The Dwelling: A Novel (17 page)

“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, it
totally
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.

“Like
Superman?”
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. “You
told
her?” she said, incredulous.

“You
smack
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 new
director’s
jacket.
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 was
not
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’s
dinner
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 be
so 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.

Dan parked behind Becca’s car and got out. He jogged to the house. The front door was closed. Everything looked all right. He would just pick her up and go. He wished he’d said something to Max and Kate about bunking at their place. It seemed a shitty thing to spring on them in the middle of the night. On the other hand, everyone was in good spirits. It wouldn’t be a problem.

The door was unlocked. Becca’s purse was hung on the banister. Her shoes were kicked off and in an untidy pile in the middle of the floor. He nudged them aside with his foot so that he didn’t step on them.

“Becca?” he called up the stairs. “Big news, babe! Big news! Your man, he da man!” he called up, and his voice echoed back to him, then eerie silence.

His stomach tightened. “Becca?” he called, louder. And listened.

Quietly, weakly, came the reply.
“Dan?”
she said. It sounded like she was crying. “I’m in here.” Where? The sound came from everywhere.

Oh, fuck.
He leaned back against the door.
Fuck. Fuck.
He stuck the heels of his hands into his eyes and pressed. His body shuddered. Sweat began to trickle under his arms, the hairs on the back of his neck shot up, tightening the skin there, his scalp seemed to shrink.

“Becca?” he tried again. “Where are you?”

In answer, music blasted out at him, so loud he cringed against it. She was in the studio. Of course.

“Becca!” he called, trying to sound strong. “I’m coming!”

His knees shook. He clenched his hands into fists.
How bad could it be? Maybe the door was just stuck. She went in there, maybe, to take a look at his stuff or something, and she couldn’t get the door open. It had happened before. She got stuck in there, maybe for an hour, maybe since after work. She knew he was out. She was frightened. Thought she would be stuck in there all night. That was probably what it was. Door was stuck.

He didn’t know who that was in the room. But he didn’t think it could hurt her. He walked the hall. The music drowned out most of his thoughts.

The door was closed. He turned the knob. The moment he touched the door, the music cut out suddenly, in the middle of a word as though the singer had been gagged.

—the slickest friend you ev—

What replaced it was much worse. A voice, a whisper, breathy and girlish, came not from the room, but from everywhere, as though the walls were breathing it into his ear.

Stay with me. Stay with me. Stay with me.
From the hall, and upstairs, and the stairwell. The kitchen. Outside.

He shook the door and it trembled. “Becca!” he yelled, pressing his mouth and ear close to the door. He could hear fumblings inside. A groan.

“BECCA!”
he screamed. He backed up and threw his body against the door. It shook but did not open. He rattled the knob again, frantically, all the while calling his wife’s name. He was coming. He was going to break the door. He was coming.

He shook it, twisted it. Kicked. Backed up and kicked.

“Let me in!” he shouted. And the door swung open.

Stay with me. Stay with me. Stay with me.

Becca stood in the farthest corner of the room, her face twisted in a sob, cheeks smeared with tears and makeup. Her jacket was unbuttoned and he could see her bra. She was shoeless. She stumbled toward him, reaching out.

He went to her. “Oh, baby—it’s okay. I’m here…” he mumbled. She fell into his arms, a groan of relief came out of her mouth. He rubbed her back, tangled his fingers into her hair. She sobbed against him.

“’Sokay. ’Sokay. I’m here.”

“Stay with me,” she said.

He started, grabbed her shoulders to pull her away from him, see her face. Her fingers curled into claws and dug into the flesh of his neck. He howled in pain and pulled her roughly away from him, reaching under her, between them, and pushing, the polemic issue of his wife and what might not be his wife fighting his pressure. He didn’t want to hurt her.

He forced her from him and her face twisted again into tears. “Dan!” she cried. He let go, uncertain. Becca fell to the floor. Beside him, there was movement.

He turned his head. The bed was down. Had it been down? Becca stumbled to her feet in front of him. She grabbed at him. “Dan!” she cried again.

“Hello, big fella,”
came the voice, coquettish from behind his wife.

The woman stood against the back wall. She wore a dress. The front if it was rent with jagged rips, as though torn off and put back on. Through the holes he could see her flesh. Becca pulled herself to her feet.

“Get me out of here!” she screamed, and pushed past him. He grabbed at her and the two of them staggered out into the hall. Becca was screaming and crying alternately, hysterical. They lurched their way to the door, hanging on to each other. Heels clicked on the floor behind them, above them, in front of them.

Becca sobbed.

Stay with me,
the voice came distinctly from behind him and Dan turned his head to look. Maggie stood behind him, her arms outstretched. Her face was wrenched into the saddest expression of longing. Her arms reached for him. Like a waif. Please.

Stay with me.
He paused. Becca yanked on him.

“Let’s get out of here!” she cried. He couldn’t move. She pulled on his arm. “Dan!” she screamed. She called from a distance, as though her voice were at the other end of a tunnel. Dan tried to pull his eyes away from her.

Please.

“Please,” he repeated dully.

The front door flew open. Sunlight poured in, splashing on the floor of the hall. Becca shrieked and stumbled toward it, letting go of Dan. At the threshold she turned and screamed at him to come. She tumbled out, bending at the waist, she screamed, no words, just a long shriek.

The door slammed shut.

Maggie smiled, softly, her bottom lip trembling appealingly. Dan’s body turned full toward her. He was unable to stop it. She was so beautiful. Under the terrible tears of her dress, her breasts quivered prettily, with fear or promise. A strip of fabric, hardly held to the rest of the dress, clung to the soft curve of her hip. Her throat was long. Her head tilted back. Her skin was white and smooth.

Sweat gathered on his upper lip. His eyes closed for just a moment. Heat swelled in his belly. From far, far away, he heard the sounds of the house. Someone lay on a mattress that squeaked. The attic hatch closed.