The House that Jack Built

by Malcolm James

  I should have asked the limo driver to wait, but I wasn’t thinking. I succumbed to my trance as I handed him a wad of cash, told him to keep the change, and watched him rest my bags on wet pavement. He drove off and I was left standing, in the darkness of night and a slave to the furies.

  As if to announce my arrival or to cement my anxiety, a sharp bolt of lightning snaked its way through the sky. Its tendrils reached out like a twisted spider’s web. Seconds later, a deafening crash of thunder shook the air, and through the dank scent of acid rain I smelled the acrid stench of ozone.

  The thunderbolt broke me from my trance and I hefted my luggage and ran it up to the landing outside Jack’s house. As I stood there and shook the rain off of my hands and face, I noticed for the first time that there were no lights shining from any of the windows. The house was completely black and I cursed myself for letting the limo leave.

  I began to think about the minimum half hour that I’d be waiting for another. Shaking my head and looking down at my leather Florsheims, I lamented. They were probably ruined.

  Another burst of thunder filled the air. It sounded like an exploding transformer, and the repeated cracks were so loud that for a moment I covered my ears. The rain threw itself at the earth in a torrent. Dammit, Jack better be here, because I won’t get another taxi.

  With no other options set before me, I raised my drenched hand and poked the doorbell. It was the only apparent sign of artificial light in the house, which appeared to be a crypt rather than a place where humans dwelled. I heard faint chimes echo inside, even through the tumult of nature’s torrent, and I wondered if there was a living soul inside who would hear my muted cry for help.

  I waited for a minute before pressing it again. Nothing. I looked out from the porch and onto the landscape. I couldn’t see a thing, save for the dark shadows of trees which were tugged and tormented by the Hell that the sky had unleashed.

  I sighed deeply and reached into my pocket for a pack of cigarettes. I despaired as I held a soggy pack of Gauloises in my clammy palm. I crushed the soaked cigarettes and threw them to the ground. Without hope and trembling from the cold that invaded me, I looked at the double doors to Jack’s house and wondered if I could break them down.

  They were huge and majestic, and wrought in oak carved with most intricate craftsmanship. The designs which outlined the entire circumference of the seven-foot doors would normally have appeared to be idyllic scenes of cherub and seraphim, although I’d never taken note of them before this night. Tonight however, they appeared to be garish little demons which stuck their tongues out at me, jeered at me and reveled in the howling storm and my howling misery.

  Another crack of thunder blared in the distance and shocked me out of my trance. There was no way I could break those doors down, but perhaps I could find a window to break. It wasn’t much of an option, however. Leaving the shelter of the porch and treading through the storm would have been like storming Omaha Beach on D-Day.

  I shivered uncontrollably now that I was fully soaked to the bone. Dammit, I thought, if I’m out here much longer, I will catch pneumonia. I bowed my head in despair and placed my hand on the door to steady myself. When I felt it give, my heart skipped a beat. It was open! I cursed my own stupidity for not trying the knob in the first place, and eagerly pushed the door inward.

  “FUCK!”

  I sprained my wrist. In my eagerness to get out of the storm, I shoved at the door with an assumption that it would give freely. But it hit something and stopped there. I cursed aloud as a sharp jab of searing agony shot up my right wrist. The door was only partially open, so nursing my wrist with my left hand and muttering profanities, I peered into the crack hoping that I’d be able to see something. Deathly blackness stared back at me.

  I yelled more epithets and in desperation threw my body weight against the door. It gave slightly. Something extremely heavy was behind it, but it moved. Encouraged, I pushed even harder and felt it give even more. The opening was barely wide enough that I considered trying to squeeze through. But I thrust my full weight once more. The door gave another half inch and then stopped. I wasn’t going to be able to pry it open any further, so I gingerly and eagerly squeezed my body through the opening.

  I plied and pried against the unforgiving friction of the oak door. The fabric on my coat and suit ripped like casualties of a rape. The pressure against my chest and stomach was nearly unbearable, but I wiggled through with intense determination. As my body eked out precious millimeters – I had surpassed the halfway point – my sprained wrist banged against the brass doorknob and a bolt of agonizing fire shot up my sprained wrist and into my elbow. I let out a yelp, but I was nearly through and I squeezed out the last few inches with the determination of a man who fought for his life.

  I popped through the opening like a baby escaping the womb and slowly closed the door. I don’t know why, because the place was so black that the net effect was to cut off what remaining natural light was afforded by the electrical storm. I couldn’t see anything that wasn’t a foot in front of me. But I needed to shut out the torrent outside. The eerie shelter of Jack’s house, while discomforting in a new way, was a more palatable option. The roof, walls and door which protected me from the nightmare were welcome, if not welcoming.

  The door slammed with a deafening echo. Were my faculties in normal working condition, I would have noticed that the acoustics inside the house were different. Had I been thinking, the first thought that should have gone through my head was that there was far less to soak up the sound, like a church devoid of its congregation. Or a house devoid of furniture. While the echo made me jump, I didn’t think about it. I was just relieved to be sheltered from the storm.

  When the next crack of lightning hit, the entire lobby of Jack’s house was briefly illuminated in a blue-black haze. Like a single frame from a movie reel. As quickly as it was lit, it became pitch-black again. But in that moment, my brain processed that frame and was left with a lingering after-image. Now that I was sheltered and regaining my composure, I was eager for any visual stimulus, and my mind focused on what nature illuminated for me. A large hallway with its double-circular staircases. But the rest didn’t register.

  It was devoid of furniture. It lacked paintings on the walls, and the 18th Century furniture that normally adorned the bottoms of the stairwells. Everything was gone. No mirrors on the walls, no rugs on the floors. My mind’s eye didn’t even pick up the Tiffany crystal chandelier, which I had always regarded as being an egregiously tacky display of pomp. What I did see was confusing and hard to comprehend.

  In that brief flash of light I saw cubes. Cubes of varying sizes and heights, stacked in seemingly random patterns, yet peppered throughout Jack’s gigantic main hallway. As I stood shivering in the darkness I pondered this image. A strange foreboding fell over my soul. I was beginning to realize what it meant, but I also realized that I was shivering almost to the point of convulsion.

  I staggered slightly. My right hand darted out instinctively to steady myself, and collided with a solid object. I yelled in pain as I remembered my sprained wrist. But I did realize why I couldn’t open the door.

  Gingerly at first – for my wrist was still in agony – I sensed a crate made of solid wood. It was the reason why I couldn’t open the door. It felt rough and unfriendly in the darkness, but I put out my good hand and steadied myself against it.

  My entire body was soaked. Icy droplets trickled down my face and my clothes clung to my clammy skin. In a sudden wave of common sense, I became conscious of how cold and wet I was. Like a dervish I stripped off my overcoat and let it fall to the floor with a moist thud. My fingers shook in their bone-numbing chill as they half-helped, half-hindered my way out of my suit jacket. But it must have looked like I was trying to get out of a straightjacket, as I wriggled and let it fall where it might.

  Feverishly, I tugged at the buttons on my shirt and cursed in frustration, because my fingertips were so numb that they became
useless, clumsy digits. After fumbling at one of the buttons for several seconds without success, I thought fuck it and tore the shirt open. The buttons landed with random clatters and I peeled the wet fabric off of my moist skin – I tugged the shirt tails from my pants and ripped the sleeves.

  It would have been a comical sight, had there been light and spectators, as I fought with cuffs which wouldn’t slip over my hands. Even the agony of my sprained wrist couldn’t stop me, and finally I was free of the thing. I let it fall to the floor as I began to undo my belt.

  Even though I was soaked and the chill air of the hallway refused to warm my exposed skin, I felt much better for having stripped off my clothes. My flesh felt refreshed rather than repressed, to have cool wisps of the hallway pass over my naked shoulders and chest. I was halfway there and imagined how good it would feel once my pants were off. It became even more imperative, since my convulsions were now focused on my lower torso. I had to tug and peel the wet fabric from my freezing skin, and the pants rolled off of my legs like a condom rolled off of a satiated penis. I kicked and twisted, furiously driving the clinging garments off of me.

  Finally I was free, and I stood in the darkness with my dignity preserved only by jockeys and black dress socks. The darkness didn’t care that I was naked, but my humility argued with bitter nerves. My skin began to dry as cool air caressed it.

  For the first time since I entered the house, I became conscious of my breathing. At first hoarse and hurried, it calmed itself, but it echoed in this silent black room. That’s when I became truly scared.

  I also became cognizant of the fact that I couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of me, even as my eyes adjusted to the blackness of night. I steadied myself against the crate, realizing that my groin and my feet were now the lone recipients of the cold clamminess that had permeated my entire body only minutes before. Wearily, I lifted a leg and peeled off a sock.

  That’s when light flooded the room in a brilliance that not only startled me intensely, it caused me to flinch and cover my eyes. As I squinted through the back of my hand to see what new danger was about to face me, I saw Jack. He had a wry smile on his face and was decked out in a black Armani shirt and black Armani slacks.

  His smile was not the broad, ear-to-ear smirk that I was used to seeing, but rather a humorous look that was punctuated by one corner of his mouth turned upward. There was a glint in his eyes and his dimples laughed at me, while he stood with both hands in his pockets, looking every bit the GQ man.

  “Get lost?” Not wanting to show him that I was irritated by this sudden turn of events, I smiled weakly and shook my head.

  Of course, I would have looked much cooler if I hadn’t been standing there with hair matted over my forehead and nothing on but soaking wet underwear and one black sock. But I had learned to gain my composure pretty quickly over the years, so I managed the most relaxed and confident stance that I could, under the circumstances.

  “You were supposed to pick me up at the airport, you shit.” I said this as I wrung out a sock and carefully placed it over the crate upon which I had been leaning. I quickly reached down and took off the other one, painfully conscious of how stupid I must have looked. I didn’t care, though. I was angry at him, and pissed that the net result was me looking every bit the fool.

  It was only then that I became totally aware of the boxes and crates which littered the room, the hallway and the landing at the top of the stairs. I understood why our voices echoed. The house was devoid of furniture and littered with boxes.

  Normally, Jack would have shrugged off any responsibility for my accusation and moved on. I didn’t expect him to apologize for not picking me up at the airport. But as I stared him down with my deliberate emphasis on the words ‘you shit,’ he stopped and took his hands out of his pockets. The expression on his face changed and his eyebrows furrowed as he looked at me.

  If I didn’t know better I’d have thought that in that fleeting moment, there was sudden realization of something forgotten and even – dare I say it? – shame and regret. But he recovered quickly, and started, as if a man jarred from a waking dream.

  Chapter 30

  “You’re a mess.” He smiled and gestured at me to join him in the study. Dumbly and devoid of argument, I navigated around boxes and followed him. My only residual pride being tightly held by soaking boxers. But I didn’t care.

  I shivered uncontrollably as I looked forlornly at the hearth. It was cold and black and I dreamed of the warmth of a raging fire. Fervently, I rubbed my hands together while Jack excused himself. He returned minutes later with towels and dry clothes.

  “Hugo,” he tossed a turtleneck and slacks at me. He had developed an irritating habit of describing his wardrobe in the given names of their designers. As if that put him on a first-name basis with them.

  To his credit, it worked on freshmen and dirty young femme fatales looking for a quick ride to the good life. As if his absurd wealth wasn’t enough.

  Yes, Jack was on a first-name basis with Giorgio, Hugo, Tommy, Calvin, Ralph and Gianni. I thought about telling him that Versace was dead, but it would have ruined my fun.

  What floored me was that this cheap tactic – like his other cheap tactics – worked. Jack bedded a never-ending convoy of nameless bimbos without having to talk to them. The next day, they were a distant memory to him. But they fed that irritating smile of his.

  Not caring that I was naked, I stripped off my jockeys, toweled off and pulled on the dry clothes. They were soft and warm against my skin, and for the first time in almost two hours, I felt human again. Jack handed me a Scotch which I ravenously downed and handed back to him for a refill.

  The study was filled with boxes, but his armchairs were still there. They resided amongst crates, which I peered at while I pondered. What the Hell was going on? My body temperature began to return to normal as the Scotch seeped into the tips of my fingers. The chill became a faded memory. I sat down and cuddled the glass between my legs.

  “Jack, what’s going on?” He smiled and sat down, as if my words were his cue to launch into his latest tirade. But thank God, he brought the decanter of Scotch with him. I put my hand out in supplication and he slowly extended the bottle to me. He watched as I poured a tall one. It made me uncomfortable, but I tried to ignore it.

  “Why the Hell weren’t you at the airport like said you’d be?” He half-closed his eyelids and his dimples were in full bloom. Normally a sign that the cat ate the proverbial canary.

  “Jack!” I was really irritated now, and I began to raise my voice. It seemed to startle him out of a trance. He jumped ever so slightly and took a long pull from his glass.

  “Sorry. I had more pressing matters. You see all this?” His arm swept across the room in a pompous manner, reminiscent of a model at a car show. I couldn’t help but smile inwardly at his affectation. But on the outside I was scowling and mean. As my brain began to warm though, my curiosity got the best of me. My disdain for his apathy at my impending death from exposure faded.

  “I don’t get it.” You moving?” He nodded but his words were totally off-topic with my query. I thought about my soaked Gauloises.

  “You have any cigarettes?” He raised an eyebrow and nodded, flipping a package toward me. DuMaurier. I lit one and tasted a Canadian cigarette for the first time in months. It was milder. Milder than American cigarettes and infinitely milder than French. I exhaled and watched the blue smoke swirl around the transitional room.

  “Look at this.” He jumped up and pried open the crate nearest to him. As he rummaged around, I imagined that he was going to produce a bloody head or a dead animal. Small handfuls of straw packaging flew until he found his prize. It was a gilded frame wrapped tightly in Mylar. Wide enough that while he held it, his arms were open in apparent supplication. Its back faced me, but he gingerly spun it around and held it toward me as if it was a present.

  In the dim light, I had to get closer to see what he held. I stood up and moved t
oward him, but he retreated slightly.

  “Uh-Unh. Don’t touch.” I rolled my eyes and sneered. I was going to make a wry comment, but any desire to do so was lost the moment that I saw the painting.

  It was a marvelously detailed scene depicting, as best as I could tell, the fall of Pheidippides at Athens. Soldiers stood at the gates of a city, enveloped with scores of onlookers as far as the eye could see. In the distance was a cliff which was adorned with a stormy sky. It was fraught with clouds and an angry-looking sun that barely peeked out from behind a large billowing black cloud. Several statesmen draped in togas apparently rejoiced at Pheidippides’ news that the Greeks had defeated the Persians at Marathon.

  As they proverbially patted themselves on the back, they seemed oblivious to the fact that Pheidippides, who had just run 22 miles from Marathon with the news, collapsed to the ground while his heart burst. The look of agony on his face was pronounced while he clutched a scroll in one hand with the other clutched his chest.

  The colors were so vivid, even though this painting was obviously ancient. Rich earthy tones of burgundy in Pheidippides cape, the verdant green of trees in the distance, and deep gold hues in the gates of Athens were underscored by a gentler, more balanced approach to skin tones and the terra cottas of the buildings and earth. I’m no art expert, but I do know what I like. And I liked this painting.

  “Nice.” I said as I raised my glass to Jack and returned to my chair. After I sat, I noticed that he was still holding the painting up. He looked comical, because he held it high in the air as if showing off to a crowd of awestruck onlookers. I couldn’t see his face. But slowly, the painting lowered and he peered with suspicion from behind it. He almost looked dejected.

  “Nice? That’s all you can say? Nice?” He shook his head and walked the painting toward me. “Do you see the name of the artist?” His tone was angry and confrontational, and I was intimated. But I peered closely at the canvas and looked everywhere for a signature. There was none. At first, I thought it might be lost in the fine detail of the rubble on the ground or the grass, but after a minute, I shook my head and looked up at Jack.