This story is written strictly for the free enjoyment of fans of the "Beauty and the Beast" television series. No copyright infringement is intended.)

 

The Prodigal’s Return

Angie

Land of Heart’s Desire,
Where beauty has no ebb, decay no flood,
But joy is wisdom, Time an endless song

- William Butler Yeats

Climbing down the metal fire escape was the hardest thing Rolley had ever had to do. His brain was telling him to run … run and hide, but his heart was still up there on the roof with Vincent.

He couldn’t believe that Vincent had followed him, sent that woman to drag him from the men’s shelter, after so many years. Why had he done that?

The sorrow he had seen on Vincent’s face as he told him that terrible story of Miss Kendricks' death, had stabbed him like a knife. But the pain as Vincent tried to convince him to return Below was worse. Far worse, because Rolley knew what being Above cost Vincent. Vincent’s very existence was full of challenges that Rolley could not imagine. Yet, he had exposed himself to danger for Rolley.

It would have been nice to run into Vincent’s arms and ask forgiveness. He knew Vincent had already forgiven him. He had already known the story of Miss Kendricks’ death – although not Rolley’s part in it. But that didn’t matter to Vincent either. He did not dwell on the past. He was only interested in Rolley.

In the end, it was Rolley’s shame – that Vincent had found him, and the knowledge of his own worthlessness which won out. He could not return to the rooftop. He would not be able to refuse to go with Vincent back Below if he did. And he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t face the looks on the faces of all those people who had befriended him, trusted him. Then there was that woman who came to him. Catherine. His shame was worse because she had heard the story too.

Rolley pounded on the shelter door and the grumpy warden let him in. He returned to his cot and faced the wall. But he couldn’t sleep. Those months Below when he had learned to put names to the music he played were like a dream now. Had he really learned to read music? Had they really stolen a grand piano for him? Yes – and he had left them all on the night that was to be his first concert. For what? To be with a brother who was a failure at everything he did. He wasn’t even a good gang leader. Other gangs shunned him and his two friends. He robbed Mom & Pop shops to survive and never got more than $40. Those places did not keep cash around anymore. Everyone used plastic at night. His brother couldn’t even steal a purse from an elderly lady without killing her. Miss Kendricks. While he, Rolley, had watched and done nothing.

Rolley held his hands in front of his face. Even in the dim light of the shelter, he could see that his nails were cracked and dirty, his hands rough. He had not played a piano, or even listened to a radio, since that awful night. Yet even now, he remembered what it was like to play, to feel the charge, like electricity, that ran through his body and down into his hands as he played what he had heard. He had been, as Miss Kendricks had said, a robot. He hadn’t known the names for what he was playing in Eli’s basement. He didn’t know anything about a piano. He just sat down and let it flow through him, as if he was a radio himself.

Why had Eli taken him Below? That had been the start of all his troubles. If not for that, he wouldn’t have known there was another life possible for him. The drugs often kept him from remembering that lost life, but they had worn off now. God, he needed a fix! And he had no money – just the half hundred dollar bill that woman had given him as a bribe to get him out of the shelter and talking to Vincent. He had not asked for the other half – had forgotten. He could not even fool himself that he would have been too ashamed to ask, if he had thought of it.

Now he was penniless and the shakes were starting. He wanted to die. He deserved to die, but was too much of a coward to take his own life in any simple way. He didn’t even own a penknife. He would never be able to walk to a bridge to jump off.

Then he remembered something. Yes. He could do that.

Rolley remembered one evening Below, after dinner. Kipper had told him about a place where music could be heard. Rolley had not believed him and Kipper had become adamant. So Rolley had followed him to a place called the Whispering Gallery. They had sat on a rickety, wooden bridge across a rock shaft that seemed to go both up and down forever. Kipper told him it had no bottom, but that the top was far above. The bridge went nowhere. It was bolted to a stone wall. Who had built it, and why, he wondered.

Then, in the quiet, Rolley began to hear sounds, traffic noise, feet over metal grids. Kipper put his finger to his mouth as Rolley opened his mouth to ask a question. He listened then and heard voices, many voices – young and loud, old and quavering, children screeching, babies crying. Then, out of nowhere, the voices dimmed and he heard music. An orchestra was playing somewhere and it echoed down the long shaft. He had not heard such music since he had come Below. They did not have radios here – would hear nothing through the depth of stone anyway.

He let himself soak up the clear sounds and remember them. The two boys sat quietly until it finished and the sounds of the city returned.

"Where?" Rolley started to ask Kipper. The boy looked at him and smiled.

"No one knows. Sometimes it’s a concert we know is being played Above, in the Met or some concert hall, or even in the Park. Other times, we think it’s old echoes from a long time ago. We’ll never know.

"Vincent comes here a lot, but he doesn’t like us kids being here alone. This bridge isn’t very safe. He almost fell through it once. He was chasing a man. That man jumped for that rope over there and it broke. He fell down the shaft and was gone forever."

Kipper said that last with great satisfaction. Rolley looked down beyond his dangling feet and brought his legs up onto the bridge reflexively. The shaft went down, getting dimmer and dimmer, the walls almost meeting before there was nothing but blackness. Rolley dug in his pocket and found a penny. He threw it over the side and he and Kipper listened. There was silence, more complete than any he had ever known. All the voices and noises stopped. He never heard the penny hit anything.

"See?" Kipper said.

Rolley had returned to the bridge after that, alone, hoping to hear more music. Sometimes he heard snatches, pieces, but never a concert like that first time.

Now Rolley thought of the Whispering Gallery. That was where he belonged – falling endlessly into nothing. It was all he deserved. He did not really believe there was no bottom to the shaft, but was sure that by the time he reached it, he would be dead, or would hit so fast he wouldn’t even know it. He no longer cared.

Rolley did not know much about the tunnels – had been amazed at their existence, even. While there, he had been interested in only one thing – his music lessons. But he did learn a few things. He knew where the perimeter of the community was. Eli had taken him in and he had been shown other exits. They had been in a part of the tunnel network that was seldom used because they were in the worst part of town – his part of town.

After the weak coffee and donut the shelter handed out, Rolley made his way to the tunnel entrance then paused to look back at the world he was leaving. It was a bitter day and he knew he would likely freeze to death if he stayed Above. He almost turned back, but was afraid he might be found before he died. Would be just his luck.

He had nothing but the clothes he wore. In one pocket of his hooded jean jacket was his brother’s driver’s license. He’d always left it in his squat when he went out at night, so he wouldn’t be identified if he was caught. In the other jacket pocket was the half hundred dollar bill.

Rolley was shaking badly now and had to get out of sight. He bit his lip to stop himself from moaning and reached the derelict section where he and the Tunnel boy had come out on that fateful day so long ago. He moved aside a garbage can and crawled into a small door, careful to pull the can back into place. He emerged into a custodian’s room. Then he slid down a shaft into a cellar. The tunnel entrance was dark, but he knew the way now. He walked quietly and pulled his hood over his face. He knew where the sentries were and hoped to avoid them. He walked until he reached the first downward passage and the rough stone walls of the tunnels started. He found a shallow cut and curled up to sleep. He was tired now and he needed darkness. He slept.

He awoke shivering. His clothes were wet with sweat. He needed a fix badly, but he bit the back of his hand and staggered to his feet. He had to do what he had come to do. Nothing else mattered. He would not need drugs where he was going.

He looked along the tunnel. It was dark. Somehow he had slept the day away. No wonder he felt so bad. He began to shuffle inward, stopped when he realized how much noise he was making. He lifted his feet and continued more carefully, feeling like the cartoon characters he sometimes saw on store TVs, sneaking up on something. He leaned on the wall with one hand and bit the other to keep himself aware. He made slow progress, stopping often, both to listen for noises of the tunnel dwellers and to catch his breath.

He circumvented the sentry stations easily and finally reached the area near the Hub. Then he heard voices. He flattened himself against the wall and waited. The sounds receded. He could smell food and his stomach rumbled. He paused, afraid that someone might have heard that, but all was quiet. The tunnels at night were always quiet, he remembered. People went to their chambers and relaxed. He would have to be extra careful.

Rolley slid along the tunnels, passing the hall where the grand piano waited. He looked down at it, feeling a sudden sadness at that. Mouse had spent so much time hauling it below, then putting it together. It was covered with a dust sheet and looked as lonely as he felt.

Getting a grip on himself, Rolley continued. Remembering the way to the Whispering Gallery, he turned into a side passage. He had to put his hand in his mouth again to prevent himself groaning. He was sweating and shaking so badly he could hardly see and his nose was running. His body ached with his need for a fix. He bit his hand harder, tasted blood. He made himself go on. Now he had no choice. If he sat down, he’d never get up on his own. Someone would find him

He walked, head down, through an archway and suddenly he was on the bridge and almost tripped. He began to walk across it, slowly, looking for a place he could squeeze through the ropes. Yes, there. He got down on his knees and looked over. The shaft was exactly as he remembered, but seemed to have a blue glow around it. He looked up and saw nothing but shadows. Well, he would soon be just another, a silence among the whispers. The sounds were soft and he tried to be silent. He put one leg over the side and then the other, then turned over so he could slide past his hips. Then he closed his eyes and let go.

But he dangled instead of falling. His wrist seemed to be caught. He groaned and opened his eyes. He saw a big hairy hand with sharp nails around his wrist. Only one man had hands like that. He looked up and saw long hair and deep-set eyes. Vincent was kneeling on the bridge above him. It was dead quiet and Rolley could hear his own harsh breathing. A moan escaped him.

"Rolley!" Vincent whispered. He reached his other arm down and got a grip on Rolley’s jacket, then pulled him back onto the bridge. Rolley was shaking violently now and Vincent hugged him in his arms for a long time, then wrapped his cloak around them both.

"Rolley. No," Vincent said at last, emphatically. "You can’t leave us like this."

Rolley was unable to speak and began to cry. He cried until all the sorrow, guilt and lost years washed from him. Then he began to shiver again. Vincent lifted him up and carried him from the bridge to the hospital chamber, then put him on a metal table. Father came in then and regarded Rolley with real concern in his eyes. Rolley couldn't meet them for long and closed his eyes. His teeth were chattering, then his bladder let go. Warmth ran down his leg and he dropped his head in shame.

Father began to strip off Rolley’s clothes with Vincent’s help. He was as limp as a rag doll. Vincent bathed him and put him in a nightshirt. Father bandaged the hand he had bitten, then injected something into him. Rolley slept.

Over the next few days, Rolley went through drug withdrawal in the hospital chamber, hardly aware of his surroundings. He wanted a fix, to die, but kept his mouth tightly closed for fear of saying one or the other. It was the only dignity left to him. He knew he soiled himself, was cleaned, fed just after Father injected him with something. Father or Vincent were always there when he awoke. One time, he saw the woman who had come to him in the shelter. Catherine.

When he was finally able to get out of bed, he found all his clothes had been neatly washed and patched. He put them on and then noticed that his pockets were empty. He looked around and saw a bowl on the table. He looked in to find a key – to what, he had no idea - a few coins, his brothers license - and the half hundred dollar bill. Rolley regarded this last. It marked the end of a phase in his life. He didn’t need it anymore. He felt better than he had in a long time. He wanted to see that grand piano again. He wanted to touch the keys of the piano he had practiced on, to see if he could still play.

He had an idea then. He looked around for an envelope. In one drawer was a small handkerchief. He wrapped the bill carefully in that and put it in his jacket pocket. He would keep it on him.

Some time later, Rolley slipped the folded handkerchief into the hands of Catherine Chandler, after an evening of music. She was with Vincent of course. She unfolded the envelope and looked inside. Then she pulled out the half-$100 and looked at Rolley with a smile. She reached into a small purse she had over her arm and pulled out the other half, then extended them both to him.

Rolley stepped back in shock. His voice grated.

"No. Don’t want it. I wanted to die after you gave me that. Would have, if Vincent hadn’t come along. Now I owe you for my life."

"You owe us nothing, Rolley," Vincent remarked in a low voice. "You have given us so much joy – once again – that no amount of money could buy it. You are back among your family, whole again. And your music lives in you."

"What shall I do with this, then?" Catherine waved the torn bills.

There was only one thing Rolley could think of.

"Miss Kendricks. Don’t want to forget her. I let her down. Want her to know I’ll never leave my music again."

Catherine looked at Vincent, who spoke slowly.

"Miss Kendricks was a gifted teacher and cared deeply about all her students. Seeing them become musicians was her greatest joy. Perhaps you could compose something special in her memory. That would be the gift that would please her most."

Rolley’s face brightened.

"Yes. I’ll try. Don’t know if I can. Thank you Vincent."

Rolley thought furiously. She’d taught him the term, ‘medley’. One of those maybe – to remember all the things she had taught him. He shook Catherine’s hand and Vincent’s, then turned away, already going through music in his head. He saw Father gesture at him and walked over.

Catherine looked at Vincent as Rolley left them, obviously distracted.

"There’s still this to deal with," she said, waving the two halves of the bill.

"Oh, I don’t think so," Vincent whispered. "That is a currency too precious to spend. I know just the place for it."

He took the split bill from her and went down the stairs and over to the piano. Rolley was speaking to Father, so he reached up for the metronome in its wooden case and carefully opened the back. He folded the torn bill into a tight square and wedged it inside, out of the way of the mechanism, then closed it.

There let it rest until the end of time, he thought. He looked up at Catherine and saw her nod of approval. She joined him and they stood next to the piano, arm in arm.

Rolley came back to the piano, sat down and began to pick out a tune.

"To everything there is a time," Vincent commented. He turned away quickly, grimacing at his own pun. But Rolley wasn’t paying attention. Catherine’s mouth quirked.

"And no time like the present," she whispered.

Rolley felt better. Yes, what did Father call it? …a tribute, yes, a tribute to Miss Kendricks. He would never forgive himself for her death, but perhaps she would hear his music, wherever she was, and know that he was playing for her. He always had. She had made him a musician, opened worlds to him.

Now he could remember her as she deserved.

END