Bad Austen (18 page)
Authors: Peter Archer
S
TACEY
G
RAHAM
Light bounced off the disco ball like tiny diamonds shattering on the gold lamé dress pants hugging the aerobics-toned legs of Willoughby. Long-limbed and nimble as a tiger, he prowled the dance floor at the Holiday Inn Scandals in search of a partner, his platform boots clicked on the parquet floor in rhythm to the beat of Donna Summer’s soulful siren call about the last dance for the desperate and slightly sweaty. Spying the cascading curls of a young woman across the room, he gyrated her way, his intent clear—their hands must touch, their breath to mingle; they must speak each other’s unspoken language.
D
ID
Y
OU
K
NOW?
If a person has heard anything at all about Jane Austen’s mother, it is probably that she was a hypochondriac. That seems to be true, but there is much more to be told about Mrs. Austen, the intriguing woman with whom Jane lived her entire life.
For all her aristocratic and scholarly background, Mrs. Austen’s practical streak and lack of concern with appearances served her well as the wife of a country clergyman and farmer with a very modest income. She jokes in a letter to her sister-in-law, after saying how she would like to show off her children, that she would like to show off her other “riches,” too—her bull, cows, ducks, and chickens.
She was not only a mother to eight children of her own, but she also seems to have done quite well mothering her husband’s pupils firmly but fairly, looking after their meals and laundry and their characters, too. Mrs. Austen wrote poetry from childhood on, and we have some of her very clever light verse, including the poems she regularly wrote to these boys. The verses are charming and spirited—and often relayed a specific message—and evi- dently meant enough to her charges that they preserved them their whole lives so that we can enjoy them today.
Like so many women in Jane Austen’s novels, Mrs. Austen was a strong, confident woman. She could be stubborn, and she sometimes made tart remarks about the neighbors—as did Jane (in private, of course). Even after she fell seriously ill in Bath, she recovered to write a cheerful, defiant poem called “Dialogue between Death & Mrs. Austen.”
After she was widowed, Mrs. Austen took pleasure in visiting her relatives, taking along her daughters. At Stoneleigh Abbey she counted the windows (forty-five) and described the grand rooms with enthusiasm and a novelist’s imagination and eye for detail.
Marianne’s eyes slid toward him, her tongue chasing the plastic straw around the rim of her Shirley Temple. Cocking her head, she motioned to her sister, Elinor, that they were soon to have a visitor.
“Here comes another one. At least this one can dance. The last one trod on my foot and broke a strap.” Extending her floppy stiletto-clad toes toward Elinor as evidence, Marianne sighed in resignation to her fate of turning down another would-be Lothario.
“Madam, I would be honored if you would extend me the pleasure of the next dance. I believe I hear the strains of ‘Boogie Wonderland’ from the DJ booth.” His dark eyes caressed her face like wandering fingers of love; his hand trembled with anticipation as he reached for the fair beauty.
“Good sir, I’m afraid I cannot boogie at the moment. My strap is such that it is quite impossible for me to get funky on the dance floor,” said Marianne, waving her foot.
“Fear not, I shall transport you to the pinnacle of ‘Funky Town’ and return you unharmed before ‘Stayin’ Alive.’”
Before she could protest, Willoughby carried Marianne to the dance floor. Together they flailed about to “YMCA,” piggybacked “The Hustle,” and couldn’t stop till they got enough.
“Enough, kind sir! I am quite fatigued by your exertions. Leave me be by my sullen older sister who has had nary a dance,” said Marianne. Adjusting her mesh tube top, Marianne then pointed back to her table where Elinor glared in the darkness. Willoughby acquiesced; he knew she’d return for more of the Will-man.
“As you wish, Madam.” Crossing the dance floor with such beauty in his arms, Willoughby rested his cheek upon her head briefly, breathing in the scent of Charlie mixed with Jean Naté After Bath Splash. It was a heady combination.
“Sir, your tenderness has moved me, not to mention your impressive splits on the dance floor. Mayhap you will call on me next week? We can watch
Friday Night Videos
and read poetry.” Her voice loud over the speaker system, Marianne dared to hope he wouldn’t notice the tremor that shook her though she trembled in his arms.
“Miss Marianne, I would be delighted … but I’ve been called away by my aunt for the season. I don’t know when I’ll return again to Scandals, though it now holds my heart.” Pain edged his voice, his passion to boogie now checked by the whims of an old woman.
“Then we must return once more to the dance floor so that we can remember each other in depressing sonnets until you once more return to me.”
Throwing her arms wide, she narrowly missed another couple getting down on the edge of the dance floor. “Oh, those Wick-hams! Always drawing attention to themselves because that’s the way (uh huh, uh huh) they like it.”
Dropping Marianne’s tan pantyhosed feet to the floor, Willoughby drew her in close, being careful not to entangle her curls with the enormous amount of chest hair escaping his unbuttoned shirt. As Lydia Wickham did the Worm on the lighted floor behind them, Willoughby and Marianne held each other, saying their final goodbyes to the beat of “Super Freak” before separating into the night.
“Call me, okay?” Marianne yelled across the parking lot. Elinor rolled her eyes and searched for the key to the Ford Pinto.
“Yeah … sure.” A hand gestured in her direction as Willoughby unlocked the El Camino’s door. “Till we meet again, fair Carrie Ann!” With a roar of the V6 engine, Willoughby sped into the night.
“That’s Marianne, you jerk,” she whispered.
“Come on, let’s get a Slurpee,” Elinor offered.
“I believe you’re looking for this, Madam.” The voice behind her made Elinor pause. Turning, she saw an outstretched palm with her car key nestled in the manly folds.
“Thank you,” she stumbled.
“Edward. And I enjoy Slurpees as well. May I accompany you?” Folding Elinor’s hand within the crook of his arm, Edward said, “I see a 7-11 a few blocks down. Shall we walk?” As elinor smiled through Marianne’s pout, she escorted edward to the convenience store and into his heart.
B
lack
O
ps
B
ennets
R
ILEY
R
EDGATE
In the pursuit of a greater sensibility and a distinct taste of modernism to which few of his wealthier acquaintances had not yet adhered, Mr. Darcy found himself in possession of a marvelous entertainment, which was soon pronounced quite agreeable by Mr. Bingley.
“I am most partial to the clarity of the image this game produces,” cried Bingley. “However, I find myself confounded as to which weapon I hold. The appearances of these weapons bear little distinction! It is a callous error on behalf of the programmers, is it not?”
“Whichever weapon has been bestowed upon your character, it must be esteemed useful, as it provides to you a kill Count of magnificent stature, which, until this happy find, had been but a wistful dream,” Darcy remarked dryly.
A prepared surety appeared to descend upon Darcy then, as a creature undeniably undead made its progression across the screen, which faced the two men. Said Darcy, “Shall I press the key marked B, or that upon which is inscribed the letter A?” In his inquiry was a frantic appeal, for the undead creature had held up its hands and begun its dragging approach toward the camera.
“Both,” said Bingley, and, as gunfire erupted, excitement extended itself across his visage. Never before Black ops had any invention borne such joy to mankind! How should any day be spent away from this uncommon satisfaction?
Scarcely had the excitement bestowed itself on Bingley, however, before it receded in light of a most unhappy realization; his attention had fixated upon a script hovering above the heads of two players whose curious monikers read “E_pWnz” and “J_ mOnEy.” Bingley felt drawn to comment on the script, in turn compelling Darcy to seek the source of such a dismayed tone as that issuing from his friend.
Remarked Bingley, “A pair of players in the realms of virtual skirmish have called us ‘n00bs,’ and I am thus inclined to forestall assistance when next the undead barrage them.”
“I am inclined to respond in a similar manner,” said Darcy. “I often find that petty revenges like to that which you suggest are the pleasantest options when faced with such impudence.”
They continued, though the impudent players absented themselves before further attacks. After the passing of some time, both men were surprised by the sudden appearance in the room of Elizabeth and Jane, the virulent rage of whom seemed beyond adequate expression.
Elizabeth knew not how she might chastise the despicable behaviour of the two gentlemen; they had scarcely emerged from this chamber for innumerable hours! “Mr. Darcy,” cried she, “I must protest against this condemnable obsession to which you seem practically married! If it be not too much of a distraction, I might remind you of to whom your vows were spoken!”
But Darcy and Bingley found themselves distracted instead by a renewed wave of undead warriors, and the unhappy sisters found themselves bathed in a most uncouth silence hardly befitting of two married couples. Jane cast a longing glance to Bingley, but her husband was too overcome by the amiable nature of Black ops to realize what scrutiny he bore.
When Elizabeth next spoke, it was with cold repugnance. “I had hoped that our taunt would offend your pride in a sufficient quantity to cause you to disavow this game and all it entails, but I see I was mistaken.”
Darcy spared a trifling glance to Elizabeth. “to what taunt do you refer, Elizabeth?”
Now a wicked glint appeared in Elizabeth’s eye; her countenance bore a strange mischief whose presence was quite unfamiliar to Darcy. “I, too, respond to the Call of Duty,” said Elizabeth. “I find myself thoroughly unchallenged by its petty trials. When, however, I do endeavour to entertain myself in such a base manner, I may pick up the controller in the drawing room and sign myself in as my chosen name: ‘E_pWnz.’”
Jane made a simple attempt at disguising laughter as a cough; the subsequent expressions of the two men were utterly woebegone and quite pitiful to behold.
“N00bs you deemed us!” cried Bingley. “Jane—were you to do with this foolhardiness? This cruelty?”
“This is outrage,” declared Darcy simply, a fearful darkness descending on his disposition.
Jane fervently denied any involvement, meriting such a scornful glance from Elizabeth that she relented almost instantly. “I admit—I am J_money. oh! Lizzy and I meant no poor conduct! I hope you do not find us to be the sole instigators of outrage, Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy shook his head with an unhappy solemnity. “It is not your deceit that I find detestable.”
A grave silence hung over the room.
Finished Darcy, “It is rather the fact that either of your kill Counts may be observed to be higher than mine and Mr. Bingley’s—combined!”
S
tatus and
S
ocial
N
etworking
