Chapter 34: The Prodigal Son

The depths to which one could feel emptiness always struck Aster with a morbid curiosity. It seemed to her a sinister design why people— who only ever desire for happiness, are born with a capacity to feel anything but that.

It was a question which preoccupied her thoughts as she gazed out at the gray sky which hung over Peppermint Plains, cold and unreceptive of the holiday warmth sprawled upon the streets underneath it. Among these ruminations was one specific thing that caught her attention, a notion she had steadily come to notice— the curious way in which whenever she believed she had found the deepest extent of her depression, she would soon learn that she could sink even deeper.

“Aster, he's gonna see you!” Sylvia suddenly whispered, pushing her bushy head down. Marion, refusing to play along, sat against a table of records in plain sight of Floyd, who looked at him in confusion as he approached the shop door.

It was the morning of Floyd's return and Sylvia, never one to sit idly by when sadness seemed to be present, had taken it upon herself to organize an impromptu surprise party for Mr. Floyd, who, having finally straightened out his litany of legal troubles following the disaster at the ball, was to return to managing the shop.

The party, consisting of nothing more than some hastily fashioned decorations courtesy of Sísí and whatever catering Sylvia could manage this early in the morning, was less a genuine welcome back for Floyd as it was Sylvia reaching for any opportunity she could to try and revive the morale of the shop's staff, which had essentially disintegrated following their performance at the Teen's Ball.

Aster in particular had fallen into a deep depression, severe even by her standards, and had become essentially catatonic, barely even eating if not directly ordered to by Sylvia.

Sylvia tried her best to uphold her cheer in the face of her friend's worsening condition, but found it increasingly difficult to maintain as the days went on. The sight of Floyd's goofy, reddened face now in the window broadened her smile a moment— so eager was she for any chance she could to make the others happy.

For Aster personally, she could think of little she would like to do less than welcome back Mr. Floyd. She had begun to regard him as a curse, and someone who would've been the sole bearer of her blame for the ball's disaster and all of the hatred that came with it— if it were not for the petty scorn she felt towards Cecil and his personal attacks.

Only at Sylvia's great insistence, seeing in her a wellspring of happiness at Floyd's return that she could not bring herself to dilute, had Aster acquiesced to the gleeful promises of a 'shindig' and allowed herself to at last be dragged down the stairs for the first time in days.

As they descended, she noticed that Marion had already arrived and was idling against a record display with a deeply contemplative look. It was the first time he had shown himself in public since fleeing the ballroom.

He did not greet Aster upon noticing her, and his usual sarcastic approbations of Sylvia's exuberance, especially on a morning such as this where she seemed more animated than usual, were absent. In the hour that passed before Floyd's arrival, he did not speak.

The silence did not bother Aster, who, sulking in irritation at being taken out of her room, found herself consumed with a growing anxiousness at Floyd's return. She wanted answers. She wanted desperately to know what brought him to do what he had done.

He fell from the fucking ceiling, she thought, growing angry at the sheer absurdity of the memory.

It incensed her to think that not only did failure seem to follow them at every available opportunity, but seemed to do so in the most ridiculous, unbelievable of manners.

The utter embarrassment she felt in the wake of it, watching her show— her passion, fall to the wayside for a carnival of mayhem and police sirens, filled her with such rage it made her almost sick.

She thought upon the seemingly endless line of emergency persons who questioned her, her hideous inability to talk to them admist her anxiety and shock, and the painful expression of silly, stupid confusion they wore upon their faces in arriving to the scene. Aster felt herself mortified to a depth from which she didn't think she could ever recover, and had little hope in anything Floyd could say amending that, though she was incredibly curious to see how he would try.

Suddenly, the jostling of the shop's lock brought Aster back into the present, where Sylvia began to fidget in anticipation, like a race-horse seconds away from the sounding gun.

“We'll go at the count of three, okay?” Sylvia instructed excitedly, looking back at Aster to see that she understood. Aster nodded in confirmation, though had no intention of joining.

“Three!”

With a great leap Sylvia sprang forth before Floyd, causing him to drop a stack of papers in his surprise.

“Surprise!” she alone exclaimed as she assailed him with a barrage of party favors whose loud pops echoed throughout the empty store.

Floyd had instinctively covered his eyes and began to cower, unaware of what was happening.

“My God!” he yelled in terror, hobbling backwards. Tucked underneath his left arm was a crutch, which he began to brandish wildly. “I paid the fines, I tell you! I did the paperwork! My affairs with you devils are sorted!”

Aster was impressed at how much of a disaster this surprise party seemed to be, though Sylvia seemed completely satisfied.

“Welcome back, Mr. Floyd!” she chirped.

Floyd, still wildly swinging with his cane to Marion's distress, relaxed his defensive posture and opened his eyes upon hearing Sylvia's voice. Sylvia, beaming from ear to ear, chuckled at Floyd's beet red face.

Still beaming, she let loose another party streamer, whose colorful ribbons scattered into the air and landed upon his royal blue petticoat. Noticing something in his peripheral, he turned towards the staircase, where a giant banner which read “Welcome back, Mr. Floyd!” scrawled in Sylvia's messy handwriting hung from each side of the banister.

He too began to smile at seeing this, and his cheeks and nose, frosty red from the chill outside, grew yet more flush. “Just please try to put a little less surprise in your surprise parties next time, Sylvia,” he joked, while she grinned with self-satisfaction.

“I dare say, however, if I have one more encounter with the police I actually will end up a criminal!” he continued jokingly as Marion moved to pick the papers up off the floor.

He looked up as Floyd said this, visibly concerned.

"What you said after the ball, you were telling the truth, right? You didn't actually do time?" he asked, handing the papers back. A glum, paranoid look crept into Marion's features as he looked up, anxious of Floyd's reply. The confident, braggadocios look which typified him had steadily worn away over the weeks into a sunken, tired expression which had not improved with Floyd's return. "I've told you half a dozen times by now, Marion! I simply needed a vacation!" Marion's eyes went wide at hearing yet again the same excuse, reddening with indignation.

"You completely disappeared, man! What innocent person does that? I mean for chrissakes, you didn't even tell your employees you were leaving!”

“I would like think I have a right to my privacy, Marion!” he rebuffed.

“Privacy?! What does that have to do with wanting an explanation for why you literally fell from the ceiling and destroyed my kit? What were you even doing up there?!”

Floyd, feigning offense as though the answer were obvious, puffed out his chest.

“That mess of an establishment had the gall to refuse me— the son of the man who had built it and manager of the band playing— entrance, even though I had clearly explained my credentials!”

“You looked like you hadn't showered in days, Floyd.”

Floyd pretended not to acknowledge his response, though sneered at him all the same.

Sylvia, patiently awaiting the end of the argument, was puffing her cheeks up like marshmallows in irritation.

“I was left with no choice but to secure my own entrance through way of the roof. Unfortunately, keeping in line with the disrepute of the venue, the maintenance on the scaffolding had apparently not been attended too, and well— you know the rest.”

“You repelled down, screaming,” Aster interjected.

Floyd looked at her with a beady-eyed, pained smile.

“Only because I had fallen! It was quick thinking on my part to save myself!” he replied, stammering.

“Yeah, save yourself. That's all you do, Floyd. Even forgetting that you destroyed the show, do you have any idea at all how much trouble your employees had at the shop?

Floyd himself now became flush with indignation.

“I'm being coached on morality by the criminal?”

“Whoa, criminal? You better watch your words, Floyd— you were the one who dragged me into this—”

With a swift kick to the shin, Marion yelped and fell to the ground. Floyd, watching on in horror, quickly followed him as Sylvia delivered a reprimanding slap to the backside of his head.

“This is a party, dangit!” she exclaimed, standing between the two as they nursed their aches on the floor.

She crossed her arms and looked down on them with her stern, yet soft face. “To the couch!” she directed, gesturing with her stubby arm in the direction of the listening corner.

Floyd, like a scolded child, gazed up while avoiding eye contact, and turned himself towards the directed corner. As he did, his look of shame melted, and reconfigured itself into an expression of abhorrence.

“My God, what is that?!” he cried in a pained voice, rising to his feet.

Before him stood a chapel of colored lights and boutique flowers, whose verdant vines intermingled with electrical wiring which winded their way up and down various posts and off into extension cords which were piled off to the side. At the center of construct sat Sísí, smiling wildly at Floyd's notice.

“Welcome home, Floyd,” she said, laughing gently.

Floyd's irises, constricting in his great duress and as if they were trying to see past what he wished he didn't have to see, seemed as if they could bore their way through Sísí's very person.

“What is this?!” he stuttered, stumbling towards the makeshift stage. “What are you doing to my shop?!”

“You allowed me purview of the shop in your absence, did you not? My objective was to keep Cecil happy and engaged, and this achieved just that. It was necessary.”

“But why is it still here, Sísí?!”

“I like it.”

Floyd's response seemed to have been lost on its way from brain to mouth, as all he could emit was a sputter of spit and garbled words as his eyes went wide with disbelief.

He struggled to think of a response that could disarm Sísí, one that could have that defacement taking the place of his chief area of relaxation instantly demolished, but they all seemed to be logically defeated before ever reaching his tongue. He thought upon various angles of argumentative attack, but then envisioned Sísí soundly vanquishing each one with a smile. In each scenario he not only failed miserably, but was left a resounding fool in the face of his employees, the likes of which he could not afford to let happen, especially in his already ashamed state.

The only answer then, was to bite his tongue and take the path of the adult, letting Sísí have her way.

Clenching his fists in a conspicuous manner which drew the eye of Sísí, Floyd attempted to drain the irritation from his face into a forced and painful smile.

“Fine, Sísí, we shall embrace this addition to the store.”

Sísí clapped and closed her eyes in two little smiles as bright as her toothy grin.

“You are so intelligent, Floyd.”

Aster, unbeknownst to herself, had let a fleck of emotion by way of stupefied amazement come into her earlier affectless face, as she watched Sísí disarm Floyd. Beside her, Sylvia hummed with energy, seeing that the worst seemed to have passed. Not letting this opening go to waste, she fetched Marion from the floor and directed him and Floyd to the couch beside Sísí.

“Now, before you hotheads get heated again, we are going to talk this out!” she declared, crossing her arms once again.

Marion, although nursing his shin in irritation, appeared pleased with the fact that Floyd would not be able to get away with his brief explanation easily.

Floyd's false smile folded into a deep grimace.

“Sylvia, as I've told Marion countless times there's nothing to explain!” he began pleadingly.

“Except where exactly you went off to,” Marion remarked.

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“Yea!” Sylvia added in.

Marion looked up at Sylvia and began to relax. He adjusted himself to Floyd's direction, eager to turn the screws on the truth within him.

Sylvia stepped towards Floyd and leaned forward, as if to examine the minutest details of his reaction.

“Where did you vacation, Mr. Floyd? You don't gotta keep it a secret, we won't get jealous!” she inquired.

Marion turned to her, forlorn and disappointed.

“What? Sylvia, you don't buy that do you? Why would he just disappear without telling us?”

“I don't know, but I do know it's better to just trust people, Marion!” she countered warmly.

Marion watched her cheerful face, stunned. He could tell that she wasn't speaking from the position of someone attempting to sweep an unfortunate impasse away as expeditiously as possible, but rather with genuine sincerity.

She truly wanted to believe that Floyd would not lie to them.

Floyd lit up at this pardon, shifting forward in his seat.

“Yes, exactly! You've always had such a good head on your shoulders, Sylvia!”

She smirked.

“So fess up, Floyd! Where did you go? What was it like? Was it fun?! Was it tropical?”

Sylvia seemed to vibrate with excitement as she continued her line of questioning, at which point Aster noticed that Floyd's initial triumphant and vindicated expression began to falter, fading quickly into what appeared to be almost a pained grimace. This look of anguish was curious to her, and as Sylvia peeped on, grew only more contorted and guilty as her outpouring of exuberance and happiness washed over Floyd like a torrent of effervescent inquiry that threatened to thrash his shameful corpse against the rocks.

“I, um—” he started, but could not finish. He appeared incredibly uncomfortable, and became increasingly more fixated on fixing his collar than attending to Sylvia's continuing barrage of questions.

Marion, noticing this, pounced.

“You see, Sylvia?! There's no answer!”

“You could at least put up a better façade, Floyd,” Sísí interjected.

Sylvia drew her arms tighter, showing no intention to give up Floyd's defense that easily.

“I told you guys, it's best to be trusting!”

At these words Floyd's brow fully wrinkled into an expression of intense shame.

“I'm so sorry—” he finally uttered.

Sylvia looked at him curiously, but he avoided eye contact in horror, almost as if he were staring at the sun.

“I— I wanted to rectify my blunder,” he started. He looked sheepishly over at Aster as he said this, who was startled to be suddenly receiving his gaze.

“I do admit I was an oaf in regards to the ordeal with Mr. Vallerie. In fact, I was a great, abominable fool. I am supposed to be your manager, the steward of your success, and yet I only led you into being conned by a charlatan.”

He fixed his collar yet again.

“I've never had the opportunity to manage a group before— due in part to blunders like these, and so every little mishap is all the more painful to me. Especially when I can see your intense passion so clearly, Miss Aster.”

He again turned to face her, but Aster broke eye contact immediately and began to stare at the floor in a panic.

“I had to put it right. And so, following my detainment, I quickly paid the fines relating to the festival and was out of the station before noon. However, it was then that I received word from Sísí about your invitation to the ball. Heavens! I was overtaken by as much excitement as I imagine you were. You see, my father helped construct that ballroom— I knew it was a reputable venue, and was very aware of how important that show was to your success. It then dawned on me— if you succeeded then the machinations of fame would slowly begin to turn for you. You would need a springboard to follow in the heels of that show, and so I took it upon myself to repay my past errors in the best way I believed possible— to get you a record deal.”

Like a spark kissing kindling, Aster's heart alighted, beating in excitement at the implications of Floyd's words.

“And did you?” she uttered with a tone of clear desperation.

However, the look which came across his face signaled to her that hope was best forgotten. His eyelids, as if suddenly under an unbearable weight lowered into two slits through which peered his sad black eyes. He slumped forward and craned his neck in dejection, wishing not to look at Aster.

“Following my leave at the station, I took it upon myself to camp outside a certain record producer's home. My goal was to remain there until he agreed to see you perform. He at first took me as homeless, and for a few days I had to avoid further harassment by police as he tried to keep me from loitering outside of his studio, but in the end he acquiesced.”

He smiled lightly as he said this, giving Aster a brief respite of hope. However, it quickly faded once more into a melancholic look.

“We had arranged for him to see your performance at the ball,” he revealed, hanging his head yet lower.

“Oh, God,” Marion uttered.

“Yes. I'm sure you can infer what became of that. I am nothing but a fool and a curse to you all.”

As he said this, a silence fell over the shop which not even Sísí had the gall to pierce.

Aster looked on in amazement at Floyd, whose neck was now craned low enough so as to be completely perpendicular to the floor.

She had referred to him herself with that very word— “curse”. And yet, despite him now revealing yet another way in which he had ruined her chances of success, she felt the word was no longer fitting.

Instead, she was surprised at how much she appreciated the lengths to which he had gone in attempting to rectify the incident with Johnny Vallerie, when she had originally believed him to be someone who vehemently avoided responsibility by any means.

To sit outside his studio for weeks was deranged, but then again she thought the same of most of her ambitions.

You'd have to be insane to really want fame, so...

At last, Sylvia spoke up.

“Mr. Floyd, don't be sad!” she said, grabbing his hands. “You went that far just to try and get us a record deal!” she exclaimed, and began trying to maneuver Floyd into an impromptu dance.

Marion was at this point staring off into space with a wild grin reminiscent of Sísí as he basked in Floyd's mundane confession.

“How was I ever worried?” he muttered to himself, chuckling. “Floyd, an informant?”

At this he began to laugh louder, to which Sísí and Sylvia happily joined him, though they knew not at what they were laughing.

Sylvia then reached for Aster's hand, who had been silently watching in amazement, and pulled her into their dance.

Aster moved timidly and full of embarrassment, more the puppet of Sylvia's joy than anything else. Marion continued to cackle wildly and louder as Sylvia took a moment to underscore their dancing with one of Floyd's favorite tunes, a smooth jazz cut.

For a brief moment, Aster felt all her worries melt away. Similar to her musings on despair earlier that morning, she also marveled at just how quickly sadness could turn around.

As she thought this, and their impromptu dancing came to an end, Mr. Floyd adopted a serious look, and fixed his collar once more.

“Well, I do not mean to dispel our jovial spirit now that we've found it, but I must come clear about one final item.”

The entire shop, sans Sísí, looked at him hesitantly.

“Before arriving here I received a call from Cecil, who informed me that he is quitting the shop.”

“What?” Sylvia murmured.

In that moment, for the first time since meeting her, Aster witnessed a look that had nothing to do with glee, nor joy, nor happiness upon Sylvia's face. How horrid a feeling it was, she thought, to think that she might witness Sylvia cry.

Floyd turned to Aster with a stern look.

“That is why it is of the utmost importance that we finally settle this, Miss Aster.”

Aster went pale.

“What do you mean?” she stammered.

“You were invited to appear on Willie Cooper's show, were you not? If you are somehow unfamiliar, it is the biggest radio program in the country. And for some miraculous reason, despite the utter disaster of your last engagement, they are thrilled to have you. He makes careers, Miss Aster. If you really wish for this, we will need Cecil.”

Though his voice stern, a look of pleading was set clearly in his eyes.

“You could theoretically do without him,” he began to add. “But we all know it won't be the same.”

“He hates me though—”

“Cecil hates nobody but himself,” Sísí interjected.

“But why me?”

“You're the band leader, and the one he has the biggest problem with,” Marion chimed in.

Sylvia, brought back from the verge of tears, smiled.

“Aster, you don't realize it, but you can easily make anyone happy.”

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