They walk out of the bathroom, following the corridor to the end, where a closed door blocks their entry.
“Another closet?” George asks.
Matt shrugs and opens the door. A sprawling dollhouse the size of a dining room table fills the space. The miniature mansion sits off the ground on twelve built-in legs. Framed pictures of the dollhouse hang from the walls. The exterior of the mansion is faced in stone, with four stone chimneys on the slate roof. Matt touches the roof.
“This is real stone,” Matt says.
They peer through the windows, looking at the stunning detail of the interior.
“How did they get all that shit inside?” George asks.
Matt looks at the dollhouse legs. At the bottom, swiveling wheels are attached. He runs his fingers along the sides of the house. He feels a latch. It’s painted slate gray. He undoes the latch. He finds another one near the bottom of the house. He pulls the house apart, revealing the lavish interior.
“This is crazy,” George says. “Probably cost more than my car.”
The inside is equipped with winding staircases, seven bathrooms, six bedrooms, a movie theater, a gym, a library, two kitchens, a formal dining room, a sitting area, a family room, a game room, an indoor pool, and a six-car garage filled with a gullwing Mercedes, a Ferrari, a Porsche, a Bentley, a Range Rover, and a BMW. Each room is decorated with the appropriate furniture, and every wall is covered with the appropriate adornment. Matt reaches into the library and removes a miniature book from the shelf.
The binding reads Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain.
Matt slides the book back on the miniature shelf using the tips of his two fingers. He picks up the desk from the tiny library. He opens the top drawer. Miniature stationary, pencils, and a stapler sit inside.
“This is really creepy,” Matt says.
“This is some meticulous shit. Let’s get outta here.”
“Hold on a second.”
“What? You wanna get out the tea set?”
“Check this room out.”
“Holy shit, this is really creepy.”
Matt and George study the identical representation of the master bedroom they’re standing in.
“They even have this room across from the bathroom, with a miniature of this dollhouse. A dollhouse in the dollhouse,” Matt says.
“What are you looking for?” George asks.
“I don’t know, but I feel like the answer is in here.” Matt points to the master bedroom in the dollhouse. “It’s the only room in the dollhouse that looks like a room in their real house.”
Matt looks in the miniature walk-in closets, one with women’s clothing and the other with men’s. The woman’s closet has tiny pencil skirts, blouses, and pantsuits that hang on wire hangers made from paper clips. He spies the corner of something obscured by the clothes. He sees a tiny square seam on the wall behind the clothes the size of his thumb. He runs his fingertip along the seam. He tries to stick his fingernail in to pry it open, but it won’t budge. He pushes the middle of the square, and a hidden compartment opens. Inside, a miniature leather mask and miniature VHS tapes sit on two shelves built into the wall.
Matt grins and shakes his head.
“What the hell?” George says.
Matt and George rush to Dr. Hansen’s walk-in closet. They run their hands along the walls, searching for a seam.
“It should be right here,” Matt says, looking at a return duct. “I can see the duct. It’s not fake.” Matt stands on his tiptoes to get a better look down the return duct. “It looks like it just ends.”
Matt feels around the edges of the metal grate covering the duct. He finds a latch on the right-hand side. He turns the latch, the metal digging into his fingertip. The metal grate opens out on a hinge, with the small bit of nonfunctional ductwork attached to it. Behind it are two small shelves: the top one filled with VHS tapes labeled by date only, and the bottom containing a solitary leather mask that zips from the back.
“Jackpot,” George says. “Grab one of those tapes.”
Matt puts his hand on the most recent, only two weeks old, starts to pull it off the shelf, then pushes it back. He works his way back and removes a tape from last fall, the day after everything changed. George flips on the thirty-six-inch television and powers on the VCR. He pops in the tape that’s labeled October 23, 2000. A blank screen gives way to the four-poster bed. The room appears empty.
“Let’s fast forward,” George says, pressing the Fast Forward button. “Oh, shit, here we go.” George and Matt watch in silence. “Wow, I’ve seen some shit in my day, but, wow, this is fucked up.”
“Why is … ? Never mind,” Matt says. “This is really disgusting.”
“He’s not gonna … aww, that’s fuckin’ sick,” George says. They turn their heads.
“Turn it off.”
George presses Eject on the VCR and hands Matt the tape.
“You got yourself a nuclear warhead right there,” George says.
“I should shut the compartment and put the dollhouse back together,” Matt says.
“I gotta take a leak.”
Matt pushes the tapes together, so a space between no longer exists. He notices a small wooden dowel on the corner of the bottom shelf. He reaches for it, pushing, then pulling. The bottom shelf moves. Underneath is a secret compartment filled with stacks of bound one-hundred-dollar bills. He shuts the compartment, then closes the faux grate. He walks to the dollhouse, pushes the house back together, and resets the latches. He hears splashing.
“Ya gotta see this,” George says from the bathroom. George looks through the bathroom window at the backyard, his jaw set tight. Matt joins him. “Check out the hot tub.”
Sophia’s naked, sitting on Tony’s crotch, facing away from him, his huge hands on her hips, guiding her up and down, a pained look on her face. At the opposite corner of the hot tub, a back riddled with acne, tan legs and arms wrapped around his body, kissing, grinding of bodies, and Abby’s face in ecstasy. Matt turns away.
“I’m sorry, George.”
George looks down. “Fuck it. Let’s get outta here.”
[ 15 ]
People Don’t Want Truth
Matt runs on gravel, his lungs burning and the chirping birds barely audible above his breathing. He slows at the one-story stone cottage. The forest edge creeps close to the structure, only the front offers any open space. Two mountains sit on the driveway, one of rich black compost, the other of wood chips. A sparkling wheelbarrow, pitchfork, shovel, rake, and a stack of cardboard sit off to the side. An old Jeep Cherokee, with faux wood paneling, is parked along the gravel road. Matt walks across the lawn, and climbs three steps to the porch, where two wooden rocking chairs and a hanging swing reside.
Ms. Pierce opens the door, smiling, her hair pulled back, wearing light blue running shorts and a T-shirt. “Good morning. Come on in.” She looks down the road. “Did someone drop you off?”
“No, I ran.”
“In pants and boots?”
“I walked some too.”
She frowns. “Next time I’ll come pick you up. When you said you could get to my house, I thought you meant you had a ride. It must be five miles from your neighborhood.”
“There’s a shortcut through the woods. It’s not too far. I really needed to get out this morning anyway.”
Matt steps inside and wipes his feet on the mat. He looks around at the country decor. The walls are yellow, the windows bright, with sheer white curtains. A large lump of anthracite coal sits on the mantel over the stone fireplace. It’s shiny and black with jagged edges. A plaid couch and a recliner face a rustic armoire. Matt stares at the antique classroom desk.
“This was an old schoolhouse,” Ms. Pierce says. “That desk was actually used by students here a hundred years ago.”
“Your house is really nice,” Matt says.
“I love old homes. I just wish they didn’t come with repairs. Would you like some breakfast bef
ore we get started? I could make you some eggs.”
“I ate before I left.”
Matt and Ms. Pierce walk outside, surveying the piles on the driveway and the new tools.
“Do we have everything?” she asks.
Matt nods. “I think we’re gonna have a really good garden.”
Matt places the cardboard to the left of the driveway, where the ground is flat and sun-drenched.
“What can I do?” she asks.
“You don’t have to do anything. The agreement was that I’d do the labor.”
“That’s no fun. I’d like to learn. What if I need to do this myself one day?”
“You can get the hose and drench the cardboard, as I put it down.”
“We don’t have to remove the grass first?”
“Nope, it’ll die and provide organic material to the soil life.”
“What about tilling?”
“If we till, it just kills the soil life, destroys the soil structure, unearths weed seeds, and creates a hard pan just beneath the tiller tines.”
“Then why does everyone do it?”
Matt shrugs. “I don’t know. It took me forever to convince my uncle to stop tilling. We just started covering the garden with wood chips, and everything did so much better, not to mention all the time I saved weeding. He was so concerned about buying wood chips, but Reggie was happy to give us all we wanted.”
“Reggie was really nice by the way. He asked about you. He seemed concerned when he dropped off the chips. He wanted me to tell you that, if you need a job, he has one for you.”
Matt smiles at the pile of wood chips. “Reggie’s a nice guy. Did he haul the compost?”
Ms. Pierce nods. “I can’t believe we got all this for sixty dollars.”
“Yeah, and, if I hadn’t gotten Saturday detention, I’d probably be Dumpster-diving for cardboard today.”
Ms. Pierce flicks some water on Matt with the hose. “You need to stay out of trouble. Detention is never a good thing, although it was very nice of Herb to save all this cardboard.”
With the cardboard laid and drenched, Matt dumps wheelbarrow load after wheelbarrow load of compost onto the cardboard, while Ms. Pierce spreads it with a rake. Matt works efficiently, falling into a familiar rhythm. Once the compost is laid, he moves the wood chips. Ms. Pierce, now experienced in the art of raking, pushes the chips around with ease. After three hours of focused work, Matt dumps the final load of wood chips over the last corner of exposed compost with a wide grin.
“That’s it. Garden’s ready to plant,” he says.
“You shoveled both those huge piles so quickly.”
“Reggie made it easy. He put the piles right next to the site. Do you wanna plant the seeds now?”
Ms. Pierce glances at her sport watch. “It’s almost noon. How ’bout lunch?”
Matt unlaces his boots and leaves them at the door. Ms. Pierce unlaces her neon running shoes and smacks them together over the railing of the porch. Compost clods fall out.
“I really need to get some gardening gear,” she says.
Matt sits at the kitchen table, while Ms. Pierce rifles through the refrigerator and the cupboards. The wooden table for two sits in the middle of the white-tiled kitchen.
“How about a turkey sandwich with some veggies on the side? It’s free-range turkey meat,” she says.
“That sounds great. Can I help?”
“Yes, you can sit there and talk to me.”
Matt grins.
“What would you like on your sandwich? I’ve got mayo, tomatoes, mustard, honey mustard, lettuce, pickles.”
“I don’t care. However you normally make it.”
“The Olivia Pierce special it is.” Ms. Pierce slathers on mayo and slices fresh organic tomatoes. “So, how do you like Jefferson High so far?”
“It’s okay, I guess. I don’t know.”
“Well, that’s not much of an answer.” She turns from the counter and mock frowns at him.
“I liked learning with my uncle better. I guess I just miss it.”
“I’m sorry, honey.”
Matt looks away for a moment.
Ms. Pierce turns around and sets his plate in front of him, hers opposite. Her plate has only one half of a sandwich, Matt has a full sandwich, plus another half. Cut up carrots, bell peppers, and celery sticks fill the plates. She grabs two glasses from the cupboard and holds them up.
“Do you want water, milk, juice? Sorry, I don’t have soda. I used to be addicted to diet soda, but, after learning about aspartame, I try to stay away from it.”
“Water’s fine. This looks really good. Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome.” She places two waters on the table and sits down. “It must be hard.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, a new school and all.”
“It’s okay. I’m making some friends. I never really had any on the farm, except Blackie.”
“I assume Blackie’s a pet?”
“She was … or is this old barn cat. I don’t really know what happened to her.”
“I’m sorry.”
“When I got to Grace’s—you know the foster house?”
Ms. Pierce nods her head.
“I went out a few nights and searched for her at the old farm site. If she’s still alive, I doubt she stayed, because they destroyed the barn and the meadow where she caught mice and voles. I know it’s just a cat, but I guess I just wanted something to live.”
“Emily told me a little bit about the farm.”
Matt looks up, his eyebrows raised.
“It sounded like a beautiful place.”
“It was.” Matt takes a bite out of his sandwich. “This is really good,” he says, after swallowing. “Since we’re not at school, may I ask you something?”
Ms. Pierce grins. “You can ask.”
“But you may not answer. I know. My uncle used to say I ask too many questions.”
“I bet he was a good father to you.”
“He was.” Matt looks away. After a moment he looks at Ms. Pierce. “Can you tell me what happened to your boyfriend, you know, the anarchist? You told me the other day that it wasn’t appropriate for school, but we’re not at school.”
Ms. Pierce smiles and shakes her head. “I never said he was an anarchist.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“It’s just … that word tends to freak people out. You know, it’s kind of a long story.”
“I love long stories.”
“Well, Derrick had no regard for people’s perception of anarchy. He was better when we first started dating. When we would meet some of my friends and their husbands, he’d complain about how they were all asleep, that they were advocating for his death by supporting the state. He had some pretty deep philosophical arguments on why my friends were advocating murder, rape, and theft, simply by supporting the state. I didn’t mind it so much when he just told me those things. It was actually very intellectually stimulating. After some time though, he got much more radical. I couldn’t take him anywhere. We were at a dinner party at my best friend’s house. Well, we used to be best friends. Victoria never talked to me again after what happened. We were all sitting at the dinner table, several couples, and some polite arguing was going on between my friend’s husband, Dave, who’s actually the chief of police, and the wife of a local developer. I think her name’s Jill.
“Do you remember the name of the developer?”
“John I think. I don’t remember his last name, but he’s apparently pretty successful for around here. They were Dave and Victoria’s friends. Derrick and I had just met them that night.”
Matt nods.
“Anyway, Jill and Dave were arguing over politics. She was a Democrat, and he’s a pretty staunch Republican. Jill was talking about how the government needed to spend more money on education and helping the poor, and Dave was talking about how, without defense, we’d be like some third-world country in Africa. Anyway
I could tell Derrick was annoyed. I actually grabbed his hand and squeezed it, to sorta say, ‘I know, just leave it alone.’
“He just went off. He said they were both supporting immoral institutions. This, of course, stunned everyone at the table. You could hear a pin drop. He went on to explain how taxation is theft, and both Democrats and Republicans are responsible for theft through taxation, murder through wars, and rape through our legal system. He cited some statistic about how governments have killed a quarter of a billion people over the past hundred years. My friend, Victoria, kicked me under the table, to kinda tell me to get Derrick under control, but what could I say?”
“Was he telling the truth?”
Ms. Pierce nods her head and rubs her temples. “He certainly thought he was, but he wasn’t using any tact. He was beating everyone over the head with a sledgehammer of truth. Most people aren’t ready for any real truth.”
“How did Jill and Dave react?”
“Jill was mortified, but she kept quiet. Her husband tried to get a word in, but Derrick called him a fascist and he told Jill how he was hitting on me earlier. Dave turned red, like a teapot ready to blow. He got up, and Dave can be kind of an intense guy, you know? He told Derrick that he’d better leave, before he kicked his ass. Then Derrick called Dave a rapist. He said something about it being immoral to imprison nonviolent offenders, where male rape is commonplace.
“It was crazy—I mean, Derrick saying this stuff to the chief of police. That’s when it got really ugly. I stood up and grabbed Derrick by the arm. I was worried that Dave was gonna hurt him. I think at that point Derrick knew he’d gone too far, and he was ready to leave. So we started to leave the table, and Victoria smacked him really hard across the face.”
“What did Derrick do?”
“He was stunned, but he ignored it and kept walking toward the door.”
“I don’t understand why Victoria would hate you for what Derrick did.”
“It’s not what Derrick did—it’s what I did. Derrick was a gentle person. He was troubled though. He was abused pretty badly as a kid, and he still had bouts of depression from it. It was really awful. Derrick and I were really close. I was the only one who knew what he had been through, and, when Victoria put her hands on him, I didn’t see Derrick—the man who had just insulted all these guests. I saw Derrick—the little kid who was being hit again. I lost it. I punched Victoria in the face. I used to take that Tae Bo stuff, but I had never actually punched a person before. She dropped like a sack of potatoes.”
Against the Grain Page 17