Waxing Honorable by Emily Written in 2003 That Bill Bringham managed to convince all of Bittleton he was their second generation candle making king was disheartening to some of John Milton's fondest friends and oldest customers. Fourteen years after Milton's death, the idea that anyone could make candles the way he did remained alarming, even immoral. Some still doubt defiantly that Bill Bringham ever honestly figured out the procedure, though he held onto the claim that he had made a perfect duplicate until his final days. Agnes Jones, for one, refused to believe Bill Bringham, and she was in no way closemouthed about it. Agnes was among the group that the busybodies of the area called the "old townsies" - an arrangement ironic in itself, given the fact that these old women were themselves busybodies. Through the years, they gathered every Monday to play a game of bridge, drink whatever tonic they could get their hands on, and nibble on the newest of unimportant news. At least one woman would bring a newspaper each week, just to throw the printed advertisements and obituaries into the mix. Every now and then, the group would erupt into laughter in the late afternoon, half tipsy from alcohol and half from the pure excitement of good times. On April 12th, Agnes was the one to bring along the town crier. When she saw what had made the front page, she simply gasped. Once she had turned a sufficient shade of blue, she turned to the group and exclaimed, "That rat!" "Don't tell me," said Caroline Sturdge. "Don't even tell me, Agnes. I know that look." When Agnes stayed silent and continued to fiddle with this and that in an effort to avoid screaming, Caroline shrugged and implored of the pale woman, "Okay, tell me. Just tell me! What's gone and gotten you all worked up?" The shadows on Agnes' face slowly dissolved into a burning red. She got her fists together and marched towards the window. "That Bill Bringham, Caroline - that's who." "Oh, Agnes," said Claudia Burns. "Bringham's still driving you up a creek? I thought you'd have let him have it by now." "I've given him speeches," said Agnes, her tongue spattering anger beneath words. Caroline stood beside her. "So what's the problem, Agnes? What's he done now?" "Speeches don't mean a thing." Agnes thrust the paper at the women near her. "You see? You see what he's done now? That chowderhead seems to think he can just go out there and do it all; that he can just steal something out of a legend - a legend who would never steal. It's not right, girls. It's just not right." The problem was that only Agnes thought it wasn't right. When Claudia read about Bringham's School of Milton Candle Making, she hurried into the kitchen and showed the rest of the group. "Milton candles? Real Milton candles?" they and others said that day. Agnes heard it throughout the town. They would exclaim, "We can make Milton candles ourselves!" and praise Bill for his "extraordinary development" and his "unbeatable" enterprise. "Bringham Takes on Milton's Own Shine at His Candle Making School," read the crier. No one seemed to care that Milton had never been a brand name. He had been the original. He had been the one man in town with the power to create a Milton candle for every mantle and countertop, and he donated them as gifts to everyone he cared about and those who looked like they needed a little light. Milton seldom accepted money for a candle - only the Bradburys had been able to work out a deal, and only the Cotles had managed to donate money to his efforts without finding it on their doorstep the following day. For Christmas each year, Milton prepared his special green and red candles. He was a staple of the festivities, Santa to the candle deprived. The possibility that other people could do Milton's craft was never introduced until well after he died. Bill had been a boy at the time, intrigued by the decorations in his home and in pursuit of capital power. When O'Donnell created the town's first ever cashiered candle store, with the wax and moulds imported from Bellingtown, Bill Bringham decided that he would become the candle king. The first announcement came only fourteen or fifteen months later: "Bringham Makes Signature Milton Candle: The First without the Signature." Bill never showed proof, despite Agnes' demands, but the candles were undeniably Milton-style. They had the same soft, cream colored wax; the bottoms all featured the same design of a lonely tree, the little one that Milton had etched with his fingernail on each and every candle; they smelled of cinnamon, just like Milton's. It was in few ways short of a miracle to the town. The only difference was that Bill was not donating candles to anyone. He made a few, shopped them around for display purposes and as evidence, and then they were hidden from view. The Milton Candle Shop opened up a few weeks later, directly across the street from Agnes' house. Bill's sales improved by the day and folks began calling him Bill Milton, patting him on the back and chuckling. "But he is not Milton, and those are not Milton candles!" Agnes would shout to anyone who was willing to hear her out. "I know my Milton candles, and I used to know Milton. He was a fine man. He would've taught you if you'd asked. He would've given you a candle free, made it 'specially for you, and never even asked for new supplies. Bringham just wants his cash." She would rub her forehead and tap her feet and make fists in all her frustration. "Bringham's got no right to be selling candles he calls Milton's. It's not right." Today it was happening again. The women were giddy with joy, partly because they always were on Monday but for the primary reason that they would be able to learn to create Milton candles. Bringham had opened a school, and they would all be attending, provided that they could weasel their husbands out of a good seventeen dollars and thirty-four cents for a session. Agnes wouldn't be attending. She would form a picket line if necessary and was already forming plans to gather up as many people as she could. A boycott was in order, a letter to the paper, a thousand screams. For now, as a lady, Agnes could only suppress her rage. And she could do her part: She pushed open the window and outstretched her arm. "Anyone who wants a pure Milton candle, signed by John himself, get over to Agnes Jones' house any day this week by 5!" she yelled. "Get your vintage Milton candle for free! Get 'em while they're Milton's." Flyers were sent out later with the same messages, and posters were designed. Some of the "old townsies" arrived, and many of the busybodies. She got rid of nearly all the candles, nearly threw them into the people's arms. Some of them might have come for the price, truth be told, but Agnes knew that she was doing something right. Agnes didn't care much about the people, either. She was glad to give them what they wanted, of course, and proud to distribute her share, to do what Milton would have done, but for April 12th her greatest concern was right outside. She ran into the closet shortly after she had made the announcement and found a nicely shaped candle, one of her oldest. She carefully wrapped it in the day's newspaper and enclosed a small note that read, "That'll be 17.34, Bill: Seventeen friends you owe me back and thirty-four I've given back to John Milton." Then she threw the package out her window and across the street and went to prepare some posters. The following week, when the "old townsies" gathered, Agnes again brought the paper. This time, however, she opened it up and chuckled a bit before muttering, "That rat," and joining the other women. The latest headline could only have been found in Bittleton: "Bringham Cancels Candle School for Two Days and Makes Plans to Relocate Shop."