by David Garaby
"Bathroom’s down the hall, just beyond the kitchen. Has a shower, too," Bertha explained.
Adam looked around the room and nodded. "Thank you," he said before entering.
"Margo wants to have dinner with you at six in the dining room. This will give you time to settle in. I'll come get you at around that time." Bertha stopped for a moment to inspect the boy. In the dimness of the room he wasn't that impressive; she couldn't understand what Margo had been fawning over. There had been plenty of beautiful men throughout the Castilian, Margo's late husband William was certainly a sight. The one before that not so much, but definitely William. Bertha never once saw Margo lose her cool around him. This was a mystery indeed, it was only when Adam turned his head slightly and let the sunlight hit his eyes that she came to understand what made her employer so uneasy. It was the color, his radiant eyes glowed a mesmerizing emerald hue. Bertha had seen that tone before. She smiled to herself then shook her head. "Oh, Margo," Bertha whispered, but Adam did not hear. She shut the door.
A window in the room framed the entire backyard. Full of thick ebony and mesquite trees, the sprawling estate was encased by a tall stucco wall. There was a small mausoleum at the northernmost corner, a phallic structure which was gothic in architecture and grey in hue. As he studied the structure he saw a shadow growing from behind. There was something walking towards the front of the mausoleum, moving carefully, as if inspecting every inch of the small building. The shadow became a woman, a small-framed waif who now circled the structure, and she looked dead-set on finding something. The woman resembled a prisoner returning to the place where she had been kept for many years. There was a tenderness and a horror in her face. The distant look about her face made Adam uneasy. She looked frail, as if something or someone had broken her. The woman was about to press her ears to the door when she turned towards Adam’s direction. He quickly backed away from the window. Even though the room was dark, he couldn't be sure if she was able to see inside. Something was definitely not right about her.. Who was she? Why had she stared at the structure so intensely? What was she doing here?
He reached for his cell phone, the "ROAMING" feature glowed a vivid cyan. Adam circled around the room, raising the phone hoping for a signal. "Great," he threw the phone on the bed. As he unpacked he thought about questions he needed to ask Margo.
The thesis was simple: Homoerotic imagery in surrealist art. The topic was approved but needed to be refined. Dr. Hudd made sure to point out the vagueness in his topic months ago. He didn't think Margo would agree to the interview, and had written her off as footnote material. But now that he had this unprecedented access, her life and her work shot to the forefront. He sat on the bed and wrote questions on a yellow legal pad.
The questions were stirring so loudly in his mind that he almost didn't hear the light sound coming from the closet door. Adam set the pad down, felt the coldness of the carpet touch his feet and inched towards the closet in the corner of the room. As he stepped closer he felt a humming sound fill his mind, it had a light raspy quality to it. He opened his mouth, trying to pop his ears. As he moved closer he heard the sound more distinctly, it became a hiss.
The grayness of the afternoon seeped into the room, the heavy clouds cast their blue tones to every corner of the room. He stood in front of the closet, the wooden door was a warm mahogany stain. Adam placed his hands over the door, the wood grains appeared to move like thin dark worms crawling in unison to form different, trembling lines. He wanted to touch them, the lines seemed to dance and whir as if trying to form something.
The wood grains abruptly stopped trembling when there was a sharp knock on the door.
Bertha opened the door from the other side. "You left this bag in her office," she tossed it on his bed.
"Oh, thank you."
His arms were rubbing his neck lightly, there was a distant look to him. She looked inside and scanned the room. "Everything all right?"
"Of course," he said weakly, still rubbing.
She scrunched her forehead and nodded. "Dinner at six," she said.
— 2 —
MARGO SAT AT the head of a grand table.She was pristine majesty: her poise, her sense of propriety, the way she moved her food delicately on the plate. Margo Sullivan was the undoubted queen of this dominium.
She and Adam exchanged casual talk about his life in college, his childhood and interest in surrealist art. Adam took notes and wrote questions while the pair ate. Bertha joined them halfway through the meal but needed to excuse herself when she heard a bang from one of the rooms upstairs.
"It's probably just my daughter-in-law, Nina. Or my mother. Neother aret feeling well. They keep to themselves. You'll never even know they are here," Margo smiled.
He nodded.
"Let me tell you a story I heard many years ago," she began. "I can’t tell you for certain if the story is true or not, but I can tell you that its message, although perhaps an unintended message, changed me profoundly." She wiped her mouth with a napkin as Adam looked on with facination.
"There is a reason,” she began, “That the people of Spain hiss when they speak. They sound like lisping ninnies as they buy their groceries and comment on the weather. There’s a reason for their inane speech patterns. The story goes that a Spanish king was born with a lisp and decided that his pronunciation was the right pronunciation. So, rather than have the lisping king stick out, he commanded that lisping be the way of the land. At first I didn’t believe my friend, the story is sordid. It made me think of the Spanish people, and how pathetic and scared they must have been to shift their entire way of speech at the behest of one person. Then I realized how amazing this was. This power. This outright selfishness on the part of the king, and the outright weakness and submissiveness on the part of the people. I don’t know if this story is true, it’s probably a lie, but a lie is sometimes the most powerful tool we have. I started to imagine what it would be like to hold such power. To truly control people, be their puppeteer. It was utterly fascinating to me and it gave me a comfort to know that people have the capacity to be gods here on earth. To create. To manipulate. To encapsulate their whims and desires. It was a revelation. My art is a manifestation of this power. It is a selfish snake that coils itself around my subjects until they cannot breathe… or until I stop letting them."
"You always use snakes in your work. Why are they so symbolic to you?"
Margo nodded: "Yes, the serpent is important in my work. It’s always with me, this idea of counterculture, and this idea of slithering against the norm if you will. I am fascinated by the snake, although, I must confess that the sight of one fills me with unease. It’s one thing to romanticize a monster, it’s another to have it at arm's length, ready to strike back."
"Romanticizing the monster. I like that, I really do," he scribbled on his notepad.
"The truth is that my admiration for the serpent is a form of self-flagellation, a way of reminding me that Evil exists and is always lurking nearby. It’s important to remind ourselves of such things even when our lives are on tranquil waters. I admire Evil. No, perhaps 'admire' isn’t the right word. Respect. I think that works better, I respect Evil. And I respect things Evil represents because when you respect something you never underestimate it. You know that it holds its place on a pedestal for a good (or in this case, bad) reason. You know it can hurt you if you let it, so you keep your eyes on it. You let it know that you know it can strike, but you also stand tall and let it know that you won’t go down without a fight. Never underestimate anyone, or anything. It’s a lesson life has generously taught me. And one I hope to teach you."
— 3 —
ADAM USUALLY FOUND it easy to sleep in strange beds, he would rest his head and feel the drunkenness of sleep take over instantaneously. Despite the soft sheets and white noise of the ceiling fan above him, the chatter in his mind made a decent REM cycle a daunting task. What was so different about this place? What made him so uneasy? He thought back to the woman
he had seen earlier. Why hadn't he asked Margo about her? That woman must have been Nina. Who else could it be? Why hadn't she joined them for dinner? She seemed perfectly healthy earlier. Romanticizing the Monster. And Margo, she never mentioned the painting he was hired to create. What sort of painting could possibly be worth seventy-thousand dollars? While laying in bed he reached for his phone. Still no service. He imagined the hysteria awaiting him when Ashley finally got ahold of him.
Through the haziness of his thoughts, he heard another noise coming from his closet door.
He had never been afraid of the dark, it was something he outgrew at a young age. As a teenager he would force himself to sleep with one foot over his bed. Something inside wanted to feel a cold hand tugging from under the bed. He stared into mirrors, too, this was something he did at a younger age, hoping a face would appear behind him, grinning a menacing smile, taunting him from the other side. He wanted some kind of proof of monsters, of evil, of something other worldly. This would surely prove the existence of goodness as well, of God, gods, saints, something to call upon. He never felt a thing.
The noise came soft at first, almost like a whisper, just a single breath from the vicinity of the closet. He didn't open his eyes, he simply inhaled and dismissed it as he turned his body. And then it happened again, this time louder and with a sweet sound, the sound of a woman's voice. He slowly turned his head and stared at the direction from which it came.
There was silence again, but a strange scent now permeated the room, the soft smell of copper, a subtle odor of blood.
Adam.
He heard that. He heard something call to him and pulled his left foot back over the bed, covered both with his blanket.
Adam.
His eyes widened, this time he focused on the closet, there was a rotten smell in the room now. A coldness took over, he felt the hair on his forearms stand on end. The stench began intensifying. Something was moving on the closet door. Adam could feel his jaw fall as the wood grains on the closet door began shifting, spiraling, and morphing into something. Someone.
Adam. It was beginning to form a face, the high cheekbones, the strong jaw line, the eyes and writhing lips. The hair flowed like thin snakes wriggling all around her.
Adam.
His heart began to race. Adam.
Speak to me. The voice cooed, I am of this world. But there was danger in her tone. She was most certainly not of this world. The wood grains continued their movement, a terrible, slow slither.
Adam, they repeated. Come find me.
I am of this world.
"Where?" he trembled. When he spoke the eyes on the face tore themselves open. Blood oozed down the closet door and darkened the ground.
Adam. The whisper echoed in his ears until it became thunderous. The darkness took over. He did not wake until late the next morning.
The Crust of Blood
February 5, 2014
THE MIRROR, A THING of pleasure in decades past, had begun to sneer back at her. When did it begin to fall apart? Aesthetics began to shred at the cellular level, clawing the lines of time around her once prominent eyes.
Margo sat up, rotated her neck slowly, listening to her insides crunch. The sour taste in her mouth, the molar which tasted of rot, the hoarse breathing and the blackened lungs. "Bertha," she called.
There was sadness, one which had lingered in the shadowy gray areas of her consciousness. Her mind, a place where she once held complete dominion, had begun to wander in time, replacing histories with tragedies. She felt her eyes grow wet and red as a brief image of her son Daniel flashed in her mind's eyes. He was eighteen and ready for the world. Then the barrel, then the blood and bones, then the gruesome picture of a severed head. The crust of blood.
"Bertha," this time louder and with even greater sadness. Where was she? Margo couldn't remember a time her wing-woman wasn't part of her life, giving her comfort and support. Bertha was there when her first husband left and gave the breath of life to the dead body of her second. She was there when the call came about Daniel's body. Margo loved her, the idea came quickly. She loved her?
"No," she whispered to herself. "I will never love beneath me again."
A gentle knock at her bedroom door brought Margo back to reality.
"What's wrong?" Bertha peaked her head through the door.
Margo turned her face away from the light. "Where have you been?"
Bertha stepped into the bedroom, the darkness kept Margo in shadows.
"Your mother started screaming again. I gave her Kemproxin. I didn't want her to wake the boy."
Margo raised her knees against her chest and hugged them lightly, "The boy," she sniffed.
"He didn't seem to be phased. Didn't hear a noise coming from his room. Do you want me to check on him?"
"No. Leave the boy alone. Let him rest."
Bertha closed the door behind her, they were both in darkness now.
"What's the matter with you? Why aren't you working?"
"I don't feel inspired right now, Bertha. I feel void."
"Void?" she walked next to the bed to sit next to Margo who quickly brushed her away and shifted to the other end of the bed.
"That's the only way to describe it."
"You need to snap out of it. You have a lot of work to do today. The photographer and reporter from DallasMonthly are coming in a few hours. Make-up artist from Norton City should be here in a while, too."
"Publicity." Margo scoffed. "Let them see what they have done to me."
"What who has done to you?"
"Everyone. Everything."
There was a noise outside the door, a faint voice calling.
"Is that the boy," Margo raised her head and wiped her eyes.
"Sounds like it. Nina doesn't wake up this early."
Margo stood up, reached for a robe and wrapped it around herself. "Jesus, don't just sit there like a lump, Bertha! Maybe he's hungry. I need to get ready. Why the hell didn't you wake me up earlier. Can't have him looking at me in this state."
Bertha shook her head lightly, "He's not Danny."
A cold hatred rose from within Margo. "What did you say?"
"He looks like him. But he's not. I know that's what's getting to you. I know that's what shaking the shit out of you. You're transparent, you know that?"
Margoclenched her jaw tightly. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about!"
"Margo, I was there when you saw his picture on the computer. I saw your face. I didn't understand what you were so fascinated with. I could see some similarities between this boy and your Danny. But it really hit me when I saw him yesterday, I saw his eyes. That horrible and beautiful green color, they are just like Danny's. You know just as well as I do that you did not hire that boy because of his skills. His own teacher calls him mediocre at best. You're not fooling anyone but him, and even he will catch on pretty soon. He sees the way you look at him. He doesn't know whether you want to kill or fuck him."
Margo's eyes were burning, but her lips remained pressed.
Bertha inhaled deeply, she rose slowly from the bed. "Danny is gone. I know that very well. Do you?" She walked towards the door, opened it slightly. "Don't do what you're going to do, Margo. Don't go opening old wounds."
"Get out!"
"You know I would do anything for you, but I don't think you know what you're getting yourself into. You're ready to start fresh, you have a new exhibit and book coming up. People are interested again. It's what you wanted all along, isn't it? To be back on top. To be the big shit again. This is what you should be concentrating on. This idea of yours, this idea of bringing that boy here—you're playing with fire, and I don't know if I can stop what's coming."
"Then let me burn, Bertha," her eyes were now wet, she clasped her hands together trying to hide the trembling. "Let me burn."
Interview
THE CARAVAN ARRIVED before ten in the morning, bringing two thin male assistants, a tall Spanish-looking photographer named G
erardo and a mousy young reporter named Elena. The two assistants clung to the photographer as if his presence parted water and manhood healed the crippled. Margo was unimpressed with the charade and pretentious nature of the traveling circus and crossed her legs and rolled her eyes repeatedly. She asked Adam to sit next to her while the photographer snapped some test shots.
"You don't age," said the photographer, chest hair peeking through his black polo shirt.
"You are too kind," was replied, no eye contact was made. She hadn't noticed the birthmark on Adam’s neck. He had been marked by nature, a beautiful token on a living statue.
"Do you need a drink?" she softly asked Adam, Margo wanted to touch his face, there were no pores. Life latched onto him with an intensity she had not seen in decades. When did she lose that light? The security of youth, the majesty of the new.
He shook his head as he leaned into his knees, his legs fidgeting nervously.
The photographer glared at Adam through the camera lens. "Where did you find this one, Margo?" asked the photographer. The shutter snapped. "Is he the muse for the exhibit" his camera clicked, the flash illuminated Adam's profile.
"Adam is neither monster nor chimera."
"You can say that again" the photographer eyed Assistant One and snickered. He smiled back, adjusted the lighting, and fluffed a pillow near Margo, the young assistant possessed no concept of boundaries and accidentally smacked the painter on her leg. There was no apology. Margo's eyes glared at the insolence. This one will never advance in life, he refuses to respect his betters.
Adam was uncomfortable with the photographer's blatant attention, every flash made his pulse crescendo. He leaned towards Margo, "I need to make a phone call," he lied. "Need to check on something real quick."