by Lee Thomas
“But that’s my house,” Fred told him. “Shouldn’t I fucking know what’s happening to my house? Maybe we can go around to Seventh Street and walk through the greenbelt.”
“No,” Denis said. The police were getting nowhere with the horde at the barricade. They were clearly beyond frustration and working themselves up for violence. “We don’t need to get shot.”
“But I’m going to need clothes for work.”
“Then we’ll go shopping,” Denis said.
“This is bullshit,” Fred said absently. “Complete bullshit.”
“We’ll check the web when we get home. There are vans around the corner so the reporters must be up there someplace. The police will have to make a statement to them. My guess is, even you had the chance to talk to one face to face, it would be the same story they’re going to tell the press.”
“It’s my house,” Fred said.
“Yeah,” Denis said, slipping an arm around his shoulders.
He didn’t know what else to say.
The news gave them little information. A video clip showed uniformed police officers and men in white hazmat suits poking around Lucio’s black lawn. “Authorities are investigating an event of ecological concern,” the anchorwoman said. “We have no details at this time but it has been speculated that unknown, possibly toxic, chemicals have been spilled in the area. The extent of the damage and threat to human life is unknown. For now, the public is being asked to stay away from the area until more information becomes available. Again, the twelve hundred block of…”
“Fuck,” Fred said. He slapped the sofa cushion with his palm. “I’ve been quarantined out of my own fucking house.”
“Better out than in,” Denis said.
“Don’t look for a bright side here, Denis. I appreciate it, and I love that you’d try, but please, not right now. I sank my life savings into that place. It was my home.”
“It still is.”
“Sure, unless it becomes a toxic waste dump, or is ruined by some other event of ecological concern.”
Denis knew there was nothing he could say that would help. He might mention insurance or spout some platitude about Fred having his health, but he knew the man wouldn’t appreciate any of it. Denis had lost the house he’d shared with Benjamin, and no amount of support or condolence had soothed him.
Once he’d thought his home had actually been his, but Home was a brittle term; one wholly dependent on finance. Only a mortgage promptly paid gave a man a home.
“I am going to lose my mind just sitting here,” Fred said. “Maybe things have cleared out over there.”
“It’s only been an hour. Why don’t we wait and we’ll check again after dinner?”
Fred nodded. “I think I’m going to lie down,” he said. “Would it be okay if you didn’t come in with me?”
“Sure,” Denis told him.
The least he could do was give Fred his privacy. They’d been all but inseparable for days.
So Denis sat on the sofa and watched Fred disappear into the bedroom. Denis turned on the television and let the afternoon pass into evening.
He checked on Fred a little past eight. Easing the door open, he poked his head in and looked at the bed.
“Hey,” Fred said.
“You okay?”
“Better.”
“I thought I’d see if you wanted some dinner; maybe check your place again.”
“Not really hungry,” Fred told him. “And I think we both know nothing’s changed at the house. Let’s not waste the time.”
“Okay,” Denis said. He leaned out of the room and was closing the door when Fred stopped him.
“Where you going?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then come to bed. I missed you.”
Denis woke to dull gray light. Morning. He went to the window and parted the blinds. The rain continued, but it had become little more than mist. Still the gloom that had covered the city remained. He turned back to the empty bed.
He’d heard Fred slipping out over an hour ago. Instead of saying anything, Denis had closed his eyes and gone back to sleep. But now, he felt a wound of unease open in his chest. He didn’t know how to interpret Fred’s early departure, nor his own apathy in light of his leaving. Obviously, Fred had thought to get an early start, to reach his house before the crazies gathered for another day of rain-drenched gawking. He might even be able to corner a cop or health department worker to learn about the immediate future of his property.
Fred needed time to himself, Denis knew.
He went about his morning, fixing breakfast and powering up his laptop. He discovered an early morning email from Fred and opened it.
Had to check on the house. Didn’t want to wake you. You look amazing when you’re sleeping. Back soon. F.
Denis smiled, and the wound in his chest knitted. He drank his coffee and returned to the news page, where he found a number of articles pertaining to the events of the day before. The story hadn’t changed, as far as he could tell.
An hour passed, and then another.
Finally, Denis decided that Fred had been gone too long. Even if Fred had been allowed to enter the house to gather more of his belongings it shouldn’t have taken this long. Denis called his cell number, but he was sent directly to voice mail.
After another hour and another call, Denis took his umbrella from the closet and left the apartment.
He stood at the barricade looking in disbelief at the street ahead.
He’d driven in from the East to avoid the park, and he’d been forced to park his car in the middle of the road because the curbs were packed tight with vehicles. Cars and trucks blocked drives and alleys. But there were no people. The police cars and health department vehicles remained. Two ambulances with their back doors open wide stood just inside the barricade. Yet the roads and the lawns were empty.
Misting rain shrouded the block. The black stain had reached the west edge of Fred’s house, consuming all greenery on the right side of the street for as far as Denis could see. It was a war zone. A minor apocalypse.
Where the hell was Fred?
Denis walked around the barricade and crossed to the door of Fred’s house. He knocked lightly, so softly it all but negated the action entirely. Finding the door unlocked, Denis went inside.
“Fred,” he whispered.
He listened for movement in the house, but even the hiss of the rain was blocked out. He repeated Fred’s name as he passed through the living room. In the bedroom, he found a suitcase open on the bed and three pairs of slacks laid out beside it. He left the room and walked to the French doors at the back of the house and bit down on a gasp. The black stain covered everything in sight, as if a talented artist had done a charcoal sketch of the landscape. Even the potted plant on Fred’s railing had gone dark.
Denis backed away from the doors. He called Fred’s name a final time, but he knew the place was empty. Abandoned. Fear drove him from the house and back to the bleak yard. An insistent voice told him to leave this neighborhood. Fred was gone, lost to the mystery and no longer attainable. Just get the fuck away from here.
But how could he leave?
Ambivalent about his next move, Denis remained in the yard. He called Fred’s phone again, and for a moment he imagined he heard it ringing, distantly, muffled by walls and rain, but the sound had no clear direction. It came from all sides, which was all Denis needed to convince himself he hadn’t heard the bell at all.
He couldn’t just stand there, but he didn’t know what to do.
He turned to his car beyond the barricade and saw a man and a woman circling the vehicle. Something in their movement, in their faces, made him think of feral animals like jackals eyeing prey. The woman whipped her head in his direction, and Denis felt a splinter of ice run through him. He spun toward the park and raced through the front yards, away from the disconcerting couple. When he reached Lucio’s house he sprinted across the street to be away from it. All of the d
read that clung to his skin and burned his veins like acid, rolled from this place.
He looked quickly across the road at the malevolent house, this mother of misery, and saw dozens of people moving about inside. A man pressed himself to the window—a grinning man in a black suit. He raised a palm in greeting and waved wildly as if the host of a magnificent party he couldn’t wait for Denis to join.
Denis bolted, entering the park at the same place he’d seen the somber priests the morning before.
He came over the rise and skidded to a stop on the damp grass. The sight awaiting him punched the breath from his chest.
The stain covered the entirety of the park. Hundreds of people wandered aimlessly over the soiled grounds—on the lanes of road, around stalled and abandoned vehicles, and across the lawns. They moved lethargically through the bushes and trees framing the park. He recognized the familiar uniforms of police officers, paramedics, and the white HAZMAT suits of the city’s health workers. Others wore shorts or jeans or dresses. Some wore nothing. To his right, far across the field, he saw one of the black-clad priests moving in a slow circle, head cocked back, eyes fixed on the steel gray sky.
Denis backed away. He turned to flee the neighborhood.
Fred stood halfway down the block, hands in the pockets of his cargo shorts. He wore no shirt and the rain pasted thick hair to the round muscles on his chest. His skin gleamed from moisture. He was grinning as if pleased to see his boyfriend this last time.
Then Fred began to run forward, his bare feet slapping the wet concrete. He spread his arms wide like wings, like a lover wishing to take Denis in his arms. And Denis stood motionless, desolate, watching Fred bear down on him.
In a flash, jagged scratches of energy filled his head. Rational thought vanished amid the
static and suddenly he found the gray world around him beautiful. Simple. Unfettered by color.
In the flicker of a moment, his fear turned to acceptance. Anticipation.
The burly stranger Denis had loved for less than a week had never appeared more striking. Strong. Vital. Denis opened his own arms in welcome. And when Fred’s lips parted, the grin changing into a cruel smile, Denis told himself the man’s teeth were perfect and white, and not the shattered, sharp fangs of a thing fashioned in hell. The eyes were green and startlingly erotic, not gray clots behind pasty lids.
Hurry, Denis thought, eager to feel the press of Fred’s body against his.
And those hands. And those lips.
Turtle
“Turtle.”
The bearded man delivered the word with a breathy gravitas, as if it actually meant something. Royce figured the old guy was snapping under the pressure, or perhaps Paul Winston had always been crazy. Royce didn’t know the restaurateur well enough to speculate on his long-term mental state. Royce hardly knew him at all. He’d eaten at the man’s establishment dozens of times over the years, and of course, he’d seen the man there, keeping an eye on his employees and checking with customers to make sure they were enjoying their meals. Beyond that Royce had had no contact with the guy.
Winston was a fit man in his early fifties who looked like he’d been athletic once but whose muscles had softened over the years. Bald with a neatly trimmed white fringe over his ears that blended seamlessly into his beard, Winston reminded Royce of Santa. Royce had always liked Santa; he wasn’t as fond of Winston right now, so he kept the pistol pressed to his head.
Royce had been in the man’s house for fifteen minutes. He’d surprised the old guy. Winston’s face had lit up with recognition upon seeing Royce. Then the bright expression dimmed a second later, the moment he noticed the gun.
Inside the house, Royce had locked the door. The place was decorated for Christmas, smelling heavily of pinesap and cranberry candles. Plastic garland, like snaking fir boughs, ran over the wainscotings. Lights circled the bay window in the living room. Next to this stood the tree.
Once the man had been secured, tied to a wooden rocking chair beside the fireplace, Royce had begun the questioning, but Winston had said nothing of consequence. Obviously distraught by the ordeal, he’d sat silently for several minutes, refusing any communication at all. Then Winston had opened his mouth and the word turtle had come forth, like it held the answers to any question Royce might pose.
“I didn’t ask about your favorite soup,” Royce said through a tight jaw. “I asked what you did to Monica.”
The gun felt heavy in Royce’s palm, the handle slicked with sweat. He worried about dropping the weapon, worried about it going off. Royce wasn’t a thug. He wasn’t a private detective or a cop. He was an investment banker with Harly-Mack. He led a respectable, even enviable, life. What was he doing in Winston’s home, pressing the muzzle of a gun to the old guy’s temple?
Of course Royce knew the answer. His wife, Monica, was dead. The once dynamic woman with a Midas touch for publicity had been reduced to babbling incoherence. She had mumbled and sobbed, and then she’d turned violent against herself. It had all happened quickly and it had all begun the night they’d left Winston’s restaurant for the last time.
“Go home, Mr. Royce,” Winston said. “I won’t call the authorities. This isn’t you. You’re just in shock.”
“What did you do to her? What did you say that night?”
“I asked her if she enjoyed her meal,” Winston said evenly. “I wished her a good evening.”
“Bullshit. She started losing it about ten minutes after we left your restaurant, and she kept mumbling about something you said.”
“I read the papers,” Winston replied. “She wasn’t exactly stable, now was she?”
“She was fine,” Royce countered. He glared down at the baldhead, the full cheeks made red with alarm, and again he thought of Santa.
I’ll bet you can’t.
Can so.
I dare you.
The remembered voices struck Royce like a sickness. His head grew light and he stepped away from the chair, pulled the gun away from Winston’s temple. He looked around the room for something on which he could focus and found the Christmas tree. Metal orbs and quaint wooden miniatures adorned the pine. Simple white lights brought a glow to the ornaments. A single silver cone, like the funnel of a tornado, twisted back and forth on its green thread. Wiping his brow and feeling an unnatural tide of sweat on his fingers, Royce closed his eyes and took deep breaths to regain control of himself.
I dare you.
The old voices were understandable. The memory they belonged to had originated with a Christmas long past. And here he was in Winston’s apartment—decorated to the hilt with cheap holiday whimsy—and confronting a man who looked like Santa’s healthy younger brother. With the strain of the situation, it was perfectly natural he’d remember that long-ago morning, absolutely normal to be thinking about Wes, but:
“I don’t have time for this shit,” Royce said. The sound of his own voice brought clarity to his thoughts. He returned to his place by the bound man and held the gun to his head. “What did you say to her?”
“She wasn’t well,” Winston replied.
“She carved the skin off her fucking hand! I think ‘wasn’t well’ understates the situation, don’t you?”
“But you just said she was fine.”
“Until she spoke to you.”
“Are you suggesting I cast a spell on her? Cursed her?”
“I think you knew something. I think you were going to blackmail her.”
“And what could I know?” Winston asked. His soft face grew tight with anger. “You came to the restaurant because it was in your neighborhood and the paper said it was trendy. You barked orders at the staff, complained and whined. You and your wife were no different than a hundred other patrons. None of you stand out. You’re a table number—end of story. So please tell me what the fuck am I supposed to know about you?”
I dare you.
I don’t wanna.
Because you know you can’t.
Royce bit his
cheek to silence the ghost voices.
“Look,” Winston said from his place in the chair, “I know what you’re going through. I’ve lost someone myself recently. It’s never easy.”
The restaurateur was talking about his daughter. The story had been all over the papers and the news six months ago. The girl had been a hostess at Winston’s restaurant. Royce remembered her as being a plain thing with a charming smile. Monica had found nothing charming in the girl. Royce’s wife had always called the girl the Bridge Troll, because they had to get past her before they could cross into the dining room.
The girl had been attacked in the park next to Winston’s restaurant. Three men had dragged her into the bushes. The girl had been violated and beaten and left for dead. Monica had refused to go back to the restaurant for months after the incident.
Royce felt a flash of pity for the man, but it was quickly washed away. There was a big difference between what happened to Winston’s daughter and what happened to Monica.
“Your daughter didn’t die,” he said. “She didn’t carve herself up, screaming.”
“Do you really believe death is the worst thing we can experience? My Carla is gone, Mr. Royce. She lies in a hospital bed day after day. Those men beat her so badly her mind is broken, useless. Carla isn’t there anymore, her amazing gifts are gone. She used to have such a beautiful voice, an angel’s voice. She was studying opera and was preparing for an audition with the city company. Now, all she can do is grunt like an animal and each of those noises is like glass scraping my ears and my heart.”
Tears slid down Winston’s round, red cheeks. Each traced a line to his beard where the white hairs captured the moisture. The droplets twinkled in the festive lights strung about the room, giving his beard a silvery cast.
“But she’s alive,” Royce said. “Monica isn’t. I don’t give a shit about your daughter. I want to know what you did to my wife.”
What did you do to your brother?
Nothing. He just fell down.
“You don’t give a shit?” Winston asked. He sniffed back snot and tears and sat up straighter in the chair. “Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it, Mr. Royce? That’s why we’re here now isn’t it?”