Salvation of Ignorance

Chapter 3: Your Desire To Deny

The other figure was a middle-aged woman of soot colored skin. Mima could always be depended upon to be retrieved from the kitchen if one went looking. She currently employed herself with grounding spices and chastising Phoebe's father for engorging himself in winter's stock.

"Wanted early leave of the house?" Homer sacrificed his daughter to Mima's attentions.

"Not without breaking fast first," Mima succumbed to the bait, "You can 'ave some pork if yer father will give ye any."

Homer grunted.

Phoebe shook her head. "I have no intentions to be gone long."

"You never do," Homer retaliated, earning him a light smack to the wrist and a sideways glance of mirth from Mima.

Mima pointed to an empty stool on the other side of the kitchen work table from where the two already inhabited. "Bread's 'bout done. An egg shouldn't force yer waitin' long."

"I really have no--."

"Phoebe, sit," Homer decided for her.

She complied with the task and quickly occupied herself with tracing her nails in the wooden table's groves. A letter was slid into view before she could inflict substantial damage. Glancing at the letter's provisioner, she inspected Homer's face, fearing that the author may be a gentleman whom she unfortunately had to avoid dancing with and would take the reason for doing so to her grave. Her father's face was devoid of any assistance to deny or support the identity, but it was unpleasant nonetheless.

As she began to break the wax seal, she attempted to quell her shakes with reasons for why Mr. Talwin's informing her of his loss of interest was a fortunate occurrence for her. After reading whom the letter was addressed to, she examined whom the letter was addressed from, in confusion. This was further fueled by its origin being that of London.

"Dear Mr. Homer Hans Barrettmore,

I'm addressing you as thus to convey my comprehension of your desire to deny the ten hours of labor I endured to bring introduction toward your ungrateful soul. In return, I should desire to set about my own declaration in that should you refuse to continue answering my letters, you will soon find them timesed by seven. If those letters are also to be neglected, I shall seek out my lagniappe, your child, to receive my replies.

Although I have written this in my previous letters, I'm certain the flames have made a good meal of them by this point. If you read the previous letters, you are aware of the unfortunate and ill-timed demised of my son, your brother (unless you have chosen to deny him additionally), earlier this year. My son (your brother, should you not deny him in death) had not opportunity to give me the gift that you have. As you know, without needing trouble yourself with retrieving the previous letters (unless you have forgotten us during the excitement of living amongst barbarism, in which case, blacken your hands), that leaves your daughter as the sole heir to my estate and title. As you are well aware, as a living example yourself, I shall not hold her responsible to this inheritance. However, it would be regrettable for her not to be made aware of this option for her life.

Upon writing this letter, I have come to notice that I am ignorant of the name of this darling girl. Though, I suppose, given our relationship, I should be grateful to be made aware that I have a grandchild. However, as you will hopefully come to learn yourself soon, it is in the definition of grandparents that we are intended to shower our grandchildren ('child' in my case, which I suppose I must be grateful for this too) with our affection. After losing the only person willing to keep with family, you can see that my need to bestow such affections have increased in the past year. Deny my love, deny your identity, but do not deny me my definition. Keep in mind that your brother, or my son, may be calling me to join him soon. While both of you were raised in equal settings, though I admit you had to bare the majority of my affections, he still wishes to see me. However, I shall find no rest in my seventh slumber should I never meet my lagniappe.