What the #@&% Is That?

by John Joseph Adams

  “I was going to take a walk,” I say. “But I changed my mind. I owe you an explanation. Last night, I wanted to split a beer to celebrate with you when I got home, but you can’t buy less than a six-pack. Then I got here and you hadn’t bothered to wait up, so I guess I felt kind of ignored and I turned on the TV and before you know it . . .”

  Carefully, I approach. She lets me put my hands on her frail shoulders.

  “What about the other thing?” she asks. I give her my dumb face. “I heard you in the living room, making those sounds. Am I not enough for you?”

  “I was frustrated. You were asleep,” I say. “It won’t happen again. And I’ll go to a meeting tonight. I promise.”

  Soon, I’m rubbing her back and making comforting noises. Karen’s probably getting high with her buddies, so I’ve got plenty of time to turn this around. By the time I’m putting two fingers underneath Angela’s chin and turning her face up to mine, she’s starting to breathe harder and her lips are parted. She presses herself to my front and slides her hands into the pockets of my jeans. I remember what’s in there the second her hand jerks back. I twist away too late as, laughing, Angela pulls out the toenail and holds it up between us.

  “Gross,” she giggles. “Put them in the toilet, honeybear. Are you saving—”

  I’m grabbing for it, but it’s too small, and she sees the nail polish, and her face falls.

  “It was in the cab of my truck,” I explain. “Probably one of the other drivers had himself a lot lizard.”

  It’s not enough. The channels change and all of a sudden she’s channeling the wrath of God. Apparently, she had her own paranormal activity while I was on the road. Her picture of Jesus kept turning its back on the bed. The alarm kept getting shut off and reset. ADT came to the house five times in the middle of the night for no reason. She found my clothes thrown on the floor. There was a fifth of vodka hidden in the toilet tank. But her explanation differs from Karen’s. Angela accuses me of allowing demonic influences into this house via my alleged infidelity.

  I don’t like being accused of things I haven’t done. I don’t like being called a liar. I don’t like being put on trial for a crime I didn’t commit, so I tell her what I think of her behavior, in no uncertain terms. Perhaps I speak more harshly than I intend.

  It takes her a while to get herself under control, but eventually, she tells me she’s going to talk to Reverend Gary. She has some serious thinking to do. I tell her I’ll clean up the house, and about an hour after she leaves, I’m getting the laundry put away when Karen walks back in, stoned, a box beneath her arm.

  “We’re going to solve this spooky shit right now,” she says, sliding her tobacco tongue into my mouth. “Lookie.”

  She shows me the squashed-up box held together with masking tape. OUIJA, it says on the cover.

  * * * *

  Karen says the kitchen table is the best place to Ouija since it’s in the physical center of the house. The edges of her speech are softened by a beery slur.

  “So, now what?” I ask, looking at her over the Parker Brothers board.

  “Now we empty our minds,” she says, placing her fingers on the planchette.

  “Shouldn’t be hard for you,” I say.

  She shoots me the bird. Somehow, I knew she was going to do that. I put my fingers on the planchette and nothing happens. Fifteen minutes of nothing happening later, she breaks out the vodka. I tell her I don’t want any.

  “Your ghost showing up anytime soon?” I say. “I want to get to a meeting tonight.”

  “Maybe he’s busy,” Karen slurs. “Maybe he’s hauling a big load of sanctimonious bullshit to his wife in North Dakota.”

  “Hand me that bottle,” I say.

  I’ll do anything to keep the peace.

  Another fifteen minutes pass and nothing happens unless you count getting drunk.

  “Let’s call it a night,” I tell her.

  “In a hurry to go hang with your crackhead buddies at AA?” she asks.

  “If you’re not careful, I’m going to start taking your comments personally,” I say.

  “Oh, no,” she says. “I’d better watch out or the big pussy might actually do something.”

  We both have a couple of drinks from the bottle while we consider the implications of her comment.

  “It’s ten o’clock,” I say, taking the high road. “We can watch The Daily Show and go to bed. Nothing good is going to happen tonight.”

  “Is that a Christian thing?” she says. “Early to bed, early to rise?”

  “Actually,” I say, trying to keep things light, “Benjamin Franklin said that.”

  “Judge not,” she says, “lest ye be judged. And all you do is judge, you sanctimonious prick.”

  “All you do is drink,” I say.

  Karen and I sit there hating each other until Angela comes in and freezes in the doorway, purse over one shoulder, keys in her hand.

  “What is that thing doing in my house?” she asks.

  The vodka’s got me foggy, so it takes a minute to realize she isn’t talking about Karen.

  “I’m just playing,” I say.

  “Playing, my ass,” Karen says. “You’ve been judging me for years with your AA, your church, all your shit.”

  “It’s a tool of the Devil,” Angela says, her eyes glued to the Ouija board.

  “What is it you’re scared of?” I ask.

  “You’re changing,” Karen says, and the bottom of her eyes get wet. “And when you realize I’m not changing too, you’re going to ditch me for another woman.”

  “You’re inviting evil into this house,” Angela says.

  “That’s not on the menu,” I say to both of them. “This is the house that love built. We have our problems, sure, but nothing bad is going to happen.”

  “You’ve been drinking,” Angela says, noticing the vodka.

  “You’re full of shit,” Karen says.

  “Come on,” I say. “Let’s play. Let’s play Ouija together and you’ll see there’s no call to be scared.”

  Karen makes a dismissive sound and stands up. Angela turns to go. Sometimes, it’s more than I can take.

  “Sit right down right this fucking minute!” I shout. “You’re going to sit the fuck down and play the fucking Ouija with me and we’re going to have a nice fucking time.”

  Karen freezes. Angela stops. They both look at me scared.

  “Please,” I say. “Sit down.”

  Angela and Karen sit down next to each other.

  “I don’t want to do this,” Angela says. “Please don’t make me do this.”

  I look at my two wives sitting across the table from me, their four eyes red and wet.

  “It’s okay to be scared,” I say. “But you have to push past your fear.”

  Putting my fingers on the planchette, I nod at it encouragingly. Karen crosses her arms. Angela raises her hands, then lowers them.

  “Don’t be like that,” I say, then I raise my eyebrows to let them both know I am not to be fucked with right now.

  In one of those beautiful moments of synchronicity, they place their fingertips on the planchette simultaneously.

  “Now what?” Angela asks.

  “Let’s ask the spirit if it has a name,” I say.

  “No,” Angela says.

  “Spirit, what is your name?” Karen asks.

  The planchette slides around the board on its little felt feet and I can’t tell which one of us is steering. It stops on A, then it stops on N, then it stops on G, then it keeps on stopping until it spells a name.

  “Who the fuck is Angela?” Karen asks.

  “How does it know my name?” Angela asks.

  “Ask it,” I say.

  “Who’s Angela?” Karen asks.

  The planchette burns up the board, and together Karen and Angela spell out two words:

  HIS WIFE.

  “What the fuck?” Karen asks the board. “What the fuck?” she asks me.

  A
ngela is pale and her lips are trembling. I hate seeing Angela upset. Karen, on the other hand, she can go fuck herself.

  “It’s just the subconscious mind of the people playing,” I reassure them. “That’s all it is. You aren’t even aware you’re doing it, but your subconscious mind spells out what you’re thinking with involuntary muscle contractions. So, if you’re scared of something, you spell out what you’re scared of.”

  Karen stands up.

  “Your fingers are on it,” she says. “Your fingers are on it, so why the fuck are you thinking about some wife named Angela?”

  I wish she could be quiet for one minute.

  “That’s not true,” Angela says. “I didn’t do that. I didn’t move it. Someone else was moving that thing.”

  “Answer me!” Karen screams.

  They’re talking too fast for me to figure out a response that’ll suit both of them.

  “It’s just a game,” I say. “We don’t have to play.”

  “I always thought something was fucked up,” Karen says. “What man lives in an empty house with no furniture? What man doesn’t have any friends and is either in his truck or sitting on the sofa reading a fucking book all the time? Did you kill Angela? Was she your first wife? Or just some truck-stop whore you picked up? Don’t tell me I’m lying. There’s a female presence in this house. I been feeling it for weeks!”

  “There are no evil presences,” I say. “There’s no one here but us.”

  “You invited something in here,” Angela says. “Your self-pleasure, and your drinking, and I know you haven’t been faithful to me. You let something dark in here with us. You’ve let a demon of lust and addiction into our home.”

  These two start carrying on and they have no idea of the pressure I’m under. They have no idea what it feels like to be pulled in two different directions all the time. They have no idea what it’s like to watch every word you say.

  “Pray with me,” Angela says, reaching across the table and gripping my wrists while Karen stalks the kitchen, ranting. “Pray with me. There’s something in this house. We’ll pray, then we’ll burn this thing in the backyard.”

  “Think I’m stupid?” Karen shouts. “Think I’ve bought your bullshit? I know you been cheating on me from day one, but so fucking what? I can cheat on you anytime I want. You murdered your first wife? I’ll put your ass in prison if you so much as touch a hair on my head. I’ll lock you up, motherfucker!”

  Finally, it all gets to be too much.

  “I didn’t kill Angela!” I shout.

  And I know I’ve made a mistake. Angela’s face crumples, Karen’s eyes light up.

  “Why would you say that?” Angela asks. “Why would you say that about me?”

  “Then why do you keep talking about her?” Karen asks, and storms out of the room.

  I hear Karen slam the door of the downstairs bathroom. Angela jumps.

  “What was that?” she asks.

  “Wait here,” I say.

  I check the bathroom door in the front hall, but Karen’s locked it from the inside. Angela stands in the living room doorway, watching me.

  “It’s jammed,” I explain.

  “It’s locked, you bastard,” Karen shouts from behind the door.

  “I’m leaving this dark place,” Angela says.

  “Let me explain,” I say. “There is a perfectly logical explanation.”

  But before I can gather my thoughts, she’s backing away from me, shaking her head, hands feeling behind her for something to put between us. My own wife is scared of me, and this isn’t what I meant to have happen at all.

  “There’s something in this house,” she says.

  “No, it’s nothing—”

  “Nothing except a giant cheating asshole who murdered his wife,” Karen screams from the bathroom.

  “It’s you,” Angela says. “These things only happen when you’re here.”

  I get down on my knees and clasp my hands and say the Lord’s Prayer.

  “Let’s pray together,” I say to Angela.

  But she’s still backing away. The bathroom door opens behind me and I smell wet shit.

  “You’re a fucking psycho,” Karen slurs. “So, let me spell it out for you. We’re finished.”

  She goes into the living room and I swear she has a turd in one hand but maybe I’m drunk? I get there just in time to see that it actually is a turd and she’s using it to write on the living room wall:

  EAT SHIT

  Angela stares at it in horror.

  “What the fuck is that?” she asks.

  I have never, ever heard my wife cuss before. Karen certainly has a knack for the grand gesture.

  “It’s okay, honey,” I explain to Angela. “I can paint over it.”

  But she’s running away, and Karen is shouting again, and I need them both to just hold on a minute. Can’t they see that I can fix this if they just stop pulling on me all the time? I get my hands on Karen, or maybe it’s Angela, and I admit I’ve been drinking, so maybe I’m not quite as gentle as I ought to be, because she’s screaming at me, or maybe Karen’s screaming at me, as if this situation is somehow my fault.

  Everybody just needs to calm down for a minute and let me think.

  * * * *

  I’m outside burying something in the treeline, and thank God I brought along that vodka to keep me warm. Karen’s shit is smeared all over my clothes and there’s no way I’m putting these filthy pants in my new washing machine, so I light them on fire, then sit down next to the flames and drink vodka and nod off as I watch them burn. It’s cold out here, but any second, I’m going to get up and go inside and wait for my wife to come home. It’s like Angela said: every day begins with the promise of the Resurrection.

  WE ALL MAKE SACRIFICES: A SAM HUNTER ADVENTURE

  JONATHAN MABERRY

  -1-

  I looked up from the business card to the lawyer seated across the desk from me.

  I said, “Mister, um, ‘Douche-weasel’?” pronouncing it the way it looked in the expensive raised printing.

  He gave me a weary look. The kind of look that said two things. First, that he’s been through some variation of this conversation ten times a week his whole life. The second is that he expected just exactly this level of maturity from someone with rates as low as mine.

  “DuSchwezel,” he said slowly, saying it as “DEW-schwee-ZELLE.” Emphasis on both the first and last syllables.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Okay,” said Mr. DuSchwezel.

  A moment passed, taking its time. My office was quiet. He sighed. “You’re still thinking it’s pronounced ‘douche-weasel,’ aren’t you?”

  I held my thumb and index fingers an inch apart. “Li’l bit,” I said.

  “Tell me, Mr. Hunter, don’t you get annoyed when people make jokes about your name?”

  “What’s wrong with my name?”

  “ ‘Hunter’? Seriously? And you’re a private investigator?”

  “Hunh. Never came up,” I lied.

  Another moment limped past.

  “We’re not off to a very good start, are we?” he asked.

  “Not a fan of banter?”

  “Not as such, no.”

  I put his card down on my desk blotter. “Okay, so let’s try it from a different angle. Why are you here?”

  “To see about engaging your services.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You are for hire, are you not?”

  I nudged the card with a finger. “Almost always.”

  “So—?”

  “It’s just that I don’t get why you want to hire me.”

  “Why not? My money’s good, isn’t it?”

  “That’s just it; you’re a Main Line estate attorney. I couldn’t afford to park in your garage. You probably paid more for a thousand of these cards than I’ve spent on rent for this dump. Lawyers like you have investigators on retainer, and none of them have offices in this part of town.”

 
; He said, “Ah.”

  “Ah,” I agreed. “So, why does a guy in a two thousand–dollar suit schlep all the way here to hire a guy like me?”

  “The suit,” he said, “cost eleven thousand dollars. I paid two thousand just for the shoes.”

  “First,” I said, “that was a very douche-weasel thing to say. Second, fuck you.”

  He smiled at that.

  After a moment, so did I.

  DuSchwezel picked up the briefcase he’d stood next to the client chair, placed it flat on a corner of my desk, and popped the locks. The case was positioned so that he could see the contents and I couldn’t. He removed an envelope, considered it for a moment, and then reached out to lay it on the blotter next to his card.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Look and see.”

  It was unsealed, so I folded back the flap and removed a long, blue-green slip of paper. That exact color was probably sea-foam or some shit like that. Very heavy stock, high linen count, expensive printing. It was a check drawn on a personal account rather than something corporate. It had his name on it. Arnold Tyro DuSchwezel. It was made out to me for the amount of five thousand dollars.

  I nodded appreciation at the numbers, which were some of my favorite numbers, and placed the check on my desk atop the envelope.

  “This a bribe to make me say your name the right way?”

  “Cute,” he said, “but no. This is me giving you a check to retain your services.”

  “For what?”

  “That’s complicated, but first, I’d like you to give me a check for one hundred dollars.”

  I smiled. “And why the fuck would I do that?”

  “To retain my services.”

  “You lost me.”

  DuSchwezel said, “In order for us to proceed, you will need to retain me as your attorney so that everything we discuss is covered under the blanket of attorney-client privilege.”

  “You working for a drug cartel or some shit? Local Mafia?”

  He spread his hands. “The five thousand dollars is a gift. You are not legally or morally required to engage my services. If you want to tell me to go away, then I will and you can keep the check. It will not leave you beholden to me in any way.”

  “Bullshit.”