Yes, I'm pregnant! Twins, most likely said Dr. Burrows!" Carol was glowing and smiling. Then she noticed, as she stood and tried to embrace him, that Byron wasn't smiling back.

"Damn!" was all he said. He turned from her and picked up his drink from the end table. Downing it in one gulp, he slammed the now empty glass down and began pacing in front of the fireplace. He acted as if Carol wasn't even there. She, her whole world in ruins at that moment, just stood there and began to silently cry. Byron finally noticed her and something faintly - very faintly - like concern crossed his face. He grabbed her arm and began to pull her from the library. "Let's go to bed." he muttered distractedly.

Carol's mind was in a confused shambles, all her happiness at Dr. Burrows' news gone for the moment as her grand Christmas plans for renewing their marriage collapsed. She slowly realized there was pain in her arm where Byron was gripping her and pulling her along at the same time. She really focused on his face for a moment and he was scowling. The first hints of fear appeared in her mind. As mean as Byron had been to her in the months since her father's death, he had never before hurt her physically. Where was Uncle Jack?

'Damn!' thought Jack, glancing at his watch as he wrestled with the spare from the trunk of the big Buick. 'What a time for a flat tire!' He was worried. While Carol hadn't said any more than that Byron had been drunk and had left her alone and she wanted company, he had thought he detected fear in her voice. When Carol had first introduced Byron to him months before their wedding, he had disliked the man on sight. Byron had been a perfect gentleman then, though, and he had put it down half seriously to jealousy at a stranger taking away "his little girl." He had tried to like Byron, for Carol's sake, as he saw how happy she was, but all of that changed at Alexander's funeral.

Jack had met Alexander in the Yukon when both had been young men. He had set Alexander's broken arm, and Alex had paid him with a pair of his new snowshoes. The two had become fast friends. They had lost track of each other when jack had left the Yukon to undertake a marriage that never materialized, but both had been overjoyed years later to find that the other was also in Chicago.

Alex and Sissy were both remarkably healthy and there had been no need of a doctor until Sissy began to experience problems during her pregnancy. A look in the phone book turned up the name "Dr. Jack Flyer". could it be? Yes! The two friends were reunited and Jack delivered Carol. He had also tended the dying Sissy. It helped that he had also become a lawyer during the intervening years and could deal with all the legal as well as the medical problems surrounding the death while Alex and carol dealt with their grief over losing wife and mother. He truly did think of Carol as as much his little girl as Alexander's, and knew that she did indeed love her "Uncle Jack".

He had not expected to have to reprise his role as chief comforter when Alexander died, believing that role to now be Byron's. Thus he was surprised when at the funeral, Byron had dragged him away from the grave site to ask about selling Bromwood. He had looked over and saw that fortunately there was a young woman comforting Carol. He had sharply told Byron to return to his wife and that they would talk at a more appropriate time. He, as executor of Alexander's estate, would be calling soon to arrange for the reading of the will. Later Carol had introduced him to Angel; her he had liked on sight.

Not surprisingly, the will left everything to Carol. While these were the 1930's and not the bad old days when a woman's property automatically became her husbands, the laws of the state of Illinois - privately Jack believed chicago should secede from the rest of the state and become its own state. - did give Byron some rights in regard to it. It became increasingly clear to Jack that Byron wanted to sell Bromwood. The man was a male gold digger, a gigolo! He could not bring himself to confront Carol about this, though, and destroy her happiness. However, when he had received her call a short while ago, all his ill feelings about Byron had crystalized and it was with a sense of urgency and dread that he had thrown on some old clothes, jumped in the Buick, and headed for Bromwood. He had automatically grabbed his physicians' bag and thrown it into the front seat alongside himself.

As he was recapping all this in his mind he was also finishing changing the Buick's right front tire. He picked up the journey to Bromwood just as Byron pulled carol through the door into their bedroom.

"Byron, you're hurting me!" exclaimed Carol, as he dragged her through the bedroom door. She was really crying now. As he pulled her to the bed, she glanced in the mirror and noted that there were no black streaks. 'This new waterproof mascara really works!' was her odd thought, as her mind tried to cope with the serious things that were happening. Looking back to Byron she saw that his scowl had deepened and his face was red with anger.

"You little bitch!" he snarled at her; "You have to go and ruin everything!"

She cringed. "I thought you'd be pleased, Byron. Our children! You wouldn't have to worry about selling the house; we'd need it with our children."

Then the unkindest cut of all. "Our children? How do I know the brats are mine, you slut!" And he slapped her. Hard.

The slap sent Carol reeling backwards. Her heel caught on her satin bed slippers lying on the floor. She fell, first across the night stand, which caught her in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her, then hitting her head on the hard wood of the bed side rail. She looked up at the red angry face of the man she still loved. "I love you so much, Byron, but I swear to God that's the last time you'll ever hit me!" she managed to get out as the blackness closed in.

Carol awoke and knew immediately where she was. The smell had been with her almost constantly in the months that her father was dying. she was in a hospital. She opened her eyes and saw Jack sitting beside the bed along with Dr. Burrows. "Uncle Jack! The babies ...?" she managed to get out. The darkness descended again as she saw the sad look on both doctors' faces.

When she next awoke, it was Angel looking down at her. "Damn, girl, you look like shit!" was her comment.

Angel's completely uncharacteristic comment had the desired effect, and Carol burst out laughing as Angel pulled her into a very careful and very gentle hug. Then came the tears. Then Jack was there again. She felt a prick on her arm, and blackness returned.

The next time she awoke, Angel was there again and helped her stand and shakily make her way to the bathroom. Carol found she was able to function, although there was an ache in her heart. She let Angel get her dressed and do her hair and makeup to be presentable for Uncle Jack. He might be her Uncle, but he was still a man and she didn't want him to see her looking disheveled. She knew. of course, that he had seen her looking a mess while she had been unconscious, but that was different. She was sitting up in bed, with Angel in the chair by her side when Jack came in. He thought she had never looked prettier, until he noted the sadness in her eyes.

Her only questions were "What happened?" and "Where's Byron?"

Jack explained: When he had finally arrived at Bromwood, he had entered only to be passed by an exiting Byron. Realizing that something bad must have happened, he rushed through the house, first to the library, where he noted the open bar, the two-thirds empty whisky bottle, and Byron's empty glass, and then to the bedroom, where he discovered Carol unconscious and bleeding profusely from what he quickly determined was just a scalp wound. Fortunately he had automatically grabbed his bag from the front seat of the Buick and brought it in with him. He had stopped the bleeding and checked her vital signs, but couldn't get her to regain consciousness. He called Lake Forest hospital and Dr. Burrows. Then, finding her number in Carol's personal phone directory that he had found in her night stand, he called Angel. Then, he told Carol, he had sat with her head in his lap till the ambulance arrived, singing her every lullaby he knew.

He continued the singing for several hours at the hospital, he continued, till Angel had arrived. The staff, he chuckled, were overjoyed to see Angel as she had a much better singing voice than him. This, too, like Angel's previous comment, got a laugh from carol, with the added benefit of a hug.

Byron, Jack went on, was in police custody, picked up for drunk driving. What the hell, he asked, had happened?

Carol lied. She said Byron had tried to hug her and, because he had reeked of liquor, she had backed away, catching her heel on her bedroom slippers and fell. Jack reluctantly accepted the story and left at her request to deal with a, he hoped, VERY hung over Byron and the police. Carol suspected he didn't believe her, but knew he would accept her story, at least for now.

She told the truth to Angel. She didn't know how she felt about Byron. Hate, certainly; he had cost her her babies, after all, and she and Angel spent a good deal of time crying about that, but she still loved him and wondered if there was a way to deal with him short of divorce. Angel agreed about divorce, but had no such reservations; to her, simple divorce was too good for Byron. He needed to be punished!

Carol agreed, but added rehabilitated too. What could they do? Angel, remembering a locked trunk in the attic of her and Bob's building, thought she might have a solution. The trunk had belonged to her great-uncle, the infamous Dr. Moreau. Listening to Angel, Carol, seeing the evil smile on her friend's face, thought briefly that if Byron could see that smile, he would leave Chicago as fast as he could. She smiled, too.

 

to be continued

The TG starts in part 3, I promise.

  

  

  

*********************************************
© 2004 by Jezzi Belle Stewart. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, and compilation design) may be printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without the express written consent of StorySite and the copyright holder.