Subj: Charade: Chapter 2
Date: 10/20/01 7:27:36 PM Central Standard Time
From: Nicole

Where fear is, happiness is not.
-Seneca

November 30, 2008, Collinwood, 3:15 PM-PT

Constance entered the west wing quietly, careful not to make a sound that might reverberate down the halls and wake the sleeping eunuch. She discovered who had supposedly written the letter. She had found many examples of his handwriting scattered amongst the letters she had collected through the years. The content of those letters startled her. Did she really live such a different life all those years ago? She could not believe that he had spoken so freely to her. And some of the things he had said made her blush. Had she really been there to do those things? She could not remember doing them now. Did it really matter? He could not have written her now and she had a good idea of who might have.

The room at the end of the hall was Josef’s. Constance was shocked by how isolated he was from the rest of the family. Was Daniel so disgusted by the degeneration of his only son that he kept him this locked away from the rest of the family? When the rest of the family was his drunken second wife, his crazy cousin, and now a false daughter with her husband and two children, how could these people be disturbed by this creature. Occasionally, Constance felt guilty for the way she treated Josef. Surely the castrato jokes were wearing thin on him by now. His condition was not his fault. It all stemmed from THAT night. Constance was lucky to have gotten out alive. She could not remember the details, but occasionally she would wake up from nightmares, her body coated in thick sweat as her skin scorched as if held close to a raging fire. David would immediately wake up and take her in his arms, trying his best to soothe her back into sleep. Most of the time he succeeded. This only made her feel more guilty. She was allowed to lead a “normal” life while two people had died and her brother had been injured beyond repair. She would do her best to be nice to him.

Constance knocked at the door and entered. She knew that he would not be able to rise to answer it himself. Along with his manhood, his legs had been affected by his injury. Josef could only walk with the aid of crutches, and even then, he could not walk well. It was almost sad to watch the once active boy turn into this dormant cripple. He did not turn to meet her. He just lay in bed, his long thin frame sinking into the fluffy mattress. The soft pale lines of his face stood out against the down pillows. His lengthening black hair lay across the white pillow, flowing across the cool material and looking fine and lush. His skin was pale perfection and looked smoother than any she had seen before. He was lucky: he did not have to shave and, at least for now, had been saved from the fat deposits that would appear in the eyelids and skin to make it seem bloated. He was still physically thin, looking thinner with the abnormally long arms and legs that were the product of his castration. When he began to gain weight, if he ever did, he would gain it like a woman . . . in his hips and ass. “Can we talk, Josef?”

Josef lazily turned to face her. Constance could tell that he was not happy to see her. His cold brown eyes seemed darker than ever. “What the hell do you want?” he asked.

The gloves were off. She walked inside and shut the door. “Well Caffarelli, I was intending to be nice, but if you want to go down this route, I can follow.”

Josef began to laugh. It was unnerving to hear him make any sound; listening to his high, unbroken voice tended to leave her shaking in her boots. It was sad that even after fourteen years, he still had that kind of effect on her. “Oh, you’re so clever, sister mine, but I don’t think your little stabs have much affect on me any more.”

“Have you listened to the CD I sent you?”

“I don’t care for Moreschi. And I’ve not watched the movies you’ve sent me or read the books you’ve sent. I refuse to let you hurt me.”

Constance shrugged. She brought a chair up to his bed, and sat. Josef turned away immediately, pulling the sheets over his head and drawing his long legs into his chest. She knew what kind of effort that had taken and felt for him. “I don’t want to argue with you . . . at least not now. I know that you used to forge Daniel’s signature on report cards. I know you can recreate practically everyone’s signature in this house.”

Josef turned back to her although his legs still sat close to his chest. “What’s this about?”

Constance handed him the note. As his brows furrowed in concentration, she said, “Sylvia gave this to me the moment I got
here.”

“The fabled step mother,” snickered Josef. “I’ve not seen her in so long. Is she still a boozer?”

“She’s still breathing, so yes, she’s still a boozer.”

“That sounds about right. But why did she give this to you?”

“It was addressed to me.”

“She didn’t write it,” said Josef.

“I know that,” snarled Constance. “I want to know if you wrote it.”

“I’ve never been able to do his handwriting,” said Josef as he handed the note back to Constance. “Then again, his was never one I had the chance to work on. He never acted as my guardian so I didn’t have much reason to try to learn his handwriting.”

“Thanks.”

“But I didn’t help you, not really.”

“You didn’t tell me what I wanted to hear but you told me the truth.”

“Do you actually believe me?” asked Josef.

Constance hung her head and murmured, “I don’t have a choice.” Constance replaced the chair and began to leave the room. She could only look at him for so long before feeling depressed. “Before I leave, I want to ask you about what was said in the letter. Does any of it feel familiar for you?”

“Why?”

“Because it sure felt familiar to me.”

Josef began laughing again, but this time it sounded more feverish, angry. “You’ve really forgotten everything, haven’t you?” he asked. He stretched out his long legs and moved toward the edge of the bed. He slid to the edge and picked up two metal crutches. He slipped his hands inside the arm braces and, after much effort, wretched himself from the bed. He had never seemed taller to Constance than when he approached her that moment. He was at least six foot seven, but he looked so fragile, as if he would turn to dust if he was touched. “I can’t believe you’ve forgotten that night. Sometimes, I wake up and that’s all I can think of, the flames, the screaming, and then him pulling you out of the building and taking you back to Collinwood.”

“That happened?” asked Constance.

“Hell yeah it happened! You know what I always think about? I always wonder why he didn’t come back for me? I was eleven. I was a child. More than that, I was actual family while you were nothing more than the proof that mother indeed could be a real slut. Why were you so fucking important and why was I so expendable?”

“I don’t know,” cried Constance bitterly. “Don’t you think I’d tell you if I knew?”

Josef laughed again, this time much more caustic than he had a moment before. “You aught to know. We all knew; don’t think we didn’t. I don’t know why we all put it up with it. Dear God, the therapy worked so well on you. I wonder why it didn’t work with me?”

“Because you’re a dick . . . be glad, you still have one.”

“That’s it!” screamed Josef. “Get out! Get out now! I don’t want to see you for the rest of your stay!” He stumbled back on the crutches but managed to maintain his stance. He began to laugh again, cackling, “It’s almost great that you’re here again. The mighty Constance Alexandra Collins who had left this hell to live forever happily with her artist husband has had to return home because they lost every dime they had.”

“Well, things might not have worked out . . . but at least I was able to LEAVE home. That’s more than what some people will ever get.” Constance left the room before he got the chance to counter. The moment she walked at her phone rang. It was David. “Thank God you called. I’ve not heard from you since I got here.”

“I know,” sighed David. “It’s been a real hassle to get everything sewed up. Tell me, how’s Gwyn.”

“She’s fine. She’s taking a nap now. She misses her father. How’s Will?”

“He’s doing all right. He’s getting his last few moments of bad tv in before he goes to Collinwood. But he’s ready to go; he’s ready to see you both again.”

“Well, we’re ready to see you both too.” Constance slipped to the floor, her back pressed into the cold wood as she fell. “You can’t believe how ready I am to have you back.”

“I think I do. It’s hell to be without you. How’s your family?” asked David.

“They’re as bad as they always were.”

“Has anything odd happened? You sound shaken.”

Constance considered telling him about the letter but she decided against it. As understanding as David Blake could be, some things could send his mind for a loop. A mysterious letter written by a dead man would be one of those things. “No, everything’s fine. I’m just a bit lonely. I can’t wait for you to get back.”

“I can’t wait to see you.” He paused a moment before adding, “I better let you go. We’re going to drive back tonight. I hope to get there before Gwyn goes to sleep. I love you.”

“Love you, too. Goodbye.” Constance slipped the phone back into her pocket but remained on the floor. She had just lied to her husband and she truly was not sure why. He probably would not have been disturbed by the letter. He would have come up with some practical excuse that would have solved the problem. He could have helped her. Constance could not believe that she could lie to him so easily. What could have possessed her to do such a thing? But it did not matter right now. She picked herself up and walked out of the west wing. Gwynneth would wake up in a few minutes and Constance wanted to be there when she did.

Dark Shadows is a Dan Curtis Production.