The Collected Short Fiction, page 65
The pull was ineluctable; I released the doorframe and crossed the room in slow, tottering steps like a man wading into high tide. The universe whirled and roared. I came within kissing distance of my love and looked deep into his dull, wet eyes, gazed into the bottomless pit. His face was inert but for the eyes. Maybe that was really him waiting somewhere down there in the dark.
“Oh, honey,” I said, and stepped back and shut the door.
15
I sold the house and moved across the country. For nearly a decade, I’ve lived on a farm in Kingston, New York, with an artist who welds bed frames and puts them on display in galleries. We share the property with a couple of nanny goats, some chickens, two dogs and Daulton. I write my culture essays, although Burt makes enough neither of us needs a real job. Repairing the fences in the field, patching the shed roof and making the odd repairs around the house keep me occupied, keep me from chewing my nails. Nothing can help me as I lie awake at night, unfortunately. That’s when I do the real damage to myself. Against my better judgment I mailed the Black Guide to Professor Berman, though I cursed him for a fool during our last email exchange.
Victor’s confined to an asylum and his doctor contacts me on occasion, hoping I’ll reveal what “massive trauma” befell his patient to precipitate his catastrophic break from reality. From what I gather, Victor keeps journals—dozens of them. He’s got a yen for astronomy and physics and at least one scientist thinks he’s a savant. Dane disappeared three years after our fateful trip and hasn’t resurfaced. His credit cards and bank accounts remain untouched. The cops asked me about this, too. I really don’t know, and I don’t want to, either.
Burt raised his eyebrows when I bought the .12 gauge shotgun a few months back and parked it by my side of the bed. I told him it was for varmints and he accepted that. There are cougars and bears and coyotes lurking in the nearby forest. He hasn’t a clue that when he’s away on his infrequent art show trips, I sit in our homey kitchen by the light of a kerosene lamp with the gun on the table and watch the small door leading into the cellar. The door is bolted, not that I’m convinced it matters. It began a few weeks ago and only happens when Burt’s out of town. He’s not a part of this, thank God for small favors. The dogs used to lie at my feet and whine. Lately, the normally loyal pair won’t come into the room after dark, and I don’t blame them.
Burt’s in the city for the weekend. He’s mixing with the royalty and pining for home, has said as much in no less than a half-dozen phone messages. I sit here in the gathered gloom, with a bottle of scotch, a glass, and a loaded gun. Really, it’s pointless. I sip scotch and wait for the soft, insistent knocks against the cellar door, for Glenn to whisper that he loves me. Guilt and loneliness have worked like acid on my insides. God help me, but more and more, I’m tempted to rack the slide and eject the shells, send them spinning across the floor. I’m tempted to leave the deadbolt unlocked. Then see what happens next.
Six Six Six
First published in Occultation and Other Stories, May 2010
…Over the course of the long afternoon of thunderclaps and rain squalls they had unpacked most of the living room of the ancestral home.
He stared into a box at his feet for a long while.
She put on a Sinatra record.
The wind slackened and left in its stead a charged stillness that accentuated the remoteness of the house, the artificiality of the music.
Out of the blue he said, —Pop used to play this game with me and Karl when we were kids. He called it Something Scary. His voice was hushed like a soap actor emoting as he reveals a deep, dark secret to his love interest.
She set aside the silver and blue vase that contained some of her mother’s ashes and watched him in the mirror over the fireplace. —Uh, oh, she said.
He chuckled, still regarding the contents of the box which was labeled “misc” in bold magic marker strokes. It was not one of the boxes unloaded by the movers, rather a venerable, dusty container he’d retrieved from the attic. —Yeah, uh-oh, but not in an inappropriate touch, danger zone, bathing suit area way, or anything.
—Am I relieved?
—Maybe, maybe not, he said.
She heard a noise, a cough or a growl, off to the left in the deeper shadows, but saw nothing unusual when she glanced that direction.
The house was a source of many unexplained noises.
What if there were rats in the walls? Thank God for the cat.
Pine floorboards gleamed in the light of the lamps near the arched door that let into a drawing room, then a library full of moldering books. She’d dusted a few off and found their foreign titles illegible, spines so withered and decayed she dared not handle them lest they disintegrate.
Everything else that had defined the house as the demesne of his parents was tidily stowed away. His brother and sister, aunts and uncles, had swept through and claimed everything that wasn’t nailed down.
So, a blank slate for the happy couple.
There were several multi-paned windows along the far wall of the living room. Like the rest of the house the windows were old and quaint and to her mind, vaguely ominous; portals to a dimmer, less hospitable era.
It was well past sundown and the glass was dark as steel.
The forest across the country lane was far older than the house and it reinforced the darkness that pressed against the windows.
There were bears and deer in the woods; and coyotes and cougars and snakes.
Earlier that day she’d brushed a large black spider from its nest in the porch eave with a long-handled broom left in the pantry. The broom handle was worn smooth as glass and it bowed in the middle; its bristles were rocky nubs, blackened.
She thought about the woods and how someone or something could even now be lurking out there, spying on her, and imagined hoarse breathing, hot on her neck.
Drapes would certainly be the first order of business tomorrow.
An exterminator would soon follow.
She said, —I’m going to see what we have for dinner, and walked through a second arch into a hallway.
The hallway led her to the farm-style kitchen with low beams and dangling meat hooks that framed a long, scarred wooden table in shadow.
The table had seated farmers and patricians alike for the house’s foundation predated the arrival of her husband’s kin by a decade or more.
A gas range with double ovens squatted opposite a cold hearth.
A cast iron pot hung from a hook at the center of the hearth.
The pot was corroded with rust.
She heated a kettle of water for pasta and grabbed some shrimp from the stainless steel fridge, the only concession to modern convenience in the room.
He materialized in the doorway.
For a moment his features were occulted by the gloom. He could’ve been anyone standing there, and her skin prickled.
Then he emerged into the light and kissed her and fetched the cheese he’d bought in the township and poured the wine he’d also bought in the township.
They sat together at the table and ate pasta and drank wine while Sinatra continued to sing, his voice ethereal as it stretched across time and space and echoed through the empty rooms.
Something panted under her chair, near her ankle.
The vent shushed to life as the furnace powered on in the cellar and a cool draft swirled around her open toe sandals.
—Jesus Mary, she said, and gulped her wine.
Their black cat, Elvira, scuttled from between her ankles and bolted into the hall.
He whistled and tipped his chair back and studied the timbers above the table, the cold, iron hooks. —I know, he said. —I know. Let’s get a dog to keep her company.
—Elvira probably doesn’t want that kind of company.
—I’m thinking of you taking one of your leisurely nature strolls. The woods are full of vermin.
—The house is full of vermin.
The house didn’t have a name although it was large enough to warrant one. Four generations of his family had dwelt here. His childhood bedroom was on the third floor, sealed tight as a drum.
Gone for twenty years, he wouldn’t have returned, but his parents were suddenly dead, victims of a helicopter accident while on vacation in Colorado.
Now everything was his, whether he wanted it or not.
The will made it plain, much to the consternation of his immediate and extended family who’d thrived upon petty grievances and longstanding feuds, each secure in his or her place within the pecking order.
No more efficiency flat in the city.
The commute to the station was thirty-five minutes through somber pastoral vistas, then another hour by train to his uptown office. Meanwhile, she would work from home; she could work anywhere her computer plugged into a wall.
Yet, she disliked the place, loathed the idea of inhabiting its haunted rooms for days and weeks and months of the years to come.
And the encroaching wilderness…
Money was tight and it was for the best. Maybe there would be a tragic fire and an insurance settlement. Hope sprang eternal, indeed.
—We’ll go look at puppies at the shelter on Saturday. How’s that sound?
—Why would your father want to frighten you? she said, not wishing to discuss the ordeal of visiting a dog shelter. Animal shelters and hospitals depressed her. She couldn’t watch the scene at the pound in Lady and the Tramp for fear of bawling.
—He was a card, he said.
She poured another glass of wine, leaving the dregs.
She’d met his father twice.
Once at an Easter dinner, again at the wedding.
A lean man with a lean face and hair as pale and thin as straw. He’d kissed her hand and said charming things. She feared him instantly.
—But why screw with your head? Kinda psychotic.
—Isn’t that how fathers get their kicks? He rose and went to the cabinet and brought forth another bottle of wine she’d no idea was there. He popped the cork and filled his glass.
He didn’t return to the table, but shoved his hip against the counter and held the glass tight to the breast of his jacket.
His tie hung loose and sloppy. —Pop was a big Ingmar Bergman fan. Hour of the Wolf was his favorite. A sucker for those austere, Baltic landscapes. The cruel beauty of it all. He romanticized isolation and eccentricity. He fantasized about doing in his enemies in the name of art.
—You too are a raging Bergman fan, she said.
—And so now you see I come by it honestly. Pop raised us to be good little Yanks, but he was always a Swede, through and through, just like Grandpa. And a film lover. He met Max Von Sydow in New York at a party. Before I was born.
—Weren’t you four or five?
He frowned and ran the rim of the glass over his lip. —Was I?
—Yeah, because Karl was in first grade and the two of you were hiding out under the table with the punchbowl. You stayed up all night and everybody got drunk and nobody missed you. You’ve told it to me. If your father loved Sweden so much, why didn’t he repatriate? She’d never asked before and he’d never volunteered a rationale. His strained familial ties were well documented and not a subject to broach lightly.
He smiled a smile that wasn’t real. —What, and give up all of this? My great-great grandfather rowed us to America. You can never go home.
—Right. All this. She was sufficiently buzzed to ignore the warning in the fake smile and feel pleased in the doing.
Her husband was so insufferably unflappable, it was fun to needle him on occasion, and no better occasion than on the eve of their occupation of a rambling, patriarchal tomb he’d dragged her to, willy-nilly.
—My family is persona non grata. It is impossible for us to return, ever. He smiled again, a sharp, feral baring of his teeth. —Pop got Von Sydow’s autograph on a cocktail napkin. Locked it in his writing desk. I hunted for it the other day… He trailed off, lips pursed, eyes narrowed.
She swallowed more wine and stared with morbid fascination at her reflection as it warped in the window.
Quite odd, his use of the word hunted. Not looked or searched, but hunted. How peculiarly specific of him.
She wondered if he could sense her thoughts and had decided to play Something Scary, whatever that might be, with her. —Were you planning to sell it on Ebay, or what?
—Baby doll is drunk. How can I tell? She’s getting bitchy.
—Bitchier, you mean. I’m only half in the bag.
—No, sweet pea, I don’t intend to hock Pop’s effing keepsake. He played with his tie loop, snaring his fingers and twisting. —I was going through his stuff. Memories from when me and Karl were kids came rushing in. I haven’t thought of that party for ages. Dunno why it hit me. Being here is stirring a lot of muck, I guess. He chuckled unhappily.
He resembled his father as his father had appeared a decade ago, except his hair was thick and his eyes were kind.
Perhaps not kind tonight, tonight they were mysterious.
He acted like he’d been drinking heavily when she knew that this wasn’t the case. Her man could hold his liquor, and hers as well. —The time has come, I fear, to speak of cabbages and kings.
—You’re so cute when you’re earnest, she said.
—Don’t you fucking mock me.
She said, —All right, I’m sorry. Tell me more about your faddah.
His neck reddened, flushing as dark as the wine in his glass.
The record skipped, making a garbled, demonic wreck of Old Blue Eyes’ voice as if someone were dragging the needle back and forth across the vinyl.
Six times, then it abruptly stopped and the house was silent.
They remained very still, heads turned toward the doorway.
She felt sick, right on the edge of spontaneous diarrhea.
Finally, he set his glass on the counter and walked out of the kitchen.
His footsteps faded.
She waited, not realizing she’d held her breath until her temples throbbed.
He called from the living room, —Damned cat. What do you want to listen to?
—Something upbeat.
—Like what?
She visualized the pile of records by the record player. —I don’t know. Put on the Abba.
—Abba. I don’t see it.
—It’s there. Probably under The Village People.
He cursed. —Okay, looking. A minute later Billy Joel began to sing “Movin’ Out.” A minute after that, he reappeared and walked over to his wine and drank it all in a single steady draught, which was unlike him, he being a consummate wine snob. One didn’t gulp wine unless one was a boor. He refilled his glass. —No Abba today. The defiance in his tone sounded playful, except she knew better.
—Why do you hate Abba so much?
—Truly, I hate Abba with a pure white hot passion. So did Pop.
—Shit, isn’t that ironic. The drummer died a couple of years ago. Brunkert. He tripped into a glass door. The glass shattered and cut his neck. He wrapped a towel around his neck and went for a neighbor’s house. Died in the yard. Tragic.
—Not tragic.
—That’s cold, honeybunch.
—The drummer in the famous bands always gets offed. That’s part of the pact with the Devil. Somebody’s got to take one for the team.
—Tell it to Ringo. Down to him and Paul, unless Paul’s dead for real.
—Ringo is a special case. Best got the hook, then Satan traded up for Lennon. Exception that proves the rule.
—I’ve got nothing, she said. —Even now, in the gloaming of our lives, every day I discover a new facet of your personality.
He rolled his eyes and poured more wine. He nodded toward the ceiling. —Did you notice the door to my old bedroom is nailed shut?
—I thought it was locked.
—Uh-uh. No latch on the door. Pop nailed it shut. With spikes. Who does that?
—He was hinting that you were dead to him.
—The bastard wouldn’t let go that easily. He liked to think his claws were in deep, that me and Karl would come crawling back to him one day. He took the long view. This is something else.
—You don’t mention your sister.
—Honey bunny, I don’t mention my family, if you hadn’t noticed. Thus the confessional.
—Yeah, but you don’t mention her with a vengeance.
—Would you feel better if I did?
—She’s nice. I like her. Elvira likes her.
—When the hell was Carling at our place? His eyes bulged slightly.
—Lots of times. She came over for tea or we’d go have lunch. I did her hair. She did mine. Billy Joel sang “Stranger,” and the part about the masks made her shiver.
—She’s not as nice as you think. I don’t want her coming around here.
—What do you mean, not as nice as I think? I’m not simple. I didn’t fly off a turnip truck.
—I mean she’s good at fooling people. Better than Pop. She’s all teeth. Beware, beware!
—Does she take after your mother?
—She takes after Pop. Mother wasn’t anything like either of them. Too bad she was so beaten down when you met her. Mom used to argue with him like cats and dogs. He broke her eventually. By the time I graduated she just sat around knitting. His opinions were her opinions. Mom survived breast cancer. Too bad, really. What did Carling want, anyway?
—Company. You won’t talk to her. Karl won’t talk to her. Neither you nor Karl talk to one another. None of you talked to your parents. Carling is sad. I think she’s holding out hope there’ll be a family reunion of sorts.
—Ha! I hope she liked the funeral, because that’s the last reunion she’s gonna get for a while. Trust me when I say, don’t trust her. She’s a witch. She even collaborated with Pop when he played Something Scary. I’m convinced she helped him drive Mom over the edge. She was a daddy’s girl, all right.
—What did she do?
—What do you mean, what did she do? She’s a monster, a witch. Pulls the wings off flies, torments kittens. Worse than that.
—I did not notice these qualities. Does Karl feel the same?
