The Dwelling

by Susie Moloney

  The door to the studio was open, and had been all day.

  (come in)

  He flicked on the overhead light. A quick look. Business. His portfolio was propped against the west wall. The sketches were in a pile on the table. He would grab just one of the Reporter off the wall. He had decided on the wide-eyed, innocent one, the one where she was unsmiling and pensive. It was, at that moment, the sketch that was least offensive to him. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, but his skin was dry. Like his mouth. His throat. He tried to take a deep breath, but couldn’t.

  He went in through the door without incident. He looked only straight ahead, feeling foolish and stupid but—at least I don’t have a—very focused. Becca might have been proud, if she had known. He went directly to the portfolio. It was zippered shut and he opened it. This was all done in a smooth, unfettered motion, and went well. He propped the portfolio on the little table, now devoid of his paints and inks and pencils.

  He stuffed the stack of sketches straight into one of the pockets. He would make it nice and pretty once he got to Jester’s.

  Just get out of here.That was all. Job one. Job infinity.Get out of here.

  Just as he was thinking that, the door to the studio swung closed. Dan turned, heart nearly stopped in his chest, body on alert—alert! alert!—and stared at the door, breathing shallow, not daring to move.

  “I’m not staying,” he said, his voice loud in the room. Firm. His eyes swung around, lighting on every little thing. The overhead bulb shone indifferently into every corner. The room was empty. Something tickled in his abdomen, like fingers. He shut it out. He turned slowly back to his portfolio. He grabbed the sketch off the wall, pulling it so that the tape tore. He checked the edge with deliberation and tucked it into another pocket. His hands shook. He closed the portfolio and zippered it shut.

  He walked to the door. Behind him, a cool breeze whispered. He heard the remaining pictures on the wall shudder. Temptation aside, he did not look back.

  (Hello, big boy)

  The door opened for him. A tug. He shut off the light and closed the door behind him. As he walked down the hall to the front door, the sound of the men moving around upstairs, the smell of paint heavy in the air, he became aware of his hard-on, almost like an afterthought. His nipples, sensitive always, pressed against his shirt. There was a familiar languidity in his belly that threatened to climb. His mind was tight. Afraid.

  I’m not coming back,he said, a whisper, to himself.

  Becca wasn’t at her desk when Dan arrived (flushed and pleased, and finally anticipating the meeting with the kind of focus that he needed) at her office with her change of clothes. He walked past Reception—a new girl—and into the inner offices, not much more than cubicles, doorless rooms with standard equipment. He stuck his head into hers and she was not there. Her purse was not in evidence either.

  “Can I help you?” asked the young girl he had passed at Reception.

  “I’m looking for my wife,” he said. “Becca Mason. Do you know where she is?”

  The girl peeked over Dan’s shoulder into her office. “She’s not at her desk,” she said pointlessly. She looked quite young, probably fresh out of secretarial college with all the infirmities and authority conferred there.

  He smiled indulgently, hurriedly. “I’m just going to leave her some things. I’ll write her a note. When she comes back you can tell her I was here, all right?” The girl looked at him dubiously, at his denim shirt and jeans with the permanent black slash across the right thigh. He could hear her think it:Rebecca Mason’shusband ? She took in the small black duffel bag that hung from his hand. Her eyes narrowed.

  He lifted it. “It’s a change of clothes. The Uzi’s in myother bag.”

  “What?”she asked alarmed.

  “Joke.Joke,” he said. The clock on the wall behind her gave him fifteen minutes to get across town. “I’ll leave this by her desk. And a note. Just tell her I was here,” he said, and brushed past her into the office, dashed a quick note to Becca and dropped the bag beside her desk. He was back in traffic in five minutes.

  Rebecca was coming down the hall from the coffee room when she saw Dan pass the reception desk. She ducked into a bathroom and waited. She peeked out only once, and saw him talking to Heather at the door to her office. She waited another ten minutes in the bathroom, then felt it was safe to leave, her cheeks red with the anticipation of running into him.

  It just wouldn’t be right.Not with Huff’s office at the end of the hall. She had no idea if it would have any effect on their arrangement—if it was an arrangement at all (although she was sure now that it was)—but she did not want to (Miss Mason) take the chance.

  When she returned to her desk Heather buzzed her and told her that her husband had been in and had left a note and a bag. She thanked her.

  “So that was your husband, huh?” Heather said with interest.

  “Yes, thank you, Heather,” she said, and hung up before the girl asked the obviouswhat does he do? question. She could just imagine:He’s an artist. Oh, yeah? Like what kind? He draws comic books. Oh, yeah? I read them. Her lip curled into a sneer.

  The note said, “Hey baby, guess I missed you. Here’s the change of clothes. Meet us at Jester’s right after work. We’ll wait for you.Do Not Go Home.” “Do Not Go Home” was underlined, twice, in heavy strokes. The note would read through on the next page, and maybe the page after that.

  She opened the black bag at her feet. Inside was a pair of jeans she hadn’t worn in months and a blue T-shirt she thought was a little too tight. There was also a full change of underwear and pantyhose. What exactly did he think she did at work? She rummaged through the bag. There were no shoes. She went quickly through the bag again, looking even into the pockets on the sides. No shoes. On her feet at that moment was a pair of high heels. She had a change of shoes in the car, but they were also high heels that she had worn at the beginning of the week. At home there were a cute pair of tan shortie boots to wear with casual pants. She would just have to go home and get them. And shower, and change.

  * * *

  Max was waiting for him at Jester’s. He jumped up when Dan walked into the place—noticing first the low, dim lighting and thinking,Not exactly a place to show sketches —and stuck out his hand, grabbing Dan’s and pumping it wildly. His other arm came around and slapped him on the back. His face was split in two with his grin. Dan had the idea, horribly, that at any minute he was going to start jumping up and down like a little girl. But he didn’t. Instead he pulled out a chair for Dan and had him push another table over to make enough room for them, the Apex guy and the portfolio on the table.

  “This is fucking amazing!” he said. His excitement was catching and Dan signaled the waitress for a beer. They checked their watches in unison, then laughed about it.

  “Ten minutes!” Max said. The two of them tried to relax, tried to drink their beers, but their heads swiveled to the door every time it opened. Dan flipped through a copy of the proposal and read the synopsis of the first book. Max had done a synop for ten other storylines.

  “This is totally impressive,” Dan said.

  “You think so?”

  Dan nodded reverently. “Oh, yeah.”

  The Apex guy’s name was Gib Sanchez and he was fifteen minutes late. He had a Vandyke and a nose piercing in the soft nib of flesh between his nostrils. He wore a T-shirt with BRATBOYemblazoned on the front.

  Max exclaimed over it. “Man! I love Brat Boy!”

  “Oh, yeah? I’ll get you a T-shirt,” Gib said generously.

  Gib explained how it worked. He wanted to see what they had for pictures, and hear the storyline, plus a few from the series, and a projection on the length of the series. Max gave him a copy of the synopsis. At the back of the booklet were character descriptions and relationships.

  The Apex guy took his time reading. Without commenting on it, said he wanted to see the pictures. He kept calling them the pictures, and Dan caugh
t on right away and referred to them ever after as “pictures.” He thought it might be an industry thing.

  He brought out the character sketches first, one by one, in order of importance, starting with the Headhunter. The Headhunter full-length sketch went over very well, getting a grunt and a nod.

  “He’s a good-looking frame,” Gib said mysteriously. Dan and Max exchanged confused looks, and grins.

  He liked Malicia a lot and speculated as to a need for Hanus. “I love the name, man.Love it. But a chick bad guy is supersweet right now.” He ducked the picture of Hanus under the table onto a chair seat and added, “I don’t know about the chick-prick team-up, it’s sort of Rocky Bullwinkle, you know? Like with Boris and Natasha. Chicks don’t need an evil partner anymore. We should talk about that later. Love the name, man, Hanus. Malicia’s good too, but Hanus.” He laughed. “Chick is great. She is so sweet. Could do a bit more with her body, though,” he said, gesturing at chest level with his hand. Dan nodded, unconvinced.

  He went through the sketches one by one, asking about this one and that, remarking only that the weasel-faced WTO guy would make a great recurring character. “He’s a bad guy, right?” Both Dan and Max nodded.

  He looked over everything again, reading parts of the synopsis.

  “This is great. It’s completely underlooked. Totally original. Nice deal. Nice.Love the concept,” he said, nodding. “I’m taking this back with me. I’m in love with it. Totally inlove with it. I will show it to the boys and I’ll be calling you in a week, maybe less. Tad’s on vake, but he’s back Tuesday. We’ll probably meet on the whole thing on Wednesday. I can try and call you Thursday. No promises but, you guys, it’s totally original and love the sketches. They’ll want to meet with you too, probably—no, for sure—and then we’ll talk some more. Cool? Anything you need to know?” He stood up and tucked sketches and synopsis into his own portfolio and Dan had a moment of panic.

  “Um, could I have a card?” he said. Max nodded.

  Gib dug around in his back pocket and pulled a grimy card out of his wallet, handing it to Dan. Almost with hesitation, he pulled out another one and gave it to Max. “That’s my last one,” he said. The card said,Apex Point Publishers, Gib Sanchez Associate Publisher; there was a phone number and address, and under that in smaller, groovy script wasillustrated works of fiction and comic books in Spanish and English. Dan felt Max sigh beside him. They stood up with Gib and shook hands, thanking him for looking at their work.

  “You guys are going to be great,” he said, and smiled. His teeth were very white and gave him somewhat of a smarmy look.

  The whole meeting took less than twenty minutes. Gib hadn’t even had a beer.

  They waited until they saw him pass by the length of the window, then jumped up in the air, high-fived and screamed, like little girls. Little girls after the big game.

  “Fuck!” Max kept saying it. “This is it, man! Man, oh, man,oh man!”

  “What’s a vake?” Max shook his head. “Vacation, maybe? For sure.” He nodded crazily. It didn’t matter. As Gib would say, ittotally didn’t matter.

  Kate came around four and the three of them ordered another round. The mood was high. The waitress asked what they were celebrating. Max told her they had probably sold their comic book to a publisher.

  “LikeSuperman?” she said.

  “The Headhunter,” Max said dramatically. “Remember that.The Headhunter. Big.”

  They drank. They snuck outside at the back and had a toke behind the garbage bins. They ordered another round. Six o’clock came and went. At around six-thirty they were talking about going somewhere to eat and Kate said, “I thought Becca was coming.”

  Dan looked at his watch. “She was off an hour and a half ago.Damn!” He hit the table. “I told her to come here right after work. I told her not to go home.”

  Kate raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Youtold her?” she said, incredulous.

  “Yousmack that bitch down!” Max said with mock severity, and hit the table.

  Dan got up and grabbed his portfolio. “I’m gonna pick her up,” he said, and headed for the door.

  The house smelled sharply of fresh paint. Becca dropped her purse by the door and kicked off her heels. The floor was cool and hard under her stockinged feet, which were hot and sweaty. It was the best she’d felt all day.

  No, the best I felt all day was when Huff took a peek down my jacket when he thought I wasn’t looking. Down the newdirector’sjacket. She’d stayed late enough that the place was empty when she left. She chanced a peek in Anderson’s mailbox on her way out. Two résumés were in there. Hers was on top (a position that did not escape her). The other one wasnot Don Geisbrecht’s and that was all that mattered. As far as she knew, the decision was being made at the end of next week. They were meeting Tuesday at Mario’s about something—she’d seen it on the schedule. It had to be about the director’s position. Which certainly explained Monday night’sdinner meeting.

  This time next week I’ll be decorating my new office.Becca walked slowly up the stairs, humming a tuneless song without lyrics.

  She slipped into the bedroom and went to the armoire to pick out something to wear. She thought about calling Jester’s and telling them she was on her way, but it was a passing thought. She had other things to think about.

  He’d told her to call him Huff.Huff, for Chrissakes. She giggled at the thought. It was the sort of thing that kids called their soccer coach. He reminded her a little of her dad. Of course, he was younger than her dad, but not by much.

  Call me Huff.She thought it was very funny. She had a feeling that everything was going to be funny, all night. And she was in the mood for it. She chose a pair of low-riding black pants from the clip hanger at the back of the armoire. They sat just below her navel. She had a pretty navel. An innie. From the dresser she picked a little sleeveless white T. Not sleeveless exactly, but with delicate little cap sleeves. Very flattering for the shoulders, and no worries about a bra strap showing.

  And, as a matter of course, she picked new underwear. She decided to have a shower. She grabbed her robe.

  The paint smell was heavier upstairs. She couldn’t wait to see how the room looked. Light filled the hall from the south side of the house, but she flicked on the hall light anyway. It wasn’t dark out—in fact the days were long, it didn’t get dark until eight or nine now. But for some reason, the house was always a little darker. The neighbors’ tree blocked out—

  Ice tinkled in her head, distracting her.

  How do you do? I’m Rebecca Mason. I am the director of Patient Services at the Center for Improved Health.

  Oh, my.

  Yes, I know.

  She tried, but could not stop grinning; it was all she could do to keep from squealing with delight. Becca took her robe and hung it on the back of the door in the bathroom. She would just have a peek and then have a quick shower and meet those guys. If things had gone well (and she sincerely hoped they had, she felt generous and beneficent right then and wanted everyone to have their wish—she really,really hoped they were going to have their little comic book published. It would beso nice for Dan) then they would be drinking and celebrating. If things had not gone well they would be drowning their sorrows. Probably they wouldn’t even miss her.

  She pushed the bathroom door back against the wall.

  “Becca?” She started. She had thought she was alone. Becca grabbed her throat a minute and tried to place the voice. It had come from the bedroom. The end of the hall. A woman.

  “Hello?” she called back.

  “Becca?” the voice called again. Small-sounding; feeble, shaking. Confused, she stepped out into the hall, and leading with her head, she wandered down, cautiously. One of the workers? She had assumed they would be men—

  “Hello—?”

  A bed was pushed against the wall in the room. Becca’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. It was a metal bed, of the sort you saw only in hospitals.

  “
What is going on—?”She stepped into the room, which was not pink at all but an alarmingly bright shade of yellow. An undertaker’s impression of cheerful. Under the window on the south side was a small table. It was littered with bottles.

  Sitting in the middle of the bed was a very old woman. She reached out with a skinny, clawed hand to Becca. “Am I cold?” she asked.

  The woman’s eyes were a watery blue. Flesh seemed to just cling to her skull. She could see the edges of the woman’s eye sockets. The skin around her eyes puckered and hung. “Who are you?” Becca said, her hand going to her mouth. The room no longer smelled like paint, but had an equally distinct and pungent smell. The smell of disinfectant. Strong. Under that was the sour smell of age and illness. She yelled,“Who are you?”

  Downstairs she heard the front door open and close. Footsteps down the hall.Dan.

  The woman on the bed rose, and a rasping sound followed. Becca looked down. Her feet were shod in paper slippers. They scraped across the floor. Her brown gnarled legs were covered in sores.

  “Am I cold?” She reached out to Becca, her arm long, the flesh paper-dry; to touch it, would sound like the slippers. Becca’s mouth hung open. “Don’t touch me!” she cried. The woman stopped dead in the middle of the room.

  “They’ve found each other, you know,”she said firmly. Becca backed out of the door. The woman called her back, but feebly, as though she wasn’t entirely sure.

  “Dan!” Becca screamed. Downstairs the door to the studio opened and closed. Becca ran for the stairs.He’s right there’s something wrong with this house something in it —Her foot in her pantyhose slipped on the first stair, sending her headfirst into the wall. She let out another scream, a littler one then, of surprise, and whipped her head sideways to look down the hall before running down the rest of the stairs, sliding and nearly falling, twice.

  From the studio came the sound of music. Upstairs she heard the attic hatch open and the ladder drop down.

  Music played in the studio, muffled by the closed door. He hadn’t heard her over it. She ran down the hall watching over her shoulder.