Hell's Half Acre

by Will Christopher Baer

  Because one day I will cut off your arms and legs.

  The picture abruptly goes to snow, then blue.

  Beside me, the physically present Miller sighs as if bored. I look around and see that all of the screens have gone blue. Miller flicks the televisions off one by one. He moves over to the bar, stopping to whisper something to the big boa constrictor. Then he chuckles, as if the snake said something clever in return. I look at Jude and her face is completely blank. She could be waiting for a bus or making up a grocery list in her head. But I notice that she is flexing and unflexing her hands.

  Who shot that video? I say. And when?

  Jeremy shot it, says Jude.

  When? I say.

  Miller pours whiskey into a glass. Anyone want a drink?

  When? I say. Your hair is much longer now.

  I think we should go see the kid, says Jude. Before I change my mind.

  Excellent idea, says Miller.

  Jude turns and walks out of the room.

  I stand there a minute like a dummy, staring at the blank television.

  Miller raises his glass in my direction. Cheers, he says.

  twenty-four.

  THIS PLACE IS A LABYRINTH. And it seems to me that most of the people who went into the labyrinth were killed by the Minotaur. I mention as much to Jude and she grunts at me. Jude doesn’t want to talk, it seems. She is stomping along in a mild fury and I reckon she wants to inflict some physical harm on somebody or something. I’m curious as hell about that video but tell myself to save it for later.

  She leads me through a series of forgotten, unfurnished rooms and narrow passageways. The house is much larger than I imagined and I am forming the notion that it simply expands whenever necessary, like a house in a cartoon. I follow her along a hall that I have not been down before. Bare wood floors, unlit. The smell of dust. I have a feeling this part of the house is never used, possibly haunted. I follow her around a corner and into a library. Thousands of books, from floor to ceiling. Persian rugs, faded with age. Bright splashes of the sun from skylights above. I take a deep breath and release it slowly.

  The room is awesome, the kind of room you whisper in whether you want to or not.

  Jude doesn’t blink, of course. She acts like she owns the place, and I have a bright strange vision of her when she was nineteen, sailing through here on a skateboard.

  What are you staring at? she says softly.

  I love her briefly, for whispering.

  Don’t, she says. Don’t stare at me.

  There is something wrong with her. The girl on the skateboard disappears and now I am looking at the woman who made a very creepy video with Miller, weeks or even months ago and never mentioned it and now her voice sounds almost fragile, torn. Her face is still a mask but slipping at the edges.

  Do you want to talk about that video?

  Jude folds both arms across her chest. What do you think?

  I think your voice sounds strange.

  And how does it sound strange, exactly?

  Torn, I say.

  Don’t fuck with me, she says.

  I take a step toward her and Jude does something I never expected. She takes a step backward, into a box of sunlight so bright she appears to glow. She stands very still and for a moment I think she is vibrating, humming. And then she abruptly sits down on the floor, as if standing before me was becoming a nasty chore and she needed to rest or die.

  What’s wrong with you? I say.

  Nothing. I don’t want to talk about it.

  Jude moves away from the sun to slouch against a wall of books. I sit down beside her and we share a cigarette. I won’t ask her any more questions, not now. After a few minutes of silence, she brings herself to lay her head briefly on my shoulder, but that is all the comforting she will allow.

  Then she stands up.

  Do you want to see the kid or not?

  Jude removes a copy of Treasure Island from the fifth shelf. The sound of gears and hinges groaning and then a wall of books on the other side of the room swings open to reveal a hidden door.

  You must be joking, I say.

  Don’t you love it, she says.

  Oh, I love it.

  It was designed by a magician named The Fantastic Marco, fifty years ago.

  Behind the secret door is a spiral staircase that disappears into the darkness below. Jude produces a small flashlight and says, I hope you’re not afraid of the dark. At the bottom of the staircase is another door. Jude takes two plastic white masks from a box on the floor and instructs me to put one on.

  I don’t want to scare the boy.

  Do you want him to memorize your face?

  The mask has two round eyeholes and a narrow gash at the mouth and I’ve seen this mask before, at the movies.

  Jason? I say.

  Michael, she says. I wanted something from the movies. I wanted something simple but menacing.

  Of course.

  Are you ready? she says.

  Yeah.

  Don’t go soft on me.

  Jude unlocks the door and I push it open slowly. The room is small, with dark wood floors and walls like a little ski lodge. There is a lamp in one corner and the soft yellow light is warm, almost cozy. There is a small refrigerator in one corner, the kind you might find in a college dorm room. In the opposite corner is a toilet and sink. There is a television on, the sound turned low. And then there’s the boy. He’s silent, tiny. He’s lying curled on his side on a narrow futon, his back to us. He is not bound or gagged and he is not blindfolded. Jude and I stand in the doorway and he doesn’t notice us at first. He is watching Tom & Jerry. The boy is transfixed, numb. He holds the remote control in his left hand. His face is dirty and his hair needs to be brushed. I am glad to see that Jude has provided him with the Cartoon Network and a Gameboy to play with and two pillows and a puffy comforter and even a fat stuffed bear for the bed but even so I feel sick to my stomach.

  Hey, little man.

  At the sound of my voice the boy scrambles into the corner near the toilet. Dark feral brown eyes, so dark it’s like he has no pupils. Or maybe his eyes are completely dilated with fear.

  It’s okay, I say.

  He shakes his head violently. His whole body is shaking. I take my mask off and drop it to the floor. Jude makes a noise in her throat and I have a feeling she is not amused. I glance up at the ceiling and find the video camera in the corner above the television. Miller is in the Lizard Room, watching us. I can feel his eyes on me. I stare at the camera with pure sweet hatred and slowly mouth the words fuck you.

  I turn to Jude. I want to be alone with him, I say.

  She stares at me, disgusted. But then she shrugs and walks out.

  I sit down on the edge of the futon and pick up the stuffed bear. The boy still crouches by the toilet.

  My name is Phineas.

  The boy peers at me. I will never hear the end of it from Jude but I tell him my real name. I look at the television and see that Tom has a giant, swollen red paw. He’s hopping around like a maniac and Jerry is laughing at him, hammer in hand. The boy follows my eyes. He stares hard at Tom & Jerry for a minute, then back at me. I wish he would laugh. I want to ask him his name but I reckon it’s best not to push him. We watch Tom & Jerry for ten minutes or so, until it gives way to Dexter’s Laboratory. I’m not familiar with Dexter but I notice the kid’s eyes light up. During a commercial I go over to the little fridge and check out the contents. It seems to me that the boy is more likely to freak out if I stand up, so I crawl over to the fridge on my hands and knees. Jude wants people to believe that her heart is made of stone but she’s not so bad. The refrigerator is stocked with juice boxes and pudding packs and pickles and individually wrapped American cheese and grapes and yogurt and baby carrots and animal crackers and a big plastic jug of chocolate milk. On top of the fridge is a green plastic cup, brown at the bottom with the dregs of chocolate milk.

  Whoa. It’s the mother lode in here.

  T
he kid just looks at me. I might be babbling in Greek, as far as the kid is concerned. But I notice he is no longer crouched by the toilet. He has moved maybe two or three feet closer to the futon.

  Do you want some more of this chocolate milk?

  He stares at me.

  I’m gonna have a juice box, I say. You want one?

  The kid doesn’t answer. He manages to shake his head and nod at the same time. I get out two juice boxes anyway, and the bowl of grapes. I crawl back to the futon and I’m near enough to touch him. He doesn’t move away, which seems like a good sign. We watch Dexter for a while. I drink my juice box, slurping at the straw and making appreciative noises now and then. I leave the extra juice box on the floor by my foot. I eat a few grapes and the boy looks at me a few times, like he wants a grape but doesn’t want to ask for one.

  How old are you? he says.

  I’m thirty-nine.

  The kid nods, as if calculating.

  How old are you?

  Five and a half, he says.

  Damn good, I say. Damn good age to be.

  That’s a bad word, he says.

  You’re right. It is a bad word.

  My dad says that word when he’s mad. Are you mad?

  This just about breaks me.

  No, I say. I’m not mad.

  He looks at me. Can I have my juice box now?

  Yeah, I say. Of course.

  I pick up the juice box and hold it out to him. He comes over and takes it from me and I offer to help him with the straw but he says he knows how to do it. The boy has a serious little face and he frowns, working on the straw. But he gets it in the hole eventually and sighs, pleased with himself. I imagine the juice tastes pretty good. He sits down on the futon, a couple feet away from me.

  Do you want a grape? I say.

  Yes, he says. Yes…please.

  What about some of those animal crackers?

  The boy shrugs one shoulder. Okay.

  I get out the animal crackers and we sit there munching them a while. Pretty soon, Dexter gets himself into some kind of terrible jam with a time machine that keeps coughing smoke and sending Dexter sideways in time, and then a noisy girl appears, who keeps yelling at him. The boy explains that this is Dexter’s sister, Deedee.

  Oh, I say.

  Do you like this show? he says.

  Yeah. It’s good, I say.

  It’s pretty good, he says. Johnny Bravo is my favorite, though.

  When does that come on?

  It’s coming up next, he says.

  What’s your name? I say.

  Sam, he says. My whole name is Samwise. Samwise Cody.

  Samwise, I say. Your mom and dad must have liked The Lord of the Rings.

  The boy’s face lights up. Yeah, he says. Except I don’t have a mom. But my dad reads me that book, sometimes. When I go to bed. How did you know?

  I read that book when I was a boy. It was one of my favorites.

  He nods. It’s my favorite, too.

  Your dad’s name is MacDonald Cody? I say.

  Yeah, he says. Most people call him Mac.

  I nod. Your dad seems like a good guy.

  The boy gazes at me, hopeful. Are you a friend of my Dad’s?

  No. I’ve never met him. But I’ve seen him on TV.

  The boy nods sagely, and I figure he’s used to hearing people say that. After all, his father is a senator from California. He plays one on TV.

  I sit with Sam for another half hour or so. We watch Johnny Bravo together, and he laughs a time or two. Or he laughs when I laugh, that is. The kid has a sweet voice, soft and a little hoarse. I ask him what kind of toys he likes to play with because I notice there are no toys in the room except for the stuffed bear. He says he likes action figures, mostly. I tell him I’ll look into getting him some, and then I say it’s time for me to go. He looks so heartbroken that I am tempted to just sleep down here with him, but I have a feeling that Jude wouldn’t stand for that. But I promise him I will be back soon. I tell him to stay up as late as he wants and to watch cartoons until he’s sick.

  The boy looks concerned. Do cartoons make you sick? he says.

  No, I say. They never made me sick.

  Jude is waiting for me in the library. She sits high atop one of the shelves, still reading about Jim Hawkins. When I come through the secret door she drops to the floor like a cat.

  What is wrong with you? she says.

  What do you mean?

  You let the kid see your fucking face. And then you hang out with him for over an hour. What were you doing down there?

  I shrug. We were watching cartoons and eating animal crackers.

  Motherfucker. You were bonding with him.

  He’s five, Jude.

  Jude begins to pace back and forth.

  He’s five, I say. Five.

  I know how fucking old he is.

  The kid is scared, I say.

  I suppose you told him your name, as well.

  I shrug. He broke me down.

  I’m so glad you were thinking straight.

  That’s funny, I say. The only thing worse than a sociopath is a funny sociopath.

  Fuck you, Phineas.

  And how much do you suppose the kid is worth? I say.

  Jude stops, her eyes narrow. A million, easy. Maybe five.

  His father is the senator, MacDonald Cody.

  Jude shrugs. How did you figure that out?

  I’ve seen the kid before.

  Where?

  One of Miller’s creepy video tapes.

  Jude nods. He does enjoy the home video.

  What the fuck is going on between you and him? I say.

  I told you. I don’t want to talk about Miller.

  What makes you think Cody has five million lying around?

  He’s a politician. Fat cats pay a thousand dollars a head to have dinner with him. He’s got more dough in his war chest than your average third world country.

  I light a cigarette.

  Okay, I say. Here’s the way I see it. If I try to fuck this up and return the kid to his family before we collect the ransom, you will…what? You’ll kill me?

  Jude shrugs. Maybe.

  That’s nice.

  Nothing about this is nice, she says.

  I shake my head. No shit. Have you read Miller’s script?

  No, she says. Not really.

  Molly has. She read the first draft, I say.

  So what? Jude says.

  So, she says the kid dies in the second act. He dies, Jude.

  He’s not going to die.

  Then he might as well be comfortable, I say.

  How comfortable?

  Cozy, I say. I’m going to hit Toys-R-Us, get him some action figures to play with. I’m going to make sure he eats once in a while and I’m going to hang out with him in the afternoons, when we’re not shooting this goddamn film.

  That sounds like an unhealthy level of attachment, Jude says.

  Why don’t you come with me? I’ll buy you something pretty and pink.

  Jude smiles, a glimmer of affection in her eyes.

  It might be fun, I say.

  Miller owns us, baby. Best not to aggravate him.

  I grab her hands. Let’s just kill the crazy fucker and get lost.

  Jude pulls away, cold. It’s not half that easy.

  Why not?

  Jude takes the cigarette from me and takes a fierce puff. She crosses her arms, backs away from me, her face so miserable I don’t recognize her.

  Because, she says. I’m kind of married to him.

  Bullshit. That’s not even funny.

  I’m not kidding, she says.

  Jude and I sit in silence in the library for almost five minutes. A long time to go flatline with a person who’s got your heart in their fist. Miller’s library is plush as hell, and I could think of worse places to torture myself. There’s a nicely stocked liquor cabinet along one wall, for instance. I pour myself a glass of gin, retreat into a corner and
crawl into a leather armchair and smoke one cigarette, then another. Jude’s face is very pale. She drifts around the library a minute and I think she’s looking for something to hit, really. I shake my head. She is so pretty it’s stupid. She climbs the ladder and dives back into Treasure Island. One long leg dangling, a curved blade. I watch her turn the pages. Her hands are amazing, I think. Very strong, and elegant as twin birds of prey. A stray lock of hair keeps falling down over her eyes and she brushes it back with a long finger. I stand up and Jude snaps the book shut.

  Explain this to me, I say. When, for instance?

  Nine years ago, says Jude. After I left the Army. I met him at a casino in Morocco. He was…well, you’ve seen him. He was powerful, mysterious, he was rich as God. He was the most arrogant man I’d ever met. And he had…certain appetites that appealed to me.

  Fucking hell, I say. What are you doing to me?

  Back off, she says. You were married once, too. Your wife died under mysterious circumstances and have I ever fucked with you about that?

  This shuts me up like a charm. I sip my drink.

  Anyway, says Jude. I liked the twisted shit, for a while. And then I got tired of him. I got tired of his lifestyle. Everything was protected by his money. I wanted to get outside and get dirty. I had spent my whole life training to be…what I am. I wanted to work, you know. Miller just wanted me to eat room service and go shopping and be his little psycho playmate, his windup fuck buddy. So, one night when he went to the opera with a client, I got spontaneous and disappeared myself.

  twenty-five.

  WHAT WAS AND WHAT WILL NEVER BE ARE NOTHING TO ME. My head and heart are upside down. Jude is a married woman. She’s married to John Ransom Miller. The way she explained it to me, she got bored with him. She left him but never got around to divorcing him. Why would she bother, she asked. A divorce required paperwork, and paperwork creates a trail. She had simply disappeared, erasing her identity behind her. Jude had been expensively trained by the government to become a fucking shadow in the rain. People generally did not find Jude unless she found them first, and the people she found were generally sorry.

  But it’s a small world, and six degrees of separation are like a ticking clock. She had never told me about him, and I suppose that should hurt me somehow. Maybe there’s something wrong with me but everything I feel right now can be gathered into one cupped hand. I feel the fading rush of being surprised, the stupidity of not knowing, which tastes a little like dogshit in my mouth. The most clear and present thing I feel is the residual echo of Jude’s shame and self-hatred. And I am not one to judge. I had been married before I met her too, and I had rarely spoken to her of Lucy. The only difference was that Lucy was dead.