Peter Bell wanted to scream!

The Bell house, the mansion that is, was filled with strangers.

It was nine o'clock. For the past six hours, Peter had somehow managed to endure several dozen introductions, an unpleasant outdoor banquet, and a going-to-war speech that he didn't want to give.

The whole production seemed so terribly false. Most of the folks in the community had stopped by. They milled about, chatting about cars, money, expensive clothes, and vacations in the Hamptons.

In the living room, guests swooned over Van Gogh's "The Starry Night" framed in gold over the colossal marble fireplace. They admired the one-thousand crystal chandelier. And they marveled at the handcrafted sofa imported from Paris.

And because the living room couldn't hold two hundred and fifty people, guests either drifted into the lavish Edwardian kitchen or back out to the two-acre backyard.

Throughout the evening, Peter heard relatives telling his parents how they'd raised such a brave son. But these people didn't really know him. And he didn't feel all that brave.

Now in his bedroom, Peter Bell released a deep sigh, looking himself over in the mirror. He needed to get away from all those people. Even if it would only be for a few minutes.

He certainly didn't feel like himself in this outfit that his mother had picked out for him. He had never been a suit-and-tie kind of person. He much preferred loose-fitting knickers and one of his old paint-stained shirts. He loved to paint even more than he loved to draw. Those activities weren't pleasant to do in formal attire.

Peter placed his thumb and forefinger around the knot that had taken him so long to tie and gave it a push upwards. Then he tugged the hem of his suit jacket and gave his entire ensemble a smoothing over before picking free a couple of stray threads from the cuff of his sleeve.

Peter heard his mother calling for him from down the hallway.

"Peter, where are you?"

He switched off the electric lamp on his bedside dresser and pressed his back to the wall next to the mirror. Taking in a huge breath, he held it.

The doorknob rattled as it turned. The door squeaked opened into the room, actually serving as a barrier. "Peter? Are you in there?"

Peter looked to the door. What if she came in? What would he tell her? How long could he hold his breath? The door squeaked open a little more. His pulse thumped so loud in his ear, he thought she might be able to hear it.

And then the door snapped shut.

Peter inhaled a lungful of air. He took a few deep breaths, and his nerves started to settle.

His mother loved parties and she had never been able to understand her son's introverted nature. She had planned this party for him, thinking that he would enjoy it. He just didn't get it. He knew she was trying to do something nice for him. She was so outgoing. He supposed being the owner of the Hester Gazette, she had to be. He knew that a party like this was exactly what she would want if she was the one going away for an undetermined amount of time. He tried to keep this in mind as he struggled with the frustration he was currently feeling.

But all he wanted to do was sit by himself with his thoughts. He had so many concerns about leaving for war tumbling around in his head. But he couldn't do that. Instead he had to go and make an appearance at this party.

Oh well. Whether he wanted this party or not, it was an ordeal that he would have to push through. He supposed he ought to get used to pushing through tough situations. After all, he would be overseas soon. Every day would be a struggle just to stay alive. Every day he would have to force himself to keep going. The discomfort of this party would be nothing compared to the anguish that he would have to endure in the trenches in the months ahead.

Peter made his way downstairs and wandered into the living room. It was packed with distant relatives and friends of his parents. Mostly people he didn't know.

"The man of the hour! There he is!"

"How you doin' there, soldier?"

"We're proud of you, Peter!"

Peter nodded, giving a tight smile and short waves. Several of his father's business associates looked over with exuberant smiles and greetings. Family members toasted him, raising their wine flutes and smoky cigars. He felt odd receiving so much attention. It was baffling the way people had begun to look at him so differently. Now that he had joined the Army, they showered him with a newfound respect and appreciation. But it was only because of his enlistment.

Peter felt a hand clamp down on his shoulder. He followed the dark-suited arm to see his father standing beside him.

"Peter! How are you doing, son?"

Peter turned to face his father, giving another tense smile that he was sure conveyed his discomfort. "I'm doing well. It looks like we've got a nice turn out here."

"Yes, your mother has really outdone herself organizing this party," Frank said.

Peter nodded. "She sure has." A hint of sarcasm in his voice.

Frank's brows shot up at that. Then resignation set into his expression. "Oh! You need to say hello to your Aunt Bessie. I don't think you've seen her in three years. It seems like the only times we see her are at funerals."

"Or at going-to-war parties?" Peter gave a small smirk.

Frank flashed a disapproving look.

Peter sighed. "Right. I'll try to find her then. I'll just keep my eyes peeled for fur and ostentatious jewelry."

Frank's eyes narrowed. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

"Come on, Father. You know what it means. Aunt Bessie wastes so much money dressing the way she does."

"And why do you care how a woman dresses?" Frank said. "That's not your place to have an opinion. What else should she do with her money?"

"I don't know ... help people? Honestly, that's what we should all be doing. Even this party is such a waste. Half of the food that mother bought will go uneaten. It always does. Every big summer barbeque and company picnic that she plans, she buys twice as much as we need. Instead of buying all that extra food, only to have it rotting in the trash, we could donate that money to help Hester's poor."

"Help the poor?" Frank said, his voice raised. "Where is any of this coming from?"

"Father, did you know that most of the city's poor population is colored?"

"That's their own choice," Frank said. "They have every chance to climb out of poverty if they want to."

"That's not true at all!" Peter said. "Colored folks aren't compensated fairly for their services."

"What are you talking about? Blacks are paid for their work, aren't they?"

Peter lifted one brow. "Do you pay your colored workers the same as your white employees?"

"Hey!" Frank's face reddened. He took Peter by the arm and steered him down the hallway, away from the crowd of party guests in the living room. At the end of the hall, Frank turned to Peter, jutting his finger into Peter's face with every word spoken. "Don't you interrogate me on my work practices!" Frank paused before continuing in a calmer tone. "Those Negroes are lucky to have jobs. Not all mill owners go around hiring blacks. Now you're saying they ought to be making the same wages as our white workers!"

"Why not?" Peter asked, incredulously. "If they're doing the same work, why shouldn't they get the same pay?"

"Well, because ..." Frank's voice trailed off.

"And I'm supposed to go off to fight for freedom?" Peter said. "When we don't even have freedom for everyone here in America."

"Blacks are free," Frank said. "Abraham Lincoln. Emancipation Proclamation of 1863."

"How are they free if they have less rights than whites?" Peter said. "They aren't free to make the same wages, so they aren't free to ever achieve the same standards as whites."

Frank shook his head. "That's how the world works."

"Well maybe the world shouldn't work that way."

For several seconds, Frank remained quiet, a quiver in his jaw. "Why don't you find your Aunt Bessie?"

Peter sighed. He walked away down the hallway, heart hammering. Every time they'd had this conversation, it ended up the same way. Peter wanted his father to respect his ideals. But more than anything, he wanted his father to be proud of him.

And his father would be proud of him ... the soldier.

That was the plan.

At least, that was the reason he had signed up for this war.

Author's Note

I'm keeping this author's note simple with just one question:

Is anyone out there an introvert?

And I do NOT mean that in a negative way. Some of the brightest minds in the history of humanity have belonged to people who are introverts. How about Albert Einstein, Rosa Parks, and Steven Spielberg?

If you are an introvert, don't think of that as necessarily a bad thing. It might just be your super power. Let it shine!

Thanks all!

Tom