He sat the script down, leaned over, and opened his briefcase on the floor. He removed his notary stamp and the two sets of documents. They were ninety pages each—one for Gearhart to sign that Tobe had to send back and the other stack was for him to leave here. He sat them on the table, sliding Gearhart’s copies off to the side. Removing the cap from his stamp, he pushed the button, and extended it. He placed it at his right hand. Then he dropped the script in the briefcase. He didn’t want to risk leaving it behind when he left.
The house was uncomfortably quiet. He couldn’t hear the sounds of nature from outside. From somewhere in the house came the ticking of a clock. Then there was a thump from upstairs, followed by some footsteps.
A door bumped.
Gearhart was talking quietly. It sounded as if he was answering a question, though Tobe couldn’t hear what had been asked.
The squeaking clomps on the stairs resonated again. It sounded like there was only one set of feet.
Who was he talking to?
When Gearhart entered the room, Tobe nearly shrieked at what he saw.
“Tobe. This is Glenda, my wife.”
What was this? A joke? There was no way Gearhart was serious. Was he putting him on?
As much as Tobe hoped so, he could tell by the proud smile on the man’s face, and the pure delight in his eyes that he was not joking. This thing he cradled in his arms was his wife.
And Tobe did recognize her.
Her face had been constructed out of clay, and from the brittle dryness of it, decades ago. There were cracks running through the foundation and one eye was missing, a hollow orifice. The other eye was a plastic ball, with a painted cornea in the middle that had probably once been blue, but had since faded to a dull gray.
Blonde hair was stapled to the forehead of the artificial head. He could see the rusted lines of the staples clamped in the hairline. The hair itself was dry and clumped, mussed in patches and stringy in others. There was a large fake nose, chipped on the tip, that Tobe swore was probably taken from a Groucho Marx glasses, nose, and moustache kit. And her lips were thick pulpy wax that looked like the same packaged brand Tobe would get in his trick-or-treat bag at Halloween. They were pulled back into a bogus grimace, revealing jagged false teeth for a mouth.
There was even less care in the craftsmanship of the body. Its skeletal arms and legs were the girth of corn stalks, and the torso was flat with two nubs for breasts. The skin looked like decaying rubber and was just as ashy-toned as the face. A flimsy nightie draped the middle of her thighs and when Gearhart lifted her into the chair across from Tobe, he was able to glance between her legs. He felt sick when he saw the tight, flaky ingress and sculpted vulva around it. A patch of dingy coiled hair that matched the color of the wig had been glued above it.
Tobe had guessed correctly that Gearhart had married one of the stars of his movies. And yes, she had starred in his first movie, but she wasn’t one of the actresses. She was a prop—a dead body prop that was discovered in the killer’s bedroom by a hapless victim.
Oh shit, oh shit. This is crazy, this is so fucking crazy.
Any moment he expected, hoped, Gearhart would start laughing and jab a finger in his ribs, saying he’d gotten him. Then he’d bring his real wife into the room and introduce her instead.
As much as Tobe would have appreciated that, he knew it wasn’t going to happen.
This was Gearhart’s wife.
“Glenda, this is Tobe. He’s the one I was telling you about.” He lifted her arm. It popped and cracked as it shifted on its chicken-wire torso. The extended hand was a glob of painted latex. Wired fingers were exposed in patches where the foam had deteriorated.
Tobe only stared, at a loss as to what he should do. He glanced at Gearhart and saw the man’s smile slightly falter. Then he realized he was supposed to shake her hand. He reached up and was surprised to see his hand wasn’t trembling as bad as his hips and legs were. Gearhart’s smile returned in full force. Tobe took her hand in his. It felt like dried paper mache, and sticky like old bubble gum.
“Now, now, be a gentleman Tobe and kiss her hand.”
Tobe’s stomach gurgled. He felt as if at any moment he was going to vomit the beef jerky he’d eaten on the drive out here all over this mock woman’s chest. He tried to think of a hundred reasons he could tell Gearhart that he had to leave, but his mind was like a blank sheet of paper. Unable to come up with anything, he finally leaned forward and put his lips to the crackly dry flesh.
It tasted awful, like tires that would be on the bottom of a car in a junkyard. He felt acid at the back of his throat and swallowed several times, hoping to keep it there.
“Atta boy!” Smiling, Gearhart ambled around the back of Glenda’s chair to sit at the one Tobe had preselected for him. “I guess we should get started. I don’t know about you, but I’m about ready to eat.”
Tobe had completely forgotten about the sandwiches they were supposed to enjoy later. Funny how he’d been eager to share a meal with John Gearhart and now he was dreading it. What was he going to do? How was he going to be able to leave without making it obvious he didn’t want to be here?
“So what color do we use?” asked Gearhart.
“Huh?” Tobe tore his eyes away from the disgusting form of Glenda. “What?”
“I know she’s pretty…but don’t gawk at her right in front of me.” He winked, nudging at Tobe with an elbow.
Tobe was staring. He shook his head, hoping to jar the fuzz in his brain free. Then he reached into his briefcase on the floor and fetched two pens. “Blue…” His voice came out croaky so he cleared his throat and repeated himself.
“Blue?” asked Gearhart. “That’s odd.”
“They all want blue ink these days. It’s harder to counterfeit in scans and copies.”
“Ah. That makes sense.”
Tobe took a deep breath and pinched his eyes shut for a moment, then exhaled slowly. “Let’s get started.”
John Gearhart took his time reading over the documents. This aggravated Tobe even when he wasn’t trapped in a room with a synthetically made woman and a palpable whacko. He understood the borrowers needed to know what they were signing, but it amazed him they never asked the lenders any of their questions beforehand. Plus, they had three days to read over the documents and have any changes they deemed necessary made.
Tobe tried to pretend Glenda wasn’t sitting across from him, staring at him with that one, faded plastic eye.
She’s not real, he reminded himself.
It didn’t matter. In some strange way, it seemed even worse knowing that she wasn’t.
Thankfully Gearhart didn’t ask any questions about the loan, because Tobe doubted he had the voice to respond. But he read every word of the ninety-page packet. In between pages, he would stop signing long enough to tell Tobe a story about one of his films, either something from the making of it or some useless fact about its release. This would have amused Tobe, under regular circumstances.
These were hardly regular circumstances!
Tobe was stuck here. He was following the signing company’s motto and didn’t want to disappoint them. Regardless of the situation, he was being paid to stay professional and courteous, with a smile on his face and a devoted awareness at all times.
Besides, he would have felt lousy running out on the old director, especially after he’d given him the movie script. So he offered up a hefty dose of bullshit laughter at the appropriate times, nodded his head to replicate interest and concern. But whenever Gearhart smiled his amiable smile it nearly brought Tobe to tears, because he knew the truth really was that he was observing the actions of a very lonely and delusional old man.
He remembered being a kid when his grandmother passed away, and the uncomfortable visits with his grandfather afterward. His Grandpa used to be a voluble man, always telling jokes in a boomingly loud voice. But after Grandma’s death, he became a withering man in a recliner, never talking, only grunting and nodding
his head whenever spoken to—a man waiting to die. Tobe had been too young to understand then, but as an adult, it was easy to see.
Gearhart was finishing up the last page. Usually it would be time for Tobe to produce his notary log for the borrower to fill out, that way he had a record of the signing for tax purposes. He was going to skip it this time. He was ready to vamoose, though he still hadn’t thought of a way out.
Text Kaylyn, he suddenly thought, and tell her to call me and pretend there’s an emergency.
He quickly fumbled his phone out of his pocket and pulled up the dial screen. The top three names were his emergency contacts. Kaylyn was at the top. He quickly selected her name and began fingering a message.
Call me. Pretnd there s emergency. I explain lates.
He quickly read it. Even with the poor grammar, she should get the essence of it.
Send.
He looked up, finding Gearhart’s eyes locked on him. Their accusatory gleam was magnified behind the thick lenses of his glasses. There was no way he could have known what he was texting. Tobe had kept his hands below the table.
Then Tobe realized what the deal was. He would bet it was his guilty-looking face. Whenever he was trying to hide something, his bottom lip seemed to want to hide under the top one and he would suddenly forget how to blink. He purposely made himself blink a few times just to show Gearhart nothing was wrong.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
Damn.
Tobe shook his head. “Nothing. Why?”
“You look like something’s wrong.”
Here’s my chance.
“Oh, well…my wife texted me a few minutes ago saying there’s something going on with her aunt and well…she might have to leave, so I need to get home as soon as possible to be with the kids. I’m waiting on her to call.”
“Oh no!”
“Yeah.” He nodded, puckering his lip as if he was heartbroken. Kaylyn’s aunt lived in Oklahoma and was fine, so far as Tobe knew, but Gearhart didn’t need to know that. He hated lying about having sick relatives, but felt it was justifiable this once.
“Well, I’ll get started on those sandwiches. If you have to leave you can take some with you.”
Tobe collapsed back into the chair, like a balloon deflating. Gearhart had bought the lie.
“I have hoagie bread and deli-sliced ham, turkey, and even roast beef. I’m not a big fan of salami, but there is some bologna in there, if you want it. What would you like?”
It all sounded good. He could feel his hunger returning. If he didn’t accept the offer for a sandwich, not only would he hurt Gearhart’s feelings, he’d have to stop at a drive-thru or gas station on his way home. He didn’t want the heartburn later and he also didn’t want to spend the money.
So what if Gearhart’s wife had been created with chicken wire, derma wax, and latex? He could ignore it for a free meal, right? He could focus his attention on the sandwich and pretend he’d never been introduced to Glenda, right?
Nope!
Kaylyn better hurry up and call.
“A ham and turkey sandwich sounds good…” His voice moistened with acidic spittle near the end.
Gearhart smiled. “Want anything on it? I love sandwiches so I make sure I have all the elements to make them on hand. Lettuce? Tomato?”
“Yeah…that would be good. Both, please.”
“Mustard?”
Tobe nodded. “Sounds good.”
Laughing, Gearhart clapped his hands together like a mastermind whose plan had been unleashed. The loud slap made Tobe flinch.
Gearhart stood up. “I’ll get started.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No, no. Stay here and keep Glenda company. She hates being left alone for extended periods of time, just downright despises it. I’ll be a little while assembling the meat and cutting the veggies. Get acquainted.”
Tobe lost his appetite again. He wondered if he looked as pale and sickly as he felt. An image of Gearhart returning with two plates of plastic hoagies popped into his head. He wouldn’t be surprised, by this point.
Gearhart patted the back of the chair he’d been occupying. “Take my seat. She doesn’t hear quite as well as she used to.”
No, Mr. Gearhart. She doesn’t hear at all! She’s not real. She’s something put together by an FX man, a long time ago!
Standing up, Tobe felt his shirt clinging to his back and sides from the gelid sweat trickling down him. He checked his shirt to make sure there weren’t any visible sweat stains. There weren’t. It was cool in the house, but Tobe couldn’t stop sweating as if he was outside in the damp heat.
Gearhart pulled the chair out as if he was on a date. Tobe started to sit as the chair was scooted under his butt. He dropped into it, weak and famished.
“Have fun, you two.” He leaned down, his mouth close to Tobe’s ear. “Don’t you try anything funny.” There was sincere threat in his voice.
“Don’t worry,” he gulped. “I won’t…”
“I trust you.”
Gearhart squeezed Tobe’s shoulder. He left the room, and Tobe alone with Glenda. He could smell the fetid odor of mildew, mold, and old clay. The stink reminded him of his Grandma’s purse. She would keep make-up in the bag for years, way past its point of expiration, so even the gum she regularly carried around tasted like it. He looked at Glenda. Her plastic eye seemed to gaze straight through him to the wall behind him. He shivered. He had to find something to do, something to occupy his time.
Get the package ready for shipping?
That works.
Turning his back to her, he gathered up the papers, arranged them into a neat stack, and slid them into a Fed-Ex envelope bag. He sealed it. Finished, he dropped it in the case, closing the lid.
Checking his phone, he saw that Kaylyn hadn’t called or texted him back. What was taking her so long? She’d probably sat her phone on the counter and left it there. Chances were she hadn’t even noticed he’d texted.
Should he call her, tell her to call him right back?
Gearhart might hear him.
He glanced over his shoulder, saw Glenda still gaped at him with that craggy, crooked grin, and quickly got out of his chair. He needed to move around. Sitting seemed to make it worse. He stretched his taut muscles, his lower back and legs. His body felt sore, like it would after a long drive.
Tobe decided to walk around the room. Maybe if he kept moving it would help ease his tension. As he paced around the table, he stole peeks of Glenda from the corner of his eye. Her gaze seemed to never leave him, like one of those old paintings that watched you no matter where you went in the room.
As he walked to the other end of the dining table, he spotted the small writing table nestled in the corner of the room. He vaguely remembered seeing it when he’d first entered the room. Being this close, he saw that sitting on top was a photo album with white candle sticks on either side.
His curiosity carried him even closer to the table. The book was blue and string-bound. In gold, ornamental lettering on the front was Cherished Memories.
He wanted to look inside.
Checking that Gearhart wasn’t about to enter the room, and making sure Glenda wasn’t watching him, he opened the album. On the first page was a black-and-white 8 x 10 photo of Glenda in better health. She looked as if she’d just come from the make-up artist’s workshop. Her hair looked lively and as vibrant as could be expected from a cheap wig.
Tobe turned the page to another black-and-white of a much younger Gearhart. Where he was now white-haired was black curls, and his face was free of any stress lines and wrinkles. He was kneeling beside Glenda as she lay on the bed in a scene from A Georgia Battle-axe Massacre. Tobe recognized even in the still that Gearhart was being flirty with her. With a prop! And someone had documented this?
He skipped a few pages ahead. This one looked to be in a restaurant. There were others in the background, watching with proud smiles on their faces as Glenda was seated at her ow
n table with a half-eaten plate of food and an empty wine glass in front of her. The real kicker was Gearhart—down on one knee, his hands in an offering position. Resting on his palm was an opened ring case with a blocky, diamond ring snuggled inside.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered.
The proposal. And somebody had documented this as well. Tobe tried to imagine the kind of person who’d sit by and snap photographs of a man’s mental collapse instead of finding him psychological help.
He pinched a chunk of pages and turned them, landing on the big kiss at the wedding ceremony. Glenda was dressed in white with a vale draped over the back of her head like a curtain. She was standing to the left, and Gearhart was on the right, a hand on each side of her face, his thin lips pressed to her fat, waxed ones. A priest stood abreast of them, smiling, and Tobe noticed a single tear streaming from the man of God’s right eye.
Someone had actually performed a ceremony? Were there people in attendance? Did they applaud and cheer after the kiss was over?
“Jesus,” he mumbled.
He closed the book. There was a lump in his throat that he couldn’t swallow and his back felt as if he’d had acupuncture performed on him with icicles.
I’ve got to get out of here. Forget waiting on Kaylyn to call. She probably won’t even notice the text until it’s too late.
Too late? What did he really think was going to happen to him here?
A man who’d been married to a dead-body prop for more than forty years was capable of about anything. And he’d already accused Tobe of being overly cute with Glenda. What would happen if there was another allegation?
Tobe didn’t want to know.
He turned around. Glenda hadn’t moved. He’d almost expected her to be standing up, a knife clutched in her decomposing, wire-made hand. She was in the same spot, as she should be.
Crossing the room, Tobe snatched his brief case up in one quick swoop, and was standing at the doorway in less than two seconds. His breaths were arduous wheezes, and he could feel sweat on his brow, gluing his hair to his forehead. His mouth had gone dry and tasted coppery.
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