Beat the Heat

S. Hileman Iannazzo

“One Upon A Time” - My niece, Age Five.

Locals still call it Daphne Manor. The same locals take the long way around to avoid stepping foot on its grounds. Gated and overgrown with weeds, the structure is dilapidated and bare. Its once vibrant paint is faded and chipped. Most of the windows are broken or boarded over. The deed still reads Margaret A. Daphne. Madam had been deceased for decades and had no heirs to inherit the beastly homestead.

The house, upon its completion in 1902 was once enormously grand! It had beautiful and intricate decorative gables, heavy black shutters, and the grounds were meticulously maintained by staff groundskeepers. Margaret Daphne had commissioned the building of the house on a parcel of land left to her by Charles Daphne, her deceased husband.

She had grown up in a large family that lived in a small boxy house on the shore of a swampy bayou. Her childhood was a tough one, she went hungry often, and wore clothes donated to her family by the church. Even though she looked after 8 brothers and sisters, she was a good student and tried never to miss school. Her clothes may have been hand me downs, but she kept them clean and neat. Still, bayou folks were looked down upon. As she neared 17, she left her home to find work in New Orleans. Margaret was quite satisfied to never eat biscuits and gravy again, or ever carry a full chamber pot to the ramshackle outhouse. She had met the very wealthy Charles R. Daphne after having taken a job at a popular eatery on the outskirts of the city. She was a beautiful young woman, with a heavy bosom, and copper hair. She had a smile that took even the most serious of men off their guard. She was very careful when speaking, forsaking the slang she was accustomed to. She carried herself with confidence and chatted with the customers with friendly banter.

Within a few months, Charles Daphne proposed marriage, Margaret struggled to maintain her composure when she accepted demurely. They were married in the vestibule of the nearest church the very next day. Charles Daphne was the most coveted bachelor in three counties and as a result neighbors and townsfolk gossiped endlessly about the couple. They whispered loud enough for Margaret to hear, calling her trash and accusing her of marrying Mr. Daphne for his money, for he was quite wealthy.

Margaret had in fact shamelessly married the much older Charles Daphne for his money. She may have been young, and a tad naive, but she was not stupid. She treated her husband with great kindness and they got along quite well. When the couple were seen in public, she carried herself like a proper and respected lady in the community. Despite the sideways glances and looks of disapproval from her peers, she would hold her chin high and maintain eye contact, while Charles presented her about town like a prized quilt. He was a very happily married man with a beautiful young wife he was proud of. He never mentioned her less than humble beginnings.She was honest and clever and he adored her. Plenty of single women would have given their right arm to sit in the same pew as Charles R Daphne every Sunday, and most seethed with jealousy. Margaret knew this, and a part of her took great satisfaction in their envy.

She was a good wife to Charles, and she’d earned every cent of the fortune he left to her when he died. She had spent 10 very lovely years with her much older husband. He was incredibly generous and Margaret went from hand hemmed garments made of cheap material to exorbitant dresses fitted for a good and proper lady of the township. There was nothing Charles would deny her. All she had to do was ask. Her only source of unhappiness was that Charles hadn’t lived to see the completion of their dream home. It was to have every extravagance available, and most important to Margaret was its location. It was stationed away from the town, on a hill, and her formal dining room had a picturesque view of the town below. She very much enjoyed looking down on the people who never quite accepted her into society. The same people who were curt and barely polite when meeting her out and about.

Now that she held the purse strings she spared no expense when building Daphne Manor. It was a grand home befitting her perceived polished and practiced sophistication. The house was painted a deep blue color, it was equipped with indoor plumbing, and electric electricity. It was surrounded by a high black gate, and gaudy stone cherubs welcomed one to the entrance. Margaret was nouveau riche, and her home was a reflection of that. It had dumbwaiters and a spiral staircase, and a kitchen that was staffed with a resident cook. She insisted there be a drawing room large enough for 100 guests, though she didn’t actually know 100 people. The wallpaper in that room was ordered from France, and was a wildy flamboyant silk, colored pink and gold. Her house, when the last brick was laid, was undoubtedly the grandest in and around New Orleans at that time. Madam was absolutely thrilled when it was finally ready to inhabit.

Margaret lived alone, save for her trusted staff and two Siamese cats. She was content.

Because she had left the bayou behind, she rarely saw her family. And because her neighbors were uptight snobs, Mrs. Daphne had very few friends. Occasionally, in the summer she would throw a huge and lavish party. Her guest list was elite and short. No more than forty or fifty of the town's richest members were granted an invitation. These members of society came not because they valued her company, but rather to gawk at the property. Voyeurs eager to see what she had built with her seemingly endless inheritance. Carefully chosen guests came only to witness and later criticize Mrs Daphnes’ eclectic decor. The rumor that there was a nude painting hanging on the west wall of the dining room was proved true. Margaret believed it to be exceptionally posh. The chosen guests arrived in droves to drink the expensive champagne and eat the exotic foods that carefully dressed servants passed about. As much as she tried, most of the townsfolk weren’t interested in befriending Magaret, but still, blue blooded society pined for an invite to Daphne Mansion. The visitors ranged from socialites and oddities to families of great distinction, families with names one dropped to seem important and whose fortunes were considered “old money”. Margaret wanted very much to be included, to receive herself, invites to parties and sophisticated galas. However, even if she wasn’t considered new money, she had long since abandoned her attempts to fit in. Her demeanor was rambunctious, her manners were embarrassing, and her style of dress was absurd. She was loud and crass and told hugely entertaining stories that made some gentil ladies blush. She often chose the comfort of slacks over the heavy dresses and constricting undergarments the women in town suffered through. She almost always knotted her hair into a bun and pinned it loosely, with no hat in sight. She did not wear gloves to church on Sundays, but always dropped a crisp dollar into the collection plate. Folks scoffed at her, believing she was just showing off. Mrs.Margaret Daphne held her head high and continued to be friendly to all who bothered to stop for a chat on the steps of the chapel. The minister was always kind to Margaret as she never failed to open her purse if the church was in need of a repair or new paint. When chatting on the steps dispersed, Mrs. Daphne always left alone, while the others held Sunday Luncheons among themselves and their god damn “old money”. She hid her embarrassment and loneliness well.

She was politely shunned for years until she hired a man and his crew to dig a swimming pool on the grounds of her home. That summer had started early in May, and was increasingly getting hotter by the day. No one in town had a swimming pool, and so instead they sat on blankets by the river, eating from baskets and holding delicate parasols to provide shade for their porcelain skin. All the important ladies were faint and sweaty in places one does not discuss in polite company. Their husbands loosened their ties and suffered in the sun, knocking croquet balls around, and their children wilted in the heat clothed in their white summer linens. Swimming in the river was unheard of and not to be considered. Even poor folks refused to cool off in the river, which was plagued with duck shit and black oil that leaked from the steam boats that carried wares.

Margaret had seen on the cover of a magazine a succulent kidney shaped stone lined pool. The cost was astronomical but Mrs Daphne did not bat an eye when she commissioned the pool. As a child, when the heat was oppressive, and the air was heavy with humidity, she and her siblings swam in the creeks and rivers that surrounded their home. When there were a dozen or more kids splashing around in the shallow waters, the gators would startle and swim away. She was delighted when she imagined once again having a place that provided relief on those merciless sun baked days.

She paid extra for more labor so that she could enjoy her pool while the days remained long. Construction moved quickly. The widow had already been to see her tailor several times to have the latest most fashionable ‘swimsuits’ designed. They were cut a bit low, and a bit high in all the right places, and Margaret was pleased with the results. She ordered embroidered towels and deck chairs and bold umbrellas. Right as the pool was being filled, and on a whim, Mrs. Daphne purchased a stone cherub that she centered in the deep end of the water, and she was delighted to watch as it’s chubby cheeks spit forth a trickle of water. She couldn’t wait to host this summer's annual garden party, couldn’t wait to see the sour looks of her ‘peers’ when they lunched on cucumber sandwiches while lazing around her brand new swimming pool.

Gossip at church was that the widow Daphne had installed a pool. Not even the oldest of the money grubbers had ever seen a real swimming pool. Suddenly, the long days spent scorching by the river seemed absurd. Everyday, when the temperature outside was skyrocketing, the widow donned one of her scandalous swimsuits and frolicked in the cool and refreshing waters of her private oasis. Over the years she had kept her figure and with wild abandon, she strutted about in her hand tailored suits. Her face held no laugh lines and her auburn hair was devoid of a single grey hair. High society was absolutely green with envy!

In July, she planned an elaborate Independence Day Picnic, to be held outdoors, and spent a great deal of time writing the guest list. These invites were hand delivered to the most elite, devine and fabulously wealthy guests. 40 in total. The chatter in town was bitter for those who were declined entry, and for those who carried home a red envelope that day, there was the ever present gossip, and the old money folks almost lost their composure entirely once they were handed an invitation. The widow Daphne was overjoyed at the response, and looked forward to the fourth day of July with great and eager anticipation. She hired an army to get the gardens ready, cooks were brought in to ensure only the most exquisite dishes would be served. Cases of lemon flavored liquor were poured into an enormous punch bowl and ten pounds of ice topped it off. She had even arranged for fireworks when the evening grew dim.

The day of Margaret's party started exactly how she hoped it would, hot. Hotter than Hades! She dressed quickly, choosing an entirely inappropriate bathing suit made of the finest red silk. She left her hair to hang loosely at her shoulders. She opted to go barefoot, and the devil be damned if any of those old fogeys saw her svelte ankles. During the hustle of hired hands preparing for the day, the widow strolled around the grounds satisfied that everything looked perfect.

When her guest began arriving, she directed them immediately to the punch bowl filled with spiked lemonade. The women wore horribly old fashioned swimsuits and the fellows looked prudish in their striped tops. Margaret smiled as she watched her guest imbibe the punch that would ‘alter’ their good sense.

She may have been new money, but her roots were deep in old magic. Her grandmother, who lived to be one hundred and eleven years old, was a bayou girl, a self proclaimed witch and practiced black magic. Margaret's formative years were spent at her Grandmere’s side, observing and learning. Using flowers and greens and bits of this and tads of that, Grandmere had a cure for everything, and if need be, mayhap something a little more nasty. Grandmere was married to a man who had a mean streak, a drunk who beat her without mercy. She poisoned him on their 20th wedding anniversary and watched with great satisfaction as the concoction she’d mixed numbed his muscles, first his arms and legs and then his heart. Grandmere’s only regret was that his suffering didn’t last more than a few minutes. Couple days later, the town threw him in a pauper's grave, unmarked for an unremarkable man.

Poisoning 40 people at once was a huge undertaking, but Margaret did not shy away from the challenge. She had spent a good portion of that spring in her glass greenhouse, growing and nurturing all the ‘ingredients’ she would need.

As the day grew hotter her guests drank glass after glass after glass of the lemony liquid she had carefully spiked earlier that morning. Within a few hours the staff had been sent home, and most of high society was stumbling aimlessly around the gardens. They were confused, some were hallucinating. She sat in a chair, flanked by her beloved cats, and watched as 40 affluent members of society stumbled off the ledge into the deep end of the pool. The stone cherub spit the cool water on the heads of some very prestigious folks as they allowed themselves to drown. The mayor was drooling into his beard. His stuck up wife fell backwards into the water and sank like a brick, still holding onto the leash of her beloved ill natured poodle. This made Margaret smile. The man who owned the savings and loan put up a bit of an entertaining struggle, splashing about until his pulse ceased to pulse. Virginia Wills, who had once refused to tailor any hats for Margaret, bit her tongue clean in half. Blood soaked the high collar of her pristine party dress, but her eyes were already dead when she too succumbed to the poison and took her place among high society beneath that devilish cherub statue. The whole thing took less than 15 minutes. Mrs. Daphne glanced at her swimming pool, at the stiffening bodies of her guest as they bobbed around the cool water. She returned her attention to the fireworks display. A loaded pistol sat on her lap.

Cause fuck those assholes.

Fin.