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Costume Theater, Redux
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Tuesday evening and it’s cold and dark and it’s been raining for over 24 hours and the cat’s rubbing against his leg, mewling to be let outside. Will’s craving an Irish Coffee, hot ramen noodles and the soft comfort of Egyptian cotton sheets, preferably in that order though not exclusively; he’ll settle for leftover lasagna and peppermint tea.
The apartment is dark and that in itself is a worry – the past five years and not once has he arrived home to quiet halls.
Usually there’s a parade of small shoes by the doorway, a backpack in the way of the study, or an assortment of books and blocks. Always, there is light and the soft padding of tiny feet on the floorboards – and stronger feet following behind; it’s never this silent and still.
He hangs his coat over the stand by the door and toes off his shoes, wincing at the slight smudge of dampness. The rain has soaked through the souls and up his socks and he can feel it cool and damp between his toes, pronounced as he walks carefully down the hallway.
The lights are off in the living room too, and only the small lamp over the stovetop illuminates the kitchen. There are two full plates covered with aluminum foil on the bench top, and a small, pink plate sitting in the sink – a Snoopy cup half filled with milk lays by it and Will empties it down the drain, washing it out quickly.
There’s the soft patter of rain against the windows and the constant tick of the grandfather clock – the hum of the refrigerator and the pad of his own feet across the floorboards – anyone would think the apartment was quiet and alone, and Will runs a finger along the wall as he passes further into the apartment; thinks of the photo frames he needs to put up along it on the weekend – one of the many projects he once promised his wife he’d complete.
She has them stacked in a box at the foot of their bedroom door and every time he passes them by she raises an eyebrow at him, daring him to explain why they’re still there. (Truthfully she could put them up herself but he’d been so adamant about contributing with a hammer and nails that she’d quirked a hesitant smile, patted him on the shoulder, and told him “it’s all yours tiger,” as she passed him by)
There’s a light casting a long, door-shaped shadow at the end of the hall and Will follows it until the soft cadence of voices seeps through the eerie silence. There’s his wife, all but whispering a myriad of voices, and every now and then it's punctuated by the softest of giggles – Will slows as he takes his last few steps and takes a moment to rest against the wall, enjoying the moment.
He can imagine Lizzie on the other side, curled on top of aqua blue bed covers with their daughter tucked into her side, leafing through a picture book before bedtime. They’d been midway through Madeline last night, and Will can just make out Lizzie’s atrocious impression of a French accent and their daughter's responding attempts.
He ducks his head around the doorframe and remains quiet a moment, waiting until they notice him – and he has to swallow a laugh, pressing a hand to his lips, because the reason they’re whispering has become apparent.
“Shall I move him?” Will asks, gesturing to their son spread, fast asleep, across Lizzie’s calves. She beams at him and nods and their daughter has a bright smile on her face at the sight of him – he leans down to press a kiss to her forehead and one to Lizzie’s cheek (only after she clears her throat to remind him) before he gently curves both hands under the toddler's shoulders and hoist him up quickly to tuck against his chest.
The boy squirms a little; and his tiny fingers are stuck somewhere between a baby's and a child’s in the most gorgeous way – they curl under his shirt collar and grip tight and the boy's mop of curly hair rests against him, tickling his chin. He presses a kiss to the boy’s temple and he stirs slightly, sniffling, before Will nudges open his bedroom door with his shoulder and crosses the dark room to the boy’s crib.
“Good night, sleep well,” he murmurs, rubbing a soft thumb down the apple of the boy's cheek; and then he pads out of the room quietly. There’s a soft sigh and then the shuffle of a mattress as the boy turns over, but within seconds he’s deep in slumber and Will closes the door slowly, leaving only a slight sliver open to let in light.
Back in his daughter's room and story time has progressed to costume theater – Will walks in to the room to find Lizzie wearing one of his caps whilst his daughter has a beautiful, deep red satin cape tied loosely around her shoulders. He steps in right as his daughter's excited voice exclaims, “And Daddy can be Miss Clavel!”
Lizzie’s resounding laughter informs him that this might not be the best idea.
“Please Daddy! I’m Madeline and Mommy’s Pepito and we need a Miss Clavel!
His daughter – four years old and with rusty brown hair that just hints at her mother's natural colour; not to mention wide, blue eyes that are much too good at convincing him to follow her – climbs up onto her knees and crawls towards him, leaning up where he’s stood at the end of the bed.
He attempts a counter attack – places his hands on his hips and straightens himself to his full height, purses his lips in a hard line that only twitches when Lizzie snickers at him, his old ‘newsie’ cap (and he really can’t believe she still has that) sitting crooked on her head. It all crumbles moments later however as his daughter tugs at the side of his pants with her small fists, biting her bottom lip and pleading – “Please Daddy, please, please, you never read stories with me anymore!” (and that’s a complete lie – he spent three hours on Sunday afternoon reading Winnie the Pooh to her whilst they rocked in the hammock in the backyard).
He glances helplessly at his wife for assistance but she has a playful smile and a twinkle in her eye and in the 8 years he’s known her that has never, not once, boded well for him.
With a sigh he lowers himself to the bed and shuffles up it so that Lizzie is lying alongside him – she leans back against his chest and turns to press a fleeting kiss to his cheek and he can already feel the blush spreading across them – the slow burn down his neck that comes from being put on the spot.
“Maybe Daddy should be Pepito,” Lizzie murmurs to their daughter, and he feels his heart beat lessen slightly – at least he’ll be playing a boy.
Their daughter seems to ponder it a moment – there was never really any hope that she wouldn’t be a headstrong, opinionated individual, and Will can see the familiar crinkle in her brow that both he and Lizzie share. He runs a fingertip down it without thinking and the little girl scrunches up her face, hiccupping a giggle that turns into a squirming laugh as she clambers between the two of them.
With aplomb she picks the cap up off Lizzie’s head and places it directly on his, blocking his eyes before he can push it back – and now both the girls are biting back giggles.
“All I need is a bow tie,” he murmurs, and he can feel the jolt of laughter through Lizzie even as she muffles it – she’s pressed all down his left side so he wrestles a hand over her body to curl around her hip.
Their daughter seems to be contemplating something – obviously it’s a matter of deep importance because she’s completely still. “Mommy,” she ponders, gazing at the pale blue wall of her bedroom, covered in an underwater seascape. Lizzie makes a soft noise and brushes back her daughter’s hair with gentle fingers – “Madeline has red hair. Like you, and Aunty Jane, and Aunty Lydia…but I don’t.”
And Lizzie hums in the way she does sometimes with Will – half listening, half agreeing, but mostly waiting for the other person to reach some sort of conclusion themself.
“Should you be Madeline?” comes the question, finally, and Lizzie goes still against his side. He squeezes her hip and she nudges a leg back to nestle between his own and their daughter is gazing up at them both, perplexed – she clearly doesn’t want to give up the starring role but at the same time seems to have developed an appreciation for authenticity – Will is oddly proud.
“Do you want to be Miss Clavel?” Lizzie asks finally, voice rising a the end in a dramatic question.
“No!” comes the quick reply, and Will has to bury his forehead in the perfect curve of Lizzie’s neck to muffle his laughter. It’s easy to see parts of themselves in their daughter – from her eyes to her profile to her stubborn air and her spark – but Will could swear she was a direct copy of his own younger sister; Georgiana’s quirky beat and enjoyment of life and somewhat innocence sparkles just beneath her niece’s eyes.
Now, and it’s bordering well past bedtime and Will’s stomach is grumbling and he and Lizzie still have to eat – it’s hard sometimes, managing two full time jobs with two full time children – but they stumble through and they collapse at the end of each day with satisfied, exhausted smiles over dinner and wine. It’s hard to complain about his life when it consists of sharing each moment with Lizzie Bennet.
“Shall we start?” he asks hesitantly, because whilst he’s usually a witness to story time he’s very rarely an active part of it. He voices a good narrator, and occasionally a good father bear, but bedtime and stories and costumes have always been Lizzie’s domain – ever since he’s known her and she first propositioned him to costume theatre.
He tilts the cap back and if he closes his eyes he can almost imagine the scratchy silk bowtie around his neck – can picture perfectly the blue plaid shirt hanging from Lizzie’s shoulders; the curve of her spine and the slight blush at her cheeks and her gorgeous, deep eyes fixed upon him.
It amazes him, constantly, that he’s built this life with her now when once upon a time his day was made simply by being near her presence.
“Daddy, you start,” their daughter instructs, and Will clears his throat as Lizzie passes the book into his hands, laughing at him softly.
He holds it before him and curls closer into her body and thanks the gods and the deities and the stars and their dust for giving him a second chance at loving her – and her loving him.
And with their daughter already perfectly in Madeline’s character, and a grave look of concern on Lizzie’s (as Miss Clavel’s) face – he begins.
“In an old house in Paris that was covered with vines lived twelve little girls in two straight lines.”
That night, curled in bed, with a hot mug of tea resting by his side and Lizzie tracing patterns into his chest as she explains the briefing she ran in the morning, he thinks – no costume theatre or story or fantasy could ever be as good as this.