The Dwelling

by Susie Moloney

  They surprised even themselves with the ideas. It was funny, ironic and real.

  Within a week, Max had given him an outline for the first issue. More or less. They’d been arguing about layout, some story details, bullshit stuff. It would all be worked out.

  It beat thehell out of advertising.

  Around the timeThe Headhunter was born, he and Becca went looking for a house. They had looked at about six when they found the one on Belisle. They fell in love with it. They put in their offer. They bought it. He had been talking nonstop to Becca aboutThe Headhunter; she had been talking nonstop about the upcoming director’s job. Somewhere in there, they weren’t listening to each other. There had been an atmosphere around the house then, the sort of feeling like they were arriving at some kind of threshold. They were moving forward.

  Dan’s day job started to go bad a few days after the purchase of the house went through.

  There were murmurs around Clayton and Marks about cutbacks. Downsizing. Two weeks later, Dan was let go. And the endless round of the same conversation began.

  What the hell does that mean?

  It means I’ve been laid off.

  For how long?

  I don’t know. Maybe forever.

  Unsaid, but said just the same in a million other conversations and a tone of voice that was at first afraid, then shamed, then contemptuous, was the Rebecca Mason version of How My Husband Fucked Up.

  What did you do?

  Why were you fired?

  How could you do this to me?

  Where Becca had seen disaster and chaos, Dan saw the light. Since his first job after college, he had wanted to leave the grid and work on his own. Creating. Making art. He and Becca had talked of little else in the narrow single bed in his rented room off-campus the last year of college. She was going to be a CEO before she was forty. He was going to make truth and beauty with ink and paper.

  I love you.She would say it fiercely, when he talked about what he wanted tomake. I love you. She would arch her body against his. He would draw on her, in secret places that no one would ever see, angels, winged creatures, castles, coloring her flesh with pastel crayon paints. He would wash her slowly in the shower, taking his time. The other guys in the apartment would bang on the bathroom door and they would ignore it. They had fucked like weasels then. Rabbits. Guppies.

  Now she wanted a portfolio and retirement savings account.

  Dan opened the sketchbook to the pages he’d roughed out the week before they moved. They were for the first scene in which Headhunter (going by one of his many corporate names, Ted Michaels) dons a suit to infiltrate a pharmaceutical R&D company that is promoting a diet drug taken from the bark of a tree on the endangered list. They received clearance with a fake report that they had synthesized the material, when they had not even begun attempting it.

  He tilted his head and backed up some, taking in the work. He grabbed the second sketchbook from the table and began looking through it. In it were his initial sketches for the characters.

  Headhunter was a skinny guy. An antihero. He had a head topped with too much black hair, he was tall and had a slightly prominent nose, with heavy-prescription glasses he could discard only when wearing his corporate suit. Chicks, of course, weren’t really an issue, although he planned the ongoing, unconsummated relationship with the Reporter. She was a youngish girl, the bloom of youth just off her cheeks, secretly working in an underground press. Headhunter would dazzle her with Chomsky and Zim quotes and then disappear into the night, leaving her panting and wanting. It would all be very (hysterically) sad, given his condition. Unrequited love in the extreme.

  He had good, solid sketches of Hanus and Malicia, the Headhunternemesi. They were perfect or near so. Max was pleased.

  The Reporter escaped him. Still nameless and faceless—although he would give her a killer body under her Guatemalan sweater and no-logo hemp pants. He stared into the wall in front of him. His mind wandered to the window he would put there.

  He decided a toke would free the muse. He dipped into the kitchen and took a quick hit from his pipe, drawing deeply and holding the smoke reflectively. He exhaled.

  Face of an angel. A sexy nun.He nodded. Ready to work. He left the pipe on the kitchen table and went back into the studio, pleasantly buzzed and pumped.

  He closed the two sketchbooks. He needed a bit more room to free-form. He grabbed his portfolio case, tucked neatly between the table and the shelves and zippered it open. Inside was an oversized sketchbook, still clean and empty.

  He propped it up on his drawing table and opened the flap cover to the first page. He pulled his stool up close and with his pencil, began drawing voluptuous, soft circles that were forming flesh in his mind. The comic book(graphic novel) women of his youth flashed through his mind as he worked—Vampirella, Red Sonja, the girls of Conan. What they had in common: for quality, look to the classics.

  He was a man. He started by drawing her breasts.

  Dan worked silently and unstopping for an hour. The music from the stereo ran out without him noticing. His cup of coffee sat cold and half full on the table beside him.

  She was beautiful. Ethereal. All six versions of her.

  The first sketch was too comically disproportionate. Enormous breasts stretched the woolen Guatemalan sweater he’d put her in. Just looking at that sweater made him feel itchy. He would dump it. Under the sweater was a pair of tight black pants. The woman had impossibly long legs. Long, tangled black hair flew out from her face as though caught in a wind tunnel, untamed. She was hot, but hardly political. Only the eyes were somehow right, or close. They were wide-spaced and large. Too large in that version, but there began the element he wanted. A sort of innocence, but not with those breasts. Not those legs. Wrong hair.

  The next two were toned-down versions of the first one. The pants flared out in the second. The breasts were remarkably reduced, the work of a skilled (if somewhat disappointed) surgeon. After some of that had worked its way out of his system, and he began thinkingnun-like, she began to take on a sort of personality.

  He cut off her hair, curled it around her face. Kept it dark, as a foil of sorts for Malicia—whose hair was dark and long and straight. He made the Reporter’s hair short and curled, soft-looking. He made the eyes smaller, but kept them spaced: it gave her a young-old look, like knowledge unwanted. Dark eyes. He rounded her face, made it heart-shaped.

  Somewhere between sketches four and six, he gave her a skirt and a little sweater. Nothing debutante, but short, to show off a high waist. The skirt was fitted through the hips and then flared out, to her ankles.

  She looked old-fashioned, maybe a touch too feminine. A politically correct Betty Boop, with her curly hair and the figure not quite hidden under her clothes. He frowned at the last sketch, unsure of what to change to sharpen the character, remove some of that overt femininity. He started a seventh sketch after deciding he didn’t need a cigarette just then. One more and he’d take a break. Maybe a couple more. The house was quiet around him. A stillness that felt like breath held, but it might have been his own, held and let out in gasps, little moans sometimes, noises that went unnoticed by him.

  Unaware, he hummed as he drew. A tune that seemed to fit his mood, the sketches. Something old and dreamy. Something he’d heard, but didn’t know. Jazzy. Far away, he heard something in the attic, which he ignored or simply didn’t acknowledge. Once, he thought he heard water running in the tub, but it was discreet and quiet, muffled as though through a closed door, and it went away before he’d really even thought it through.

  Around him, the house went about its business.

  In front of him, the Reporter came to life, taking on form and feature, growing in detail, both visually and in character. She was quiet, but every emotion showed on her face; she liked jazz and dark rooms; she had a weakness for the wrong men; she was in love with the Headhunter. She was not as innocent as she looked. She looked very innocent. The last sketch betrayed that best. H
er mouth was twisted up at the corner, in a smile thatknew. At some point, he had a name.

  Maggie.

  Something moved in the attic, a shuffle across the floor. A door slid open in one of the bedrooms. Water in the tub drained. A whiff of fresh hay. Dan hummed, aware of nothing but (his own) breathing.

  After you’ve gone…

  Becca’s hands were shaking as she stood in front of Gordon Huff’s solid oak door. His name was stamped into a brass plate just above eye level. She checked her watch. It was one minute before ten. She rapped twice on the door, willing herself to relax.

  “Come in, Rebecca,” he called from behind the door. It was muffled. But she’d heard him say her name. That heartened her. She pushed the door open, her face a fiercely willed mask of efficiency and determination.

  “Mr. Huff,” she said firmly, nodding once. No wasted motions. In her mind she repeated,Director of Patient Services, Director of Patient Services.

  “Sit down, Rebecca,” he said, waving toward a large chair angled to his desk. He leaned forward as she sat (andshe leaned forward as she sat, willing her face not to blush, not to heat, not to redden even as she did, shamelessly). “What can I do for you?” He looked her straight in the eye. He was not an unkind man; this she already knew. He was not unattractive, either. He was about fifty or so, and had not run to fat as some executives did. He was married, of course. Becca knew nothing of his family. Theirs was not a company of family picnics, Christmas parties or retreats. For that she was truly grateful.

  “Thank you for seeing me,” she began steadily. “I understand the director’s position in Patient Services is opening up. I’d like to put myself forward.” She was firm, but not aggressive. She smiled to soften the words, but not servilely. Her heart pounded so hard in her chest, she was sure he could see it, or at least hear it.

  He nodded thoughtfully. “How long have you been with the Center, Rebecca?”

  “I started in Nutrition right out of college, Mr. Huff. I’ve been here six years. I was committee head two years after I started with the company, and I now hold—as you know—” her hands continued to shake, and she held them tightly in her lap where he couldn’t see them “—an executive assistant position in Patient Services.” It came out in one fast breath. She hoped he hadn’t noticed. She smiled warmly, she hoped. “I’m just one position under director now.” She said, “It’s the logical next step. I’ve worked closely with Mr. Anderson. I have experience.”

  Gordon Huff raised an eyebrow and allowed her a small smile that faded quickly. There was a pause during which Becca’s heart resumed its serious thudding. She swallowed. Her mouth was filling up with saliva.

  “I have an updated résumé in my desk. I can put it in your mailbox, if necessary,” she said.

  Mr. Huff nodded. “You understand that there are six other exec assistants, equally qualified, also applying for the position.”

  Was he testing her? “They are all from other departments.”

  “Tom Higgins is from your department, Rebecca, and he’s also expressed an interest. I’m not saying anything at this point. Decisions won’t be made until the end of the month, as you know. And it isn’t entirely up to me. There’s a committee that will choose among the qualified candidates. All of your qualifications will be taken into account.”

  “I’d like a recommendation from you, Mr. Huff,” she said quickly, firmly, before he had a chance to dismiss her. They met eyes. His flickered quickly to the V of her jacket and back again. So quickly it was hardly noticeable.I saw that.

  Her mind flashed possibilities as quickly as her heart skipped in her chest. Director of Patient Services was a good gig. Avery good gig. The sort of position from which there was no (or little) looking back. From the Center she could move into an executive position. It was also an extra twenty thousand dollars a year.

  With slow, uncertain deliberation, she said, “I would like to take you to lunch, Mr. Huff, in an effort to better familiarize you with my experience and qualifications for the position.” She dared not look at his face. She swallowed. “Would tomorrow be a good time?”

  It wasn’t a terrible idea, and it wasn’t anything below board. Huff had had lunch last week with Lynn Sanderson from Accounting. No one had said boo. Craig Pollack had lunch witheveryone and he was Huff’s boss.

  She dragged her eyes up to meet his. They were a clear, wet blue. They bored into her. Finally he said, “I’ll have Mary check my schedule and get back to you later today. What would you say, one?”

  She nodded briskly, just once, lowering her chin and bringing it back up. She stood on weak knees, squeezing her hands together to force them to stop trembling. “That sounds exactly right. Thank you, Mr. Huff.” She extended her hand over the desk. He rose and tugged his jacket down as he did, over a slight paunch. So he wasn’t without vanity. His hand was warm and steady in hers. They shook and she excused herself.

  When she was halfway to the door, he said, “Slip your résumé into my mailbox this afternoon, will you, Miss Mason?”

  She started in surprise.Miss. Becca paused just a beat before turning. “I’ll do that,” she said and left his office, without correcting him.

  Three

  Dan took a break around one and ate his sandwich in the studio. He was terribly pleased, in an offhand sort of way, with his diligence. He was rarely so motivated when a whole day like this one—which would soon be a whole raft of days, months—stretched out in front of him, and he took advantage. Who knew how he would feel in a week?

  He decided to try some group sketches for the afternoon. See how the characters looked together. The first storyline, introducing all the characters, ended with the Headhunter meeting the Reporter—Maggie (he supposed he would have to discuss her name with Max, but already it had wormed its way into his head and it was not just a name, buther by then)—on the roof of an abandoned building in the heart of the city. It offered beautiful, poignant possibilities. He itched to start it.

  There was also Hanus and Malicia in their office.

  There was Headhunter in his Supersuit disguise, wandering in a subway crowd, Hanus and Malicia somewhere distantly in the background, searching for him. And of course, The Hideaway. He planned a nerdy, adolescent boy’s dream cave, deep in the catacombs of the city. He smiled. That would becool.

  On the walls all around his drawing board, he taped up individual sketches of the characters. Then he opened his sketchbook to a fresh page, and began the rooftop scene, the first meeting, between the Headhunter and the Reporter for the underground newspaper.

  He fell immediately, deeply, into the page. It was not just a sketch, but became, slowly, as he worked, a scene. He put the pencil aside after a while and worked with the charcoal. Darkest night with light pouring from a full moon; the Reporter, books primly covering her bosom, as seen over the shoulder of the tall, thin Headhunter. Fear on her face, as she looks up at him, sensuous lips parted.

  He hardly noticed his erection, or the fact that the door had swung closed slowly during the course of the sketch, the sound of his breathing, small gasps and murmurs, occasional grunts, as he moved pencil, charcoal, fingers around the page, executing life from dust. Under his breathing were strains of music too low to really hear, something that moved in and out at such a low decibel that it might have been the hum of the fridge, a car driving by outside, the buzz of electrical wires in a distant power plant.

  Sometimes he spoke, real words: “Rounder, yeah, like that…good. Arched…angled light…good.Good. Right.”

  No one answered back.

  Not really.

  It was after six when Becca pulled in front of the house, parked her late-model Volvo behind Dan’s ancient Mustang. In the terrible days just after he’d lost his job they had discussed, briefly, getting rid of one of the cars to save on insurance and the like. She had been horrified when he suggested her car. He said maybe they should trade it in on something smaller and cheaper. “Like a Taurus,” he’d said.

>   She nearly died. She wouldn’t be caught dead in a Ford Handivan, even if both her legs fell off, was her answer to that. He hadn’t brought it up again.

  His car was parked in the exact same place it had been when she’d left that morning, which meant he hadn’t left the house all day—unless he’dwalked to the grocery store, and there wasn’t much chance of that. She was late because she’d stopped at the store on the way home. She was going to make veal Parmesan. Dan’s favorite. They hadn’t had it in months and soon it would be too warm to cook anything fancy.

  Just before leaving work at five, Becca had slipped her updated résumé into Gordon Huff’s mailbox. He’d e-mailed her at four and said that Tuesday at one for lunch was a go. That’s what the e-mail had said:Lunch is a go for one tomorrow.

  All systems go.And how far, exactly, will I be going?

  Veal Parmesan.

  She juggled two bags of groceries onto the front stoop and twisted the knob, but the door was locked. She knocked a couple of times, but while she waited she rested one of the bags on the stone step and fumbled with her keys. She unlocked the door and, holding it open with her elbow, grabbed the other bag and went inside. She pushed the door shut with one heeled foot.

  “Hello!” she called. The hall was dark. The sky was cloudy and very little sun managed its way into the house. Most of it was blocked during the day from the hall, anyway, by the neighbor’s huge tree. It would help keep it cool in summer.

  There was no immediate answer to her call. She wondered if he was napping, the thought instantly pissing her off, but she cut it off. She was going to benice. In the back of her mind was the reason why, but she cut that off, too.

  Instead, she slipped off her heels with a delighted sigh and picked up the bags of groceries again to take them into the kitchen. Stepping once off the mat, she was greeted by the distinct growl of an animal.

  She stopped dead, listened, feeling ridiculous.We don’t have a dog. She didn’t like dogs as a rule: they shed hair, and needed too much attention. They drooled. What she had heard was likely air forced up from the furnace, or the pipes or something. Really, in an old house, it could be anything. It was part of the charm and character of an older home. That and the lower taxes.