House of Cabal Volume One: Eden

by Wesley McCraw

  Dolphin wind chimes hang at the side of my porch and jingle as if panicked. I hold my pajama top closed and clutch the chimes to silence them.

  Branches and leaves rustle in the wind beyond the light. Across the street, seemingly deserted houses give no relief from the darkness. Down the hill, at the end of the block, floodlights illuminate St. Agnes cathedral. I don’t see anybody around.

  Wind blows rain onto the floorboards, and raindrops light up against the night sky as the drops fall and darken the wood. I imagine the precipitation as flaring meteorites, pummeling Portland’s skyline. This normality is killing me. You already know that, don't you? The only person in this whole stupid world that knows I’m suffering isn’t even real.

  Back inside behind my locked door, my nerves or the cold from outside causes me to tremble.

  It feels like my life is about to change. It’s wishful thinking, I’m sure. I’m too much a coward to do anything. I lead a quite, safe life and so this is what I get.

  The front room windows reveal little but my reflection. Rain pelts the glass. I’ve been a coward my whole life. This isn’t some new development.

  I had this horny college roommate named Randy, this uninhibited jock who would masturbate to Hustler while I was still in the room. I can’t believe I’m telling you this. Anyway, the first time he did it, I was on my side, on my bed studying, and he just started pulling away as if it was no big deal. The hysterical thing was I had no idea what he was doing. I heard the stroking, but the magazine blocked my view, so I’m staring at him, trying to figure out why the hell he has this weird expression, and he sees me watching and says without missing a beat, “Hey, fag, mind if I blow my wad?”

  It’s hard to express how embarrassed I was. I don’t remember much after that, just confessing I’d never done it—jacked off, I mean—and him laughing in disbelief. I remember him laughing for a long time and telling me that he’d started in grade school.

  It became this running gag. He would ask me if I wanted a jack off lesson. One time he brought back this freshman girl—they were both pretty trashed—and he asked if I wanted to join them. At the time, I was still a virgin abstaining until marriage, and I laughed it off and went for a walk.

  I thought of him as a sinner, but deep down, I wanted to be him. He was respected, he won football games, he didn't take crap from anyone, he brawled and came out on top, and he used women like they were objects and they loved him for it. Who was I? Just some coward, freaked out by college hedonism. Because of my looks, no shortage of girls came onto me. All I felt was anxiety. Religion was an excuse. The truth was they scared me. I was a little boy in a man's body, and Randy's effortless masculinity humiliated me on a daily basis.

  Sex should be easy for me. I’m in peak physical condition. People find me attractive. Most of the time sex is this anxiety-fueled nightmare.

  I need some ice cream and trudge into the kitchen.

  I dig into a pint of Chocolate Obsession frozen soy dessert. In two years, I’ll be married. A house with three bedrooms, a minivan, a dog, a kid. Everything will go according to plan. I’m insane not to be happy.

  The rich chocolate velvet melts in my mouth.

  I’ll be living the ideal: what most people would consider the only kind of paradise one can hope for in this life. And I’ll feel trapped and half dead. With the spoon pointed at you, I add aloud, “Nevertheless, I’ll act happy.”

  I laugh. If my life doesn’t go according to plan, if it all goes to hell, the only difference in my life will be that I won’t have to act happy anymore.

  Instead of this ice cream, I should have grabbed a knife and ended it all right here, right now. A knife shoved through that little hollow spot below my Adam’s apple, that’s all it would take. Easy.

  You tell me not to even joke about that. Besides, that’s a tracheotomy, not suicide.

  I’m just depressed. I couldn’t do that to Carrie or to my parents. I take another spoonful of chocolate comfort. My life is fine, and if it’s not, what’s the big deal? People never feel complete; nothing is perfect. So I’m suffocated by my job, by my girlfriend, and by my existence, that doesn’t give me the right to be a little bitch about it. Nothing is wrong. So why am I about to snap?

  I stab my spoon into the soy and want to cry. I hate myself all the time.

  The masculine archetype is unobtainable, you tell me. You stop yourself from continuing, thinking maybe you shouldn’t be giving me council. You are an observer, after all.

  Continue. I want to hear what you think.

  You tell me I look like the masculine ideal. Men aspire to be me. Trying to live up to that image has created insecurities. Especially when it comes to sex. I've shut off my feelings to appear invulnerable. This has created barriers that keep me from being able to form meaningful connections. No wonder I’m depressed.

  When did you become my shrink? Right, I asked for it. But where does that leave me? Do I just accept that I suck? How does that help?

  Another knock pounds the front door and thank God! Now I don't have to talk to you. I grab the door handle, clench the handle harder to still my shaking, and fling the door open.

  “Excited to see me?” my girlfriend asks from behind a cardboard box in her arms.

  As I take the box, I smile a bit too aggressively. “What’s up? Come in.”

  The perky blonde enters with a red envelope in her hand and a ring on her finger. You recognize her from the picture on the mantel, only now she wears jeans and a raincoat. You wonder if the ring signifies engagement.

  I try to maintain a happy front; she has little tolerance for my low moods. “What’s with the box?” I close the door with my foot.

  She lightly kisses me on the cheek. “I’m moving in next week, silly.”

  “I know, but that’s like, seven days away.”

  She giggles. I’m not joking. I lay the box by the door. All this time and I still don’t know if her constant cheerfulness is an act or not.

  “I found this on the porch.” Carrie waves an envelope back and forth above her head as if she just scratched a winning lottery ticket. “Your very own super-secret-stalker slut!”

  "Don’t say that. You know how I hate that word. We agreed, no sex shaming."

  “Guys can't even be sluts." She notices my serious look. "Fine, your secret admirer. Happy? I don't want you regressing back to celibacy. You're so sensitive.”

  When not making light of my inexperience, she’s making fun of my conservatism. I finally had sex with her to prove I wasn't gay. I was committed to her—I was too scared to ever have sex with other people—so abstaining until marriage started to seem pointless. After sex, marriage seemed pointless too, but I proposed anyway. That’s what a respectable Christian does.

  The envelope is glossy like a dark red apple. I try to snatch it from her. She pulls away and dashes over to the couch. I stay where I am, not in the mood for games.

  “Remember the time that fat girl at the gym had a crush on you?” She takes off her coat and straightens her angora sweater, passing the envelope from hand to hand.

  I trudge back into the kitchen to put away my ice cream. She doesn’t bother to follow.

  “Then she started going to the gym every day so she could see you. You’re quite the diet plan.”

  After putting away the ice cream in the freezer, I press my forehead against the cool stainless steel of the door.

  “Who do you think this one is?”

  Taking a deep breath, I come back into the living room. “You know I’m not good at that.” Suddenly I feel like crying. Normally I'm numb. Right now I’m an exposed nerve. “I don’t care," I snap at her. "Throw it away if you want.”

  "Oh, you're no fun when you're like this. What’s wrong? Talk to me." She puts a hand on my bare chest. It makes me angry for some reason. “I should have known. You always eat that soy crap when you get depressed. Aren’t you even curious?”

  “No.”

  She slides her hand down my
abs to the hair below my navel and twirls a finger. My balls tingle. I don't want to respond to her; I want to be pissed. She gives me her mock innocent expression.

  I stand firm, my hands at my sides. “I’m not opening it.”

  “Look, it even has a riddle on the front. Listen to this: ‘My veiled face is my face itself; unveiled it is annulled. I am hidden and concealed, yet if you discover me, I will disappear before your eyes forever.’ You’re good at this kind of stuff; what is it?”

  “What do you think it is, Carrie?”

  “I don’t know. Riddles are your thing. Just tell me.”

  “It’s a riddle.” I snatch the envelope.

  It’s sealed with wax and branded with the letter A.

  “I know.”

  “That's the answer, Carrie. Riddle. Riddle is the answer. It was made famous by Galileo… the explorer.” I break the seal and slide out a handwritten note.

  “I know who Galileo is. You don’t have to act like I’m a retard.”

  The note is in black calligraphy on rice paper. You read it over my shoulder.

  *>0<*

  For the one who is yearning and turning for that which is not him

  And is not afraid of the original Sin,

  The one missing something from his life,

  And is not against horrible strife,

  A chance is here for you, a chance to transact

  With your deeper curiosities and your need to interact.

  The puzzle is simple for one such as you,

  With your knowledge of enigmas and of each Portland avenue.

  Just run to the corners of seven streets and feel an unquenched desire,

  For in the headlines of today will be the key to conspire

  To create the rest of your life fulfilled.

  You have the double count of six hundred sixty-six.

  Carrie is irritated by the wait. “Well, who is she?”

  Cassette Tape Three:

  Lovely Portland

  Well it’s a simple enough riddle.

  Okay, Chuck, I have twenty-two minutes to run to the newspaper box on 7th and Pine. It’s just a prank, but I’d rather be gullible than miss my chance. A chance for what? This is crazy. I can make it though; it’s only six blocks.

  I turn to get dressed. Carrie grabs my arm. “What are you doing?”

  I’m not sure how to explain. “I don’t have time for this.”

  “You’re not going anywhere, not until you talk to me.”

  "This is my chance!"

  "For want?"

  "Let go of me! I'm not happy!" I'm shocked the words came out of my mouth. But it’s out there, and I’m not taking it back. She should know how I feel. She’s my fiancé. "I'm quitting my job."

  "No, you're not."

  I didn't even know I wanted to quit my job until the idea came out of my mouth. But it feels right. "I want more than this."

  "So what?"

  How can she say that? "I’m not happy. I’ve forgotten what it feels like."

  "Well tough shit! I'm moving in next week, Everett! You can't just quit your job. Man up."

  "I'm not going to be your perfect boyfriend anymore. I can't, I just can't do it."

  "Who said you were perfect?”

  I'm crying. I want her to hug me and tell me we’ll get through this together.

  Disgusted, she releases my arm. “Pull yourself together. God. What is wrong with you?"

  She wanted me to be open and now that I am, she can barely look at me. I want to die.

  There’s a knock on the front door, and we all turn. I look out the peephole but can’t see. I blink to clear my eyes. The storm churns beyond the porch light. If people are out there, they’re hidden from view.

  Wait. What is that?

  There! Propped against the railing at the edge of the porch is a second red envelope.

  I open the door. She grabs my sleeve, and I slip out of my shirt so I can get away from her and outside. I feel exposed wearing just my white boxers. Raindrops carried by the wind prick my hot skin. This new red card (not an envelope) feels glossy. You watch Carrie’s posturing silhouette in the doorway. Her hands clinch in fists around my shirt.

  The card reads, “Lethe runs faster than you.”

  Behind me, the door slams.

  I jump for the knob, and a wind gust snatches the card away. The brass handle feels like ice and doesn’t turn. I pound the door with my fist. “Carrie, open up. It’s freezing. Please! Open the door!”

  There is a muffled, “Promise me you’re not going to go meet that slut!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m not stupid!”

  “Just open the door!”

  “Promise me!”

  “I promise. Okay? Now please, open the door. It’s freezing!”

  The door opens a crack and the security chain pulls tight. “Who is she?”

  I could say a fake name, or force the door open—those chains rip out all the time on cop shows.

  Before I think of what to do, she says, “Fuck you!” and slams the door. I hear the clunk of the deadbolt.

  "I'm not cheating on you!" I've only ever slept with her, and she thinks I'm having an affair. How can she think that? She knows me. I'm honest with her about everything!

  Except the lies I tell myself.

  I pound the door and yell for entrance. She doesn’t answer.

  “Shit,” I say under my breath. That was my one chance. It will be forever before she’s willing to talk. If I break a window to get back in, I would still have to deal with her accusations and rage.

  I fold my arms and hunch my shoulders forward in an effort to keep warm. How did it come to this?

  I don’t want back inside. Not if it means making up with Carrie. I thought I didn't care about anything. But I cared the whole time and just didn't admit it to myself.

  I chose this life, that’s the thing. No one forced me into it. I could do anything, be anything. Right now I could jump from this porch and run through the city and be alive. I just stand here paralyzed, shivering like a frightened animal.

  I gaze out through the rain, and for the first time since I moved here, the dreary lights of Portland symbolize promise. Somewhere in that rain waits the answer to a puzzle. I’ve always loved puzzles.

  And then.

  As if I waited for this moment my entire life.

  I jump.

  I fly into the rain-filled air. Into a weightless moment. The sidewalk rushes up, and I land hard and fall forward into a sprint across the street and then down toward the 14th and Pine intersection.

  “Holy shit!”

  I use the balls of my feet so that the steep downgrade doesn’t hurt as much. I look up. The downpour falls full force from the black sky. I look forward. It makes little difference; rain gets in my eyes and I can hardly see. If I keep sprinting, maybe I can ignore the bone-chilling cold.

  I pass St. Agnes Cathedral, and an angel statue watches me pass.

  God, what am I doing? 7th and Pine. I just need to get to 7th and Pine. That’s only a little over six blocks. I can do this.

  I could get arrested. Carrie could end up hating me. This won't solve anything.

  Except a puzzle. And maybe that’s enough.

  Two business types wait for the crosswalk signal. As I pass them, they step back, startled. What a rush! I laugh. I can’t help it!

  You Google “St. Agnes.” She is the saint of chastity and rape victims. Not the best omen to start a journey.

  Even though I’m using the balls of my feet, the impacts on the pavement jolt up my legs. I cross 12th. Each lamppost illuminates a triangle waterfall of rain. I dodge more people near the end of the block, the world a jarring blur, and jump over beer bottle shards as I cross 11th.

  Fleeing from my constant sanity, I am sex in church: profane and free. I can run forever.

  Because of the cold and the water suction, I don’t flop in my underwear anymore, and I notice the cloth is transp
arent. My vulnerability only makes me more alive and courageous. Before I look back up, I slam into a massive bulk and fall backwards.

  The sidewalk knocks the breath out of me. You see me gasping and sprawled in front of a bar called “The Blue Stud.” A blue, neon bronco beside the front door adorns a brick wall.

  As I lie there on my back, blinking away the rain, the man just stands there, towering over me. Overly muscular, he’s like many of the bodybuilders at my gym, and then I recognize his face. He ran into me earlier in the locker room. His shirt clings to his skin, revealing the outline of the nipple ring.

  After staring a moment, he offers a hand. I reach up and grasp it firmly, embarrassed to the extreme, and he pulls me to my feet.

  I hear the buzz of the neon and notice the bronco. It’s the gay bar.

  If I were gay this would be the meet cute of a gay romantic comedy. With my hand in his, I have an odd impulse to talk to him, to explain to him that I'm in the middle of solving a riddle. He could help me. I resist the unsettling impulse to connect with him and turn to go.

  He doesn’t release my hand.

  “Don’t you want to apologize again?” His gaze lowers to my groin.

  This musclehead doesn’t intimidate me. I’m a big enough guy; I can defend myself if I have to. “Hey fag, let go!” I try to get my hand free from his vice-like grip. “I’m straight!”

  He glances over his shoulder to a dark alley to the side of the bar. “I think you need to give a better apology than that.”

  "Fuck off."

  He twists my arm back. The move is precise, as if practiced, and I'm not expecting it.

  I let out a cry of pain. “Ow-ow-ow. Let go!” My arm socket feels like it is about to pop apart.

  Before I have a chance to fight back, he has both my arms wrenched behind me and drags me toward the alley. I try to find purchase on the pavement and only accomplish to rip skin from my soles.

  This isn’t happening. It can’t be.

  I'm displaced. This must be someone else's life.

  This can’t be happening.

  “Stop! Ow. You’re hurting me. Let me go! Help!”