“It says I failed.”
“Are you sure?”
I nod and turn away so she can’t see my weakness.
They gave me the double count of six hundred sixty-six. I took too long.
My relationship with Carrie was ruined for nothing. And I was assaulted by some fag who goes to my gym. God, I can never go back to my gym. What am I going to tell Rod? I feel sick.
“I’m sorry. Did it say what this is about?”
I shake my head and cross my arms, hunching my shoulders.
We remain silent as the city transitions into the suburbs. You in the back seat are apparently here to witness my failure. I wish I could get out of the car and be alone, but that’s obviously not really an option.
Other candidates must be advancing right now, probably solving the next riddle. I bet they weren’t locked out of their apartment by their girlfriends. Or assaulted in some back ally. It’s not fair.
Dana changes the windshield-wiper speed to intermittent. Without me saying so, she seems to accept that I don’t want to talk.
Maybe the riddle and the box and the key aren’t important. I failed, but it led me here to this moment. Maybe the real reason you’re writing about me is Dana Parr.
I unfold my arms, trying to be less guarded.
Just look at her. It was so nice of her to help me. And that dress! Simple, sexy, yet still glamorous. She must have money. She must be someone. Maybe this is her biography. I don’t want to be special anymore. An hour ago, I wanted to be special, and now I just want my old life back. I rub the back of my neck, covering my chest with my elbow. I wish I at least had a shirt.
She sneaks a peek at my body, and she sees that I see, and she smiles, embarrassed. It makes me feel a little better.
She pulls into the driveway of a generic two-story American Dream House on a seemly, respectable upper-middle class street. I assume the straight-laced exterior is a facade.
I imagined a future like this in suburbia with Carrie once upon a time. That’s never going to happen.
“Here we are.” Dana gets out of the car.
On the windshield, water specks accumulate. A white picket fence neatly frames a just-rolled-out lawn that glistens beneath the porch light.
Without opening her umbrella, Dana rushes to the front door. She turns back to see if I’m coming. Her red dress positively shines in the porch light, the awning protecting her from the drizzle. It’s time for me to follow. I’ll do what she says and give her what she wants.
With her coat around my waist, I step out of the car and, exposed to the cold again, start to shake. I grab the damp newspapers and underwear with one hand and the box and butcher paper in the other.
It’s not the cold. I’m trembling from anticipation. Maybe fear. What are me and Dana going to be doing together? I’m not the confident lover she thinks I am. But maybe I can pretend.
I hurry to join her. My feet sting and ache with each step. A half-hour ago a man dragged me into the ally and it tore up my feet. I want inside the house so I can lie down. I’m suddenly exhausted. We could lie together, warm and comfortable and safe, and she can hold me and tell me everything will be okay.
I can’t handle sex right now.
I’m not a man. I’m a boy.
Boys want their mothers. Men want to get laid, not coddled or protected. I should have fought back harder. Some queer overpowered me. I was helpless. What kind of man am I?
I failed to fight him off, and so I ran out of time and failed the test.
His body presses into me, his erection against my ass. My brain is the enemy. I need to pull it together. God, help me. Remembering the attack has gotten me hard.
Dana rummages through her purse, her hair misted with tiny droplets. I move in close and smell her perfume.
Purity isn’t enough anymore. Non-action isn’t enough. Dana is my opportunity to prove who I am. If I don’t sleep with her, who am I? Just some pathetic loser too afraid to live.
I would adjust the coat, so my erection is less obvious, but my hands are full.
She opens the door. On the warm air, the smell of spiced apples greets me. An image of my mom pouring reheated applesauce over peanut butter toast flashes in my mind like a vacation slide. I rarely think about my childhood. When I do, it’s usually unconnected fragments. Long-term memory is not a strength of mine.
We step into the entryway.
A blond man in a wheelchair is inside near a hearth. A crackling fire illuminates half his face and casts the other half in shadow.
“Who’s this? And why is he naked?”
Seeing him thankfully dampens my erection.
He wheels forward. He is handsome and looks fit despite his paralysis.
I smile tightly, masking my confusion.
Dana hangs her umbrella on a steel holder by the door. “This is Everett Grimes. He’s a CPA. Everett, this is my husband, Thomas.”
“We do have some complex finances. Now about his clothes…”
She leans over and kisses his cheek. “Let’s just say it’s a strange story.”
I’ve definitely misinterpreted Dana’s intentions. I could tell her to take me home, but the last thing I want is to face Carrie. It would be another humiliation.
“And embarrassing,” I say, turning up the charm. “Your wife was kind enough to take pity on me.”
He extends a hand. I hesitate. The invitation reminds me of the offered hand back in front of the Blue Stud. The rain patters. The neon buzzes.
If Carrie found out about the assault, she would act concerned. Her honest reaction would be disgust. She would see me as a pathetic victim.
“Nice to meet you, Everett. Call me Tom.” His warmth makes me even more uncomfortable, as if he expects us to be fast friends.
"Likewise.” I shake with one hand and hold the newspaper, underwear, and package with the other. As we shake, Dana’s coat slips from my waist.
I scramble to cover myself.
With all this stuff in my hands, the box and the newspaper and my underwear, it takes forever to rewrap the coat. I look like a lothario panicking because of the unexpected arrival of a cuckolded husband. My cheeks burn.
“It’s okay,” she says, amused.
“I’m so sorry!”
He waves it away. “I’ve made some apple cider. Want some?”
Dana reaches out. Before she can touch my arm, I step away. “You two just saw me naked.” That was louder than I intended. I swallow. “I’m sorry, I’m just um... I’m what you would call the opposite of an exhibitionist.”
“You like to watch?”
Dana laughs. “Stop teasing. Can’t you see he’s mortified?”
“He knows I’m joking.” Thomas pivots his wheelchair as he says, “Don’t you, Everett?” and punches my shoulder.
I nod in all sorts of directions. “Of course.”
“Warm yourself by the fire. I need to talk to my wife a sec. We won’t be long.”
“You’re still shaking. I’ll get you some of Tom’s clothes.”
Thomas wheels back into the relative darkness of a hallway, and she slinks after him. Her dress hugs the curves of her hips.
I can’t think about her like that; she’s married.
And I have a fiancé.
I stand by the fire and try to relax my shoulders. My right shoulder won’t relax as low the other one. The joint throbs again.
What the hell am I doing here?
Inside the house is more modern than outside. Second floor rooms are visible between the posts of an upper railing. Why have a second floor if Thomas can’t use it? A towering glass wall makes me wonder if any neighbors are spying on us.
I jump when Thomas says, “This way.”
He wheels through the dining room. “You should put all that stuff down before you drop her coat again.”
I put my stuff on the dining table.
Everything he needs to make dinner has already been laid out on the kitchen counter.
H
e hands me a mug. “Mind pouring your own?”
I ladle cider from around a cinnamon stick.
He puts a cutting board on his lap and starts preparing garlic cloves.
A thought strikes me: can he have sex with his wife? I guess with his hands and mouth, but what would it be like to have sex and not feel down there?
I study my reflection in a dark window. The scuffs on my torso, where I was pushed against the brick wall, feel obvious, but I can hardly see them in the window. I sip the cider, feeling the warmth down in my chest, and I run a hand over my abs until I find a sensitive abrasion.
“How much do you work out?”
I’m caught off guard. “Oh. Um, not too much.”
“Come on.”
“No, seriously. If I eat right, my body’s metabolism keeps me lean. I lift weights. Some swimming. Nothing too crazy.”
“You must have to fight the women off with a stick.”
I laugh.
The next moment I feel guilty for laughing. I don’t want to feel happy so soon after what happened to me.
“Something wrong?”
“No. Nothing.” I fold my arms, feeling exposed again. When is Dana getting back with those clothes? “I’m kind of distracted. You have a gorgeous wife.” I amend quickly, “Oh, God, that came out wrong. I don’t mean—”
“Everett! It’s okay. Relax.”
“You must think I’m some kind of freak.”
“Stop it. My wife likes you. I like you. You’re doing everything right.”
I nod, not sure what to say.
“Dana and I travel a lot. We meet new people all the time. At first I let Dana do the talking, but when you’re nomadic like us, if you want to make connections, you have to be open. You have to stop worrying all the time about what other people think.”
“I guess.”
“You got into my wife’s car because you wanted to take a chance. Am I right?”
I nod.
“Well, here you are. Taking a chance.”
“Is flannel okay?” Dana has been watching us from the dining room. “I thought you could use something cozy.”
I grab the clothes and avoid eye contact.
“How’s the cider?”
I think to myself, It’s warm, but it’s nothing special, nothing like you, Dana. “I’d better take that shower.”
“Yeah, a cold shower,” you say under your breath.
“There’s soap in the right-hand drawer.”
I thank her and go, keeping my head down. God! I forgot you have a wife, Chuck. You must think I’m such a creep.
When I get to the spartan (no decorations, no patterns, no clutter) bathroom, you’re already in here, looking around as if it’s a crime scene. It’s a bathroom, Chuck. Calm down.
You roll your eyes and continue your inspection. The shower curtain has a plastic smell. Not a speck of grime grows between the tiles, yet there’s no smell of cleaners, only the smell of plaster and freshly cut tile.
I set my mug on the counter. With a piece of toilet paper, I blow my nose and since there is no wastebasket, throw the tissue into the toilet.
“I freaking hate myself,” I tell you and drop the coat to the floor.
To give me privacy, you pick up the mug and gaze into the cider. You feel the warmth and smell the cinnamon. But can you also taste it? You bring the mug to your mouth and take a sip. The pleasantly intense cinnamon and the apple flavor, sweet and tart at the same time, is surprisingly tasty.
I empty my bladder into the toilet, my genitals cold and shrunken. The stream goes for a long while.
Drinking the cider is now unappealing and you pour it down the sink. You ask me why I hate myself. I accepted a woman’s help out of the rain. I didn’t sleep with her.
I start the water running.
Carrie is in my apartment right now, upset. And I’m here. Isn’t that reason enough? Yesterday I loved her. Yesterday the last thing I would ever do is cheat on her. Today I’m not sure of anything.
I turn on the showerhead. Steam rises immediately.
I’m coveting someone else’s wife, and part of me wants to tell Carrie about it so that she can hate me.
I got into a stranger’s car, wanting an affair.
Who am I?
My chest rises and falls like a bellows and the steam clears out some of the darkness that has crept inside me.
Maybe it’s progress. I’m finally admitting I don’t have all the answers.
In the drawer Dana mentioned, resting on top of the bars of soap, is an envelope, and on the outside of the envelope is my name.
Cassette Tape Six:
In the Bedroom
I unfold the letter and read it loud enough so you hear over the gushing water.
We have a proposal. I worship Dana, but I’m not able to show her that love physically in the way that she needs and deserves. It is our sincere hope that you would consider helping us.
You need to understand, this is a key to Dana’s body, not to Dana’s heart. Dana would be making love to me through you. Not fucking, not sex, making love. I would be in the room and you would be our sex surrogate.
If you decline, say nothing and we’ll pretend you never saw this letter. If you are interested, it can be the one night or we can arrange something more long-term. Money is not an issue.
Your friend,
Thomas Parr’s bold signature is scrawled across the bottom.
With the extra cash I could pay back my student loans. Just the first thing that popped into my head.
I test the shower with my hand.
They’re debauched hedonists. He gets off on watching his wife, the pervert. And she gets off on him watching.
I add a touch more cold and step in. The heat is extreme on my chilled skin, but only for a few moments.
They can’t disguise this as something pure. If you’re married, you don’t have sex with other people. Simple as that.
Thomas wrote the letter before we met. He didn’t have enough time to write it when he went away with Dana when I first got here. That means this was planned. What else was part of this perversion? Could all this—the riddle, the box and the key, Dana waiting at the newspaper box—be connected?
It’s too complicated. It’s an absurd conspiracy theory. Instead of playing an elaborate game of riddles and chance encounters, they could have simply asked me outright. I would have said no, but they could’ve asked.
My body has acclimated to the intense heat, and I reduce the cold a bit more.
It’s an offer of casual sex, an offer I’ve received many times and never accepted. Casual sex would prove what everyone presumes: that I’m just looks with no moral substance. I would never actually cheat on Carrie. My ethics are all I have.
I lean out of the shower, dripping water onto the tiles, and grab the soap, shampoo, and conditioner from the open drawer.
To feel better about me and Carrie having sex, I proposed. That’s some extreme conservatism right there. I’m like an Amish person. I’m a Puritan. I had to make her an honest woman just because we were doing it. No surprise pregnancy was needed to motivate me.
Even the Amish get a hedonistic period before they settle down and commit to their faith.
I close my eyes and let the shampoo suds gush over me.
I never had my wild days. If I really am a moral person, why does that bother me so much? Why do I feel like I’m missing out on something important? It’s not fair.
I turn down the cold even more and turn my back to the scalding water. The hotter it gets, the more I can take.
You ask me what I’m going to do.
I feel sorry for them, I genuinely do, but come on, a key to her heart? What a load of BS. Wait! I get it now. That’s the key in the box! It’s crazy, but they planned all this. They’re rich. And bored. Maybe they thought it would be entertaining to put a riddle on my porch and watch me scramble. But why did the note in the box say that I was too late when Dana is still being offered up?
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I turn off the water. My body pulses with heat and my mind is in a haze. I don’t want to think anymore. I’m tired of thinking.
You hand me a towel. Thanks. It feels and smells as if it’s from a store shelf.
I wipe steam from the mirror. My muscled back is now lobster red. My flesh beads with moisture right after I dry it. I’m never going to get dry with all this steam trapped in here.
With the towel cupped over my groin, I open the door. Steam rolls out into the hall. I go back to the mirror and dry my arm pits, watching the doorway out of the corner of my eye.
“You almost done in there?” Dana, as I expected, has come to the door.
My excitement feels like it belongs to someone else. I try to sound casual. “I forgot to turn on the fan, so I’m letting out the steam.” I bend over to dry my legs, showing off my red ass.
She flicks the fan on without stepping into the room. “I thought you weren’t an exhibitionist.”
I stretch my arms out and rub the towel across my upper back. My heart races.
Her posture pushes her breasts forward, her nipples pronounced through her dress. I want to touch them, and I know she wants me to. My cock rises and I cover myself with the towel. I try not to cringe with embarrassment, but it’s too late. She is staring. I close the distance between us in a few steps.
“I’ll be out in a second.”
She steps back, surprised, as I close the door.
I turn around and lean back. “God, what am I doing?”
The steam has dissipated enough for me to get dressed.
Thomas’s flannel boxers cover my erection and the blue jeans cover the flannel. I pull on the undershirt and the flannel button-up. Three ribbed condoms are inside the jeans’ right pocket. They think I might go through three condoms in one night? Who do they think I am? A porn star?
I can’t say yes to them. I would just be a disappointment.
Dana isn’t in the hallway when I exit the bathroom. “Hello?” I whisper. Nor is she in the dark living room.
In the dining room, the bright light from the kitchen spills across shiny plates, meticulously set silverware, and my box. Thomas works away in the kitchen. I still don’t see Dana.
House of Cabal Volume One: Eden Page 10