Two Myoclonic Jerks For Sister Sarapis
I never knew master Esquire, and only the head butler Jameson and myself have been at Funistrada Manor long enough to remember Junior. The Third is in charge of all the family holdings now, but for all intents and purposes, upkeep of the estate and all adjacent grounds are Jameson’s responsibility. Care of the family’s weaker members, the old, the sick, and the young children - legitimate or not, - is the responsibility of the sisters.
We sisters are only three in number, now, and I’ve no doubt that the arrangement would have been allowed to lapse as soon as I do. My two helpers are middle-aged novices - I will not speculate on their lives before they came to me, but I will say that they pray with their eyes closed and lips clenched shut.
Our tasks are rarely so arduous that three women used to manual labor cannot manage them alone. There are seven senior citizens in the east wing, mostly wheel chair bound or bedridden. There are four children between the ages of two and five in the west wing nursery. But then there is also the master’s adult son, the Fourth.
For the most part, the master stays away from Funistrada because he has larger, more comfortable estates far from the family’s undesirables. He can be counted on visiting twice a year, when he and a score of thin-lipped VPs fill the long drive with town cars. They don’t spend much time in the main house after the first night of expensive brandies, pool and poker, repairing to the row of cabins on the far side of the woods, near the lake. We hear intermittent gunshots all weekend, which sound like dull fireworks from the next county.
The master made a point of sitting down with Jameson and myself in the study prior to the last weekend hunt to put in place some additional precautions. The French doors to the childrens’ wing and the seniors’ wing would be locked, and only Jameson and myself were to carry the keys. The Fourth would be moved from the large bedroom above the great hall to the gatehouse of the long drive. This way, the security team (both of them) would be in the same building as the Fourth for as long as the VPs were present.
Jameson met my glance, so I supposed we were in agreement. “Sir, the young man is at his most restless when his patterns are interrupted.”
“Sister Sarapis,” he said in an acid tone, “his patterns will have to change for one weekend, and I hope my staff’s own patterns can accommodate it, too.” It was not hard for me to imagine that the Third assigned as much culpability for the Fourth’s lack of worldly readiness upon the staff as upon the Fourth himself.
Speaking of the Fourth, he must have been listening behind the door, because I found him in the bedroom a few minutes after the meeting, making bindle sticks from the bed posts and pillow cases. “Here you go, little Sister,” he said cheerfully, handing me one of the sticks. “There’s one for me, you and your girls. We can hit the road and have a series of crazy adventures.”
I did not fear for my safety, but I moved as quickly as possible to secure the hacksaw. “These posts are rather heavy for the job, young man,” I said, and it was true, since each bedpost was as thick around a horse’s hoof, and almost as gnarled in appearance as my hands. “Next time you might try a mop or a broom handle.”
As he considered the equipment suitable for life as a vagabond, I broached the topic of his father’s upcoming hunt, and his temporary sleeping arrangements.
He grinned through his marvelously reconstructed teeth. “Papa’s having his at-home safari, so I might as well have a staycation, myself. But I guess for now I can stay where I am.” And with that he crawled up onto the bed and fell asleep atop the comforter, involuntarily kicking sawdust off the bed twice before he fell asleep. I should have known better than to believe that he had accepted that change so gracefully.
Jameson can tell you what happened next. The Fourth climbed out of the gatehouse window on the first night of the hunt and made for the main house, scaling it with the aid of a knotted rope he had concealed behind the downspout. It is likely that his original plan went no further than sneaking back into his room, which he had every reason to believe would be unoccupied. He succeeded in getting inside, and hid under his bed when he heard someone coming - his father, who was not alone.
How long the Fourth remained there, I could not say, but at some point he must have fallen asleep. With sleep came his involuntary kicks, which ultimately knocked out one of the already weakened bedposts. Fortunately, the other three held, and he was not crushed by his father and his father’s companion. But the incident was so disturbing to all parties involved that I appeal to you, Mother Superior, to consider my request for reassignment. If it is your will that I continue to serve the residents of Funistrada, I obey. But I have filled a bedpost bindlestick just in case it is not.