So the man of whimsy fell in his great funk, fell like the redwood falls, smashing the smaller trees all around, and so did his wife and daughter fall as well, wandering the house as if echoes lost in the greatness rather than the sparks of laughter, life, and even anger that used to rebound in the halls of the mansion.
The man took to his attic, his hair extending its length by the automatic biologic process, that, if left unchecked, provides the neighborhood with more of the carrion upon which the strutting, preening vultures must feed. His wife, concerned of his health, and certainly of his sanity, brought to him trays of divine succulence, the finest wines and the sweetest pastries, and, in the end, despairing him his life, brought merely coarse bread and water, which he took with a soulful look, a look of acceptance, a distant look of a man deeply lost in thought, so deeply lost that his eyes are mere pools of liquid, with no life, as the man he is is now so deep in his mind that it cannot be bothered to answer the door. Such a man took her proffered bread and water, set on a steel plate and tin cup, and ate slowly, as with a powerful hunger that cannot be sated but is comfortable in its strength to take its time to assert its will over the food.
His wife stood there, gratitude pouring down her face. She reached up and wiped some of the sparkle out of her eyes, said "Oh, it is so good to see you eat. I had come to worry you would never eat again. I will bring some more bread tonight, and maybe some cheese?" This last bit she said with such hopefulness, such eagerness, the kind that happens when it seems that the impossible is going to be a certainty, that it seemed to stir our man's soul and he took a moment from his ruminations to smile wanly, to reach up and touch her arm and say, "That would be nice, thank you."
She knew nothing more to do, so she kissed him on the cheek and turned to descend the stair. She met her daughter at the foot, with an upturned and questing face, and the question needed no asking. "Yes, he ate. He will eat some cheese tonight. No, he's not coming down just yet."
The daughter turned, herself lost in thought about her father, a man who, to her teenage mind, had seemed a giant massive redwood of a man, never swayed by anyone, anything, nor even the relentless march of time itself, the man who always knew how to stand when everyone ran, the man that stirred such jealousy in others that he, of the immaculate manners and immense magnanimity, still had enemies in those whose existence was mousy or snakelike, which is an unforgivable insult to the majestic snake family, although the insult to the mice family can be let stand as their lobbying efforts have been less effective.
That the giant redwood of a man that was her father had fallen was perplexing enough, doing immense damage to her understanding of the world and her place in it, but what to do about it was substantially more perplexing. She, the daughter, had been up to see the man a time or two, but he had been as if he had not seen her. Part of her railed in jealousy against her mother, but that part was quickly smothered by her own gratitude that the man, the redwood, her father, had eaten, that he had responded, that he was less despondent. She took solace that soon her father would be right, that her world would be right, that once again she'd be the little princess she had become accustomed to being, and, with the flexibility of youth, her countenance brightened, and off to some social event she went, as teenagers make social events of the smallest things, dare to contest it, you who either will be, are, or were a teenager.
Her mother, her poor mother, had no such luxury. She took up her position on the love seat in the den, curled up with a book, the letters and words which passed under her gaze without stringing together into any sort of story she could recall, as such a result requires the effort of the part of her brain now deeply taken up with schemes, plots and distractions to enable her to woo her husband out of his funk and down into some semblance of normalcy, for although she married this man because he was no strutting goose, she often secretly wished he'd not give such fodder to the enemies of the happiness she'd built herself here. She keenly felt the daggers aimed her way by those huns of the tree-lined-lane and country club, the barbarians in the finery of civilization, who have the accoutrements that resemble those of the true bon vivant but lack both the bon and the vivant to back it up and make it really work.
They were out there right now, for sure. By now a servant, even the most loyal, who would never hurt the man out of deep and abiding love for him, even out of that very love might, in an instant, let slip the concern bubbling in their soul to the wrong person, a gollum of the chattering class, most certain to tell the next wrong person in the chain of wrong persons, ending up with all the wrong persons knowing, the persons who did not really care except that it provided the tiniest splash of color to their everlasting white lives and made them feel that much better that they could not themselves attain the level of goodness set for them by themselves and all their kind.
They'd be chattering again. They'd go on about his choice of wife, how she did not really support him. They'd go on out of the other side of the same mouth how she married beneath her and should have left the crackpot a confirmed bachelor, but look, the sheen of respectability a woman of such high breeding as herself had allowed this man to worm his way lots higher in life than he should have, to get power he should not have got, and to anger the wrong people such that now he faced prosecution, and that prosecution would hurt so many who would lose their jobs. Of course, all of them had seen this coming; had said so just last week, dare deny it, and thought then that she should just divorce him before he became a millstone around her neck, as he most certainly would become, and look, they would do the same if the situation warranted it.
So she brooded into the night, torturing herself with the imagined words of others, and such a better person was she that she was able to imagine slights and slander that was beyond the simple imagination of the wolves circling her house. She pretended to take it with grace, but eventually curled up in a ball to have a good cry, late into the night, quietly so that her sobbing not carry up and unduly stress her husband in his darkest hour. She cried thus until it became the last thing she remembered doing and she fell asleep. Her daughter, coming back from the social meeting at the place that they all go to, covered her with a shawl and patted her affectionately. Then the daughter went off to bed, secure and happy that things were not, at least, getting any worse.
