Come, explore. But don’t wait too long.
After you tour the house (and fall in love with it), go on up to the cupola. We have a feeling, a notion really, that the black orb spins for you.
Go check it out. Then come back down and make your offer.10
1. Square footage as of last count. Oddly, the number fluctuates based on which Realtor takes the measurements and when; some even claim that they’ve counted more rooms than are currently listed. How that can be possible is less due to our incompetence than to the intriguing characteristics of this house, which will become evident upon a visit.
2. Caverns (and surrounding acreage) cannot be sold separately, nor any piece later partitioned, excluded or otherwise redistributed to unrelated third parties. Realtor absolves itself of any knowledge of criminal misdeeds, or evidence thereof, discovered in such tunnels, or indeed anywhere upon this property.
3. Although to be fair, apparently the former neighbors spent quite a lot of their free time in the wine cellar, so anything they may have said should be discounted accordingly.
4. Whether these walls were damaged during some sort of neighborhood uprising (complete with pitchforks and torches) or just the result of time and disuse, it cannot be said for certain, but given the scorch marks and the heavy preponderance of bones fused into the rubble, one can only imagine epic battles of yore.
5. And death? Well, that just depends on who and what you are.
6. Trapdoor functionality subject to optional (but inadvisable) engineering inspection.
7. Assuming you cast one.
8. We, of course, continue to plague them with property updates, price drops and threatening e-mails. So act fast before they give in!
9. On this subject, various rumors abound. Perhaps the most interesting, entertainment-wise at least, is the unfounded notion that a minor fourteenth-century Romanian duke acquired a device of blackest power from the caverns beneath his castle; it offered immortality—at the cost of blood sacrifice, consumption of human flesh and other unseemly acts. Escaping persecution, this duke moved to the New World, where it is surmised that this nobleman’s downfall came not from the valiant effort of God-fearing villagers who opposed his bloodthirsty deeds, but rather from retaliation by said orb’s vindictive previous owners. But make of such tall tales what you will.
10. Incidental Realtor fees and sacrificial insurance taxes apply. See also appendix 3, “Detailed Costs,” and appendix 4, “Seller’s Rights in the Event of Buyer’s Early Termination or Premature Demise.”
The Man Who Could Not Be Bothered to Die
NORMAN PRENTISS
Tony didn’t hear the first knock. He wasn’t expecting anyone this Tuesday evening, certainly not so late on a work night, but Barker scrambled to the front door, tail wagging and head raised in expectation. Tony saw his sister through the spy hole, and he opened the door to let her in. Then a few more people swarmed onto the porch. His stepdad. Kevin from work, and Rachel. His regular doctor, plus the hygienist from his dentist’s office and the trainer-specialist from his gym.
They all jostled through his front door and crowded into his living room.
If Tony’s family ever decided to give him a surprise birthday party, this was better than the guest list he’d expect. Unfortunately, they weren’t bearing gifts, and they weren’t wearing funny hats. He wished a few of them would smile.
His stepfather made a hesitant step forward, as if he wanted to give Tony’s shoulder a reassuring pat. He stopped himself, the well-meaning impulse suddenly distasteful. “I know I’m not your real father,” Martin said. “But I’ve always prided myself on treating Ellen’s kids like they were my own. Even after your mother died, I’ve considered you and Jill part of my family. You may not think I’ve earned the right to say this, but here goes. You need to end it, son.”
Tony looked at Jill, whose head was down as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. This no doubt was supposed to be a happy occasion, and their awkward stepdad screwed things up once again, as he often had during Tony and Jill’s childhood.
But Jill said, “My turn. We’re supposed to use ‘I’ statements. So here goes: When you continue breathing, I feel sad.”
Brad, who’d sold him a lifetime membership to MidTown Fitness, assured Tony that he wasn’t trying to cheat him out of the remaining years on his contract. “Hell, do the math. You’ve been a member for six years. Yearly dues are two hundred and fifty dollars, so you’ve already more than recouped the cost of your lifetime plan. I think you should just face the facts.”
Dr. Maddox said, “I’ve taken the Hippocratic oath, so I can’t really speak frankly. But we all know why I’m here. I support your family and friends and think you should listen to them.”
The dentist’s hygienist said, “We don’t care anymore if you floss. We really don’t.”
That’s when Jill totally lost it. “He’s not listening to us,” she screamed. “He’s going to keep going, regardless of what we feel. He’s so selfish.”
His stepfather, as usual, assumed the weak role of mediator. “Look what you’re doing to your sister. I want you to think about this.”
Had things really gotten this bad? He was only thirty-five years old. How had he reached this point?
At the dentist’s office two weeks ago, he’d experienced a familiar disorientation as the chair tilted back, raising his legs unnaturally higher than his head. He tensed up.
The hygienist seemed more than usually hidden behind her surgical mask. He imagined her nose crinkled up behind the paper. She wasn’t talkative. She didn’t push the small mirror into his mouth to angle for a better view of his teeth. All the years he wished the dentist visits would pass more quickly—that the hygienist wouldn’t scrape and scrape at his teeth, pressing metal tips into the spaces between, poking at his gums then asking him to rinse blood out of his mouth. Now the process was quick and painless, and he should have been happy. Instead, he felt insulted.
The hygienist stretched a span of floss between her fingertips and reached into his mouth. Floss pressed into his loose gums like a wire through warm cheese.
On the way out, he stopped at the front desk to schedule his six-month return visit. Instead, the receptionist just looked at him and shook her head.
Tony tried to be cheerful. “Is your computer down? I can call you tomorrow.”
“No,” the receptionist said. “Just . . . no.”
“I thought you were gone for the day.” Kevin’s chin rested on the back wall of Tony’s cubicle. This was how he often saw his coworkers: heads on the partition wall, lined up like tin cans for shooting practice.
“No, just ninety minutes for a dentist’s appointment. I don’t want to waste too much sick leave.”
“But you’re supposed to waste it. I woulda gone home to rest up—after all that drilling or whatever.”
“I like to save it. Might need it later.”
“Might need it now,” Kevin said. “Honestly, you don’t look so good.”
Great advice, coming from a disembodied head.
“Thanks,” Tony said.
“Don’t mention it. Hey, you think those guys in the collapsed mine will get out today?”
“Dunno. It’s day nine, isn’t it?”
“Ten. But who’s counting?” Every news program and website, for one. And the office pool. Kevin had two bucks riding on day forty.
Later, Rachel-head drifted by and told him about doughnuts in the break room. The chocolate-frosted ones were gone by the time he checked, but maybe he’d have better luck next time.
That afternoon, Alan-head asked for a donation to his son’s uniform drive. “I’ll try to bring my checkbook tomorrow,” Tony responded.
“Now might be better.” Alan-head jiggled the donation box over the top of the cubicle, and coins rattled against cardboard. “Anything you can spare, ’cause . . . tomorrow might not work out for you.”
In retrospect, that last remark seemed ominous. Other pe
ople noticed something, but Tony was oblivious.
He was always the last to know.
After work on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, Tony went to the gym. Mostly he used the treadmill or the bike, sometimes one of the weight machines.
There were rules posted for the machines. At the bottom, in caps and highlighted in yellow, each instruction sheet said: PLEASE WIPE OFF THE MACHINES WHEN YOU ARE FINISHED.
Such an unpleasant reminder. It made Tony think of germs and fluids, a smeared stain left behind as a back pressed into vinyl or callused palms scraped over a metal bar, leaving behind flecks of dead skin.
It was rude to stare at people while they exercised, so he found himself absently reading and rereading the instruction sheet—while his own body, like a squeezed sponge, left its impression on the equipment.
The phenomenon wasn’t unique to exercise equipment. Every surface you pressed against absorbed a small piece of you. Life was a constant, tedious leprosy.
But that Wednesday night, two weeks ago, should have been a cause for celebration. Tony had reached his target weight—those last ten pounds seemed to melt off effortlessly. And he’d finally achieved the body-fat ratio recommended on his exercise card.
He took the card to the gym’s resident trainer. The grid was hatched with weights and dates annotated in Tony’s meticulous handwriting, most of the ink smeared by months of fingertip sweat. Brad accepted the card from him, then gave him a new one with slightly different goals.
“This might help,” Brad said. “More cardio. More weights to strengthen muscle tone.” He seemed skeptical.
But now Tony had new goals. Something to live for.
So he did.
Later that same day, he watched Crime Spree: Tuscaloosa on channel 43, sprawled on the sofa and tossing a few random pretzel sticks to Barker during the commercials. Maybe sometime during the final segment . . . maybe that was another moment when it almost happened. Maybe Tony’s heart had almost stopped.
But there was too much going on in the episode: the rusted key hadn’t yet been matched to a bank deposit box; the numbers and symbols on the first ransom note hadn’t yet been decoded; Detective Ajax still hadn’t discovered the fourth victim’s body, and his partner still needed a date for the Governor’s Gala (would she ask him?). Too many loose ends, and only five minutes left.
Damn it! It was a two-parter.
Which meant he’d have to wait until next week.
And the next, too, if it was a longer arc.
Some things were worth looking forward to: Vacations and weekends. Going to the movies. Walking Barker each night after dinner. Reading in bed and eyes getting heavy until he set the book aside and drifted to blissful sleep.
But just as many tasks were tedious. Waking and showering and getting dressed. Brown-bagging a lunch. Driving to the office. Then work itself: a series of repetitive tasks, laced with the stress of artificial deadlines.
At his cubicle, Tony often caught himself staring at a blurred computer screen, not remembering what task he was supposed to complete. He’d check his e-mail and find a large list of new messages, many of them marked with a red exclamation point.
Urgent. Funny how so many things could be considered urgent . . .
Last week, for example, a window popped up to inform him that his virus definition file was thirty days out of date. He could fix the problem now or click on “Remind Me Later.”
He’d clicked “Remind Me Later” each day since. It only took a few minutes to update the file, but the reminder always popped up while he was in the middle of something else. Like while he was entering figures into the budget spreadsheet, or replying to a memo about the new reimbursement policy (receipts, in triplicate, for anything over $10). Or when he was checking CNN and Fox for information about the trapped miners (still trapped), or checking his Match-up account for potential dates in his area (he was planning to click “Interested” on a few of them but wanted to finish reading all the profiles first; more profiles were added each day—it was impossible to keep up).
“Day twenty,” Kevin said from his cubicle on the other side. “Halfway there.” He wasn’t standing and peering into Tony’s area, so his voice sounded muffled. Possibly, he also had a hand cupped over his nose and mouth.
“You might win the pool,” Tony told him. “I’ll be curious to see how this turns out.”
“Yeah, if you outlast them.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” His coworker’s voice was still muffled and nasal, so Tony might have misheard.
“Nothing,” Kevin said.
“You know, it’s kind of cruel that you picked such a high number—like you wished they would stay down there longer.”
“Just playing the odds. The guys in Chile were stuck for sixty-nine days.”
“Even so, you’d be profiting from their discomfort.” Tony thought about germs and fluids, scraped skin and body waste and foul breath—the constant, tedious leprosy of existence. “All of them stuck in that tight space. Can you even imagine the smell?”
“Yes, I think I can,” Kevin said.
He didn’t seem to want to talk further, so Tony turned back to his computer monitor. A new profile, added today: Kristin R., 42. Likes: Dogs and Cats. Favorite movies: Fight Club and Gone with the Wind.
His finger slipped on the mouse button as he clicked for the next page. There was a slick gel on the button, in the shape of his fingertip. He clicked in the navigation bar, then typed in a new Web address. The letters on the keyboard felt soft and wet.
These recent days, the heads seemed to float quickly past his cubicle wall. Rachel-head didn’t tell him if doughnuts were in the break room; people avoided getting into the elevator with him.
Still, Tony’s job performance was fine. At the end of each year, his boss always checked the “Meets Standards” box on the review form. Tony continued to meet standards.
Yet when he phoned his sister for their usual Sunday chat, she mentioned some of his coworkers were concerned about him.
“Kevin, most likely,” he said, and Jill didn’t deny it. “What kinds of concerns? Why is he calling you instead of talking to me directly?”
“Some topics are difficult,” Jill said. She proved her point by not elaborating.
“Okay, I’ve been feeling a little weak lately,” he admitted. “I overslept some mornings and maybe didn’t dress as carefully as I usually do.” Or shower, though Jill didn’t need that detail.
Seemed like she already knew, though: “There’s kind of a bare minimum. An expectation for what’s worth . . . um . . .”
“I should take better care of myself,” he said, finishing her argument.
“That’s not quite what I meant.”
Silence.
They typically spent most of their Sunday talk complaining about their stepdad. This was getting a little too personal.
So he changed the subject. “How’s your husband?”
“Fine.”
“How are the kids?”
“They’re fine,” Jill said. Usually she had lots of stories—cute dinner-table remarks from Janey, or Adam’s latest score on a math quiz.
“I bet they miss their uncle Tony. I should visit more often.”
“Actually, Janey’s got a flu bug. Adam’s coming down with it, too.”
“I wasn’t talking about visiting today,” Tony said.
“Oh.”
“I thought you said they were fine.”
“Yeah, aside from the flu.” He heard Jill’s hand smother the mouthpiece as she yelled into the distance. “What’s that? You need Mommy? You think you’re throwing up again?” Another scratch against the mouthpiece, then Jill spoke in a normal voice: “Time to go, Tony.”
She hung up before he could promise to call again next week.
He visited instead. That same Sunday. His sister’s house was a quick twenty-minute drive.
Jill wouldn’t open the door.
“I’m not feeling well,” she
shouted from inside the house.
“I thought the kids were sick, not you.”
“The kids? They’re not here.”
“Jill, come on.” He resisted an urge to kick at the door. “Let me in.”
Eventually he heard the latch chain jangle, and his sister opened the door a crack. Jill peered at him over the taut chain. She had pulled the collar of her T-shirt over her mouth and nose. “I can’t let you in. Don’t want to give you this cold.” She lifted a hand and fake-coughed into her shirt.
In the background, he heard SpongeBob’s theme music. “You watching cartoons?”
“No, that’s . . .” Her eyes darted uncomfortably to the side, then back. She spoke to his left shoulder rather than to his face. “I just left it on. You know how, sometimes, you keep things running.”
“I guess.”
“It’s not good though. A waste.” Another fake cough.
“Of electricity.”
“Sure.”
He heard Janey’s distinct laugh in response to one of SpongeBob’s antics.
“Tony, you have to leave,” Jill said.
Even then, he sensed his sister was doing more than chasing him off her porch.
She closed the door.
Two days later, that crowd of people muscled their way into his house. Jill must have organized the whole intervention—which explained why she got so out-of-sorts after things weren’t going so well.
“You’re putrefying!”
It wasn’t a terribly polite thing to say. His sister had recently gained back all the weight she’d lost after a recent diet—and then some—and he’d been courteous enough to keep silent.
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