The House of Dust

by Noah Broyles

  “Yeah, really? How long have you been here?”

  Missy ignored her and returned to the bar, climbing up beside the silver-suited man. He held out his hands for the pack, but she kept them close.

  He looked confused. “What?”

  “Let me.”

  She opened the pack, drew one out, placed it between her lips, and grabbed a nearby lighter. The flame glistened in his staring eyes as she lit the cigarette. A quick breath in, then she gently blew out. He did not blink.

  “Like that.” She handed it to him and put her elbow on the bar. She watched from the cushion of her palm as he studied the filter where her lips had just been. Then he put it to his own.

  Inhaling, he motioned weakly with the cigarette. “Seems like a popular place. Lot of guys here.”

  “A lot of guys,” she agreed. “Not many men.”

  A door to the back burst open and the Boss, a toddler of a man with a treble voice to match, pushed blond-haired Meg into the common room. She clutched her violin and stared around at the heads that rose.

  “Gentlemen!” the Boss announced. “I do sincerely apologize for the lack of music. I cannot help the foolishness of my maintenance man.”

  A few granted him a chuckle.

  “Here, however, we have a lady who can play this violin. She has big dreams! Big dreams! So, give her a hand, and enjoy a few Bohemian melodies until such time as we can effect repairs.” He turned away and loudly hissed, “Play!” then vanished into the back. Trembling, Meg raised her violin.

  People started talking again before her music began. She played something thin and slow, and Missy looked away.

  “What’s your name anyway?”

  The silver-suit cleared his throat. “Walter. Yours?”

  “I’m Marilyn. How’d you end up in a place like this, Walt?”

  “Like what?”

  “Meg there—she wants to be a concert violinist. She practices every morning. But she’s been here longer than any of us. She’ll never leave. And I won’t leave, and none of these others here will. And you won’t leave. Because from now on when you drive by, you’ll have to come back.”

  He shook his head. “I’m from out of state. Strictly here for professional reasons.”

  “Really.”

  “Yes. I want to get a psychological read on . . . these sorts of people. See what’s behind their courtroom behavior.”

  “First time away from home?”

  “How’d you end up here?” he asked instead.

  Missy shifted her chin. “Oh, by the regular routes, I suppose. No gravity as a child, and then way, way too much of it when I got older. Enough to bring me crashing down . . . ”

  “To here.” The sorrow and sympathy coalesced behind his eyes in a way that made her seethe inside. It said, I understand, you poor, pretty, lost child; I will pity you. And then forget you.

  “It’s funny,” she said, scraping Coke residue off the bar with her thumbnail. “A professor from Emory used to come see me. He was the nicest man. He’d bring me volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica to read while he wasn’t here. I think he thought it was cute, like giving a tiny dog a giant bone. But I read them. And when he was here, both before and afterward, he’d sit in bed and talk and waste time so I wouldn’t have to come back to work. He always talked about the Civil War. I asked him, ‘Don’t you read anything besides the Civil War? Are you lookin’ for a different ending?’ And you know what he said?” She looked up from her nail and found Walt’s gaze steady. “He said the South won by losing. That all those years of getting walked on actually turned it into somethin’ beautiful. Maybe even somethin’ people could love.”

  She held his gaze until he blinked. Then she shrugged. “I think about that sometimes.”

  It was night now.

  The light in the box hadn’t changed, but she knew what midnight felt like. She lay on her dying hands and breathed through raw nostrils, recovering her lungs for another attempt.

  A couple times an hour, the rattle of shopping cart wheels was distantly audible. They must have stowed her inside the empty warehouse beside the grocery store. On the other side of the near wall was the painted cigarette ad, the woman in the red gown grinning at the parking lot, watching the people pass.

  Could she somehow gain the attention of one of them? Would any of them care, let alone help? Did anyone in this wretched town care? Or in the world? If her own fiancé didn’t . . . if Walt didn’t want her . . .

  No. No time to cry. Her lungs had recovered. Time to scream.

  “It’s just right over here,” Missy said.

  Walt’s shirt was open and they were both still sweaty as she led him through the twilit forest. They traversed a little path through the land behind the Club. It was the end of April, too early for lightning bugs, but the sun was blushing and lingering, staining the sky the color of melted peach ice cream.

  “Where are we going?” he laughed. An hour ago he had been so sure of himself that he had let her lead him right up to the edge. Then it was nothing to make him trip. One week of visits and he had fallen. And he was enjoying it.

  They reached the edge of her little clearing and she stopped and flung an arm and breathlessly proclaimed, “There we are!”

  The grass was cut raggedly short—best she could do with the rusty shears from the maintenance shed. The weathered wooden chair sat in its accustomed spot by the rusty lawn table. And the mason jar of Southern fleabane sat atop the table, right where

  she had left it this morning.

  He released her hand and stepped past her into the clearing. Looking at it with him made her realize how dingy the whole setup was. The fleabane was already drooping in the jar. And he noticed. He went right over and pulled the weeds from the water.

  “Ma’am, allow me to collect you some new flowers.”

  She grinned regardless, watching him go to the edge of the little glen to forage for something fresh. The grin was harder to keep when he straightened up with a fistful of yellow daffodils. He carried them to the table and arranged them in the water while thoughtfully looking around.

  “So, this is your dream.”

  Missy’s arms went behind her back, fingers tying in knots as she followed him into the open. “What’s that mean?”

  “Somewhere quiet to yourself. That’s what you get in a garden.”

  “I wouldn’t really call this a garden.”

  “Who trimmed the grass? Who arranged these flowers? Who lugged this chair here?” He sat down in it and opened his arms.

  “I don’t think it could support us both.”

  Walt cocked his head. “That wariness, that morose little smile—it’s why I’m so interested in your upbringing, Marilyn. You know you never really told me.”

  “You’d love me on the witness stand, eh? A piece in one of your plots.”

  “No.” He patted his knees. “Right here.”

  Sighing, she sat down gently and leaned back so their heads were together. The chair groaned but held. A feathery breeze passed through the clearing. The scent of the daffodils wafted from the table.

  “Well?” he said.

  “I’m not really Marilyn. A guy named Warren Dawson called me that. Said I looked like the actress, though I don’t see it. The ‘Britain’ part came from those encyclopedias I read. Really my name’s Missy. Missy Holiday. It’s kinda stupid.”

  “No, it suits you.” He combed hair behind her ear so her face was more visible. “What about this Dawson fellow?”

  “He . . . ” One hand struggled from the crook of her arm and batted the air in front of them. “He was a slippery man. Head warden at HUG. That’s where I lived since I was ten, after my grandmama died. The Atlanta Home for Underprivileged Girls. They thought it was cute to call it HUG. And Dawson always said, ‘Call me Dawes.’ He had eyes on me from the first day
I came into that place. But he took his time. So when it came around to when I was fifteen, it almost seemed . . . ” She refolded her arms, and he held her, too.

  “And of course he gave me all sorts of little favors and promised to get me set up with a family and I was confused at first, thinking he liked me just because. Early on, when people came to see me, I was glum and sulky and didn’t try to make a good impression, and all the people would say, ‘She looks like she’s got an attitude. The last thing I need is an attitude.’” And so I never got picked, even when I broke down crying and begging, and even when I tried to be my best self. By the time I was fourteen, I knew no one wanted me. Except Dawes. Me and him spent a lot of time together. He said he’d have a job lined up for me when I was eighteen and had to leave. He did—right here at this filthy little club. And then I knew even he didn’t care.”

  Noticing Walt’s expression, she quickly brightened her face. “Sorry. I don’t mean this to sound like the memoirs of a fallen angel.”

  “That’s not right.” He got up to pace, leaving her in her rotting wooden throne. “An orphanage warden grooming girls for sex work? And you know he’s not just sending them here. Probably got deals all over the state. Is he still at the girls’ home? How long have you been here?”

  “Couple years. I’m pretty sure I’m twenty-two.”

  “That bastard needs out of there. And you need out of here. Ever considered running away?”

  A beetle had climbed up to smell the daffodils on the table and fallen into the jar. It lay on its back among the chopped-off stems at the bottom, legs carefully folded.

  He nudged her.

  “Run away?” She sucked in a mouthful of the warm breeze that again ruffled the glade. “Everyone does run away, don’t they?”

  “You should.”

  The daffodil trumpets, already shriveling, caught the wind and rotated around the edge of the jar. The beetle rolled in his grave. “I might, if I could get some guarantee that what comes after would last longer than these flowers do.”

  By morning she was mute.

  Besides flopping about in the box, she couldn’t make much fuss as they carried her outside. They must have acquired an enclosed vehicle to transport her in because there was no wind and less rattling. Did Three Summers have a hearse?

  The tires hummed below. Cemetery soon. She wished she could be buried in something nicer than the shorts she had scrubbed the floor in, now damp with urine, a sweaty T-shirt, and grimy unshod feet.

  They were white sandals—a present from him in the mail. Her toenails were painted red. She walked the tightrope of a crack in the new parking lot pavement and watched him approach from the corner of her eye.

  “Hello there.” This time he wore no suit, just shorts and a polo shirt.

  She glanced at him, then at the red car he’d climbed out of. “Better not leave your car there, mister. It’ll fill up with pine straw from outta these trees.”

  “Missy Holiday, don’t even pretend.”

  She let her arms drop, ending the high-wire walk on the concrete fault, and turned toward him. “Hear that violin?”

  Someone had left one of the Club’s few windows open by mistake. Meg’s music fled the smoky interior, soaring across the parking lot and up into the June evening. “She’s turned into a big hit.”

  He folded his arms. “Well, since you want to know, our business wrapped up a little early and we had to go back to Nashville. But I’ve since had the opportunity to plant a few seeds. Maybe soon your violin friend will be able to fulfill her dream.”

  “What kind of seeds?”

  “Who knows until they bloom?” He came closer. “You look nice.”

  “Aw, thank you.” She dabbed her pinky on the fever blister that had developed at the corner of her mouth. This was her night to stand out front, dressed so eyes could easily undress her, and greet people.

  Walt held out his hand.

  “Why do you want to hold my hand?”

  “Because I’ll have no peace without you.”

  She examined the blood on her pinky, then wiped it away and slowly held out her other hand. He grabbed it and pulled her close and they kissed until he said, “Let’s get you out of here, Missy.”

  They ran to his car and piled in, he reached for the ignition, then pounced, tickling her until she screamed. With peals of laughter, they drove out the long drive toward the highway. Since the Club hadn’t paved the drive, and since it hadn’t rained yet that month, it took a while for the very pale, very powdery dust from their passing to drift back to earth.

  Nearby in the hot darkness, a man was speaking with tidal ebb and flow.

  The pastor. It was the pastor speaking; reading aloud.

  She could feel sun warming the coffin lid. Morning. In the churchyard.

  “The waters closed in over me, the deep was round about me; weeds were wrapped around my head at the roots of the mountains. I went down to the land whose bars closed upon me forever; yet thou didst bring up my life from the pit, O Lord my God.” A moment of silence. Then: “It is in. . . hope of the resurrection, that we commend her body to the ground. For all are earth. We are all ashes; we are all dust. And to dust we shall all return.”

  Sweat wormed across Missy’s scalp. Her lips squirmed and cracked against the gag. Her tongue was wax. Air whistled through sore nostrils.

  Another sound from nearby: soft rustling. Feet in grass. Then the man’s voice again. “I will pray for you, Mr. Collins.”

  Mr. Collins.

  His voice replied, starched and constricted behind a tight collar. “Thank you, Pastor. Please do.”

  Walt.

  “Walt!” It was a tiny cry that thumped uselessly against the wad between her jaws.

  The darkness pitched. Straps hissed against the outside of the box. The fluid in her ears told her she was descending.

  Beneath her body, her hands flinched. Last chance to get the lid off!

  With a lurch, the rocking descent halted. The straps snaked away. Quiet.

  Then a cluster of taps punctuated the darkness above her face. She shut her eyes. From somewhere, her body rallied enough moisture to send hot tears welling between her lashes. Inadvertently, her jaws stretched apart, wide enough to create an opening around the clot of cloth, wide enough that gurgling sobs filled the coffin.

  The taps came again. And again. Thicker. Heavier.

  Dirt, coming down like rain.

  31

  Premature evening fell as I drove back to the house.

  —“The House of Dust”

  Southern Gothic

  The front door was bolted from the inside.

  Weeds tore around Brad’s legs as he ran around to the back of the house. A mud-smeared tarp was spread across the porch, anchored by a stained metal bucket. Muddy tracks led to the door.

  It, too, was locked, but he remembered the loose knob and jogged it until the door whined softly open. The footprints continued down the hall, off into the gloom. They were closely spaced at first, shuffling, then became longer, as if the originator had started running. Closer at hand, they came out of the dining room and crossed into the kitchen.

  “Jennifer?” He entered and closed the door behind him. No noise in the hall. Moving ahead, his vision clung to the kitchen doorway until he was standing there looking in.

  Dark footprints on the kitchen floor. Muddy handprints on the cabinets and refrigerator. A dirt-caked knife lay on the counter by the sink. The footprints looped and came back to the door and passed beneath his shoes.

  Toward the dining room. Dinnertime.

  A soft clink behind him; a cup jarring a plate. Then an excited whisper: “Brad? Is that you?”

  He turned. Dried mud crunched under his feet as he crossed to the dining room. The great table stretched out black and long. Fading radiance from the windows ma
sked the dim far end.

  “It is you. I locked up when that creepy sheriff came around. Come here, honey!”

  Someone sat in the darkness at the far end of the table. Someone melded with the dark.

  “Jennifer,” he said again.

  “It’s fine, Brad. Don’t get worked up. I’m fine. In fact, I feel wonderful. Didn’t realize how little I’d been eating!”

  Brad advanced down the left side of the table, gripping the back of each chair he passed. The thing at the head of the table wasn’t Jennifer.

  The figure in the chair was charcoal. Scaly. Skin cracking at the elbows and finger joints, revealing paler flesh beneath. Its crumbly fingers plucked a half sandwich from a plate and lifted it to an ebony face. Teeth flashed white and the tongue that sucked in the food glistened pink. Stringy, glistening hair fell across the forehead and around the face, framing bright eyes.

  It wasn’t Jennifer. But those eyes, pale gray, were hers.

  “Jen,” he whispered.

  The thing swallowed and sat back. It wore her tank top and lounging pants. “So, I took a look at some of those records on your desk. Turns out they treated all sorts of stuff by just applying mud to a patient. I didn’t think it would work, of course, but anything’s worth a try. So I did, and it does! All that stuff about Lila Simmons—it doesn’t hurt anymore! I feel like I’ve been able to go back and talk with her and make her understand it was an accident—”

  “Jennifer—”

  “No, I’m saying this for you, Brad. Because I know you’ve got hurts, too. Deep ones.”

  “Jennifer. We have to go. I can finish the article somewhere else. I’m going to go upstairs now and get some things together, and you can sit right here. When I come back down, we’re leaving.” Turning sharply, he walked out of the room.

  Upstairs, he breathed out hard through his nose, flushing the humid, rotting creek smell of her from his sinuses. In the bedroom, he stuffed clothes into suitcases. In the study, he jammed his computer into its case along with a couple of wads of paper from the desk.