an encounter with the dickens

I woke to a stirring, a presence nested against my foot, polite enough as to avoid intentionally rousing me; even beneath an oppressive comforter, it sent spindles of nerve-dulling chill through my legs. I withdrew my leg, uncomfortably so, and propped myself up on drowsy and haphazard elbows. There was a presence of a man- too limber to be of my stepfather, too near to be my estranged father- my toes had grazed the small of his back. I assumed that, anyway. It was depressingly black, lit only by the face of a dim computer, enough to outline his figure (I thought of it as the moon, almost, impenetrable darkness on one face and perceptible on the other). He was also like the moon in mystery, and for that, I was further intimidated.

“Um...” I fumbled, rifling through a still-resting mind, whose vocabulary, too, was similarly slumbering. 

“I must’ve given you a scare,” he shuffled, and I could see now his unyieldingly stern visage, “I apologize for any fright.”

I did not even chance recognition of his face, all wrinkles, distinctly upset; a wiry beard grew beneath his lip, whimsical if not for that taut frown. Was it silent disapproval? I could not imagine being particularly impressed with a teenage girl, in awe and dumb, just woken and clutching her blankets in tiny fists. Before a relic, no less. The wilderness of his face was cleaned instead by his garb, properly Victorian- it was so bizarre, I could not resist an unfurling grin- dressed for a proper ball, yet seated at the end of my humble bed. What a scene. 

“Who are you? What are you?”

He almost seemed offended, could I properly appraise him in the low light.

“Are you not a fan of the newspaper? I suppose that advanced comprehension is reserved for the gentry. Regardless, it comes as a surprise that you do not recognize me.”

I scoffed. Yes, I had been offset by his appearance, and I knew he would not be swayed by me, but that was uncalled for. Withering, dressed as though he fancied himself a Victorian noble, and sexist. Were he not so intangible, I would have delivered him a swift jab with my foot. The Victorians were historically plagued, by my recollection. One deliberately placed blow could do some harm.

“No, grandpa, nobody reads the newspaper anymore. It’s so arrogant to assume everybody knows you.” I crossed my arms, my naive illusion of him fractured and disintegrating. 

“I meant no offense, but women’s education is not a premium, nor a common practice.”

Issuing an aggravated sigh, I turned my eyes to the wall. Anything to do him a disservice. He could reveal himself to be the messiah and I would not view him any more favorably, for his sour self had already been revealed. The audacity of him, musty and better buried, appearing at the foot of my bed was astounding. 

“Regardless of whether or not you choose to witness me, I am here still.”

“You have better things to do, paperboy. Write your dissertation on the rude poor women, fill all the columns with it.”

“That is no way to regard an elder-”

“I don’t care. You should be rolling in your grave.”

He was a specter, no doubt to be had. From that grim, pallid skin to the lucidity of his form, he was likely expired once, risen again. Grief to the world, another pinprick walked, perhaps the earth had spat his bitter body out of its gullet; even his looks were unsavory, unpalatable to the eye. It would come as a shock if he’d married in life. I could hardly chance even a glancing observation of him.

“Petulant child,” it seemed he, too, intended not to humor my features any longer, “insulting Charles Dickens so offhandedly.”

“I don’t even know who you are. That means nothing to me.”

He would not deign himself to a winded explanation of his credentials, that he made clear by the resounding silence about us. Perhaps it would be too great an indignity to even offer a response. Perhaps he was constructing a proper deconstruction of my behavior, which was admittedly prickly, in that wizened head of his. Blessed be his penmanship, for that appearance left much to be desired. So too did his orthodox mind. 

“I’m sure there are other girls that are writing English essays about you somewhere. I’m not one of them. There’s probably an English teacher who’s dying to have a word with you. Why are you wasting your time with me? Go away, man, it’s way too late for this.”

With the efficacy of an exorcism, he was banished, dissipating into a fine and invisible nothingness. Serves him right, I smugly thought. There was no need for such bitterness, that I knew, for he was likely some deranged figment of my mind. But why summon such a rotten ‘late-great’ author? What mechanism of my mind found that appropriate? It was little but a nuisance to my sleep. I was still growing, anyway, and I needed sleep more than the grievances of a dead (or dying) man. 

So I turned over, entirely unimpressed, and enjoyed a proper rest with dreams of fist-fighting Charles Dickens.