Decay

by Zach T. Stockwell

  “I bought these months ago when she was supposed to come down last time. But she got caught up and had to cancel, so I stuffed them away.” Gene turned back around and made for the door, and passed Marco on his way back downstairs.

  “Is that all you wanted to say?” Marco realized this sounded rude, so he covered it with a laugh, which was only halfway genuine. He was slightly aggravated the he was pulled away from Delilah for no pressing reason.

  “No, I actually have something for you.” Gene pulled a plain silver key from his pocket and handed it out for Marco to take. “This is for my house. I realized last night that you’re the only friend in the world that I have, other than my daughter. And you should have a key to my house, should anything happen to me. Just in case, y’know.”

  Marco thought it was a strange, but flattering gesture. He took the key from Gene, and stuffed it into his own pocket. “Wow, Gene. Thanks. I’m glad you trust me so much.” Marco had never been very emotionally equipped to handle serious personal situations, so he just left it there, albeit awkwardly.

  “You’re a good kid, Marco,” Gene returned, grabbing his coat from the stairway railing. He made his way downstairs. “Delilah, let’s load up! Kill the fire!” he shouted, already halfway down the stairs, while fumbling to get his jacket on. Footsteps clunked on the hardwood floor louder and louder still until she appeared at the base of the staircase.

  Then, Marco realized, those two people are the only two people in the United States that he remotely cared about. And he only just met one of them. This was a sad but humbling realization, and he somehow felt less alone.

  He’d always been a longer, never one to branch out or go out of his way to make friends. But this was progress. He decided that if he was to have very little company in his life, at least it was quality. Then he hustled down the stairs himself and followed the other two out of the house.

  Delilah was bubbly and upbeat, and Marco loved that. It was a nice contrast to his more reserved personality. He’d always thought that his wife would have to be outgoing, to make him open up to the world. He knew he would never do it on his own.

  On cue, Delilah called Shotgun and joyfully bounced to the passenger side of Gene’s car.

  And just as Gene pushed the button that allowed Delilah to climb aboard, his cell phone rang. The standard tune that was default for all phones of his type chimed for nearly twenty seconds before he wrestled it out of his pocket and answered.

  “This is Gene.”

  “Hey, Gene. Your guy came in and did a sketch with an artist. Just left, and I thought I’d fill you in.” It was Captain Cole.

  “Oh, that’s great. Was it a lot of help? I mean, does it look like a person or was he short of details?”

  “Uh, it looks fine. I mean, we don’t have hair, so they just kind of assumed what his hair looked like underneath. And we’ll have the News people mention that the hair may not be totally accurate. Other than that, it looks good. Looks like a human, at least.”

  “That’s good to hear, Jim. Marco and I will be in again tomorrow first thing. Maybe we’ll have something productive to do by then. Anything else?”

  “Yeah, actually.”

  At this point, Gene was already in the driver’s seat with Delilah to his right and Marco directly behind her. He stamped his foot on the brake and pressed the start/stop button to turn the car on. Captain Cole continued.

  “Uh, me and the Computer Guy dug up all the city camera footage we could. We followed the car several blocks around, and for a while they just drove in circles. I thought it was weird. They made the same block half a dozen times before leaving town, but they did eventually leave town headed south on I-35. We lost it there.”

  Gene resisted the urge to ignore work for the day, because he knew its importance.

  “Okay, that’s good. Say, Cap, do you ever take a day off?”

  Captain Cole laughed and said something he learned from his high school football coach. “Rest is for the weak.” Then Gene’s phone chimed to signal that the Captain was done speaking. Finally relaxed and ready to leave, Gene set his cell phone in the cup holder.

  “That was Captain?” Marco asked, desperately trying not to sound as interested as he was.

  “Yep. But I’ll fill you in later. Let’s go to the zoo.”

  Gene adjusted his rear-view mirror and put the car in drive.

  FOURTEEN

  TUESDAY, JANUARY 19TH

  “Amazing Grace… How sweet the sound… That saved a wretch… Like me.”

  It’s been days. No food, no water. No communication. The only connection I feel with him are his footsteps above me and to the left, from the kitchen. Maybe I shouldn’t feel the need for the connection; he’s shown me how little he must really care for me.

  No. I can’t think that way. I did this, not him. But I fear that I’ve gone too far this time, and I’m done for good. If it’s for the best, then…

  “I once was lost… But now I’m found… Was blind, but now I see.”

  I sing the tune to myself, softly. It comforts me. I grew up religious, but sort of lost that desire after I moved out and married Terry. Haven’t been to church in years. Maybe this is God’s way of punishing me for it. Give me Terry, then take him from me. Give me someone new, then turn him against me. It makes me sick.

  “Was Grace that taught… My heart to fear… And Grace my fears relieved.”

  The melody has always been hauntingly beautiful. Cheerful yet tragic - hopeful, yet sorrowful. Powerful.

  I miss him. I hate him, but I love him. I fear him, but I need him. I can only wonder what he feels about me right now.

  I need to sleep.

  ---

  I think my arm may be broken, but I don’t know. Maybe it’s just a small fracture on my radius. Or my ulna. I’m not sure which is which. Or if it’s not even a fracture, maybe I’m just a baby and over-dramatizing it. Terry always said I was too dramatic.

  My leg feels better, though. I don’t think any major damage was done there, other than just a cut. It did tear the shin out of my right pant leg, so my leg is cold. I must say, though, I’m rather lucky to have tumbled all that way and not gotten hurt more severely. I could have easily hit my head on a stair or broken my neck on the drop down. A punctured lung could have suffocated me, or at very least a cracked rib could have made it hurt to breathe in and out. But for the most part, I got off scot-free. I feel like I cheated - like I should have been hurt more. But oh well; the day isn’t over.

  ---

  The floor creaks and the door opens. It’s the first time he’s contacted me in a long time - maybe days; I don’t know. He bounces down the steps, two at a time in rhythmic fashion. It seems to be an energetic bounce, like he’s happy to be doing it. Then, he’s at the bottom.

  “I owe you an apology, Zoey.”

  I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t. He stops there, and looks at me intently, although I can’t see into his eyes. Rather, I’m looking into two black holes masked by shadow and intrigue.

  “It’s me who should apologize. I betrayed your trust. I was presumptuous and assuming, and I welcomed myself somewhere that I should not have. I’m sorry for my behavior, and I swear for as long as I live, it will never happen again.”

  My eyes become hot with tears, and the tears themselves sting painfully. It’s not a cry out of fear, or even out of my own pity. It’s an apologetic cry. It’s the kind of cry I make when I’m sorry, when I know I’ve done something wrong and worthy of regret.

  I only hope that he sees it as flattering and not as pitiful.

  “I should have handled your misconduct more gracefully. For that, I’m sorry, and I won’t allow you to apologize again. I should not have pushed you or screamed at you like that. I won’t do it again.”

  He stops for a moment and moves the cigar in his hand up to his mouth. He takes a long draw, and the end of the cigar lights red, dropping a single ember onto the wood at his feet. He squashes it then blows a cl
oud of cigar smoke upwards. A flashback plays in my head of the last time he smoked a cigar in front of me, and the subsequent burn that left a scar on my skin.

  “I’d like to make it up to you, if you’ll allow me.”

  He coughs out a bit more smoke while I think on it. I realize that I have nothing to lose, and the world to gain, so I cheerfully agree.

  “What do you have in mind?”

  I’m smiling, but not with my mouth. I don’t want to seem too eager after last time.

  “Well. I want you to come back up and try again. I’ll make a new dinner, and we’ll sit down together. We’ll be civil, and we’ll have a nice time. How does that sound?”

  He takes another draw from his cigar, and then ashes it over the ledge and into the dirt.

  “I think I would like that.”

  I decide to be simple in my approach, and remain rather neutral in my proceedings with him. He seems to be short-tempered and unpredictable, but that’s just part of him. Everyone has their own ailment - something that their loved one has to work around to accept them - and this must be his. I just need to work around his anger, and perhaps I can mellow him out.

  “Excellent. I’ll be back later with the ladder. When I’m ready to start dinner, I’ll allow you another shower and change of clothes while I prepare the meal.”

  “Thank you for giving me a second chance.”

  “Thank you for letting me.” He turns to walk out, but stops himself on the top step to continue. “You know, you’re looking very nice. You’ve dropped a considerable amount of weight, and you’re looking better every time I see you. You’re really impressing me, Zoey. Keep it up.” Then, he actually does walk out of the room, leaving me alone to myself again.

  But I don’t feel alone. Not now, at least. Every bit of anguish I’ve endured the last couple of days had just been wiped clear. Suddenly, the pain in my arm isn’t so sharp, and the emotional trauma I had suffered doesn’t cut quite so deep. I’ll never not be amazed how quickly he can change my perspective with just a few words. And here he is again - saving me and asking nothing in return. What a gentleman.

  I feel giddy.

  ---

  He comes back and lowers down the old-timey wooden ladder and allows me to climb back up on man-made ground. After a while of sitting, standing, and lying on soft dirt, one tends to long for the familiar solidity of a man-made structure, like hardwood or even carpet. Being above ground is also a relief. That pit gives me the creeps. It feels like I’m lying on top of a shallow grave almost, and like I’m being watched at all times. Sometimes I also think that way of thinking is absurd but then again, maybe not. Who knows what lies around me, or underneath me?

  Ah well. I dwell with the living once again.

  I follow him back up into the hallway just outside of the door, and the floor creaks underneath both of us as we step across.

  “I have the bath drawn for you. I want you to relax and enjoy yourself this time. Take your time, and come have dinner when you’re ready to. I’ll be waiting.”

  I feel romanced.

  I walk into the same bathroom that I stood in so few nights ago, where I showered with my own products, from my own house. I get undressed, dropping my torn and bloodstained pants. I look into the tub, and a bath has already been drawn as promised. The water exhales into the air with its steamy breath, inviting me to join.

  The water feels almost scalding at first, perhaps by comparison because I am used to the cold basement. Even with the covers, after a while it still feels cold down there. But after a moment of adjustment, it becomes soothing. It doesn’t take long for the water to become corrupt by dirt and blood, though, and soon I begin to feel even more gross from sitting in a stew of my own filth.

  I pull the plug at the bottom of the bath, and sit back while it drains the light brown water. As the water recedes, I step out and begin to run the shower instead, to ensure a proper clean. As the water warms, I step back in and resume with my business. Once again, I scrub myself thoroughly head to toe. I even have to take the bandage off of my still-burnt hand and wash it a little, despite the hellish sting it throws at me. I made the rookie mistake of looking at it, and for a moment I thought I might vomit, but I turn away and save myself.

  I finish the shower and dry myself off, then wrap my hand in a washcloth, which also appears to be one of my own from home. How accommodating.

  Peeking my head through the door into the hallway, I ask, “Mind if I step into the bedroom for clothes?”

  “Go ahead, dear!” He shouts back.

  With only a towel covering my chest, I bounce through the bathroom door and into the hallway, then through the next door over that leads into the bedroom. Even though there is a door conjoining the two rooms, I elect not to use it. After all, it’s for privacy. And maybe I don’t want privacy.

  I find myself a change of clothes, and step back into the bathroom to blow dry my hair. After I’ve finished everything else, I use the toilet, which is somewhat of a luxury.

  Then I join him in the kitchen, and sit down at the table, at the same spot I sat last time. This time, I make sure to enter quietly so as not to startle him. I can’t bare another punishing.

  Steak, broccoli, and french fries. Nothing in the world could have pleased me more than this meal. Of all the dishes he’s prepared for me to this point, nothing has or ever could top steak and french fries.

  Together we sit (mostly in silence), and eat. The kitchen table is round and has four chairs. Rather than sitting across from him, I chose to sit next to him.

  ---

  When I have only a few french fries left on my plate, he speaks.

  “I think it’s probably about time I introduce myself to you.”

  Then I pause. I don’t take another bite, and for a moment I even forget that I currently have food in my mouth. After catching my guard again, I resume chewing and wait for him to continue.

  “My name is Alexander.” He looks at me as if the name is supposed to be significant - as if I know him or something. But I don’t respond, so he continues. “I actually have known you for some time, Zoey. I’ve always admired you.”

  I stop chewing again, but catch myself. I hurry up and finish, then swallow so I can focus on just this one thing.

  “You have?” I set my knife and fork on the plate, harder than I intended to; the utensils clank against the porcelain.

  I’m curious as to how he knows me. For the life of me, I can’t seem to place him. I can’t see his face anywhere in my past.

  “Well, yeah.” He pauses and sets his fork back onto his plate, which clanks almost as loud as mine had. “I knew your husband, Zoey.” He picks his knife and fork back up, and begins cutting the steak.

  “You did?” I can’t think of anything else to say. I’m dumbfounded to say the least. I mean, who the hell is this guy?

  “Yeah. We were friends, actually. For a while.” He rubs his already-juicy slice of steak in Heinz 57 and takes a bite. He chews for a longer-than-average amount of time before swallowing, but I can’t think of anything else to say. I just wait. “Yeah, actually we still talk sometimes. But Terry - I mean - Terry was. Well, Terry is kind of - well Terry is kind of a joke.”

  “Can’t argue that.” I eat another french fry, but don’t lose sight of his eyes, which are trained on his plate and not so much on me.

  “Well, he didn’t treat you right. Your whole marriage, I thought, that girl deserves better. I saw the way he was with you. He’d stay late in the office intentionally so he wouldn’t have to get home to you. Sometimes he’d wait everyone out, and screw a secretary.”

  He said it so nonchalantly, as if it was nothing, but it was news to me. While he took another bite of steak and sauce, some million-and-one thoughts raced through my mind. First, Alexander must have worked with Terry. Does he still work with Terry? That must be the connection. But I’ve never met any of Terry’s coworkers. He wasn’t fond of me coming to his office. He preferred me to stay at home
, where I belonged. And also, he would screw a secretary? Since when? I knew Terry was a piece of shit, but I had no idea he was cheating on me.

  I want to burst into tears and cry it out. I want to get pissed off all over again for what Terry did to me. How he just left me when I depended on him. And for how long did he cheat on me? I’m sure it wasn’t just at the end. No. I’m sure that piece of shit was doing it for a long time. All that money went to his head, and he outgrew me. What an asshole.

  But I don’t want to offend Alexander. He’s been so gracious to me, and I can’t risk offending him by mourning over my dead marriage. Terry is nothing to me now, and I never want to see him again.

  He finished this bite probably quicker than what it seemed, but I had plenty of time to drown my brain in a cocktail of emotions.

  “Yeah he had this thing going with his secretary. A couple times a week, she would leave when everyone else did, and come back a couple hours later, to avoid raising suspicion. Then they’d screw up against the window in his office, looking over the city. That was their favorite spot at least. They also did it on his desk, his chair, the couch in his office, her desk, my desk, at reception, in the elevator. All over, really.”

  He sets his fork down again and finally looks me directly in the eye, and I hope that the tears forming aren’t too big or noticeable. I hope he doesn’t see them, and I hope they don’t get any heavier, or else they’ll start to fall.

  “I used to be friends with him up until then. It really pissed me off. He was in his office late into the evening, screwing his secretary, while you were at home probably cooking a meal for him. I’m sure you probably took him in with open arms, and hugged and kissed him, and fed him. All the while, you had no idea he was fucking his assistant. Real shitty move if you ask me.”

  There it is. I don’t think he realizes he’s doing it, but he’s almost kind of rubbing it in. My eyes fill up too much, and the left tear drops first. It sprints down my cheek, leaving a trail that glistens under the cheap chandelier above, and falls into my lap. I look to my right and blink hard, and drop the right tear onto the floor. I need to fight back the rest or else he’ll notice, if he already hasn’t.