2019-09-01 - Sunday Afternoon With The Addingtons

Sunday afternoon is usually the most leisurely time at the Addington mansion. Most of the staff are off for the day, just a housekeeper and a cook and a driver on-hand, and Margaret likes to have lunch and catch up on shows. Before, this was usually just Erin and Margaret, sometimes a rotating cast of family members would pop in to try to curry favor with the old woman. Now, it's always Margaret and Thomas and Erin when she can make it.

So that's what's been going on for a while now, just quiet sandwich-eating time. Thomas is drunk, of course, and Margaret is scrolling through their watchlist when Erin comes in and gets greeted with a lifted hand. "Come in, dear. We're just arguing over what to watch."

"Oh, hello." Thomas tilts his cheek up to be kissed, then goes back to staring a glazy stare at the television. Leaving Margaret to say mildly, "Yes, but I suppose I'll take that if it's the worst of our problems today. Here, find something worth watching." She passes the problem off to Erin and gets up for a moment, heading to the side-table. "Cocktail, dear? It's dreadfully muggy out, so we were having mint juleps." Like the one necessitates the other.

"Yes, we figured." The old people exchange looks, so at least we know for sure that Thomas is vaguely conscious, and then Margaret resumes making those mint juleps. Normally, this is someone else's job, but everyone else has the afternoon off, as noted above. She makes them doubles. "You can try, though I'm not sure how much more there is to tell but what your little friends already know. Still." She muddles that mint up good, tests a sip, muddles some more. "Go on, dear."

"How many times do I have to say - "

Margaret shushes Thomas with a hand, then proceeds to shove a mint julep at him, which finishes off any chance he has for dialogue at the moment. "Decades ago," she explains, once she's sure he's going to hold his tongue. "Billy died at the hospital, then the Carrs - who are just Baxters that changed their name, by the way." She smushes the hell out of the mint in her glass, smash smash smash. "The Carrs came and exhumed his body in the sixties and brought it back here. One mishap after another later, the corpse got misplaced. Thomas kept tabs on it as much as he could over the years, which brings us to his present state."

Margaret stops muddling the mint, looking from it to Erin. The only answer is the simplest one: "He is still my little brother." She hands this next glass to Erin and readies the third, more muddling to ensue. "It will have to be soon, though, you're not wrong about that. Tomorrow, perhaps." She looks at Thomas while he sips his julep. "Or the day after."

After a sip and a quick 'oh that's not bad' face made at the glass, Margaret tips just a little more liquor into her glass, then comes back around to where she'd been sitting before. "I'm open to suggestions, dear, but I'm afraid all the other alternatives might be too risky. And Thomas is old already, so it's better than he keeps this burden, I think."

Thomas gives a sloshy laugh. "What about in the fountain, Marge? You'd have to drain all the water, but I feel like it'd be less mess than drowning in the bathtub." He hiccoughs loudly and then slumps down in his chair, very near the edge of consciousness.

Margaret thinks that over - the fountain - then returns her attention to Erin like the whole interlude never happened.

"I thought you were asking questions one at a time," Margaret muses, shaking her head as if entertained at the quick series of them. "Dear, I assure you, that hospital is not capable of hiding from me." As to the rest of the questions, she sips her drink placidly and shakes her head. "I don't know what you're talking about, what box? You must realize, Billy was sent to that facility before I was born. Our acquaintance with him only began in the sixties." She defers to Thomas to speak for himself about Hyacinth's leg, though, man! That question earns Erin a dark frown.

"Hmm? Wussat?" Thomas peels open an eye to dizzily send it in Erin's direction. His attention settles, but it's quite like he's looking through her rather than at her. "Poor little Hya, such a sweet little girl. Do you remember her, Marge? Such a bright little, sweet little thing," he sniffles, hiccoughs. "Who would do something like that to a little girl? Chasing shadows, that one, but I always.. I always.." he sighs, "I'll never forgive myself, for that. For this."

"So many questions," is all Margaret says for now. She works on her drink, leaving it for Thomas to answer. If he's sober enough.

Sober, Thomas is most certainly not. He's practically melting into the corner of the chair, and his eyes keep doing that rolling-shut thing that drunk people do when they are about to pass out. But he hiccoughs again and shrugs his shoulders, not looking at Erin this time. "Is he where right now? He's always here," he sloshes, waves a hand around and hits himself on the forehead with his fingers. Tap-tap. "Allllways here, damn Baxter. Like a leech," there's a sneer. "S'pposed to burn the bones, didn't happen. I'm so sorry, Marge," he looks at her, the guilt there is extreme. "I kept tabs after. I kept tabs on him, he kept tabs on me, funny how that goes."

"Mm," begins Margaret for the apology. "It's fifty years ago, Tommy." Which isn't the same as forgiving him, if you really think about it, but she doesn't hound him or anything. A hand waves about the bar, she can help herself, and then she answers serenely, "I'm not in any danger, but you're a dear to trouble yourself."

Thomas almost abruptly snaps to attention and he frowns at Erin. There's something sobering in that dark look that he gives her. "I would never hurt Marge. Never," he insists. And then he's back to being a drunk slouch, muttering under his breath.

Are Erin and Hyacinth in danger? It's probably not a comforting response from Thomas, who merely snorts .. and then passes out on the sofa, snoring loudly. How dignified.

Looking at that suddenly snoring man, Margaret answers candidly, "All of you are in danger. Every person in this town." She collects Thomas's glass and hands it to Erin - not for a refill, but to put it safely on the side-table, where it won't spill all over her very expensive sofa. "I make no promises, dear, but I'll try. Just remember, every moment that he's here," passed out drunk, "and not where he should be is another moment that you're all at risk. So whatever you mean to do," sip, "better get cracking on it."

Tolerance will only last so long, but Margaret keeps it going for now. Even with Erin, she eventually reaches the end of her patience, but she's not quiiiiiite there yet. "I don't know that the bed and breakfast is any safer, but if it makes you happy, dear, that's good." As for those last questions, she looks at sleeping Thomas for a long moment and finally decides, "I think it must be confusing. Gohl's hate for the Addingtons warring with Tommy's devotion to family? Toss in simple homicidal rage, and is it any wonder he can't keep straight who he wants to kill?" She laughs with dark, troubled mirth.

The snoring stops. There's a brief rattling in Thomas' chest. And then he starts snoring again. Hopefully he hasn't heard anything.