Excerpt from The Tragic Ellen
Desiree Marchand
One day I find myself at Lauren’s door; I didn’t think about it beforehand. When I started out for the village that morning it was bright and sunny, but when I entered it was pouring. I think that John must be looking for me all over the castle. I think that he must be furious right now that he cannot find me. Then I smile, it has been a long time since I’ve made a trip into the village. With Anna always here and John always looking for me I don’t usually have the time anymore. It is not as if there is anything extraordinary in the village, but it’s a change from the constant monotony of my everyday life and I am glad that I decided to come here. At first I didn’t know where to find Lauren and I was scared to ask knowing the kind of gossip that got around about her. Finally to shield my embarrassment I ask a young girl if knows, she does, and points out the way for me.
A short, black haired woman answers the door when I knock.
“What do you want?” she asks curtly, surveying my body up and down with her eyes. I realize that her hair is tangled and knotted, her clothes disheveled, her eyes so blood shot the irises almost appear red. This comes at the heels of my thoughts of how strange I must look in my royal purple dress with my hair perfectly tamed into a braid. There have always been stories about Lauren, but I wasn’t ever aware of the kind of company she keeps. For a moment I wonder if I am at the right house after all or if the kind girl I met on the street was illiterate.
At this moment the door frame swings open to reveal Lauren standing in it wearing pants and a button up shirt, her long blonde hair swinging down her shoulders. It hits me then that I have never noticed two things about Lauren. She is both strikingly beautifully feminine and masculine in her mannerisms and attitude. She leans gently over the woman who answered the door and speaks calmly to her,
“Misty, that’s no way to speak to a visitor. Please let Ellen in.”
“But, Lauren…” the woman stutters, “Surely the princess is not here for your advice. For all we know she has orders from the king to take all of us away.
“Haven’t I always told you that anonymity is of outmost importance. Whoever comes to your door we let in without question, understood?”
“Of course,” the woman says slinking away from the door and into the house.
We are alone now and Lauren looks at me wide eyed,
“Well, don’t stand outside for too long,” she says quickly surveying the space around me “someone might see you here.” As if to emphasis her point she repeats the pertinent words, “See…You…Here…”
This snaps me out of my reverie. I begin to remember what people have said about Lauren’s “establishment” and step inside quickly without looking back. Lauren swings the door shut behind me.
“I’m surprised to see you,” she says, leading me through an endless stream of small rooms to one secluded at the far right end of the house, “Especially after how we met.”
“That makes two of us,” I reply as she shuts the door behind me.
She gestures for me to sit down in the middle of the floor which is filled with large red velvet cushions, “Your brother seemed intent upon cutting our conversation short.”
“John doesn’t like me talking to strangers,” I say as she sits down across from me. I wonder if she notices how I stiffen at the mention of him.
She raises an eyebrow in a theatrical almost comical way, “And why is that?”
I stare at the door and maroon walls adjusting to the strange room in which I’m sitting, devoid of traditional furniture or purpose. I remember Lauren’s admission from our first conversation, she’s the best with women. Is that what she thinks I want? Was coming here a mistake? “I suppose you’d have to ask him that.”
Eyebrow still raised she pushes the point, “I’m asking you.” She pushes an index finger to her lips, “Nothing you say here leaves this room. You don’t need to be afraid. Do you understand?”
I want to say no. I don’t understand any of this. According to my father and John, Lauren runs a brothel in which women have sex with one another. But the disheveled appearance of the woman at the door, the confidential nature in which Lauren is speaking lends itself to something else that I can’t quite pinpoint.
“What is it that you do here exactly?” I ask uncomfortable by the level of intimacy we are entering.
“Don’t change the subject,” she replies shaking her head.
“Perhaps it is that he is afraid of what I will say to people,” I shrug pretending the comment means nothing to me.
“What is it you know about John that he wouldn’t want you telling me?” She asks, “And don’t say, you’d have to ask him.”
I think about shrugging, giving an excuse, leaving immediately and never coming back, but there is something charming about Lauren that I can’t quite place which makes me want to confide my secrets. She has an air of acceptance about her, an unflinching honesty which seems to me a mysterious gift. She waits patiently, staring at me every so often to see if my attitude has changed.
Finally she straightens her back and stares directly into my eyes, “Shall I tell you something?” she offers. When I don’t respond she continues, “Despite what other people say I run an Outreach Center here for women whose entire lives have been controlled by their male counterparts: fathers, husbands, brothers. Men aren’t allowed because the women I work with are often afraid of them and refuse to tell their stories in their presence. If it helps them I encourage the women to find happiness in female companionship, equal partnerships where both individuals get what they want,” she pauses reading my response with her eyes, “Does any of that apply to you?”
I nod slowly and reluctantly, “John controls my life.”
Oddly enough, Lauren smiles, “Now we’re getting somewhere. How is it that John controls your life, if you don’t mind my asking?”
A short, black haired woman answers the door when I knock.
“What do you want?” she asks curtly, surveying my body up and down with her eyes. I realize that her hair is tangled and knotted, her clothes disheveled, her eyes so blood shot the irises almost appear red. This comes at the heels of my thoughts of how strange I must look in my royal purple dress with my hair perfectly tamed into a braid. There have always been stories about Lauren, but I wasn’t ever aware of the kind of company she keeps. For a moment I wonder if I am at the right house after all or if the kind girl I met on the street was illiterate.
At this moment the door frame swings open to reveal Lauren standing in it wearing pants and a button up shirt, her long blonde hair swinging down her shoulders. It hits me then that I have never noticed two things about Lauren. She is both strikingly beautifully feminine and masculine in her mannerisms and attitude. She leans gently over the woman who answered the door and speaks calmly to her,
“Misty, that’s no way to speak to a visitor. Please let Ellen in.”
“But, Lauren…” the woman stutters, “Surely the princess is not here for your advice. For all we know she has orders from the king to take all of us away.
“Haven’t I always told you that anonymity is of outmost importance. Whoever comes to your door we let in without question, understood?”
“Of course,” the woman says slinking away from the door and into the house.
We are alone now and Lauren looks at me wide eyed,
“Well, don’t stand outside for too long,” she says quickly surveying the space around me “someone might see you here.” As if to emphasis her point she repeats the pertinent words, “See…You…Here…”
This snaps me out of my reverie. I begin to remember what people have said about Lauren’s “establishment” and step inside quickly without looking back. Lauren swings the door shut behind me.
“I’m surprised to see you,” she says, leading me through an endless stream of small rooms to one secluded at the far right end of the house, “Especially after how we met.”
“That makes two of us,” I reply as she shuts the door behind me.
She gestures for me to sit down in the middle of the floor which is filled with large red velvet cushions, “Your brother seemed intent upon cutting our conversation short.”
“John doesn’t like me talking to strangers,” I say as she sits down across from me. I wonder if she notices how I stiffen at the mention of him.
She raises an eyebrow in a theatrical almost comical way, “And why is that?”
I stare at the door and maroon walls adjusting to the strange room in which I’m sitting, devoid of traditional furniture or purpose. I remember Lauren’s admission from our first conversation, she’s the best with women. Is that what she thinks I want? Was coming here a mistake? “I suppose you’d have to ask him that.”
Eyebrow still raised she pushes the point, “I’m asking you.” She pushes an index finger to her lips, “Nothing you say here leaves this room. You don’t need to be afraid. Do you understand?”
I want to say no. I don’t understand any of this. According to my father and John, Lauren runs a brothel in which women have sex with one another. But the disheveled appearance of the woman at the door, the confidential nature in which Lauren is speaking lends itself to something else that I can’t quite pinpoint.
“What is it that you do here exactly?” I ask uncomfortable by the level of intimacy we are entering.
“Don’t change the subject,” she replies shaking her head.
“Perhaps it is that he is afraid of what I will say to people,” I shrug pretending the comment means nothing to me.
“What is it you know about John that he wouldn’t want you telling me?” She asks, “And don’t say, you’d have to ask him.”
I think about shrugging, giving an excuse, leaving immediately and never coming back, but there is something charming about Lauren that I can’t quite place which makes me want to confide my secrets. She has an air of acceptance about her, an unflinching honesty which seems to me a mysterious gift. She waits patiently, staring at me every so often to see if my attitude has changed.
Finally she straightens her back and stares directly into my eyes, “Shall I tell you something?” she offers. When I don’t respond she continues, “Despite what other people say I run an Outreach Center here for women whose entire lives have been controlled by their male counterparts: fathers, husbands, brothers. Men aren’t allowed because the women I work with are often afraid of them and refuse to tell their stories in their presence. If it helps them I encourage the women to find happiness in female companionship, equal partnerships where both individuals get what they want,” she pauses reading my response with her eyes, “Does any of that apply to you?”
I nod slowly and reluctantly, “John controls my life.”
Oddly enough, Lauren smiles, “Now we’re getting somewhere. How is it that John controls your life, if you don’t mind my asking?”