Victoria

Prologue

Clowns, contrary to popular belief, don’t have a universal scent. Some smell musky and dull while others smell flowery. Others still smell like old rubber, cigarettes, and glue. For me, any one component of this last concoction brought with it images of tangled synthetic red hair and a cacophony of reds, blues, greens, and whites running together and distorting the face canvas that they blanketed. Oversized shoes held together with patches of painted duct tape. Clothes held together with safety pins, staples, tape, and glue. Pants torn and re-sewn a dozen times at the same seams.

These are professionals, I told myself growing up as I stepped over a pile of make up and vomit that had been that night’s entertainment. Professional men at work and then at work still after hours.  But not all clowns are those whose images kept me in school year after year until I became not only the most educated person in my family but the most educated person that anyone I knew outside of my school had ever personally known. There were clowns who seemed respectable, responsible, clean even! Those whom I could count on from time to time; whose children read books and aspired to one day enroll in clown school. In some ways I got lucky by not being born into those families. I may not have made it this far from home in search of something better. 

Chapter 1

Something better is what I found in the most unlikely of circumstances. It was towards the end of my second year of graduate school. The burden of finals and 30-page papers was eclipsed – as it was every year – by the stress of finding a way to avoid going home. In the last four years, I had successfully managed to see my parents only twice. Before that, I had spent every one of my first three summers of college with them. Each year, my stay became shorter as I found it harder to spend time with my family until four years ago when I announced that I would not be visiting at all. I had landed a full time internship with the local newspaper. The following summer, I called the newspaper and asked if the internship was still available. They offered it to me once again. The year after that, they called me and offered me a job. This year, no call. I called them, no answer. I left a message, no call back. I only had a couple of finals left and I was getting desperate.

This is when Cindy from the career center called me.

“Peter, are you still looking for a job this summer?” Her voice was concerned, maternal. It made me want to hold her face in my hands and whisper into it: don’t worry so much about me, Cindy. I’m alright!

"Yes. Has something come up?”

“Well,” she paused uncomfortably, “Do you know…” Her voice trailed off and I wondered why it took her so long to get the words out. “Do you know who the Buckings are?” The millionaire family living on top of the hill overlooking the entire town who owned half the university I attended? Was there anyone within a 200 mile radius of this place who didn’t know who the Buckings were?

“Yes. Of course.”

“Mrs. Bucking just called me. They are looking for a tutor for their daughter this summer.” The Buckings had a daughter? Everyone assumed they were childless.

“I wasn’t aware Mr. and Mrs. Bucking have children.” I said and flinched at how inappropriate the sentence sounded.

“Well, yes, they do. They have a daughter. Victoria. She’s—” Cindy broke off in mid-thought. 

“In any case,” she went on,  “I immediately thought of you. I think that if anyone… I mean, I think that you’ll be able to help her… with her studies, I mean.” I’d never heard Cindy this flustered. Concerned? It made me feel uneasy. 

The Buckings appeared to be kind and generous people. I could not keep the curiosity from bubbling within me.

“Yes. I’ll take the job.” I said with conviction and listened to the muted sigh on the other end. When Cindy spoke again it was with a relieved voice, the concern washed out of it almost entirely.

“Oh, fantastic!” she exclaimed. “I’ll let Mrs. Bucking know right away. I think you can start on Monday.”

Chapter 2

As I rode my bike up the winding private driveway that lead to the mansion, I realized that I had no idea what the Bucking home really looked like. One side of the house peeked through a wall of trees and could be seen from almost any part of town. The shape of the house, the size of it remained a mystery. There were no photographs of the mansion either and no person that I knew had ever been to it. I rode harder up the steep hill as I suddenly felt impatient to arrive, sweat dripping down the sides of my face. 

The road then curved around the mountain, the trees that had provided shade on my right disappeared as the town that had been my home for the past seven years came into view. Without realizing it, I stopped. At this altitude, I could see every corner of the town, every street, every house, every tree, every car. I could see people, tiny ants moving millimeters per minute as they inched their way laboriously though my town. I stood there hypnotized for what seemed like a long time. When I looked up the hill in the direction of the mansion, the sweat on my face was dry and the breeze that hit my back no longer felt cold against my drying shirt. The sun was starting to feel uncomfortably hot. I decided to walk my bike until I reached the shade of the trees again. 

The narrow road became narrower still as it cut sharply to the left and into the dense forest – its end nowhere in sight. Distracted by the playful caresses of stray rays of light on glistening dancing leaves, I slowed my pace. It was hard to imagine that a mansion could exist in the midst of such untouched beauty. I wondered if I had made a wrong turn somewhere. And had the road not been wide enough for an automobile, I would have turned around to check. If I was on the wrong path, I had to find out quickly. I had underestimated the duration of the trip and would surely arrive late. How late would depend on how quickly I could find out if I had to backtrack. I got on my bike and rode as fast as I could up the ever-climbing hill.

Within the next few minutes, three things became clear:

I was not on the wrong path.

I was not going to be much late after all.

And, the Bucking Palace Home belonged in the midst of the forest that cradled it. 

The road widened as it approached the mansion’s large cast-iron double gates. It was left open by just a foot with a hand-written note taped to the gate close to the opening. I got off my bike and walked the last few feet. The note was addressed to me. 

“Dear Peter,

Please close the gate behind you. Victoria is in the study. 

Oliver will show you to her.

Mrs. Bucking”

I stuffed the note distractedly into my pocket. From the gate I still had a five-minute uphill walk though the driveway and the rose gardens to the house. I walked briskly as the anticipation built in my chest. Consciously, I took one deep breath then another then another until I reached the wide white marble stairs that lead to the tallest widest set of doors I had seen in my entire life. The house itself was massive as well. Everything about it seemed oversized as though it was built for a family of giants and not the petite polite Buckings. Yet despite its size, the massive architecture was being engulfed, swallowed by the green vines, trees, bushes, and plants from every direction. Enormous ancient trees with their girthy trunks only feet away from its walls and their branches invading porches, balconies, and windows; lush vines climbing and winding tirelessly around, up, down, and across an entire side of the house, leaving only the windows exposed; entire pillars draped with hanging strings of leaf and flowers I did not recognize. Never had I seen a house so intimately mated with nature. I had a hard time deciphering where one ended and the other began. 

I leaned my bike against a large tree a few feet from the stairs, stepping and maneuvering its tires carefully over the bulging roots. The door opened before I had reached it revealing a middle-aged man in a black suit and an eager expression. 

“You must be Peter.” His tone friendly and natural.

“You must be Oliver.”

“Oh. Haha. Yes! That’s me. Oliver. I see that you rode a bike. Yes, please, do come in. Miss Victoria is waiting for you in the study. She’s very excited to meet you. You come highly recommended.” Such gravity this man had. I had to smile. I had to be excited, and glad! I had no other choice in his presence. 

We walked across the white marble floors, past the sculptures of fat happy dancing angels and the larger-than-life portraits of people I assumed were long dead. We walked through rooms with high ceilings, uncomfortable-looking furniture, and dust-free instruments behind glass barriers. We took large steps and Oliver cheerfully told me about how highly Cindy had spoken of me, how Victoria had been sitting in the study since breakfast in anticipation, how the chef was baking his special ginger cookies for our tea break. Listening to Oliver was effortless. His enthusiasm penetrated every cell of my body, it filled the air around us. It seemed to enter the room before him and lingered in it after he had left. 

Before we entered the study, Oliver stopped, his hand on the knob, his eyes fixed on mine, thoughtful. 

“Be patient with our little Miss.” He said softly, hints of seriousness and compassion coloring his tone. Then he threw open the double doors simultaneously announcing our arrival. 

Chapter 3

“Victoria! Darling! Look who has finally arrived.” He walked hurriedly across the intricate silk rug. Its vibrant reds and yellows came to life the instant he pulled open the heavy curtains. One after the other the windows were bared as I stood at the door frozen. Thousands of books with colorful spines lined three massive walls. The fourth wall had been draped in a solid heavy fabric from ceiling to floor until just moments ago Oliver started revealing the six huge hidden windows—each at least six feet wide and twice my height. Oliver made his way across the room along this wall, exposing the marvels of the room with each sweep of his hand. 

I followed Oliver with my gaze as he walked to the arrangement of three large sofas and two smaller chairs circling an oversized coffee table. He stood at the far side of the room facing me. Where was Victoria? I scanned the room once then once again but could not see any person other than Oliver. When my eyes found their way back to his, I was surprised to find them not looking at me but at the large sofa that stood between us facing him. His expression warm, gentle. I cleared my throat impatiently.  

“Why won’t he come in?” The glassy voice inquired so softly I almost didn’t hear it.

“I think he is looking for you.” Oliver whispered as though he was sharing a secret.

“Help me up then.” The chilling voice was icy and sharp. Oliver stepped towards the sofa, bent over it, and started moving and adjusting something invisible. Then he bent even deeper disappearing for an instant almost entirely. When he reemerged, he had on his shoulder a small ball of bight orange curls. As he adjusted her into a seated position, his eyes met mine, in them reassurance and an invitation. I took a deep breath and entered the room. 

I will never forget the first time I saw her face. I walked slowly around the large tan furniture, my eyes fixed on the ground not seeing the snaking patterns of the hand-woven rug or the deep imprints of heavy furniture that had recently been moved. When I looked in her direction, her ocean-blue eyes were already waiting for mine. Their color wild and deep, their texture that of smooth flawless glass. They pierced through me intrusively. 

Oliver, who had somehow managed to reach the door before I had reached the spot where he had stood, stole my gaze briefly. His look now pleading, asking me to remember his request, which had seemed simple enough only a moment ago. Yet now, we both understood that it would take more patience, more resolve to fulfill. 

“I have been waiting for nearly two hours.” The chill in her voice ran down my spine like ice water. The accusation weighed down my gaze until it dropped to the ground. It took me a moment to remember that Cindy had told me to arrive at ten. It was fifteen, at the most twenty minutes past ten now. My gaze returned to hers but something in it must have surprised her for she furrowed her brows for an instant and her peach-orange lips smacked apart unintentionally. When she spoke again, I was too distracted by the blood red of the inside of her mouth and its contrast to the pale yellowish-orange of her perfect plumb lips to hear her words. So she repeated herself.

“Sir! Mr… What shall I call you?” The lack of formality clearly caused her annoyance.

“Peter.”

“Mr. Peter?” She asked as though the sound of it was absurd.

“Just Peter will suffice.”

“Alright then,” she snapped, “Just Peter, tomorrow, you must arrive sooner. I am exhausted already from waiting for you.” The flood of her words washed out the last of the warmth Oliver had brought with him. 

“Yes, Miss Victoria, I—”

“Miss Bucking.” She corrected me sharply.

“Miss Bucking,” I went on slowly, carefully, “I am terribly sorry for being late. I will try to get here on time from now on. What time, exactly, would you like me to arrive?” Her eyes softened as she studied my face. 

“Nine o’clock.” Her voice sounded fragile without its sharp edge.

“May I?” I pointed at the sofa to my left.

“Yes. Please.” She gestured me to sit down and followed my movements suspiciously as I took her offer. I sat as close to her as I could on the sofa adjacent to hers. Her skin, which seemed to have the texture and color of porcelain from my previous distance, became nearly transparent as I stepped closer. I could see thin purple and green lines running across it and down her neck. I gasped when I realized that these were veins below the surface of her skin. 

“What is your specialty, Mr. Just Peter?” she asked before I had a chance to collect myself, acid dripped from every slow syllable as she enunciated my name. 

“Literature.” I felt a hint of shame for my reaction to her paper-thin skin. 

“You want to be a writer then?” As she spoke, carefully maintaining a safe level of bitterness in her tone, pity started to rise within my chest. 

“A journalist, actually,” My tone rounded with kindness. “Tell me Miss. Bucking, what is the favorite book you have ever read?”

“That’s not a fair question.” She snapped with annoyance.

“Not fair?” I smiled curiously, “How is my question not fair?”

“If it is such a straight-forward question, why don’t you answer it?” She said impatiently, “Tell me, Mr. Just Peter, what is your favorite book of all time?”

“That’s hardly the question I asked.” 

“Please enlighten me.” Her ocean eyes glistened with mischief and seemed to darken a shade. 

“I asked for the favorite book that you have read not your favorite book among all that have been written.”

“And they are different?” Of course they are different! Such a senseless conversation had come out of such an innocent question. Our eyes locked or a long moment, mine harbored disbelief and annoyance, hers the hint of victory when a maid walked into the study carrying a tray of tea and warm ginger cookies. 

* * *

For the next week, frustration kept me up well into the night and dragged me out of bed long before my alarm went off. I left my apartment a few minutes after seven and rode my bike hard and fast in an effort to burn off my annoyances before I was faced with their creator and primary source of fuel. At the end of the day, I flew down the rocky road with increasing speed. As pebbles and branches shook my bike and me, I told myself that I was trying to get myself killed for that would mean I wouldn’t have to return to the mansion the next day. To my relief and disappointment every fall that I endured did not kill me nor did it cause serious or permanent injury. Instead, it slowed my journey home. The gashes on my skin, however, the physical burning and stinging, the soreness of my muscles, were a welcomed distraction from the anger, frustration, and annoyance I felt otherwise. 

At the end of my third day at the mansion, I had asked Oliver to walk me to the gate. I did not know what I needed to say, exactly, or what I needed to hear. What I knew was that I did not understand why I had been hired. Miss Bucking showed no interest towards anything at all other than bitter bickerings and creating uncomfortable circumstances at the expense of others. I could not, for the sake of my own sanity, continue to work there if my role was to provide her entertainment and an outlet for her cruel behavior. 

Oliver pranced cheerfully through the rose gardens, intently sniffing the most beautiful flowers then telling me about what type of rose that was and where Mrs. Bucking had imported the seeds from. When we walked past a maid collecting a row of white sheets that she had hung to dry in the sun, he complemented her on how white she had gotten the sheets and told her that he could see the shine in her golden hair from across the yard. When we reached the gate at last, he turned to face me. 

“Well, Peter, you have safely made it to the gate,” he said mockingly. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.” 

“Actually,” I raised my arm instinctively towards him as though to stop him from turning away from me. “I wanted to ask you a question.” I had a dozen questions I wanted to ask. What was wrong with Victoria? What sort of illness does she have? Why is she so bitter towards everyone? Where are Mr. and Mrs. Bucking and why have they shown no interested in meeting the tutor of their only daughter? This, however, was not the right time to quiet my curiosity. There was a far more pressing issue I needed to address. 

“I am not sure that I am the right person for this job.” I said.

“Oh, Peter, you are the perfect person for this job!” Oliver’s face was all smile and joy. I had no doubt that what he said he believed in the deepest depths of his soul. “Cindy was absolutely brilliant for sending you here.”

I pushed the confusion out of my face and went on. “I am not sure what the job is, really, that I have been hired to do. Vi—Miss Bucking doesn’t seem to care much for me nor anything that I could teach her. My guidelines are so broad. I don’t –” I ran out of words. There was a pleading quality to my desperate tone as though I was a prisoner begging for my release. 

“Peter,” Oliver smiled and instantly I knew that he understood me more completely than I had thought he could. “You are the perfect person for this job,” he went on. “We are all very excited to have you here. Even Victoria is happy. She is quite a sweet girl, you’ll see soon.” While he said this, he ushered me out of the gate and closed it between. He then started to walk back up the hill towards the house. With his back turned to me as he walked away, he waved his arm and yelled “Be careful riding down!” There was a smile in his voice. 

Who was this Victoria that all these people spoke of? This Victoria who was sweet and nice and excited to meet me? This Victoria who was interested in new things and needed a personal tutor to help her learn about all the wonders and marvels of the world? This Victoria who had grown up with parents who gave millions of dollars to charities across the country, who had built the largest library in five counties in our little town, and who raised money for the local children’s hospital? I spent all of that evening and the entire duration of my rides to and from the mansion for the remainder of the week wondering about this Victoria who had tricked me into spending so many of my hours with the increasingly unpleasant Miss Bucking. With every new fight that Miss Bucking instigated with me, with Oliver, or with one of the maids, my frustration grew. I thought about visiting Cindy at her office and explaining my situation to her. Every time I thought of this, however, I remembered the worry in her voice when she spoke of Victoria and the relief in it when I had agreed to take the job. 

By the end of the week, I had bruises and cuts on nearly every surface of my body caused by the tumbles I took traveling at fearful speeds down the dangerous hill. I was convinced that this Victoria everyone seemed to know and care about did not exist. It was Miss Bucking who was real. She had devoured Victoria and worn her carcass and now she used the idea and memory of Victoria to lure in new victims to tear down, to kill, and to devour. And I was her newest victim. 

Chapter 4

I woke Monday morning with a new resolve. The weekend apart from the Bucking mansion had reminded me of all the reasons why it was in my interest to keep this job. By the end of last week, I was beginning to feel that perhaps seeing my parents, spending the summer with them would be a nice change of scenery; that spending some time with my parents could not be nearly as painful and stressful as spending the entire summer with Miss Bucking. 

As my bruises healed, clarity started to drift back into my consciousness. The Buckings were paying me for three months more than I would make in an entire year working at the paper. I had received my first paycheck on Friday, which after covering my entire month’s rent and groceries had left me with enough cash in my pocket for a movie and a new pair of shoes. Not seeing Miss Bucking every day made it easier to think about Victoria. Last Friday, as I walked through the wide corridors of her home, I had caught a glimpse of her painfully taking a few short steps to a chair where she would await my arrival. Her fragile body, barely strong enough to support the light flowery dress she had chosen to wear, curled over the chair unnaturally. Her slender arms shook with the strain as her stick-like fingers bent around the strong handles of the chair. The disgust and anger I felt towards Miss Bucking suppressed my urge to help her then. But now, in her physical absence, I could not help feeling pity for her. How difficult it must be to be bound to such a weak body. How dreadful a life she must lead. 

Seeing her so helpless and fragile in my mind made me wonder about the truth behind what Oliver had said. He had told me on multiple occasions that Victoria was excited to have me there, that she was happy about it. These statements had seemed like fables, lies designed to manipulate me into believing in the existence of a gentler person than the cruel Miss Bucking. Yet, now, I wondered: Could they be true? I had to find out. 

I dressed hurriedly and left my apartment before six. As I rode my bike, the sun changed the forest into a magical place and I felt, in my bones, that I was on my way to discovering something very important. Something profound that would change me forever and free Victoria from the clench of the evil Miss Bucking. 

I arrived at the mansion about twenty minutes before eight. The gate, which was usually left open for me, was still locked. For five minutes I waited patiently. Then I spent another five minutes trying to climb over the gate and the tall wall circling the property. Luckily one of the gardeners saw me and gestured to me to stay put while he disappeared into the house. He reappeared moments later with a familiar face. As Oliver walked hurriedly towards the gate, his expression changed slowly from alarm to surprise, then to a pure pleasure that I had thought only very small children were capable of experiencing. 

“Peter!” he yelled when he had almost reached the gate throwing his arms open as though inviting me in for a hug. “What a pleasant surprise! You know, it is wonderful seeing you again. I was hoping you would come back.” It was nice seeing Oliver again. I hadn’t realized that I had missed him until that moment. His gravity, which I had gotten used to through the course of the last week, now drew me in more strongly. I smiled. 

“I haven’t had breakfast yet,” I said casually. “I was hoping I cold have breakfast with Miss Bucking.” 

If my request caused Oliver concern, he didn’t show it. He led me up the large spiral staircase to the second floor of the house. I felt a tingle in my chest when I realized that this part of the house was off limits to most guests. When we reach a set of grand-looking white doors at the end of the hallway, he stopped, his hand on the knob. 

“Wait here,” he instructed, a childlike glee seemed to lighten the color of his eyes by a shade. Before I had the chance to nod my head in agreement, Oliver had knocked once, simultaneously opened the door, and disappeared inside it. 

I waited. Moments later, I heard the glass voice I had learned to hate and dread so completely. 

“What?!” the voice shattered into a million pieces. “What do you mean, he is here? Have him wait for me in the study.” 

Then a moments silence. 

“He what?!” I was wrong to assume that the voice had reached its limits of strain earlier. I cowered with every word that followed as though she was physically assaulting me. “Is it not enough, I have to endure his presence all week?” she went on angrily, “Now I have to be subjected to it during my personal private time? Tell him to leave at once. I will not have an arrogant lowlife bastard intrude on my space. Tell him to go back to his pathetic life and to not come back. He has ruined my mood today and for that I cannot forgive him.”

Oliver came out of the room shortly after this, his face apologetic yet kind. 

“We should give the little miss a little time.” He said as though she had just excused herself to the powder room. 

“Should I leave?” The words scratched my dry throat and I had to swallow painfully once they were out. 

“Leave?” he asked surprised, “why would you leave?”

“Well, Miss Bucking—”

“Oh, don’t mind Victoria,” Oliver interrupted, “She was surprised, that’s all. Caught off guard. She’ll meet you in the study as usual. But first let’s get you something to eat.” 

The breakfast that the chef prepared for me was worth the trip and the discomfort of standing behind Miss Bucking’s door as she wished me away. Fresh eggs scrambled with fried onions, peppers, bacon, and mushrooms, covered with melted cheese, served over a bed of diced fried potatoes; sweet oranges, apples, and strawberries combined together to make the most delicious juice that had passed my lips until that morning; and instead of a cup of coffee, I was handed a cappuccino foamed to perfection sweetened with honey and cinnamon. By the time I walked into the study, I had all but forgotten about that morning’s incident and had decided to have my breakfast at the mansion from now on. 

All morning I sat in the study reading, looking at the clock that sat on the table next to me, trying to write, doodling, looking at the clock, pacing, looking at books, looking at the clock, looking out of the window, looking at the door, looking at the clock, looking at the furniture, looking into the hallway, looking at the clock. At noon a maid walked in with a tray of food for one person. When I asked her about Miss Bucking, she said that she knew nothing and walked out before I had a chance to inquire further. 

What a stupid thing I had done coming here so early, disturbing the patterns we had so painstakingly established. Oliver had assured me several times, while I ate the most satisfying breakfast of my life, that my coming here this morning was not a mistake.

“Victoria is glad to have you here,” he had said, “she appreciates you very much.” 

Again I had wondered about this Victoria he spoke of. Had he not heard the hurtful words uttered by her only minutes earlier? Was he not in that same room when she wished herself rid of me? Where was the appreciation he spoke of? Where was the affection?

Then a maid had rushed into the kitchen, her eyes wide with fear, and had whispered with a shaky voice something unintelligible into Oliver’s ear. Without a single word, he had shot up like an arrow and rushed out of the kitchen. That was the last time I had seen Oliver that morning. 

About an hour ago, I left the study to look for him. For twenty minutes, I wandered the endless corridors and peeked my head into empty rooms without encountering a single soul. Every room seemed cold, dark, and unwelcoming in the absence of sunlight. The sun that shone so brightly on this marvelous house was blocked out of it entirely. All windows were covered with heavy drapes and no potential source of sunlight escaped without some sort of blockade. Skylights were painted with thick layers of dark paint; high-placed stained glass windows, which I imagined had years ago filtered the sun’s warm rays into magical colors and transformed these rooms into brilliant spectacles, were blocked off with large wooden panels—some from the outside, some from the inside. 

My lungs pushed against the walls of my chest as the uncomfortable and exhilarating feeling of discovering someone else’s secret grew within me. But what secret exactly had I discovered? All I knew was that the Buckings had gone through an awful lot of trouble to block out every shred of sunlight. Why they had done this or what it meant, I did not know. A faint fear of being found out grew within me and was soon eclipsed by a strange sense of excitement that heightened every one of my senses and helped me move faster and more quietly as I continued my investigation. 

I saw the maid that rushed down the stairs and pranced towards me the instant her eyes made out and recognized my shape.

“No! No, Sir,” she squealed excitedly, “you must wait in the study. Please!” The sense of urgency in her voice and demeanor left me no option other than to oblige.

“Is Miss Bucking alright?” I inquired, genuine concern in my voice.

“Yes. The miss is fine.” The maid answered without waiting for me to finish my question. 

“What is going on then?” I could not control the agitation in my voice, nor the flood of questions that followed the first, knowing as I spoke that I would not be receiving any answers. “Where is every body? Is Miss Bucking still in bed? Is she ill? Why are you so flushed? Where is Oliver? How can you say that the miss if fine when so much seems out of place?” Once I had stopped speaking, in the absence of my words, there was only the sound of our steps disturbing the depressed calm of each corridor as we passed through them. The maid, as I had suspected, had no answers for me. She led me hurriedly back to the study. Before she closed the door behind her as she left, she said: “You wait here, sir. Someone will be with you soon.”