by Aaron Polson
“Who?” Kelsey searched Sarah’s face and found the same question.
“Ben. Ben Wormsley.”
“Ben? What’s he doing here? I thought he was out in California, rolling in cash. Venture capital or whatever. What’s he doing in Manhattan?” Kelsey asked.
“He sent me a letter. I thought maybe one of you might have gotten one, too. Said he has a business proposition for me. He included a number with a few zeroes.”
“What’s a war hero need with a stack of cash?” Sarah asked.
Johnny’s lean face whitened. His gaze disappeared in the ceiling again. “Everybody has bills.”
“Ben Wormsley.” Kelsey’s head wagged back and forth. “I haven’t seen him since—”
“Jared disappeared?” Sarah stood and moved to the window. They’d been sitting in a dark room, so when she pulled open the shades, morning sun flooded into the room, momentarily blinding.
“Yeah, well it seems he’s loaded now and wants to share his good fortune. I just happen to need a little good fortune. I can’t say no at the price he’s offered.”
“But what does he want?” Kelsey asked.
A knock sounded at the door before Johnny could answer.
“Nurse,” a voice said.
“Now I’m in trouble. Caught by the nurse with two women in the room.” Johnny grinned.
Chapter 5: Needs
Kelsey took the stairs later that morning rather than waiting for the single working elevator in Bluemont Hall. She took the stairs because of Sarah—she’d never admit it, of course. Sarah’s thin frame always made her jealous.
The psychology offices were on the third and fourth floors, her faculty advisor on the fourth, so she was rather winded upon rounding the final flight. The morning visit with Johnny and Sarah—a rather unexpected visit with Sarah—had dredged too many memories from her brain’s sludgy depths. They were dark memories, memories with faces she’d rather forget and a friend she struggled to keep alive, at least in her mind.
Various papers, diagrams, and charts littered the fourth floor walls, each covered with the special, statistical social science vernacular. Kelsey’s contemporaries laid their latest findings on the bulletin boards for recognition and verification. Several studies were underway involving the industrial/organizational department, a unit focused on how best to make workers work harder and more efficiently. Kelsey never had much interest in the effect of paint color on motivation.
She was more interested in fear.
Her shoes tapped against the polished hallway floor, a floor much like the pristine white tiles from the hospital. In some ways, with its doors and halls and small rooms filled with old, hunched and unhealthy-looking men, the psychology department was more hospital than Mercy Health Center. She found Professor Cohen’s office, 413, and knocked.
“Come in.” Gregory Cohen’s voice was a heavy thing, not unlike his massive body. His clothing always looked ready to split open, spilling his wormy white flesh onto the floor. Funny this man should advise Kelsey in her quest to complete a dissertation on fear. He frightened her.
“I hope I’m on time,” Kelsey said as she adjusted the strap on her black messenger bag. “I was at the hospital.”
Cohen didn’t look from the paper he held ten inches from his nose. “It wasn’t anything serious, I assume.”
Kelsey tucked a strand of hair behind one ear. “Oh—the hospital wasn’t for me. It was an old friend. Someone I hadn’t seen in a few years.”
Cohen grunted and continued reading.
Kelsey never knew what to do when he was engrossed in a paper. The feeling stuck in her chest, like she shouldn’t be there despite their appointment. He had one open chair in the over-stuffed office; piles of paper and books littered the other “guest” chair. Stacks of paper and books dominated the small room’s landscape. Kelsey wondered on more than one occasion how the old man accomplished anything despite his top-notch reputation as a psychologist expert in living organisms’ physiological response to fear.
Fear brought them together. Funny to fear a man who helped her study fear…
Cohen laid the papers on the nearest stack, folded his hands in front, and said, “Please have a seat Miss Sullivan.” He always called Kelsey “Miss” as though she was a small girl and not a twenty-seven-year-old woman. Maybe he didn’t consider a woman of twenty-seven a woman. Maybe he thought she was a little girl. She clutched her bag strap as she slid into the open chair.
“Thanks,” she said. “I got your message about the change in meeting time.”
“Obviously.”
Her tongue felt heavy. Something was wrong; Professor Gregory Cohen was being difficult, even for Professor Gregory Cohen.
“I regret to inform you we’ve lost funding for your research.” He brought his folded hands to his mouth and rested the tented index fingers against his lips.
“M-my research? But we’ve just started the second phase.” Kelsey’s stomach had melted upon hearing the word “regret” and now spilled onto the floor in a thick puddle. Lost funding. “I don’t understand. We already have the rats and most materials. How can funding be an issue?”
Cohen cleared his throat and shifted his massive weight in his chair. “It’s a lab space and the cost of keeping your little friends alive and healthy issue. We have limited room, and well, you already know about the cuts coming down from the state. Most of our animal programs are coming to an end if we can’t secure alternate funding sources.”
Kelsey started to shake her head. “But… But this is a university. We don’t rent space in our own building. Do we? The rats can’t eat that much—I’ll feed them.”
“I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way, Miss Sullivan. And the cost is very well more than you could afford, I’m afraid.”
The tears forced their way into Kelsey’s eyes, but she held them back. She wouldn’t cry in front of Gregory Cohen. He watched her, his two beady-black eyes focused on her face like he studied her, like he was searching for a crack, just a crack in her façade. For a moment, she felt like a rat in her own experiment—better yet, a rat in an experiment conducted by Cohen. What will the little girl do, cry her eyes out? She pushed her shoulders back and took a deep breath.
“I see.” Kelsey forced herself from the chair. She fought the urge to run from the room, instead took three steps, paused at the door, and said, “Thank you, Dr. Cohen.”
“You have until the end of the semester, dear. I don’t want to build your hopes, but if we can find a grant, perhaps your work can continue. Money is scarce everywhere, especially for more esoteric research such as yours, but if you search… Maybe.”
The word “esoteric” sank into Kelsey’s back like a freezer-chilled knife. She nodded and hurried into the hall. She couldn’t hold the tears anymore.
~
Sarah checked the time on her cell phone and ran the final ten yards from the parking lot to the employee entrance at the back of Hastings, the entertainment store where she worked. Hastings, with its aisles of videos, books, and ever-shrinking music department, felt like a glamorous place to spend her time when she hadn’t been employed there, but since taking the job as a book department lackey, Sarah had learned the truth: Retail sucks. Hard.
As she strode down the aisle tying her store issue apron around her waist, she spotted Debi, the department manager. Debi, a plump woman in her mid-fifties, was leaning on the book information desk and squinting over the top of her bifocals at the store computer. Her eyes shifted to Sarah.
“Oh, Sarah. No hurry.”
“I’m sorry about being late. I really—”
“Like I said: no hurry. I tried to call you earlier. Your phone went straight to voice mail. Didn’t you check?”
Sarah shook her head. “Sorry… It was charging.”
“Yeah, well we had a big meeting yesterday. One of the big-big ones with guys from corporate headquarters all the way from Amarillo. Amarillo.” Debi chuckled and pushed her bifocals up her nos
e.
“How are the suits doing?”
“They’re nervous about the company. What with the economy, ebooks, iTunes, people aren’t buying as much stuff as they used to. The stock has been dipping—I swear those guys checked their phones every five minutes to see what was up. We’re one of the most profitable stores in the chain, but it seems they want us to be a little more profitable. I think they need to change their business plan if you ask me. Of course nobody did.”
Sarah smoothed her apron’s front. “So?”
“No one is losing a job, Sarah, but we have to cut hours—10% in each department for the next three months. That will take us through the Christmas season.”
“I don’t understand. How does that help profits?”
Debi shook her head. “It’s funny, isn’t it? But with less labor, profits look higher. Profits are higher. Of course, if you ask me, sales will hurt with fewer associates on the floor helping customers. But nobody did.”
“10%?”
“It would only be four hours a week.”
Sarah nodded. A cold, hollow feeling filled her chest. Four hours didn’t seem like much, but with struggling to pay her bills already… Four hours would cut around forty dollars from each week. Forty dollars paid for a lot of things: groceries for a week, gas in her car… Kim’s copay.
“Anyway, I figured you could stay home—go home now since there are two of us. You could just come in this afternoon to cover when I’m on lunch and stay until the end of your shift.”
Sarah’s head moved up and down. Her body stood at the book information desk, but her mind drifted far away.
~
Johnny hadn’t planned on being shot.
In fact, if such a thing was to happen, he’d expected it during his tour in Afghanistan.
Leaving the hospital, a different kind of hospital than his last stay, he carried discharge papers and the promise of a bloated bill. There were too many bills in Johnny’s life, too many bills—like holes in some God-forsaken metaphorical dam—and not enough money to plug the holes. The Army wasn’t a cure-all for financial woes after a medical discharge, and trying to get his care straight with the VA was like writing the great American novel with his eyes closed and a pen between his toes. Then the dreams… A cold, empty thing filled Johnny’s veins, a dark thing which he’d kept at bay for the past few months.
Post-traumatic stress had been the diagnosis. Johnny knew it was something bigger, something older. Each casualty in his unit had worn Jared’s face. How could he have explained it? Who would have believed such nonsense ?
Johnny took a breath and shielded his eyes against bright sunshine. He’d heard about homeless vets, guys who couldn’t get their shit together after the war, but he wouldn’t become one. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to spend time in the house, he didn’t want the waking nightmares to come back, the horrible visions he held inside, but he couldn’t be one of those vets who lost it. He wouldn’t.
Ben gave him a chance to clear the slate and climb from debt. He’d take the chance, regardless of consequences.
Chapter 6: Ben
If Ben Wormsley had changed at all in the past three years, it was to become slicker. His skin, his hair, his eyes—when the designer sunglasses weren’t clamped over them—everything about him shined. Kelsey hadn’t seen him since before she graduated and wasn’t even sure he had graduated. Ben’s strength never lay in the classroom. Rumors held he’d gone to California and stumbled into money. Kelsey wasn’t interested in rumor; she needed money, and, although the thought getting help from Ben bothered her, her research was too important.
She ran a finger along the edge of a paper drink napkin. “Johnny told me you were in town. Said you were casting for a television show or movie. He said I might want to speak with you.”
“You just might, Kels—if you’re interested in a little business proposition,” Ben said. He smiled at Kelsey across the table, showing a mouth full of teeth one bleaching too white. “I am looking for someone to lend an academic credibility to my little project. A person who could expand my market—a young, attractive graduate student. You. The pay would be the same as the others—one thousand a day with another five guaranteed at week’s end.”
“Twelve thousand?” Kelsey blinked. Ben’s reference to her as a demographic had rankled a little, the way he enunciated attractive made her skin crawl, but the figure he tossed out cooled her nerves.
“Twelve thousand.” Ben grinned and sipped his whiskey sour. “I wish it could be more.”
Images of rats—her rats, her research—ran through a maze in Kelsey’s imagination. Twelve thousand had to be enough to keep her going for another year. She glanced at her hands and realized she’d been tearing a paper napkin into tiny strips. Her gaze lifted to Ben. Something about his smile, the too-white teeth, the way he looked at her—something about it all didn’t sit well in her gut, but Kelsey was not in a position to turn down enough money to get her research through another year, regardless of where it came from, was she?
“It seems like a lot of money—I know. Around here, it is. Chump change where I’m living, Kels. And chump change if my hunch is right. This little project could bring a hundred times that for everyone, easily. If you’re willing to see it to the conclusion, that is.”
“Each of us? Who’s in, besides Johnny?”
“Well, yes, John of course. I’ll be there, overseeing the whole operation. I’ve booked two cameramen and a sound engineer for the week. One ad in the UCLA paper landed a thousand wannabes from which I chose two, a junior named Erin Connolly and senior named Daniel Pinto—he’s a Brazilian student. They’re window dressing, young fresh faces for the audience. We’ve picked Daniel because, quite frankly, I’m hoping to market this thing internationally. South America is an emerging market with big money to be made. That’s the cold, crass side of business, Kels. Anyway, I wanted the old crew together—I figured bringing John here would bring you in. I hope I was right.” He grinned again, a slick, confident smile.
“Why didn’t you ask me yourself, send me a letter like you’d sent Johnny?”
Ben took another sip. “It’s more fun this way. Besides, Kels, how you feel about me is no big mystery. How you feel about Johnny isn’t much of a mystery either. His heroic act the other day was just dumb luck.”
She looked away. Calling what happened to Johnny “luck” made her stomach go cold. “So Johnny, two UCLA students, me, and anyone else?”
“Oh yes. Like I said—I wanted the old crew together. One missing piece, but I’ve managed to pull her in as well.”
“Sarah,” Kelsey said.
“Bingo. You are smart. Make sure you finish that dissertation so I can call you professor. That will bowl over the test audience.”
“I’m years away.”
“Stay on target. This thing could go into syndication. You could build a nice consulting career; maybe even land your own show. Dr. Phil has made an empire. Maybe you could, too.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m not doing that kind of psychology. Besides, what will we be doing for this week? Reality TV? Cameras rolling all along to capture our human foibles and frustrations as you make us play little games for the audience.” Kelsey leaned forward. “I’m not sure I want to be a guinea pig for the stay at home audience. Even for twelve thousand.” She couldn’t believe the words left her mouth. She needed the money. Ben knew she did, somehow. He was holding something back behind the slick smile and well-tanned face.
“You aren’t going to be a guinea pig. I don’t see it that way. Besides, don’t you academic types run tests on rats?”
“Yes,” she said. “I am, anyway. For my dissertation.”
“You’ll have to tell me about your research someday. We’ll have enough time in the house.”
“The house?” A chill began to crawl over Kelsey’s skin.
He watched as he lifted the whiskey sour to his lips a final time, tossed back the last swallow, and set the glass on the t
able with a heavy thunk. “Yes, Kels. The house. You know the one?”
Her head began to wag back and forth, a small gesture at first, but growing with intensity as the awful suggestion began to settle into her psyche. She remembered the snow, the cold, the pristine, unnatural interior of a large brick farmhouse in rural Washington County. She saw the body again in her mind, the dead man lying in a bathtub filled with clear water. The puckered slash marks on his arms came to her as though she was looking on him now, almost five years later. She shivered.
“Yes. That house. After we left, after the police and the investigation, possession passed to the state. It seems no one could find proper paperwork denoting ownership and no one stepped forward. You realize they never could identify the old man’s body, right?”
“The house…”
“Funny how little the government will take for unwanted property. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time. I snagged it on auction for a pittance.” He pushed his glass to the table’s edge and caught the waitress’s attention. “I’ve been doing that quite a bit lately.”
“Would you like another?” the waitress asked as she sidled up to the table.
Ben grinned. “I don’t think so. We’re about through here. I’ll just take the check.”
Kelsey’s eyes turned down and found she’d resumed work on the napkin. Tiny shreds littered the table top in front of her. She wouldn’t go back to the house. She couldn’t go back to the house. A week? Was Ben nuts? What could he hope would happen in a week at that awful place? Maybe that was just it—he would have his camera crew and sound man and they’d film her falling apart, all of them falling apart in that awful house.
“Sarah’s in, Kels. John—Johnny’s in. Can I count you in, too? Or maybe you don’t mind if we go off and play together. Just Johnny, Sarah, and I.”
“And the two from UCLA.”
Ben’s grin flickered. “Right. And the two from UCLA.”