CHOOSE YOUR POISON

     The castle stood clearly visible from the road, forlorn and neglected since the accident. It seemed to many passersby the perfect backdrop for a Victorian potboiler. Ten years earlier, Antoine, the castle’s caretaker, had come in to do his daily chores. As there had been a party the night before, he came in early, anticipating much cleaning up.

     When he entered the great room to the left of the entrance hall, he spotted the body of a woman. As he contemplated calling the police, or rather the “authorities” as they were referred to with more than a little sarcasm in this area of southern France, his employer and owner of the castle, Pierre Menasce, entered the room. He quickly ushered Antoine into the entrance hall.

     “I’ll handle everything, Antoine,” Pierre Menasce said in a soft, reassuring voice. “You’ve seen nothing.”

     Under his breath, Antoine said, “I seen nothing. I never seen nothing.”

     “What was that, Antoine?”

     “I seen nothing. I hear nothing. I say nothing. I know nothing.”

     “This isn’t what it seems.” Menasce put a hand on Antoine’s shoulder. “Why don’t you take the rest of the week off and enjoy your family. You’ve been working very hard. You deserve a break.”

     Menasce handed Antoine a thick envelope and shook his hand. He then hugged him bade him leave.

     On his way home, Antoine found a quiet, secluded place. He opened the envelope and found within a large amount of cash. There was also a key with a note attached which said: “The farm you always wanted. It’s yours. Thank you.” The note gave the address of the farm. The handwriting didn’t resemble Pierre Menasce’s. It looked more like that of a woman, an elegant and fine woman. In a different hand was the message, “In appreciation of your dedication over the years. You are relieved of your duties.”

     Antoine went home, pretending nothing had happened. His wife Monique wondered why he had been given the week off as he first told her. Finally, Antoine could hold out no longer. He told Monique that Pierre Menasce had let him go, provided him a small severance and the deed to a small farm. His delight at the thought of having a farm overshadowed any questions Monique might have proposed. She had none.

     They and their five children spent the rest of the week cleaning and packing. The children were excited about leaving their cramped rental cottage for a farm of their own. Antoine insisted they leave most of what little furniture they owned, as the farmhouse might already be furnished. On the way out, they passed by the castle. Instead of banners, streamers, shimmering drapes, and flowers in every window, they saw an empty, lonely place. It had suddenly been abandoned.

     “What has happened to the castle?” Monique asked.

     “I don’t know. The last time I saw it was full of life.” And death, he thought to himself.

     “Pierre Menasce has always been a strange one,” Monique commented.

     “People with his money aren’t strange, Monique. They’re eccentric.” He tried to laugh as he hurried the car beyond the castle.

    The farm was everything Antoine had ever dreamed of, perfect in fact. It was as if Pierre Menasce had read this thoughts. The taxes had been paid up for years in advance. The farm being essentially self-sufficient, Antoine spent very little of his “severance money.” He was even able to set aside his own money for his children’s education. Two more children were added to the brood in the ten years they lived there.

     As idyllic as things were, Antoine couldn’t shake the image of the dead woman he saw slouched in a chair in front of the fireplace in the great room of the castle. She was an older woman, about sixty or so he figured. She had grayish white hair and a strong, peaceful face. She was dressed in a dark blue velvet ball gown and had on jeweled earrings. She looked distinguished and regal, even in death. Who was she? How had Pierre Menasce “handled it?”

     This wasn’t the first “accident” Antoine didn’t see. Over the twenty-fours he’d served as caretaker at he castle, there’d been several others. Those accidents involved young women, women though stylishly dressed looked of little importance. Female companions Antoine surmised. In each case, Pierre Menasce took care of things. No news of these accidents ever surfaced.

     The latest accident was different. The woman was older, close to Menasce’s age. She was beautiful and dignified, not a trollop. Antoine had blocked out the others but couldn’t shake this one.

     Although the castle was some distance from the farm, Antoine had to see it once again. He told Monique he was going to get some supplies and would return the next day. Arriving at the castle, he found it even more dark and gloomy than it was the day he’d last set eyes on it. He passed by it slowly. As he continued on he heard a police horn. Sensing it was for him, he pulled to the side of the road.

     An “authority figure” approached Antoine’s car as he rolled down his window. “Good day, officer. Is there a problem?”

     “Probably not. I noticed you slowed down as you passed the castle back there.”

     “I noticed it and wanted to get a view. It’s in pretty rough shape, isn’t it.” Antoine was doing his best to appear as a casual onlooker who’d come upon the castle by chance.

     “Have you seen the castle before?”

     Antoine was now getting worried. How should he answer this question?

     “Yes, many times. It’s just so sad that it has gone to ruin the way it has.”

     “It wasn’t like that when you were looking after it, was it, Antoine?”

     The policemen recognized him. What was he after?

     “I worked for Pierre Menasce for twenty-four years. Good times and bad times. For some reason, he decided to abandon the castle and he let me go.”

     Antoine dreaded further questioning and knew he’d be asked to go to the police station.

     “It is unfortunate the castle has suffered so. Good day to you, Antoine”

     With that, the policeman got back in his car and pulled away. Antoine sat hunched over the steering wheel, shaking and crying.

     Finally pulling himself together, Antoine returned home. The sight of the farm and farmhouse both comforted and disturbed him. For ten years, he’d made an honest, good living from the farm. He’d cared for his family on his own. He’d spent nothing of his “severance” after a few initial purchases of farm equipment.

     As he entered house, he found it strangely quiet. Had the police made a visit? he wondered. He gathered himself, plastered on a cheery smile, and went to the kitchen. He knew his wife would probably be there – either there or in her sewing room.

     “That long trip and they had nothing I needed,” Antoine said half disgustedly and half amiably as he moved to put his arms around his wife. She stood still and even pulled back some.

     “Are you okay, my love?”

     “Where have you been?”

     “Like I said, I went to get some supplies.”

     “While you were gone, I found something as I was hunting for some paper.”

     "Yes?”

     She reached for the table and grabbed an envelope.

     “What is this?” She shook the envelope with a force he’d never seen from her.

     “I need to look at it. There are lots of envelopes in that desk.”

     She handed Antoine the envelope. He knew what it was. It was the envelope stuffed with cash and a note.

     “Monique, this is the money Monsieur Menasce gave me as severance pay. The farm has done so well that I’ve never had to use it.” He wanted to say he’d forgotten it was there, but he knew quite well he hadn’t.
     “It is a lot of money for severance pay.”

     “Monsieur Menasce was a very generous man. What can I say?”
     “A very generous man. You worked for him for twenty-four years for a pittance. You had to take other jobs to care for us. I had to take in sewing to care for us. Fortunately, I love to sew. It was a pleasure. He was hardly generous.”

     Monique turned toward her husband with sympathy in her eyes. “Antoine, you love this farm. It has always been your dream. You have done so well. You have given us more than we could ever have imagined for. But I watch you. I look at you. You have never looked happy since we’ve been here. The children have noticed, too. They’re great, joyous children, but they always try to be extra happy when they’re around you. They hope their happiness will rub off on you.” Her rage over the envelope and its contents had melted into sorrow.

     “I have been happy,” Antoine insisted. It’s just that with a large family, you never know what’s around the corner. A farmer’s life is what I’ve dreamed of, but it’s hard.”
     Monique then surprised Antoine with her next question.“How did we come to own this farm and this farmhouse? Don’t tell me you scrimped and saved for years. We had nothing to scrimp. I know what you told me. Now, I want the truth.”

     “Monsieur Menasce gave it to me. He owned, owns, lots of properties. This place was probably nothing to him.”

     “A very generous man, Monsieur Menasce was, is.”

     “Yes, a very generous man. Now, can we enjoy our reunion? Let me change out of these clothes and put on something fresh.”

     As Antoine headed toward their bedroom, Monique went to the window. He stopped suddenly when he heard her say, “This farm and farmhouse belonged to his sister.”

     The house became even quieter than it had been when he entered. The sounds of the two smallest children roused from their nap and playing in their room couldn’t penetrate the silence.

     “His sister? What sister? I worked for the man for twenty-four years and never heard of or saw a sister.”

     “His sister. I found something in this house beside the envelope. I was moving a table in our bedroom when I noticed a loose board in the floor. Curious, I lifted it up and pulled out a dress that had been stuffed under the floorboards. I recognized the dress. I had made it!”

     Antoine reached for his wife’s hand and led her to the kitchen table where he pulled out a chair for her. The two sat with heads bowed.

     “About three weeks before we moved here, while you were still in Monsieur Menasce’s employ and I was still taking in sewing, a lady visited. She wanted me to make her a ball gown. I’d made dresses for her before, including the one I found under the floorboards. She had the material she needed, mostly beautiful dark, rich velvet with embroidered pieces for accents. It was very expensive material and I was quite nervous to take on the job. She said she needed the gown for a party. I was surprised when she gave me the date. I had other work to do, never mind the house and children. She gave me a handsome sum of money up front. Fortunately, the design was simple --elegant but simple.”
     The little ones walked slowly into the room. They seemed to know there was something serious being talked about. Monique gave them some water, kissed them, and sent them back to their room. They smiled at their papa as they left. He smiled back at them with the partial smile they were used to.

     “Two weeks later, the lady came back to our house. I’d finished the gown and was giving her a final fitting to make sure everything was to her liking. It was beautiful. She was beautiful. And very sweet looking. When she put her street clothes back on, she paid me and said, ‘Your husband works for Pierre Menasce, correct?’ At this question, I grew cautious. Why did she want to know? She looked at me with kindness and amusement and said, ‘I know he does. He is a good man and a good caretaker.’I could only say, ‘Yes, he is.’ On her way out the door, she turned to me and said, ‘I’m Pierre Menasce’s sister. Whatever happens is okay.’ Whatever happens is okay? I repeated to myself. What did that mean? I never mentioned her visit to you. It was curious, that’s all.”

     Antoine stood up, went to his wife and stooped beside her, hugging her and crying a deep cry. The moan of death.

     An eternity of silence surrounded them.

     “I saw her,” Antoine said.

     “What?”
     “I saw her slouched in a chair at the castle, dead. I didn’t know who she was. I swear to you.”

     “Of course you didn’t. That’s why Menasce, I can’t bring myself to call him Monsieur any longer, handed you what you call ‘severance pay.’ I call it ‘hush money.’ And the farm, his sister’s farm!”

     “Monique, my love, my everything, I didn’t know.” The note in the envelope flashed into his mind. The elegant handwriting.

     Monique sat quietly, then said, “You saw nothing, you heard nothing, your said nothing. You knew nothing.”

     “I must go to the police. I can’t take it anymore. I’m dying.”

     “The police have been here. They know everything. Pierre Menasce turned himself in three days ago.”

     “I’m an accomplice. I’ve got to turn myself in.”

     “No, you don’t.”

     “I must. I’m sorry.”

“Antoine, when the police came, they told me much of what had happened. Menasce’s sister mailed them a letter the day her brother allegedly killed her. It didn’t arrive until a week after the supposed murder – accident she called it, even before it happened. They showed me the latter and even allowed me to read it. I read it slowly and carefully. I wanted to remember every word. In the letter, she told them everything. She knew about the girls he’d ‘handled.’ She knew he was a sick man with a veneer of aristocracy to cover his rotten soul. In the letter she spoke of a ball he was hosting. She decided to attend even though she’d not been invited. She knew he’d be shocked at her appearance. He thought she was content living quietly on her farm. In the letter she spoke of how she planned to avoid him during the ball, knowing his eyes would constantly be peering at her. She’d been to many of his balls disguised as a servant. She knew his pattern. After most of the guests had left, she planned to wait in the great room. Emboldened by hubris and madness, she knew he’d ‘handle’ her as if she were a common trollop. What he didn’t know was that she was dying. She admitted that her healthy appearance didn’t reveal that she had only weeks at most to live. She knew he’d invite one remaining guest into the great room. That was part of his pattern. A young woman would have been chosen as his special guest. She knew he was quite aware she’d not left the castle. The pattern would be foiled. The only special guest that night would be her, his sister. When he entered the great room, she’d give him an envelope and tell him it was for his devoted caretaker, Antoine. She’d take out a vial of poison. She had no plans to drink the poison because of the wine. She knew there would be five glasses of wine placed on a side table. She said in the letter she remembered a choosing game he’d made up as children. She would pick up each glass, watching her brother’s face as she moved from glass to glass. She would then choose a glass and drank it down fully. She would watch him and then throw the vial of poison into the fireplace. She would then sit in the chair by the fireplace and gaze smilingly on her brother. She predicted what would come next. She said she knew her brother so well, she could predict his every move.”

     Antoine could barely take in what his wife was saying. He seemed to age twenty years before her eyes. “I covered up for him for years. Those poor girls. He killed them.”

     “Indirectly, yes. But they chose to drink the poison. The authorities told me they’d spoken to some other girls who went to Menasce’s parties. Remember the five glasses of wine his sister found on the table in the great room? The girls told him of the game he’d have them play. It was called ‘Choose your poison.’ Five glasses of wine would be set on a table in front of a girl --a select girl—after everyone had left the party. He said that one of the glasses contained lethal poison. He’d asked the girl if she liked to gamble. She’d say she had nothing to lose, so sure. If they were lucky, they’d leave with a nice payday. If not. Two of the girls, two of the lucky ones, had played the game and won. They told the police that as he gave them their money he told them it was all just a game and that none of the glasses had been poisoned. Over several years, several girls they knew had been to the parties disappeared. Girls vanished all the time, so nothing was made of it.”

Antoine threw his head up in anguish. “This is all too horrible. I’ve been an accomplice in all this.”

     “You’re not blameless, Antoine. You looked the other way. I love you and your children love you. What’s more ...”

     “What can that be?”

“Menasce’s sister loved you. She absolved you of all responsibility and guilt. In her letter she admitted she was every bit as responsible as you. She also ‘knew nothing.’ Her brother was sick but also manipulative and ever so charming. She left the farm to you, not her brother. She gave you the money, not her brother.”

     “But still. I’ve betrayed you. How can you still live with me?”

     Monique put her hands on her husband’s face, wiped his tears with her thumbs, and kissed him. “We can leave the farm if you like. We can dispose of the money if you like. It’s up to you. With all that’s gone on, you might never be happy again. But you’ll always be loved. That’s all you need to know.”

     Antoine and Monique and their two smallest children left the farm. They could never determine who the girls who’d died were and so they gave the money Menasce’s sister had given them, along with the proceeds of the sale of the farm, to several orphanages. They never learned why Menasce’s sister had done what she’d done. Perhaps she was equally as mad, but in a different way. Antoine assumed a job as a caretaker and Monique renewed her sewing business. Everything was going to be okay.