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The mailman stops in front of the gate—the looming, foreboding gate—and takes a deep breath. He looks, just one more time, at the letter in his hands. It is elegantly addressed, and the envelope is made of smooth, creamy paper. There's weight to the letter; in the mailman's professional opinion, what is inside must be a fine stationary card-stock—matte. No one uses that kind of paper for junk. He cannot toss it, like he does with the Addams' unimportant mail.
Clutching tight to the letter, he twists the ornate knob that opens the gate—or at least, attempts to twist the knob that should open the gate. Neither the gate or the knob budges. It does, however, make an ominous, rumbling sound. The mailman curses under his breath. “Come on, you've done this before,” he mutters to himself. He tries the knob again—this time, the noise it produces is a high, painful shriek. The mailman resists the urge to run, reminding himself of his sworn duty.
Before the he can make another attempt, the knob twists entirely of its own volition, and the gate creaks open. He swallows down a scream and walks towards the dilapidated mansion. The mail slot shines like a beacon—a few more steps, and he can leave this place. Alas, the slot is rusted shut, again. The mailman struggles with it and swears—if he cannot open the slot, he will have to knock on the door, and it took several weeks in an inpatient facility to cope with the things he saw inside of the house last time.
Suddenly, the aged metal budges, and opens, as if of its own volition. The letter is accepted by a very helpful, and very disembodied hand. The mailman faints.
–
“Mail,” Lurch announces, walking into the family room (where Gomez's trains are speeding towards an explosion) letter in hand and mailman slung over his shoulder.
Gomez lowers the detonator. Pugsley stops chasing Pubert (he'd wanted to hunt his younger brother with a spear, but Morticia had insisted on a flail). Fester spits out the glowing bulb in his mouth, and says, “Oh, goody!”
“And Mr. Collins, has dropped by, too!” Morticia says, setting down her teacup of witch's brew on the claw-footed coffee table, and rising to her feet. “Lovely! Do deposit our guest on the fainting couch in the upstairs dungeon, Lurch.”
Lurch grunts an affirmative and carries the mailman up the stairs. Thing scuttles over to Morticia with the letter.
Grandmama gives an approving nod. “That's nice. Mailmen are so impersonal these days.”
“What does the letter say, Mother?” Pugsley asks, swinging the flail in his brother's direction. Pubert dodges easily—Wednesday's much better with the flail.
"Oh yes, the letter.” Morticia slices open the envelope with a razor-sharp, red nail. “To the parents or guardians of Wednesday Addams...' she reads. "It's a notice. From Wednesday's school."
"Oh! What is it this time?" Pubert asks, coal-black eyes eager.
Fester grins with his usual manic cheer. "Yeah, is she expelled again?"
"It would be the thirteenth time," Grandmama says, "a lucky number!"
"Unless you count Wellburn Academy," Gomez says. "They're the ones who paid us off to have Wednesday enroll with their rivals."
"Our Wednesday, such an entrepreneurial spirit. Just like her father," Morticia says, lips curled up in a wry, painted smile.
Gomez gives her a heated look, which she returns. They stare at one another, the rest of the family temporarily forgotten. The letter drops to the ground.
"The letter!" Fester shrieks. "Finish the letter."
"Ah yes," Morticia says. "Later, mon chère."
"Tish! That's French!" Gomez says, and begins kissing his way up her arm, heedless of the fact that she is bending to retrieve the letter. It is a difficult thing, bending over in a hobble skirt, made no easier by the ministrations of a doting husband. But beauty, like all good things, is forged from pain and frustration (the beauty is its own reward—those are just the added bonuses). Thing skitters over to offer his assistance.
By the time Morticia has unfolded the letter (one-handed), Gomez has kissed his way up to her shoulder, and has begun his journey down the other arm. She switches the letter to her other hand. “To the parents or guardians of Wednesday Addams, you and your family are cordially invited to attend the class of 2013 graduation ceremony, on June the 13th. What a lovely date!”
“Wednesday's graduating?” Gomez asks, relinquishing his hold on Morticia's wrist. “Pugsley, is this true?”
Pugsley shrugs. “We don't go to the same school, remember?”
“That's true,” Morticia says, mouth curved into a proud half-smile, “they forbade it.”
Gomez grins. “I remember that meeting! They said that it was unfair to the other schools have two such talents in arson at the same place.”
Grandmama shakes her head. “Schools these days. No ambition. How can they expect to win arson competitions with an attitude like that?”
“You call those two talents at arson?” Fester says. “You should have seen me and Gomez at their age. Now Pubert, he's got potential.”
As if to illustrate the point, a fireball bursts from...somewhere in Pubert's vicinity. Despite consultations with a number of witches, sorcerers, practitioners of voodoo, and one very kind shaman, the origin of the fireballs has remained a mystery for all five years of Pubert's life thus far. The consultations have, however, resulted in the formation of a cult that worships Pubert as the second coming of the devil—the second youngest Addams to achieve such an honor.
“Uncle Fester!” Morticia says. “I am ashamed that you would compare the children to one another like that. Pubert is an incredible fire-starter; Pugsley makes the most marvelous explosives; and Wednesday wields weapons and devices of pain like she was born to it. It's important to appreciate them all for their own talents.”
Fester looks sufficiently chastened, and Gomez's eyes glow with renewed fervor. “Such talent in our family, and such wisdom, and beauty...” He kisses Morticia's hand.
“I'm not done with you yet, Pugsley,” Morticia says, ignoring Gomez (though his veneration, as always, makes her smile). “Just because you and your sister no longer go to the same school, doesn't mean Wednesday doesn't tell you things. Everything, in fact.” The stern tone of her voice leaves no room for argument.
Pugsley hangs his head. “She'll kill me if I tell.”
“Son!” Gomez says, laughing, “she's been trying for years.”
“It's a sign of a healthy sibling relationship,” Fester chimes in.
Pugsley sighs. “The letter's right. Wednesday's graduating—she didn't want you to know.”
“That's right,” Wednesday says, coming down the stairs, tight braids hanging down her back and one of the ancestral daggers shining in her hand. “I didn't.”
In the upstairs torture room, the mailman screams.
–
“But Wednesday, my dear,” Gomez says, “why wouldn't you tell us about something like that?”
Most of the family has been cleared from the room, only parents and daughter remain. “We're your parents, Wednesday. We want to celebrate all of your accomplishments,” Morticia says.
“Like graduation, and human vivisection, and being declared a psychopath by three different psychiatrists by the age of thirteen,” Gomez says.
Morticia's red lips curl into a proud smile. “Black widow cultivation, poisoning, stabbing.”
The list goes on for quite some time.
“It's just a stupid ceremony,” Wednesday says, scowling (even more than usual).
“A stupid ceremony celebrating you, young lady,” Gomez says.
Wednesday glowers for a while, silent, but between the two of them, Gomez and Morticia have decades of practice making people talk, and she is only seventeen. “Fine. It's not just a stupid ceremony. It's a stupid, awful ceremony. They make us practice. We walk, in straight lines, in the sun, wearing navy robes with golden trim. Navy, mother.”
“Not navy,” Morticia says, aghast. Were it possible for someone of her complexion to pale further, she would be doing it.
“They read our names, and hand us scrolls of paper. We shake hands with the principal, and then it's over,” Wednesday says. “That's why I didn't tell you.”
“No traditional bloodletting?” Gomez asks.
Morticia says, “And how are dead ancestors supposed to take part, if you don't play 'wake the dead,' and display their bones? I am shocked by the lack of respect for family.”
“And how are the kids supposed to become adults without a proper rite of passage—preferably one involving fire?”
Wednesday shakes her head. “Nothing.”
“Something must be done!” Gomez shouts, shaking his fist at the air.
“Yes,” Morticia says, “I'll call the principal. Schedule a meeting.”
–
The meeting does not go well. There will be no bloodletting, ancestral skeletons, or rites by fire of passage—the principal is very firm on the matter. She is equally firm on the subject of bats, spiders, and sacrificing one lucky student to demonic forces. So firm, in fact, that the family will be escorted off the premises by a specially-hired security if they attempt to bring any such things themselves.
“Tradition, Mr. and Mrs. Addams,” she says. “Tradition.”
–
“Tradition!” Gomez shouts, once again shaking his fist at the skies. “Tradition, robbing children of a joyful celebration of their accomplishments. It's a travesty!”
“I'll make a voodoo doll of that principal,” Grandmama offers.
Morticia shakes her head. “It won't help. The security force is already hired.”
“Please, Morticia?” Fester says. “It'll make us all feel better.”
“Yes, Mother, please,” Wednesday says.
Morticia smiles. “Well alright. But no fire, and make sure everyone gets a turn with the doll. No hogging it like last time, Fester.”
–
“What will we do, mon chère?” Morticia asks, lying awake besides Gomez in their large, wrought-iron bed.
“Well, I was thinking you could tie me to the St. Andrew's Cross tonight, unless you'd rather I tie you instead.” It comes out a bit garbled around the pear of anguish in his mouth. “Tish! That's French!”
“I meant about Wednesday's graduation, though the cross is an excellent idea...”
“Well, I bet we could fight off the security team, at least release some bats,” Gomez says.
Morticia shakes her head. “That won't do. We simply can't steal attention from Wednesday like that on her special day.
“I know!” Gomez says. “We'll throw her a party.”
“A party,” Morticia says, “that'll be just the thing.”
“Now, about the cross...”
“Not now, Gomez—not when there's so much to do,” Morticia says. “And so little time.”
–
There is a great deal that must be done—work for the whole family. Morticia puts Pugsley and Pubert to work catching bats. Grandmama holes up in the kitchen, working on the refreshments. Thing, who's got the loveliest penmanship, writes the invitations (though Morticia is the one who makes the list). Fester and Lurch are in charge of decorations, and Gomez will provide the soundtrack.
Wednesday, who insists on helping despite her family's protests, is sent out to catch spiders.
“Yes,” Morticia says to Thing, flipping through her little black book—all of her books are black, but this is the one with addresses—looking up the institution in which the Amor twins are currently being housed, “I think we may just pull this off.”
Somewhere in the house, the mailman screams.
“Gomez, my love, do make sure some of that lovely screaming is heard at the party. It adds such a cozy, intimate touch.”
–
The graduation itself is just as horrid as predicted. The sun is bright, and no one seems to appreciate a good parasol anymore—especially not a row full of people holding them.
The one bright spot is the principal.
“I've never seen her look so lovely!” Gomez says. “All those casts suit her so well. Fester, old chap, if you and Dementia ever break up, I know just who you should call.”
“Well that's just rude, Gomez. Dementia and I are engaged.” They have been engaged for the last four years. Fester's prior foray into holy matrimony has left him a bit cautious.
“No? How about you, Lurch? Or you, Grandmama—it's never too late for love!”
Lurch groans in the negative, and Grandmama shakes her head. “Her hair's just not dark enough.”
Gomez shrugs. “More's the pity.”
–
“This is all for me,” Wednesday says, in her usual monotone, but a mother knows her child, and that's Wednesday's most gleeful monotone. They prevented her from seeing most of the house prior to the party and it is quite the sight, especially now, crowded with guests.
Morticia strokes her daughter's dark hair, undone for the occasion. “Of course. Now go greet your guests. They've probably brought gifts.”
“Cousin It, Margaret, What,” Wednesday says, with a murderous glare, “I want my gifts, now.”
Morticia wipes at her eyes with a black handkerchief. “She's grown into such a poised young woman, hasn't she, mon chère?”
“Tish! That's French!” Gomez says—but he adds, “I'm so proud of our Wednesday,” even as he's kissing his way up Morticia's arm.
–
The mailman, who has finally found his way downstairs, runs through the party screaming, tearing at his clothes and hair.
Flora and Fauna emerge from the corner, where they've been glaring daggers at Dementia all night. “Who is that man, Morticia?” Flora asks.
“No! Tell me!” Fauna demands.
Morticia smiles. “Our mailman, Mr. Collins. He is charming, isn't he?”
“Do introduce me,” Fauna says, “I'd like to recommend him my therapist. She does excellent work.”
“No, I'm going to recommend him my therapist!” Flora shouts.
Morticia watches them argue for a few moments, before going to find Wednesday. “Isn't it lovely to celebrate with friends?” she asks. Morticia signals to Lurch, who sits down at the piano. “Come, Wednesday, it's time for you to be honored with a family dance.
–
When it's all over, and the guests are all gone back to home and asylum, Morticia and Gomez sit in the cemetery, alone. Morticia looks up at the stars. “What an evening! All the Addams ghosts were very pleased. Great Aunt Calpurnia was especially proud—she and Wednesday do so favor each other.”
“You always did know how to throw a party, Tish,” Gomez says, puffing on his cigar.
Morticia smiles. “We'll be throwing one for Pugsley in just a year.”
“It's lucky we get to do this two more times,” Gomez says.
"You know," Morticia says, “It can be more, if we try now. I've been consulting with the spirits, and they think the world needs another Addams."
Gomez grins. "The world always needs another Addams! And we have gotten very good at hiring nannies."
"I'm glad we're all in agreement, darling. Now, about that St. Andrew's cross...” Morticia says, mouth curling up at the edges. "...Mon chère."