Twice Per Annum
Aaron Vlek
1.
Twice per annum, Elwood Addington Thrush engaged in what he called his Grande Purge. On April 23rd and November 16th, dates chosen for obscure reasons kept strictly to himself, various things among the accumulated flotsam of his cluttered existence would be meticulously exhumed from the farthest reaches of his closets and drawers and extricated with an almost surgical precision from the deepest recesses of the attic and basement.
All would then be gathered together into a great pile in the middle of his vast living room: piles of luggage and mountains of clothes, boxes and bags all thrown on the pile, books and trinkets as well as a thousand small mementos of a life, of his life, alone and solitary. These would be considered silently for one hour, no more, no less. During this time, nothing would be touched, handled, or reflected upon in its own particularity.
After this hour of considered reflection had expired, the nature and contents of which he never disclosed to anyone nor wrote down the least report, the pile would be unsentimentally consigned to a huge industrial waste bin Thrush rented from a local contractor and had placed discretely toward the back of his modest acreage. All would then be carted away to an undisclosed destination. This purge typically, and in some quarters notoriously, included not only objects both priceless and common but extended without mercy to persons as well, and included both those occupying the outer fringes of his minor acquaintance, as well as those placed much closer to the seat of his most intimate and private affairs.
It came then as absolutely no surprise to Fredreich and Mathilde-Eloise when Thrush left detailed instructions on the ancient salver outside their quarters the night of November 15th charging them to lay another place setting at the table in the formal dining room for breakfast the next morning. They were to spare no effort or expense in the preparation of the early morning repast, to be taken just after first light, behind closed doors, with no interruptions of any sort to be tolerated for any reason short of imminent loss of life or limb to either themselves or the portly canine companion of advanced age who shared the Thrush household. What did come as something of a shock to the elderly pair, long used to a diverse and unpredictable assemblage of eccentricities of manner and taste in their employer, was the guest’s identity: Thrush’s daughter, Violette Marie Constance, a person the elder Thrush had not seen, nor had any sort of contact with, for over forty years.
Fredreich and Mathilde-Eloise were in the kitchen when the doorbell finally emitted its solitary sonorous note that vibrated throughout the entire house and into the farthest wings of the massive structure. Mattie, as Fredreich referred to his wife privately and out of hearing range of their employer, shot a pensive glance at her husband, and he returned her gaze, holding it for a full ten seconds before releasing it as he set the silver tray with its formal service back onto the marble counter top. Mathilde-Eloise wiped her hands nervously on her linen apron and glanced toward the front of the house but said nothing, merely illustrating the tone of the moment with a sharp involuntary intake of breath.
After straightening his crisp jacket and tugging the points snuggly into place—pressed flat and centered against his narrow, wiry frame—Fredreich glided silently, and with a dignity seldom witnessed outside the Thrush residence, toward the entry hall where he pulled open the massive ornamental iron door to receive the guest. Stepping back against the interior flank of the stone entry way and assuming a stiffened attitude of attention, eyes locked straight ahead and not looking directly at the woman herself, Fredreich awaited further instructions or developments.
Violette Marie Constance Thrush nodded once sharply, whether to Fredreich as a sort of greeting or to the house itself for unknown reasons remained unclear. She stepped over the ancient mosaic threshold as the first rays of misty predawn penetrated the stained glass windows in the foyer. She paused there for a moment before carefully removing her calf-length camel hair cape, suede gloves of the same precise hue, and green felt hunter’s hat, complete with two crisp pheasant plumes more than sixteen inches in length, then wordlessly draped them over Fredreich’s waiting arm. Then she pulled off her dark glasses and proceeded to examine the entry hall, her knuckled index finger tapping thoughtfully against her pursed lips. Eyes narrowed and beady, she raked with extreme care over every surface and detail within view.
“Something is different,” she said slowly, not glancing at Fredreich, but continuing her studied consideration of each surface, object, and architectural detail, drawing from a long faded memory of the place and attempting to understand the current vision with an adult’s eye, for the very first time.
“A great deal, Miss Thrush,” came a hollow yet musical voice from the adjoining Turkish salon, “has changed.” The senior Thrush stepped lightly into view from behind the faded rose velvet draperies and beheld his daughter with his usual guarded demeanor, hands clasped firmly before him just below the waist. His great height and lean, unstooped frame remained as imposing in command as when last they’d met, in this very house, so many decades ago and under circumstances not disposed to inspire fond memories and the warmest of reunions.
“This way, please,” Thrush said curtly, stepping aside as he and Violette Marie Constance disappeared into the vast spaces of the formal dining room where the massive chandelier and numerous ornate sconces had been set alight, illuminating the ancient walls and carved ceiling with a flickering, buttery glow.
“Fredreich, I believe we’re ready to be served now,” Thrush instructed as he closed the massive carved double doors behind him, sealing himself and his final surviving offspring into familial privacy before the dusty imperviousness of the family crest where it commanded a place of prominence some ten feet above over the mantle of the fireplace.
“Very good, sir,” whispered the manservant as he turned and went to rejoin his wife in the kitchen.
2.