by A. P. Fuchs
He straightened himself and pulled up the thin radial antenna. Blood from the receiver wet his skin when he put his ear to it, the blood from Gerad's head having run down the inside of the parka, settling in his inner pocket in a syrupy pool.
Father Haldo pressed the send button. "Hell" ---he cleared his throat. Gerad's blood-soaked head lay tucked up against his chest, still on his knees, slumping forward a little. "Hello?"
"Hello. Who's this?" came a girl's soft voice.
Swallowing, Father Haldo didn't know what to say. Was it Gerad's wife calling? A friend? Daisy? Trixy?
Have to say something. Anything.
"I have a confession to make," he said.
* * * *
Woodchips Stirring
Daniel had bought Shelly the gerbil for two reasons. One, it was their six-month anniversary. And, secondly, he felt sorry for it. No one wanted it because of how ugly it was.
Shelly had named the gerbil Befriend because that's what she and Daniel had been before they started dating: best friends.
Befriend was small, fitting into the palm of your hand perfectly, with light tufts of beige fur around her neck, nearly hiding her tiny face. Her body, however, looked as if it had been doused in oil, its golden fur matted in clumps, a deep tan color.
Daniel had also bought Befriend a cage but, when assembling it, he accidentally broke the door. He told Shelly not to worry as he would replace it when he came by tomorrow.
It was night and Shelly was in bed. Eyes closed, the last thing she heard before falling asleep was Befriend squeaking in her cage and moving amongst the woodchips.
Shelly dreamed she was in Befriend's cage with the gerbil, wandering along the woodchips like a child in an amusement park. Befriend was nowhere to be seen.
Hiding in the woodchips, Shelly assumed.
Just then her mouth filled with the sensation of fur, her tongue rubbing against the roof of her mouth, trying to work the hair off. She gagged, then spat, and thought it was nothing. She knew she was dreaming and strange things happened in dreams.
A sharp pang hit her throat, a lump somewhere in her esophagus, soft and spongy. It was working its way down. Shelly swallowed, forcing the lump down.
She cleared her throat. "Befriend? Where are you, girl?"
There was a stirring in the woodchips. Then there was a stirring in her stomach.
A prick, like a needle puncturing the inside of her stomach, suddenly caused her to stop moving.
"Ooie," she said. Ouch.
The prick came again and so did a sharp scraping, something tearing at the interior lining of her stomach. And it wasn't just one sharp scrape---it was two, like two tiny nail heads scratching her internally.
Shelly fell to her knees, the pain red in her imagination, her eyes blurring over with tears. "Ooie."
She put her hands to her stomach and felt something moving within. The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth. The scratching increased. She could hear her stomach tearing inside her head.
Then it stopped.
She breathed a sigh of relief and fell to her side.
The scratching resumed and soon the movement in her stomach spread, the lump moving deeper into her, in between the muscles and organs, poking and pricking, ripping her insides to lace. Blood bubbled from her mouth.
The woodchips stirred and her mind quickly focused on Befriend. The woodchips ruffled and Befriend poked her tiny head out of the woodchips while at the same time, in the real world, the gerbil tore through Shelly's stomach and crawled down her belly, descending lower.
* * * *
Not There
Dear Terrance,
My wife Judy and I are pleased to inform you that we accept your invitation to your tenth-year anniversary party on March 17.
Your brother,
John
Ps. There's something I have to tell you.
I
The cars rolled up the drive just after nine as Terrance Michaels specified in his invitation. Today marked his tenth wedding anniversary to his wife, Elizabeth. Watching from the living room window, Terrance eyed Judy as she stepped out of the passenger side of his brother's new Bentley. Though Terrance was successful himself, a part of him was upset that John could now afford an automobile as well. The "automobile" had been on the market for a short time and up until tonight, every time there had been a party at the Michaels's Estate, John had ridden up in horse and carriage, their driver George opening the door for him and Judy the same way he had for the past eight years. John was a surgeon, one with a stellar reputation, so suddenly deciding to get an automobile was no surprise. Especially a Bentley, one of the most prestigious automobiles on the market. John had a flare for the dramatic and always tried to upstage Terrance in everything. John saved lives whereas Terrance ruined them as president of the Wind City First National Bank, complete with the power to deny loans and mortgages on a whim. As for John "saving lives" ---it was butchery yet Terrance found John's fascination with cutting open the human body intriguing. To dedicate one's life to cutting people up . . . . Even as a child, John was always dissecting things: dragonflies, toads---the neighbor's dog.
Blast, but no matter, thought Terrance. "Come as they will."
"Sir, your guests are arriving," Clara, the housemaid, said. She stood at the entrance where the living room met the hall.
"I'll be there in a moment."
The little woman in her traditional black dress and brown hair tied up in a taut bun scurried off to greet her employer's company.
In the next room, the front hall filled with voices, several more than just the two that belonged to John and Judy.
If you only knew what she and I've been through, John, Terrance thought as he turned from the window. Adjusting his bowtie in the wall-length mirror over the ornately-carved stone fireplace, he gathered himself and vowed to show no sign of the secret he'd been keeping from John. Oddly enough, John implied in his reply letter he was keeping something from him as well.
Hands clasped behind his back, he made his way to the front hall.
"Stanley, James, Carl," he greeted with outstretched arms.
James, a stout man in his early forties, removed his top hat and stuffed it under his arm so he could shake Terrance's hand.
"Congratulations, old boy. Ten years, my, how time flies."
Terrance smiled then dipped slightly at the waist when James's wife, Rita, appeared from behind her husband.
"Congratulations, Terry," she said, giving him a peck on the cheek. "Where's Elizabeth?"
"Upstairs. You know my wife: she takes all the time in the world. Plus, she complained of a headache so she might still be resting before coming down."
Rita smiled sweetly. She and Elizabeth were close friends.
"Gentleman, please," said Terrance, "this way. Clara, if you please, let Charles know our guests have arrived. It's only a small gathering. Can't have him hiding away in the kitchen all night."
Charles, the Michaels's butler, was known for staying away from the guests during parties, only emerging from the kitchen to serve hors d'oeuvres, the meal, and dessert.
"Yes, sir," Clara said and hurried off to the other room.
As they made their way to the dining hall, Stanley and Carl also offered Terrance their well wishes.
"I'm surprised you hung on as long as you did," Carl said.
"Women like Elizabeth are special," Stanley added.
I know, he thought. But you can't always trust them completely.
"And where are the children?" asked Stanley's wife, Christine.
"Tucked away as usual, when we have guests," Terrance replied.
"I love children. I would very much have liked to have seen them."
"Perhaps I'll bring the sleepyheads down later to say hello."
He didn't have to survey his guests to know their eyes darted about the white, marble walls of the front hall, taking in the spiraling banister off to the side, the paintings of his ancestors starting with F
rederik Michaels, his great grandfather at the top, straight down to him and his wife and two boys, Terrance Junior, seven, and David, four.
When they entered the mahogany-paneled dining hall, Charles stood at one end, a bottle of merlot at the ready. Clara stood at the other, wiping her hands on her apron.
As Terrance sat down at the head of the table, he saw John waiting by the entrance, Judy at his side.
Terrance arched his eyebrows, signaling to his brother: "Are you joining us?"
"In a minute," he said and took Judy aside, out of view.
I hope she doesn't say anything, Terrance thought. He might then say something he shouldn't. Or he might tell her what he wants to tell me. No matter. I already---
"Terrance?"
"Yes, Elisa?" Elisa was Carl's wife.
"It simply wouldn't be right for Charles to serve us without Elizabeth here. Why don't you see what's taking her?"
He considered for a moment. "Very well." He slid his chair back and stood. "Ladies, gentlemen, one moment, please."
A few nodded his way while others chatted.
"Charles?" he said.
"Yes, sir." Charles stepped up to him, his slim form a solid four inches taller. Terrance was pleased Charles wore his black suit tonight instead of his usual gray.
"Retrieve the '89 from the cellar and give everyone here a healthy glass." The "'89" was the 1889 Scotch he'd been saving since he bought it at auction two years prior. "It is much better than the merlot."
"Very good, sir." He turned to leave, then, "Sir?"
"Yes?"
"I'm sorry to ask, but have you seen the hammer? There's a nail in the floor that I noticed sticking up earlier. I wish to bang it down before someone snags their foot."
"No, Charles, I have not. Now, about that Scotch . . ."
Charles left the room.
Terrance exited the dining hall, crossed the front hall and went up the orange-and-black-patterned carpeted stairwell. Even after living in the large home for the past eight years, he still reveled in the way his fingertips glided across the smooth surface of the polished oak railing.
The hallway at the top of the stairs was dim, the only light coming from the medium-sized chandelier in the front hall below.
The master bedroom was yet another floor up and could only be accessed by the staircase at the end of the hallway. Doors lined the hallway though he couldn't remember the last time he'd been in them. The rooms were fully furnished; the inside contents remained hidden beneath white sheets, only inspected once every few months by Clara for anything that might need tending to. The children hadn't need for the rooms and neither did him or Elizabeth. If there were guests, they would stay in the guesthouse across the yard.
The boys' bedroom ran off the east wing, accessed by an opposite stairwell across from the one that led up to the master bedroom. Their playroom was on the main level, as was the servants' quarters. He had considered building small residences for Charles and Clara at the back of the property, but landscaping a garden and having a story hut built for Elizabeth and the boys made more sense.
Terrance considered himself an excellent family man.
He ascended the stairwell and turned right once at the top. He opened the master bedroom door. The lights were out. Elizabeth lay in bed, her headache not having left.
The bed was in the middle of the room, a large oak dresser with carved-in cherubs up against the wall on either side; one his, the other hers. Above the headboard was a painting of the back garden, their little place reserved for quiet evening walks when the kids were in bed and the butler and maid were off for the night. After the walks he and Elizabeth checked on the boys together then returned to their bedroom, occasionally made love then went to sleep.
If love was what it was, he thought.
Terrance sat on the edge of his side of the bed, the starched sheets crunching beneath the comforter. Elizabeth lay on her side, facing away from him, silent.
"Our guests are waiting for you," he said. "John is here. Judy, as well." I can only imagine what Elizabeth might say right now. Does she know I know? "How is your headache?"
No answer.
"I realize you don't want to talk to me. I'm sorry about earlier." He sighed. "I got upset and I apologize. But you got upset, too. It's both our faults. The boys . . ." They should never had heard him raise his voice at her. Ever since becoming a father, he swore he would never let his children see the two of them fighting. All couples fought, Terrance understood. It happened and, to a degree, it was expected. Growing up, watching his parents fight nearly every evening, exceeding the boundaries of simple tiffs regularly---the way his father treated his mother; the way his mother would leave for days, too scared to face his father---Terrance would not have his boys witness the same. He vowed to protect them from the ugliness of family life and give them nothing but peace.
"What am I supposed to tell everyone?" He set a hand to her shoulder. "You can't stay here all night. It's our ten-year anniversary. We should be celebrating it."
He waited a moment longer then stood from the bed.
John was at the door. "How is she?"
"You know you're not supposed to be up here. This is our bedroom."
"Terrance, I've been up here many times before."
"I know."
Judy appeared behind John. The look on her face said something was wrong.
If he said anything to her . . .
"What?" John asked.
"Nothing," he said. "Elizabeth is fine. Now, let us leave her."
"As you wish," John said.
The three returned downstairs.
II
"Tell me, how is it you bought out the Wind City Gazette?" Stanley asked in between mouthfuls of sautéed salmon.
Elizabeth hadn't come down for dinner in spite of everyone waiting an extra hour for her. Though no one said anything, any outsider looking on could tell you something was wrong. Adding to matters, John and Judy kept their conversations to themselves and didn't mingle with the other guests. Terrance planned to have words with him afterwards regarding his manners. He would speak to Judy, as well.
Come up here in that automobile of yours and suddenly you're better than everyone, huh? he thought. He paused a moment, took a deep breath, calming himself. Keep control.
"Terrance?" Stanley said.
"I'm sorry. What was the question?"
"How did you manage the Wind City Gazette buyout?"
Terrance took a sip of his wine. It was a little too dry for his taste, but what wasn't these days? Why does she have to be in the bedroom? Why did I let myself get---I wish the boys were here. To see everyone together . . .
"The former owner wasn't paying attention," Terrance said. "He had a soft spot for . . . women? It's not surprising what happens when you lose your footing. Simply put: he fell."
Stanley wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin from the same set he had given Terrance and Elizabeth for their fifth wedding anniversary.
"Well, I'm proud of you for taking advantage when you did."
"Thank you."
Clara appeared from behind the kitchen door with a silver-plated pot of coffee and an equally lavish serving tray with porcelain cups and saucers.
As she began setting the dishware in front of the guests, Terrance noticed John's facing pinching at its center, Judy's eyes wide just beyond.
"What did he tell her?" he grumbled. She knows, and you know that. You did it to yourself. No. He did it first.
He eyed the two coldly. They didn't eat their meal. Those two never ate. Not even on him and Elizabeth's wedding day.
After the meal, while all sat back, cigarettes lit, drinking their coffee, Terrance excused himself from the table, stating he wanted to check in on the boys.
When he entered their bedroom, he was greeted with the fond memories of early mornings waking them for school, encouraging them for the new day ahead. He was greeted with the nightmare of them seeing him and Elizabeth fight. The words the
boys heard.
What they saw.
Never again.
He went over to David, the little one, whose bed was on the right. The boy was just as he left him, tucked beneath the covers, warm and snug. Terrance Junior's bed was on the left, against the opposite wall. He, too, was just as he had been when Terrance sent him to sleep.
"Only to dream . . ." Terrance said quietly.
Hands in his pockets, he watched over them a moment more then left the room, closing the door behind him.
John stopped Terrance as he descended the stairwell to the front hall.
"Are they asleep?" he asked.
"Resting peacefully."
"I'm sorry, Terrance." John's dark eyes seemed earnest.
"For what?" He knew, though, what his brother was talking about.
"Judy's sorry, too."
"Why? She didn't do anything."
John slouched, his posture sagging so his tummy stuck out more than a gentleman ought to let it.
"Let's just try to have a good time," Terrance said.
"Okay." John straightened and the two returned to the dining hall.
The evening wore on, James, Carl, Stanley, their wives---all seemed to be having a good time.
Except for John and Judy.
III
"Clara, if you will, mind the house while I'm gone. John and I have things to . . . discuss," Terrance said.
She stood in the doorway, peering out at her master who was on the front step.
"John?" she said softly.
"My brother. Now, if you please."
"But sir---"
"Now, Clara."
Pulling his gloves over his fingers, Terrance marched down the front steps to where his brother stood by his new Bentley, Judy in the passenger seat.
Clara crossed her hands across her apron, unsure what to tell her master.
Glancing over his shoulder, he waved her to go back into the house and do what he asked.