“As long as she’s gaining weight,” he reminded himself. “That’s what the doctor would say, right?”
From where he was seated he took a look around, flexed his injured fingers
The boy’s room felt familiar, with that strange mix of preteen items one can’t think to part from like stuffed animals, spy toys, or soap box derby awards, colliding with a spatter of high school fall out—concert stubs, traveling knickknacks, and pictures of old girlfriends. To top it all off, the glass computer desk in the corner was covered in pamphlets about university. The boy appeared to have had his sights set on UC Berkeley. Ryan wondered if he’d made it into classes before the world had ended. He wondered what his major was.
“All right.” Ryan finished eating, and picked up the flashlight to wind it.
Emily cheered. “Winde, winde!” She was getting back her energy. A good sign.
“I’m winde—eing! I promise.”
She was laughing, tiny hands shoving his shoulder in a playful gesture. Her chuckles were getting away from her and she was having trouble keeping balance.
The motor whirred against the resistance of the rotating handle. The end of it began to feel hot. Ryan ceased the motion and flicked the on switch. A collection of LEDs lights at its end came to life and bathed one wall, piled high with dirty clothes, in sweet artificial light.
“Oh hell yeah,” Ryan said, smiling at the yellow handheld contraption. “This is just what we’ve been needing.” He was surprised to find that whatever battery this thing used was still working well enough to take a small charge.
“Needing?” Emily reached out and Ryan handed it over. She tried her best to crank but the action was too awkward for her small hands.
“Your hero does not pass dexterity check,” he commented. “Don’t lose it. We can use it for light.”
“Light?” She scrunched up her face and kept trying to turn the crank.
“Yeah. Light.” Ryan pointed at the ceiling.
They left College Boy’s room and moved on to the next house. Ryan could remember a rather portly woman of later years with hair the color of walnuts had lived here. She spent most afternoons in a pale muumuu watering flowers, pulling up roots, or carefully trimming the verge. Her yard had been one of the prettiest on the block, full of color and life, just short of Mr. Jones’s neatly rowed collection of geraniums, blue bells and black eyed susans. Mr. Jones had had a green thumb, that was for sure, and this lady’s yard, his direct competition.
Ryan could remember her waving at them when they passed, making comment on the weather or offering to watch Emily sometime if they needed, the cutest little thing she’d ever seen in all her life.
He had high hopes for this house. He took a deep breath, listened to the air for any sign of wild dogs, and moved in. But as soon as the lock was snapped and the door thrown wide, he snatched a bolting Emily up into his arms before she became tainted by the filth within.
“No,” he growled and felt the growing weight of his backpack shift.
“Down!” she shouted.
“I said no. And this time, no means no.” She bucked in his arms and fought him the entire way.
Ryan wasn’t sure if he should proceed inside. Part of him worried if he didn’t, this place might have something invaluable they needed. He swallowed a lump and used an outstretched toe to push the swinging door back open, allowing him to behold the filthiest dwelling he had ever seen.
As he entered the house, every aspect of his organized, Mr. Clean mind struggled against the intentions of his willful feet. Beneath the skin he felt something crawling, like thousands of black ants digging tunnels into his flesh, seeking a place to keep their queen’s eggs safe. The stench was palpable, so thick it filled his nose like pudding. It reminded him of burnt leather soaked with diabetic piss, limed with kitty litter. Bile rose in a fitful revolution at the back of his throat. Emily struggled again but he was firm. Anything set down in this place would have to be left behind, thrown away or burned, and he wasn’t doing that to his daughter.
He kicked a pile of garbage out from the entry and forced them into a trail cut through empty takeout boxes. The itching beneath Ryan’s skin didn’t ease.
Bugs of every description infested the house. There were roaches in three varieties: the large ones seen mostly outdoors, small white ones that moved at the speed of light, and brown, furry German roaches you found mostly in dirty apartment complexes. These were not all. As Ryan opened the built-in cabinets of the living room—not even the kitchen—swarms of beetles crawled in every direction when light touched them. Ryan jumped, and Emily and he nearly fell over. A rat had darted across the toe of his boot.
It was easy to see why the place was infested with pests. It was a paradise for disease-carrying creatures. To say that College Boy’s immediate neighbor was a hoarder might have been an understatement.
There was hardly any floor at all. What Ryan thought to be hardwoods was carpeted by a slurry of moist dirt, sticky liquids, and over-preserved food crumbs that were just too stubborn to decompose. In the narrow places where he could actually put his feet down, he found himself hemmed in by shooting valley walls of useless junk. Unfolded clothes still in plastic shopping bags had been made into six piles three feet high, and on the slopes of these cloth mountains were shoes and unopened boxes containing porcelain dolls. Emily begged for one of the dolls but there was no way in hell Ryan would let her have it. There were three pressboard bookshelves, half the shelves broken down the middle, the remaining shelves bowed from stacks of magazines, newspapers, children’s coloring books, and paperbacks with curled and ripped covers. The TV was set in a window of Christmas decorations.
Carefully, Ryan stepped between a pair of busted speakers and their ruined receiver, over a red Radio Flyer wagon filled with bags of jelly beans, around two large sacks of pool salt, and into what the architect had planned to be the kitchen, not what it was—a dump. The sight of it made Ryan want to puke.
Every available inch of counter space was covered with an explosion of consumer lust driven, mass produced, outsourced junk. There were at least nine sets of stainless steel pots and pans, dirty bottles of oil by the dozen, stained and half-used spices, fifths of liquor with varying quantities remaining, shirts and shoes and apple juice bottles and cracker boxes and cleaner and brooms and cups and matches and charcoal. Sacks filled with papers, plastic toys and cups, as well as old cigarette butts hung from cabinet handles. None of these items were in any discernible pattern. It was clear that they had been brought in one item at a time, set wherever was convenient, or available, then worked around from then on out. There were several boxes of cereal that still had the designs of the 1980s period in which they’d been born. The lime green fridge was nearly hidden by magnets and clips, unused coupons hanging like a cache of rumpled golden tickets. A snake of an extension cord wound in and out of the madness, coming over the fridge and out to hang from the light fixture at the kitchen’s center.
Miss Muumuu Dress was sitting at a simple card table, for which the weight of her hoard was bending at the center, nothing but a structure of rag-covered bone propped before an ancient laptop. She grinned at Ryan fervently, and he decided he’d had enough.
As they turned to flee the house, he found an item he needed atop a pile of unopened G.I. Joe toys. Ryan took it and scurried on, not allowing Emily to touch or take a thing.
The front door slammed shut.
He wanted to rip off his clothes and burn them, the corpulent stench of such waste and self-disgust having coated his threads with sludgy motor oil drained from a putrefied, living engine.
He caught his breath while Emily wandered. He held tight to her tether and placed what he’d taken inside a plastic garbage bag to be cleaned later. The metal Hello Kitty lunchbox could be washed easily enough with soap or bleach—a welcome addition to the already massive collection at home.
“Kitty?” Emily asked, pointing at the lunch box.
“That’s ri
ght. Kitty.”
“For Mama?”
“Yeah…” He frowned and led them away, putting a squirt of hand sanitizer on both their palms as they hit the debris-littered street, still more navigable than the hoarder’s dwelling.
There were more houses and less results. Two additional residences had been cleaned and left with no food, no trash. Ryan began to seriously wonder if he wasn’t truly alone. He’d seen no obvious sign of others. Perhaps they’d just done a little spring cleaning at the same time the world ended. Perhaps a paid service had taken care of it.
“That’s all. It has to be. What do you think, Emme?”
“No.”
“No what?”
“No think. No. No think.” She threw up her arms and seemed alarmed. “Where bobby?”
“Barbie is at home.”
Her bottom lip stuck out as her eyes widened. “Home? Bobby at home.” Despite the inflection, it wasn’t a question.
“Speaking of Bobby.” Ryan pursed his lips. “Let’s try one more place.”
She perked up. “Gigi?”
“No, not Gigi’s. But you’re not far off. Now that we have this.” Ryan lifted the yellow flashlight and began to wind it up. “Let’s go pay the Marinoffs another visit. What do you say, Emme?”
“Gigi!” she shouted, fists shaking.
Chapter 30
Emily squealed as they entered the Marinoff home, the name Gigi repeatedly shooting between yays! He couldn’t blame her—it did smell like Gigi’s, though decoration wise, her home was more farmhouse chic than the Marinoffs’ traditional Victorian. Ryan assured her that this was not Gigi’s house, but she kept up her opinion nonetheless; and since reality had become a subjective matter anyhow, he decided not to argue. For at least two minutes. He found he could convince himself of many things, but there was no way he could convince himself that this was his mom’s place.
Entering the living room, they found the Marinoffs sitting exactly where they’d left them, holding hands on the couch with a bony guise of satisfaction. He unclipped Emily’s tether and took off her backpack, putting it beside his at the end of the couch. He passed her a pink and green sippy cup filled with a mixture of water and Crystal Light. She sucked it down greedily.
“Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Marinoff,” Ryan said, waving a hand. Emily followed his polite example but didn’t speak a word around her drink. “Sorry I didn’t say hello last time I was here. I, eh, was a little out of my head. It’s been hard the past few days. I’m sure you understand.”
A pause.
“That’s fine, my boy,” Ryan replied to himself using a slightly different, more elderly voice. “Not like we could have gotten up to say hello. We’ve been feeling a little thin lately, if you catch my meaning.”
“That so? Too bad. Have you gone to see the doc? I’m sure it’s a minor thing. The two of you are as healthy as horses on Viagra.”
“Oi vey, doctors, who needs them? All they do is run up a bill and fill your head with nonsense. Your magnesium is low. You need to eat less carbohydrates. Red wine? Be sure to drink it, but don’t drink too much! Stay away from fats and oils, as if eating Kosher wasn’t good enough. I say, if the Torah gave us a diet to follow made by God himself in the laws of Kashrut, it’s good enough for me.”
Ryan’s voice morphed into an impersonation of Mrs. Marinoff. “Kosher? Ey? Didn’t you eat that lasagna last week? You know that wasn’t Kosher, peanut, even when it’s not Passover.”
“Not Kosher? Not Kosher!” Mr. Marinoff’s voice rose. “How could it be anything but? Look, my little sugar-dusted matzah ball, just because the cheese and the meat have found a place on the same plate, doesn’t make them not Kosher. That’s what I say! Besides, too many dishes to clean up after if we go all the way.”
“That’s the very definition of it, snookums. And no fish with scales. No pork. I’ve seen you eat bacon for breakfast on occasion.”
Mr. Marinoff groaned. “But tell me, love, what happens after you chew? Ey? Where does it all go? Does it not all end up in the same place? That means the stomach isn’t Kosher, it’s unclean. What of that? How would we ever eat if that were the case? You gonna start eating meats first, so then it’s on the bottom and won’t make the other foods unclean? I don’t think that’s what God meant.”
She shook her head. “I suppose it does go to all the same place, and that would be right into your backside. Might as well inject it below the skin like reverse liposuction.”
“So are you sayin’ I’ve got a big tuckus?”
“I’m not saying a thing. I’m dead, and sugar, I love you, but so are you. But our perfectly normal, marriage animosity was so powerful it could live beyond the grave. Our souls have moved on, but the rage, oh, the rage! It lives!”
“That’s the way I like it, my honeydew melon,” Mr. Marinoff’s voice trembled. “Bring those lips over here so I can taste that rage!” From the sound of it his skeleton nearly had a boner, and this made Ryan uncomfortable.
They smiled wider as Emily glared at her strange father.
Ryan interrupted, “I’ll leave you guys to yourselves. Do you mind if we look around the house? Borrow a few things?”
“Not at all,” Mr. Marinoff replied. “Sorry, we’ve been bad hosts. It’s kind of hard to get up and offer you two a drink. You and the little one take whatever you need, I don’t think we’ll be needing it any time soon.”
Mrs. Marinoff added, “And tell that wife of yours to come visit. I love her to death.”
Ryan swallowed. “I’ll do that.”
“Ahh, such a good boy you are. Stay that way.”
He nodded and Emily took his hand, pulling him away. “This a way.”
“What is it, Emme?”
“’Mon, ‘mon. More Bobby!”
“Oh yeah. Might as well open the rest of them.”
And that’s exactly what they did.
Ryan made faces at Emily as he improvised matching voices for each Barbie that broke free of their retail boxes. He was constantly amazed at how many thousands of little clear plastic bands or twist ties these dolls had. They were fastened into their commercial vehicles more securely than astronauts returning from the International Space Station on a Soyuz. He finished the last one and began to crank his flashlight furiously. There was one room in this place they hadn’t checked, and if his instincts were correct, it would be a finished basement full of potentially useful items.
He considered for a moment letting Emily stay up here and play by herself with the door closed, which she would be fine with, but couldn’t bring himself to do it after the ribbon incident. He didn’t give two shits if someone later accused him of helicopter parenting. When skeletons talk back it is not normal times.
“Grab whatever Barbies you want, we’re going to go downstairs.”
“Stairs?”
“Yeah. Into the basement to look for something.” He offered a hand. “It’ll be fun. I promise.”
“Fun!” She shook her fists. “’Kay. Fun!” Saying the word was enough to evoke its emotion.
“Let’s do this.”
“Do this! Do this. Do this. Do this. Do this!”
“That’s right.” He began to sing, “Emily and Daddy go into the basement, opening the door and turning on the flashlight. The light, it’s bright! Much better than before. The road, so dark! Much worse than later more.” He let the words trail off. “Holy crap, that was a terrible song. I’ll try better later.”
The steps creaked under their weight, powdery time coming to rest the next tier down.
“Try better, Dada. No good.”
He nodded and led them off the last step into pitch-black. “No argument here. You are definitely right.”
“What’s that?” Emily pointed in the direction of their flashlight’s influence.
Ryan blinked, mouth agape. “Umm. Umm.” He blinked again. “The fuck is that?”
“Fut?” Emily looked up at him. “What the fut?”
He chuckl
ed and let his eyes focus on the ring of white light cast by the flashlight. He spun around and let it pass over the room. He’d been right about one thing, it was a finished basement—and much larger than he’d expected. However, that was where his correct assumptions ended. Everything he had ever known about them was wrong.
The basement was about fifteen by forty, walls painted wine red with a floor covered in red carpet. Beside where the stairs came down was a leather sofa that had seen a lot of wear. To the other side of it, a series of oddly shaped cushions and pillows arrayed atop a padded mat. Ryan pushed against the floor to see how soft it was and decided you could easily sleep on it if need be.
He found himself surrounded by bizarre curiosities and implements he never expected in his wildest imaginings beneath the home of this sweet little couple.
In the center of the room, hanging from the metal rafters, was a series of black straps with four handles/stirrups. He had a sudden flash of Mrs. Marinoff stripped down to lace and swinging from this contraption. His stomach did flips. The wall on the right was covered with a pegboard. Hanging from its hooks were all manner of sexual bondage devices. There were black ball gags, eye patches, coils of rope, strips of silk, dress ties, shackles for arms and feet, and even duct tape. There were dog collars with leads, cross straps, silver clamps, and a black metal bar that had d-rings on either side where restraints might be clipped and used to force someone’s legs wide. Some of these devices Ryan had no clue what their function might be, but strangely enough, they were less invasive than what was on the other side of the room.
“But they were so sweet,” he hissed. “So sweet.”
Ryan was afraid to move. He clutched Emily’s hand like a vice. He felt they should leave, but curiosity had arrested his full attention.
He swung the flashlight around, casting uneasy shadows across uneven surfaces. Down the pegboard on the left wall was a mixed series of ever more dangerous devices, some of which had name tags beside them—no doubt to avoid any unwanted confusion in the throes of passion. Things like a curved piece of metal with a ball on one end, rope loop on the other that said ‘anal hook.’ There were metal yokes and bars meant to bind hands behind the back. There were wrist shackles and a penis-shaped cage with lock and key. There were testicular weights and a wide variety of whips and flogs ranging from simple, to heavy, to straight-up Roman level, cat-of-nine-tales, torture. Ryan half-expected to discover a foldable crucifixion cross, nails and all.
The Two That Remained Page 18