The Dwelling

by Susie Moloney

  She screamed. The blood flowed freely and with alarming speed, as though from the tap, her hands freezing now, not just cold but dead cold, and from there she saw her wrists were great gaping wounds that coursed blood. The water was red with it, not even pink but red, and she stood up, holding her arms in front of her, fingers curled into weakening fists, and screamed and screamed and screamed, finally stumbling out of the tub, grabbing for the towel that was just out of reach on the rack beside the toilet.

  She screamed for Dan, calling his name. She turned, naked, to the door, wrapping her hands in the towel, fumbling with the knob, wiggling out the fingers only of her right hand in order to open the door. She pulled it open, crying then, tears running down her cheeks, flushed from the heat, her hair clinging to her neck and back, and over her face, damp from the steam and sweat.

  She screamed through the open door.

  “Dan Dan Dan Dan Dan!”pausing between fits of his name, to gasp, to sob and scream again. She spun around back into the bathroom to find bandages, tape, something to stanch the flow—bleed to death—and in confusion and horror she tried to imagine what had happened and could think of nothing. Her eyes, frantic around the bathroom, glanced into the tub to see—glass? a piece of metal-sharp tap?—the water in the tub was clear.

  The scream that had been on her lips stayed there.

  The water was pure and clean. The bottom of the tub winked passively through the surface of the water, sparkling with the overhead light.

  The towel wrapped around her hands almost to the elbow was a white one. All of their towels were white. Becca took care to keep them utterly, purely white, adding a half-cup of bleach to every load, washing only white towels with white towels. The end result was snowy—if destructive to the fibers; they went through a lot of towels—and this one still was.

  She unwrapped the towel with trepidation, still hiccuping in fear and sobs.

  Under the towel were her arms. Intact. Her flesh was pink and flushed from the warmth of the bath. Becca collapsed onto the closed seat of the toilet. She buried her face in the soft, damp towel and breathed in its fabric-softener scent.

  Spring Morning, she believed it was called.

  * * *

  Dan had turned off the light in the hallway, and locked the back door when he heard what he thought was Becca, upstairs. It sounded almost like a groan, or a sob, maybe. Frowning, he called up. “Bec?” There was no answer. He flicked off the lamp in the living room and closed the front curtains. It was dark; the light from the street flooded weakly into the front room, blocked by any number of obstacles, the hedge and the neighbors’ tree among them. The street was deserted, in spite of the fact that it was not very late, only after eleven.Work tomorrow, for everyone.

  Him too. The meeting was at three. He would put together a portfolio to show the Apex guy, but there was not much else to do. Probably Max would want to meet earlier, before—

  “Dan?”Becca called from upstairs, her voice soft and strained, as though she was crying.

  “I’m coming,” he said. At the foot of the stairs he stepped in something warm.

  He paused just long enough to look down before going up. His sock was soaked. A small puddle of water sat at the foot of the stairs. On each stair, all the way up, was an identical puddle.

  Becca had come down from her bath, looking for him. He must have been outside.

  It took some time to calm his wife down. She’d had a fright, she’d said, but hardly elaborated more.

  “You haven’t been sleeping well,” he said. “Maybe you dozed off?” She shook her head, but with less conviction than before. She kept looking at her hands. The fingers were pruny from the bath. He rubbed her shoulders through her robe and held her. She had been crying, he had seen that her eyes were swollen and her nose was red at the tip. She blew her nose once or twice and recovered. She accepted his offer of a drink and he went back downstairs to pour her a shot of something—they had some Scotch left over from an ancient party, and there might be a glass of wine in the fridge. He decided on the wine: it was white and he thought maybe that would be more appealing to her than Scotch without—as far he knew—any rocks. He stepped around the little puddles of water, bubbled up against the heavy layers of varnish on the wood floor, and thought only fleetingly that he should wipe them up before they left a mark.

  Concerned as he was with getting Becca a drink, he went directly down the front hall, passing the room under the stairs without thinking. He flipped on the kitchen light, found a wineglass and poured her a full glass from the bottle in the fridge—emptying it—and grabbed a tea towel from the door of the stove to wipe up the footsteps from the wood floor.

  The recycling bin was beside the washing machine in the mudroom and he flicked on the light in there to toss the empty wine bottle into it.

  I closed that.

  The door to the studio was wide open. He shrugged, but without conviction. The skin at the back of his neck tightened and he felt his balls actually retreat into his body. He backed his way into the kitchen and shut the mudroom light off from there. He went the long way, through the dining and living rooms, wineglass in one hand, tea towel, momentarily forgotten, in the other.

  At the bottom of the stairs, he stepped into the same puddle and bent over and mopped it up. He mopped up the spot on the first stair. He looked around for another.

  The puddles retreated down the dark hall.

  He stared.Becca came to get me. I was outside. He turned on the hall light.

  The trail of puddles stopped short of the back door. They stopped at the corner to the little room. He knew without looking that if he walked down there—and he would not—the puddles would go right inside that room.

  I was outside. Becca was looking for me. She looked in the studio. I wasn’t there. She was upset. Too upset to think that I might be outside having a smoke.

  That was it. Of course.

  Becca called him from upstairs and he went.

  Becca began to snore softly beside him and he tried to read. He picked up a novel for distraction, but couldn’t concentrate. Didn’t really care. He ran over the sketches in his head, wishing he had done more work on the set pieces, and did not dare to think about why he hadn’t. He wanted a drink himself. He settled, instead, for a toke, and went into the blue bedroom, where they had moved Becca’s things in anticipation of the painters the next day, and breathed out the smoke through the little window that overlooked the street. It was just after midnight. He hoped the toke would help him sleep. Or at least take him away somewhere. His sketchbooks were stacked on Becca’s small desk, the tools of his work lined up beside them, tidied. Ready for the next day. The whole thing had the look of makeshift; of fast retreat. Of exile.

  We have to get out of this house.

  He went no further with that thought, but it was a firm thought. A come-hell-or-high-water thought, a conviction.

  We have to get out.

  When he went to bed, he closed the door behind him, like a child.

  The music, not withheld by barriers, filtered up into the bedroom. Dan moaned against it, covering his head with his pillow; he held it tight against his ears with both hands, until his breath was hot in his own face. His body tensed as though against certain attack and his heart started its familiar pounding. His flesh recoiled, tightened into goose bumps, and he listened for what would come next, not wanting to hear it, but listening intensely for it. Wrapped only with a light sheet, and that only to his waist, he was covered in a thin film of sweat and cool air breezed above him and he was chilled.

  After you’ve gone…and left me crying.It was far away and low, almost a murmur.

  “No,”he muttered through the safety of his pillow. Beside him, Becca shifted in her sleep. He held his body stiff, so as not to wake her. She moved over onto her side beside him and was still.

  He waited it out. Waited for the inevitable opening and closing of doors, the footsteps, the car. None of it came. The music, low to begin
with, was fading out completely. Dan loosened his grip on the edges of the pillow. Cool air hit his face. He waited. A minute passed. The muscles of his back and arms lost some of their tension. He breathed into the pillow.

  Hello, Daddy.

  Dan jumped in his skin. He pulled the pillow off his head and turned his head to the door. It stood open. He rolled onto his back, eyes frantically searching the room, corners, shadows; his head swiveled as though on a pole.

  Hello, big boy.

  Beside him, Becca lay on her side, facing him. Her eyes were closed, her mouth still. The sheet that had covered them had been tugged off her. She lay naked. One breast rested on the bed, the other dangled, jauntily. One slender arm was perched on the rise of her hip. She did not move.

  Her lips parted.How’s my big six?

  The arm on her hip moved, rose toward him, hand hanging limply as though operated by an unseen lever. Her body shifted weightily with the change and the arm jerked its way inanimately to his shoulder. Dan opened his mouth and screamed.

  And sat up in bed with a jerk. The room came quickly into focus.

  “Dan?” Becca said sleepily beside him. When she touched him, he jumped, and another, smaller scream escaped.

  “Oh, shit!” he said.“Christ.” It came out with a breath.

  Becca sat up and blinked, rubbing her eyes. She put a hand, cool, on his back. “What is it? Are you all right?”

  He nodded. She rubbed his back slowly, automatically. He turned to her. Looked closely. Her hair had flattened to her head from sleeping on it wet. She was Becca.

  “Just a dream, honey,” she said. He reached over and pulled her to him.

  “You’re just covered in sweat, Dan,” she said, but enveloped him in her arms, anyway.

  He rested his chin on her shoulder and felt her lean against him, sleepy. He felt her breath, warm in his hair. He started to relax.Bad dream.

  “I’m okay,” he said quietly. She rubbed his back ineffectually a few more strokes and then leaned away from him.

  “Yeah?” she said. He nodded.

  “Let’s go to sleep.” She said okay and stretched a little before yawning and collapsing onto the bed on her side, reaching down and pulling the covers up over her. She tucked her fist under her chin. Dan sighed deeply and it turned into a yawn.

  “Catchy—” he started, but the words stopped. The door to the bedroom was open. Just a little, as though someone had meant to close it, but hadn’t.

  He lay in bed until he heard Becca’s deep, regular breathing, which meant she was asleep, then got up and closed the door. He lay on his back, watching it as long as he could. Until sleep came, and took him.

  The painters arrived at seven-thirty in the morning, when Dan was just groaning awake. Becca had risen and showered (a moment of trepidation overtook her when she entered the bathroom but passed rapidly) and let Dan sleep through all of it.

  She came into the bedroom and closed the door behind her, shaking him gently awake. He resisted for a moment and then his eyes flew open. Becca leaned above him.

  “I let you sleep in,” she said magnanimously, “but the painters are here.” There was a commotion outside the door, the clank and thud of large apparatus and the heavy footsteps of large men. Something slammed against a wall and there was a grunt and a low, rumbledsorry.

  “Why the hell are they here so early?” Dan groaned. The night before began to come back to him. His terrible dream.

  “I wanted them to get here before I went to work. With any luck they’ll have the first coat done by tonight. It’s a very pretty color—do you want to see a sample?” Her voice was cheerful and busy-sounding. She seemed rested. She got up off the bed and went to the armoire, doing something out of Dan’s line of vision. She stood up again and, gracefully, balanced herself on first one leg and then the other. Putting her shoes on, he realized. “Anyway, they’re on their own, they know what to do and you can just pretend that they’re not here. All taken care of.” She picked up a small square of paper from the dresser and handed it to him. He took it automatically, hardly glancing down at it.

  “The door—was it open or shut this morning?” he asked suddenly.

  “Huh?” She half turned to him, but turned away again, picking up her watch and adjusting it on her wrist.

  “The bedroom door, was it open or closed when you got up?”

  “I don’t know. I never noticed. Pretty, isn’t it?” she said, gesturing at the color sample in his hand. He nodded vaguely. “What time is your meeting?” she said, walking to the big mirrored dresser in the corner, where the chair used to be. With the overstuffed chair in the blue room, the bedroom looked terribly underfurnished. The blue room, on the other hand, looked like a storage room—everything crammed into too small a space.

  “Three,” he said. He sat up in bed. The squeal of a ladder opening was heard through the door and the low murmur of voices bled through the wall. It reminded him unpleasantly of low, distant sounds.

  (Come in.)

  “Becca—” Dan started. She brushed her hair and adjusted her fringe. She leaned in close to the mirror for an inspection. She dabbed at her lips. She caught Dan’s eye in the mirror.

  “What?” she said.

  “We have to get out of here.” She blinked and tore her gaze away. She found earrings in the small jewelry box on the dresser top and fixed them to her ears.

  “Get out of where?” she checked her watch. Dan glanced at the reflection of the clock in the mirror. She would be leaving soon.

  “Get out of this house. Right away.” He got up out of bed and pulled on the jeans that were tossed across the only chair in the room. He pulled them over his hips and zipped them up. They were dirty. He could see a smear of charcoal on the right leg—sometimes he cleaned his hand by rubbing it across his thigh. It drove Becca crazy. She refused to wash his pants with anything else. When had he done that? When was the last time he worked? It seemed a long time ago.

  “Well,” Becca said, watching him, “we’re going to go out tonight and celebrate. I’m meeting you later—”

  “No!” he said loudly. “No. I mean we have toleave the house. Move out. Get out.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Her eyes widened in surprise and her forehead wrinkled in confusion. “Move out? Move out of the house?”

  He opened his hands in a gesture of understanding. “I don’t want to be here even through the weekend. Tell me what you can’t live without and I’ll pack it today, before I go. We won’t come back tonight. We’ll go to a hotel. Just tell me what you need.” He started looking around the bedroom, as though for what to pack.

  Becca grabbed him by the shoulder and made him look at her. “I can tell you whatyou need, Dan,” she said sarcastically. “What the hell is this all about?” She looked at her watch. It was nearly eight. “I have to go.”

  “Becca—there’s something wrong with this house—”

  “There’s nothing wrong with this house,” she said, moving toward the door. She pulled it open just a crack, but the sounds of the painters in the room at the end of the hall became loud. They would be able to hear them. She lowered her voice. “I have a dinner meeting Monday. I’m having a room painted. We have barely unpacked. Tell me what this is about because I’m going to work now.” One hand was on the doorknob and she planted the other on her hip, making Dan think of the night before.

  It probably wasn’t a dream.

  “I think the house is haunted,” he said weakly, knowing how it sounded. He looked away from her. For her part, she stared at him, through him, eyebrows raised. Her lip curled up at the corner, unattractively.

  She shook her head. Snorted. Laughed. She started to speak and stopped. “I have nothing to say. If you want to talk about this tonight, fine. I’m going to work. I’ll see you later.” And she went out of the door, pulling it shut behind her. He heard her on the stairs. Hesitating only a moment, he dashed after her.

  “Becca! Wait—”

&nb
sp; She stopped at the door and put her purse over her shoulder. She looked very fresh and clean. And good. “What?” she snapped.

  “Promise me you’ll come to Jester’s right from work. Don’t come back here, okay?” His eyes were narrowed, serious.

  She sighed heavily and rolled hers.“Dan —I’m not going into some dirty, smoky bar in this suit. I’m coming home to change and then I’ll meet you guys—”

  “I’ll bring you something. I’ll drop it off at the office on my way to meet Max. Okay? If it’s a big deal, you can phone me and tell me what to bring. I can throw something into the wash, even. Okay? Promise.”

  She looked heavenward. And she shook her finger at him. “You’re smoking too much pot,” she said, and left, slamming the door. He stood on the stairs, deep breathing. One of the painters upstairs dropped something and Dan jumped.

  I don’t have time for this,Becca thought in the car.I have other things I have to deal with. He had a bad dream and he’s turning it into—ha ha—a nightmare for me.

  Traffic, heavy anyway in the morning, seemed to single her car out for delays. She missed a turn signal and a guy in a big sports utility vehicle behind honked angrily. She honked back and checked for his reaction in the rearview mirror. He flipped her off.

  Fuck you too. Ass.

  Traffic seemed unduly heavy. In fact, the lane that she would be turning into was backed up into the intersection. She peered down the road as far as she could to see what was going on. Bright orange signs indicated road construction. Two lanes were being funneled into one.Great. The light turned green, and Becca pulled out as far as she dared. The lane was still backed up, starting to move only very slowly.

  The SUV honked again. She honked back, angrily, slamming her fist unnecessarily hard on the horn, and glanced narrow-eyed into the rearview.