The House that Jack Built

by Malcolm James

  Now that I look back on my sad life, that is as accurate a statement as I can make. In a perverse way, Jack was responsible for my relationship with Elizabeth. And most of the women I had in my twenties and thirties. With a couple of modest exceptions, Jack was responsible for all of them.

  He wasn’t my supplier. He was my pusher.

  Chapter 24

  When I received a call from Elizabeth on my twenty-eighth birthday it practically knocked me on my ass.

  I had been enjoying Jack’s pimping and had all but forgotten about her, except for occasional lonely moments when poisonous thoughts of our past seeped into my veins. But I fought the poison back and the episodes, while sometimes severe, were usually brief.

  Interestingly, it was during these episodes that Jack was most eager to hook me up and I thanked him for that, because the sex managed to keep me focused on the present. Years passed and like the episodes, the women accumulated.

  But hearing her voice once again revived the past with an enraged wave.

  I was getting ready to meet up with Jack and ‘friends.’ We had no set plans, except maybe to celebrate my birthday with the usual self-indulgence. I was walking out the door when the phone rang, and I thought about letting the voicemail kick in. But it might be Jack calling with a change of plans, so I ran to the phone and picked up.

  “Hello!” There was slight static on the line and a long pause.

  “Hello?” I listened to the static for a moment, and was about to hang up when I heard her voice.

  “Hi.” It took a split-second to process the voice from the past. After time, you tend to forget the sound of someone’s voice if you haven’t heard it for a long time. But I would never forget hers.

  In the nine years since I’d seen her, she had become my succubus. A demon in female form, coming to me each night to have her way with me. She entered my soul through tortured dreams and whispered sweet thorns which pierced my heart and grew roots in my brain. She humped my mind while she whispered to me. I haven’t forgotten her voice.

  I never will.

  “Elizabeth?” My voice shook, a tragic concert which played in time with the trembling of my body and mind. It was her. After all this time.

  “Hi, Malcolm. Happy birthday.” Her words weren’t cheerful or happy. Rather they were announced with a sadly grim aroma that, even with time-served, reeked of stale heartbreak and shattered souls.

  Even now she wondered if I wanted to hear from her. Or maybe she wasn’t sure if she wanted to talk to me. A lifetime of nights that were mini-lifetimes formed a sheathe of crystals around my heart. I didn’t know how to feel, beyond the pure love that I would always keep for her.

  But I wasn’t about to undo years of building fortresses of hurt and hate. Even if I was capable of it. However, lives change and time passes, so I made a feeble attempt at strength.

  “Thanks. Uhm, I really appreciate the call, but I’m just heading out…”

  “That’s okay. I’ll let you go then.”

  “No.” It was halting and unwitting and it released my cool demeanor, hostage that it was. Now that I had her on the phone, I didn’t want to let her go, for fear that another seven years would pass before we spoke again.

  But my initial attempt, at dismissing her call as nothing more than a poorly-timed nuisance, had been exposed for the foul tactic that it was. I panicked.

  What does that make her think? Is she laughing at me now? Am I as pathetic to her now as I had been when I walked in on the two of them humping in the bathroom? Did she call just to keep old wounds freshly dressed? Or was she afraid that they had healed over, and was mounting a new assault, a savage new attack to drive the knife in once again?

  I sighed so softly that I doubt she heard it, and regained my senses.

  “It’s been awhile. It’d be good to know what you’ve been up to. I have a couple of minutes.”

  “Okay. I don’t have long either. I just thought about you and figured it’s been a long time since we talked.” She was uncomfortable – I suppose for good reason. To be honest, after all this time I had convinced myself that I could talk to her without feeling anything.

  But I suddenly realized that this wasn’t the case. I was uncomfortable, too. Probably not for the same reasons she was.

  “So how’ve you been, Elizabeth?” It was a strange thing, to speak her name. I dreaded even meeting someone with the same name. I know. It was totally irrational, but whenever I did meet someone named Elizabeth, 10,000 volt shocks of a disturbing past would flow through me with utter prejudice.

  Denial can be so supportive, and yet so deceptive. I should have known that speaking to her again would make me feel this way. Otherwise, I would have tracked her down a long time ago.

  “Not bad. Life is pretty good. I’m back in Detroit, and just finished my law degree. I’m going to article here.” She paused as if trying to find something else to say. Or more likely, she was deciding whether to say it.

  “I’m seeing somebody now. It’s going really well.” Spikes of jolting pain coursed through my heart. Long jagged thorns were thrust in like a thousand searing darts. Reeling, rollicking, roaring waves of sorrow smashed into my brain. I thought for a moment about pulling an “oh, look at the time” on her, but I couldn’t just end it like that. God, how I wanted to.

  “Good for you. I’m happy.” My monotonic reply testified, without need for embellishment, against my lie.

  “Yeah.” Now as the reality of our conversation sank in, I really wanted to go. Not talking to her was better than talking to her and knowing the unforgiving truth.

  “Listen, I really have to go. I’m sorry, but I’m late. I’m meeting up with Jack and our girlfriends.” I lied again. This time more convincingly I suppose, and I hated my cowardice. I didn’t want to admit to her that I was still single. Anyway, it would be an added bonus if she had any residual feelings for me, for this would sting her. Not just about the girlfriend, either.

  “Oh, okay. So you and Jack are still hanging out together.” she uncomfortably changed the subject. Maybe in case I started talking about my ‘girlfriend.’ I even had a name picked out for her.

  “Yeah, same as ever. Actually, we’re closer now. We’ll always be.” The passive-aggressive stab was barely veiled and I’m sure she noticed. We’ll always be. Unlike you and me. We’ll always be. Me and the guy who raped you. I continued before she could respond.

  “He moved to Montreal after graduation, and we picked up right where we left off. Listen, I really have to go, but maybe we can we talk again.” I didn’t even want to mention talking again, but words like ‘maybe’ can be incredibly effective swords. And while my internal battle was fiercely waged, my feelings barely won out over common sense.

  “Sure. Let me give you my number.” I wrote it down and told her that I’d call her sometime, but in my heart I knew that I wouldn’t.

  “Great. Talk to you later.” Desperate to end this now before I fell any further, I was about to hang up.

  “Malcolm?” Heart leaps, eyes roll, memories like a flock of ravens circle around my heart. Something familiar in her tone made me hold my breath before I softly sighed.

  “Yes?” There was a protracted pause.

  “Nothing. Happy birthday.”

  Dammit, why couldn’t she just let me be? This was another torture to add to the long list of injustices that had been heaped on my soul. In another lifetime, I might have tried to force it out of her, but the thorns caused profuse internal bleeding.

  “K. See you later.”

  “Bye.”

  I hung up and took a long, deep breath. My heart pounded my brain, and I wondered why she had to call today. For one thing, my night was ruined. Any chance of getting a happy lay was out of the question. I’d have to settle for an angry fuck.

  I knew that I’d be in a foul mood for the rest of the night, and hoped that Jack could help me out of the pit I’d fallen into. As I left and locked the door to my townhouse, I wondered just h
ow long it would be before we talked again.

  Chapter 25

  My birthday was far from spectacular. Jack wasn’t able to perk me up, and I stormed out of the club and staggered to the nearest taxi. That night I was visited by some of the ugliest dreams I’d ever had, and when I awoke I didn’t even know where I was. After copious coffee and Tylenol, I spent the morning in agonizing debate.

  I can’t excise her from my soul. That’s painfully clear from the way her call made me feel.

  Fuck her. She’s just a piece of pussy. Did you grow one? You got a sex change when I wasn’t looking. Didn’t you, you useless prick?

  I was the one who wronged her, not the other way around. And she tried. She really tried, by calling me.

  So the fuck what? After all this time you’d let yourself get this wound up over a piece of tail? Fuck you! You’re pathetic.

  Needless to say, harsh words don’t win debates of the heart. So I picked up the phone and dialed her number. There was no answer, so I let it ring into voicemail. Her voice told me that she and someone named Phillip weren’t home, and to leave a message. I hung up and didn’t call back.

  I spent several days at home. Told them I wouldn’t be into work for the rest of the week. ‘But what about the Takashi account?’ ‘Jean-Paul can handle it.’ ‘But what about the board meeting? ‘You can handle it.’ But what about...’ And so-on.

  I didn’t care. I practically owned it. I knew that Father wouldn’t be impressed, but didn’t care. He wasn’t about to fire me.

  As the weeks passed, I managed to shovel heavy clumps of dirt onto the hands that tried to claw their way out of my soul. I moved on as best I could, because I had no choice. Autumn had taken over with a vengeance and gradually killed the land. It sucked the lives out of leaves with red, orange, yellow and brown icy blasts of Arctic wind.

  It ruthlessly stripped the trees of their foliage until they resembled twisted black skeletons, once again. They hauntingly swayed back and forth, lamenting for children who couldn’t lament for themselves. For they lay prostrate and forlorn on wet black pavement. The only burial the cruel world would allow them.

  The mornings were cold and frost warnings were frequent. I jacked up the heat in my house and kept fires going. Mornings were broodingly dark and the sun retreated in defeat, noticeably earlier each day. The seasonal changes affected my mood, but at least I was able to stand on unsteady feet again.

  I found renewed interest in work. I needed something that didn’t jab painful reminders of Elizabeth and Jack into my brain. So I focused on work and it got me through the hours, days and weeks which followed. Once again, she chose to be a distant shadow, lurking on my shoulder like a gargoyle that watches and waits.

  Nights of endless sorrow were punctuated by sporadic calls from Jack, bottles of fine Scotch and endless introspection. My social calendar was replete with invites to parties with bevies of women, but I just couldn’t partake. Even if I had the energy, I didn’t have the desire to float amongst the sharks, knowing that it didn’t matter which one bit me first. The outcome would still be the same. I chose to be alone with my thoughts, for while they were relentlessly cruel, they were, in fact, the only thing I trusted.

  But Christmas neared, and while I wasn’t ready to submerse myself outside of the shark net, I did awake from the horrible trance that grasped my balls like they were the Tower Jewels. I remember it so well. I’ll never forget that night. It changed me. A man who lives without hope will never forget the moment when hope presents itself, delivered in the arms of an angel.

  It was the week before Christmas. I got home and poured myself a long one and settled down for a long drunken night. I had a Christmas tree delivered, because frankly, I needed something that had a slight scent of the positive. So I went out at lunch that day and bought a fully-decorated tree. All I had to do was plug it in.

  I ignored Jack’s three or four messages. He called me several times a day and I had gotten into the habit of screening him most days. Not because I didn’t want to talk to him, but because I didn’t want to talk to anyone. He hadn’t changed much. His calls were normally meant to fill me in on his progress.

  I got tired of hearing about the exploits and the art. It was all he talked about, and he never even bothered to ask me how I was doing. I couldn’t take it anymore, and the fact that it was Christmastime didn’t help.

  So I got a tree. I had it delivered, and after the delivery men left, I poured a drink and sat there listening to Christmas music while I chugged Scotch. I watched it sit quietly and patiently in the darkness. I hadn’t even plugged it in. It was bathed in the blue-black glow that poured through my windows – the demi-light of an unfriendly night which watched me and waited like a predator.

  The phone rang several times, and each time I picked up the handset and looked at the number. Jack was relentless. I shook my head and muttered profanities and kept watching the tree, as if I waited for it to perform a Christmas miracle and light itself.

  That’s when it happened.

  I don’t know if it was the tree or Jack’s incessant calls, but I finally realized that I had festered too long. I was becoming something that even I couldn’t understand, and I began to hate the blue-black glimmer which spied on me like a jealous lover.

  “This is stupid!” I muttered as I went to the tree and plugged it in. Hundreds of shimmering white lights sparkled through the room, temporarily scaring away the blue-black voyeur from the room and my life. It was time to begin living again.

  I was tired…numbingly tired…of being controlled like a toy. She may have had the remote, and he may have held the batteries. But I was the toy that made the remote and batteries useful, and it was time to reclaim my life.

  I flicked on the lights. It seemed like I had never seen them before. Indeed, they hadn’t been on much in the past several months. I downed my Scotch and sat on the couch.

  What now? I thought to myself as I peered at the lights and ornaments which adorned my oh-so-perfect tree. I considered the options. There was my book. I had plenty of names in there, and even though I had been physically absent for months, these friends didn’t give a shit about that. As long as I brought my wallet.

  Their pride was easily assuaged by money. I thought about calling Holli, but for some reason that’s still unknown to me, I decided not to do that. I suppose that I had holed myself up in my fortress of solitude for so long, that I had to get out. It wouldn’t be a fitting end to months of miring in crapulence, to have one of them come to me.

  No. It was time for me to re-inject myself into the world that existed outside of my microcosm – that Montreal nightlife that I once traversed like a God in search of a new Goddess.

  I quickly showered and preened myself. As I peered into the mirror, it peered back at me accusingly. How could you let that bitch get you again, you stupid shit? I’d kill you right now and put you out of your misery, if I didn’t know that it would kill me too.

  I frowned and wondered why I let myself be taken hostage, yet again. But I persevered. Oblivious of my appearance for so long, it felt good to pay attention to my hair. To ensure that it had just the right amount of gel, and it fell over my eye in just the right way.

  Dropping my towel in the bathroom, I rushed to my closet and picked my battle armor for the evening. I didn’t deliberate long. I chose black slacks and a black turtleneck: simple yet sinister. Accompanied by the black leather jacket that I decided to wear, it would be an understated yet potent combination.

  My patent-leather Florsheims got the first polish that they had in a year, and they were grateful for it. I returned to the living room and made sure that my utility belt was well-stocked. Cigarettes, breath-freshener, plenty of cash and condoms: check. I donned my leather jacket and strode with determined confidence to the front door.

  Once more, I was on the hunt for cunt.

  Chapter 26

  I drove downtown, all the while pounding out Pink Floyd through my car stereo. I though
t about where I should go, and remembered all the places that I used to frequent. None of them appealed to me however, so I pointed myself in the direction of Ste. Catherine’s Street and decided to let my whims pamper me. As I drove along and watched the neon lights, the hookers and the whores, I realized that I was back. It should have been a depressing thought, but in comparison to what I had left behind at my townhouse, it was like being greeted by St. Peter at the gates of Heaven.

  I was home, even if it was a broken home.

  I circled the downtown area for a couple of minutes without success, and was ready to admit defeat and make a U-turn. La Rose Noir was a compromise that I was happy to make.

  But then I saw it. A place that I hadn’t noticed before: Angie’s. Diminutive in its façade, something drew me to it. Perhaps it was the novelty of discovering a tiny joint where no-one knew me. Perhaps it was because it looked disgusting and seedy – and I was in the mood to slum. Or perhaps it was just because. Whatever the reason, I knew it had to be Angie’s. I found a place to park my car and strutted in with two wads waiting to be spent.

  After handing ten dollars to a doorman who resembled a granite boulder more than a human being, I walked into the tiny bar. It was a small crowd. Old men and unemployed construction workers, most of whom sat quietly and leered at the dance floor. Some were lucky enough – or armed with just enough cash – to sit with a fresh young dancer in search of a payout.

  It was a bizarre sight. Gorgeous twenty-somethings dressed in little but g-strings, bras and high heels, sitting with wrinkled old men. But that was part of the charm, and it was also part of my power. When I walked into a place like this, I became a God. And they knew it right away.

  Well, normally they did. Clumps of dancers hovered around the bar. Black, white, Asian or East-Indian, some were slender with long, luscious legs that ended somewhere around their throats. Some bodies belied their personal lives, however. Telling stretch-marks and cottage-cheese butts and legs.