House of Windows

by John Langan

  The confusion on Roger's face congealed into anger. "If this is, to borrow your phrasing, 'it,' I don't understand why you can't let go of this ridiculous obsession with making me confess to something that isn't true."

  "Because I was there. I saw what you did. I saw you promising that thing whatever it wanted."

  "That's irrelevant! What I may or may not have done in a moment of weakness has no bearing whatsoever on what's happening. Ted has returned to his father. That's what this is about."

  "You can't believe that. You're too smart—I can't believe you don't understand what's really happening here. You have to know you're lying to yourself."

  "I know nothing of the kind."

  "Lift the curse, then. If that has nothing to do with this, lift it."

  "No."

  "Oh my God," I said, "I get it."

  "Get what?"

  "It's not that you're fooling yourself—you are, but not the way I thought. It isn't that simple. You don't want to lift the curse because you're afraid that it'll make Ted go away."

  Roger's look of anger faltered. "That's not—"

  "That's it. You don't care that he's suffering—you think that, as long as you keep him around, as long as he isn't gone, lost once and for all, there's a chance for, what? Some kind of reconciliation?"

  Roger was silent.

  "You can't see him, can't hear him, can't touch him—but I can. I'm there to assure you Ted's around. That's what you're up to in your office, isn't it? You've been looking for a way to make him visible to you. Maybe not at first—maybe you did believe he was in the bardo; maybe you were trying to help him exit it—that doesn't make any sense."

  "That's because it isn't true," Roger said. "Once again, you're inventing a scenario in which I play the role of villain. How you do enjoy painting me the monster. Has it ever occurred to you to give me the benefit of the doubt?"

  "You're not a monster. You're just like your father, that's all."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I'm sure he would have insisted he wasn't a monster, either. He would've quoted the Bible at me to justify breaking your nose, or tormenting you. 'Honor thy father and mother,' right? Especially thy father."

  "Of all the things you have said to me—you could have said to me—this is by far the worst, the most hateful."

  "Oh please. Don't try to take the moral high ground, here. You aren't the victim. You know it and I know it. But you have a chance to be something else, Roger—you've got a chance to lift this curse and be something your father never was—to be more than he was."

  That almost did it. There was a long moment where I honestly thought I'd gotten through to him and we were going to get out of this. His face seemed to relax, as if he'd decided it was time to abandon this posturing and finally make things right. I could see him trying to arrive at the right set of sentences to break the curse. Then—that process ground to a halt. Whatever sentences he'd thrown together fell to the floor and shattered. His mouth tightened, and he said, "I am not my father. I will never be that man."

  In the front yard—what had been the front yard—there was movement, down by the river. I glanced at it, turned away immediately. The air was too full of white light for me to distinguish him clearly, but it was Ted.

  "What is it?" Roger asked.

  Not looking in that direction, I pointed. "Ted."

  "Ted, or what you've mistaken for him?"

  "It's Ted. He's standing on this side of the river."

  "How can you be sure?"

  "I can feel him," I said, which was true. Ted was unmistakable, a beacon of cold fire. The stew of emotions that had assaulted me before was past the boil. His agony, his anger, most of all his eagerness, that overpowering desire, bubbled up and out of him. His desire, his greed, burst against me, and I understood what he wanted. Roger, of course. He wanted Roger to leave the house and come join him by the bank of the grinding river. I said, "He's waiting for you."

  "He is?"

  I nodded.

  He licked his lips. "Out there—in the dark."

  "Beside the river."

  "You're certain."

  Now was not the time for qualifications. "Yes."

  Roger's forehead was shining with sweat. He grimaced and wiped it. His breathing had grown heavy. I assumed he was working himself up to stride out onto the front porch and across the yard. Judging from the sweat and the breathing, he did not find the prospect of doing so appealing. No surprise, there. Whatever he might say to me to save face, he knew what was waiting for him. I thought I would give him another five seconds before suggesting that he wouldn't have to do so if he lifted the curse. I wasn't sure what I'd do if he refused—which, let's face it, he was more likely to do than not. I couldn't see myself being able to keep him inside if he decided to brazen it out, but I did not want him going to Ted. While I was afraid that, in the end, there would be no other choice, I was holding out hope that the extremity of the situation would force him, at long last, to break the curse.

  How surprised was I, then, when Roger said, "I can't." For a moment—a good two- or three-second moment—I literally could not process the words that had come out of his mouth. When I could, I said, "You what?"

  "I can't do it," he said. "I can't go to Ted."

  "Why not?"

  "I—I don't know. I can't, that's all."

  "All right," I said. "You know what this means?"

  "What?"

  "It's time to renounce the curse."

  "No." He shook his head.

  "Excuse me?" The anger—the fury that swept over me was unlike anything I'd known. It blew through me, this hurricane of resentment and rage that actually took my vision—for an instant, I was so angry it blinded me. Almost before I knew what I was doing, my fist lashed out and caught Roger next to the eye.

  The blow took him completely by surprise. His head rocked with the force of it and he backed toward the doorway. He hadn't finished raising his hands and I'd hit him again, a punch in the mouth that scraped my knuckles and burst his lip. Hands up, he retreated onto the front stoop. I swung again, missed, struck his shoulder on the next try. I was—I swear, I've never been that angry at anyone. If I'd had a knife, I could have cut him to ribbons cheerfully.

  Doing his best to bat my hands away, Roger backed toward the top of the stairs, talking all the way, his bloody lips asking me what I was doing, what was wrong, what was the meaning of this. The questions rolled off me. I was sick of talking, sick of endless dialogues that led nowhere, sick to death of trying to argue Roger into admitting the truth. This—the confusion scrawled on his face, his hands struggling to keep up with mine, the thud when my fist found his arms, his sides, his gut—was infinitely more satisfying. It was almost sexual; it was that visceral, that immediate.

  I'd never—I want to say I could count the number of times I've hit someone on one hand, but even that's an overstatement. I could count them on one finger. In the fourth grade, I gave Katy Britten a black eye for calling me a slut. That was the extent of my combat-related experience. I've never been a fan of violence, never liked violent art, movies, TV shows, whatever. That wasn't all—if you'd asked me if I thought I'd be able to hit Roger, to hurt him, I'd have said absolutely not. I don't know why. The one fight I'd witnessed him in, he hadn't done especially well. It's just socialization, I guess. He's the man; you're the woman; he fights; you don't. To be fair, I don't think he was trying as hard as he might have—as he would've if he'd known how totally committed I was to hurting him. Fast—from start to finish, it was over so fast. Roger went to take another step away from me, and found nothing there—we'd reached the stairs. He threw his arms forward, trying to catch himself from falling, and I hit him in the chest. Still trying to find his footing, he tipped back and fell down the front stairs.

  As falls went, it could have been worse. He landed on his ass and back; although I think his ass took most of his weight. A cloud of dust puffed up around him. He looked at me, his eyes wide, his mout
h a bloody o. His lips were moving, speaking almost the last words my husband would say to me, and I was too busy exulting in the power coursing through my fists, my arms, to hear what they were. I think one of them was "Why?"—that would make sense, wouldn't it? He tried to wipe his mouth with the back of one hand, but only succeeded in smearing blood across his cheek. I saw the red on his face—and I saw it streaming from his freshly broken nose as he tried to avoid another kick from his father's polished shoe—I saw it leaking from the place where the snake had fastened itself to him—I saw it dried on his lips as they pronounced his curse on Ted—I saw it flush beneath his cheeks as he told the judge he would marry me. As quickly as it had swept me up, the wave of anger dropped me. Where I'd been strong, powerful, relentless, an Amazon taking my destiny in my own hands, now I was hollow, burnt-out, dizzy and sick at what I'd done.

  From his position next to the river, Ted watched events unfold with keen interest. My rage had fled, and Ted was there, waiting for Roger to join him. What was the way out of this? There had to be one, right? Absurd as it sounds, part of me still hadn't abandoned the idea that something was going to save us. Either Roger would give in and break the curse, or I'd finally understand all the reading I'd done in the last few days and know how to defeat Ted. It wasn't too late, not yet—

  Except that nothing was coming to me, nor was Roger any closer than he'd ever been to taking back the words he'd uttered months ago. Months? God—I had one of those seconds where it's like, you simultaneously think, But that happened yesterday, didn't it? and, Wasn't that ten years ago? Roger had been watching to find out if I intended to descend the stairs and continue attacking him, or if I was content to maintain the high ground. Since I hadn't charged down after him, he pulled himself to his feet, one eye on me in case I changed my mind. He held up his hands, both of them bloody from his efforts at cleaning his mouth, and let them fall to his sides. He said, "That was a bit excessive, don't you think?"

  "Your son is waiting for you," I said. "If you turn around and walk in a straight line, you'll go right to him."

  "Veronica—I told you, I can't."

  "He's waiting for you."

  "Honey, I can't do this. I'm sorry, but I can't."

  "It's about ten yards."

  "Dammit, Veronica, I said I'm staying right here."

  "No, you're not," I said. "You're going to turn around and walk in a straight line to Ted."

  "I will not."

  "Goddamn you!" I shouted. "You will walk your Goddamn ass to your Goddamn son or I swear to Christ I will come down there and I will claw your eyes out. This is what it's come to, Roger. You're out of options. I'm out of options. You got what you wanted. Ted has come back to you. You own that. You drink your cup of blood. You accept what you wanted and go to him. Be a man, for God's sake."

  Roger looked behind him. "It's dark. It's all dark."

  "Walk in a straight line. He's there."

  "I can't believe—you swear he's awful, yet you're willing to send me out to him like this."

  "I didn't bring him here—I didn't make him what he is."

  "So that's it? That's all there is?"

  "Unless you want to lift the curse, yes, that's all."

  He was about to reply. I didn't give him the chance. I spun on my heel, marched back inside, and slammed the door. I snapped all the locks; Roger would have no trouble hearing them. If he wanted in, I wasn't sure I'd be able to keep him out—it wouldn't be that hard to smash the window and reach through to release the locks. I was afraid he might try to do that, and I wasn't sure what I'd do if he did. Watching him standing at the foot of the stairs, watching me, because I couldn't follow my actions all the way through and walk away from the door, I was certain he'd call my bluff. At the very least, I assumed he'd hold his position.

  He didn't. After I don't know how long of looking at me, Roger took a deep breath, said something he thought I'd be able to hear or read on his lips—I couldn't do either—and headed towards the river. He walked slowly, hesitantly, the way you do when you're moving through your house in the dark. I kept expecting each step forward to be his last, that he'd run back to the house as fast as he could. He didn't. Moving ever more slowly, he continued to advance, unseeing, toward Ted, who trembled with anticipation. The closer he drew to Ted, the harder it was to see him. The combination of light from the moon and river and wanting to keep my eyes from Ted made Roger less and less distinct.

  How could I let him go, right? How could I stay where I was while my husband walked toward what had to be his death? Why didn't I end this, unlock the door and call out to him to stop, come back, we'd find another way through this? Because it was his decision. He had the choice between releasing Ted and going to meet him. The most I could do was force him to choose. I wish I could say that the tears were streaming down my face as he went, that I sobbed and whimpered, but mostly I was anxious, eager for this to be over. I had had enough. Enough of Roger's mania, enough of Ted's haunting me, enough of the whole sick and sad affair that my life had become. Peace—I was desperate for peace. I was thinking—praying, Let this do. Let this satisfy him. If it wasn't the ending I'd wanted, let it at least be an ending.

  About two-thirds of the way to Ted, Roger stopped. My first thought was that his nerve had failed and he'd gone as far as he could. Ted would have to come the rest of the way to him. No, that wasn't it. Hard as it was to see Roger through this white glare, I was pretty sure something was different. The tilt of his head, the way he was carrying himself, changed, as if he could see part or all of what lay in front of him, as if he'd gone so far into this landscape that he couldn't help seeing it. There was no way to know how much of it was visible to him, but he didn't appear to notice Ted. Even if he'd managed not to collapse or run screaming in the opposite direction, he would have registered the sight of his son somehow. Roger bent down, dragged his fingers through the dust at his feet, and stared at his hand. He straightened up, wiped his hand on his jeans, and stared at the river. He took one step forward, then a second.

  I couldn't watch—he was too close to Ted, who had flared like a bonfire doused in gasoline. Nerves in flames, I backed away from the door to the foot of the second-floor stairs. That was too close by far. I retreated up the stairs to the second-floor hall. My brain still felt as if it were burning inside my skull. I stumbled up the stairs to the third floor. That wasn't any better, nor was there much point in continuing to the attic. The entire house—what had been the house—was ablaze with Ted. My skin felt wreathed in fire—for the briefest instant, it was as if I were standing beside Ted when the RPG struck the ground and made him the heart of a momentary sun. Blue-white tongues of flame played across my fingers, and I realized that the sensation that was consuming my nerves was about to take the rest of me with them. My legs wouldn't carry me any further. Tongue too dry to cry out, I dropped to the floor. In some distant corner of my mind, I wondered if there would be anything left of me. My body shook as if I were having a seizure. Darkness rimmed my vision, consciousness fleeing for what promised to be the last time. There was time for me to hope I wouldn't end up in the same place as Ted, then nothing.

  That nothing lasted until late the following morning. While I was wrapped in it, there were no dreams, no memories recycled into new configurations—only a distant pain that gradually drew closer. It was that pain—a feeling as if the entire inside of my body had been scraped raw—that finally brought me back to the house. Funny—my first thought wasn't relief at being alive, or wonder at what had occurred, or concern for Roger. The first priority to present itself was an urgent need to use the bathroom. Somehow, despite everything that had happened, I'd managed to avoid wetting myself, and now my bladder was demanding to be relieved from its duty. Not until I'd done the necessary did those other concerns announce themselves. Half-sure the desert landscape would remain to greet my eyes, I peered out the bathroom window. There was green, the lawn, with Founders and the neighbors in their familiar places. The sheer happin
ess and relief that slice of view brought me was replaced almost immediately by a thick, sinking dread. Roger? I thought.

  He wasn't in any of the places I searched for him, inside the house or out. I knew he wouldn't be. Right from the start, before I'd been over the entire house from attic to basement twice, then driven to his office, then wandered around campus, then wandered around town, then tried to retrace the paths of his walks and runs—by which time the sun had lowered behind the mountains and I was fainting with hunger—from the second his name occurred to me, it was followed by an answer. Gone. That answer wanted to bring along a longer explanation, in which the words "your" and "fault" featured prominently, but I refused them admittance. After a stop at the diner for a plate of scrambled eggs and dry toast, I returned to Belvedere House in case Roger was waiting for me. He wasn't.

  After I'd been through the house a third time, I called the police and told them my husband had gone out last night and not returned. The officer who spoke to me asked a couple of questions, then suggested I stop into the station and fill out a missing person's report. I took his advice, but before I did, I climbed the stairs to Roger's office.