by Stacey Longo
Ruffles of the birds’ unified departure could no longer be heard; everything again seemed very silent, yet so very loud. Charles met the man’s eyes, which were similar to those of the crows that had watched him, but different in one way: dark brown and speckled with gray.
He cleared his throat, “Uh, I brought you today’s paper…sir.” He again gathered the newspapers. “I wanted to make sure you got the others, also.” His eyes roamed over the porch, his shoes, and the trees to each side of the house. “They were in a pile; I didn’t know if you knew.”
The man observed Charles with the same directness as had the crows. Then he mumbled something.
“Huh?” Charles said, raising his head like a timid dog.
“What do you want?” the man said, peering behind him as if suspecting the boy had brought along friends to watch, figuring that laughter would soon erupt.
“I just wanted to make sure you got your papers.” He held one out, as though the man would need a physical example to accept the profession.
The door creaked as the man released it and stepped onto the porch. Charles moved back and to the side to compensate. Through stringy, greasy locks, the man scrutinized the trees around his house, ducking and bending at the waist to see below or behind certain branches and bushes.
While the man looked about, so did Charles. There was no entry way, just a hallway that ran back with no immediate archway to any room on the right that he could see; the door blocked the left side. Along the wall hung painting after painting, with maybe an inch between their borders, which were framed by heavy-looking, filigreed wood, finely polished. Each painting—he could see about a dozen, but only three clearly enough to view what they depicted—was done on a large canvas. The first painting was a smile—just that, a smile formed from full lips and too many white teeth to occur in a natural person’s mouth. The next showed a thin man in a darkened alley, looking over his shoulder, eyes full of fear. On the third canvas was a great pile of bundled bills—tens, twenties, fifties, and hundreds—stacked like brownies presented on a platter. The fourth painting from the door, which he could sort of make out—
“Hey!” The man rounded on him. “Hey! Hey, get away, what’re you doing?”
Charles stumbled back into the wall and again dropped the newspapers. “Nuh-nuh-nothing. I wasn’t doing anything, just looking.”
“It’s rude to snoop, you know? People get—”
“I know.”
“—hurt that way.”
“It’s just that I saw the paintings, and well, I draw myself, so I was interested.”
The man stepped close, and a waft of pleasant cologne hit Charles, so much so that he had to resist the urge to inhale deeply lest he be frivolous during this serious situation. Given the man’s reaction to his peeking, Charles didn’t think it wise to take matters flippantly. The man’s breath was even stronger though, being released from his slack mouth and directly to Charles’s nose. It had a sharp, mint scent, and again Charles was aware of his contrasts. The man eyed him, focusing on one of his pupils, and then switching to the other as though any existing connotations in what he’d said would magically rise to the surface of his irises like the blue triangle of those shakable, water-filled eight balls.
Charles’s hands were behind him, palms to the house. His face was turned down, his chin almost touching his chest. “Did you, um…did you paint those?”
After a hesitation, the man nodded.
“They’re beautiful paintings.” Charles kept his head down, but met the man’s eyes. “They look so real.”
The man’s eyes narrowed.
Charles could see himself reflected, and in addition saw something else that only those enclosed in a straight jacket evinced. But for only an instant.
A slow smile creased the man’s taught, hairless face. “You said you draw, is that right, boy?”
Charles nodded, afraid to voice a response for fear nothing would come out.
“Want a cookie? Some juice, maybe?”
Such questions were the hallmark of a pedophile trying to lure kids walking along the sidewalk to his car, but the man didn’t strike Charles as a pedophile, just a (psycho, a freaking psycho) little weird, probably because he was beaten as a child or something. Charles’s mom had told him about that sort of stuff once, while they were sitting on the couch watching the news. A story about a father being charged with molesting his two daughters was on. His mother had said that was fucked—her expression, not his. He didn’t think she noticed him sitting on the couch, doodling away. She’d spoken in a quiet monotone of one remembering, and Charles had seen a detachment in her eyes that had made him uncomfortable.
But did any of that matter now, about his mom? She was gone and he wasn’t going to find her this side of life, no matter how badly he wanted her. She’d once told him not to search for the dead too much, because it only hurt the living after a while.
After it’d happened, he’d thought about her a lot, but he tried not to because he wanted to be a good boy, and a good boy listened to his mom.
The man poked him in the shoulder.
Charles’s eyes focused. “Huh?”
“Well, do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Want a cookie and some juice.”
“Y-yeah, sure.”
He collected the newspapers a final time and followed the man across the threshold.
Marvelous. Purely marvelous.
The paintings were unlike anything he’d ever seen. The fourth painting, the one he’d almost been able to make out, was of lightning encircling a rose that bled from its thorns. The next painting was of a set of dishes, glimmering and clean. The paintings lined both walls of the hallway and depicted ordinary objects such as clothes, food, and money; but also, there were more grotesque depictions that involved people who looked so real. A man grasping his throat while he choked; a man made rigid in a full tub as a blowdryer shared his bath; a woman falling forward, one high-heel broken beneath her.
He ran into something; he pulled his eyes away from the paintings and saw that he’d run into the man. “Um, sorry.”
The man grumbled and continued on a few feet and through an archway on the left. Charles followed and found himself in the kitchen. His brow wrinkled and he adjusted the duffel bag strap to a more comfortable position on his shoulder. The place shined. He looked down at his shoes and clenched his teeth, then brushed the bit of dirt that had flaked off back into the hallway, which was wood-floored. The man hadn’t noticed.
Charles walked to the table in the large, square room, gently setting his foot down with each step. Across the countertops he saw a blender, microwave, knife rack, toaster, TV, assorted fruits in a shallow basket, a big jar, and paper towels on a cylindrical stand. The stainless steel sink sparkled like a freshly waxed car and the wood of the cupboards shone as though recently varnished. The linoleum—no, it was tile—was light gray and inlayed with blue triangles, and free of chip or crack. There were no breadcrumbs or molding blocks of cheese; no cockroaches scurrying around or flies buzzing over rotting meat.
He looked around the kitchen and to the man, then back around at the kitchen. At the table, he laid the newspapers on top. He sat down and was also about to set the duffel bag on the table, then caught himself and set it in his lap instead. The man was at his refrigerator with the door open, reaching inside. For a moment, he entertained that the mysterious recluse whose house he’d delivered papers to for the last four months was really an alien being who had sucked the body from the individual before him. He would’ve had bad breath, though.
Odd, that’s all. The man set a small plate of cookies and a full glass of juice before Charles, then sat in the seat across from him.
It took Charles a few seconds before he realized that he was staring at the man, who was staring back at him, waiting for him to pick up a cookie. He shook his head, glanced around the kitchen once more, then grabbed a cookie and took a bite.
The man continu
ed to watch him. Charles was tired of thinking of him as ‘the man,’ and so asked him his name. “You don’t have a mailbox anywhere that I’ve seen, and I only have the numbers of the houses on my route, so I was wondering, you know?”
He took two more bites and swallowed a swig of juice while being studied. He noticed this peripherally as he looked over the kitchen and acted as if the question were unimportant.
“Lewis,” the man said at last.
“I’m Charles…Baker. What’s your last name?” he said, thinking he sounded casual enough. He met Lewis’s eyes and smiled, then took another gulp of juice so he could break contact.
“Mortimer,” he said, still fixed on Charles.
“That’s cool. So, do you have more paintings other than the ones in the hallway?”
Lewis nodded, never shifting his eyes.
“You think I could see them?”
He nearly inhaled the last cookie, then finished what was left of the juice before he’d swallowed, turning the cookie into slush. Lewis then set the plate and glass in the sink and walked out. Charles followed and glanced back at the sink, almost disappointed; he figured Lewis would’ve rushed to wash the dishes.
None of the boards in the hallway creaked as he assumed they would’ve in an old house. There were several more paintings along the walls that he admired, but Lewis continued to walk and Charles guessed he was expected to follow, so he observed each for only a second—the time it took for him to turn his neck from one to another. Another hallway was nearing, as was a staircase. They passed the staircase and reached the hallway, which met to form a T. Lewis turned left.
They passed a room whose door was open. Charles saw a bunch of easels inside and many stacked canvases by a bookshelf filled with paints and brushes. More paintings hung along the walls. And more. And more.
At the end of the hall Lewis entered a room to his right. Charles reached the doorway and stopped; goosebumps dotted his flesh. It was a large rectangular room without windows or furnishings of any kind. The carpet was a deep purple that looked as though it would feel like marshmallows beneath his feet. Nothing rested on it. The room was bare except for the paintings, which had gold framing and were separated by the thinnest perimeter. They covered the walls that he saw were also painted the same color as the carpet, so it looked as if they bled behind the paintings.
Lewis moved aside and flipped a switch; from the paintings’s frames extended flames from small holes. The tiny flames gave each painting an individual bold presence amongst the many others, simultaneously emphasized each while causing them all to remain equally noticeable.
Charles slipped off his shoes without a sound or glance at what he was doing, and then stepped into the room. His mouth was open and he breathed through it slowly, quietly, feeling he was in a place akin to a church, a place of sanctity where reverent conduct was required.
Once in the middle of the room, he stopped, and ever so slowly, rotated in place, taking it all in with the wonder of religious zealots witnessing Christ’s descent from heaven.
He did this silently for what seemed hours, and then consulted his watch to see that it had been only thirty minutes. The muscles in his legs were stiff and his foot had fallen asleep. Glancing left, he thought for an instant that he might not see Lewis, that instead he would see an open doorway beyond which nothing existed but a white void so pure that it seemed at once both a great wall and an unfathomable distance.
Lewis was there, though, and without the impatient look Charles had worried would be worn because of how long he’d lingered. Charles’s eyes found Lewis’s beady ones, and the man smiled slightly as if appreciating the boy’s awe. Lewis stood with his hands at his sides and feet spread shoulder-width apart. Charles thought it a weird position for extensive stillness; he’d anticipated Lewis leaning against a wall with one leg crossed over the other, his arms crossed over his chest.
Whatever. He broke eye contact and took one last glance around him, because although Lewis was smiling, he felt inconsiderate. His mom had always told him to respect a person’s hospitality and not abuse it.
The carpet did feel like marshmallows beneath his feet as he walked toward Lewis, and he couldn’t repress a silly grin. “Well, sir, thanks for letting me see your paintings. They’re really cool. I hope I haven’t stayed too long, but I should be heading home now.”
Lewis nodded, flicked the switch that quenched the flames inside the painting’s frames, then led the way back to the front door. As they proceeded down the hall, Charles thought about the paintings he didn’t have near enough time to observe. Not enough time by far; if he could have his way, he’d sit in that room all day—with the occasional bathroom trips, of course—and admire each and every one with binoculars.
So occupied was his mind that he almost ran into Lewis again. He caught himself, however, and hopped back just as Lewis pulled open the front door and stepped aside.
Beyond the door was the same landscape, normal and undisturbed. Charles was relieved because he’d had a disconcerting feeling that once the front door was opened, only crows would fill his sight. Crow after crow after crow, covering the ground with their beaks thrust forward, peering, always peering.
Crossing the threshold, he released a sigh and turned back to Lewis, who was already closing the door. He stopped with a space of an inch left, so that from the crack only one eye was seen, partitioned by a string of hair.
“Well, have a good day, Mr. Mortimer.”
He waited for a response, but Lewis stared. Then closed the door.
Charles stood a minute more before heading home.
***
Behind the door, Lewis Mortimer waited without breathing. He heard footsteps crossing the porch. He looked through the polarized window; the boy was walking down the hill. Interesting, he thought—not that the boy walked down the hill, but that he had even entertained the boy.
When he’d heard the knocker, he was lying naked on his bed with his hands clasped together behind his head, eyes closed. He’d jerked to a sitting position and hesitated a moment because he couldn’t surmise who’d be at his door. After dressing, his bare feet carried him down the stairs and as he passed the archway of the kitchen he paused in mid-step and regarded the knife rack, then continued.
He peeked through the window and saw a young boy—maybe twelve or thirteen—standing on his porch with his back turned. Why would the boy be waiting on his porch? It was not time to collect payment, and as every time before, it would be in an envelope on the porch with Paper Boy written on it. Had the boy turned his back to address a few friends, thinking he would have a few seconds more before being answered? Mischievousness, maybe?
He swung open the door. The next few minutes convinced him that the boy wasn’t up to mischief, but curious. He knew why they were curious, and although he could understand and endure their curiosity, what he couldn’t ever endure was invasion of his privacy.
When he noticed the boy peeking into his house, at his paintings of all things, there was an instant when he had the strongest urge to push the boy and dash inside, run upstairs, and thwart the mischief that curiosity would create.
On the boy’s face was something that struck him as familiar, though, and the urge passed as his determination to discover the source replaced it. The boy had also expressed interest in his paintings, and as much as he valued seclusion, the simple praise felt good, and it had been long since anyone but he had admired his work.
Watching the boy descend the long driveway, Lewis again tried to determine what it was about the boy that seemed familiar. The notion had eluded him the entire time he’d watched the boy gawk at his paintings, and it was like an itch he couldn’t reach. An itch he needed to reach.
***
The next day was Friday, and Charles was before Lewis’s door again. He had no bundles of newspapers to use as an excuse for knocking, but he didn’t think he’d need one. Although Lewis’s behavior yesterday had appeared cold, he attributed it to eccen
tricity and got the impression that the man enjoyed his company in a way that desert plants would the fall of an infrequent rain.
There was a reason why he spent all of his time inside his house. He might be socially clumsy, or phobic. Whatever the reason, Charles no longer thought him as(psycho, freaking psycho) weird as he had, just a recluse with reasons, but not a misanthrope. And that meant that he shouldn’t mind company; maybe as long as he didn’t stay long and tried to get to know Lewis slowly. Also, they had something in common: they were both artists.
He used the knocker three times as he had yesterday. Lewis responded much sooner than he had the day before. He was clothed the same: bare feet, white jumpsuit, white shirt, and a face that seemed misplaced.
Lewis stared at him for several seconds, but not like yesterday. The suspicion of cruelty was gone. His voice was velvety and also seemed misplaced, as though it should belong to another set of vocal cords. “Another cookie, perhaps?”
Charles nodded. Lewis stepped to the side and allowed him to enter. The cookies—he set a large plateful before him this time—were delicious. Lewis ate one, too.
“How long have you been painting?”
Lewis swallowed and denied a quick response. Then, “Since I was able to hold a brush.”
“I’ve been drawing since I was eight or so—nothing good then, of course. I didn’t start to get good until the last few years. So, you taught yourself?”
“Yes, but nothing very admirable until puberty kicked in. Once it did, it was like a new addition had been added to my being.” A brightness lit his eyes. “An enclosed intricacy that suddenly bloomed and gave truth to my work.”