The Flip

by Michael Phillip Cash

  Smoke replaced steam, and the small bathroom filled with it. Julie moved the curtain, turning off the water to stare at the smoke drifting in under the bottom of the door. Sopping wet, she wrapped up in Brad’s oversized robe and then grabbed the bathroom doorknob with her slippery hands. The knob sizzled against her skin, and she released it with a curse, panic filling her. She tried using a towel to open the door, but the material would not catch on the knob. It was getting hard to breathe; her body was wracked by coughs. Panting with terror, Julie clutched the doorknob, the pain of the heat nothing compared to the fear filling her heart. It jiggled uselessly. Taking a huge bottle of mouthwash, she pounded at the knob, tears springing to her eyes. She was trapped. The air was thick with smoke; Julie doubled over, having a hard time breathing. With both hands, she turned the knob desperately. The door gave, opening into an inferno. Covering her head with a towel, Julie dashed out the front door, escaping into the fresh air and hearing the sound of sirens wailing in the street.

  Later, draped in a blanket, she sat in the back of a police car until an ambulance came, watching despairingly as her little house burned to the ground.

  Brad met her at the hospital, his face white with worry.

  “What happened?” He brushed her smoky hair from her face.

  She sat cross-legged on the bed, wearing a pair of blue hospital scrubs under his robe. She looked fragile and small, dark circles under her eyes. A tight line parted her brows. He touched it gently with his finger, trying to erase it. His usually loquacious wife was strangely subdued. Julie’s lower lip trembled, a sob welling in her throat. Her green eyes were huge in her pale face. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. She reached for him, allowing him to encase her in his arms. He hugged her close, and Julie felt safe again.

  “Did you leave the stove on?” he asked after he kissed her head.

  Julie shook her head. “Why do you think it’s always me?” she whined, her throat raw from the smoke.

  The nurse came over with discharge papers. “She’s got burned hands. Here’s a scrip for the antibiotic cream. Keep them dry.” She handed the stack to Brad. “The doctor gave her a mild sedative. She was pretty hysterical when she came in. She can wear the scrubs I gave her home. She came in with just a bathrobe.”

  A wheelchair was rolled over, and Julie slid off the bed to hobble over to it.

  “What happened to your foot?”

  “She twisted her ankle when she ran out of the house. Keep the foot elevated,” the nurse told him.

  Brad wheeled her to his truck, picked her up, and placed her in the cab. “Can you fasten your seat belt? Did they feed you?”

  Julie’s clumsily buckled the belt, sighed, and leaned her head back on the leather seat.

  “Jules,” Brad asked as he slid into the truck, “did you eat?”

  “No. Not hungry.”

  Brad started the engine. “I think you’ll feel better after we get something in your stomach.”

  “Brad.” She looked at him with horror. “Where are we going to go? The house is gone.”

  “After we eat, I’ll go to Bed Bath & Beyond. I’ll pick up a few things, and we’ll sleep in Bedlam House.”

  “It’s a wreck.”

  “We can bed down in the main salon. The master bath isn’t that bad. We’ll make do, Julie. Clothes are going to be a problem. You’re probably going to have to call in sick tomorrow as it is.”

  “Work,” she whispered. “Jeez. I have to talk to you about work. I’m too tired. I’m really tired.”

  “Relax, babe.” He took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “We have all the time in the world. We’ll talk tonight.”

  Brad picked up burgers. Julie ate hers in the car while he did a quick shop at the home store. In record time, he had an air mattress, bedding, a microwave, a few pots, and utensils. He felt like he was setting up a dorm room. By the time he got back, Julie was dozing, her head wedged between the window and the seat belt. He made a quick stop at CVS, buying toothbrushes, soap, shampoo, things he thought they’d need. Tomorrow, he’d pick up a few changes of clothes at a department store. He ate while he drove, the meat stone cold, the fries a soggy mess. Julie had picked at hers, eating less than half. Bedlam House was pitch-dark when they arrived. He unloaded the mattress, threw a new sheet on it, then went back to carry his wife into the house. She barely moved. He set her down fully dressed, covering her tenderly with the quilt. Julie coughed, reaching for him. Brad patted her back, then kissed her, lingering over her face, inhaling the residual smell of the smoke. He brushed her hair from her pale cheek, smiling when she sighed and mumbled some nonsensical phrase.

  He left a shuttered camping lantern on the floor nearby, pointing its light to the opposite wall so it chased the utter darkness from the room. Satisfied that Julie was deeply asleep, he carted in the rest of their supplies, putting them in neat piles so he could sort them out the next day. He ran barefoot outside to a woodpile, grabbed a few larger pieces plus dry kindling, and ran back in, his feet freezing on the cold October grass. He waited for all his balled-up newspapers to catch, and built up a nice fire in the large fireplace, the hiss and crackle of the wood comforting. He then placed a heavy wrought-iron fire screen in front of the blaze. It warmed the room; the flames painted the walls a comforting buttery color. The side of his face heated, the smell of the burning wood reminding him of home. He glanced at Julie and at the fire, feeling nostalgic. The apple wood smell reminded him of his own boyhood. This was a big house, something his own family had dreamed of their whole lives. The fire danced on the stained glass windows, lighting Joan of Arc’s face, chasing the homey feeling away. Brad chucked off his clothes, sliding into the cold sheets to pull the warm body of his wife next to him. They were cheap sheets, not the Egyptian cotton ones Julie liked to buy. They smelled new. They had a chemical odor and irritated his skin. He wrapped himself around his wife, inhaling her scent, closing his eyes with contentment. She purred, stroking his naked chest, and he stilled her bandaged hands with a smile. Julie fit perfectly under his head. Gathering her close, he kissed her, enclosing them both securely in the cocoon of the blankets.

  Tessa watch in rapt silence as Brad took care of his wife.

  “They are a pretty couple,” Gerald observed.

  “She’s a mouse. She’s not woman enough for him.” Tessa dripped with jealousy.

  “And you are speaking from your vast store of knowledge of him?” Gerald lit a cigar.

  “I hate those things.” She attempted to grab it, but Gerald ducked out of the way.

  “Leave them alone, Tessa. You are only going to anger the Sentinels.”

  “They are a myth!” she shouted back.

  “Oh, you think so, my own?”

  “I am not your own!” Tessa spat. “Go away. Leave. I didn’t want you then, and I don’t want you now! Why don’t you just scurry away if you don’t want to watch?” Her voice was filled with venom.

  Anger turned Gerald red. He started to respond and wondered indeed what he was still doing here. Bristling with frustration, he dissipated into a cloud to dissolve into the night.

  Tessa eased under the covers, sliding up against the two bodies, settling on the warm flesh of the woman, to fade into her skin.

  Something woke Brad. His wife was writhing against him, her hands clutching, pinching his skin. Julie grabbed his face, her bandaged hands holding him immobile, her mouth opening aggressively over his. She rolled on top of him, her legs sliding around him like tentacles.

  “Jules,” he whispered.

  She bit his lower lip. He kissed her back, holding her tightly. Her mewing sounds became growls. She ripped at her clothes, her eyes closed, the darkness hiding her face. She sat up, pulling the scrubs from the hospital over her head. Her small breasts looked like marble in the night. She slid out of the pants, wordlessly mounting Brad. Bending over, she locked her face to his, kissing him rapidly, panting.

  “Are you up for this?” he asked bet
ween her desperate kisses.

  Julie didn’t answer with words. She slid down the length of him, shocking him with her heat and aggression. She was insatiable, rocking against him violently. Brad grabbed her, trying to slow her down. He cupped her face, pulling her to him for a soul-searing kiss. Her eyes opened, glowing red, and Brad’s breath caught in his throat. Grabbing her shoulders, he forced her flat. Her hair caught in his fingers and he heard her hiss as the strands parted from her skull. “Sorry. Slow down,” he urged. She fought with him, sloppily hitting his imprisoning hands. She suddenly stilled, her hands falling uselessly to her sides.

  “Jules,” he whispered. She was out of it. He heard her shudder, her breathing becoming so deep that Brad rested his head on her chest to hear the slow thud of her heart. Scrambling out of the bed, he forced his own breathing to calm. She wasn’t herself. It had to be the drugs they had given her. He looked back at her frowning face. She rolled into a ball, her hands under her cheek, looking young and innocent. Brad stood, shaking his head. Walking to the camping lantern, he crouched down to dim the light. A few long hairs were tangled in his fingers. Putting them up to the light, he sat down heavily. They were reddish-gold.

  Brad dressed, too troubled to sleep. He rolled the hairs into a small knot, fitting them in the pocket of his tight jeans. He wasn’t going to be able to close his eyes. There had to be an explanation for the red hair. Maybe she had put in extensions and he hadn’t noticed. Throbbing with unspent energy, he decided to use it toward cleaning one of the many bathrooms. It was silent in the house; his brain was in overdrive. He loved this part of the night. It was quiet, and it allowed him to lose himself in any job he chose to do. He could work for hours uninterrupted. Taking another lantern, he went into the primitive bathroom at the top of the stairs to scrub away the grime of neglect from the white tiles. Dawn poked through the filthy windows, painting boxes of sunlight on the floor. Brad emerged from the bathroom newly showered, his hair curling damply around his face. He had set up a homey spot for each of them on the sink with mouthwash, toothpaste, toothbrushes, a hairbrush—all the things that said normal—but all he was hearing were the screams in his head that something was not.

  Barefoot, he tripped down the curved staircase and checked on Julie, who was still in the same position as last night. He saw a big brown van pull up, and a smile broke over his face. The cavalry had arrived.

  Willy Watson, six-foot-three, a mighty wall of muscle with a head full of long dreadlocks, bounded up the long gravel drive holding a bag from McDonald’s and a cardboard tray with two cups of coffee. He tossed away his cigarette before climbing up the porch steps. Julie didn’t hold with smoking in her flips. He loved Brad like a brother, even though they had nothing in common except serving together in Afghanistan. His mother’s family came from the Deep South, but he’d been brought up with his father’s family in Harlem, enlisting rather than joining a gang on the streets. The only Maine he’d ever heard of was Main Street in Flushing, until he met Brad and heard about his folksy, country background. He was a good man who recognized another good man. While they served, Brad lost both his parents, and Willy urged him to relocate to New York. Then he met Julie, his firecracker of a wife, and they formed an informal partnership. Brad and Julie were his ticket out of Harlem. One more flip, and he’d have enough to buy a small house in St. Albans and marry Rita, his baby’s mama. He had negotiated with Sal for a small ring from the antique shop. With the proceeds from this house, Willy would be able to pay off the balance. He had gone down to Charlotte to break the news to his own mama. There was going to be a wedding this summer.

  Brad opened the door before he had a chance to knock. He held his finger over his mouth, indicating that Willy should be quiet.

  Willy held up the greasy bag, saying, “Mickey Dee’s.”

  Brad nodded with a smile, slipped on his hoodie, bummed a cigarette, and sat down heavily on the porch.

  “I didn’t expect you to be here yet,” Willy said as he sat down next to him.

  “Me neither.”

  Willy unwrapped an Egg McMuffin. “You want this one or the sausage?”

  Brad shrugged. “I don’t care. I’ll take anything. You were supposed to be back Monday.” Brad accepted the breakfast sandwich and placed the coffee on the other side of him.

  “Took care of business.” He shrugged. “I missed Rita and LaMarr too much.”

  Brad nodded. “Yeah. A lot’s been going on. Our house burned down.”

  “No shit!” The expletive rolled off Willy’s tongue. “Patricia Lane? Completely?”

  “Like it was bombed.”

  “Julie OK?”

  “She burned her hands.”

  “What? She was in the house?”

  “Yep. She barely made it out.”

  “Sheeeet. She at her sister’s?”

  “Nah.” Brad shook his head. “She’s sleeping inside. Some crazy shit, man.”

  “What you gonna do?”

  “We’re camping out here for now. It’s as good a place as any. I have to get working on the insurance claim. Once we get the replacement money, we can look for a place to rent.” Brad looked in the bag. “How many of these did you buy?” He held up another sandwich. “You want this?” Willy shook his head no. “I’m going to see if she’s up yet.”

  Willy balled the wax paper in his fist. “Where do you want me to start first?”

  “Take your pick. The foundation people are going to be here in an hour. Do you mind working with them?”

  “OK.”

  “Also, I can’t get the sink working in the kitchen.”

  “I’m on it.” Willy stood up and followed him into the house.

  Brad crouched by the air mattress, where Julie lay peacefully sleeping. He touched her cheek gently without any response. Taking a long curl, he considered its light brown color, and he pulled the hair from last night out of his pocket. Holding it against her locks, he felt the different textures. Julie’s was soft, the other brittle. While his wife’s hair caught the sun in its blond depths, the red hair was duller. He rubbed the loose hair, feeling it tingle under his fingers. It dissolved into dust as he held it. He stood, brushing off his hands, watching the fine powder fall into the cracks of the weathered floorboards. He touched the cold floor, trying to sweep it up, but found nothing there. Julie stirred, smiled, and stretched until her muscles protested.

  “Wow, how did I get here?” She took a deep, satisfying breath.

  “How do you feel?” He turned a concerned gaze on her.

  She sat up, leaning on her hands, wincing. “Ow. I fell asleep?”

  “It was the drugs they gave you. You remember anything?” He studied her face, wondering if she recalled her wild behavior of the night before.

  “Nothing after we left the hospital.” Something dropped in the other room, and Julie jumped.

  “Willy just got here. You want my phone? You have to call in sick.”

  Julie made a face. “I have to talk to you about that. I kind of quit my job yesterday.”

  Brad sat on the floor and handed her the sandwich. “What happened?”

  “Mr. Wilson. He was…inappropriate.”

  “What do you mean, inappropriate?”

  Julie shrugged, tears welling in her eyes. “He wanted to…you know.”

  “No, I don’t know. What happened, Jules?” Brad said, his voice rising.

  “He tried to touch me. He didn’t. Brad, stop.” She pulled him back before he could stand up. “I hit him. It’s over.” She caressed his tense hand.

  “I’ll kill him.” Brad’s face looked like stone.

  “No, you won’t. I don’t work there anymore. We need the bank. I am not going to say anything; otherwise, he’ll have the bank pull in our credit line.”

  “I’ll still kill him.”

  Brad stood. Julie stood as well and came up behind him, feeling the intense power in his body.

  “No, we are moving on. Now we really have to make this hous
e move. Maybe you’ll reconsider the bed-and-breakfast?” she asked hopefully.

  Brad left the room without answering her. He found Willy under the sink, his great arms twisting a wrench.

  “I know you’re there. I can hear your heavy breathing.” Willy laughed. “Turn on the water.”

  Brad walked over to the sink and turned on the faucet. The pipes gave an agonizing groan, followed by a belch and a brown trickle making its way into the dirty porcelain sink.

  “The stove works. Now you have water. I’d say we are halfway there. The fridge is a goner.” Willy hoisted himself up. “What’s going on? I could hear you all the way in here.”

  “Julie’s boss got too familiar with her.”

  “I never liked that guy. You going to do something?”

  Brad looked up at him with a smirk, whispering, “Not right now.”

  “She OK?”

  “I am fine.” Julie entered, limping slightly, and walked straight into Willy’s warm embrace. “How are Rita and LaMarr?”

  “It’s all good. I don’t know, I leave for four days and come back to holy hell.” He noticed a truck pulling into the back. “I think the foundation people are here. I’ll see you later.”

  Brad looked at Julie, his hands on his hips.

  “I’m crimping your style,” she stated.

  “You could say that,” he agreed.

  “I can help?” she answered.

  “Not with those hands. I’ve got some gloves in the truck. There’s a shitload of stuff in the attic. You can start going through that, as long as your hands are covered. There’s, like, ten decades of junk up there.”

  “Yes, sir, captain, sir.”

  Brad pulled her into his embrace. “You scared me, Jules. I’ve never been so frightened in all my life.”

  “I’m good as new.” She held up her hands. “We’ll make this thing work. I have a good feeling about it.”

  “Now look what you’ve done, Ollie,” Gerald told Tessa, as he kicked the balled food wrapping from the center of the room.

  “Ollie? What are you talking about?” Tessa sneered.

  “You know, Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy. Don’t you remember the movies from the thirties?”