THEY HAD BEEN KNOWN FAR AND WIDE ON THE VAUDEVILLE CIRCUIT AS DABBLE AND DRIFTWOOD, VENTRILOQUIST EXTRAORDINAIRE.

Together with the Pondicherry Twins who tap-danced in eye patches while twirling flaming cutlasses and the Magnificent Montreaux, the mute mulatto magician, Dabble and Driftwood shared equal billing on marquees up and down the Eastern Seaboard. Though the venues were often too risqué for polite society, grandes dames and their hothouse lily ingénues invited the comic duo into their burgundy-hushed parlours where the flicker of the gas flames gave the act an almost sinister air that titillated the hoi polloi and sent one taffeta-trussed matriarch swooning for her velveteen fainting couch. 

The lots were cast on a shrouded All Hallows Eve when a dinner party was thrown at Mrs. Eloise Bentham’s three-story brownstone on the Upper West side of Manhattan overlooking Central Park. The highlight of the evening would be a séance conducted by the well-known spiritualist, the Principessa Morte. Upon arrival, the medium intimated that she had an urgent message from the other side for Mrs. Bentham’s youngest daughter, Cassandra, who had a reputation even at the innocent age of fifteen of possessing a fragile charm that endeared her to hard-hearted hellions and crusty crumudgeons, alike.    

Well-aged claret, bloody as raw rubies, was poured magnanimously into Bohemian-cut crystal by Blunt, the butler. Men were dressed in formal dinner wear, their white shirt fronts blazing like fallen angels’ wings. The women were feathered and furred and finely-garbed in the latest fashions from the better-known couture houses in Belle Époque Paris. Cream and topaz and buttery yellow along with gems the size of babies’ fists dazzled in the fluttering gaslights mounted on the garnet-flocked walls.  

Dabble and Driftwood were privy to the evening’s spirit soiree. They had preformed after the Principessa’s dramatic appearance:  a crack of thunder that seemed to shake the brownstone’s foundations accompanied her as she stepped across the recital room’s threshold. Afterwards, a table was prepared with a satin cloth, black as the depthless voids betweeen the constellations, and a water-filled porcelain bowl, white and virginal, centered under the chandelier that still was lit by smoky-fingered tapers. Blunt materialized from the shadows with a brass candle snuffer in the shape of a lion’s maw to extinguish every odd-numbered flame.  

So they assembled. Dabble and Driftwood found themselves beside the gentle Cassandra. She had seemed to enjoy their witty repartee and slightly off-coloured humor. During their performance, the youngest Bentham had held up an embroidered handkerchief as she expressed bemusement at some of the more delicate jokes. Under the watchful eyes of Old Man Bentham’s darkly drab portrait, Dabble’s heart stirred for that simple rose bow of appreciation that graced Cassandra’s lips. However, he wasn’t alone with his attentions. Driftwood was intrigued too. Which, of course, always proved difficult for Dabble because women were always more smitten with his sidekick’s sass and sensuality.

To Dabble’s dismay, Cassandra was no different in her bashful sentiments towards Driftwood. As the bulky curtains billowed and blew from the gathering storm and the chandelier flames quivered and went out with a starkness like sin, Cassandra gripped the ventriloquist’s partner’s hand. Peering at Dabble under half-hooded eyes, the Principessa Morte shrieked Desire before collapsing into lifeless insensibility.     

Together with the Pondicherry Twins who tap-danced in eye patches while twirling flaming cutlasses and the Magnificent Montreaux, the mute mulatto magician, Dabble and Driftwood shared equal billing on marquees up and down the Eastern Seaboard. Though the venues were often too risqué for polite society, grandes dames and their hothouse lily ingénues invited the comic duo into their burgundy-hushed parlours where the flicker of the gas flames gave the act an almost sinister air that titillated the hoi polloi and sent one taffeta-trussed matriarch swooning for her velveteen fainting couch. 

The lots were cast on a shrouded All Hallows Eve when a dinner party was thrown at Mrs. Eloise Bentham’s three-story brownstone on the Upper West side of Manhattan overlooking Central Park. The highlight of the evening would be a séance conducted by the well-known spiritualist, the Principessa Morte. Upon arrival, the medium intimated that she had an urgent message from the other side for Mrs. Bentham’s youngest daughter, Cassandra, who had a reputation even at the innocent age of fifteen of possessing a fragile charm that endeared her to hard-hearted hellions and crusty crumudgeons, alike.    

Well-aged claret, bloody as raw rubies, was poured magnanimously into Bohemian-cut crystal by Blunt, the butler. Men were dressed in formal dinner wear, their white shirt fronts blazing like fallen angels’ wings. The women were feathered and furred and finely-garbed in the latest fashions from the better-known couture houses in Belle Époque Paris. Cream and topaz and buttery yellow along with gems the size of babies’ fists dazzled in the fluttering gaslights mounted on the garnet-flocked walls.  

Dabble and Driftwood were privy to the evening’s spirit soiree. They had preformed after the Principessa’s dramatic appearance:  a crack of thunder that seemed to shake the brownstone’s foundations accompanied her as she stepped across the recital room’s threshold. Afterwards, a table was prepared with a satin cloth, black as the depthless voids betweeen the constellations, and a water-filled porcelain bowl, white and virginal, centered under the chandelier that still was lit by smoky-fingered tapers. Blunt materialized from the shadows with a brass candle snuffer in the shape of a lion’s maw to extinguish every odd-numbered flame.  

So they assembled. Dabble and Driftwood found themselves beside the gentle Cassandra. She had seemed to enjoy their witty repartee and slightly off-coloured humor. During their performance, the youngest Bentham had held up an embroidered handkerchief as she expressed bemusement at some of the more delicate jokes. Under the watchful eyes of Old Man Bentham’s darkly drab portrait, Dabble’s heart stirred for that simple rose bow of appreciation that graced Cassandra’s lips. However, he wasn’t alone with his attentions. Driftwood was intrigued too. Which, of course, always proved difficult for Dabble because women were always more smitten with his sidekick’s sass and sensuality.

To Dabble’s dismay, Cassandra was no different in her bashful sentiments towards Driftwood. As the bulky curtains billowed and blew from the gathering storm and the chandelier flames quivered and went out with a starkness like sin, Cassandra gripped the ventriloquist’s partner’s hand. Peering at Dabble under half-hooded eyes, the Principessa Morte shrieked Desire before collapsing into lifeless insensibility.     

Dabble placed Driftwood into the purple velvet interior of the leather carrying case made from Okefenokee swamp alligators. It was another good night at the Orpheum. The crowd was rowdy and willing to go down the road of the perverse with an ease that came from bawdy delights to distract a hand-to-mouth existence. The ladies in their faded second-hand finery with mismatched buttons and re-stitched seams were accompanied by men with day-old whiskied whiskers and worn elbows and shiny-kneed trousers. They hooted and hollered, catcalled and clapped until Dabble and Driftwood took a second curtain call.

He contemplated his sidekick, staring up at him from the comfort of the case. Another letter from Cassandra had been delivered to the theatre this morning. Dabble no longer possessed the capacity to be generous. He did not wish to rise to the occasion and show himself the better man. He had his fill. Loneliness lived in the hollow cavity where his heart should’ve beat. Even the acrobatic contortions of both Pondicherry sisters could not assuage his despair. So, he had torn open the lilac-scented envelope and read its girlishly curved script. Yearning played coquettishly amongst the cautious words of endearment. Cassandra’s affections towards Driftwood were unbearable. And what confounded beyond comprehension was his partner’s absolute disregard for the girl’s budding fondness.  

But that was Driftwood. Women grinned and giggled behind kid-gloved hands. They tried to capture his gaze from the corners of their kohl-edged eyes. Finely calligraphed calling cards were sent for parlour visits. However, Driftwood could care less; his eyes were blind towards feminine entanglements. If the truth was revealed, his sidekick’s interests ran towards the unnatural attentiveness for the burly and bearded in the audience. In Atlantic City, a stocky stevedore was seen loitering behind the theatre and Driftwood had not returned to their shabby room at Mrs. O’Leary’s boarding house until the damning dawn.

The phosphorus match was simply there in Dabble’s hand. He gazed down at his partner and friend of more than a decade. There had been moments of lavish decadance and procured gentility. The world was our oyster, Dabble mused before striking and letting the flame fall. The dusty velvet and the salty oils on alligator leather from years of opening and closing flared and caught like dry tinder, like forbidden desire.        

MAX ALLBEE

Max Allbee is an illustrator, muralist and teaching artist from San Francisco, currently living in Brooklyn. Max has a deep love of hand lettering, extreme detail and sepia toned themes of nostalgia.

You can find out more about him HERE.

PATRICK PINK

Patrick Pink works as a writer and a special education teacher. He has recently been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. A staunch Midwesterner at heart, he now calls New Zealand his home