“Oh God! Oh Jesus! Oh God! Yes!”
3
The Other Man
Howard drove home in surprisingly high spirits, accompanied by an upbeat love song on the radio. Today was big. Maybe he was just trying to distract himself, but he grooved to the beat, bopping his head and occasionally snaking in his seat.
He turned off SW 11th Ave. onto SW Main St., passing the Martha Washington Hotel, which was once the Rajneesh Hotel, owned by the same cult leader who'd ordered the Book of Three to be buried out in the High Desert. In 1983, there had been a partially failed bombing at the hotel. Only two people had been hurt, one of whom was the bomber. Since then, the hotel had been converted into low-income housing.
Howard drove past Heathman Hotel, home of the Haunted Photograph, and across the Hawthorne Bridge. He passed the eccentric Kidd Toy Museum, once upon a time one of Isabel’s favorite places in Portland. How did Isabel remain a teacher after losing a child? She was incredible and stronger than he would ever be. Despite his good mood, he was suddenly exhausted. He stopped at an espresso stand and bought French roast coffee, black.
The coffee burned his tongue.
He removed the lid, using his elbows to drive through congested traffic, and placed it in the cup holder. The radio abruptly turned loud with static. He tried to adjust the dial as he turned through an intersection with one hand, and the static became an unnatural skittering. It sounded like a creature flying around the cab of his car.
In his mind’s eye, he saw the desert, the dark pit, the deadly snake, and a holy flame enveloping the bush.
A dark form crouched in the street in the path of his car! He slammed the brake. His tires screeched, and hot coffee spilled all over the front of his shirt. An elderly lady on her hands and knees picked up scattered groceries on the street, the radio once again loud with static.
“Shit!” His shirt was soaked. He had intended for the caffeine to rescue his mind from the late afternoon slump. An injection of adrenaline from almost killing someone worked too.
Cars honked behind him. He turned on his emergency lights and got out. On the corner stood the Pied Cow Coffeehouse, a Victorian mansion supposedly haunted by a ghost named Lydia. He and Isabel sometimes went there for tea. He motioned to the driver of the moving van to go. After the van passed by, he went to the old lady, who wore a black shawl that reminded him of an Italian mourner.
Yolk leaked from a carton of eggs smashed on the asphalt.
He could have killed her. “I'm so sorry.” He picked up a package of Depends.
The lady pushed at him with her tiny, wrinkled fists. “Damn you. Damn you to hell.” Too feeble to push him away, she got back on all fours to gather more groceries.
“Let me help.”
“Damn you!”
He tried again to help her, but she screamed with rage. Her muscles were weak; her voice was not.
He backed off. People were watching. Her hatred amplified his shame and made his face burn and eyes water.
She stood, still hunched because of a large hump in her back, and hobbled away, mumbling to herself. Most of her groceries were left on the ground.
She left him holding the Depends. God, he hated her! His blood boiled. Screw her for hating him for trying to help!
◆◆◆
“And you're sure it's not a hoax?” Isabel said and then added, “Where's my bra?”
Grip caught himself staring at her breasts and looked back to the tablet. “On the lampshade.” He was on the couch, searching the web for an address in a pair of Howard’s boxers because his own were still damp. “Yeah. This guy got his house for practically nothing.”
“Your email buddy has to be a troll or something.” Isabel, already in panties, reached back and hooked on her bra. “I just can’t believe a real-estate agency specializes in poltergeist activity.”
“He’s a member of the Portland Oregon Paranormal Society. I'm telling you, people believe in poltergeists. It drives the prices down. We reap the benefits. Like your school’s basement. People won’t set foot down there just because of some silly rumors. There are places like that all over town.”
She handed him his sleeveless tee, hot from the dryer yet still slightly damp.
“Shit, I don't see it,” he said.
“Howard will be here any minute. Just look at the web history.”
“Smart.”
She snatched up a condom wrapper Grip had missed.
“Here it is! Jacobi Real Estate.”
“Your pants are still in the dryer, Lover Boy.” She started up the stairs. “Get dressed before Howard gets here!”
Grip found a pencil and scribbled the address for Jacobi Real Estate on an old grocery receipt.
◆◆◆
Howard parked and got out of his car. Townhouses alternated in color in a repeating pattern of burgundy, dirty yellow, and espresso. He had lived here with Isabel for the past seven years.
He looked at his watch, still angry. A breeze chilled his wet shirt. The incident with the old lady had cost him twenty minutes. Some people were a lost cause, he told himself. The tension pained his upper back. Why did her rage get under his skin? After all, he was the one at fault. No question. He had almost run her over.
His anger seethed. He wanted to punch something.
He strode to a panel of mailboxes and pulled out a padded envelope from one of the compartments. He'd worried it had gotten lost in the mail; it should have arrived yesterday. He tore open the plastic and pulled out an S-shaped knife with a hand-carved handle, the same S-shaped knife depicted in the occult book he had found in the desert.
He walked to his townhouse with the knife hidden in his pocket. In front of him stood the same front door he saw every day, yet at that moment, he felt momentous pressure, as if God had chosen that moment to put the world on his shoulders and walk away.
Everything was normal besides that anxiety. Beneath his feet lay the same “Welcome” mat. He fumbled with his keys. He feared to open his own goddamn front door! He was trembling! He had to pull himself together.
His car waited for him. He could turn back and drive away. He had that option, but he would never forgive himself if he ran away from his responsibilities.
He swung the door open and revealed Grip in the living room. The young man was faced away, but he was obviously doing up his jeans. Roses lay on the coffee table.
“Where’s Izzi?” Howard said from the door.
Grip, still barefoot, pulled Howard inside by the belt buckle. “Chill. She’s upstairs.”
“I’ve missed you,” Howard admitted. “We don’t see each other nearly enough.”
Howard looked haggard. Coffee stained his shirt, but it was more than that. His normally controlled hair was tousled, his stubble was darker, and his eyes were sunken. His face looked gaunt. It was a sexy, rakish look, but it also gave Grip pause.
“Rough day at work?”
“I haven't been sleeping,” Howard confessed. “Did you get time off for the weekend?”
“Three whole days. No need to be nervous. It’s just a house. I got you something.” Grip pulled a hemp necklace from his pocket. He leaned forward, chest to chest with Howard, and tied it around Howard’s neck. “This Asian spiritualist chick said it warded off evil spirits. I’ve had a day of it.”
◆◆◆
Grip, unsettled by the crashing snake terrarium, abandoned Early on the street and went back inside the spiritualist shop. Evil spirits weren’t a real thing, but a protective charm couldn’t hurt. Besides, if Grip bought Isabel roses, he had to buy Howard something too.
Once in hand, the necklace seemed like a hippy trinket and embarrassingly inauthentic compared to the other Asian artifacts, but the shop owner insisted that the design originated in ancient China, anchored in a rich tradition. Hemp wove through three bone beads; one red, one blue, and one black.
“The exact meaning of the colors may have been lost thousands of years ago,” she said, “but the sacred tr
adition persists. Man will always need protection from the darkness of the past. Would you like to communicate with the Gods now?” She held the pen over the paper again, thinking he might be more open to a psychographic reading now.
“Not on your life.”
By the time Grip exited the shop, Early had gone. It seemed the necklace was already working.
◆◆◆
Howard, chest to chest with Grip in the apartment entryway, breathed in and smelled Isabel’s perfume on the younger man’s skin.
Grip leaned back. “It might come in handy. You know, with all the poltergeists and stuff.”
Howard clutched the bone beads and politely smiled.
Grip’s brow furrowed. “You hate it.”
“I collect historical cult artifacts, not mumbo jumbo.”
“She said it was legit.”
“Did she now?” Howard pulled the S-shaped knife from his cargo pocket.
Grip’s face lit up. “It came!”
“This is the kind of thing I collect. An authentic Kabbalah sacrificial knife, at least two thousand years old, probably more.”
“Can I see?”
“Supposedly Mary used it to sacrifice lambs before she gave birth to Christ. The seller had no idea.” Instead of handing the knife over to be examined, Howard held it to Grip's throat.
Grip smiled, thinking it was a joke.
“You’ve been fucking my woman,” Howard said. “I can smell her on you.”
The curved blade pressed against Grip's Adam’s apple.
They stared at each other. A smirk threatened Howard's stony expression, and he took the knife away.
Grip busted up laughing. “You dick!” He felt his neck. A damp smudge of blood was left on his fingertip as if he'd nicked himself shaving. “For a second, I thought you were actually pissed!”
◆◆◆
Upstairs, Isabel steeled herself in front of a full-length mirror. She wore charcoal grey slacks and a white blouse. The conversation downstairs was a muffled mumble. She was curious but not enough to intrude. She couldn’t be their only connection. Over the last month, Howard had been withdrawing for some reason, especially from Grip. The boys needed their bonding time without her.
A clear top coat made her lips shine. Even if time was short, the men could wait for her to look her best. Her sexy lipstick suddenly felt abnormally heavy, even whorish. What would Becky say?
Screw Becky.
The headmistress's judgmental opinions didn't belong in Isabel's head. Isabel had enough in her head already: Howard’s conservatism, Grip’s liberalism, and God’s divine mystery. Why did everything that gave her confidence also give her doubts? She had two men that adored her and a loving God she knew understood, yet at times, all that love made her feel unworthy.
Who the hell was she to have two handsome men at her beck and call?
She slipped into her basic flats, checked herself in the mirror, and saw someone a little overweight but desirable. She had been thinner during her years of depression. Now she took good care of herself, and her body had responded in kind. Maybe she wasn’t a societal ideal, but she felt healthy and rejuvenated.
Thirty-four wasn’t old, she reminded herself, not even close; the best years of her life were ahead of her. It just meant that looking her best required a bit more time and effort.
Howard often put up walls. She couldn’t take it personally. His walls always came down eventually. He just needed time with the two people he loved and everything would work itself out.
◆◆◆
Grip heard footsteps descending the stairs and turned to block Isabel's view of Howard putting the knife back into his pants. As she descended, she looked effortlessly gorgeous in her formfitting slacks and light blouse.
“Hot damn!” Grip wiped again at his neck. “Can’t we just stay in?”
“Too much?” she asked, running her hands along her hips.
“Just right.” Howard put his hand on Grip’s shoulder from behind. “The real estate office is closed on the weekends. It has to be today. We’re going to be late.”
She studied her two men; they were up to something. They had that just-eaten-a-canary look.
Grip went to put on his shoes in the living room, and her suspicious gaze heated his face with guilt. The knife and its five hundred dollar price tag were going to stay a secret; he had promised Howard he wouldn’t talk. Isabel wasn’t always supportive of Howard’s expensive hobby. Money was tight enough as it was.
“When was the last time the three of us had a weekend together?” Howard said.
“Grip's birthday.”
The sinful memory of being the center of attention for a whole night distracted Grip from his guilt. “My birthday.” He smiled.
Isabel kissed Howard, and Grip's contentment radiated through his chest. Isabel and Howard were the role models Grip never had growing up. Even if Howard never used the word, the two of them showed Grip what love actually looked like. Love was kindness and honesty and trust. (With harmless secrets about cult artifacts to demonstrate that trust.)
“You said you’d be ready when I got home,” Howard said.
She touched his broad chest. “You’re one to talk. What happened to your shirt?”
“Coffee attack.” He pulled the shirt over his head. The skin under his chest hair was still scalded red from the coffee. “Did you find it?”
Grip held up the receipt with the scribbled address. “Right here.”
“We'd have found the address sooner if Grip hadn’t fooled around so much.”
“Hey, I wasn’t the only one.”
Catching the innuendo, Howard grinned. “Sorry I missed it.”
Isabel watched her men leer at each other, Howard now without a shirt and Grip obviously aroused, and she said, “Tell me again this is a good idea. This whole thing feels—”
Howard chastised her: “There are no such things as poltergeists.”
The three of them didn’t believe in ghosts, but they did believe in each other. A home together, discounted because of supposed poltergeist activity, would be a dream come true.
4
Lillian and Ophelia
A “Jacobi Real Estate” sign stuck out of a meticulous front lawn in a suburban neighborhood. The quaint building resembled many of the other residential houses that lined the streets in this part of North Portland. Squeaking pinwheels accented handmade flower boxes. A garden gnome stared. Nothing out of place. Nothing off.
Inside, an agent in her sixties studied a clipboard. Countless manila folders towered on various surfaces in her unconventionally organized office. On her cleared-off desk was a pitcher of red punch, plastic cups, and a name plaque that read “LILLIAN JACOBI.”
“So the three of you . . .” The agent trailed off. She had the appearance of a kind, slender grandma—with a bit of senility behind the eyes.
Isabel cleared her throat. She and Grip sat holding hands with Howard standing behind them. Their threesome relationship was not something they usually advertised. Howard ran a hand through his hair, feeling awkward and self-conscious. He took a sip of punch. Grip was thankful just to be there with them.
“So . . . the three of you . . . want a house with poltergeists?”
“It’s Lillian, right?” Grip said. She eagerly nodded and leaned forward. “Actually, Lillian, the scarier the better. Hopefully more than one.”
“My heavens.”
“We can deal with rumors,” Howard explained patiently. “Just not a huge down payment. We hear dark histories can slash prices. With each suicide, each murder, prices drop. With a history bad enough, the house can even fall off the market.”
“You’re pulling my leg, right? A little practical joke on little old Lillian?”
“I can assure you,” Howard said. “We’ve done our research. Portland is one of the most haunted cities in the United States.”
“Something to do with the soil.” Grip grinned. “We want a mansion.”
“Wit
h privacy,” Isabel added.
“Are the three of you committed?”
“We probably should be,” Grip joked.
Howard inched forward, his hipbone against Grip’s right shoulder and Isabel’s left. “I know our relationship might seem unorthodox—”
“No, no,” Lillian waved the idea away with her hand. “This is Portland. Love is our salvation. It’s about time a woman had more than one husband. How many wives did Solomon have for Christ’s sake? Fifty? A hundred? No. My problem lies with the sanctity of the dead. Choosing to live with manifestations—that's Ophelia's game.”
“Ophelia?” Grip asked.
“My sister.”
“Your agency specializes in possessed houses,” Howard said, rather sternly. “Correct?”
Grip interjected, “And we don’t mean repossessed.”
“They have a quick turnover rate, it’s true, but Ophelia's got her hands on most of them, the bitch.” The real estate woman stood with effort and went to her files. “She sells these people these houses and then they find out about the problems and the next week, she sells the same house to a new family. It’s depraved. I hold to my morals while she pockets the bling.”
Grip stifled a snort.
“This city.” Lillian continued to look through her files. “Every year it gets worse. Soon there won’t be a house free of the Devil. Something must be done. Are you sure you know what you're getting into? You seem like such a lovely threesome.”
Howard stopped her from continuing. “We're not the quick turnover type. We’re not going to run because of a cold spot or some flickering lights caused by faulty wiring.”
“We’re in this for the long haul,” Isabel said.
Grip smiled with a bit of cocky arrogance. “Give us your—” Lillian abruptly left the room. “—worst. Okay, I guess she’s going to get Ophelia?”
The Forgiving Page 4