Disclaimer: "Beauty and the Beast" and the character Pascal and all the rest belong to Republic Pictures. No infringement is intended upon ownership of these or any other creative works sited within the text. This is a piece of amateur fiction. That and all the rest of the legal stuff. Lacey and her ilk belong to me. Any resemblence to real people is purely intentional. Nuff said. 

Author’s note: This story would not exist were it not for Annette. The idea of a Helper Questionnaire is hers. She gave it to me. Thank you, Annette. And thanks, also, to my selfless Beta Readers, Merrie & Night.

© 2001 by Kayla Rigney

kayla_rigney@email.com

I didn’t have anywhere else to go. The money ran out and nobody in the business was willing to hire me under the table anymore. I was sitting on a bench in Central Park contemplating selling the only thing of value I had left – my laptop not my body – when Mouse "found" me and took me home.

Well, first he tried to take me to the place he thought of as my home. I had to work hard to convince him that as of ten that morning, I was living on the bench.

"No rich house?" he asked. "No rich car?"

"No," I replied, shaking my head. "Not any more."

"No good. Not fine," Mouse said. "Father will be mad."

I hugged my ‘puter to my chest and shrugged. Father was always mad about something.

Mouse rocked from one foot to another and seemed to be giving way too much thought to my situation.

"Go away, Mouse," I said.

He ignored me and continued to rock back and forth.

"Or don’t go away. Suit yourself."

It was getting late. Maybe somebody would come along and mug me and I’d die and I wouldn’t have to think about how low I’d fallen. Me, Lacey Corelli, reduced to living on bench and talking to weasely autistic hobbit.

Finally, Mouse stopped rocking back and forth. "Come with Mouse now!" he commanded. "We’ll find Vincent. Vincent will know what to do."

Having nowhere else to go, I let Mouse lead me into tunnels.

When I was growing up, I never liked the underground. It was dark and cold; and besides, it smelled. My parents were second-generation Helpers. We spent a lot of time down there Helping. It was a big secret to put on a small child.

I thought a lot about this as we made our way lower and lower into the tunnels. (Mouse isn’t exactly big on conversation.) I tried to remember what my parents looked like. I tried to remember what my friends looked like. I found that I couldn’t. And I found that I really didn’t care. I kept on walking. It got colder and darker with every step. I started bantering with myself to keep from going insane. I inwardly wondered whether I should have given them what they wanted or maybe just sold my body. (If I’d sold my body, at least, there was the chance of pure animal body heat.) And why did a place so secretive have a communication system based solely upon whacking pipes???

Mouse stopped in front of the pipe chamber. "Wait here," he said, sternly. He disappeared into Pascal’s lair.

I did what I was told and hugged the wall. I was completely disoriented and the stone felt really good against my back. It was solid. Unfortunately, it also served to bombard my already over-loaded senses with a cacophony of pipetalk. Words came at me from all directions. I panicked.

"Mouse?" I hissed. "Where are you Mouse? Come back here, you little weasel! It’s tacky to leave the blind chick alone in the dark!"

Nobody came. I guess they couldn’t hear me over the din. I suddenly knew how the Wicked Witch of the West felt when she said: "I’ll get you, my pretty – and your little dog, too!"

Luckily, I was over my bad self by the time Mouse came back.

"Now what?" I asked.

"We wait," Mouse replied.

I really wished he’d touch me and make the yodelrama stop. "What are we waiting for?" I asked.

"Not what. Who."

"Oh."

On the way down, we managed to avoid all the sentries. That was always a big game with Mouse – avoiding the sentries. He was good at it, too. He rarely got caught. He was the only person I ever saw startle Pascal.

Tonight, Pascal seemed particularly startled.

"That is not Lacey," the pipemaster said.

"Is, too!" Mouse replied.

"She’s too tall to be Lacey. Take her back where you found her."

"No. Mouse will not. Is Lacey!"

Pascal approached me and took my chin in his hand and turned my head to the right. "If you’re Lacey," he asked, "where’s your birthmark?"

When I was a kid, I had a huge wine stain birthmark that covered the entire left side of my face and went down my neck. Up close, you can still see faint scarring from the laser treatments. "I had it removed," I replied. "They can do that now."

He seemed annoyed and turned my face toward the left, as if I were a horse. He must have examined my cheek very closely. Evidently, satisfied by the scar or my profile or maybe by the fact that I didn’t bite him, Pascal said, "I believe you."

"Okay, good," said Mouse.

"Now what?" I asked.

"We take you to see Vincent," Pascal replied.

Before I could stop myself, I said, "What? No Father?"

"Father never liked you much," the pipemaster replied, pointedly, I thought. "Your chances are better with Vincent. Trust me on this."

"I trust you," I said.

"No, you don’t. You never trusted anybody, which is why we can trust you."

And with that, Pascal took my elbow and propelled me down the passage…

Of course, they let me stay. Father said he couldn’t countenance unleashing me upon an unsuspecting world of thieves and felons. I was summarily dismissed from the Council meeting, clothed, fed, and assigned a chamber. Just like that. End of story

To me, being a Helper always meant lugging crates of food Below but never being allowed to eat dinner. My father always said, "Lacey, there’s not enough for us. You must wait until we get home. And then you can have a nice soy burger with cheese." I didn’t want a soy burger. I wanted William’s surprise potpie.

When I was a kid, I spent almost every weekend Below with my parents. We were always doing something for the tunnel community. I left home at eighteen, and I forgot all about my connection to the tunnels.

It’s strange how things come back to you, when you’re safe.

I remember that my father worked for the government. He specialized in code-breaking and had all the personality of a Hollerith machine – routine and dangerous at the same time. He spent a lot of time with the Pascals. I was a little afraid of him. My mother taught English Above and her brand of History Below. She had a wicked sense of humor and once called Father a Pompous Patoot to his face. My mother was Home to me, no matter where we were. Mom was Home.

I was a tomboy and a brat. Mostly, I played with Jamie, who was a lot like me. My most vivid memory is of a young, angry Pascal chasing us out of the pipe chamber growling, "Don’t you ever climb on the pipes! It’s dangerous." Pascal never yelled, never raised his voice. And because he was generally easy-going and tolerant, how we tormented him.

I remember Vincent and Devin arguing about something in hushed voices. I can see the way my mother smiled at her classroom of rag-tag children. Once, I was summarily deposited in the library with a pile of comic books, and Father came upon me and said: "Must you read those things?" And he handed me a copy of The Hobbit. That was one of the nicest things anybody ever did for me. Ever.

My memories of the tunnels are frozen in time. Voices belong to faces from a decade ago. Colors fade in and out from a world when I could see. I still prefer light, and when I lived Above, my walls were white and the lights burned 24/7. Below, everything is muted. Power must be conserved. Tapestries flutter and sound comes at me from everywhere in this midnight world.

I will never get used to the feel of the dark on my skin.

The best part about being a Helper was the feeling that I was a part of something secret and very special – sort of like being a member of the French Underground during World War II. My family’s cover story for going Below was "We’re going to visit Aunt Toncie." I loved telling people that. Toncie was actually our friend Lee’s Aunt. She was the coolest old lady. She once owned the Huntington Beach News and designed her own house back in the 1930’s when women just didn’t do things like that. Her real name was Florence.

The next best part was having access to Father’s Library. I loved books, even as a child.

And of course, there was Winter Fest, which was truly the most magical day of the year. I looked forward to it. That was the only day I was allowed to eat Below!

The worst part was… Being a kid and having to live a double life. That was difficult. I had enough to deal with being who I was – the daughter of Leon Corelli. So much was expected of me always.

My mother used to say that everybody has a different kind of childhood hell. I guess being a Helper was in many ways mine. I mean, what is it like to spend one’s childhood Below? You know what it’s like. You go with the flow. You don’t talk back. You don’t question the way things are.

I suppose if I had ever told my parents I didn’t want to do this, I didn’t want to Help, they wouldn’t have forced me. In my family, that was unthinkable. If you had more, you were expected to help.

Of course, a Corelli would never think of asking for help – which is why I ended up on that park bench…

You’re not writing anymore. Is there something you want to know? It’s all right to ask. In spite of what Mary’s told you, I don’t bite. Honest. For reals.

I lost my sight when I was 18. I was in an accident and my retinas become detached and damaged. It happens. I was being stupid. When you’re 18, you think you’re indestructible. You think you’ll live forever.

My job is to be the bane in Father’s existence. Not really; but sometimes, it feels that way.

When I was accepted Below, I was given the job of archivist. I’m the one who writes the history of the tunnels. That’s what I do with this state-of-the-art laptop. I guess that makes me Head Storyteller. Narcissa says it makes me indispensable.

I was my father’s daughter. I can’t tell you the specifics. Let’s just say I was a living Hollerith machine that tracked and catalogued things people don’t like to talk about. I don’t think I was a very nice person, then. Now? I’m a little better. I’m not so angry anymore; and I laugh freely.

That’s a double-edged question. I can’t afford to bite the hand that feeds me, you know? No, Eric, at the time, I did not like being a Helper. I was a kid. I wanted to be a real kid. Being a Helper stole my childhood from me. Perhaps it made me a little rebellious and reckless. For a long time, it made me bitter.

But now, sitting in this comfortable chamber surrounded by a life I would not have Above, I’m proud to have been a Helper. I think it made me a better person. It made me compassionate and gave me insight into other lives.

Father was quite brave in his way. (He would never have done the job I did, for instance.) He said, No, This Is Wrong – and he did something about it. I really thought about him when I was doing research at Argonne. I heard his voice in my head saying: "Lacey, just because they set body burdens using radium dial painters doesn’t make it right." Human experimentation is never right. It took me a long time to see that though. Being a Helper taught me to see through other eyes – eyes not my own. It taught me to see through opened eyes.

To answer your question honestly, I’m very grateful to have been a Helper.

You mean besides my history of the place? Let me think.

I’d give the tunnels my love of Music. I’d wrap every single man, woman, and child in light and I’d play every rare thing I ever owned. I’d play Love of the Common People by the Everly Brothers and the undubbed version of Love Is Strange by Buddy Holly. And I’d stand up on top of one of the long tables and dance to Bob Marley’s Coming In From the Cold.

To me, Music is life. It’s everything good that there is in both worlds – Above and Below. Music is warmth. It’s everything I could see and all that I can’t. And it’s probably the only reason Pascal and Vincent forgive me my childhood sins. They understand. They know.

Of course, there are those who will tell you that Music is also my heroin—the drug that shields me from harsh reality – and they would be correct. I turn on my computer and the first thing it asks is not which file to open but "Lacey, would you like to hear a song?" Music is the key to heaven – and it sure takes the edge off of hell.

Living in the dark, one needs to take the edge off. I hope that my legacy would do that.

There’s a song by Manu Chao called Clandestino. It’s about the illegality of marijuana but it applies. We all have our secrets. We do desperate things in order to stay alive in this world. Helpers risk a lot to give to us. We live in secret. We’re desperados. We’re the true clandestinos.

We survive because of one single act of defiance, one single act of bravery. And we live because we choose to be a part of the secret. If I hadn’t chosen to become a clandestina, I’d be dead or worse.

In the end, being a Helper of one sort or another is all I really know. It’s all I know how to do really well. Don’t get me wrong. I was good at my job; maybe even the best. But when it counts, I hope just one person looks back on my so-called life and says: "She did something when nobody else would. She was a clandestina. She Helped."

The last movie I ever saw was Children of Paradise. I didn’t understand it. I was too young and probably a lot too stupid. But looking backward from where I stand now, I want to leave the tunnels with a little piece of that:

If you dream long enough, and hope long enough, and wait long enough, home will find you – whether you want it or not. That would be my legacy.