House of Sighs

by Aaron Dries

  “Go back inside now,” Diana said. “Please go back inside. Please. Please. Please.” Her voice was firm, commanding. Her whispers made the others feel better.

  The man didn’t move however. His head was now cocked to one side, as though he were weighing options.

  “You’re going to go back inside now,” Diana continued. She thought if she said it enough she might believe it.

  The man lifted his head and turned away.

  The passengers watched him leave. He staggered like a drunken man, and as he rounded the rear corner of the house, his shoulder clipped the weatherboards. He disappeared and took the tension in Julia’s shoulders with him.

  The crows flapped away, their shadows floating over the dry lawn in circles. They were hungry, patient, and they refused to leave.

  Forty-Five

  As the temperature climbed inside the bus, the smell got worse. When Michael neared the deformed bus door, he thanked God for air that didn’t reek of septic tanks and abattoirs. He sucked in a breath. Man, that feels better.

  Michael had an issue, and it was a big one considering their circumstances. He needed to pee. Maybe if I don’t pee, I won’t feel any thirstier, he thought. He scoffed at the idea. Shut up, Michael, you’re not a camel! The facts were simple: he needed to piss, and regardless of whether he did or not, he was still going to be thirsty afterwards.

  He had contemplated using the corner next to the driver’s upturned chair. No, that wasn’t an option. The bus was on a slant and the stream would run across the floor and down the steps. It seemed undignified, like a dog. He almost laughed. This isn’t the time to be coy, Michael, he said to himself. You’re not a prisoner by choice, you know? He shook his head. It was decided. He wouldn’t use the corner; he would piss out the door.

  Before going to the front of the bus, he told the others what he was going to do. They tried to talk him out of it, explaining the risks of being seen. He convinced them that he could manage to do it without drawing any attention.

  “Can’t you just hold it in?” Diana asked. “I need to go like a racehorse but you don’t see me dropping my pants, do you?”

  “It’s easier for me. I’m a guy. I can do it quick. Diana, I don’t care if you need to go and you end up doing it in a backseat. I really don’t mind. But I’m sorry, I just don’t want to. If I don’t go now, I’m going to pee all over myself. I just know it.” He looked at them all, except Jack, who avoided his eye. “Please don’t make me do that.”

  He slid down the stairs and looked through the gap, crouching low, and placed a palm on the bent doorframe. It wouldn’t budge. Over the hood of the pickup he could see the house. If he stood, he would be seen, but that was only if the family was looking out, of course. The only way to do it was to crouch low and urinate while kneeling, hips forced against the jaws of the door, and his upper half-twisted almost parallel to the roof of the truck. It would be awkward, but it could be done.

  The pressure was immense now; it was becoming a large blackness in his mind. The discomfort distracted him from everything else. He felt the urge growing worse because his body knew he was close to release. Michael tried to remember what he’d drunk that morning; it hadn’t seemed like much at the time. After blowing Clive, he’d had a glass of water; his throat was sore and dry. Before leaving the house, he’d downed a small glass of orange juice to get the taste of Clive’s penis out of his mouth. Two glasses of liquid equaled two glasses too many.

  Sunlight twinkled in the broken glass littered across the hood. The pieces looked sharp. He swallowed. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea after all. “Oh, shit-shit-shit.”

  Michael pushed himself up onto the top step and looked at the others. They all sat in their respective seats at the back of the bus. He saw them all caught in the act of spying—and watched them twist their heads away with awkward swiftness. “Yeah, whatever. I’m more entertaining than an in-flight movie,” he said under his breath, brushing diamonds of glass off the steps with his foot. “If you’re going to do this, you got to do it now.”

  He lowered himself back onto the bottom step, twisted his legs up underneath him and brought his weight down upon his knees. A nerve pinched between his shoulder blades. He pressed his pelvis flat against the doorframe, contorted his torso so it bent to the right. He leaned his face against the glass of the door and was thankful he could still see the house through it.

  He raised both hands and wormed them towards his crotch. He didn’t realize how much his fingers were shaking until he attempted to grasp his zipper.

  The glass warmed against his cheek. It fogged a little more with every breath. Come on, man. Just do it.

  He started to open his fly, felt the tiny teeth parting. His movements were slow and deliberate. The house continued to stare at him. From his twisted position, he could see the roof and one upstairs window, and in it was a curtain.

  The curtain pulled back.

  The zipper jammed.

  Michael hadn’t realized that he’d closed his eyes. He heard his lashes brushing against the glass. The curtain was still. Your mind’s playing tricks on you, Michael. Keep it together.

  But his zipper was stuck, that had been no invention.

  The pressure grew stronger. The waistband of his jeans dug into his bladder, making it worse. His eyes shot to the house again. He’d imagined seeing a face there before, but it was only a matter of time until it became a reality.

  Whispers from the other passengers reached his ears. They’re talking about me, I just know it, he thought. Oh this damn thing. He gave a determined tug and the pull slid the length of the zipper, its mosquito whine music to his ears.

  But the relief was short-lived. Michael reached into his jeans and curled his fingers around the top of his boxer shorts. When he pulled them down, the skin under his sweaty pubic hair prickled in goose bumps. Okay, the job’s half-done. Just do what you got to do and get the hell out of here.

  The angle of his arm dictated how far down his underwear would slide, and in order for things to work smoothly, he needed an extra inch or two.

  The bones in his spine cracked and popped as he straightened his back. His head emerged above the height of the pickup, and he could now see the front door of the house.

  “Oh shit.”

  Do it now! Jesus Christ, Michael.

  He pulled his underwear down another inch and with his free hand, slipped his fingers inside and pulled out his cock. The weight in his abdomen got worse—he felt like he might explode. He aimed downwards so the stream wouldn’t arc onto the hood of the truck. In the end he couldn’t see what he was going to urinate on, and just hoped it wasn’t going to splash back on him.

  The door of the house watched him. At any moment it was going to spring open and the driver was going to come running out, screaming. Would they come with more guns? Knives?

  He closed his eyes and pushed the thought away, focusing on the mission at hand.

  Nothing came.

  “Come on…”

  A small dribble pooled in the tip of his foreskin. The pressure was agony—it burned through his entire torso and upper chest. His eyes closed again and soon numbers ran through his head; large, purple numerals floating by as though proudly featured on the Sesame Street in his mind. Today is brought to you by…

  “One, two, three.”

  Another drop.

  The house continued to stare.

  Try counting backward, he thought. That always works. His voice cracked as he started to whisper. “Three, two, one—”

  And the stream came. The urine was so dark it was orange. He started to feel lightheaded as the pressure drained away.

  A huge black mass dropped onto the hood of the truck.

  He clammed up mid-flow. A bullet of pain shot through his abdomen. His legs were wedged between the gap and the second step. He couldn’t escape.

  Michael looked through the glass and saw the crow.

  Unafraid, it hopped on the hot surface of the pic
kup. Its clawed feet scratched at the paint, its small head twisting from side to side, curious and hungry.

  “Shoo,” he hissed. “Bugger off.”

  The bird would not move.

  He was tempted to zip up and forget about finishing, but the pain was too severe. His fingers returned to their duty—tentative, and with his eyes focused on the crow, he continued urinating. The piss hammered against metal, the sound louder than he would have liked.

  I’m gonna jump down there and eat your pecker, he imagined the crow saying. I’m gonna grab it in my beak and I’m gonna tear it right off!

  His gaze jumped from the bird to the house. Still no movement.

  I’m gonna throw my head back and let it slide down my gullet just like an oyster.

  “Stop it, go away.”

  The upstairs window. The curtain. Nothing. But for how much longer?

  Gonna rip and tear and scratch and bite and—

  Michael finished. He whipped his penis back into his jeans and threw himself sideways, allowing enough space to free his right knee. He collapsed onto the stairs, his head thumping against the bloodied aisle. Soon the stench of meat returned. He found it disturbing that smelling such horrors was beginning to represent safety.

  The crow flew away.

  Forty-Four

  Julia imagined the life inside her. Her heartbeat started to quicken. “The things we’ve seen today.”

  Diana didn’t reply. She let the sentence hang in the air.

  They held each other for a long time and they knew they had to survive. They were not just two, but three.

  They hummed to each other. It soothed them like ice water over burns. A whispered melody. Two tone-deaf voices drew together. Julia recognized the lyrics and smiled through her tears, wiped snot from her nose.

  Sarah lifted her haggard face.

  The sound of the ocean withdrew from Michael’s ears, replaced by the soft, sweet singing. Jack refused to look at them. Doing so would have been admitting defeat. He kept his eyes on the body in the aisle but his attention was on the sisters. Their voices yielded to each other’s until there was faint harmony.

  Forty-Three

  Jed jumped up and down in his bedroom. Shook his head from side to side. It made him feel better. He turned to the wall and drove his fists through the plasterboard. Over and over and over, not feeling a thing. Plaster fell onto his mattress in clumps. He looked down at his bloodied hand. “Murderer,” he said.

  Forty-Two

  Michael licked his lips. The silence after the song was heavy. He said the one thing they all were thinking but nobody wanted to give in to. “I wish we weren’t here.”

  Jack looked up from the corpse for the first time in ten minutes. For a moment when he saw the limp-wristed kid, he saw nothing but more meat and gristle superimposed over his scrawny body.

  “Oh would you shut the fuck up, mate?”

  Michael tensed. He felt threat emanating from the man like heat. “I’ll say what I want.” He knew he was being challenged; it was important not to back down.

  “Yeah that’s right, you’re all talk, aren’t you?” Jack smiled. It felt good to put the kid in his place.

  “Stop it,” Sarah said.

  “Shut up.” He turned back to Michael and pointed at him. “You and me. Let’s move the body to the very front of the bus. Get it as far away from us as we can.”

  “I don’t want to touch him.”

  “Come on, kid, I’m sure it’s not the first time you’ve grabbed a guy.”

  “Jack, please,” Sarah said.

  “No, come on. It’s Michael, right? That’s your name? What, you don’t speak any more? Yeah, thought so. Maybe the old bird should follow your lead and keep her own mouth shut too. So come on, kid, come on, Michael. You and I are going to move this body.”

  “I said no, Jack.”

  Diana stood. “I’ll help.” She just wanted this over with and was willing to do anything to stop the fighting.

  Jack laughed. He knew they hated him, despised him for his logic. It was only natural to hate what they didn’t want to hear and could not face. For once in his life his message seemed to be getting through. “Nah, toots, you sit back down.” He jabbed his thumb at the kid again. “How about we let the Queen of Sheba get his hands dirty?”

  Michael felt Jack’s eyes burning into him. He wanted to be home. In the ocean. In Thailand. Back at school. Hell, he wanted to be fat again if only it would get him away from here. He would give anything—do anything—even tell his parents about who and what he was, tell the world in fact, if he could only get off this bus.

  Sarah stepped up to the plate. “Oh just frigging stop it, Jack. Can’t you see it’s just too much for him? And there’s nothing wrong with that. Nothing at all. Getting the body to the front is a good idea, let’s do it together. I know how to cart weight—I’ve done my fair share and you don’t get to my age without getting a strong stomach.”

  “I tip my hat to you for your balls, old duck, but it’s about time we saw some from the lad.”

  “Fuck you,” Michael said.

  Jack’s eyes widened. “What did you say to me?”

  Michael had been waiting for him to say it. It was the line he couldn’t let anyone cross. It was a deliberate attempt at conflict and a part of him wanted to fight. “I said fuck you.”

  “Yeah, you’d love that!” Jack readied himself to charge, stopped only by Sarah.

  “Okay, enough’s enough.” She felt old and desperate. Sarah had the sense that with the exception of Jack, their characters were blurring into one. Jack’s vigilant anger was the biggest thing standing between them and survival. She just knew it. “This stops now. Jack, pull your head in. I’m not your mother but I know she’d say the same thing to you.”

  “Back off,” he said.

  Sarah chuckled and shook her head, hands on hips. “Hear the way he talks to me? Hate to bust your bubble but you’re not the first person to think I’m a high-flying bitch. Now sit yourself down and we—”

  “I wouldn’t get too close, luv. The kid’ll sneeze and cover you with the fag disease.”

  Michael felt the words pierce him. Will I have to put up with this for the rest of my life? Is it worth it? Really? Maybe dead is better after all.

  Sarah had seen Jack’s type before and understood that brute strength was only worth its weight if it muscled something good into the world. It only took a single glance at Jack to know where he had come from and where he would end up.

  “You got daggers for me, old duck?” Now it was his turn to smile. “Trust you to side with him. Should’ve known, you with your stupid haircut. You look like a dyke yourself.”

  Sarah slapped him across the face.

  Forty-One: The Crying

  Jack was ten years old again, in his backyard.

  He dropped the bloodied scissors. They pierced the lawn in an upturned V. He looked away from his father and saw the white slash left behind in the orange sky by the airplane.

  His dad had him by the collar. A cooking apron covered his chest. It was smeared with fingerprints of grease and barbecue sauce.

  “I can’t believe it, I can’t believe it,” the old man said. “You look at me when I’m talking to you. And don’t you blubber on me, boy. March yourself in that house now!”

  He felt himself propelled through the air as his father jabbed a thick finger into the back of his neck. “Did you do it? DID YOU?”

  In the memory Jack could not remember if he had said yes or no.

  The shutters of the house were closed, giving the appearance of a solid, eyeless face opening its mouth to gobble him up. Kimba the cat ran underneath his feet and Jack almost fell again, caught by his father who proceeded to slap him around the ears. “Did you do it? Did you do it? Oh Jesus, boy.”

  They stepped inside and the stench of cooked onions wrapped around them. It made him feel sick. The floor was covered in linoleum, and in the darkest corner of the room an air-conditioning
unit growled. His gray-faced mother stumbled into the room and grabbed Jack by the hair. There was blood on her shirt. She pulled him into the doorway, her face stricken.

  Something wrapped around his ankle. Jack lifted his foot, frightened. His mother pulled him into her bedroom, where the smells of barbecue were replaced by the stench of cigarette smoke. He was relieved when he saw that the thing around his ankle was not a decomposed hand as he had imagined, but rather a blood-stained towel.

  The far window was wide open—a brilliant portrait of framed sunlight. In its glow he saw the small figure of a boy near the bed. A skinny kid with no shirt on, his hands wrapped in curtains and dishcloths. When he saw Jack, his cries turned to screams.

  Forty

  The shock of the slap knocked the anger from him. Jack felt empty, though only for a passing second. Soon the anger swamped back, filling him up. It relieved him. His memories vanished. He smiled.

  Sarah slapped him once more. She clenched her fist and realigned her knuckles. Click-crunch.

  His smile was gone.

  Sarah didn’t let the pain show. “I get it,” she said. “Things are bad and this is how you get through it. Now, I’m not saying you’re a bad guy. I’m saying it’s okay to be shit scared. But picking fights is just plain feeble, Jack. You know what that means, don’t you?”

  She looked him up and down.

  “And calling the kid names…and me? Newsflash: sticks and stones and all that jazz. And from the dropped-pie look of you, you’re in no position to be calling anybody anything.

  “And there ain’t nothing wrong with my hair!” Sarah raised a crooked finger in his direction. “So suck my dick and call me madam, ’cause I’d sooner let you than watch you kick a kid when he’s down.”

  Jack searched their faces for an ally and found none.

  The sisters watched Sarah step down and go to the corpse and throw her handkerchief over the busted face.